The Muse Page 5

  He was beautiful to me, and as I laid out the Express for Pamela, and did a spurious sorting of the desk, I hoped that she would be delayed somehow. Back home, I’d had one or two of what my mother would have called ‘dalliances’; holding hands in the dark at the Roxy, hot-­dogs after lectures, awkward kisses at a Princes Building concert, a late-­night picnic on the Pitch Walk, watching the bluish light of the candle-­flies. But I’d never done . . . the whole thing.

  I generally avoided male attention, finding the courting business excruciating. ‘Free love’ had passed us schoolgirls by in Port of Spain. Our Catholic education was a Victorian relic, redolent with overtones of fallen women, irretrievable girls mired in pools of their own foolishness. We had been instructed that we were too superior for that exchange of flesh.

  My attitude to sex was one of haughty fear, confused by the fact that there were girls who did it, girls like Lystra Wilson or Dominique Mendes, with boyfriends older than themselves and secrets in their eyes, who seemed to be having a very good time indeed. How they procured these boyfriends was always a mystery to me – but it no doubt involved disobedience, climbing out of bedroom windows and into the nightclubs off Frederick Street and Marine Square. In my memory, Lystra and Dominique, those daring ones, seem like women from the moment they were born, mermaids come ashore to live among us, feminine and powerful. No wonder we scaredy-­cats retreated into our books. Sex was beneath us, because it was beyond us.

  The Skelton front door was still locked. I didn’t want it to end – the kettle whistling for more tea in the back room, him stretching and folding his legs, asking me what films I’d seen and how could I have not seen that and did I like blues or was I into folk and how many months had I worked here, and did I like being in Clapham. Lawrie was always very good at making you feel like you were important.

  ‘Would you like to go to the cinema?’ he said. ‘We could see You Only Live Twice, or The Jokers.’

  ‘The Jokers? Sounds about right for you.’

  ‘Oliver Reed’s in it – he’s excellent,’ said Lawrie, ‘but isn’t a crime caper too flip for you?’

  ‘Flip? Why?’

  ‘Because you’re clever. You’d take it as an insult if I took you to watch stupid blokes scampering around for the Crown Jewels.’

  I laughed, happy to discover that Lawrie also had a strain of nervousness about all this, and touched that he wasn’t afraid to tell me about it. ‘Or do you want to see one of those French films,’ he said, ‘where ­people just walk in and out of rooms, looking at each other?’

  ‘Let’s go and see the Bond.’

  ‘All right. Excellent. Excellent! I loved Goldfinger – that bowler hat!’ I laughed again and he came up to the counter, leaning over to take my hand. I froze, looking at it. ‘Odelle,’ he said. ‘I think – I mean, you are—­’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re just . . .’ He was still holding on to my hand. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want this man to let go.

  Outside, it began to rain. I turned my head, distracted by the rush of water beyond the door, cascading down onto the grey pavement. Lawrie leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I turned back and he kissed me again, and it felt good, so we stood for some minutes, kissing in the reception of the Skelton.

  I broke away. ‘You’ll get me sacked.’

  ‘All right. Can’t have that.’

  He moved back to his chair, grinning like an idiot. The rain was thrumming heavily now, but this was English rain, not Trini rain. Back home, aerial waterfalls fell from the breaking sky, week on week of tropical downpour, forests doused so green they were almost black, the neon signs out, escarpments churned to mud, torch ginger flowers so red, like a man’s blood had coloured the petals – and all of us, standing under awnings or hiding in houses till it was safe once more to walk the shining asphalt road. We used to say ‘it rainin’ ’ as an excuse for being late, and everyone would always understand.

  ‘What?’ Lawrie said. ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’

  There was a rapping noise at the door. Quick was peering through the glass, under the brim of a wide black umbrella. ‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘She early.’

  I ran to the door and unlocked it, thanking God she hadn’t seen us kissing. Quick stepped inside, and I thought her face looked thinner. She removed her coat and brushed off her umbrella. ‘August,’ she muttered.

  She looked up and saw Lawrie. ‘Who are you?’ she said, wary as a cat.

  ‘This is – Mr Scott,’ I said, surprised at her bluntness. ‘He’d like to speak to someone about his painting. Mr Scott, this is Miss Quick.’

  ‘Mr Scott?’ she repeated. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  ‘Hullo,’ Lawrie said, jumping to his feet. ‘Wondered if I’ve got an heirloom or a piece of junk.’ He put out his hand and Quick, as if resisting a great magnet, lifted her own to meet it. I saw her flinch, though Lawrie noticed nothing.

  She smiled faintly. ‘I hope, for your sake, Mr Scott, it’s the former.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  Lawrie went to the counter and began unwrapping the paper. Quick stayed where she was by the door, fingers gripping the top of her umbrella. She kept staring at him. Rain had soaked her coat but she didn’t take it off. Lawrie swung the painting up, holding it against his body for me and Quick to see. ‘Here it is,’ he said.

  Quick stood for four or five seconds, eyes transfixed on the canvas, the golden lion, the girls, the landscape spiralling out behind. The umbrella slid out of her grasp and bumped to the floor. ‘Quick?’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

  She looked at me, abruptly turned on her heel and walked out of the front door. ‘It’s not that bad,’ said Lawrie, peering over the top of the painting.

  Quick was walking rapidly away along the square, her head bowed, oblivious to the rain soaking her. As I reached for my own coat, Edmund Reede appeared and removed his dripping trilby.

  He looked down at me. ‘Miss – Baston, is it?’

  ‘Bastien.’

  ‘Where are you running off to?’

  ‘To see Miss Quick. She’s – forgotten her umbrella.’

  ‘We were supposed to be having a meeting.’ He turned to where Lawrie was now sitting again, the painting on his knees, hastily covered in the brown paper. ‘And who’s this?’

  ‘Mr Scott has a painting,’ I said.

  ‘I can see that. Isn’t this all rather a flurry for eight fifteen in the morning? Where’s Miss Rudge?’

  ‘I’m on the early shift, Mr Reede. Mr Scott came today because he was hoping someone would take a look at his painting. It was his mother’s – her favourite . . .’ I trailed off, desperate to follow Quick and see if she was all right.

  Reede removed his wet overcoat with slow deliberation, as if I had placed the burden of the world on his shoulders. He was a tall, broad man and he filled the space with his fine tailoring and thatch of white hair, his woody aftershave. ‘Have you made an appointment?’ he asked Lawrie, his small blue eyes glinting with impatience.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘We’re not a drop-­in centre, you know. This isn’t really how it’s done.’

  Lawrie stiffened, the brown paper rustling over his painting. ‘I know that.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you don’t. Have Miss Bastien make an appointment for you some time next week. I have no time today.’ He turned to look back through the door where Quick had fled. ‘Why the hell did Marjorie just run off like that?’ he said. I’d never seen Reede look worried before. As he turned back, Lawrie stood up, half the brown paper falling to the floor. Reede stopped in his tracks, his gaze on the revealed half of the painting, the golden lion.

  ‘Is that yours?’ he asked Lawrie.

  Lawrie lowered his eyes and gathered up t
he paper in his hands. ‘Yes,’ he said defensively. ‘Well – my mother’s. Now it’s mine.’ Reede stepped towards it, but Lawrie moved away, putting his hand out. ‘Hold on. You said you didn’t have time. You said next week. Although by then,’ he added, ‘I may have taken it elsewhere.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Reede. He put his hands up. ‘I just want to take a closer look. Please,’ he added, which seemed to cost him a great effort.

  ‘Why? A minute ago you couldn’t give a damn.’

  Reede laughed; a twitchy joviality. ‘Look, old chap, I’m sorry if I was blunt. We get a damned lot of ­people coming in here with Auntie Edna’s heirlooms or something they bought for three bob off a bloke in Brick Lane, and you get a bit sick of it. But what you’ve got there looks interesting. If you let me take a look, I might be able to tell you why.’

  Lawrie hesitated, before placing the painting back on the counter. He unwrapped the rest of the paper. Reede stepped towards it, drinking in the image, his fingers hovering over the paint, the second girl’s floating head, her snaking plait, the lion’s passive stare. ‘My goodness,’ he breathed. ‘Where did your mother get this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you ask her?’

  Lawrie glanced at me. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Ah.’ Reede hesitated. ‘So – have you any idea where she might have got it from?’

  ‘She bought most of her things from junk shops or flea markets, sometimes at auctions, but this one has been around since I was a little boy. It was always hanging on her wall, whatever house we moved to.’

  ‘Where was it hanging last?’

  ‘Her house in Surrey.’

  ‘Did she ever talk about it to you?’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  Reede gently picked up the painting and looked on the back. ‘No frame, just a hook,’ he murmured. ‘Well,’ he said, addressing Lawrie. ‘If she always had it hanging up, it might have had particular meaning to her.’

  ‘I think she just thought it was pretty,’ Lawrie said.

  ‘Pretty is not the word I would use.’

  ‘What word would you use, sir?’

  Reede blinked away Lawrie’s tone. ‘On first impressions, “brave”. And provenance matters, Mr Scott, if you choose to exhibit things, or put things on the market. I assume that’s why you brought it to us.’

  ‘So it’s worth something?’

  There was a pause. Reede breathed deeply, his eyes pinned to the picture. ‘Mr Scott, may I take you to my office so I can take a closer look at this?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Miss Bastien, bring us coffee.’

  Reede picked up the painting and gestured for Lawrie to follow him. I watched them walk up the spiral staircase, Lawrie looking back over his shoulder at me, his eyes wide with excitement, giving me a thumbs up.

  OUTSIDE, THE RAIN WAS BECOMING a torrent. I scoured the square for Quick, but of course, by now, she had gone. With her rolled-­up umbrella in my hand like a lance, I ran along the left side of the square and turned up towards Piccadilly, blindly hoping I would see her. I took another right, unconsciously heading towards the tube station, and then I saw her, a block ahead. The traffic honked and screeched, and the statue of Eros loomed.

  ‘Quick!’ I yelled. ‘Your umbrella!’ Heads turned to look at me, but I didn’t care. Quick hurried on, so I ran faster, reaching out to touch her arm. With lightning speed she pulled away from me and whirled round. Her expression seemed fixed on some distant point well beyond the bustling road, the tall and soot-­encrusted buildings, the colourful billboards, the pedestrians hopping desperately around the puddles. Then she focused on me, almost with relief. She was drenched, and though her face was sopping wet, I couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears.

  ‘I forgot something,’ she said. ‘At home – I’ve forgotten – I need to go back and get it.’

  ‘Here,’ I said, ‘your umbrella. Let me call you a cab.’

  She looked down at her umbrella, then up at me. ‘You’re soaking, Odelle. Why on earth did you run out?’

  ‘Because – well, because you did. And look at you.’ I put my hand on her wet sleeve and she stared at it momentarily. I was surprised by how thin her arm felt to touch.

  ‘Here.’ She pulled the umbrella out of my hands and opened it above our heads. We stared at each other under the black canopy, the roar of rain bashing down upon its flimsy structure, ­people brushing us as they ran to and fro for cover. Her curls were matted to her head; her powder had washed off her face, I could see the true flesh of her skin – and strangely, without the make-­up, it looked more like a mask. She went as if to say something, but seemed to stop herself. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she murmured, briefly closing her eyes. ‘It’s a bloody monsoon.’

  ‘Shall I call you a cab?’

  ‘I’ll get the tube. You don’t have a cigarette, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, disconcerted, for surely she knew by now I didn’t smoke.

  ‘That man – how did he come to the Skelton?’ she asked. ‘Do you know him? You seemed to know him.’

  I looked down. Huge puddles were forming around our shoes. I thought of the coffee I was supposed to be making, how long I could be out here before I lost my job. ‘I only met him once before – at Cynth’s wedding. He found me again today.’

  ‘Found you? That’s fairly persistent behaviour. He’s not – bothering you, is he?’

  ‘Not at all. He’s fine,’ I said, a touch defensive. Why was Quick talking about Lawrie, when she was the one acting strange?

  ‘All right.’ She seemed to calm a bit. ‘Look, Odelle – I have to go. Tell him not to bother you with that painting.’

  ‘Mr Reede has already seen it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He came in shortly after you. Said that you and he had an early meeting. He had one look at it and took it to his office.’

  She looked over my shoulder, in the direction of the Skelton. ‘What did Mr Reede say, when he saw it?’

  ‘He seemed . . . excited.’

  Quick lowered her eyes, her expression closed. In that moment, she looked very old. She gripped my hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you, Odelle – for my umbrella. You’re a tribune, you really are. But take it, I’m going underground. Go back to the office.’

  ‘Quick, wait—­’

  She thrust the umbrella into my hand, and turned down the steps of the station. Before I could even call again to her, Quick had disappeared.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  ....................................

  January 1936

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  ....................................

  1

  Sarah was unconscious, her face turned sideways, her artificial curls crushed on the pillow, the cuts on her bare legs covered in calamine smears. A soured scent of the night’s last glass rose from her mouth. On the bedside table was an overfilled ashtray, a pile of detective novels, and her Vogue magazines, their corners curled. Her clothes were everywhere on the dusty floorboards, here, stockings like sloughed snakes, there, a blouse, flattened in the effort of escape. Her rouge had melted in its pot. In the corner of the room, a lizard flicked across the tiles like a mote upon the eye.

  Olive stood at the door, the letter from the Slade School of Fine Art gripped in her hand. The letter was only two weeks old, but it had a handkerchief’s flutter, the creases almost oiled from so much refolding. She walked over to her mother’s bed and perched on the end to read it again, although she knew it off by heart. It is our pleasure to invite you to undertake the Fine Art degree course . . . The tutors were highly impressed . . . rich imagination and novelty . . . continuing the rigorous yet progressive tradition of the school . . . we look forwar
d to hearing from you within the next fortnight. Should your circumstances change, please inform us.

  If she read it aloud, maybe Sarah would hear her through the fug, and that would be that; Olive would have to stick to her word, and go. Maybe a shock like this was best administered under the residual effects of a sleeping pill? When Olive had received the letter, back in London, she wanted to shout from the skyline what she’d gone and done. Her parents had had no idea – they didn’t even know their daughter still painted, let alone that she’d applied to art school. But part of Olive’s problem was that she had always been used to secrecy; it was where she was comfortable, the point from which she began to create. It was a pattern she was superstitious to break, and so here she was, in this village in the south of Spain.

  As she gazed at her mother’s sleeping form, she remembered showing her father a portrait she’d made of Sarah from art class at school. ‘Oh, Liv,’ he’d said as her heart hammered, the expectation inching up her spine. ‘Give it as a present for your mother.’

  That was all he’d said on the matter. A present for your mother.

  Her father always said that of course women could pick up a paintbrush and paint, but the fact was, they didn’t make good artists. Olive had never quite worked out what the difference was. Since she was a little girl, playing in the corners of his gallery, she would overhear Harold discussing the issue with his clients, both men and women – and often the women would agree with him, preferring to put their money behind young men rather than anyone of their own sex. The artist as naturally male was such a widely held presupposition that Olive had come at times to believe in it herself. As a nineteen-­year-­old girl, she was on the underside; the dogged, plucky mascot of amateurship. But right now in Paris, Amrita Sher-­Gil, Méret Oppenheim and Gabriele Münter were all working – Olive had even seen their pieces with her own eyes. Were they not artists? Was the difference between being a workaday painter and being an artist simply other ­people believing in you, or spending twice as much money on your work?