She wandered disconsolately into the kitchen, thinking nostalgically of the days when her father was here. How trouble-free were those days. Now she had the problem of finding a house, keeping the present house and garden in some kind of order and still paint enough pictures to earn a living. And on top of all this, she had Ross Hamilton breathing down her neck.
Tears of loneliness and self-pity filled her eyes. It was all too much. She simply could not cope. Hunger still gnawing at her, she made some tea and spread two small slices of brown bread with butter and marmalade and took them up to her studio. There she did not feel so alone. Had Ross Hamilton really admired her work, she wondered, or had he simply been sarcastic? Suddenly it was important that he was sincere, but she thrust the thought aside. She didn’t care what he thought. She didn’t like him and she never would. The sooner she found a place of her own the better. As to forbidding her entry into the inclosures, she would see about that!
Doing a mental battle with him made her feel better. She finished her breakfast, then went downstairs again and brought up the new picture. The man strolling beneath the trees looked altogether too much like Ross Hamilton, she thought, and began to mix the colours to make him look fatter, but then halted. If she did that it would spoil the picture. Tall and slender, he looked just right. She would leave it.
While the weather remained dry it seemed sensible to work out of doors. Ruth liked to have plenty of pictures on hand, and she was rather short of spring scenes. Each season had a beauty all its own, and every inch of the Forest and time of day revealed new and fresh delights. No two trees looked exactly alike to Ruth, but were as individual to her as people.
But this morning, a few days after her encounter with Ross Hamilton, Ruth decided she would do a series of paintings showing Foresters at work. Figures were not easy to draw and paint, but she had not done too badly at them in the college of art where she had learned such techniques.
She knew that at this time of year the men would be felling larch trees for electricity poles, lopping and topping from felled trees and jobs like cutting wood for clothes props, bean rods and firewood.
Some of the men knew Ruth, naturally, as they had certainly known her father, and when she arrived at the place where a number of them were working they raised something of a cheer. Some of the younger ones called out facetious remarks, but Ruth only laughed. They did not mean any disrespect. The ganger, Bill Rogers, strolled up to her, to find out, in a friendly way, Ruth presumed, what she was up to.
‘Going to paint the boys at work, are you?’ he asked with a grin.
‘That’s the general idea. All right?’
‘Certainly, Miss Medway.’
One of the men called the ganger’s name, and looking in that direction, Ruth could have groaned aloud. Ross Hamilton had appeared. With a muttered ‘excuse me’, Bill went towards him.
Her pulse beginning to beat erratically in anticipation of trouble, Ruth put on a calm face and began to erect her easel. As she expected, after a few words with Bill, Ross Hamilton strode up to her, his face dark.
Without even the courtesy of a ‘good morning’ he said brusquely: ‘You can’t paint here.’
She continued setting out her materials. ‘Oh, I can, I assure you.’
‘I’m telling you, you can’t.’
‘Why not?’ she asked, her heart thudding ridiculously against her ribs.
‘Because I say so.’
She refused to allow herself to be intimidated by him, though he was certainly doing his best to do so.
‘I’m afraid that just isn’t a good enough reason,’ she retorted, wishing that her anger whenever he was near had not somehow deserted her.
He put his hands on his slim hips and looked at her through narrowed eyes. There was no quirk of his lips now, she noted, neither sarcastically or otherwise.
‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ he asked heavily, eyeing her up and down suggestively.
‘Yes, you do,’ she answered, though she fully realised what he was driving at.
He took a deep breath and then expelled it in the manner of one trying to be patient.
‘To say the least, you’ll distract the men from their work,’ he said pointedly. ‘Or is that what you want?’
Her grip on one of her brushes tightened, then she relaxed and grinned up at him mischievously from her stool.
‘Maybe.’
She had the satisfaction of seeing his jaws tighten with anger.
‘As far as I’m concerned they can do as they like with you—the lot of them, but I will not have my work force distracted either by you or anyone else.’
She laughed, feeling that, for once, she had the upper hand.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I know them all—or most of them. And they know me. They’re used to me.’
‘Very likely. I heard the shouts as I came along—which apparently greeted your arrival on the scene. I also heard some of the things they called out to you.’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, that! They didn’t mean anything. And they’ll soon settle down, if your precious output is all you’re worried about. In five minutes from now, they’ll have forgotten I’m here.’
‘Oh yes?’ he queried in obvious disbelief.
‘Yes,’ she echoed firmly.
Having set up her easel she began to sketch the scene before her, outlining the men at work—a group of men of all ages and in different stances, trimming and peeling the thinnings of Scots pines for pit props. Later they would be stacking them. This was going to be the first of many action paintings. Whether they would sell or not, Ruth thought, she must do them. In her preoccupation with her work and with the excitement of inspiration beginning to course through her veins, she almost forgot the intimidating Forester towering over her. Almost, but not quite. She knew he was angry. It was in the atmosphere all around, and she could almost feel his eyes boring through her head, and out of the corner of her eye she could see his long, lean legs.
‘Are you going to pack up those things and get out of here,’ he demanded, ‘or am I going to have to remove you forcibly?’
She swung round to him impatiently, hovering between anger at being interrupted in her work, and amusement at the picture of his forcibly removing her.
‘That would give the men a treat—and something to talk about in the Club later—wouldn’t it? Because I can assure you, I won’t go quietly. I shall kick and scream—and how I can scream! The men might even be under the impression that you’re carrying me off to—well, you know—’
She was highly exaggerating. Even if he did try to carry out his threat and she did kick and scream, they wouldn’t think what she was implying. It was all highly improbable. But she shrank inwardly from the expression of near-hatred in his eyes. Her moment of triumph at having the upper hand somehow evaporated.
‘Mr. Hamilton—’ she forced a pleading note into her voice now. ‘Please let me stay. It’s my profession, my living. See—’ she directed a look in the direction of the forestry workers, “the men have already forgotten me. They’re hard at it.’
‘That, no doubt, is because I’m here,’ he said. Then: ‘All right, as you plead your case so well, I’ll be lenient and allow you to stay.’ At this she hid a smile. ‘But I warn you,’ he went on pointing a stern finger at her, ‘I’ll be back when you’re least expecting me, and if I find you within yards of any of the men, still less chatting them up, you’ll be out of here before you can say “Jack Robinson”—and I shan’t care if they hear you screaming from here to the Isle of Wight.’
He turned and strode over to Bill Rogers again, quite confident, no doubt, thought Ruth, that he had had the last word in the truest possible sense. She gave an amused smile. She couldn’t let him climb down too far. She had had to let him think he had won.
Then she pulled herself up sharply. What on earth was she thinking of? She should have called his bluff and let him try to force her to leave the clearing. She was an idiot. If she wasn’t very care
ful she’d be falling for him. Far better to keep her anger going than start placating him. She would defy him and go and talk to the men later on and hope that he would come on the scene and catch her. See what he would do then!
She found it fascinating drawing the men in the different poses. There was something special about the men who worked among trees. They had a dignity and quietness, a contentment about them. She sketched rough outlines of the men at their various tasks, two stacks of pit props she knew would be there somewhere by the end of the day, and then began filling in the background of pines. The sun was shining, giving wonderful light and shade effects, and she worked swiftly. Now and then the men glanced at her, but it was not until they had their lunch break that any of them came to look at what she was doing.
‘Hey, that’s great,’ one of the younger ones said. ‘Can I call the others to see?’
Ruth nodded, arching her back which was beginning to ache from the intense concentration. ‘Hi, fellers, come and look at this!’ he shouted.
Some half a dozen of them crowded round to inspect the painting.
‘Fancy anybody wanting to paint us!’ one of them said in a mixture of awe and amusement.
‘Yeah, but it’s good, in’t it? You oughter have that hung in the Royal Academy or wherever it is they hang the best pictures.’
Ruth laughed, but she was pleased with their praise. ‘Hold it, boys. It’s not even finished yet.’
‘Well, there you are, then. If it’s good now, what will it be when it’s finished?’
‘Who knows? A birthday card—a Forestry Commission recruitment ad. showing what an easy life you forest workers lead?’ she teased.
There was uproarious and sceptical laughter, and Ross Hamilton chose that moment to appear again.
‘Oh, oh—’ Ruth murmured. ‘Here comes the boss.’
He stood some distance away, watching them, his feet planted apart, his hands on his hips. All he needed was a whip, was the fleeting thought which passed through Ruth’s mind.
A couple of the men glanced in his direction and sobered, but they made no move.
‘So what?’ one of them said. ‘It’s our lunch hour.’
Ruth did not suppose this would make an atom of difference to Ross Hamilton. He called out to Bill Rogers, who had joined the group of men admiring her painting. Bill had no option but to go over to the Forester. The two men talked for a minute or two, then Bill called out to the men to come to him.
‘Now what’s the matter?’ one of them said in a disgruntled tone. ‘I suppose we’d better go and see.’
‘Nearly time we were getting back, anyway,’ said another.
‘Rubbish—we’ve got another five minutes or so yet’
Nevertheless, they straggled one by one to where the other two men were standing. Would they all get a ticking off? Ruth wondered. But for what? And would Ross Hamilton carry out his threat to move her? She would like to see him try, she decided, with a mixture of amusement and defiance.
The men had had their lunch break at midday, but Ruth still had to have hers. With an air of waiting for something to happen, she took out her lunch box and unscrewed the top of her flask. If he wanted to move her forcibly—and he would have to pick her up and carry her—he would have to wait until she had eaten her lunch.
She watched the group, and it looked as though there was some kind of argument going on from the various gestures, raised voices and general attitudes. One of them kicked at a loose piece of wood on the ground in a gesture of defiance, and Ruth could only guess that they were being told not to talk to her. Of course, with so much unemployment at the present time, he had a certain hold over the men, she thought. Naturally, they belonged to a trade union. How would he feel if he had a strike on his hands?
As she munched her sandwich the men began to saunter back to their work, and one or two of them gave her a wave in obvious defiance of their boss. As Ruth expected, he began to walk in her direction. She felt her stomach lurch and thought, how ridiculous. It certainly wasn’t out of fear. She didn’t care two hoots about him. Anticipation, then, of a battle that was sure to come? But that didn’t worry her, either. And she wouldn’t let him win again if she could help it.
‘I thought I told you not to talk to the men?’ he demanded in an authoritative voice.
She looked up at him and bit into her sandwich before answering. That would show him how much she was afraid of him, she thought.
She shrugged. ‘They came to talk to me. How could I stop them? And it was their lunch hour. Now it’s mine,’ she went on, deliberately seeing how far she could go with him, ‘and I would appreciate being left to enjoy it in peace. Er—sorry I’ve only got one drinking cup,’ she added.
He drew an angry breath. ‘For two pins I’d put you across my knee and give you a jolly good spanking!’
She gave him a startled look. ‘You wouldn’t dare! I’d sue you!’
‘It would be worth it, but don’t worry. I’d want to do it with your pants down, and that would distract the men with a vengeance.’ Before she could think of a suitable retort to that outrageous statement he glanced at her canvas. ‘And how long is it going to take you to complete that?’
‘I—I’m not sure,’ she answered, still taken aback by his scandalous suggestion.
‘Well, make it snappy. I don’t want you around my men when they’re working.’
He strode off, and if her flask top hadn’t been full she would have thrown it at his back. And that she told herself, would have been a waste of good coffee.
For a little while she sat and fumed as she finished her lunch. It was a long time before she could get rid of the mental picture of herself across his knee with her pants down being given a spanking. One minute she wanted to giggle at the idea, the next she fumed and wished there was some way she could get the better of him. She had managed it once. Her lips curved in amusement. She would defy him. He wouldn’t like that. Now that she had had this one idea—and why it hadn’t occurred to her before, she couldn’t think—of painting men at work in the Forest, she was gripped by it. She would go to other areas where work was being done by a group. Gareth would supply her with the information of where they were likely to be and what they would be doing. That was what she would do—defy him.
CHAPTER FOUR
After a cold, wet and windy early spring, at last there seemed to be a dry spell. Fired with enthusiasm for her new idea of painting men at work in the Forest, Ruth was out with her painting apparatus most mornings for the next couple of weeks. Each morning she expected to see Ross, but she was disappointed. It was Gareth she saw, visiting the site to make sure that the work was proceeding as it should. And, naturally, he raised no objections to her being on the scene.
She mentioned casually one morning to Gareth how Ross Hamilton had been annoyed at her presence when the men were working.
‘But I haven’t seen him for the last week,’ she said.
He grimaced. ‘You won’t. He spends most of his time in the office—much more than your father ever did.’
This disappointed her somehow. ‘Oh dear,’ she answered, not knowing quite what else to say.
Gareth nodded. ‘I understand he’s a stickler for tidiness and order.’
Ruth wanted to say ‘oh dear’ again, recalling the look on Ross Hamilton’s face when he had surveyed her untidy living room.
She laughed shortly. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have called father a stickler for tidiness exactly.’
‘Maybe not,’ defended Gareth. ‘But he always knew where to lay his hands on things all the same. It would be better if Hamilton spent more time going on the rounds as your father did.’
Ruth looked up from her painting. In one sense, she wished Gareth would go away. He was a distraction, but there was a certain note in his voice which alerted her senses.
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.
He affected a shrug. ‘It might be nothing to do with anything, of course, and they’re only small thin
gs, but—’ he paused as if reluctant to go on.
‘But what?’ Ruth prompted him. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, gaps are appearing in the fences—one of the plantations has been overrun with rabbits.’
‘But surely that’s the job of the Warrenders?’
‘True, but these things never happened in your father’s time. All kinds of things are happening that never happened in your father’s time. Gates left open—and they seem to stay open. Not only that, but something really serious happened the other day. There was wholesale damage to an area of seedlings. Vaporising oil was used for post-emergence spraying instead of white spirit.’
‘And are you blaming Ross Hamilton?’
‘What I’m saying is, such things never happened in your father’s day. He got out and about more. He had the knack of seeming to be in a dozen places at once. If there was a gate left open he was always the first to spot it—before the commoner’s cattle and ponies strayed in to do damage. The same with holes in fences.’
‘And the vaporising oil?’
Gareth nodded. ‘He would have somehow sniffed that out, too. Anyway, enough talk of Hamilton. What about coming to the Club this weekend? Somebody’s got a birthday—a fellow on another beat, and there’s to be a group playing country Western music.’
Ruth hesitated, then smiled up at him. She hated to admit it, but Saturday evenings spent exclusively in Gareth’s company were beginning to pall. Unless she let Gareth make a kind of love to her, they seemed not to have much in common to talk about.
‘All right,’ she told him. ‘But I’ll make my own way there. There’s no need to take you out of your way—the price of petrol being what it is and all.’
He protested, but she remained firm. If he called for her, that would mean him also bringing her home, which in turn would lead to her feeling she had to invite him in for a night cap, and she did not want that.
When he had gone and left her to her work she found herself wondering why she was trying to avoid being too much alone with Gareth. It never used to worry her and she still liked him. She dismissed the problem and wondered whether Ross Hamilton would be there at the Club. Then she shrugged. He would be in the company of the glamorous Linda anyway, she supposed. She gave a peculiar laugh to herself. Life seemed extraordinarily tame when he was not around. She was missing their sparring. Then she frowned. Was there anything in what Gareth had been saying about him? If so, things did not sound too good for the new Forester.
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