Too Close to the Sun

by Jess Foley

  Grace had no idea what to expect. Mr Spencer she had seen on two or three occasions during his visits to her father’s workshop, but Mrs Spencer was something of a mystery. The story went that, although born in the area, she had lived most of her life in Swindon, only returning following her marriage – a marriage that had come comparatively late in her life. However, although resident in the general area once more, she was very rarely seen in the nearest village, Berron Wick. Going by what Grace had heard, about the only place she was ever glimpsed was in the local church on occasions such as Easter, Christmas, and Harvest Festivals. And even then she was barely in evidence, always sitting right at the front in the reserved pew, and swathed in her hats and veils.

  But now Grace and Billy were being ushered into the room, and, supposedly, into the woman’s presence.

  The door clicked closed behind them and with the sound Grace realized that the maid had departed. She and Billy stood side by side, Billy so close he was almost touching her. Here in this room it was so much cooler. It faced north, so the light – today unclouded and bright – was subtle, steady and unchanging. It was not a large room, but it gave a feeling of spaciousness due to the lack of any great amount of furniture in the place. What was there was comprised in the main of a couple of rather distressed chests of drawers and a bureau. Also a gate-legged table – once a handsome, highly polished piece, now scratched and paint-stained. The walls were hung with paintings, some framed, some on unadorned canvas stretchers. They consisted of landscapes, still lifes and a few animal studies. They were, Grace observed, in a similar style to those which she and Billy now held in their hands. For the rest of the furnishing, there were several rows of shelves also, bearing what looked like stretched canvases and various jars and pots, some of which held artists’ brushes. In the air hung a smell of linseed oil and turpentine – smells that Grace recognized from her father’s workshop. Over the carpet was spread what looked to be old dustsheets and hessian – obviously to protect the carpet from paint stains, of which not a few marked the make-do covering. The greater part of the paint stains lay around an area a few feet from the window on which stood an artist’s easel with a canvas on it. Before it, sitting on a chair and leaning forward with paintbrush in hand, sat Mrs Spencer.

  Seeming almost to be unaware of them – though of course that could not be – she continued with her work. Sitting almost with her back to the newcomers, she was working on a painting of a still-life composition that lay before her on a table: white roses in a vase, with lemons and pears, the whole arrangement placed on a chequered cloth. Another table, not far from the woman’s right hand, bore a paint-smeared palette, a jar holding paintbrushes, small bottles of liquid and a scattering of tubes of paint.

  Grace observed as Mrs Spencer sat back in her chair, paintbrush in hand, and looked judiciously and doubtfully at the canvas before her. She appeared a tallish, slender woman. She was not young, Grace could see; she must be well into her fifties. She wore a large hat, resting low on her forehead, which did not completely cover her grey hair, cotton gloves – once white, now stained with a hundred different paint colours – and an artist’s smock, its own whiteness also marked with paint stains of different hues. At her throat was a dark crimson bow. The whole effect reminded Grace of portraits of famous artists she had seen in picture books over the years.

  ‘So,’ the woman said, ‘I understand you’ve brought my pictures.’ She spoke with a soft tone, looking at the unfinished canvas with her head a little on one side. She lifted the brush as if she would use it on the palette to mix more colours, but then, just as quickly, she seemed to decide that she would go no further for the time being, and put it down on the painting table.

  ‘Enough, enough,’ she said, endorsing her action. ‘I’m not getting anywhere, so what’s the use?’ Still without turning to them, she raised her gloved hand and crooked her index finger. ‘Come. Come closer. Both of you.’

  Grace stepped forward and Billy followed and came to a halt at her side. Only then did the woman turn towards them.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘ – my pictures. My husband had intended them to be a surprise for me, but he won’t mind if his little surprise is rather spoiled. I never could rest on anticipation.’ She held out her gloved hands and Grace took a step forward and placed the burlap-wrapped package into them. Fumbling with the strings, Mrs Spencer said, ‘Mr Harper made the frames and set the paintings in them, is that so?’

  Grace raised her head and nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And you’re his daughter, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Getting nowhere with the strings, Mrs Spencer impatiently thrust the package back towards Grace. ‘Here – your fingers are more nimble than mine.’

  Grace took the package from the woman. In moments she had the strings untied and was taking from its wrapping the framed canvas. Measuring about fourteen by ten, it was a landscape: green fields fading away to a high horizon beneath a rather stormy sky. Grace held it out and Mrs Spencer took it, held it before her and looked at it long and hard. As she did so, Grace took the painting held by Billy, and unwrapped it. Mrs Spencer put the landscape down, leaning it against the side of the easel, then took the second painting from Grace. After looking at it for several seconds in silence, she murmured with irony, ‘Well, it’s certainly a lovely frame. He does fine work, your father.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Grace.

  ‘We have a bureau that he made, and an excellent little footstool. My husband has spoken of having your father make us some other items. We thought perhaps some more shelves for the library, and maybe a chessboard. And, of course, there’s the cabinet your father’s now working on.’ A brief pause, then, tilting her head slightly, she said, ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Grace.’

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘Grace Helen Harper.’

  ‘I see, and what do you do, Miss Grace Helen Harper?’

  ‘Do, ma’am?’

  ‘For a living? I assume you do something.’

  ‘Well, yes – for the time being I’m teaching. I’m a governess.’

  ‘A governess. Does that mean you have a brain?’

  ‘I hope so, ma’am.’

  ‘And do you live with your employers?’

  ‘No, I’m daily, visiting.’

  ‘I see. And whom do you visit?’

  ‘The sons of Mr Marren. He’s a businessman who lives not far from where we live in Green Shipton.’

  ‘How many sons?’

  ‘Two. They’re twins. Nine years old.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it? Teaching them?’

  ‘Most of the time, ma’am, yes.’

  The woman’s mouth moved in a slight smile. ‘Most of the time?’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Well – sometimes they can be – testing.’

  ‘I’m sure they can.’ Silence. Then Mrs Spencer spoke again. ‘What did you mean just now when you said you’re teaching for the time being?’

  ‘Oh – well – my employment with the Marren boys is coming to an end.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘They’re due to go away to boarding school.’

  ‘So you’ve become redundant.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

  ‘Oh, dear. So what will you do? Look for a new position?’

  ‘Soon, yes. I have just three more days teaching the boys, then I must think about my future.’

  ‘I should think you’d have given it some thought already.’

  ‘Yes – of course.’ Grace felt at a disadvantage, and increasingly somewhat like a child who has caused displeasure. ‘I do have certain responsibilities at home,’ she said. ‘Apart from teaching I help out at home, helping to look after the family.’

  ‘And how did you come to be a teacher?’

  ‘I was taught by my mother.’

  ‘Was your mother a teacher? – a governess?’

  ‘No, she – she wasn’t anything. I
mean, she didn’t have any particular position. She was the daughter of a vicar, the Rev. Cleeson of Coller Down.’

  ‘Cleeson. I’m not familiar with the name.’ Mrs Spencer shook her head, then said, ‘I understand that your mother died not so long ago.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct. She died just this past spring.’

  Mrs Spencer nodded, then turned in the direction of Billy. ‘And this young man is, I imagine, a member of your family?’ The cadence of the woman’s voice clearly directed a question at him, but Grace responded.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Billy’s my brother.’

  ‘And do you have other brothers? Sisters?’

  ‘No, ma’am, there’s just Billy and me.’

  ‘Just the two of you? There is a great difference in your ages.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. My mother always spoke of my brother as her “late blessing”.’

  ‘I see. And have you had the burden of caring for him and your father?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not a burden. Besides, we have a lady who comes in just three or four times during the week to help out. Mrs Tanner – she lives in the village – she’s been a great help over – over difficult times.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. And when your pupils have gone away to school, what will you do? Find another position, I suppose. There’s no shortage of boys and girls who need tuition. May I ask how old you are?’

  ‘I was twenty in April.’

  The woman brushed a hand over her forehead in a melodramatic gesture. ‘Twenty. Is it possible that anyone on earth is twenty.’ She looked at Grace for several seconds in silence, then said, ‘Well, Miss Harper, I just hope you make the most of it – being twenty. Because it’ll never come again. As you’ll learn. Have you got a young man?’

  Grace found herself colouring slightly at the question, and was at a loss as to how to answer. ‘I have – I have a – an acquaintance,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ Mrs Spencer smiled. ‘At twenty it’s time you were thinking about getting settled. May I ask who this acquaintance might be?’

  ‘His name is Stephen Cantrell. He lives in Green Shipton.’

  ‘And how old is he?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘And do you have hopes – plans – where he is concerned?’

  Grace briefly lowered her gaze, uncomfortable at the line of questioning. ‘No plans, ma’am,’ she said, then quickly added, ‘I wouldn’t presume so. We haven’t – spoken of such things.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s time,’ said the woman. She continued to gaze at Grace, then lowered her eyes to the picture again, running her fingers gently over the frame. ‘Yes, the frame is very well made.’ Then she added, with a touch of irony in her tone, ‘Though I’m not that sure about the painting.’ Abruptly she turned the face of the canvas towards Grace and Billy. ‘What do you think of it?’ she asked, addressing the question to Grace.

  The painting, which Grace had of course seen previous to their starting out that day, was a still life, the subject comprising a bowl with apples, a small bunch of grapes and a blue china vase holding two or three lilies set off by sprays of fine maidenhair fern. The whole thing was painted in the most delicate detail, in the English artistic fashion of the day, and must, Grace was sure, have taken a considerable time to complete.

  ‘Well?’ the woman prompted. ‘What do you think?’

  Grace dreaded saying the wrong thing. There was no overestimating how touchy people could be when it came to things they held dear.

  ‘I like it very much,’ she said at last.

  ‘Oh, you do?’

  ‘Yes, very much,’ Grace said.

  ‘And you, young man.’ Mrs Spencer turned her attention to Billy. ‘I’m sure you can do better than your sister. What do you think of it?’ Then before she could receive an answer, she added, ‘What is your name, by the way?’

  Billy just looked at her, silent, awed, and Grace said:

  ‘Billy, ma’am. His name’s –’

  The woman held up a gloved hand. ‘Let him speak for himself.’ Then to Billy: ‘Your name, little boy. Tell me your name.’

  Grace willed him: Don’t stammer. Oh, Billy, don’t stammer. There’s nothing to be afraid of. And Billy drew back his chin, sucking in air, as if trying to snatch and draw in courage. ‘P-please, ma’am,’ he said, ‘it’s B-B-B-Billy.’

  ‘Billy?’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘Is that William?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Right.’ She gave a little nod. ‘So – tell me, Master William Harper, what do you think of my painting?’

  Billy began to take a step back but Grace put out her right hand and laid it across his shoulder. Touching him, feeling his nervous body beneath her hand, she gently pressed his shoulder with her fingers. ‘Go on,’ she murmured, giving him an encouraging smile. ‘Tell the lady what you think.’

  ‘Yes, do,’ Mrs Spencer said to him, ‘though while you’re about it maybe you shouldn’t be too honest.’ She peered at him, fixing him with her gaze, waiting. ‘So, tell me – what do you think of it?’

  ‘Go on,’ Grace prompted, ‘tell Mrs Spencer how much you like it. I know you do; you told me so.’ A pause. ‘You did, don’t you remember?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Tell the lady, then.’

  Still he said nothing.

  ‘Come on,’ the woman said. ‘We’re waiting.’

  ‘It’s true, ma’am,’ Grace said. ‘He does like it. When my father was wrapping the paintings Billy said how much he liked them. He really did.’

  Mrs Spencer looked at her coldly. ‘I don’t care to be patronized, young lady.’

  Grace felt herself flushing with embarrassment. ‘No, really, it’s true. He said that –’

  ‘Please,’ the woman said, ‘don’t go on.’ She turned to Billy. ‘It’s the boy’s opinion I want. Tell me, what do you think of my painting?’

  Billy flicked the swiftest glance at Grace, then, receiving an encouraging nod from her, said, ‘Please, m-ma’am – I like it very much.’

  ‘Oh, you do? How old are you, young man?’

  Billy bent his head and looked down at the floor again.

  ‘He’s eight years old,’ Grace said.

  ‘Let him speak for himself,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘How old are you?’

  Now Billy spoke. ‘E-e-eight,’ he said.

  ‘Eight years old,’ Mrs Spencer said, putting the painting down beside the other one. ‘And what are you learning at school?’

  He remained silent.

  ‘Do you like painting?’

  ‘Yes,’ Grace said, ‘we enjoy painting, don’t we? And we like looking at paintings too.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ the woman said. She nodded, then reached out and took hold of a silver-headed cane. Leaning on it, she rose to her feet and moved to the window. And as she walked, Grace and Billy’s eyes became fixed upon her skirts, seeing the way she limped heavily on her right leg. At the window she raised the sash a little more, then turned and moved back to her chair. And still the two pairs of eyes focused on her limping gait.

  ‘Well,’ she said, her eyes flicking from Billy to Grace as she stood before her chair once more, ‘have you seen enough?’ Her voice was like ice, her eyes like steel points. ‘Or would you like me to perambulate around the room again?’

  Grace flushed with embarrassment, then managed to say, ‘I – I think we had better be leaving, ma’am. We’ve taken up enough of your time.’

  ‘Indeed so. I’ll ring for the maid to show you out.’

  As the woman turned to move towards the bell pull and tugged upon it, there was a sudden little flurry of movement in the room. And almost in the same moment Billy was turning, giving out a little cry of anguish. Grace saw the reason for it: a bird had flown in at the open window and was flying about the room in a panic. And even as she watched, the small, swooping creature flew against one of the closed windows, struck the glass pane and fell onto the floor. At once Billy left Grace’s si
de and was dashing across the room.

  Gently he picked up the small bird in his two hands, and peered at it through the space between his fingers. ‘It’s a little hedge sparrow,’ he said, his cupped hands held before his chest. ‘It’s quite stunned.’ And then after a few moments his face lit up, and he turned first to the woman and then to Grace. ‘It’s moving. I can feel it moving in my hands. I can feel its heart beating.’

  Mrs Spencer now stood with her eyes fixed on Billy.

  Billy said with a breathless little laugh, ‘I can feel him in my hands – he’s that desperate to be free.’

  Limping to the window, he thrust his cupped hands, closed like a clamshell, out into the air. And then slowly he withdrew his upper hand. The bird lay on his palm, quite still. ‘Come on,’ Billy whispered. And then the bird stirred and raised itself on its feet. Then, giving a little shake and opening its wings, it lifted off and took flight.

  Billy watched as the bird flew away and disappeared from sight. Then he turned back, the smile still on his face, to his sister. ‘He’ll be all right now,’ he said.

  Stepping to Grace’s side he seemed suddenly to become aware of the situation again, of being there in an unfamiliar room in a great house, with a disapproving woman before him. But then the maid was there, and Grace and Billy were turning and following her out of the room.

  With Asterleigh House behind them Grace said to Billy, ‘Shall we call in at the Pits on the way home? It’ll be nice by the water.’ And he said, ‘Yes, all right,’ and they left the road to follow a short path that led them to the old disused clay pit. It was a beautiful spot. The water sparkled under the bright July sun, while around the banks tall willows cast their shade as small fish darted in the shallows.

  The venue was a favourite with the people from around the area, and many times throughout her life Grace had been there. At first alone with her mother, and then later with her brother also along. Then, over the last year, when her mother had become too ill to make the journey, Grace had herself taken Billy for the occasional excursion.

  On this particular day there was no one else about, and while Grace settled down in the shade of some silver birches, Billy wandered off, Grace’s exhortations to be careful lingering in his ears. While he was gone, Grace sat gazing out across the lake, listening to the birdsong and the breaking of the water’s surface as the fish came up to feed. Apart from such sounds, all else was still, peaceful, with barely even a breeze to ruffle the water’s calm. Soon Billy was back, flopping down on the grass at her side.