‘You said that you had been able to tell them a few things by outlining letters on the palms of their hands – but the bricks would be steadier, and they could run their fingers over them more than once, if they were in doubt.’
She turned the bricks over quickly, and said, ‘I don’t think there is a question mark – or an exclamation mark – but somebody who could whittle could make two bricks with them on. Then you could ask a question, like WALK? and they could say yes or no.’
She stopped and looked triumphantly at Louise.
It was Edna who realised the possibilities first. She said, ‘Celia! It’s wonderful – it would be a crack in a wall of silence for them.’ She stood looking at the little blocks, and then added thoughtfully, ‘You could get them to identify the letter on a block and then guide their fingers to the same letter in Braille – and with a bit of luck they would understand the connection. You could really teach them, Mama.’
Celia nodded quick agreement. ‘It would be awfully slow, I am sure. But, Mama, you could communicate quite a lot, if they can manage to read the letters.’
Louise was very tired; she was still shaky from the loss of Timothy and Paul. She did not answer immediately.
In addition, she had had an uncomfortable afternoon with the army doctor, when he had visited the nursing home. She had suggested that the two deaf-blind could be taken swimming, if an orderly who could swim went with each of them.
The doctor did not want to be bothered with wild ideas put forward by a stupid elderly widow, and had rudely quashed her suggestion as nonsense. He argued that all the men would then want to swim – and it would be impossible to ensure their safety in the water.
She had swallowed her anger, and had taken Richard and Charlie out for a walk on the seashore. As the tide retreated it left firm, damp sand on which they were not likely to trip up, and they walked quite steadily, one on either side of her, arms linked with hers. They seemed to enjoy it.
If only the pair could have read Braille, she thought, their own ideas on swimming might have been conveyed to the doctor and helped to win the battle. A knowledge of how to read and write Braille was, she knew, the first essential. Edna and Celia did not need to remind her.
Cup in hand, she turned wearily and without hope.
Her mouth fell open. She put down her cup and got up to look at the bricks. She realised immediately that here at last was a simple way to communicate with young Richard and Charlie until they could learn Braille. As Edna had said, it could form the actual link which would enable them to do so.
Through trembling lips, she said, ‘Spell a word for me, Celia, and I’ll close my eyes and see if I can read it.’
Celia arranged the bricks to read BLIND, and with closed eyes Louise allowed her hand to be guided to them. At first she spelled it out as BLINO, but Celia shook her hand and took her fingers back to the beginning again, and the second time she read it correctly.
Mrs Lou stood looking at the word and then she cried, and they laughed and cried together.
‘I bet Eddie can carve you a question mark and an exclamation mark,’ Edna assured her mother. Like Celia, she had a blissful belief that Eddie Fairbanks could do anything.
Chapter Forty-Seven
When a very fit-looking man, trilby hat in hand, entered the shop, he found Celia on her knees sorting her mother’s Crown Derby dinner service for twelve into two sets for six. She had noticed that, in the hardware store down the road, china services were being sold in sixes, and she thought it might be easier to dispose of smaller sets. She had come in early to do this, and now she rose hastily from the floor, undoing her apron as she turned to her visitor.
She smiled, and said, ‘Good morning, Sir.’
‘Alec Tremaine, Ma’am, John Philpotts’ friend.’
‘How nice of you to come,’ she said, and held out her hand to be shaken. He took it carefully and shook it.
John Philpotts had told him, ‘She’s a little pet. So fresh and innocent. I don’t want her to be cheated, if she has something good to show you. Take care of her.’ And holding her hand and looking into a gentle pale face, Alec felt suddenly that he was going to enjoy helping her with her pictures very much. John was right – she looked like a real old-fashioned girl, and he astonished himself by thinking immediately that his mother was certain to approve of her. It was some time before he realised how quick a mind lay behind the calm blue eyes.
Unmarried, battle-scarred and weary after four years in the army, he had been thankful, at the age of thirty-three, to find a post teaching commercial art in a Liverpool college; it was a fairly new discipline. Before the war, he had been quite successful as a watercolour artist and book illustrator.
Now, he began to fret that his knowledge might not be adequate to judge Celia’s collection of paintings. A quick glance round her showroom had told him that the contents were certainly not those of the usual second-hand shop, and this quiet little gentlewoman was certainly no ordinary second-hand shop owner.
Celia was equally unsure of herself. She turned a dining chair round for him to sit on, and then asked if he would like to take off his macintosh, since he was likely to be with her for some time.
He slowly divested himself of the garment and she fluttered to the back of the store to hang it up, nearly knocking over a pile of Crown Derby dinner plates. Then she realised that he would not sit down until she did, so she hastily got out another chair and sat on it.
Her hands modestly folded in her lap, she smiled shyly at him. He was a stolid, pleasant-faced man. His brown hair was close-clipped and had a few white hairs glinting in it. His face was clean shaven, deeply lined and ruddy from exposure. Military service had, presumably, given him his very upright posture. He spoke with the perfect pronunciation of a public school man.
She thought he was wonderful, a returned hero. As she carefully weighed him up, a wave of very odd sensations went through her. Though these made her feel a little unsteady, she led off the conversation like a good hostess, by inquiring how he would like to proceed.
Wrenching himself back from thoughts far removed from paintings, he said he would, first, like to walk round slowly and take a general look at the collection.
Not wishing to embarrass him by hovering behind him, she said she would finish sorting out the dinner service and put it away. He nodded, and, with hands clasped behind his back, he went slowly round the collection of paintings, most of which were oils in heavily carved gold frames. Occasionally, he took a picture down and carried it to the window to take a particular look at it. Despite his solid weight, he walked lightly, she noticed.
After half an hour, she brought him a cup of tea. She boiled the water on a gas ring in a tiny washroom at the back of the shop. He thanked her absently, and continued his promenade, teacup in hand. While she waited, she sat down at her corner table to drink her own cup of tea and draw faces on the blotting paper.
She did not know how to bear the suspense in silence, and was thankful when a girl of about fifteen entered and began to look round.
Celia put down her cup, and went forward to ask her if she needed help.
‘I want a present for me mam,’ was the reply. ‘I thought you might have a nice ornament.’
Celia immediately opened the china cabinet and brought down a series of vases and small figurines. At two shillings each, the girl said they were too expensive. She could get similar ones down the road for sixpence.
‘Well, this one and this one are early Royal Doulton,’ Celia defended. But Royal Doulton meant nothing to the girl, and, after looking disparagingly at the various clocks in the shop, she walked out looking quite huffy.
A small burst of laughter from behind Celia, as she shut the door, lifted her low spirits.
Alec ventured a comment. ‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘I can see from your stock that you don’t need that kind of clientele. You need real collectors.’ Then he immediately regretted his impolite intrusion into what was essentially her business,
not his.
Unruffled, she smilingly agreed with him. His comments made him suddenly more human to her. ‘I know, Mr Tremaine. You are quite correct. But I’m not sure how to let them know I am here!’
‘Ah, well, if you would like to, we’ll talk about that another time. I would be happy to make some suggestions, if you would permit it. Are you ready to talk about pictures?’
‘Indeed, yes.’ She went towards him eagerly, and they circled the shop together.
‘Some of the paintings have been done by amateurs and I suggest that they were, perhaps, framed as gifts to loved ones. I think you could sell them for a guinea or two, to people who want good frames, say, for mirrors or other pictures.’ He paused to look down at her, and asked, ‘Shall I put them on one side for you?’
Fearing that she herself might make an error in sorting the pictures, if she did it when he was gone, she agreed, and he stacked them neatly against the back wall.
When that was done, he told her, ‘Most of the others were done by local nineteenth-century artists – I recognise the names of some of them. They are not great paintings, but they were commissioned by someone with taste, and they are pleasant to look at. They are quite valuable, I think. Look at this one.’ He lifted one down to show her. It was a peaceful scene of Raby Mere, which had hung in the dining room of her old home.
‘It is nice, isn’t it? Father was rather fond of it.’
He carefully put it on one side, and picked up the next one, which was painted in the style of the Impressionists.
‘That’s called Sunday Afternoon,’ Celia offered. ‘I can’t think why. It’s mostly blurred.’
He smiled down at her. ‘It is, I think, quite good.’
They spent over an hour slowly going through the collection, until there were only two left. So that it could be seen particularly clearly, he propped up near the window the portrait of a young woman.
‘I may be wrong,’ he cautioned, ‘but I have an idea that this is a Ramsay, though the frame seems to cover the signature.’
‘Ramsay?’
‘He was an eighteenth-century Scottish artist, noted for his portraits of Scottish gentlefolk. If I am right, it might fetch a fair sum, particularly if it were shown in Edinburgh.’
‘Really? I think it’s a painting of one of my ancestors.’ Her pale-blue eyes had widened with astonishment. ‘That would be a wonderful help! Cousin Albert says I must accumulate capital, so that I can buy good replacement stock when it is offered. At the moment I couldn’t possibly buy anything.’
Alec murmured absently something about her having only just started out. Then he picked up the last painting, a seascape. ‘I kept this one until last, because I am almost afraid to raise your hopes too much.’
Celia’s heart gave a frightened thump. Then she realised what it was he was holding, and she said carelessly, ‘Oh, that’s the Turner. It’s awfully dirty, isn’t it? It’s called Hoylake Sands.’
Alec was so stunned at her remark that he nearly dropped the precious work.
‘You mean that you know it is a Turner?’
Fearful that she had said something wrong, she backed down and replied cautiously, ‘Well, that’s what I’ve always been told.’
Alec gasped. ‘By Jove! I couldn’t believe my eyes when I looked at it; I thought it must be simply a good copy.’
He went to the window and laid it in a clear shaft of light. Then he took a magnifying glass out of his pocket and studied it carefully.
Celia watched him, totally bewildered. She said, ‘Mother didn’t think much of it, but it fitted in in a spot by the breakfast room fireplace, and there it hung for years and years. That’s why it’s so dirty – from smoke and soot.’
Alec began to whistle under his breath. Then he asked, ‘Have you any idea how it came into the family?’
‘Well, when Great-aunt Blodwyn, my grandfather’s sister, came from Wales to my sister Edna’s wedding – she dislikes Mother, you must understand – I remember their quarrelling in the quiet, acid way that ladies sometimes do.’
Her laugh was rueful, as she glanced up at him. ‘They were sitting in the breakfast room having a morning glass of sherry.’ She stopped, and then said blankly, ‘I remember the day so well. Great-aunt Blodwyn had her arm round my waist as I stood by her chair.’
Alec Tremaine looked at the small, dainty person in front of him, and remembered some of John’s casual remarks about her. John had said cynically that she had probably been kept single so that she could care for her parents in their old age. It was a well-known custom much decried by the new Suffragette movement.
Celia realised that she had strayed a little from the question she was supposed to be answering, and went on quickly, ‘Anyway, I remember Great-aunt Blodwyn baiting Mother by saying that such a good painting should not be left where it would gather soot.’
It was Alec’s turn to chuckle softly, but he did not otherwise break into her story. In his mind’s eye, he saw the kind of petty cattiness that occurs between women with not enough to do to really occupy themselves.
‘Mother said it was a grubby old thing and she thought it was time it was thrown out and they bought something new. She never would throw it out, though, because Father was stuffy about these things – he liked old paintings and old furniture.
‘Then Great-aunt Blodwyn flared up and said it was treasured by her grandfather as the gem of his collection of paintings. It had been painted by a man called Joseph Turner – she said that her grandfather had commissioned it, when he went to visit his friend, Mr Fawkes of Farnley Hall in Yorkshire. The artist was also staying with Mr Fawkes, and he did the painting while they were both there. Simple as that.’
Alec Tremaine plonked himself down on his dining chair. ‘Well, I’m damned!’ he exclaimed, and then immediately apologised for his bad language. With a sudden thought, he asked, ‘Do you know who Joseph Turner was?’
‘Not really. He must have been an artist. According to Great-aunt Blodwyn, her grandfather was always buying pictures from artists whom he had met – it was his interest – the artist could have been anybody.’
‘Turner was simply one of the greatest artists Britain has ever produced,’ Alec told her. ‘When I was studying, I spent a good deal of time examining his watercolours and engravings of them. I’ve seen many of his oils, too, of course.’
‘Good heavens!’ She hung her head and looked a little shamefaced. ‘I’m so terribly ignorant,’ she burst out. ‘Edna might have known who he was – she went to school and learned to paint.’ He sensed a bitterness in her tone.
He had noticed the pile of books on antiques amid the things lying on her work table. To comfort her, he made a slight gesture towards them and said, ‘By the look of your desk, you seem to be making up for lost time now.’
She nodded, her face sad. ‘I’m trying to.’
She looked so downcast that he said, ‘Don’t worry, Miss Gilmore. Both John Philpotts and I think the shop will be a success.’
What John had actually said was that the two sisters were unexpectedly enterprising. ‘They know they don’t know nothing, but they’ve got the guts to admit it – and they’ll learn; they don’t waste their time like so many are doing.’
‘I’m sure I’m making all sorts of mistakes,’ Celia said, almost as if she had read his mind.
He grinned, and got up briskly. ‘We all have to learn,’ he replied. ‘I never thought of teaching until this year.’ Then he gestured to the two paintings which he had specially picked out, and suggested, ‘If you would allow me to show these two to the head of my college, he might be able to suggest what their worth is, and the best way to dispose of them.’
She nodded, and smiled politely. ‘Please do.’ Despite the hopes he had raised of making some badly needed capital, all she could think of was that her ignorance had shamed her before this lovely man. After he had left, she spent some time sitting at her desk and going wistfully over every word he had said.
A
lso deep in thought, Alec walked over to his home in nearby Meols Drive to eat his lunch with his widowed mother. In the trenches, he and his fellow officers used to talk occasionally about being at home at their own fireside. Some of the men already had wives and small children, and they spoke longingly of the comfort of decent meals, warmth and affection. When they were very hungry, which was quite often, they planned their favourite meals, each man grinning and adding a bit to the feast until it became one enormous joke – and it was always homely meals that they longed for and for women, like wives, whom they knew well.
Lady Tremaine and her companion doted on Alec and were bent on ‘feeding him up’. They were also bent on his paying court to his cousin, Daphne, a nice enough young woman, who would, they felt, be a suitable wife for a younger son who had not inherited much from his father. Alec had dutifully inspected the lady and played a few games of tennis with her. But that morning Alec had suddenly glimpsed something better, not just a woman who attracted him but a whole peaceful, orderly way of life, and his mother found him unusually silent at lunch time. She suggested a game of golf, but he said he felt like a stroll round the Liverpool Art Gallery, which he had not visited since he returned home, and took himself off to the railway station to catch a train to the city.
Chapter Forty-Eight
At home that night, Louise retired reluctantly to the sitting room to write a reference for Winnie, in reply to an inquiry from Mrs Johnson who was considering her for the post of cook in her new nursing home. Though still annoyed that a servant of hers should go so far as to trespass on her property, she had strict instructions from both her daughters that the reference should be an excellent one. Determined that her old friend should get the position, Celia reiterated to her mother Winnie’s great ability to cook everything, from dinners for large parties to wine jelly for an invalid. ‘Make it a really nice reference, Mama. Winnie is quite a wonderful cook.’
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