‘It is the way of the world, my dear.’
But she was already attending to Wallis, who was holding his last sketch up to the light.
‘When I have finished the drawing I will need to saturate it with water, and then I can use a grey tint to block in the shade. After that I put on my colour and allow it to dry: when it is firm, I can use a hair pencil for all the details. As for the lights ’
‘Out, damned light!’ Meredith was staring at the ceiling once more.
‘ As for the lights, I need only touch the drawing with water and then rub it with a little piece of bread. That is my method, at least.’
The small bed creaked as Meredith turned upon it. ‘Bread and water always kept poets alive. Did you know that, my love? You have heard of love in a hutch, I take it?’
But they were too deep in their theme to pay any attention to him. ‘You cannot beat the reality, Mrs Meredith. This is Chatterton’s room, precisely as it was…’
‘Is everything the same?’ Mary surveyed it, steadily taking in her husband as she looked around as if he, too, were part of its old furniture.
‘Yes, it is!’ Wallis was so enthusiastic now that even this simple enquiry elicited his strong assent. ‘Yes, exactly! And, you see, if I can depict the room now I will have fixed it for ever. Even the poor plant, of all things the frailest, that too will survive!’ In his excitement he had touched her arm, and he withdrew his hand quickly from her. But she had not moved away. He went on, not quite knowing what he was saying now. ‘I sat down here and looked at the entire scene. I was doing this for hours before you came, George ’ He swung wildly towards him. ‘ But I told you that. And the room somehow became brighter as I watched it. Can you conceive of this?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, very well.’
‘And if I can place that brightness on my canvas, it will never fade.’
‘Unlike the poor poet.’ Meredith pretended to groan.
‘But the death will be realised too, don’t you see?’ Wallis had moved away from Mary, and now talked equally to husband and wife. ‘I need the reality of the room for the greater reality of the death. I cannot paint the taking of the arsenic, the convulsions, the foaming at the mouth. Not unless I gave you poison, George ’
Mary sat down heavily on the chair at the foot of the bed, and Meredith laughed. ‘You must not lead my darling through too much reality, Wallis. It can be dangerous for those who are not accustomed to it.’
‘It was not the reality, George,’ she said. ‘It was the closeness of the room.’
Meredith leaned up from the bed and opened the garret window, before continuing. ‘I would be happy, Henry, to foam at the mouth if you wish me to. I am very understanding of tragedy, is that not right, my dear?’
‘You understand what you want to understand, certainly.’
‘But tragedy is my forte.’
‘And comedy is your vice.’
It seemed to Wallis that this was some theatrical performance they were displaying for his benefit, but then at the same moment he realised that they were also in earnest. Suddenly Meredith rose from the bed and, muttering ‘I will bring some water for you’, left the room.
Wallis picked up the sketches and began busily to rearrange them, although they were already in order. He brushed his drawing board with his sleeve and then placed it carefully in a corner. At last he stood up and faced Mary. ‘George is a wonderful model,’ he said. ‘He lay so quiet upon that bed ’
He stopped as Mary rose from the chair, leaving a large crease in the ulster which Wallis had draped there, and began pacing up and down the room. ‘I do like it here,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘It seems to be such a secret place. It is like a spot buried within oneself.’ She went over to the window, stretching across the bed to reach it. ‘And if I grew bored with my own secrets I could look down on the streets below and wonder about the secrets of others.’ She turned to Wallis. ‘Do you ever think about such things?’
He hesitated. ‘I wonder about your secrets.’
‘Oh no. You must not do that.’
‘Was he offering to paint you, my dear?’ Meredith came back into the room, carrying a glass of water, and had apparently heard her last words. ‘Wallis has an eye for beautiful form, whatever he says about brute realities.’ Hurriedly she moved away from the bed and took the glass of water from him, but she did not drink from it. ‘It is not poisoned, my darling.’
Wallis could bear it no longer. ‘I must leave you,’ he said. ‘I have to collect my colours from Bellew’s.’ He picked up his board and sketches. ‘I am sure that Mr Daniel will be happy for you to stay and rest here together.’
‘No ’
‘No, that will not be necessary, Mr Wallis.’ Both of them had spoken at once.
Meredith laughed, embarrassed at their unwillingness to be left alone together. ‘Do not leave me to the mercies of Pig, Henry. She talks of nothing but Trotters and Hammersmith.’
Wallis was eager to leave. ‘So I can expect you in my studio next week, then?’ He took one last look at the room before opening the door. There you will be comfortable at least, George.’
They descended the stairs, Mary leading the way down the narrow staircase. ‘Do with me what you will Henry,’ Meredith answered. ‘I am entirely at your disposal.’
‘He means that he has nothing else to do, Mr Wallis.’
There was a sharper note in Meredith’s voice as they turned at the first landing. ‘How would you know, my love? I never see you.’ But then he laughed, and put his hand lightly upon her shoulder. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Henry. This is modern love, you know. Secretly we adore each other. Is that not right, Pig?’
The servant girl was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs; as soon as she saw them, she giggled and rushed to open the front door. She curtsied to each of them as they crossed the threshold and then, murmuring ‘It must be a fine day for it’, closed the door very firmly behind them.
They walked down Brooke Street into Holborn Hill, but Wallis was so careful of his sketches that he hailed a cab as soon as they had entered the main thoroughfare. He hesitated as he opened the door. ‘Can I take you back to Frith Street?’ he asked them. ‘It is on my way.’
Meredith seemed about to accept when Mary shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, stepping away from the warm interior of the cab. ‘No, we must walk.’
‘We need more air,’ Meredith explained. ‘After all, I have just been poisoned.’
Wallis watched them from the back window of the cab as he was driven away. They seemed to be deep in conversation as they walked down into Holborn, or it may simply have been that both their heads were bowed. The cab turned the corner into Gray’s Inn Lane and, with a great sigh, Wallis took out his last drawing of Chatterton upon the deathbed. But he could not concentrate upon it. He turned back again, but the Merediths were lost from sight.
10
‘THE MUTTON TANTRAS are very nice.’ Charles Wychwood was addressing the others as they sat, on the appointed day, in the Kubla Khan restaurant. ‘Some people prefer the Bhagavad-Gita, but it’s very hot.’
Harriet Scrope ran her finger down the list of dishes on the tattered menu. ‘I don’t see anything like that.’
Charles laughed. ‘I was making it up. Have you never heard about poetry being the food of love…’
‘Ah, ignis fatuus,’ Andrew Flint murmured, to no one in particular. ‘An interesting dish, don’t you think, for a strong stomach?’
‘Give it to me hot,’ Harriet was saying. ‘I like it hot and strong.’
‘Korma,’ Philip Slack replied to the red paper napkin folded neatly beside his plate.
‘What was that, dear?’ Harriet had decided to be particularly nice to this young man, who seemed to be a close friend of the Wychwoods.
‘The Korma is hot.’
‘Oh, I bet it is.’ She winked at him. ‘You must come here often.’ The piped Indian music was suddenly very loud, and she waved her
arms above her head. The goddess Kali used to do that,’ she said, ‘in the old days.’
Flint was still studying the menu. ‘Que faire?’
Harriet gave a little shiver after her sudden exercise. ‘I’ve decided already. I’m going to have the mutton dressed as lamb.’ She turned in her seat. ‘But where’s my gin?’ In fact the waiter had just come up to the table and was immediately behind her with her drink. ‘Oh, you scared me. I thought you were the Lord High Executioner.’ The waiter did not understand this, but he bowed and smiled. ‘Now can I have a teaspoon?’ she asked him.
‘I’m sorry, please. Ice please, is it?’
‘No. A spoon.’ She repeated the word very slowly and precisely, carving the shape of a spoon in the air. ‘Sippy sippy.’
Flint was now so embarrassed by her behaviour that he leant across the table to Vivien and, in a determined voice, said, ‘I gather you work in a gallery?’
Vivien Wychwood was very quiet. Charles seemed faint and dizzy just before leaving for the restaurant, and she had been watching him all evening for signs of strain or sickness. ‘Me?’ she seemed surprised by Flint’s interest. ‘Oh, I work at Cumberland and Maitland. You know, in New Chester Street…’ Her voice had trailed off.
‘Do you really? I didn’t know that.’ Harriet spoke very clearly, to remind Vivien that they were not supposed to have met there let alone to have discussed the possibility of taking the Chatterton manuscripts from Charles. ‘In a gallery, of all places!’ The tone of her voice made it sound like an abattoir, but Vivien had not heard. Once again she was looking anxiously at her husband, who was moving his head from side to side in obvious discomfort. Harriet followed Vivien’s glance. ‘You seem,’ she said to him, ‘to have some kind of bee in your bonnet.’
‘Oh no. Nothing like that.’ Charles smiled and waved his hand, as if dismissing his headache. ‘I like honey, but not bees.’
‘Ah, a hedonist.’ There was a narrow band of sweat across Flint’s forehead as he leaned forward eagerly to speak. Charles said nothing, and Flint turned nervously to Vivien. ‘Pity my ignorance, but did I see some Seymours in your gallery?’
‘Ha!’ Harriet put down her menu, with which she had been fanning herself. ‘I’d be careful if I were you.’ But then, sensing Vivien’s alarm that her indiscretion about the paintings was about to be revealed, she added, ‘He isn’t cheap, you know.’
‘Caveat emptor, I take it?’
‘What does that mean? Beware of the dog?’ Without realising it, Harriet had bared her teeth slightly.
He cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, mutatis mutandis.’
‘Ad nauseam,’ she murmured. In a sudden depression of spirits she looked around at the garish green-and-gold wallpaper, the violet drapes which concealed the entrances to the kitchen and to the two tiny lavatories, the red carpet stained with food and wine, the grey tablecloth already damp from the gin she had spilt in her excitement. ‘Do you know my friend Sarah Tilt? The famous art critic?’ she asked, and the others fell silent. ‘She knows all about painters.’ Harriet brightened visibly. ‘But what she really needs is a toy boy.’ She brought out the phrase with great aplomb, having recently come across it in a copy of the Daily Mail which she had picked up in her dentist’s waiting room. They looked at her astonished. ‘Let’s not mince words,’ she went on. ‘Let’s face a few facts. She’s no oil painting.’
Philip coughed, trying to announce the fact that the waiter had been standing by the table ever since Harriet had decided to denounce her old friend. And in a sudden flurry of activity they all picked up their menus once again. ‘Now let me see,’ Flint began. ‘Do I dare to eat a peach?’
Charles put out his hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let me order. This is my treat.’
‘I’ll have another gin then,’ Harriet said quickly to the waiter, who had now entered the spirit of the proceedings and was smiling broadly.
‘With a utensil, please?’
‘Someone’s getting fresh,’ she said. But she continued smiling and nodding at him as he took Charles’s order for Chicken Tikka, Tandoori Mutton, Chicken Korma, two vegetable biryanis and a side-order of papadoms. ‘And don’t forget the wine,’ Charles added.
‘And the gin! Ginny, ginny, no waity.’
When the wine came, Charles raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Chatterton!’ he said. ‘Here’s to the poet and all his works!’
Flint leant across to Vivien. ‘What’s this about Chatterton? Thomas, I take it?’
Harriet shot her a warning glance. It was as if to say (and Vivien understood it quite well): if we are to save Charles, if we are to relieve him of the Chatterton material, we must keep it to ourselves. So Vivien said merely, ‘I don’t know, really. I don’t know what he means.’
‘A discovery.’ Philip spoke in a low tone to his empty plate. ‘A great discovery.’
‘What?’ Flint strained to hear.
‘Tell me, Andrew,’ Harriet had turned to Flint very quickly. ‘May I call you Andrew? What are you working on now? I would love to know.’
The question unnerved him, as it always did. ‘Mea culpa..,’ he began to say.
‘What is that, a novel or a biography?’
‘Well, I am writing a biography.’ He swallowed; he found it difficult to discuss any of his activities, which seemed to him no more than the hole through which he was falling. ‘Of George Meredith, you know ’
‘Yes, I know very well. Didn’t his wife have an affair with that painter? I always thought he was a terrible fool, to let her go like that.’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.’
Harriet was very grand. ‘I don’t suppose you would go so far as to say anything,’ Flint blushed and was about to reply, when a metal dish filled with some brown liquid was placed in front of him. He could see one or two peas floating on top of it, and a dribble of tomato revolved slowly as the waiter stirred it with a fork. ‘Biryani, sir,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
Harriet cackled. ‘Bury my heart at wounded knee? That’s about Indians too, isn’t it?’
The waiter laughed with her and, now considering the meal a great joke, eagerly watched the reactions of the others as he brought them a succession of dishes.
Harriet leant across the table and sniffed the platter of Chicken Tikka, putting her nose so close to the meat that they were for a moment indistinguishable. This food,’ she said with some satisfaction, ‘looks as if it’s been to hell and back.’
Vivien put some rice on Charles’s plate: he looked at her and smiled, but he paid no attention to his food and seemed content to watch the others as they ate. He held up his glass of wine and looked at them through it, for a moment seeing their faces red and distended. ‘You see ’ he seemed to be talking to his wife ‘you see, poetry never dies. Here is a biographer writing about George Meredith. The poet lives.’ His words were slurred and he paused for a moment before going on. That’s what I’ve said about Chatterton. You know, Harriet, I’ve managed to finish the introduction now ’
But she started talking across him, in Philip’s direction. ‘I hear you work in a library, dear. Tell me, how many of my books do you actually have? In round numbers, I mean.’ She had come to this dinner expecting only Charles and Vivien she had accepted the invitation as a further stage in the plan she had made with Vivien in St James’s Park but the presence of both Andrew Flint and Philip Slack unnerved her. So she was drinking more than usual.
‘We have them all, Miss Scrope.’
‘Harriet. A librarian can always call me Harriet. So you won’t think of me as just a book.’ At this point she put her hands stiffly by her sides, sucked in her cheeks and closed her eyes. Philip was alarmed, and looked wildly around at the others for some explanation, but they were talking together. Then Harriet opened her eyes and smiled at him. ‘I was pretending to be a slim volume, Philip. May I call you Pip? It’s more literary, don’t you think?’ The waiter had brought her a third gin, without any prompting, an
d with a magnificent gesture she handed him the teaspoon and put the glass straight to her lips. It seemed to stay there for rather a long time. They love me,’ she said eventually, handing the empty glass back to the waiter. The public has taken me to its beating heart and will never let me go. I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried to pull away. But no. They must have me! They must have all of me! They can’t get enough of me.’ She touched herself. ‘And I never slapped my public in its face. Never! Might I just have one more little drink, please?’ Philip had no real idea what she was talking about no more than she herself had but he gestured furtively for the drink she had requested. Tell me, Pip, do you write? Gin!’ The waiter had misunderstood Philip’s gesture, and had brought over a saucer of mango chutney. ‘Mummy’s ruin!’
Philip was scrutinising the unwanted chutney. ‘I tried to write a novel once,’ he said.
‘That is good news.’ Everybody seems to be writing them these days, was her thought.
‘But I failed. I stopped…’
‘Let me see your hands, dear.’ Hesitantly he held them out for her inspection and she grabbed them, squeezing his fingertips very hard. ‘I knew it,’ she said triumphantly. They’re a writer’s hands. Just look at that heart line.’ With her finger she traced the crease in question. ‘It doesn’t know when to stop, does it?’ She rolled her eyes.
The waiter had brought a full bottle of gin over to the table, and was refilling Harriet’s glass while listening to this brief conversation. ‘I have novel,’ he said. ‘Good book.’
‘Who wrote it?’ Harriet asked sharply.
‘No sir. This my idea.’ And it occurred to the horrified Harriet that the waiter had a story to tell also. ‘Nice modest man, correct?’ He stood up straight, and flashed a smile at her. ‘Now this nice man does not want to stand out from others, do you see? Too modest.’ Harriet held out her glass, and he refilled it as he spoke. ‘But still he is odd. Very odd man.’ He shook his head. ‘And do you know why?’ He could hardly contain himself. ‘He is very odd because he tried to be exactly like everyone else. Precisely like. Good story, is that so?’
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