‘Fine . . .’ I smiled back at her then looked around and caught the eye of the waitress who came over to take our order. We both asked for coffee and a Danish pastry. When the waitress had gone Mrs. Weldon looked about her and remarked that Fortnum’s was doing good business. I agreed. From all around us came the clink of china and the constant hum of conversation.
‘Do you smoke, Mr. Rigby . . . ?’
I thanked her and accepted a cigarette from the packet she held out to me. When she’d taken one for herself and I’d lit them both she said:
‘It was so kind of you to agree to meet me at such short notice.’
‘Not at all . . .’
‘As I said on the telephone, I’m interested in commissioning a portrait from you. I’ve been asked by my employer to find a suitable artist to paint her great-niece’s portrait. I must say I was really most impressed with those paintings of yours in the exhibition.’
I thanked her, and she added hastily: ‘I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m simply making an observation. I think your work is very fine; very fine indeed.’
Conversation between us was halted for a few minutes then while the waitress set our coffee down. When we had chosen our pastries and were left alone again I said:
‘I brought along some photographs of some of my other portraits. As you only saw the one in the exhibition I thought you really should have a better idea . . .’ I half-lifted my briefcase from the seat beside me.
‘I’ll look at them later,’ Mrs. Weldon said. ‘Though I’m sure I don’t need to. What I saw was most impressive. You’ve obviously had good training.’
‘I went to the Slade,’ I said, ‘—after I left Eastbourne, my home-town.’
‘I used to know a Rigby from Eastbourne,’ she said. ‘The father of a very large family, as I recall . . .’
‘I’m from a very large family . . .’
She looked thoughtful. ‘I think . . . yes, he was a Mr. Ralph Rigby.’
I shook my head. ‘My father was Thomas—as I am.’
‘Ah, well,’ she smiled, ‘I suppose such a coincidence would be too much to expect, wouldn’t it? And how large was your large family?’
‘I’m one of nine.’
‘Well, nine is a large number,’ she said, ‘but there, with your father being the product of Victorian times it’s not so unusual. Where did you come in the family?’
‘I was the eighth. Nearly all boys. I have only two sisters; one older than I.’
‘And what about your own family? Are you married?’
‘My wife died . . . three years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ She paused. ‘How sad. She must have been quite a young woman.’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘. . . She had cancer.’
There was a little silence, then she said: ‘Have you children?’
‘Yes, four. Michael and Christopher are twelve. They’re twins. They’re away at boarding school right now. Then there’s Julia. She’s getting on for eleven. Then Simeon—he’s six.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t any experience of very young children,’ she said. As she spoke she idly picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. Unfortunately it was still attached and she sighed, sucked in her breath and tried to smooth the matter right again. She began then to tell me something of herself. She lived on the edge of a small village, Whitefell, not far from Bath, she said, in the house of her employer, a wealthy lady whom she referred to always as Miss Stewart. She worked for her in the capacity of secretary, she added, a post she had held now for many years.
‘Miss Stewart never travels much these days,’ she went on, ‘so she relies increasingly on her staff. Fortunately at the moment things are rather quiet at the house so I’ve been able to get away for a short while—to do a little business on her behalf. We’re expecting more visitors to arrive this evening so I can’t be late back.’ She put the last piece of pastry into her mouth. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘—about the matter we’re here to discuss—the portrait.’
‘Yes . . .’
‘As I said, Miss Stewart wants a portrait of her great-niece, Catherine. Well, actually it’s Catherine’s father who wants it—he’s in the Middle East right now. So—I was asked to look out for a likely portrait-painter whilst I was here.’ She smiled. ‘I know Miss Stewart will approve of my choice—and I’m certain you’d enjoy the work; Catherine really is a most attractive young lady.’ She sat back in her chair and looked at me expectantly. ‘Well, will you do it?’
‘We’d . . . uh . . . have to discuss the fee . . .’
She lifted a hand and tapped her temple in mock exasperation. ‘How stupid of me. Yes, we’d better get that settled straightaway. How much do you charge?’
‘Well, it—it depends on how large the painting is to be—and on whether you want just the head and shoulders or a full-length figure. And, of course,’ I added, ‘on whether I paint the subject life-size or smaller than life-size.’
‘Or larger than life-size.’
‘One never paints a portrait larger than life-size,’ I said.
Unabashed, she continued breezily: ‘Well, how long would it take you to paint a full-length figure, life-size?’
‘It’s been a long time since I tackled such a large painting,’ I said, ‘but depending on the availability of the sitter I’d imagine it would take me about a week or ten days . . . Something like that.’
She nodded. ‘I should think that would be all right. Could we agree on that then?’
‘The fee for such a portrait would be—quite high . . .’
‘Tell me how much.’
After a few moments’ consideration I said, ‘Five hundred pounds,’ and waited to see surprise registered on her face. But she simply nodded and said:
‘You do realize that you’d be required to come to Whitefell to do the work . . .’
I hadn’t reckoned on that, but before I had a chance to reply she added, ‘So obviously you’d want more than your usual fee. Shall we say—six hundred? Would that be all right?’
‘—Yes, I should think that would be all right.’ I nodded. ‘Yes, we could put aside certain weekends. I could set everything up and then just drive down at weekends—and perhaps at any other time that might be available to me—and the young lady.’
‘Oh, dear me, no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t do at all. Miss Stewart is very anxious to have it done as soon as possible. Couldn’t you just—come to us and stay at the house until the picture was finished?’
‘I’ve got my business to look after,’ I said, ‘—but I suppose I could arrange to take some time off.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ Then her smile gave way to a little look of apprehension as she said, ‘But now we come to the rub—as they say . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m afraid Catherine’s only going to be with us for a little while. She’s arriving at the end of next month—Sunday the 29th. She’ll be staying for just over a week and then going off again. Is it—is it possible you could be free then?’
Sunday the 29th. That was the beginning of the week when the children would be away on their respective holidays and when I’d be in Devonshire with Ilona. I shook my head regretfully. ‘Oh, no, I’m afraid that time would be quite out of the question.’
‘Oh, dear, what a shame,’ she said; and then pleadingly: ‘Isn’t there anything you can do? I’m sure Miss Stewart would be willing to recompense you for any—financial loss incurred. It’s so important to Catherine’s father.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said, ‘it’s just that I’ve made certain—plans for that time. I just can’t cancel them now.’
‘Supposing . . . supposing your fee was increased by, say, fifty per cent . . .’
The offer was so tempting. But I couldn’t alter my arrangements no
w. Some things, I told myself, were more important than money.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but it’s just impossible.’ Then I added, ‘But there are plenty of other painters. Good painters, too. If you went along to any of the top art schools in London I’m sure the instructors there would be only too happy to recommend some student who would produce the kind of work you’re looking for.’
‘We don’t want some student,’ she said. ‘We want you. I saw your work and decided that you were the one.’ She looked at me hopefully for a moment longer then picked up her bag, took a card from it and held it out to me. ‘Here’s my address,’ she said. ‘Please . . . think about it, and if you change your mind get in touch with me.’
‘Yes, I will . . .’ I slipped the card into my pocket. I wouldn’t change my mind, though, I knew.
There seemed to be nothing more to say. ‘Well . . .’ I murmured awkwardly, ‘I suppose I ought to be getting back . . .’ I started to fish out money to pay the bill but she said, ‘No, please; I’ll pay. In any case I shall stay and have another cup of coffee . . .’ As I got to my feet and picked up my briefcase she said quite suddenly:
‘Supposing I offered you double your original fee . . . ?’
I paused. ‘. . . I wish I could accept it.’
She smiled. ‘You’re a man of great resolve. Is that your final word?’
A thousand pounds. She was offering me a thousand pounds. I had never in my life before been offered so much money for so little work. Ilona would tell me to take it, I knew. It’s the chance you’ve been waiting for, she would say; your new beginning. And perhaps it was at that. Still . . .
I smiled at Mrs. Weldon as I shook my head. ‘You make it very difficult to resist,’ I said, ‘but I must. However, if my plans do change then rest assured I’ll be in touch.’
We shook hands then and, turning, I threaded my way between the tables and out onto Duke Street St. James’s. Later when I got off the Tube at Victoria station I put my hand into my pocket for my ticket and brought out the card Mrs. Weldon had given me.
‘Too bad,’ I murmured. Tearing it across I dropped the pieces into a nearby waste-bin. And that, I said to myself, is the end of that.
* * *
That evening Ilona rang. She was back in London. Straightaway I got into the car and drove off.
Chapter Four
She lived in a first-floor flat in Earls Court—an area I loathed; it always seemed to me like one gigantic transit camp. In Lexham Gardens I miraculously found a spot to park, then walked along the fifty yards or so and rang her bell.
Half a minute later she was opening the door, looking very casual in old jeans and a light blouse. I stepped forward, put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her. She smiled up at me, the top of her head just on a level with my chin, her dark-chestnut hair falling to her collar where it came up again in a slight bouncing curve. Her blue-grey eyes looked amused and steady into mine. She was so beautiful, I thought, she should be making her living in front of the cameras instead of behind them.
I followed her into her flat at the top of the stairs and edged by two suitcases and a gaping holdall. ‘As you can see,’ she said, ‘I haven’t unpacked yet.’ She moved away in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Would you like some coffee—or a drink?’
I’d have a scotch-and-soda, I said, and continued on into the sitting room, sat down on the sofa and looked around me in the soft light. Her room, I thought, reflected well her life-style. Nothing there looked settled. From the furniture and the pictures to her numerous books and records it all had a somewhat haphazard appearance. It didn’t seem to have changed at all in the year I’d known her.
We’d first met when she came into the shop one day the previous spring to enquire about oil-paints, saying that she wanted to take up painting. Whilst showing her what was available we’d fallen into conversation, in the course of which I’d spoken of my own training for a painting career and of my aspirations that had come to nothing. Then when I told her that I still painted for a hobby she had asked if she could see my work.
It was the great interest she subsequently showed in my painting that had really drawn me to her, I realized, and if nothing ever came of our relationship I felt I would always be grateful for that interest and the unflagging encouragement she gave me. For so many years previously I had gone along only half-heartedly working in my studio, and then only sporadically and without any real direction. But Ilona had changed all that. With her entry into my life my spark of interest had flared up into a near-passion. And it was all due to her. I had all the talent needed, she so often said, and with hard work and the right breaks there was no reason why I shouldn’t yet cut out a career for myself as a painter. After all, as she pointed out, I had secure means of support now, and I could always delegate work in the shop.
Although she had proved to be a keen and astute critic she herself demonstrated little or no practical artistic ability and her own aspirations to paint were very short-lived. She didn’t appear to suffer anything more than a small, passing disappointment at her failure, though; it only seemed to make her more fervent in her championing of my own efforts.
I looked up now as she came into the room, handed me my drink, took a sip from her own and sat down in the armchair facing me.
‘Why are you so far away?’ I said.
She came and sat beside me and I reached out and laid my arm along the back of the sofa, fingers coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. She didn’t move away from my touch, but then neither did she move closer, to relax under it. Awkwardly I let my arm stay where it was. Turning, looking at her more closely, I said: ‘You look tired.’ Now I could clearly see fine-drawn lines about her mouth, faint circles beneath her eyes.
‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘It was just a particularly gruelling time, that’s all. I just need to relax a little—take a break.’
‘Do you see yourself doing this job for much longer?’ I asked.
‘Who knows?’ She sighed. ‘But maybe you’re right; maybe it is time I had a change—did something else.’
‘And perhaps something that won’t take so much out of you.’ I put my drink down and drew her a little closer. I felt her soft hair brush my chin. I kissed her cheek. I was touched by a sudden awareness of her vulnerability; she seemed so slight in my arms. I drew back and studied her. ‘You’re getting thin, too . . .’ I had a frightening, momentary vision of Elizabeth as she had looked towards the end.
‘I told you, I’m all right. Really.’
‘—Have you always been like this?’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, this way you have—just driving yourself.’
She shrugged. She had told me so little of her past in the time I’d known her that I’d reconciled myself to remaining in ignorance of most of it. What I had gleaned from the odd remark she’d made on occasions was that she’d come to England as a small child along with her unmarried mother; both refugees from Czechoslovakia. After the death of her mother, I’d gathered, she’d spent several years in various foster homes and institutions. It all formed only a very vague picture in my mind, but I was content to do without elaboration; I never questioned her on it; nor did I ever intend to. I knew very well that her past was something she wanted to forget.
And yet, I often thought, she was so much a product of that past. I could see in those hinted-at years of insecurity the seeds of her present life-style. The evidence, I was sure, was there in her need to keep working—to build for herself the security she had never known. And surely it was there too in what I saw as her fear of commitment—and I didn’t know how I was going to get around that.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said. I had taken her in my arms but she had held back, her body tensing.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I feel so tired. I’m really drained.’ She gave me a sad little smile. ‘I’
m afraid I wouldn’t be any good tonight, Tom.’
‘Okay.’ I fought down my disappointment, leaned forward and lightly kissed her, then I got up and moved to the door. She followed me. We arranged that we would meet tomorrow; I’d take her to see the exhibition. ‘That’s if you can stand it,’ I said.
The memory of the paintings reminded me of my meeting with Mrs. Weldon and for a moment I debated whether or not to mention it now. No, I decided, I wouldn’t. Ilona would only tell me I’d made the wrong decision—and I was quite certain I hadn’t.
* * *
The following evening I stood at her side in the foyer of the theatre and looked at her face as she surveyed the work on show. Her expression was one of wonder and dismay. After a few minutes I said, ‘You’ve seen enough, haven’t you? Come on—let’s get out of here.’
We made our way to a pub a little way down the street and ordered gin-and-tonics and carried them over to a vacant table in the corner. Ilona hadn’t spoken of the paintings since leaving the theatre but now she said suddenly:
‘It makes me bloody mad—seeing your work up alongside all that crap. And I feel I’m to blame. I mean, I persuaded you to show them there.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I said. ‘You’re not responsible for the rest of the talent—if you can call it that.’
‘No, but I suppose we might have guessed what it would be like.’ She shook her head. ‘I just thought it would be a good chance—that there was a chance of somebody seeing your work. But no discerning person’s going to go near that show. You were right—it was a waste of time. Nothing will come of it.’ She stared morosely into her glass for a few moments and then raised her head and looked at me. ‘I seem a damn sight more upset about it than you are,’ she said. ‘How can you sit there and be so—calm?’
‘There’s not much point in getting upset about it now, is there?’ I said. ‘For one thing it’s not new to me; I’ve already seen the exhibition. And for another thing—’ I stopped.
The Reaping Page 3