Dusk

by Edwards, Eve

  He took the stairs down to the platform, following the other passengers heading east. The tunnel smelt of engine oil and cigarette smoke, leather and damp tiles – a scent peculiar to the growing Tube network. Not exactly dirty, not exactly clean – the strange in-between character of public spaces in the metropolis. He overtook a woman with two children in hand, the youngest one with a stocking slumped round one ankle, dragging her feet. His own mother would not be seen dead down here. The very thought of sitting on the same bench as the lower classes would shock her to the core. She only travelled first class – the Tube was far too democratic for her taste – but Sebastian revelled in it. Evidence of his American half perhaps? He smiled at his reflection caught on the shiny wall tiles. He found much to please the artist, not least the modern design of the new circular sign, so different from the elaborate signage favoured by Victorians a few years back where one could never have enough curlicues. Perhaps he could sketch something, life from the train window, stuttering past in frames?

  The little girl wailed as her mother tugged up the slumped sock, the sound breaking into Sebastian’s daydream. What was he doing? Did he have to turn everything into art? Since the recruitment drive at the Palace, Sebastian had felt oddly redundant, a sensation that had travelled home with him. So much of the conversation was dominated by news of Neil, his letters from sea read out with great ceremony at dinner so the staff could also hear his much-edited exploits. As the middle son, Sebastian’s art had always been something of an embarrassment to his parents. If he had been a girl, they would in all likelihood have been pleased. An artistic young woman sounded so much more reasonable than a man; girls were allowed to dabble in stuff like that before knuckling down to the serious business of marriage. He felt the unspoken pressure that he should be out doing something more practical, but all he wanted to do was draw. How long would he be able to ignore the challenging looks of the people on the streets when they saw a young man out of uniform?

  He glared at the poster half flopping off the wall, beckoning more young recruits to step forward. He would join up when he was ready, not because he was ashamed.

  That was easier said than done. He would challenge anyone who said he did not love his country as much as the next man, but he supposed he had just been hoping that the bloody thing would be sorted out before he had to make a decision.

  The train drew into the station, the gatemen opening the doors for the passengers to get on and off at either end of the carriages. Sebastian stood back to let the ladies enter, then climbed aboard. Just as the carriage attendant was about to close the doors in their car, a young woman scrambled on.

  ‘You’ll get me in trouble, miss,’ grumbled the gateman as he delayed ringing the bell to give the all-clear to the next car.

  ‘Thank you!’ the girl said, out of breath from her sprint from the stairs. She turned to find a seat in the busy carriage, coming face to face with Sebastian. The girl from the theatre. Flora’s sister, Helen Sandford.

  Sebastian got up to offer his place before any of the other gentlemen beat him to it. ‘Miss Sandford?’

  The girl looked up at him in surprise. She had bundled herself on to the train without really taking in any of her fellow passengers, still in a flap from her last-minute dash. ‘Mr Trewby?’

  Sebastian smiled. ‘Well remembered. Please, do take my seat.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Helen sat down and arranged her battered black handbag on her knee.

  It was hard to converse when you were a strap-hanger and the girl you wanted to talk to was seated. Besides, the clatter of the train through the tunnel meant any remark would have to be shouted. He contented himself with smiling at her when she dared raise her eyes to catch him watching her. The desire to sketch her had come rushing back, bursting into his mind like she had into the carriage, forcing open the doors of memory. That curving neck and harmoniously spaced features that recalled the face of a Renaissance Madonna. He had almost asked her to pose for him when he had left her at Whitechapel that evening, but had bitten his tongue in time.

  Conversation impossible, they contented themselves with the shy smiles of almost strangers when their eyes met. Then, at Portland Road, the seat next to her became vacant and Sebastian took his chance to sit down.

  ‘On your way to the theatre?’ he asked.

  Helen played with the ugly fastening of her bag. ‘No. I don’t go there any more.’

  ‘Oh? Has your sister got a new position?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It was just that my father developed the habit of turning up unexpectedly and I no longer felt safe.’

  ‘I see. He hasn’t found you then?’

  She shrugged, signalling that she had no more she wished to say to a mere acquaintance. Sebastian feared that his chance to talk to her was fast ending and he was not finished yet. Something about her drew him in and he had not yet worked out what it was.

  ‘Well, if you have no plans for the evening, perhaps you’d like to join me for a spot of supper?’ He felt shy making the request; asking girls out was not his forte.

  ‘I … I’m not sure.’ She did not seem opposed to the idea, just as unsure as him. Somehow that made it easier for him to assume a confidence he did not feel.

  ‘Please. I would really enjoy the company. I know an excellent little restaurant in Soho, Le Rendez-Vous. You can get a decent meal for two shillings. Keep me from being too melancholy – I’ve just come home from a visit to my family and am feeling lonely.’ He winced at the half-rhyme, hoping she had not noticed.

  She looked up, a smile in her eyes. ‘That sounds … well, that would be lovely. Yes, thank you.’

  A broad grin stretched across his face. He had successfully asked a girl to supper – the first time he had ever done the thing cold, not at a dance or as part of a group of friends. Sebastian felt he deserved at least a round of applause. ‘Well then, perhaps we had better work out how to get there.’ He checked the Underground map pasted to the wall of the train.

  ‘Change at King’s Cross and catch the Piccadilly Line,’ she said.

  She was quite right, but somehow it did not feel quite right for a girl to be quicker at maps than a man. ‘I see you know your way around.’

  Helen shrugged. ‘Necessity.’

  ‘Do you still live out at Whitechapel?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sharing lodgings with another nurse trainee. In Highbury.’

  They had reached their stop. More news would have to wait. Sebastian offered his arm. ‘Shall we?’

  Placing her small hand on the crook of his elbow, Helen let him lead her off the train.

  7

  The little restaurant in Dean Street was quiet on a Monday evening. A table by the window was available without them having to wait. Helen was thankful because she did not want time to regret her impulse to accept Sebastian’s invitation. At home, she only had a cold supper and Molly’s company to look forward to – if Molly had not also gone out with one of her young men. She spent more nights on the town than she did studying their medical books, teasing Helen for being so devoted to her work.

  Helen relaxed, sipping her glass of water as Sebastian ordered cottage pie for them both – good English fare that disguised the lack of meat by adding plenty of vegetables. Molly would approve that she had seized the opportunity to have an evening off.

  ‘So, Miss Sandford, how is your sister?’ Sebastian straightened his knife and fork, evidently a little awkward even though he had been the one to pursue and get her here. That made her happier, more equal to him in this situation.

  ‘She’s well, thank you. I see her when I can.’ Helen watched a serviceman on leave saun
ter by with a girl on each arm. The threesome was laughing uproariously, laughter gusting like the brawling calls of rooks in the elms near her home. By contrast, Sebastian and she sat either side of the table like hedgehogs sharing a bowl of milk and bread, wary companions with defences ready to spring. Helen wondered if she would ever find ease in the company of a man like the rook-girls; her father had crushed that in her.

  ‘What’s she doing now?’

  ‘She’s in the new revue at the Palace, but my father followed her home one night and, well, I decided I had to find somewhere else to go.’ The scene had been grim, poor Mrs Glock having to bar the door against his loud protests that she had kidnapped his daughter. In the end, despite the icy December conditions, Helen had climbed out of the back window, on top of the lean-to outhouse and made her escape through the yard. She had climbed enough trees in her nature rambles to think scraped knees and broken fingernails a small price to pay for avoiding recapture. Flora had sent her things on the next day when Helen found shelter with Molly. So far, her father had not discovered the hospital in which she was training so had no more leads as to her whereabouts. Flora, for once, was keeping mum. It was stressful though, always half expecting their father to leap out on her from some dark corner. Enough. He had taken too much of her life already without her thinking about him now. ‘And how is Des?’

  Sebastian folded his hands, elbows on the table, propping his chin as he studied her. ‘Doesn’t your sister know?’

  Helen shrugged. Her sister had been strangely quiet on the subject the last time they had met up at a corner house for tea, closing up like a water-lily bud on a shaded pond. ‘She hasn’t said.’

  Sebastian waited until the waiter had placed their meal in front of them before replying. ‘He’s more my brother’s friend than mine. They are the same age and serve on the same ship. As far as I know, they’re well. Neil mentioned him in his last letter. I take it the course of true love is not running smoothly?’

  Helen picked up her fork and stirred the potato topping into the gravy. ‘I wouldn’t know. She really is devoted to him, you know. She isn’t all flash, despite outward appearances. She just wants to believe in the possibility of love.’

  ‘And I am sure she will never be without her admirers.’

  ‘That’s not love.’ She was sharper with him than she intended, but he clearly still dismissed Flora as being without substance.

  Chastened, Sebastian sighed. ‘I suppose not. Sorry.’ He suddenly smiled and topped up their wine glasses. ‘My word, Helen, we do have the most extraordinary conversations, don’t we? No shallow waters for us. Within five minutes, we are contemplating the nature of families, or love. Tell me more about yourself: do you enjoy your work?’

  Serious subjects put to one side, they chatted on inconsequential matters for the rest of the main course. The food was excellent as he had promised and the waiters friendly. Sebastian was exposed as a regular patron. Helen was thoroughly enjoying herself for the first time in a very long while. She was pleased to discover they shared the same taste in reading – Dickens, not Thackeray – and that they both enjoyed the theatre, particularly the comedies of Oscar Wilde.

  ‘I’ve never been entirely convinced by Gilbert and Sullivan,’ Sebastian confided. ‘Bit too silly on occasion.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what I like about their operettas! The words trip along in sublime nonsense, sometimes with a bite. What is there not to like about them?’

  ‘There’s a quality of smugness to them that I can’t abide. Perhaps it’s my American half coming through, but I sometimes feel they’re just too pleased to be English. You, as a good Englishwoman, wouldn’t understand.’ He winked.

  ‘Actually, you’re wrong about that. My mother is German and she’s their biggest admirer in our household. Knows all the words which she sings with her heavy accent – it’s absolutely priceless when we get her going at Christmas.’ A wave of homesickness tumbled through Helen. This December just gone, she had spent the holiday with Flora, celebrating with a very meagre dinner. While their mother was hopeless at protecting her daughters, they realized that she was more of a presence in the home than they had thought, always pulling out all the stops at Christmas, insisting on a tree, carols and a plentiful table. Helen wished Geerta could be a stronger person or in a different marriage.

  Sebastian was quick to pick up the change in mood. ‘You miss her?’

  ‘Naturally. But I can’t have her without him, so regrets are futile.’ She gave him a flick of a smile. ‘You’re not shocked that she is from … well, you know?’

  ‘How can I be? Our own royal family is related to the Kaiser and that doesn’t stop me being a loyal subject. I hate it when I hear that ordinary people are being attacked just because of their nationality.’

  Helen had known Sebastian would not hold her origins against her. He just wasn’t the blinkered sort. ‘There are whispers that the government might intern all Germans if this war goes on for much longer.’

  ‘I’ve heard this too. A Bavarian baker near my lodgings in Goodge Street had his windows broken last week, his wife insulted at the market when she went shopping. The mob can turn ugly very quickly, particularly after bad news from the front.’ He seemed to regret raising such a grim topic. ‘But that won’t affect your mother, I hope. Or you and Flora.’

  ‘We’ll see. My father finds us all an embarrassment now. Probably rues the day he married out of England. I think it has only served to strengthen his prejudice against foreigners.’

  ‘More fool him. When this stupidity is over, we’ll be friends again with Germany, I’m sure.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  After the meal, Sebastian ordered coffee for them both.

  ‘May I see your drawings?’ Helen gestured to the portfolio leaning against his chair.

  Sweetly, he looked flustered by her interest. ‘You don’t have to, you know. They’re nothing special.’

  ‘No, I’d really like to see them. Please.’

  He cleared a space on the table and took out a sheaf of paper. ‘Just a few bits and bobs of my latest work.’

  Helen picked up the first sketch. An old man lay stretched out on a bed, his skin wrinkled like a walnut, his ribs gaunt and stomach concave. The lines were strong, confident.

  Sebastian nearly choked and reached out to take it back. ‘Perhaps I should have edited them first.’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t be foolish. I’m a nurse, remember. This is fabulous. I can sense the bones beneath the skin, the wear and tear of life.’

  Sebastian relaxed slightly, warming to her praise. ‘I really enjoy sketching figures. He was a fascinating old cove. Took to posing like a duck to water and jolly pleased to see himself on paper.’

  Helen drew the next picture towards her. This was very different – a landscape but all chopped up into geometrical shapes, tall rectangular trees and boxy houses.

  ‘That’s an experiment.’ Sebastian waited, expecting a sneer.

  ‘Can you explain it to me?’

  ‘I try to draw the atmosphere of the place, not reproduce it like a photograph. Modern life is breaking up the landscape with roads and railways, houses and pavements. And this war – all those trench defences south of London – cutting up the earth. I can’t draw lyrical smooth lines any more; I have to add these edges and fractures.’

  ‘I see.’ She ran her finger lightly over a tree, tracing the line. She could tell from the shape that it was a crack willow. The twigs would break with a snap if taken from the branch. A tree given to falling to pieces – he could not have chosen a better symbol.

  He gave a sheepish smile. ‘And it is all the go too
, as I told my little brother. I’m not the only one experimenting in this fashion.’

  She turned back to the portraits. He hadn’t chopped at these, leaving the people whole. ‘I think I like these best.’

  ‘You’d be right to. They are more me, more original. With the landscapes, I think I’m playing with style rather than finding my own expression.’ He reached out and placed a finger on the back of her wrist. ‘I’d like to draw you.’

  Helen flushed. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Not like that.’ He put the old man away, taking the mortifying image of full nudity out of both their sights. ‘Just head and shoulders. I’ve wanted to since we first met. You have a Raphael look to you. What do you think? Will you consider it?’

  No one had ever looked at her quite like Sebastian and now she knew why. ‘You think I look like someone from a painting?’

  ‘Yes. Raphael’s Madonna to be precise. Renaissance master so you can’t get much better than that.’

  ‘Well then, yes. I’m interested to see you work.’

  ‘I have a little room I use as a studio in my flat. Would you come there? It’s quieter than college.’

  She wondered if it was wise to arrange to meet him alone – it felt rather daring. Looking across the table at his earnest expression, the humour dancing in the depths of his eyes, Helen decided she wanted daring at least once in her life. ‘I suppose I can.’

  ‘Saturday afternoon? It’s too dark in the evenings to get good light – I’ve had to black out the skylight – you know, the war regulations.’

  ‘I see. Yes, Saturday – that suits me.’

  He grinned. ‘I tell you what, I’ll take you to the tea dance at the Ritz afterwards to say thank you.’

  ‘Goodness, you must be flush to afford that! I thought artists made it a point of honour to starve in a garret.’

  ‘Not when they’re sons of American financiers. Do not fear, Helen, I’ll still be able to afford to feed myself next week.’