Everybody’s Somebody
Beryl Kingston
About the Author
Beryl Kingston is the author of 30 novels with over a million copies sold. She has been a writer since she was 7 when she started producing poetry. She was evacuated to Felpham at the start of WWII, igniting an interest in one-time resident poet William Blake which later inspired her novel The Gates of Paradise. She was an English teacher from 1952 until 1985 when she became a full-time writer after her debut novel, Hearts and Farthings, became a bestseller. Kingston continued writing bestsellers for the next 14 years with titles ranging from family sagas to modern stories and historical novels. She currently lives in West Sussex and has three children, five grandchildren, and ten great-grandchild.
Also By Beryl Kingston
Historical Fiction
A Time to Love
London Pride
War Baby
Hearts and Farthings
Kisses and Ha’pennies
Two Silver Crosses
A Stitch in Time
Avalanche of Daisies
Suki
Gates of Paradise
Hearts of Oak
Off the Rails
The Easter Empire Trilogy
Tuppenny Times
Fourpenny Flyer
Sixpenny Stalls
The Octavia Trilogy
Octavia
Octavia’s War
The Internet Revolutionary
The Jackson Family Saga
Everybody’s Somebody
Citizen Army
Fiction
Maggie’s Boy
Laura’s Way
Gemma’s Journey
Neptune’s Daughter
Francesca and the Mermaid
Non-Fiction
Lifting the Curse
A Family at War
Everybody’s Somebody
Beryl Kingston
This edition published in 2019 by Agora Books
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Endeavour Ink
Agora Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd
55 New Oxford Street, London WC1A 1BS
Copyright © Beryl Kingston, 2017
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Prologue
It was very quiet in the gallery, so quiet that the class instinctively tiptoed into the room, glancing up at the vaulted roof and gazing at the great works lining the walls, too awed to speak. Some of them had never been to a national art gallery before, even though they were eighteen and studying painting and sculpture; others had visited local art shows but had never faced anything on this scale. For this was a place built to daunt and impress. Silence swirled about the elaborate moulding in the high ceiling, was absorbed by the richness of the red flock wallpaper, drifted reverently over the great works of art. Even the attendant was caught up in the stillness, sitting motionless on his uncomfortable chair beside the door, unsmiling as a statue.
When their tutor spoke, her voice brayed into the silence like a trumpet call. ‘Now this,’ she said, stopping beside a very large canvas, ‘is one of Gerard de Silva’s most famous works. Gather round.’
They shuffled into an obedient circle, feeling embarrassed by the noise she was making, and gazed at the painting.
The tutor moved into her spiel. ‘You will observe,’ she said in her lecturing voice, ‘the technique de Silva used in the painting of the face and hands. We were talking about it yesterday. Anyone?’
The group shuffled and most of them looked at the floor to avoid her gaze, but one boy offered an answer, tentatively.
‘The puddle of paint?’
‘The puddle of paint,’ the tutor said, with satisfaction. ‘If you look closely you will see where the first “skin”, as he called it, has been applied. Note the highlights of blue and green. Note also that the portrait is almost entirely composed of a pale, sandy brown and cream, which gives unity. Always important in portraiture.’
Her class looked up at her, feeling more at ease now that the first question had been asked and answered, and one of the girls ventured a question of her own. It took some doing because she was excessively shy, with a trick of keeping her head down and avoiding eye contact.
‘Who is the sitter?’ she said. ‘He looks familiar.’
‘As well he should, Tiffany,’ the tutor said, smiling at her. ‘It’s Lawrence of Arabia, the great T E Lawrence who drove the Turks out of Arabia in 1918, so, as you will understand, a palette of sand yellow and cream is particularly appropriate. Now we move on.’
‘Who’s the woman in red?’ Tiffany whispered to her best friend, a girl called Jasmine.
Jasmine gazed round the room. There was nobody else there, except them and the statuesque attendant, and certainly not a woman in red.
‘On the wall. Bit further along,’ Tiffany whispered.
There wasn’t time to say anything more because the tutor was walking towards the next two canvases.
‘Now here,’ she said, standing between two painted figures, ‘we have two contrasting portraits, which we will examine in detail. The seated gentleman to my right was a very great man. His name was Sir Anthony Eden and he was Prime Minister from 1955. You will note the quiet confidence of his expression, beautifully observed, and the way the highlights used for his dark hair are echoed in that elegant moustache. A picture that radiates calm and assuredness. The man on my left is Keir Hardie, who was a rabid left-winger and very obviously working class. Observe the rough cloth of his coat and how well it has been depicted. Note the frayed edge here and the unkempt nature of his beard, a certain wildness in the eye, sepia and purple highlights. His use of colour is truly admirable, as you will agree. Examine the difference in the brush strokes.’
Her class duly examined the difference, making copious notes to prove how hard they were working, while she gazed at their bent heads with happy satisfaction. Finally, feeling she had given them sufficient time for note taking, she sounded her trumpet and called them to order. ‘Any questions?’
The two girls had been gazing across the room at the woman in red. ‘Who is the sitter in that portrait?’ Jasmine asked.
‘One of his models, I dare say,’ the tutor told her, vaguely. ‘He kept several models over the years. An interesting portrait, however, because of his use of such a dominant colour. We will examine it, if you like. It is a good example of his technique. You will note that this model has a strong, dark hair colour to offset the richness of all that red. Again the puddle of paint. Any comments?’
Tiffany lifted her head to ask a question of her own, as that seemed to be permissible. ‘Is the sitter named?’ she asked. ‘She’s got a very strong face.’
The tutor consulted her catalogue. ‘It’s called Rosie in Autumn,’ she said, ‘but there doesn’t seem to be anything else about her. Nobody of consequence anyway. He probably picked her because of her hair and her colouring. You will observe that the basic palette here is alizarin, vermilion, ochre and bronze. The fire is the most dominant element in the picture — apart from the standing figure of course. You will observe that there are highlights of red and ochre in the mirror here, the fire irons, those glass ornaments, and here in the skin tones of the model. All in all, it’s a bit loud for our modern taste but skilfully done, nevertheless. See if you can anal
yse the mixture that would have been used in this puddle of paint.’
Her students examined the highlights and made notes, all except for Tiffany who was looking at the expression on the model’s face and glancing at the rows of huge portraits to her left. ‘There’s three more of her a bit further along,’ she whispered to Jasmine.
The tutor was looking at her watch. Her pupils seemed to have stopped making notes and she didn’t want them to lose interest or they’d start chatting and horsing around. Some of the boys were rather too prone to horseplay. Raging hormones of course, but inappropriate in a public place, especially now there were other visitors arriving. ‘It is half past three,’ she said, in her loudest voice. ‘I will give you an hour’s free time to examine whatever other portraits you might like to see. You may explore the other galleries if you wish. There are some of de Silva’s lesser works in the adjoining gallery, townscapes and so forth, and the gypsies he painted for chocolate boxes. Heaven only knows what he thought he was doing to take on such a commission when he was such a fabulous portrait painter. But there you are, there’s no accounting for artistic temperament. Anyway, you might like to look at them while you’re here. One hour mind. Make sure you are all back here at half past four.’ Then she gave them her stern smile and set them loose.
The wild horses were off like a shot, charging away from her control, of course. But the girls were drifting slowly. She noticed that her two, nice, quiet girls were heading for the three companion portraits to Autumn and smiled her approval. Time for a cup of tea, she thought, and headed for the café.
‘Well it’s obviously her,’ Tiffany said. ‘Even if he doesn’t say so.’ The three great canvases were labelled Spring ’23, Summer ’26 and Winter ’28. ‘She’s very pretty. I like that coat.’
They were standing in front of Winter, which was a study of their model, bright-eyed and red-cheeked with cold, skating on a frozen lake with two little girls beside her. She was taking long confident strides and seemed to be smiling to herself and she was wearing a long sky-blue coat with white fur cuffs and collar and a huge fur hat.
Jasmine said she preferred Spring, which showed their model in a garden full of daffodils and jonquils holding a trug overflowing with flowers on her arm and wearing a straw hat and a long gentle-looking dress in some creamy material, patterned all over with tiny red, white and yellow flowers.
But it was Summer that was the most interesting, for this time he’d painted her on a beach in a bathing suit, sitting on a breakwater, dabbling her feet in a rock pool and smiling at a group of small, suntanned children who were building a sandcastle beside her.
‘I’ll bet those two in the yellow cossies are hers,’ Jasmine said. ‘They’re dressed the same and the bigger one’s just like her. All that dark hair.’
‘She looks happy,’ Tiffany said, gazing at her. ‘And sort of confident, as if she’s enjoying herself. Strong. Happy in her skin.’
‘Ah, but don’t forget she’s nobody of consequence,’ Jasmine said, imitating the tutor’s sneering voice. ‘We’re supposed to be admiring the portraits of the great.’
‘I don’t care if she had “consequence” or not,’ Tiffany said. ‘She looks strong. And if you think about it, she must have been somebody. Everybody’s somebody. I’d like to have met her.’
Chapter 1
‘Oh, when’s he comin’, Ma?’ the child asked, drumming her fingertips against the windowsill. ‘He should ha’ been here long since. I been packed an’ ready for ages. What’s he doin’?’ She leant out of the open window, standing on tiptoe and craning her neck to look as far along the lane as she could, her face burnished by the early morning sun, her tangle of thick dark hair falling across her cheek. ‘Oh come on, Pa!’
Her mother sighed. She was churning butter in the scullery and was hot and sticky with sweat. ‘He’ll be here presently,’ she said, pushing the damp hair out of her eyes. ‘You just got to have a bit a’ patience, tha’s all. You can’t rush them ol’ cows.’
But she was wasting her breath. It was no good suggesting patience to her Rosie. She was the most headstrong, impatient child she’d ever known in her life and so unlike her brother and sisters there’d been times when she’d found herself wondering how on earth she’d ever come to breed such a child and had thought darkly about changelings and fairy children swapped in the cradle. It wasn’t to be wondered at when all was said an’ done. For a start off, she didn’t even look the same as the other three. They were pale-skinned, brown-haired, gentle children, round-faced and wide eyed with soft mouths and stocky bodies like hers and John’s. Biddable children. Rosie had always been a child apart, a child who went her own way, not biddable at all. You only had to glance at her to see that, with all that unruly hair and those bold brown eyes and that determined chin. Look at her now, twelve years old yesterday and itching to be off to Arundel to start work. It wasn’t natural. She’d seen girls a-plenty going off to work during her thirty-four years in Binderton and they’d all been worried sick about it, poor little things, pale-faced and withdrawn, even weepy, some of them, not wanting to leave their mothers. Never raring to go, never hanging out the window with impatience, never eager.
‘He’s here!’ Rosie shouted, jumping away from the window. ‘He’s comin’!’
Maggie Goodison sighed. ‘Put your bonnet on,’ she said. Then she set the churn aside, left her stool and ambled to the backdoor to fetch the others. ‘Your sister’s goin’,’ she called. ‘Leave the hoeing, Tommy. You can do that later on. Come an’ kiss her goodbye.’
They came in at once in their obedient way, young Tess with Baby Edie sitting astride her hip, Tommy wiping his hands on his breeches and shaking his hair out of his eyes, all of them blinking as their eyes accommodated to the darkness indoors after the blaze of sunlight in the vegetable patch. Rosie swooped across the room at once to throw her arms round them and kiss them and the baby held out her arms calling to her big sister, ‘Ro-Ro! Ro-Ro!’ and was seized and kissed and tossed in the air until she squealed. Then Tommy and Tess kissed her and said, ‘Come back soon,’ while their mother stood apart feeling rather left out of it. And in the middle of all the noise, their father strode through the door in his white smock coat and his old straw hat, bringing the smell of the cowshed with him, filling the room with his comfortable bulky presence and grinning all over his face. ‘Ready for the off?’ he called to Rosie.
‘Ready an’ waitin’,’ Rosie said, and she picked up her canvas bag and skipped towards him, swinging it in her hand. ‘You been ages, Pa.’
‘Don’t I get no kiss goodbye then?’ Maggie said.
Rosie looked momentarily smitten. Then she rushed to her mother and flung her arms about her neck. ‘Course you do, Ma,’ she said, kissing her lovingly.
‘Now mind you do everything they say,’ Maggie told her, holding her by the shoulders and looking at her earnestly. ‘An’ don’t go answerin’ back. The gentry don’t like answerin’ back. Just say, “Yes sir,” and, “No sir.” An’ mind your P’s and Q’s. An’ don’t forget to curtsey. Are you listenin’ to me?’
Rosie shook her shoulders free. ‘It’s all right, Ma,’ she said. ‘I shan’t forget.’
‘Yes, well, I know you,’ Maggie said and sighed.
Rosie kissed her again. ‘Don’t look so sad,’ she said. ‘I’ll be all right, truly I will. I got my pencil and paper what you gave me yesterday, an’ my new jersey what you knitted, an’ my bonnet — see? — an’ I shall see you again ever so soon. Be back ’fore you knows it.’
Then she was off, running light-footed out of the door. The rest of them trooped after her and stood in a subdued little group beside the cottage to watch as she climbed into the cart and turned to wave at them and blow kisses. Then their father clicked to his mare and their journey began. Tess held her mother’s hand for comfort as they watched the cart joggle away.
‘She’ll come back soon, Ma,’ she said.
‘She’ll come back the fourth Sunday in Le
nt,’ Maggie told her dourly as the cart disappeared round the bend.
Tess’s face fell. ‘That’s a long time,’ she said. ‘That’s months.’
‘Yes,’ Maggie said shortly. ‘It is. But it’s no good sayin’. There’s nothing we can do about it.’ Then she straightened her spine and took a deep breath. ‘We must get on,’ she said. ‘It’s no good standin’ around. There’s work to be done. Butter don’t make itself.’
Out in the fields, the grey mare plodded steadily eastward, flicking her ears against the flies. The path they were taking ran between familiar fields of new green corn, the farm sat in its hollow to the left of them, the River Lavant trickled past them on their right, its waters polished white by the sunlight, the long familiar hill of the Trundel rose before them, blue-green against the clear sky. But Rosie didn’t notice any of it. Although she wouldn’t have wanted her father to know it, she was feeling too anxious.
‘Will it take long to get there?’ she asked.
‘Seven miles takes a bit a’ time,’ her father said. ‘You’ll see it up ahead presently. Huge great place it is. Up on a hill. Mind you write to us. There’s a good gel. We’ll be wantin’ to know how you gets along.’
Rosie said, ‘Yes, Pa.’ But she was thinking what a waste of time it would be to send letters to him when he couldn’t read. Ma would do her best because she’d had a bit of schooling, but even she found it hard to make out the words. They’d probably have to get Tommy to read it out loud to them and he wouldn’t be much good at it either because he thought learning was useless and said so frequently. ‘I mean for to say our Rosie; you don’t need to read an’ write an’ that to look after the cows.’
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