by Clare Harvey
Mother smiles and nods, her curls bouncing as her head bobs. Zelah turns her attention back to the pillow she’s been trying to push into the candy-striped pillowcase, but it is fat and won’t fit. Outside the small window is a grassy bank splattered with yellow and white flowers, and a plum tree drips purple fruit. Mother says she’ll be allowed to go out and pick plums and make daisy chains later, but first they have to unpack and settle in. Their big trunk is an open-mouthed hippo filling the middle of the room.
Miss Orton is still talking to Mother. Zelah pushes at the squishy slab of pillow, and listens. ‘As I mentioned at the interview, a housemistress is far more than a housekeeper. You’ll find yourself becoming a bit of a mother to the girls during term-time, especially the younger ones. Homesickness . . .’ Zelah stops listening to the grown-up talk. She holds the corners of the pillowcase and shakes, but still the fat heft of pillow sticks out. She throws it on the bed. Mother is still nodding and smiling at this Miss Orton woman, and twisting the gold ring on her left hand. Zelah glimpses the green line that circles the skin underneath, the one that Mother tries so hard to scrub off, but which always returns. Zelah decides to listen again. ‘. . . but I’m sure those kinds of pastoral issues won’t be a problem, as you’ve clearly done wonderfully well with your own daughter, in spite of . . .’ The woman clears her throat. ‘I don’t want to pry, but the girl’s father?’ She puts her head on one side as she asks the question. ‘The war?’
Zelah sees her mother clutch her left hand with her right, covering the ring and the green mark. ‘Yes,’ Mother says. ‘Sadly, Zelah’s father was lost to the Great War.’
‘My father?’ Zelah says, more loudly than she meant to. And both women spin round to look at her.
She heard footfalls, blinked back to the present, and Vi was next to her in the doorway.
‘You okay?’ said Zelah, as Vi caught up.
‘Course,’ Vi said, biting her lip and not making eye contact. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
Eat, sleep, work, pose for Laura: that was the routine of their lives these days, slung together like twins in a crib, at the factory and in the hostel. The production drive meant they hadn’t had a day off for ages. She’d expected it to be harder, sharing everything with Violet Smith, but Vi turned out to be generous and discreet, and hadn’t breathed a word to anyone about Mr Handford, even though it would have been easy to gossip about Zelah’s stolen moments away from the shop floor, or the lifts back to the hostel in the boss’s car.
But something was bothering Violet, wasn’t it? Every day she seemed to be smoking more, eating less and clenching and unclenching her fists, as if trying to grasp at something that kept slipping through her palms.
Zelah held the door open. The cool air enveloped them as they went inside. Laura strode on ahead, gesticulating with her notebook as she continued to recount her wedding day. She stopped when she reached the top of the aisle, by the altar, and stretched her arms up high. ‘Oh God, our help in ages past . . .’ she began to sing the hymn, her voice surprisingly low and powerful for an old woman. Zelah turned to exchange a glance with her fellow sitter, but Violet was looking in the other direction and pulling a half-empty packet of cigarettes from her skirt pocket. Zelah turned back to look at Laura who had begun to slowly twirl in the boiled-sweet-jar sunlight that came in through the stained-glass windows. ‘. . . From everlasting Thou art God . . .’ Laura sang on. Zelah could see a robed figure emerging from a side door beyond the pulpit, but Laura hadn’t yet noticed him.
There was the sound of a match being struck. ‘The vicar’s just come in,’ Zelah said, turning back to Vi, who frowned, shook the match out and put her cigarette back in the packet. The singing came to an abrupt halt, and there was a jocular exchange of voices from the far end of the church. Evidently Laura was introducing herself to the vicar.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Zelah asked. Vi wouldn’t look at her. ‘What is it?’ But Vi didn’t answer. ‘Let’s go over here,’ Zelah said, leading Vi towards the font, which was at the opposite end of the church from where Laura and the vicar were chatting. Laura was probably telling him about the chicken feathers and the five-pound honeymoon, Zelah thought.
Zelah and Vi stood by the font. There was no stained glass in the window here, it was just plain leaded diamonds, like the taped-up plate glass in the shop windows. Sunshine puddled the flagstones. Vi dipped the tips of her red-painted fingernails in the holy water. ‘You know, you can talk to me,’ Zelah said now. ‘Welfare is my job, after all. I might be able to help.’
‘I don’t think you can.’ Still not making eye contact, fingers dabbling the water.
‘How bad is it?’
Laura’s loud laughter carried down the aisle towards them.
‘Really bad.’
‘But you can’t tell me?’
Vi shrugged, and a small splatter of water from her pattering fingers fell on Zelah’s hand.
‘You don’t want to tell me?’
‘If I did, it wouldn’t do any good.’
‘How do you know that? I want to help. Please.’
Zelah glanced round. Laura had her sketchbook open to show the vicar. They were safe to talk for a while longer. ‘And even if I can’t do anything, sometimes just talking about a problem makes it seem, well, less troublesome.’
‘You think I’m in trouble?’
‘Well, are you?’
Vi nodded.
‘Well, don’t worry, we can talk to Dr Gibbs and—’
‘I’m not having anything more to do with that old sow.’
‘You’ve seen her already?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen her. She told me I was in the family way, and I could have told her that myself. I’m not stupid. And I’ve done all I can, but I can’t shift it. So, do you want to help me, Zelah?’ Vi looked up now, directly into Zelah’s face, her eyes wet and empty. ‘Do you still want to help me, Little Miss Welfare Supervisor? Want to help me rid myself of this bastard child before I end up going the same way as Mary-sodding-McLaughlin?’
Laura
Violet was lagging behind. Laura resisted the urge to call back and tell her to stop dawdling now, there’s a good girl, just like Mother used to say when she came here with Nellie and Sis – quick sticks, and I might find enough money for ginger beer, girls. But these weren’t girls, they were young women, and she wasn’t their mother – she wasn’t anyone’s mother, was she? Oh goodness, Laura, we don’t need to dwell on that now, not here, not with it being such a beautiful spring day.
Laura paused to wait for Violet, who’d been dithering since they came out of church. Zelah was walking beside her. ‘Tell me more about yourself,’ Laura said, as they walked towards the footbridge. The Trent swerved glassy-smooth beyond the riverbank.
‘Not much to tell,’ Zelah said.
‘I know you say your mother lost touch with her family, but you say she was from Cornwall originally?’
‘Yes, at least, I think so. I’m not sure – does it matter, Dame Laura?’
‘Just Laura. Call me Laura, dear. And, yes, it does matter, to me. Because the more I know about my subject, the more the details translate through the brush and the oils and into the finished painting. It helps give the piece character, don’t you see?’
Violet still hadn’t caught up. She’d stopped just past the Ferry Inn to pull a packet of cigs from her pocket. Never mind, there was no hurry. Laura watched two gulls circle, stark white as they swooped down near the bottle-green river, then disappearing into nothingness as they arced against the filmy spring skies.
‘All I know is that we moved to Plymouth when I was very young, not long after I was born. I never knew my father, so I can’t tell you anything about his family, either. Sorry I can’t be more help, Laura.’
‘My own father died when I was three,’ Laura said, ‘so I have no memory of him whatsoever. I never felt the loss, though.’ (Father had been a ne’er-do-well and a lush, to boot. Aunt Thir said it was a relief all
round that he kicked the bucket when he did.)
‘I don’t know if my father died,’ Zelah began, then stopped. ‘No, he did, he must have done. I think he was a soldier in France. Mother always said he was “lost to the war” so I suppose he would have been in the trenches when I was born.’
‘How very sad and difficult for your poor mother,’ Laura said, wondering why the girl got confused about her father. Was he dead or wasn’t he? It was the sort of thing one knew – unless he was a father who was deliberately not talked about.
‘If I think of anything, I’ll tell you, though,’ Zelah said. ‘If it will help the painting.’
‘If you could, dear.’ Laura put her hand over Zelah’s, and Zelah twisted her wrist so they clenched hands, just briefly, before Vi caught up with them.
‘We’re nearly there now,’ Laura said, pointing at the red-brick stanchions with the coroneted swans in plasterwork on either one. Tenez le droit was inscribed above: Uphold that which is right. ‘I always used to pretend I was entering a castle across a moat when we came here,’ Laura said, pointing at the swans. ‘This way, now, follow me, girls.’ She led them down a pathway that ran from the side of the bridge to the water, past the seven brick arches that supported the cast-iron structure. ‘One can only imagine the kinds of shenanigans that the local boys and girls get up to under there on warm summer evenings,’ Laura said, gesturing at them and laughing. ‘Actually, let’s go this way, further up the bank. There used to be a little beach of sorts—’ She turned off to the right, leading them along a pathway that cut through the goose grass and brambles. It was still damp with dew. Laura reached out with a fingertip to glance the lace edge of some early cow parsley, catching the scent of it. She felt as if fifty or sixty years had just been spliced out of her life. She wanted to run, flop down on the shore, tease Sis with that silly ditty, what was it?
Adam and Eve and Pinch-me-tight went down to the river to bathe
Adam and Eve were drowned, and who do you think was saved?
And Sis would answer ‘Pinch-me-tight’, even though she knew that it would end with Laura chasing her and giving her a horse-bite pinch on her arm!
‘Watch out for the nettles,’ Laura called over her shoulder as they continued in single file along the path. These young nettles were the worst; she recalled red stings circling her legs like an anklet after she’d run barefoot to the shore. She was often barefoot in those days, boots slung round her neck, tied by the laces, bumping against her chest: thud-thud like horses’ hooves. Mother hadn’t cared, said it saved on shoe leather – there was precious little money to spare on trips to the cobbler’s, back then.
The path opened up to reveal the river shore: brownish sand and a weeping willow over by the rocks. ‘Here we are. Spread the rug just there and sit down. It’s a perfect spot for sketching.’ Laura ushered Zelah past her and onto the little beach. She could hear Violet sparking up – again: the girl was like a steam train today! Laura watched Zelah sink down and settle on the green tartan travel blanket, her red skirt making an uneven oval around her, like an autumn leaf. Violet was swearing, struggling to get a light. Never mind, she could capture Violet presently. She would start with a couple of warm-up sketches of Zelah, Laura thought, taking out her notebook and charcoal from her bag.
‘That’s it, make yourself comfortable and just look across the river for me,’ Laura said. She’d get her eye in first with the charcoal, and then move on to a watercolour – it felt like a watercolour day, with the high-up, half-hidden sunshine and the fresh spring colours. At some point she would need Violet to sit down and stop fidgeting for five minutes, though – what was wrong with the girl?
Laura took in a cooling breath and began with a line: the curl and stretch of the river. Next, the weighted curve of Zelah’s skull and the flowing arc of her spine. A loose scrawl for the rug and back up to describe Zelah’s profile: it was almost masculine, Laura thought, with that wide brow and the definite angle of the nose. Laura continued, almost finished already, no need to overwork the thing. The sun filtered down through the high clouds, spangling the surface of the river bend. There was the sound of water lapping the shore. Gulls mewed, wheeling through the damp air.
‘Sennen,’ Zelah said, holding the pose and barely moving her lips. ‘I remember that Mother did once mention that during the last war she was a live-in help in Sennen Cove for a while, before I was born. I found a postcard of it tucked inside her Bible, when she passed. I’ll see if I can remember anything else – if you think it will help you with the portrait?’
Zelah’s mother had been a live-in help in Sennen, during the last war. In Sennen. Oh, dear Lord.
Laura’s charcoal snapped off in her fingers, leaving a horrible blackened scrawl in the middle of the sketch. It was ruined, utterly ruined.
Chapter 16
Violet
‘Nah then. It’ll take more ’n that, mi duck.’ Mrs Kirk’s face twisted as she looked at the handful of coins Vi held out, as if she disapproved of the paltry amount on offer. The air swirled smoky-damp as the shift-change crowds surged past them up the steps.
‘A deposit was all we agreed,’ Zelah said. ‘You said the balance was only payable on the day.’
‘It is. Only, the price has gone up.’
Vi clenched her fist back over the money, before anyone could see. Her back was being continually nudged by the disgorging day shift. ‘Can’t we go somewhere else to discuss this?’ she said.
‘I’ve got no time for chat. I need to get on,’ Mrs Kirk said. ‘Some of us have got families to go home to.’ Her mouth carried on working after she finished speaking, as if she were trying to dislodge something from her teeth.
‘But I don’t have that kind of money, not yet.’ Vi looked away from Mrs Kirk’s nodding grey curls, up beyond the saw-edged factory roof to the mackerel-patterned evening skies. Money: it all came down to money. But until Dame Laura finished the painting and paid the sitter’s fee, she had none to spare. And who knew how long it would be? She seemed to have been stuck on it forever. Ever since the day she’d taken them off on that sketching trip to Wilford, she hadn’t done much more than dab at the canvas and frown at them.
‘That’s a nice piece. Is it real?’ Vi heard Mrs Kirk talking to Zelah. Vi looked across to see Mrs Kirk pointing at the gold ring that hung on the red ribbon at Zelah’s neck. And Vi knew what the grasping old bag was thinking about before Zelah ever cottoned on.
‘No!’ Vi said at once, but at the same time Zelah answered yes, yes it was real.
Mrs Kirk’s eyes narrowed and her lips twitched. ‘I’d say you’d get a fair amount if you popped that,’ she said, reaching out.
‘No,’ Vi repeated. ‘No, she can’t do that.’ She pushed away Mrs Kirk’s greedy fingers.
Mrs Kirk tutted. ‘I was only thinking of you,’ she said. ‘If you’re short of money, and you’re in a hurry, you might like to think about popping it.’
Of course I’m in a hurry. Every moment this thing is getting bigger, growing inside, Vi thought. But that ring is a love token from Mr Handford to Zelah. She can’t possibly pawn it.
‘I could, I suppose,’ Zelah said. ‘Just until we get paid for the sitting.’
‘You can’t, Zelah. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘But how else are you going to get the money?’
‘I have to go or I’ll be late, ladies,’ Mrs Kirk said. ‘You know how much it is, take it or leave it. Let me know tomorrow if you’re still interested.’ And she was gone. Vi watched the fake cherries bobbing on her hat as she bustled down the factory steps.
Vi turned to look at Zelah, who was twisting the ring round and round on the ribbon. ‘I’m not going to ask, so don’t even think about it,’ Vi said.
‘But the longer you have to wait, the more dangerous it is,’ Zelah said. ‘And if something were to happen, because we’d left it too late—’
‘You can’t. I can’t let you,’ Vi said.
Zelah’s eyes were so
dark, they were almost black. Vi met her questioning gaze. ‘But what would you do, if you were in my shoes?’ Zelah said.
George
‘So this is where you hide, Mr Handford?’
He looked across to where she stood in the doorway, backlit from the stairwell lights, a slice of sluicing rain between her and the covered shelter where he sat. He could just make out her eyes in the shadow of her features. ‘I wouldn’t call it hiding, exactly.’
‘Don’t you need something to eat?’ she said. The door closed behind her and the voice became disembodied. He was staring into a shadow behind the falling water.
‘Don’t you?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
She still hadn’t moved from the doorway. He wasn’t sure why he felt awkward. After all that had happened – had happened so naturally between them – why was he still reduced to a nervous schoolboy at these stolen moments during the night shift?
‘Zelah?’ he began.
‘Miss Fitzlord to you, as we’re on work time, Mr Handford.’
‘Do you want to join me?’
In lieu of an answer, he watched how the blurred shadow behind the falling water grew larger and more focused, until here she was: Zelah Fitzlord – rain-washed cheeks, eyes midnight-dark.
And there it was again, suddenly and quite easily, without thought or overture: the warmth of her lips, the scent of her skin overlaid with the burnt-metal tang of the factory air. The rain pelted down like a curtain, sealing them off. He closed his eyes, felt her hands on his back, pulling him closer to her. The hot-forged delirium of breath-touch-taste and the sound of the falling rain. It was exquisitely unbearable, being so close, knowing that they couldn’t be any closer, not here – knowing it couldn’t last.