Emerging for breakfast on the terrace at the end of the week with red eyes, she presented a woeful sight.
‘Why, Charlotte, whatever is the matter, child?’ her father asked, dreading the answer (that Charlotte might fall ill was his greatest worry).
Charlotte sat down at the table and waited until the coffee and fruit and pastries had been brought, and then she shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ she said, and then, ‘everything. I am not an artist, Papa, I am nothing.’
Sir Edward did not mean to, but he laughed. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘someone who is not an artist is not therefore nothing or no one. You did not manage to draw your room to your satisfaction, I take it?’ Charlotte nodded. ‘Well, that is not so surprising, and proves nothing. You are untaught, untrained, only sixteen, and yet you imagine you can match the best. Have some sense, do. And eat up, we must be off.’
‘It is not about failing to paint my room,’ Charlotte protested, a little sullenly.
‘What are these red eyes about, then? They are not becoming.’
‘I cried …’
‘I can see that. And did not sleep, I am sure, very foolish when we have a long day ahead.’
‘I cried out of despair, Papa.’
‘Despair? With what, pray?’
‘Myself, of course. Art is not the answer. I have just realised it.’
‘Try, try, try again.’
‘No. That is my point. I do not wish to try any longer. I think I hate trying.’
‘Then give up, and be done with it. It is not a tragedy.’
‘But it is, because now I have nothing to aim for, and I must have an aim, something to strive for.’
Sir Edward stared at her. Was there ever such an exasperating, infuriating child? Any other girl would be content to sit in a sunny garden in Florence and simply enjoy being where she was, with an exciting day to look forward to, being squired round the city’s marvels. But not Charlotte. Ludicrous though her tragic face was, he could see her feelings were genuine. He thought back to himself at sixteen and was dismayed to be unable to recall any dissatisfaction with himself at that age. Life had seemed to stretch before him in a set pattern he was content to follow – he had no recollection of the kind of restless, all-consuming desire to know what he should and could make of himself. How old had he been before questioning what he was doing with his life? Thirty, at least. And now here was his youngest daughter driven endlessly to question her path in life – it did not seem right. This tour was not helping her in the least. If anything, the more she travelled, the more she saw, the more anxious about her future she became, and he did not know what to do with her.
‘Charlotte,’ he said, ‘perhaps it is time to go home. Rome will keep for another day.’
*
A telegram had arrived from Florence, announcing the early return of the travellers, so Lady Falconer was there to greet them. The few servants who had been retained were summoned back and the process of engaging others had begun. But there was, as Jessie put it to John, ‘an atmosphere’. How would the master react to the burglary? Lady Falconer herself had seemed hardly perturbed, even though all her jewellery had been taken. They were astonished by her evident composure. But the master? Hard to tell. ‘She’ll blame him,’ Jessie said, ‘for going off, you’ll see. She never wanted him and Miss Charlotte to go. She never wanted the house shut up.’
It was early evening when the cab drew up. John rushed to open the door and help Miss Charlotte out. He noticed straightaway that she looked different – thinner, but there was some other difference he could not discern. He took hold of some of the luggage and staggered into the house with it. Lady Falconer was standing in the hall, looking almost regal, hands clasped in front of her and back rigidly straight. Sir Edward walked up to her and kissed her cheek. ‘Welcome home,’ she said, but in a distinctly unwelcoming tone.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sir Edward said, immediately. ‘Is Priscilla well? And the baby?’
‘Both well.’
‘Good. And the boys? Yourself?’
‘Perfectly well.’
‘Why, then, the tone?’
At that point, Charlotte came in, setting down the bag she was carrying with a thump.
‘Charlotte! Your hair!’
‘Hello, Mama. My hair? Papa likes it like this.’
‘That is hardly the point. You look quite wild, quite … you look disorderly.’
‘We have been travelling a long time, Mama.’
‘That is no excuse for slovenliness.’
‘It was not meant to be an excuse, merely an explanation. I am so tired and hungry, I might faint at any moment.’
Sir Edward, meanwhile, was staring at the blank wall where the mirror had been. ‘Are you redecorating, Hettie?’ Then he turned and saw that the grandfather clock had gone, and at the same time peered down at the floor, where once the carpet runner had been.
‘No, Edward. The redecorating was done for us.’ Lady Falconer smiled, pleased with her own sarcasm. But her husband was quick. He looked at her sharply and read her expression. She nodded, though he had not asked her a question. Leaving her in the hall he strode off to the library, and she heard his ‘Damn!’ echo through the house.
There was an attempt to keep things calm and controlled, but Sir Edward’s fury and distress made this almost impossible. He did not want to hear about the jewellery or the silver or the items of furniture – his sole concern was the theft of his Dutch painting. He would never, he said, be able to replace it. He had been so fortunate, in the first place, to acquire it and would never have another opportunity. It was, his wife thought, though was not so crass as to remark, such a fuss to make about a missing painting. She did, however, venture to point out that no one was dead. And then Charlotte reappeared, to announce that her painting had also been taken. Lady Falconer noticed at once that she did not seem as extravagantly upset as would have been expected.
‘A mistake,’ Sir Edward said. ‘They confused it, they thought it was another Dutch masterpiece, I dare say.’
‘Are thieves so clever?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Do they know about art? And what is valuable?’
‘The policeman said that our burglars were clearly discerning,’ Lady Falconer volunteered. ‘He even suggested that they may have stolen to order, as it were. Such thieves do, apparently, exist, taking only the best things.’
‘And what do they do with them?’ Charlotte asked.
‘For heaven’s sake, child,’ snapped her father, ‘what on earth do you suppose they do with them? They sell them, of course. They have buyers waiting. It is all a racket.’
‘But if they took my painting mistaking it for something valuable and then find it is not, what will happen to it?’
‘It will be discarded.’
There was no scream from Charlotte, her mother noticed, nor even any sign of either anger or misery. Instead, she sat quietly, gazing rather vacantly into space. Like John, Lady Falconer saw how Charlotte had changed but unlike him she was able to pinpoint the difference. It was simply a matter of having grown up, and the change was more striking in her case because they had not seen her for several months. If she had remained at home, the change might have happened imperceptibly. Studying her daughter, Lady Falconer even saw signs that in spite of her unkempt hair, the once ugly duckling might become, if not a swan, a far from hopelessly unattractive creature. Her voice softened as she said, ‘I am sorry about your painting, Charlotte. I know how you cared for it.’ Charlotte bowed her head and did not reply, but Sir Edward gave a little grunt which his wife could not interpret.
‘Edward?’ she said. There was no reply. He was slumped in his chair, his eyes closed. Smoothing her dress, Lady Falconer asked if they might move on from the unpleasantness of the burglary and she might hear something of their tour. Her husband sighed heavily. ‘Charlotte?’ Lady Falconer said.
‘It was wonderful,’ Charlotte said, with no wonder in her voice. Realising this herself, she tried again. ‘Paris was beaut
iful,’ she said. ‘We saw so many works of art. And in Florence too,’ she added lamely.
‘The weather?’
‘Perfect. It rained one day in Paris, but otherwise, perfect.’
‘Did you meet interesting people?’
‘Not really. We were engrossed in the art, Mama. Oh, we did make the acquaintance of one lady, but I forget her name …’
‘Miss Tyrwhitt,’ said Sir Edward, eyes still shut.
‘Yes, Miss Tyrwhitt. She is an artist herself.’
Lady Falconer was instantly alert. ‘How did you meet this lady, whose difficult name your father remembers so easily?’
‘She was staying in our hotel, that’s all.’
‘She was attractive, I take it?’
‘Charming,’ Sir Edward said, ‘very knowledgeable about art.’
‘Quite to your taste, then.’
‘We only talked to her once,’ Charlotte said.
Supper was served, but though Charlotte ate heartily – in that respect she had not changed – Sir Edward picked at his food. There was virtually no conversation between the three of them. The minute Charlotte had finished, she begged to be excused, saying she wished to go to bed at once. When she had left the room, Lady Falconer said, ‘She does not seem distraught about the loss of that painting she used to treasure so.’
‘She is disillusioned,’ Sir Edward muttered.
‘About what, precisely?’
‘Art, Hettie, art, of course. Taking her to see great art has revealed to her her own inadequacies. It has had quite the opposite effect from that which it ought to have had.’
‘But how has this changed her view of her painting?’
‘It does not mean the same to her.’
‘I am lost, Edward.’
‘And I am tired. Goodnight.’
The next day, while her husband spent his time haranguing police officers, Lady Falconer addressed herself to Charlotte in a way she had never quite done before. For the first time she felt intrigued by her daughter rather than irritated, and found herself wanting to understand what on earth Edward had meant by his bewildering remarks concerning Charlotte. It had always seemed rather ridiculous, the way she used to fawn over that little painting – Lady Falconer had wondered if she was quite right in the head – but now that it had been stolen, and Charlotte seemed unperturbed, there was a mystery her mother wanted to solve. How could a painting mean so much to its owner one day and apparently mean nothing some weeks later? Charlotte ought to be upset.
They chatted first about baby Jasper. Lady Falconer described him in predictable detail to Charlotte and said that he would be a joy for her to draw when she saw him. Charlotte shook her head. ‘I have given up art,’ she said.
‘Oh, come, Charlotte, that is a little melodramatic.’
‘Then it is. There is nothing I can do about it. I have lost all enthusiasm. I cannot do what the artist who painted the attic picture can do, let alone what the great artists can do.’
‘But, Charlotte, you have not been trained. It is ridiculous to imagine that you cannot paint when so far no one has taught you except your father.’
‘I thought you did not wish me to become an art student.’
‘True, I did not, but as a hobby …’
‘Art that is a hobby is useless, Mama.’
‘Your father does not think so.’
‘But I would. It is all or nothing with me. There.’
Still struggling, Lady Falconer said, ‘Let me understand. The attic painting made you believe you could be an artist?’
‘No.’
‘What then? What did it do?’
‘It made me want the life.’
‘The life?’
‘Mama, please, there is nothing to understand. I had foolish ideas. I imagined things, and now I do not. I am realistic.’
‘And what form does this realism take?’
‘I have no more ridiculous dreams about living in attics and being an artist.’
In spite of herself, Lady Falconer was touched. ‘How sad, dear,’ she said. But this was evidently not the right thing to say.
‘It is not in the least sad,’ said Charlotte. ‘A painting deluded me into thinking I was something I clearly am not. That’s all.’
‘So now you do not care for art?’
‘Mama! Of course I care for it, how could I not, seeing what I have seen. I will always “care” for art. But it pains me to know I can never be an artist, do you see? Am I plain enough?’
Lady Falconer did not see. Nothing was plain to her. It seemed to her that her daughter was in a muddle, and somehow she was blaming the stolen painting. How this could be, Lady Falconer could not fathom, but since she had never understood Charlotte she told herself this was to be expected. But at the same time she began to hope that, with all this art nonsense out of the way, her youngest daughter might yet turn into a young woman of whom she might be proud – graceful, sensible, well-mannered.
The tour, she thought, had done Charlotte good.
*
The bare patch on the wall was not so very noticeable. The painting had not, after all, been there long enough for the lurid wallpaper behind it to fade much. Nevertheless, Charlotte did not like to see it, and looked around for some other picture to cover it over. She found a harmless scene of Hampstead Heath and hung that up instead, but still she felt disturbed and guilty every time she looked in its direction and began trying to sleep on her other side so that she would always wake looking the other way.
It would be better if she went to Queen’s College rather than to the Slade. If she had no artistic talent then she must use her brain. Perhaps, in the end, the stolen painting had taught her something. That, at any rate, was how she resolved to think of it, but the memory of it floated in her mind, the image of it, the atmosphere, the spell it had cast over her.
She could not bear the thought that it might have already been damaged or discarded or even destroyed.
STELLA
I
COMING OUT OF the hospital, Alan turned sharp left and began walking quickly, sticking to the kerb side of the crowded pavement. His sight was blurred, but he knew where he was going, there was no need for him to be able to see clearly in order to recognise signs. It was a stifling hot day, though there was no sun. London in August, an uncomfortable place to be, but soon he would be on the train and speeding – he hoped speeding, and not dragging – towards Cornwall. Once there, once home, he would feel better. Everything would settle down. A humdrum life, that was what he wanted now. A quiet, uncomplicated existence.
He loathed hospitals. He had been surprised to discover how many men found them safe, comforting places. He’d seen faces light up when the decision came – ‘Hospital for him.’ But he had no trust in doctors, not much respect for most nurses. It seemed to him that some of the medical staff in the hospitals where he had been didn’t know what they were doing. Suspicion and scorn probably showed on his face, because he was not a popular patient. He asked too many questions, analysed closely too many answers. Before the war he’d been a civil servant, desk job, Trade & Industry, which had taught him to be meticulous. He liked to get things right, and couldn’t stand bluster.
The city was packed. He saw lots of men like himself, obviously wounded in the war. A few were even in uniform though it was two years since the Armistice. He didn’t like looking at them, and tried instead to concentrate on the traffic, a mixture of automobiles and horse-drawn vehicles which still struck him as strange. He thought he would like a car one day, if he could ever afford one. Moving less carefully among the rushing pedestrians, though his sight was clearing, he noticed a woman who looked a bit like Stella getting onto a bus. Odd. He hardly ever saw another woman who looked like her, whereas there were quite a few who reminded him of Charlotte. It was a question of colouring, obviously. Stella’s bright red hair and disturbingly green eyes were not a common combination whereas Charlotte was a brunette, a tall, fairly ordinary-looking brunett
e. You had to look closely (as he had done) to see the sweetness in her face.
Tiring, and still nowhere near the underground station, he decided to stop at a café and have a drink. The café he turned into was more of a teashop, but his bad leg ached and he had to sit down. He ordered tea, and a scone. There were only two other people in the place, women, both with shingled hair, a style he hadn’t yet got used to, deep in conversation. They paid not the slightest attention to him, which relieved him. His burns invited attention, and he hated being stared at. There were those who tried not to look but their furtive glimpses proved harder to bear even than stares. There was a paper lying on the table he’d chosen, The Times. He shoved it aside, not wanting to know any news. He’d finished with news. Politics, foreign affairs, share prices – they no longer had relevance to his life. He felt he didn’t really belong to the world any more. ‘Cutting yourself off, hiding away, won’t help,’ Charlotte had said. But she was wrong. It did.
He’d been with her for only six months, just before the war began. The future had been so bright, so full of every kind of promise. In 1916, remembering himself in the summer two years before produced a kind of tearful emotion in him harder to cope with than the misery he had had to endure ever since he was injured. All his images of his pre-war self were of a man overwhelmingly energetic, a man who had found it difficult to sit at a desk, though his job demanded that he should. He’d liked games – mainly cricket, and tennis – and had been good at them. His school reports had referred to his ‘exuberance’ and Charlotte had once said this was what had first attracted her to him. She liked exuberant men, men who glowed with vitality and physical well-being. She didn’t play games herself but she was a great walker, and had taken up the new fad for cycling with enthusiasm. That was how he’d met her. She’d been coming too fast down East Heath Road and her skirt had caught in the wheel, sending her flying into his arms as he came off the heath after his swim in the pond. He’d been almost at the road when he saw her hurtling down and he’d sprinted into her path, seeing what was about to happen – and caught her as she crashed to a halt.
Keeping the World Away Page 17