Conrad wondered if he might have seen her, a small, very thin woman dressed in a blue serge coat and skirt, walking away from the château and carrying what he recognised as a sketch pad. He followed her, not quite knowing why. She went into the church and sat in front of the shrine to St Thérèse of Lisieux, and began to draw. He wanted to see what she produced but did not dare disturb her privacy and came out again, quickly, into the sunshine. He told Ginny about her and she gave him a sharp look. ‘She wasn’t young,’ he said, though he hadn’t seen her face. ‘I was only curious because of her sketch pad.’ Ginny envied the woman. She herself would like to be sitting quietly in church drawing instead of tied to the children. Conrad had told her she could go and draw any time she liked, but she did not trust him to watch the boys, especially Sam. He would let them drown, she was sure.
They put her uncle’s house up for sale. It was a pity, but they needed the money and could not afford to own and maintain a house in Brittany. Living there no longer seemed an option. Establishing another pottery would be too difficult and then there was the language problem. It was an adventure that was over. After a month, Conrad was homesick. He felt disorientated, and he wanted to work; idleness did not suit him. It was Ginny who would have liked to stay. She could, she felt, have been happy there, starting again.
*
To her relief, Stella saw signs of life at the pottery. The two small boys were running up and down the path that led to it, trying to fly a kite and yelling at each other. She found Conrad on his own, emptying his kiln. He was a big man, bearded, beside him she always felt smaller than she was, more fragile. Sometimes, standing beside him, she imagined him picking her up with ease and the idea made her dizzy. Alan, when she had described Conrad to him, accused her of being attracted to him – ‘Any girl would be, if he’s as tall and strong as you say’ – but she truly believed she was not, or not in the way he implied. And yet there was some kind of attraction: she did feel she was held within a powerful magnetic field when she visited him, but then she was sure everyone did. Conrad was powerful. Physically powerful, mentally powerful, able to radiate energy all around him. People locally spoke of him with awe and talked of genius and wondered how he came to be where he was, apparently unrecognised by the world. They expected fame to come for him at any time and then he would leave them. Stella hardly knew him; she was just an amateur artist who turned up from time to time, timidly showing her paintings to him and asking his opinion. He had only recently asked what the star she signed her paintings with signified. He had never asked her any personal questions, and, as far as she was aware, didn’t know where she lived or with whom. She knew far more about him, just from the gossip around the town. He was reputed to be ‘a ladies’ man’.
He had his back to her, so she coughed nervously, and he turned round at once. He nodded. Encouraged, she put the bag down, leaning it against the wall. ‘I’ve something to show you,’ she said, ‘it’s different, I think, I hope.’ She’d thought long and hard about how to do this, whether to show him the others first, or whether to show none of her work; whether to preface the showing with an explanation, or whether to say nothing. Deceit was involved either way. She wanted it over quickly, but he offered her tea, and she found herself accepting. He had a little iron stove in his studio, and now he opened its door, raked up the coals, and put a kettle on top. ‘Takes a while,’ he said. Two mugs appeared, a tin with tea in it and a brown teapot. Whistling, he stood staring at the kettle admiringly, as though it were a work of art, and she stared too.
Time, she had noticed, never seemed to matter to Conrad. He was always vague about judging it. His ‘I’ll be with you in a minute’ could take an hour. But finally the kettle bounced with boiling water, the tea was made (neither milk nor sugar offered) and they sat companionably on the only two stools. The tea was so hot she couldn’t even begin to sip it but sat nursing the mug in her hands while Conrad alternately blew on his and gulped. Carefully, she put the scalding tea down. ‘Can I show you?’ she asked. ‘Of course. Show away.’ The decision, now that the time had come, seemed made for her – absurd to have imagined she could show him the others. Reaching into the bag, she found the painting she wanted and unwrapped it. ‘There,’ she said, holding it up in front of her. Her heart was thudding. She could hardly bear to look at him. She supposed she was looking for a dramatic reaction, but none came. Conrad had put his tea down, and sat with his hands on his knees, studying the painting held up before him with interest but no great amazement. ‘Good,’ he said, finally, nodding his head. ‘Can I see it?’ and he held out his hands.
She gave it to him, and watched him as he scrutinised it. ‘Cleverly done,’ he murmured, and then, ‘I wonder, is it applied in layers, the paint?’ It was a question. She ought to reply that she didn’t know, how could she when she hadn’t painted it, but she was silent, unable to give up her hope that he would believe she had painted it. He hadn’t said, ‘Did you apply the paint in layers?’ but nor had he said anything definite to show he knew she had not, and could not have done. ‘You’ve never brought me anything like this before,’ he said, and seemed to wait. ‘Can you sell it, do you think?’ she blurted out. He smiled. ‘Oh yes, I can sell it.’ ‘How much for, do you think?’ She hated herself for the eagerness in her voice. He shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘It depends who comes along, who will be discerning enough to buy it for what it is worth. Maybe as much as £5.’ He was still holding the painting, peering at it closely, but now Stella took it from him in one hurried movement, almost snatching it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but it is not for sale. I don’t wish to sell it.’ She turned and picked up the wrapping paper and wrapped the painting again and put it back in the bag. ‘And the others?’ Conrad asked, indicating the bag, which he could see was full. ‘Oh, the others,’ Stella said, ‘don’t bother with the others.’
‘But you’ve brought them, at least let me see them.’
Reluctantly, she took them out and handed them to him, leaving him to unwrap them himself. ‘Pretty,’ he said, ‘you’re coming on. These will sell, if you want to sell them.’
‘Yes, I do, please, if possible.’
He was watching her face intently, she could see. ‘And the other, the corner of the room? What will you do with it?’
‘Keep it.’ There didn’t seem any point any more in pretending. ‘It was a present.’ She was blushing, and he would know why. ‘I just wanted to see what you thought,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t really pretending I’d painted it. I knew you’d know I couldn’t have done.’
‘Being trained shows,’ Conrad said. ‘Technique tells.’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you ever thought of …’
‘All the time. But it’s never been possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘Money, opportunity.’
‘Does painting make you happy?’
‘Not really. Yes. Sometimes. But I know I’m playing, no more. There’s nothing in these but playing, and trying. It frustrates me. I can’t get into them what I want.’
‘Which is?’
‘Oh …’ She was embarrassed. Conrad hadn’t moved, was sitting in exactly the same position, scrutinising her, making her move about, backwards and forwards, in front of him as though rehearsing a part in a play.
‘What do you want to get into your work?’
‘That’s the point, it isn’t work, it’s – I don’t know what to call it.’ Suddenly, she snatched the other painting from the bag and tore off the loose wrapping and held it up again. ‘There,’ she said, ‘there’s the difference, this says something!’
‘But how do you know that it didn’t fill its artist with the same sort of despair that you feel about your painting?’
‘What?’ She was startled.
‘How do you know this wasn’t discarded as a failure?’
‘It couldn’t have been.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s
perfect.’
‘To you, maybe. Not necessarily to the person who painted it.’ Conrad got up at last and went through to the other part of his studio where he stored his finished pots. He returned carrying a bowl, a large shallow bowl. ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Stella said. ‘Perfect.’
‘But not to me,’ Conrad said. ‘It isn’t perfect. I thought it was going to be, but it isn’t. The curve is a couple of millimetres too wide, the glaze is fractionally the wrong shade.’
‘Nobody else will see that.’
‘Probably not. I’ll sell it easily. But I’ll be glad to see it go because to me it’s a failure. We all do it, striving, aiming high and falling low.’
‘But it isn’t the same for people like me. You’re a real artist, I’m not. It’s no good trying to persuade me you feel the same as I do. You know the difference.’ She had begun to cry and yet hardly knew what she was crying about. ‘Oh, I’m being ridiculous,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what on earth is the matter with me. I must go.’
For a moment, she thought he was going to embrace her, but he only picked up the bag and put the painting back inside and handed it to her. She didn’t look at him, dreading the pity, or maybe the exasperation, she would see in his eyes. She would never be able to come again – he would have her down as a silly little fool who entertained delusions of grandeur. From the beginning, his kindness had been just that; he’d never thought what she produced for him to sell was anything but chocolate-box stuff. She didn’t know how she had ever had the nerve to show it to him. ‘Thank you,’ she said, more composed. ‘I won’t bother you again.’
‘That would be a pity.’
She gave a derisive little laugh. ‘Oh, I’m sure it would,’ she said, ‘you must think I’m quite mad.’
‘Not mad, no. Distressed. I’m not sure why. Is it really about art? I don’t think so, somehow.’
‘Goodbye. Thank you. Sorry.’ And she was gone.
*
Trying to describe the little painting later was hard. Conrad struggled to recall every detail of it, but he knew the details were not what mattered. The pine table, the wickerwork chair, were almost standard features of so many paintings, and the attic itself was a cliché of the artistic way of life. It was, he told his wife Ginny, more the atmosphere that had captured him. There had been an air of mystery in spite of the obvious props, a feeling that there was a life outside the painting which was being hinted at. Time, he said, seemed to be suspended, frozen almost, but why that should feel so significant he did not know. He wished he could show the painting to her, see if she could fathom the emotion he had felt there. Already, he was forgetting the nature of the bleached palette used, and the exact way in which the tiny brushstrokes – maybe a brush as fine as 00 – had been applied. ‘There was something vulnerable there,’ he said. ‘It was a calm, tranquil scene but there was something unsettling about it.’
‘Same as that young woman,’ Ginny commented, ‘Stella, isn’t it? The woman who brought it?’
Conrad nodded. He didn’t really want to think about Stella.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Haven’t the faintest idea. I hardly know her, you know that.’
‘She’s pretty but pathetic.’
‘Yes, she is.’
They left it at that.
*
Stella didn’t go straight home. She hung around in the town for an hour, lurking in Holy Trinity Church, looking aimlessly in shop-windows, reading the newspapers in the library. She bought an orange to eat. Passing the station, she went and sat on a bench, as though waiting for a train, and ate the orange, putting the peel neatly in her bag. She could get on a train, any train, see where it would take her, but if she didn’t go home soon, Alan would start to worry. Alan, Alan, Alan. She was always putting him first. When she thought of him it was always as poor Alan, the man who had suffered so much and to whom she was devoted. But more and more this devotion made her resentful – she was devoted, but didn’t want to be. Devotion was not love. What was love, then? Angrily, she got up from the bench as a train came in, and left the station. She’d tricked herself. Tricked herself twice. Tricked herself into believing that tenderness and compassion and admiration all swept into one equalled love. Tricked herself into thinking she could be an artist when she had neither the talent nor the dedication. What was it she had said to Conrad? That she couldn’t get into her paintings what she was feeling. How pretentious. How lucky she couldn’t get her feelings into them, because they were ugly, murderous. She didn’t want to be with Alan. She didn’t even want to be in Cornwall.
There, she’d said it to herself. The relief was instant but didn’t last long. Leaving Alan was impossible, both emotionally and practically. He would never survive her desertion. He would kill himself. He’d said this often enough, and he’d meant it. And she had no money and nowhere to go. Except home, to her mother, to Tenby. What a mess she’d got herself into and must now get herself out of. Bit by bit. Start nursing again, earn money. Alan would accept that. All she needed to do was confess that she had deluded herself. Now and again she might like to try her hand at painting but two years of doing nothing else had shown her there was no real satisfaction there, only sometimes a fleeting pleasure. He’d understand that, maybe be glad. But he wouldn’t like her returning to nursing. It would take her away from him, and he would worry that she might meet someone just as she had met him, and then worry some more that this would be a ‘real’ man.
Walking home, she allowed that he might very well be right. Looking after people was what she had always done. Perhaps what she needed was the life hinted at in the painting she was carrying home – a serene life, selfish, untroubled by having to consider others, and without passion. But then there was no passion in her life as it was. If, as Alan feared, a ‘real’ man were to come into her life, he would bring passion. What effect this would have on her she no longer knew. Her body felt dead. Did it need sex to make it feel alive? It was a frightening thought which she wanted to reject. No sex since Emlyn was killed. Years of nothing. But that was not true – some of those years had been full of love, Alan’s love. He had held her tight, embraced her fiercely, put into his caresses and kisses his overpowering love for her but there had been no consummation of their love. She felt, all the time, on the brink of achieving an ecstasy and relief that never arrived, and it was painful. But she would never tell him so: she was ashamed of her longing, and that it should matter. Love, she had love.
He was waiting for her at the end of the track, leaning on his stick. ‘Thought I’d go for a walk,’ he said, as though apologising. ‘Didn’t get far.’
‘You should rest the leg today after yesterday.’
‘The leg? Sounds as if it has nothing to do with me, the leg.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Indeed, I do. So? What did the great Conrad think?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Haven’t you been to him?’
‘Yes. I’ve no idea what he thought.’
He sighed heavily. ‘I’ll rephrase it then: did you show him your paintings and did he agree to try to sell them?’
‘Yes, and yes.’
‘Well then, good. He liked them.’
She didn’t reply. Often, they had this kind of tennis-match dialogue – she played the game knowingly just as Alan did and yet both of them professed to hate it. She let him limp behind her, not bothering to slow to his pace. There was an odd smell in the cottage which it took her a moment or two to identify. As Alan came in, she said, quite sharply, ‘Embrocation does no good, you know that.’
‘It does if you massage it into my knee.’
‘Alan, it does not, it can’t. And when you put it on you just rub your knee, you don’t even massage it.’
‘But you weren’t here, and it was damned painful. Will you do it now? Please. I’ve been waiting for you to do it … I s
oon gave up trying myself.’
‘Get on the table, then,’ she said, curtly, ‘but I’ve told you, it does no good. It’s a waste of your time and mine.’
‘Time we’ve got,’ he said, almost in a whisper.
She warmed her hands at the fire first while he clambered onto the kitchen table, a stout old pine table, too big for their needs, but it had been there when they bought the cottage and they’d liked it. He’d taken his trousers off and lay in his shirt, the tails of it covering his thighs.
‘Bend the knee up slightly,’ she ordered, and then, when he lifted it too far, ‘No, only slightly. You know how to do it.’ He had his eyes closed, to her relief, and lay with his arms folded behind his head, forming a pillow. Slowly, she began the massage, putting all her weight behind the movement, kneading the flesh just above the knee and just below it. She didn’t even know the proper procedure, it was simply a technique she’d made up, but Alan had absolute faith in its beneficial effect, and it did no harm. It did not, though, have the other effect, the one he wanted. She knew perfectly well what this massage was about, and what he hoped for. His leg was warm, the flesh round his injured knee surprisingly lumpy. She pressed all over with the palms of her hands, trying to rotate the muscle. He asked her to go higher, saying the worst of the pain was above the knee, but she knew he was lying. She would not do what he wanted her to do. She couldn’t. After a mere five minutes she said, ‘There. Enough.’
‘Will you do my neck and my back now?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know how to do it properly, and I don’t feel like doing it.’
‘Why? Can’t you bear to touch me?’
Keeping the World Away Page 20