Children Of The Tide

by Valerie Wood

  As he turned the corner he looked along the street, wondering if he could catch up with Billington, and failed to notice a man coming towards him who caught hold of his arm as he passed.

  ‘Hold on, Rayner! Don’t you wish a fellow good day? Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ The fellow winked and tossed his head in the direction towards the passageway. ‘Or perhaps I should say, where have you been?’

  ‘Sorry, Craddock. I didn’t see you.’ And if I had, he thought, I might have gone the other way. ‘I was rushing – got to get back to the firm.’

  ‘Ah! Business calls.’ Craddock perused him from down his fleshy nose. ‘Sorry to hear about your father, by the way. Bad luck. You’ll be running things now, I expect?’

  ‘Er, yes. Yes, I am.’ As he spoke, he was immediately cast down. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘You’ll be all right for paying off that little debt then, won’t you?’ Craddock gave him a friendly smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  ‘Er, could you give me a little more time? As I explained before, my salary—’

  ‘Oh, come come, old fellow. Surely now, now that you’re in charge?’

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ Gilbert protested.

  ‘Nothing in the till?’ Craddock kept his gaze on Gilbert. ‘Or surely you could write a cheque?’

  ‘I don’t handle cash, and I can’t use company funds for personal matters.’ Gilbert was beginning to sweat. He should never have agreed to play cards with the fellow. He was known all over the town as a sharper. It was only because of his foolish belief in his own ability, fostered by imbibing too much wine, that he had accepted Craddock’s challenge to a rubber of cribbage.

  ‘I hear you’re getting married shortly.’ Craddock abruptly changed the subject. ‘Going to be a big affair, is it? Billington’s daughter!’ He pursed his generous lips and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, you’ll have plenty of ready money then, I expect. I suppose I could wait.’

  ‘I’d be grateful—’ Gilbert began.

  ‘Tell you what, old fellow. I’d love to come, to the wedding I mean. Bound to be some good contacts there, bankers and all. Arrange it, can you?’

  ‘I, I – the invitations have gone out, I believe.’ Gilbert sought for an excuse.

  Craddock smiled heartily, his small eyes disappearing into a fleshy crease, and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Well, you’ll be able to arrange an extra one, I expect. Or two rather – I’d like to bring a lady along.’

  Gilbert wilted. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ To have Craddock as a guest at his marriage was the last thing he wanted, but if he wasn’t invited, he knew very well just how much trouble he could cause – and if Billington should find out that his daughter’s future husband was in debt …! The notion was too terrible to comprehend. He crossed the road towards the High Street and saw a familiar figure looking in a shop window. He groaned. Aunt Ellen!

  Aunt Ellen had tried several times to catch his eye when they had been visiting his father in hospital, but he had successfully avoided her glance. It had not been an easy situation, for his mother and Aunt Ellen, though outwardly polite, had barely spoken to one another.

  I have every intention of searching out a suitable foster home for the child, he deliberated, my child, though she doesn’t know it, I just haven’t got round to it. Now she was sure to ask him if any arrangements had been made. He turned on his heel to cut down Scale Lane, a narrow street which would take him through to the High Street.

  ‘Gilbert!’

  She had seen him. He gave a huge sigh and clenched his lips together, turning to greet her with a ready smile.

  ‘Gilbert! I’ve been wanting to ask you something.’ There was a determined look upon her face.

  ‘Yes, Aunt?’

  ‘I know how difficult it is for you at the moment, and of course you cannot consult your father, but you won’t forget your promise to make arrangements about the child?’ She looked at him steadily, her eyes keen.

  He swallowed. ‘I haven’t forgotten, Aunt Ellen. It’s just that, with Father …’ His voice trailed away.

  She nodded. ‘Another thing.’

  He held his breath and waited.

  ‘About the wedding. Will you be an absolute dear and invite Betsy? You may have done so already, of course, in which case there is no need for me to mention it; but if you haven’t, then will you? She’s such a sweet girl and she gets so few outings.’ She smiled and he exhaled. ‘And she might meet a nice young man!’

  ‘Oh, but of course, Aunt Ellen.’ He beamed at her. ‘Of course she will be invited. Her name is on the list, but I shall deliver it in person!’

  The following Saturday he prepared to do just that. The groom polished up his gig so that the leather was soft and shiny, the brasswork gleaming, and harnessed up Caesar and Brutus. Billy had warned him that the state of the roads in Holderness was quite bad, indeed, he would have known without telling when he saw the muddy state that his gig was in after Billy had borrowed it.

  This morning, though, the sun was shining and the roads dry, and he hoped that the weather was now settled, for his wedding to Harriet was only three weeks away. He had the invitation for Betsy in his pocket, an open invitation, because he wasn’t sure if the rest of the Foster family would come, for someone would have to stay behind at the mill. He intended, too, as well as his visit to Tillington, to call on Aunt Ellen in Monkston and discuss the future of the child as he’d promised. There has to be something settled, he worried as he rattled along. I have this guilt hanging over me, but I don’t want Harriet to find out. For guilt he felt, not only for the child, but also for the unjustified charge against James, who still hadn’t written to give his address. His father had asked him if there was word of him, but he had evaded the question, not wanting to upset his father by admitting that he didn’t know where he was.

  Mark was in the mill yard as he arrived, loading sacks of animal foodstuff into a cart for a farmer who was waiting. Mark nodded, but barely spoke. Surly beggar, he never did have much to say, Gilbert thought contemptuously. Gilbert and Mark were near in age, but they never seemed to have the same common interests as he did with his cousins at Monkston.

  There was a horse and trap in the yard, and Gilbert manoeuvred his gig close by in order to leave room for the farmer’s cart to turn around. ‘At home day!’ he commented wryly as he passed Mark. ‘Is the lady of the house receiving?’ Mark simply looked past him and Gilbert shrugged and knocked and entered. From the small hallway he could hear voices from within the parlour. The kitchen door was open and he saw Betsy there with a young servant girl who was placing a kettle on the fire.

  Betsy turned a merry face towards Gilbert. ‘How lovely to see you, Gilbert. It’s been such a long time.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry, Betsy. Time is so pressing these days, not like when we were young and had all the time in the world.’ He kissed her cheek and then held her at arm’s length. ‘How well you look – and so pretty!’

  She laughed and returned his kiss. ‘When we were young, Gilbert? Are you such an old man now that you are about to be married?’

  He put a mockingly weary hand to his brow and sighed deeply. ‘Such responsibility, Betsy, the thought of having a wife to protect and maintain.’ Then he clasped her hand and whispered, ‘And no more flirtations with my pretty cousins!’

  She laughingly gave him a push. ‘Away with you. Come, come through into the parlour.’

  ‘First let me give you this,’ he said as they returned to the hall, and he brought out the invitation from his pocket. ‘I drove over especially, Betsy, just to make sure that you would come.’

  What pleasure I have brought her, he thought as she opened the envelope and smiled with delight at the contents. So why did I have to be prompted by Aunt Ellen? I should have thought of it myself. It cost me so little and yet means so much.

  ‘Oh, Gilbert. Thank you so much.’ She opened the door into the parlour which had a bright fire b
urning and a scent of daffodils from the vase on the windowsill. ‘Oh, Da, Aunt Ellen – Sammi! Look what Gilbert has brought. An invitation to his wedding!’

  ‘How de do, Gilbert,’ Uncle Thomas greeted him jovially. ‘Haven’t seen thee in a long time. But tha’ll be a busy young fellow now that Isaac is laid up poorly. I was just thinking,’ he said in mock gloom, ‘that tha’d called in ’nick of time to save me from a great expense that Ellen is planning for me; but it looks as if there’ll be more money to be spent if there’s a wedding on ’cards. It’ll be new gowns and bonnets and fal-de-rals, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘You can afford it, Thomas, don’t pretend that you can’t! Hello, Gilbert.’ His aunt extended her hand and, though caught off-guard by finding her here, he hoped his surprise didn’t show as he bent to greet her.

  His face flushed as he turned to greet Sammi who was sitting by the window in an old wooden rocking chair. The sun was shining through the window, glinting on her thick red hair, which was the same colour as his. He hated the colour yet it looked so well on her, and was absent from the dark heads of these Foster cousins at Tillington and that of his brother James. He felt himself flush, though it wasn’t Sammi’s appearance which attracted his attention, but the child in her lap which she gently rocked. He greeted her awkwardly and looked down at the babe, a suitable remark on his lips. A remark which faded as he gazed at the child in his long white gown and bonnet.

  Sammi loosened the ribbons on the bonnet. ‘I took it upon myself to name him Adam, Gilbert. Do you think that James would agree with that? I couldn’t ask because I don’t know where he is, I haven’t yet heard from him.’

  ‘Yes. I mean – I don’t know.’ Gilbert was lost for words as he saw, peeping from below the child’s bonnet, the fine wisps of golden hair. He cleared his throat. ‘No-one has heard. But I’m sure it’s most suitable.’

  He looked up. Uncle Thomas and Betsy were examining the invitation card, but Aunt Ellen was looking at him. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted and a perceptive awareness was etched upon her face. His eyes were drawn to hers. No point in veiling them in deception. She knew! He was discovered. With the utmost certainty, he recognized that she knew the child was his.

  16

  The basement room which James had rented was in a terraced house just around the corner from Batsford’s rooms in Cheyne Walk. It was small and dark and of no use for painting because the light was so poor, but it was cheap and warm, and Batsford was willing to let him use his studio provided he didn’t get in his way. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible when Batsford was working, simply watching and observing his techniques, and trying to apply them to his own work. His sketch of Battersea bridge was finished, but he had decided after all, not to paint the scene, when Batsford had told him that it was a favourite subject of Turner.

  I can’t compete with Turner, he’d said, and besides, I want to be noted for my own genre, not as a copyist. Batsford had rebuked him, telling him that the subject matter wasn’t important but that the interpretation was.

  ‘You could never copy an artist such as Turner; the difference in style and impression would be quite apparent, but you can learn from his technique. You must paint what you see through your own eyes, you cannot see through anyone else’s.’

  Nevertheless, James abandoned the idea and wandered around Chelsea and the river bank looking for inspiration, or taking the long walk into London to visit the National Gallery and admire the portraits of Reynolds, the entertaining and provocative Hogarth, and the classical ‘Englishness’ of Gainsborough’s landscapes. He wandered around the Georgian squares and watched the creation of Gothic public buildings and monuments as they rose in terracotta, Devon limestone, Cornish granite, iron and glass, for, as the railways developed, they carried in the heavy loads of formerly unattainable materials which were now changing the face of London.

  By mistake, one day on his wanderings, he ventured into the squalor of the London rookeries, and observing the wretched residents of these habitations who, seeking to escape from the horrors that lay within their doors, sat on their doorsteps with shoeless feet soaking in the filth of overflowing cesspools, he formed opinions, found his voice, and absorbed and contributed to the enlightening conversation of the company who joined them at their supper either in Batsford’s untidy living room or at The Six Bells Inn.

  Batsford asked Miss Gregory if she would sit for James and she agreed. ‘She’s good, you see, Rayner. She knows how to sit and she doesn’t move her pose as some models do, to scratch an itch or stretch a foot.’

  James thought he would be embarrassed, but after an initial flushing of his cheeks when he returned to the studio and found her waiting, already disrobed and in position on the sofa, he found he was viewing her dispassionately as Batsford pointed out the errors on his drawing pad.

  ‘See here,’ said Batsford, pointing with a pencil. ‘See how the left breast flattens beneath the arm as she has it raised. And here,’ he tapped the sketch, ‘you have missed the indentation of the calf where the leg is crossed.’

  James looked up at Miss Gregory to determine his faults and discovered that she was fast asleep and oblivious of their comments.

  ‘She’s quite beautiful, isn’t she?’ Batsford commented. ‘A visual image to be appreciated as much as the painting of a flower or landscape. We’re very lucky to have her.’

  Later, when she was dressed and ready to leave and Batsford had slipped out for his daily walk, James thanked her for sitting.

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘Batsford’ll give me extra.’

  ‘Why do you do this?’ James asked curiously. ‘Is there no other work you would rather do?’

  She stared at him, then shrugged her shoulders. ‘How else could I earn money for sitting around all day? It’s better than working in a sweat shop or a kitchen. Besides, I’ve got a good body and face, and I’ve been painted by some of the best artists in London. One day I might be famous.’ A slight smile touched her lips. ‘You think I’m Batsford’s mistress, don’t you?’

  James was flustered, not knowing how to answer, but why else would she sit, in spite of what she had said?

  ‘Well, I’m not, though I know that some of the artists paint their wives or mistresses. But I’ve never been an artist’s doxy and don’t intend to be, and if you want to paint me then you’d better look on me as a piece of furniture and nothing more. Don’t get any ideas that I might share your bed.’

  James gasped. ‘I had no—’

  ‘No? Well, some of the young artists that Batsford teaches think that I come with breakfast, but I’ll tell you now, once and for all, that I don’t.’

  James had paid two weeks rent for his room, which had left him with little money, and he had vaguely wondered why his father hadn’t sent him an allowance as he’d promised; and it wasn’t until his rent was again due that he remembered he had told his father he would send him an address as soon as he was settled. But I’m sure I gave him Batsford’s address, he thought. Or perhaps I didn‘t. I must write. A twinge of conscience smote him that he hadn’t written to Sammi either, or sent her any money for the child, and he vowed that he would write to her too, but then he forgot and it wasn’t until his landlady came down to remind him his rent was now overdue, that he realized that perhaps his father might be worrying about him and wondering if he had safely arrived at his destination.

  He promptly sat down to write, to tell him that he was now a pupil of Batsford’s and that he had found lodgings.

  ‘I shall be forever grateful to Peacock,’ he wrote. ‘My life has opened up anew, and I know that I was destined to be an artist. I can feel it in my blood, in my veins, and although I realize that it is not perhaps what you would have planned for me, Father, circumstances have decreed my true vocation.

  ‘I cannot say that I am missing home, as my life is filled to such capacity that I do not have time to think of what I left behind, but I do miss you, and remain your ever loving son. James.�
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  He wrote another letter to Peacock, thanking him for the opportunity given to him, sealed them both and posted them. It wasn’t until later that he remembered he hadn’t asked his father about money, and he hoped that he wouldn’t need prompting.

  ‘We have been invited out for supper this evening, Rayner,’ Batsford greeted him one morning. ‘Jonathon Walker – he is a great patron of the arts. It would be good for you to meet him. He’s very influential and has helped many young painters.’

  ‘But I haven’t anything to show,’ James said in some dismay. ‘Only my sketches of Battersea Bridge and Miss Gregory.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. If he likes you, then he will wait for you to produce something.’ He looked James over and rubbed his chin. ‘Just one thing …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s of no consequence.’

  Whatever it was, Batsford obviously had second thoughts about it, and James dismissed it from his mind as he changed for supper. He combed his hair, which was now long and curling into his collar in the manner of some of the other young men he had met, and tied a silk scarf around his neck in a loose knot.

  There was already a crowd of people in Jonathon Walker’s home in Bloomsbury when he and Batsford arrived. He could hear piano music, the clink of wine glasses and a hum of conversation and laughter.

  Jonathon Walker, a tall slim man with white hair, came over to greet them. ‘So nice to see you, Batsford, and this is your protégé?’ He extended a warm and flaccid hand towards James. ‘I have heard all about you.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ said James, feeling uncomfortable with his hand still clasped by Walker’s soft flesh.

  ‘Yes, indeed. There is little goes on in the art world that I don’t know about.’

  James preened. To be included and mentioned in the art world was something he had never envisaged, and with a great passion about to take over his senses, he allowed himself to be drawn, with Walker’s arm around his shoulder, to be introduced to other members of the ensemble. Some of the ladies were dressed in extravagant gowns and inclined their heads as he was introduced, and gentlemen in three-piece suits or velvet jackets and narrow trousers nodded and made polite noises; others, shabby in well-worn shirts and down-at-heel shoes, were tucking in to the food which was laid on the white-clothed table in an anteroom – they looked up and spoke briefly, then resumed eating.