Bel walked on and turned left into a street of small shops. There was a flower shop here with the window full of golden daffodils and white narcissus and mimosa from the South of France . . . It was Spring here too, thought Bel, pausing to look at the display. She would have loved to buy a sheaf of daffodils but managed to resist their appeal. She could not resist the wallflowers. There they were, in the corner of the shop, dozens of tiny seedlings huddled together in a shallow box. “Buy us,” they were saying. “The daffodils will have faded in a week but we’ll go on living for months.” She imagined them blooming, a mass of brown and gold, in the big trough outside her sitting-room window; she could almost smell the scent of them, sweet as honey. Just a dozen, thought Bel, or perhaps two dozen, it would be silly to skimp them.
“I’ll give you the lot for three and six,” said the florist. “You may as well take them, they won’t last till tomorrow.”
Bel had not meant to pay so much. It was an extravagance. But she had to have them. She paid the three and sixpence and continued on her way with the large damp parcel clasped in her arms.
*
2
Compared with the usual monotonous routine today had been adventurous. First there was Spring, then came her chat with Mr. Brownlee about the triremes from Nineveh—a very interesting and unusual chat—and now, best of all, her wallflower seedlings. These events were enough to make this a red-letter day! But the day’s adventures were not over for when she took her key and opened the door of her flat Bel’s nostrils were assailed by the smell of tobacco smoke. Yes, there was no doubt about it, somebody was in the flat—and was smoking!
At first Bel was alarmed and envisaged a burglar . . . and then common sense came to her rescue. She realised that it was unlikely to be a burglar or anyone with nefarious intent. Such a person would not advertise his presence by smoking. But, if not a burglar, whom could it be, wondered Bel.
She hesitated for a moment and then pushed open the door of the sitting-room. Nobody was there. Nobody had been there. The room was in perfect order just as she had left it that morning. There was nobody in the little kitchen; nobody in the bathroom; nobody in her bedroom. She looked in the cupboard, she looked under the bed—nobody.
The whole thing was most mysterious and Bel did not feel she could settle down until she had got to the bottom of it. She went back to the sitting-room and stood there sniffing. The smell was strongest here . . . and it was not cigarette smoke . . . it was smoke from a pipe. Then she saw a faint blue haze of smoke drifting in through the partly-open window. She advanced very quietly and peered out from behind the curtain.
A man was sitting in her garden, sitting upon Bel’s deck-chair; his long legs, clad in grey flannel trousers, were stretched out comfortably and his feet were resting upon the edge of a wooden tub—large feet in dirty white tennis shoes. His shirt had once been white but was white no longer; his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows and his hands were clasped behind his head. His hair was fair, it was sleeked back from his forehead. A pipe was stuck in the corner of his mouth. The whole effect was that of a young man enjoying himself, relaxed and perfectly at ease.
Bel had been frightened, now she was angry. She threw up the window and leant out. The young man sat up and looked at her. For a moment there was silence.
“Oh, I say!” exclaimed the young man, removing the pipe from his mouth. “Oh, I say! I hope you don’t mind! I mean does it belong to you?”
“Of course it belongs to me,” said Bel crossly. “Who did you think it belonged to?”
“I thought it would be a man.”
“A man?”
“Yes, I never thought it might be a girl; not for a moment.”
“Why?”
“Oh, because—well, look at the work! I mean making it. The troughs and the window-boxes—and all that. I never thought for a moment——”
“I don’t see the difference.”
“Oh, there’s a lot of difference,” said the young man earnestly. “Of course it was frightful cheek anyhow—I grant you that—but if it had been a man I could have brazened it out. As a matter of fact I had made up my mind what to say to the fellow.”
He had risen by this time and his height and largeness seemed to dwarf the little garden.
“It’s so enchanting,” he said, smiling at her. “It’s so amazing to find a little secret garden in the middle of the town. You aren’t cross, are you?”
“I was frightened.”
“Oh goodness! I’m sorry about that, but honestly I’m quite harmless. You’ve only got to say the word and I’ll vanish.”
“Vanish?”
“Yes, I’ll go the way I came; over the roofs.”
“You came over the roofs?” asked Bel incredulously.
“I like climbing,” he explained. “It’s one of my Things. I’ve done quite a lot of climbing in Switzerland. London roofs are a bit different of course but they’re better than nothing.”
“They’re frightfully dirty.”
“Oh yes, frightfully dirty,” he agreed. “I keep these bags specially for climbing—that’s why I look such a sweep. I’m not really a sweep,” he added smiling.
Bel had not thought he was a sweep. He was dirty, of course, but still . . .
“I paint pictures,” continued the young man. “At least I try to paint pictures. Sometimes they come off and sometimes they don’t. I’ve got a studio—quite a decent studio—and a small room where I sleep. It’s right at the top of a house in the attic. When I want some exercise I climb about on the roofs outside my window. That’s what I was doing this afternoon when I happened to see your garden. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was like an oasis in the desert of bricks and mortar—so of course I had to climb down to see if it was really an oasis or only a mirage. Then when I got here I couldn’t resist sitting down and enjoying it. That’s how it happened, you see.”
The explanation satisfied Bel and she was no longer angry. There was something very engaging about her visitor from the skies. “Yes, I see,” she said.
“I’ll go now, shall I?” he asked. “I mean you’ve only got to say the word.”
“You can stay if you like but I can’t talk to you. I’ve got a lot to do. I’ve got some wallflower seedlings to plant and I must get them in tonight.”
“Perhaps I could help you,” he suggested.
Bel did not want help. She had been looking forward to a quiet hour in her garden; there was nothing that gave her so much pleasure and satisfaction as planting out seedlings—making the little holes, putting in the plants and tucking them up firmly and cosily. She liked to be silly about it (“There you are,” she would say. “That’s comfy, isn’t it? You’ll grow into a big plant with lovely flowers”) but how could she be silly with a large young man sitting and watching her? It was impossible.
The large young man had been looking at her face and Bel’s face was very expressive. “All right,” said the large young man. “I can see you don’t want anyone to help you. It’s more fun doing it yourself. I’d rather do it myself if this were my garden. I’ll sit here for a bit if you don’t mind—I promise not to be a nuisance—I’ll be so quiet you won’t know I’m here.”
Bel agreed to the proposal somewhat reluctantly.
“By the way,” he said. “My name is Mark Adam Desborough. What’s yours?”
“Beatrice Elizabeth Lamington.”
“Beatrice,” he said, looking at her thoughtfully. “Yes, it suits you. I don’t know anyone else called Beatrice.”
“Oh, but nobody ever calls me that,” declared Bel. “It was my aunt’s name, you see. I’ve always been called Bel—because of my initials of course.”
“That’s nice too,” said Mr. Desborough. He laughed and added, “Lots of people call me by my initials but mostly behind my back.”
*
3
Mark Desborough had promised not to be a nuisance and he kept his word. When Bel really got down to the job of plantin
g out the wallflower seedlings she almost forgot he was there. The task of singling out the little plants and tucking them into their places took up all her attention. They had been lamentably over-crowded, some of them had been choked to death and were useless, but fortunately when she had put these aside there were enough to fill the stone trough quite comfortably.
By this time Bel was hungry—it was long past her usual hour for supper—and it struck her that her visitor might be in need of food. She was too compassionate to send him away starving to his attic amongst the roof-tops so she suggested he might like to stay. Bread and cheese and salad was all she had to offer him but Mr. Desborough seemed quite contented with the fare. He helped her to make coffee and they sat down together at the table. It was only then that he produced his sketch-book and showed her what had kept him so quiet.
“Is that supposed to be me?” asked Bel, looking at the roughly sketched figure of an angular female kneeling upon the ground.
“It’s Greenfingers. I don’t say it’s you—exactly—but you inspired it.”
“It isn’t like me.”
“No, of course not,” said Mark, whisking the sketch-book out of her hands. “If you want a likeness you can have your photograph taken.”
Bel was silent. She did not understand.
“It’s going to be good,” declared Mark defiantly.
“Is it?”
“Yes, it’s going to be the best thing I’ve done. This is only the rough draft, of course. I shall do it in oils. You’ll let me do it, won’t you?”
“Let you do it?”
“You’ll give me one or two sittings,” he explained. “Please do. It’s important. If I can get it done in time I can send it to old What’s his Name’s exhibition of Moderns in the Welcome Gallery. I was going to send a thing of roofs—a sort of fantasy—but this will be better. Don’t say no. It’s important.”
Bel could not say no. She was not quite sure whether she wanted to say no.
“It’s awfully good of you,” said Mark Desborough, taking her silence for consent. “But you understand, don’t you? My painting is important to me—just as your garden is to you. I’ll come tomorrow at the same time.”
Chapter Three
When Mark Desborough had gone the whole thing seemed like a dream. Bel might have dismissed it as a dream if it had not been for his cup and saucer and plate which she had to wash up. Somehow she did not believe that he would come tomorrow and when she returned home at the usual hour and found him sitting in her little garden she was quite surprised. He had brought his canvas with him and all the necessary equipment in a haversack and was painting industriously. The background of roofs and sky was taking shape—for Mark was a quick worker—but the woman’s figure was missing.
“Put on that green overall and kneel down, just as you did yesterday,” said Mark. “That’s all I want.”
It did not sound much—the way he put it—but Bel found it tiresome and exhausting. She had not found it tiresome when she was engaged in planting her wallflowers but it was quite a different matter to kneel there doing nothing. However Mark was so excited about the picture and so grateful for her co-operation that she could not let him down—and afterwards when the light faded and he came in and had supper with her it was very pleasant indeed.
Hitherto Bel’s life had been bounded by her work in the office and pottering in her garden; Mark was the first “outside person” she had spoken to for months. He had dropped into her life from the skies and brought fresh interests and new ideas. He was a sociable friendly creature; his life had been varied and he had plenty to say for himself. He was considerate, too, and brought Bel parcels of food, saying that he was not going to “sponge” on her for supper.
When she had known Mark for a week she felt as if she had known him for years. Her life was completely changed by his advent.
By this time the picture was finished. Mark was delighted with it and kept on saying that it was all her doing that it was such a success. Bel could not see this. She had posed for him of course but the female in Mark’s picture was no more like her than the man in the moon.
“Oh well, you wait,” said Mark. “Wait and see what other people say about it. As a matter of fact I’m having a party in my studio tomorrow night—just to show it off. You must come.”
“I don’t ever go to parties.”
“Nonsense! You’ll have to come. They’ll want to see you.”
“Who?”
“Everybody of course.”
“I haven’t got a party frock.”
“Goodness, it isn’t that sort of party. It’s just a few friends coming in for a drink and to look at the picture. You must wear the green overall——”
“The green overall! But it’s dirty.”
“Of course it’s dirty,” said Mark. “Greenfingers got dirty working in her garden. It’s right for Greenfingers to be dirty. You can’t come over the roofs of course, but you can come round by the stairs. I’ll fetch you about eight.”
“No,” said Bel firmly. “I wouldn’t know any of your friends and I don’t like parties. Honestly, Mark, I don’t want to come.”
“What a funny girl you are!” exclaimed Mark, laughing.
*
2
When Bel got home the following evening Mark was not in the roof-garden and somehow she felt a little disappointed. Although it was only a week since his first appearance she had got used to finding him there, waiting for her . . . but of course the picture was finished now, so there was no reason for him to come. Perhaps he would not come any more! This idea gave her a queer empty sort of feeling which was most unpleasant. As she prepared her supper and ate it and washed up the dishes, the idea loomed bigger, like a thunder cloud. Perhaps she would never see Mark again. She did not even know where he lived for he had just said vaguely that his studio was “right at the top of a house in the attic”. It was not in this house, she knew, for there was only one flat above her own and it was occupied by an elderly man with a lame leg. She had seen him several times on the stairs, toiling up laboriously, and had felt sorry for him. It seemed a most unsuitable dwelling-place for a man with a lame leg. Mark’s attic might be in the house next door or several doors away or even further.
On thinking about their last conversation Bel had an uncomfortable feeling that she had been rather ungracious—not to say rude. Mark had asked her to his party, and said he would fetch her, and she had refused to come. She had not thanked him for the invitation but had just said she didn’t like parties. Yes, it was rude, thought Bel. It was quite horrid of her. Even though she didn’t like parties she might have gone for a short time and come away. But it was no good thinking about it; she had refused the invitation point blank. The whole thing was over and done with.
Bel had scarcely reached this decision when her front-door bell rang—and there was Mark. He looked different this evening, clean and tidy in pale-grey slacks and a tweed jacket.
“Come on,” he said, smiling down at her. “They all want to see you.”
“What?” exclaimed Bel in surprise.
“It’s my party. Had you forgotten?”
“But—but I said I wouldn’t come——”
“They’ve sent me to fetch you.”
“But, Mark——”
“Hurry up,” he said impatiently. “Put on your Greenfingers overall. You’ve got to come.”
*
3
It was quite a long way to Mark’s studio; down the stairs of number 27 and along the street to number 23 and up five flights of stairs to the very top of the house. As they toiled up the last flight Bel became aware of a curious humming sound—it reminded her of a swarm of bees which, long ago, had flown in a dense cloud across Aunt Beatrice’s garden. The sound became louder and louder; it was no longer like bees, it was more like the parrot-house at the Zoo. When Mark threw open the door of his studio the noise was mysterious no longer, it emanated from Mark’s guests. The studio was full of people talki
ng to one another, shouting at one another to make themselves heard. The din was indescribable.
It was all the more frightful because the attic was large and bare and the ceiling was low. The place was not very well lighted; it was fogged with tobacco-smoke and the heat was intense.
A sudden silence fell as Mark and Bel appeared. Everybody’s head turned to the door.
“Here’s Greenfingers!” cried Mark. “You wanted to see her—and here she is!”
The noise broke out again as loud as ever. People surged round Bel. Her hand was shaken; she was patted on the back; she was dragged to the end of the room where the easel stood with the picture upon it. Somebody put a glass into her hand containing a queer cloudy sort of liquid. She was besieged with questions about the picture.
“But it isn’t like me,” said Bel. “Yes, of course I posed for it—but it isn’t like me.”
“He’s got your soul,” declared a young man with a beard. “Mark, you’ve got her soul there.”
“It’s an evocation,” said somebody else.
There was so much noise and confusion that Bel scarcely knew what was happening until she found herself sitting upon an old oak settle which had been pushed into a corner near the window. She had drunk some of the queer concoction from her glass—it tasted very nasty—but whether it was this that confused her and made her head buzz, or whether it was the noise and the heat and the odd behaviour of her fellow guests Bel did not know.
Mark had disappeared. She could not see him amongst the crowd. There was a thin girl sitting beside her on the settle—a girl with a long nose and dark velvety eyes. She said something to Bel.
“What did you say?” asked Bel, trying to concentrate.
The girl laughed. “I said I supposed you were Mark’s latest.”
“Latest what?”
“Victim,” said the girl, opening her eyes very wide. She leaned forward and added, “I shouldn’t have thought you were Mark’s cup of tea, but perhaps you aren’t as innocent as you look.”
At this moment somebody turned on the gramophone and several couples began to dance, but it was so crowded that there was scarcely room for them to move. Mark appeared suddenly and said, “What’s Enid been telling you?”
Bel Lamington Page 2