Keeping the World Away

by Margaret Forster

  What she found was a painting. ‘Oh!’ whispered Charlotte, looking at it. ‘Oh! It’s lovely!’

  *

  The valise and its contents, including the painting, went back to the Lost Property at Victoria Station. It broke Charlotte’s heart, but there was no honest alternative. Her father consoled her with the news that if, after three months, nobody claimed the valise, and could prove it was theirs, then she could buy it from the appropriate authority. Not much would be asked for it, he thought, since there was nothing special about its contents. ‘The painting is special,’ Charlotte said. ‘I doubt if anyone will have the wit to see that,’ Sir Edward said, ‘and it is not signed, which would reduce any value it might have.’ ‘Someone,’ said Charlotte, ‘will be missing it dreadfully, someone will be frantic.’ ‘We will see,’ her father said. ‘They may search in the wrong place, or something may have happened to the owner. One never knows. The people at Victoria Lost Property are incompetent, the place is chaotic. Have patience.’

  Patience was a virtue, however, which his daughter did not possess. The three months was an eternity, one during which she yearned and prayed for the painting to return to her, investing it with mythical powers impossible to explain. Her hunger for it was passionate, and even her father thought it a little ridiculous, considering she had hardly seen the painting before it was returned. He did not say, as her mother did, ‘For heaven’s sake, it is only a picture.’ He could see that it was a very skilful picture, painted, he guessed, in tiny brushstrokes, the range of colours narrow, and the lack of any figure giving it a sense of mystery. But he expressed some exasperation with Charlotte’s endless nagging about bothering the Lost Property people to see what was happening. He also hurt her by suggesting that she was being a little affected, and that he deplored affectation of any kind. And when she burst into tears and maintained she felt about the painting in the valise the way he felt about his Pieter de Hoogh he was angry with her. He said that all his teaching had been in vain if she could not see the difference between a masterpiece and what was almost certainly the work of a talented amateur.

  ‘Papa,’ Charlotte said, ‘I am in love with it. It was love at first sight, and love may have made me blind.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, child!’ her father said, and refused to have the painting mentioned again.

  II

  CHARLOTTE AND HER father dined together every evening, sitting not at the large table in the dining room but at the round table in the breakfast room, something Lady Falconer would never have countenanced, but she had gone to be with Priscilla. Nor would she have approved of the menus. Charlotte was allowed to order the meals and took full advantage of being able to choose her favourite dishes and eliminate those she detested. They had chocolate steam pudding every single night, served with thin, ice-cold cream (Charlotte was very particular about the runniness and the temperature of the cream, aping without realising it, her mother’s exacting standards). They had no red meat – about which Sir Edward did voice a complaint, so he was permitted roast beef one night during the second week, though Charlotte did not touch it – and absolutely no offal. Chicken and fish dishes were included, and there were plenty of vegetables (but no cabbage or cauliflower). The cook did not care. Money was saved in a way she knew would be noticed and approved of by Lady Falconer when she returned.

  There was not a great deal of conversation between father and daughter at the table, but there was a pleasant atmosphere of which they were both aware. Frequently, they exchanged smiles and little nods and raising of the eyebrows – they were so agreeably comfortable. But Sir Edward was worried. He hid his anxiety well, but it was there, and he recognised it as causing his headaches. ‘You are frowning dreadfully, Papa,’ Charlotte said. ‘Is the chicken too spicy?’

  ‘The chicken is delicious, just how I like it.’

  ‘Good. So?’

  Sir Edward sighed. ‘Money,’ he said, ‘nothing for you to worry about.’

  ‘Money?’ echoed Charlotte. ‘Lack of it, you mean?’

  ‘No, thank God. What to do with it, how to be wise with it.’

  ‘What is wrong with putting it in the bank?’

  ‘Quite a lot, at the moment.’

  ‘Spend it then. I’m sure Mama could spend it easily.’

  ‘I am sure she could. She does very well as it is.’

  Charlotte heard the sarcasm. ‘I should hate to have my head full of worry about how to spend money.’

  ‘My head is not full of how to spend money,’ Sir Edward said, quite sharply. ‘It was you who advised spending it. It is my job to conserve it, not spend it.’

  ‘For what? Why must it be conserved?’

  ‘Charlotte, you are an intelligent girl. Do not ask silly questions. For a moment you sounded like …’ He stopped.

  ‘… Like Priscilla,’ Charlotte finished. ‘I know. I am sorry. I know we need money to live on, especially in these’ (she paused) ‘uncertain’ (she paused again, hoping to make her father smile) ‘times.’

  Why times were uncertain she had no idea, but she had heard the phrase repeated by adults frequently. But there seemed nothing uncertain in her own dull life. Everything went on in exactly the same way, nothing as exciting as uncertainty ruffled its surface. Priscilla’s wedding had been the last time there had been any upheaval and that was months ago. ‘Explain,’ she said to her father. ‘Tell me about why times are uncertain.’

  ‘It is too complicated.’

  ‘You mean I am too stupid to understand?’

  ‘No. I am too stupid to be able to explain properly what I fail entirely to understand myself.’

  ‘But, Papa, you are so clever, everyone knows that.’

  ‘Am I? Well, everyone, in this instance, is mistaken.’

  Sir Edward leaned back in his chair, declining pudding. He was not allowed to smoke at table when his wife was present, and he quite agreed that to do so was bad manners, but he took a cigarette out and lit it, taking care to blow the smoke away from Charlotte devouring the chocolate pudding. The window was open (another thing his wife would have disagreed with) and the room was airy. The view was of Hampstead Heath, stretching away down the hill, and through the trees he could just see the sun glinting on the ponds. He might go for a walk later, when Charlotte was in bed. Walking helped him to think about what to do not just about investments but about Charlotte. He had promised her that they would go to Paris and then Florence and Rome to study the art, and he intended to keep his promise, but now his wife wished to accompany them, though not of course with any intention of looking at paintings and statues. He had not yet told Charlotte this. She was still under the impression that it was to be only the two of them, and had looked forward to this adventure for so long. If he was clever, he would see a way to solve the problem but so far he had not done so.

  He stubbed out his cigarette as Charlotte finished his share of the pudding as well as her own. She was getting fat. He could see the fat settling upon her frame. Her mother endlessly pointed it out, appalled that her daughter’s waist was confirmed by her dressmaker as twenty-eight inches, and her hips as forty, though she was not yet sixteen. And she refused – Sir Edward did not think he ought to know this but he had been made to hear it – to be corseted. Even if he had not been told, he would have been aware of this. Charlotte bounced as she walked. Her mother felt she should not be allowed out of the house in such an unrestrained state but as she rarely went anywhere, and insisted on wearing a long black cape whatever the weather, it did not really matter. In her darkest moments, his wife had said to Sir Edward that they would be stuck with her for ever.

  It had pained him to hear the sheer dislike in Hettie’s voice, but he had told himself it was due to distress at their daughter’s prospects. He himself had begun to share this distress. Once amused by Charlotte, and always proud of her originality, he was more and more aware how difficult her life was going to be. She was now a young woman, not a child, and must surely have a young woman’s
instincts even if these did not include a love of parties and fashion and shopping. And young men. The words ‘flirting’ and ‘Charlotte’ simply were unthinkable. Caroline and Priscilla had flirted furiously, but Charlotte, if she was in the presence of any man, looked them straight in the eye without a glimmer of interest in anything except what they had to say. Men were already alarmed by her, he could see that. She did not attract them, she was neither girlish nor womanly in the accepted way, and they turned away. Sir Edward felt it his duty to equip Charlotte to face a life alone.

  Well, she would have money. That would help. He had already set up a trust for her, which she would come into at twenty-one. She would have independent means and never need to humble herself either by working – though God knew what work she could do in any case – or by submitting to a marriage of convenience. On the other hand, her wealth would undoubtedly attract suitors who would not otherwise have glanced at her. How to guard against that? Look at Caroline, and what had happened to her. But Charlotte was not Caroline. She would never be taken in by some bounder after her money. Flattery would never fool her – she would see through it at once. Yet he went on worrying about her, hardly comforted by these observations. It often occurred to him that Charlotte was not of her own time. Sometimes, when he read of Mrs Pankhurst’s doings, he was made nervous – her influence on his youngest daughter would be pernicious, should she ever come near her. But, thankfully, Charlotte seemed to know little of what Mrs Pankhurst and her friends were attempting to do. Charlotte was in her own little world and showed no signs of breaking out of it.

  He had said she could draw him before she went to bed. They sat together in his study, Sir Edward settled in his armchair, looking out of the window, and Charlotte on a stool opposite, sketch pad on her knee and a fine array of pencils in a box at her feet. Although he could draw well himself, he had discovered that drawing was something he could not teach her. Painting was different. He felt competent to teach her about colour, and how to achieve certain effects, and she was now quite skilled in the use of oils as well as water-colours. But as to drawing, she had had to try to learn through practice and he could see she was not entirely successful though she tried hard. It moved him to witness how she struggled, how it upset her not to be able to draw well. She needed a teacher and he ought to find one for her. Or else face his wife’s wrath and send her to the Slade, if they would have her.

  ‘Charlotte,’ he said, ‘enough, time for you to retire.’

  *

  The painting hung on the wall beside her bed, where it had been for the last six months, as close to her pillow as it could be. Every night it was the last thing she saw, every morning the first. Her ideas about it changed all the time. Sometimes, it made her tearful, she would feel the tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes – the empty chair, the poor little table with its pitiful posy of flowers, the bare window draped with that misty net. The painting spoke of loneliness and despair, and emotion choked her throat. But at other times it made her feel cheerful – everything so neat, so simple, so clean, so calm. The parasol and the coat told of their owner – a woman, of course – and her walk in the woods, where she had delighted in picking the primroses. And what was she doing now? Preparing her supper, humming to herself, rejoicing in the serenity of her room.

  Charlotte and her father had examined the painting minutely for any signature or indications of ownership, but there were none. The two of them had gone together to claim it and had been shocked at how casual the people at the Lost Property office were. They thought nothing of the painting but a great deal of respect was shown to the clothes and the valise itself. Sir Edward did not want the valise or any of its contents save for the painting, which was thought odd, as though it might be a trick to divert attention. He told them that he was sure some lady would in due course claim the valise and left his card so that, if anyone did so, the painting could be restored to the owner. Charlotte noted that his card was not put safely away but left lying on the counter from which she was sure it would soon be swept away to join the detritus on the floor. The prospect made her glad.

  Sir Edward had thought the painting should be properly framed and had chosen a frame himself. Charlotte, from the beginning, was not sure that his choice was right – she preferred it unframed. Gilt did not look appropriate, but she thought it ungrateful to say so. A gilt frame contradicted everything the painting was about and she could not understand why her father, of all people, did not see this. But at least it was a narrow frame, which did not dominate the canvas, and in certain lights it did not look like gilt. Lying on her side, Charlotte began to live in the painting, narrowing her eyes and hypnotising herself. She felt herself to be twenty, or twenty-five, an artist at last. She must, she thought, be a successful artist because this room of hers was no garret. It was pretty, if simple, no sense of deprivation about it. She wondered what was hidden from view – this was only a corner of the room after all. A bed, of course. Somewhere to keep clothes, perhaps. And was she living in a house? She must be, and high up, from the vague outline of rooftops through the lace curtain. Did she have other artists around her? Charlotte thought not. No, she was quite alone, and content.

  She did not understand why, but the painting looked best in the morning light. Waking, she would turn on her side and through half-closed eyes, still bleary with sleep, the painting would seem to shine before her. It had a radiance so gentle and soft that it made her smile. She would snuggle down under the bedclothes, keeping her eyes fixed on the scene before her, and there would come over her a feeling of expectation. Someone would come into her life and change it – perhaps that was what the painting promised. She had told her father how the painting made her feel and he had been a little irritated. He had told her to study the painting properly, as any art student should (Charlotte was flattered to hear that he deemed her worthy of such a title as ‘art student’). Had she noted the use of Naples yellow in the colour of the chair, the handle of the parasol, the flowers and the triangular slice of wall? And what about the brushstrokes? Had she seen that they were tiny, that very small brushes had been used? These were the things, her father said, which she should be observing instead of being carried away by romantic flights of fancy. It was foolish, he said, to talk about ‘loving’ a painting if one had not taken the trouble to understand how it had been executed. It was, he finished, insulting to the artist.

  But Charlotte knew that none of her thoughts insulted the artist. She was quite sure that she had interpreted the artist’s intention.

  *

  Lady Falconer, arriving home, was not pleased. She could tell, the moment she walked through her front door, that things were not as they should be. The servants had become slack. They had not known, of course, that she would return on Friday instead of Monday, but that was no excuse. There were boots lying any old how in the hall, muddy footprints on the tiles, a coat tossed on a chair, still dripping rain onto the cushion. Instead of the smell of polish there was a most unpleasant aroma of onions. Exasperated, she stalked through the hall and stood at the top of the stairs leading to the kitchen. ‘Jessie!’ she called. There was no reply. Furious, Lady Falconer was obliged to descend to the kitchen, which she found perfectly clean and tidy but quite empty. There appeared to be no servants in the house at all, and if she wanted tea, and she wanted it very badly, she would have to fend for herself. But she was not quite ready to do so.

  Back upstairs, she called again, this time for Charlotte. Again, no reply, but in Charlotte’s case this was not necessarily significant, it did not mean either that she was not at home or that she had not heard. She would have to be searched for, every room looked into, and the thought of this made Lady Falconer weak with temper. She took off her travelling clothes and her corset and changed into a loose gown. She was very, very tired and wanted nothing more than some refreshing tea and then a bath drawn for her. Her energies seemed to be deserting her and she suddenly felt like one of those women she despised, forever c
omplaining that their households were falling about their ears. Lying on her bed, though promising herself this was only for a few moments, she tried to relax, but her mind was full of annoying images. Priscilla, for one. A Priscilla apparently hysterical at the not surprising news that she was to have a baby. What on earth had the girl imagined would be likely to happen? The fuss she was making was perfectly ridiculous.

  There was a sound downstairs. She raised herself up, and listened intently. Someone had come in through the front door – therefore not one of the servants she so badly needed. It was either Edward or Charlotte. The steady footsteps on the stairs told her that it was her husband. She heard him pause on the landing. ‘Henrietta?’ he called, sounding both surprised and alarmed, which was hardly flattering. She kept silent, playing Charlotte’s game. He rapped on her bedroom door and then opened it slightly. She did not open her eyes. The door was gently closed. She heard him descend the stairs again and go out of the front door. She knew she ought to be grateful that her rest had been respected, but she was not. Once upon a time, he would have tiptoed over to her bed and kissed her. Once upon a time, she would have laughed and kissed him back. Once upon a very long time ago.

  Sadness swilled around the room and she struggled to dispel it. She was forty, Edward was forty-five, they had been married over twenty years, what could one expect. Again and again recently she had had the impression that he did not like her or feel anything for her and that he resented his own compulsion to come to her bed. Why he did, she could not fathom. They never discussed it. Only very rarely did she turn him away and when she did so he left at once. It made her head ache, thinking of this state of affairs, and ache even more when in some queer way it led her to remember Priscilla’s distressed outburst that she hated what Robert ‘did’. Her mother had stopped her at once. She wanted no such confidences, nor was she willing to provide any herself. Marriage was marriage. Each woman had to make of it what she could.