A Mad, Wicked Folly

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  “That’s Sylvia and Christabel Pankhurst’s little brother, Harry,” Lucy whispered. “He showed up on Sylvia’s doorstep awhile back. Did a bunk from his job as a builder up north in Clydesdale. Best thing he did, really. Can you imagine him carrying bricks and climbing scaffolding? Some say he’s the only girl in the family.”

  “He looks very young,” I admitted.

  “He’s nineteen. He’s been helping Sylvia with the murals, carrying things and filling in color.”

  Seeing Lucy and me, Harry came over. Lucy introduced us.

  “Hello.” He waved his hand.

  “I’d better go help,” Lucy said, standing up. “I’m not much of a painter, but I do the grunt work.”

  “Are you an artist, Harry?” I asked after Lucy had gone off.

  “I dabble. I’m nothing like my sister. I’m really just putting in the colors.”

  “Oi, Harry. Who’s your girl?” one of the artists, a slender blond man in his twenties, dressed in a purple waistcoat and striped trousers, called down from a ladder.

  I could see a slow flush crawl up Harry’s neck. He shot a quick look at me. “She’s . . . she’s not my girl, Austin.” To me, Harry added, “That’s one of Sylvia’s friends from the art college. Austin Osman Spare.”

  Austin waved his paintbrush at me. “How d’ya do?”

  “I’m quite finished with my sketch,” I said, looking up at him. I had a little time to spare before I had to leave to meet Will at the Royal Academy. “Would you like some help?”

  He gestured at an empty ladder near him. “Come on up!”

  Harry set me up with paints and brushes, and I got to work between Austin and Harry filling in the colors—violet, green, and white—on the garland of ivy and flowers that arched over the canvas.

  After an hour we all broke for tea. I met some other artists: Amy Browning, who was another friend of Sylvia’s from the RCA, and Clara Watson, the other girl whose parents didn’t want her at the mural.

  Everyone was laughing and eating sandwiches and drinking tea out of chipped mugs. The scene reminded me of Renoir’s Le déjeuner des canotiers, which depicted a luncheon at the Maison Fournaise restaurant held after he and his artist friends had been boating on the Seine. The mural artists had the same carefree and exuberant expressions as Renoir’s friends in the painting. Automatically, I reached for my sketchbook and began to draw.

  No one chastised me or looked embarrassed to see me drawing them. Artists knew what it was to have an idea and itch to get it down on paper as soon as possible. I drew Austin sitting on a stool, his elbow braced on his knee. I drew Harry sprawled in his chair, nibbling a digestive biscuit, head ducking shyly; Amy, Clara, and Lucy leaning forward, laughing at what Austin was saying to Harry. And then Sylvia sitting with her hands resting in her lap, eyes closed, stealing a moment’s calm. I didn’t know Will all that well, but I could see him sitting there, too. He’d fit right into the picture.

  A familiar feeling washed over me as I drew. It was the one I’d had with Bertram and the other artists in the café that day in France after I had posed. I felt accepted for who I was. I didn’t have to sort the words in my head first, making sure they were socially acceptable before I said them. I groped around for a word that fit.

  Peace. I felt peaceful. I had come looking for a reference, but I had found so much more. I knew I would come back.

  Eighteen

  Piccadilly, the Royal Academy,

  Burlington House

  I CHECKED MY PENDANT watch for the third time as the driver pulled the cab up at the Burlington Arcade. Because of traffic, I was a quarter of an hour late. I hoped Will was still there. What if he left, thinking I’d changed my mind? I paid the cab driver and hurried through the crush of pedestrians to the stately Burlington House, home of the Royal Academy.

  Will hadn’t left. He was waiting underneath one of the arches, leaning against the stone, hands in his pockets, watching the people walk by on the pavement. He was not in his police uniform; instead he was wearing a flat cheese-cutter cap, dark-green trousers, and a herringbone tweed jacket that looked a little big for him.

  I hurried up to him. “I beg your pardon, I’m ever so late.”

  But Will simply glanced at me and then went back to scanning the crowd.

  “Will!”

  He glanced at me again. “Vicky? I didn’t recognize you.” Close up, Will’s ill-fitting jacket was frayed at the cuffs. But it was clean, and his trousers were neatly pressed, which gave him an endearing shabbiness.

  “I’m not surprised. Almost every time you’ve seen me, I’ve been in some sort of horrid state, either falling on you or dripping with rain or running away from you.”

  “You forgot tripping over barrels.”

  “That too.”

  He looked at me for a moment. “You look so different. You look . . . smashing, actually.”

  “Thank you.” I was pleased that Will noticed. More than pleased, actually. Far too pleased.

  “Talking of those barrels. How are your hands?”

  “Much better.” I held out my palms.

  “I thought my clumsy nursing might have made them worse instead of better.” He ran his fingers over the fading scrapes, and I shivered at his touch. He had beautiful hands: large, callused, and strong, the sort of hands an artist dreams of sketching. I thought about drawing them in a study, his hand lying on the curve of Guinevere’s breast; male strength against female vulnerability. I wondered what the RCA examiners would think of that?

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” I said, taking my hand away from his before I had any more wicked ideas of ways to draw him.

  “Not long.” He looked through the archway toward the entrance of the academy. “I’ve never been in here. I’ve gone by it lots of times on my beat.”

  “My favorite painting hangs here. I come by to see it whenever I can.”

  We went through the archway and to a place in the courtyard where I liked to sit and sketch while my mother went shopping in the arcade next door. It was bright and peaceful in the courtyard. Will and I sat down on a bench, and I got my pencils and sketchbook out. I took a graphite pencil out of the box and sharpened it with a fruit knife I had taken from the kitchen pantry. I planned to sketch Will’s face. Faces were difficult to draw. They caught and reflected the light in so many different ways. Expressions were ever changing and were complicated things to capture on paper.

  “I wish to make sketches first. I have an idea to do a study portraying you as Lancelot, just after he sees Guinevere for the last time.” I had decided I would include the studies in my sketchbook for my application and then show a pastel sketch for the further work that was required for the examination. “Do you know the story?” I asked.

  “Of course. Lancelot and Guinevere fall in love, and King Author sentences her to burn at the stake for it. Lancelot rescues her, but they can’t be together. She goes to a nunnery, and he goes to war.”

  “Dante Gabriel Rossetti portrayed their last meeting. I’d like to show only Lancelot as he watches Guinevere walk away.”

  “What should I do?” Will asked. “I know you told me to keep still and keep my gob shut, but I suspect there’s more.”

  “Do you mind taking your cap off so I can see your face?”

  He did so and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “If you can think about what Lancelot thought and felt when he saw her, that will appear in your expression,” I said. “I won’t tell you what to think because that would ring false.”

  “Like this?” He opened his eyes wide.

  “Uh, less like you’re longing for presents from Father Christmas.”

  He laughed. “How about this?” He stared at me with a startled look.

  “Now you look as though you’ve backed into a cactus.”

  He put his chin in
his hand and gazed at me. “Well then, how do you mean?”

  “Don’t try so hard. Think about something you really want but that’s denied to you . . . your stories. Think about what it would feel like if they were never published.”

  “That makes me feel sick. Father Christmas and the cactus might be preferable.”

  “Don’t worry about it; we’ll work on expression later.” I began to sketch an oval outline that tapered down at the bottom. I divided that with vertical and horizontal lines, which would help me block the basic details in the right proportions. I looked up to get the measure of his eyes.

  “Um, do you mind turning your shoulders a bit that way?” I gestured with my pencil. I was suddenly feeling shy in front of him. Drawing someone, especially someone sitting so close, was an enormously intimate endeavor. The artist had to really look at the person’s features closely. And it felt awkward to look at Will so. I’d only ever drawn people in a studio setting with other artists, and strangers from a distance. I’d never had a personal model before. I was frustrated. With such a large body of work to complete in such a short while, I didn’t have much time for this nonsense. I was sure the Pre-Raphaelites never felt nervous around their models. Then again, the Pre-Raphaelites and their models were often lovers. Will and I, lovers? That thought flitted across my mind for a brief second before I pushed it away. Such a traitorous thought for a woman engaged.

  “This way?” He shifted the wrong way, and the light fell upon his lap instead.

  “No, actually . . .” I stuck my pencil in my mouth and placed my hands on his shoulders, turning them so that a flash of sunlight fell upon his face. Then, realizing what I was doing, I dropped my hands away from him quickly. I took my pencil out of my mouth and bunched my hands in my lap, my fingers squeezing the pencil. “I’m sorry; forgive me.” I felt like a stupid girl, dressed in her brother’s clothes, pretending to be an artist.

  “It’s all right, Vicky, I’m not bothered,” Will said gently.

  I returned to my sketch, but every time I looked at his face, his eyes met mine and I got flustered. This was pointless. If I didn’t get over my nerves, then what was the idea of the whole exercise?

  “I’m putting you off,” Will said. “But I understand. We didn’t start out on the best foot, as it goes. Why don’t we just talk a little more?” He reached over and took my pencil from my hand. “Forget the drawing for a bit.”

  I shrugged, casting about for something to ask him. I’d never had a conversation with a boy like him before. Most of the boys I knew wanted to talk about shooting grouse or yachting at Cowes or how their racehorse did at Newmarket. They were crushingly boring, actually. “How long have you been a police constable?” I finally asked.

  “A little under a year. I joined at seventeen. Coming to London was a shocker for me. I still haven’t gotten used to the noise and the crowds of the city. I’d never been out of East Sussex before, see.”

  “Really? Never ever? East Sussex is only a couple of hours away from London by train, is it not?”

  “It’s not far, which is good because I get home every once in a while. My mum and dad and sister and nephew still live in East Sussex. My dad is the constable in a little village there called Rye, as was his father before him.”

  “What’s it like there?” Will was right. Talking helped ease some of the nerves I had around him. I could feel my shoulders relaxing. I loved the way he spoke. Will didn’t have the drawn-out gentrified drawl that the boys I knew affected, learned at some boarding school. He spoke in a quick, almost cheeky, manner.

  “It used to be a smugglers’ den, if you want to know the truth of it. There’s an old inn there where they used to do their evil deeds. They say it’s haunted as anything. You’d like it. Lots of artists do because of the beauty and solitude. The American writer Henry James lives near my parents’ house, and my mum does his laundry. He’s quite friendly, always happy to give me advice. One time I went over to deliver his laundry, and H. G. Wells and Rudyard Kipling were there.” There was wistfulness in Will’s voice.

  “It sounds as though you miss it.”

  “I do. Very much.” He looked down at my charcoal pencil, turning it over in his fingers.

  “So why did you leave?”

  “To make my fortune, I suppose, although a London bobby will never make a fortune, but it’s a sight better than what a small-town copper would make. My story is set in London, so I wanted to stick myself in that setting. Helps me understand my characters better.”

  “It’s such an artist thing to do,” I said.

  “It is?” Will looked surprised. “That’s good to know. I’ll have to tell my parents that. They still aren’t thrilled I left. My dad was hoping I’d join the police in Rye.”

  “My friend Bertram moved to France because the light is better there for painting.”

  I studied the cover of my sketchbook, traced my fingers over the leather. I felt less anxious now, but I didn’t want to stop talking to Will. “Will you tell me about your story?” I asked.

  Now it was Will’s turn to look anxious. He had an expression on his face that I recognized: unsure, as though he might not describe the work well enough; worried that the person might misunderstand and he would appear foolish.

  “It’s a modern-day retelling of Robin Hood,” he started out slowly, fixing his gaze on one of the paving stones in the courtyard. “Only my character’s name is Robert Hoode and he’s a politician.” He darted a look at me, seemingly gauging my reaction. I nodded, Go on. “He steals from the upper class and gives to the poor in the East End. Because he couldn’t right the wrongs done to the poor through the law, he finds ways to swindle the rich and give the prizes to the poor.”

  “But that’s a brilliant story, Will! I can think of illustrations already.” I wasn’t just saying that; the story was intriguing, and ideas were popping into my mind.

  “Really?” Will asked, his eyes hopeful. “I’ve never told anyone about it before. Only you.”

  “It’s exactly the kind of thing my brother does in his publishing company.” I took my pencil back from Will, opened my book, and did a quick scribble of Hoode. Will leaned over, watching closely. “Something like this?”

  “Yes! That’s it. You’ve got the way of him.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He grinned. “So enough about me. What about you? What are you going to do?”

  I shook my head. “I’m going to the art college, like I told you before.” And I will be married then, and I won’t know you anymore, I thought. I doubted Edmund would welcome my having a personal model, especially a male one—especially one as handsome as Will. Despite how modern Edmund was, for his wife to keep company with another man would border on scandalous. I didn’t wish to have my marriage end up like Louis Trevelyan and Emily Rowley’s in Anthony Trollope’s novel He Knew He Was Right. At Madame Édith’s Finishing School for Girls, the literature tutor wielded the book as a cautionary tale to us hapless girls. Never be alone with a man, ladies, lest you be accused of something unsavory, she had said. I don’t think my tutor understood the irony of the book, and that Trollope was sympathetic to the wife, but that was Madame Édith’s Finishing School for Girls.

  “Yes, but then what?” Will asked. “Do you want to live somewhere else? I hear there are many artists in Cornwall, in Newlyn. Or do you want to go back to France?” His face softened. “You look upset. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have mentioned France.”

  I looked away, praying that I wouldn’t start blubbing. Thinking about France still hurt. Will, thankfully, stopped asking questions. Instead he glanced around the courtyard. Then he finally broke the silence.

  “Say, why don’t you put your sketchbook away, and you can show me that painting you mentioned before?” he said.

  Grateful for the suggestion, I put my things in my satchel and we went into the Aca
demy. As we approached A Mermaid, I could feel that eager tug I always had when I came to see her. It was as if she were an old friend I couldn’t wait to greet.

  Will and I turned the corner and there she was, sitting on her tail on the shoreline, combing her long red hair with her mother-of-pearl comb, her mouth open in song. I could almost hear the waves of the sea as they purled toward the shore, and smell the brackish scent of the foamy water in the bay and the seaweed on the shingle. The towering cliffs stood sentinel, protecting her from prying eyes. Her gaze looked out at the viewer as if to say, Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for ages.

  The carefree independence of the mermaid constantly touched something inside me. I supposed that was why I liked the Pre-Raphaelites and their successors so much. They chose to paint things that human beings would never see on earth, only in imagination. Fanciful things, like this mermaid. Subjects like these made you imagine that life could be far, far different than you ever thought.

  “‘Who would be a mermaid fair, singing alone, combing her hair,’” Will quoted as we stopped in front of her and stood side by side.

  “You know Tennyson’s poem?” I said, surprised.

  “Yes, ‘The Mermaid.’”

  “They say the artist of this painting, J. W. Waterhouse, drew his inspiration from that.”

  “I believe it. She’s Tennyson’s poem in perfect illustration.” He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward for a closer look, giving her his full attention. Would Edmund look at her in that fashion? I wondered. And if he didn’t, would it matter to me?

  “Waterhouse is such a successful artist,” I said. “People love him. When he donated this painting as his diploma work, everyone raved about it. See how her tail shimmers? And the rocks and seaweed around her have such texture and color. Each one is different. And the iridescence in the abalone shell where she keeps her pearls? No one can match Waterhouse for that technique.”

  “Maybe you will someday. You’ll go to the art college, learn lots, and be a big success, like this chap.”