Man of the Trees (6 page)

She paddled towards him, and he glanced at her bare feet, but Ruth ignored his interest in her appearance. She was more concerned with what he thought of her work, though why this should worry her, she didn’t know.

‘Well?’ she prompted, as the aggravating man still did not offer his opinion.

‘It’s good,’ he said decisively, and she nearly fell over. ‘I like it. You have a real eye for detail. Those are the Japanese Sika deer, aren’t they?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve—rather specialised in forest scenes.’

‘And who buys your work?’ he asked.

She told him, and waited for the nine-times-out-of-ten derogative remark the information brought forward. She was not disappointed in one sense at least.

‘I see. You’re what’s known as a chocolate box artist?’

She fought down her anger. ‘I thought you’d say that,’ she said tartly. ‘It’s typical of the kind of remark made by—’ she was going to say, ‘ignorant people like you’, but felt this a little too strong to come out with. She continued: ‘by people who know nothing about an artist’s work.’

He looked at her calculatingly. ‘You’re angry again. If you’re so sensitive about being called a commercial artist—’

‘That’s not what you said.’

He shrugged. ‘What’s in a name? It’s the same thing. As I was saying, if you’re so sensitive about being considered that kind of artist, why do you do it?’

‘I do it because I have to live.’

‘But you could do better. You’d make more money if you sold your pictures privately.’

Knowing from experience that this was only true of the very few and the famous and that it took years and years to become famous—indeed, one often had to die—Ruth felt it was time to end the fruitless conversation, but she could not resist one more jibe.

‘Are you trying to teach me my job?’ she demanded. But even this did nothing to silence him.

‘There’s always something more to be learned,’ he said, hinting that she considered she knew everything.

‘But not from people who only think they know,’ she flashed back, adding for good measure: ‘What would you say, for instance, if I tried to teach you about forestry?’

‘I would listen. I would listen to anyone. As I’ve already said, there’s always something more to be learned, even by those who are experts.’

She knew perfectly well that this was true, it was all his other inferences she objected to, and she was not going to let him get away with it.

‘What I
do
know is,’ she pursued, ‘that if I stopped working for the commercial companies and tried to sell my paintings privately, then I should starve.’

Again, that sardonic smile. ‘And you’re not willing to starve in this garret of yours?’

‘Starving in garrets is all very fine for those who don’t have to do it,’ she said scornfully.

He moved around the studio, looking at some of the paintings she had not been able to sell, and others which were awaiting despatch.

‘Why don’t you get married?’ he queried in an offhand manner. ‘I’m sure no man would object to keeping you—as his wife. You could then hold exhibitions, invite the rich who love to feel they’re encouraging the new artist.’

‘Exhibitions cost money—lots of it!’ she retorted. ‘And one doesn’t marry in order to be kept. I wouldn’t let my father keep me, and I’m not going to
marry
for that reason.’

‘Then find yourself a rich patron.’

Much as she hated letting him have the last word, she felt it was useless to go on arguing with him.

‘Would you care to see over the rest of the house, Mr. Hamilton?’ she said icily.

Was there a hint of victory in the way his eyes narrowed as he turned from a study of an autumnal scene?

‘By all means,’ he said mockingly. ‘Will you go first—or shall I?’

He moved to the top of the step-ladder, but with a sudden vision of his looking up while she was descending Ruth said swiftly: ‘No, I’ll go first, if you don’t mind.’

With an ease due to practice she reached the bottom quickly and began to tread the main flight of stairs in the hope that he would forget that there was still another bedroom to see. But it was a vain hope.

‘You said there were three bedrooms,’ he reminded her maddeningly.

She half turned. ‘Yes, but it’s roughly the same size as the guest room. A little bigger, perhaps.’

‘May I see?’

With an inward sigh of resignation she turned and went back to the top of the stairs and opened the door of her own room.

‘You must excuse the untidy appearance,’ she said with scarcely veiled sarcasm.

‘Naturally.’

If he was expecting to find a strictly feminine room, all rosebud chintz and lace curtains, he would be disappointed, ran through her mind as she stood back to allow him to enter.

‘Good lord!’ was his first exclamation as he eyed the huge four-poster bed her father had bought from a friend some years ago. ‘Don’t you—er—feel rather lonely sleeping in that all by yourself?’ he asked, scarcely moving a muscle.

‘No,’ she retorted. ‘I’m used to it.’

‘Pity.’

She gave him a barbed look. She would settle this man once and for all. She drew herself up with all the dignity she could muster.

“Mr. Hamilton, you may have a reputation for being a Don Juan, but I can assure you it doesn’t wash with me. You’ve seen the size of the room. I don’t expect you to make comments on the furniture. Presumably, you’ll be bringing your own. I shall certainly be taking mine with me just as soon as I can find a suitable place—which I hope will not be long.’

But if she expected him to apologise or to be impressed in any way whatsoever, she was mistaken. She tried to take her dignity one step further by marching out of the room, but he reached out and took her by the arm.

‘That was a very pretty speech,’ he said smoothly. ‘And who, may I ask, said I was a Don Juan?’

She brought her other hand down on his arm. ‘Let go, you’re hurting me!’

She tried to wrench free of him, but he held her in a grip of iron, and the hand she tried to hit him with was now painful, too.

‘You are, without doubt,’ he said, ‘the most obstreperous young woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. What you need is to marry some strong masterful man who will take you in hand and tame you. But I doubt if the handsome Gareth Williams is equal to the job.’

‘I suppose you think you are?’ she hit back, not realising what she was saying.

But Ross Hamilton took her up. ‘Now there’s an idea. I think I’d enjoy it. But I do my own proposing, thanks.’

It was then she realised what she had said. ‘Proposing!’ She wrenched herself free of his grip—or perhaps it would be true to say he let her go. ‘Propose?’ she repeated. ‘I wouldn’t marry you if you—if you were the last man on earth!’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I wonder?’ he said in a low, sarcastic voice.

She started down the stairs, fuming, but determined to get rid of the man.

‘The only place you haven’t seen now, Mr. Hamilton, is the kitchen, and I shouldn’t think that will interest you. In any case, I would be glad if you would leave now. Until I find somewhere else to live, this is still my house.’

He followed her down into the hall, where she opened the front door for him pointedly.

He gave her a long, imperturbable look. ‘I’m sorry to have to remind you, Miss Medway, that in actual fact the house belongs to the Forestry Commission, and that really you’re here only by my sufferance. And I shall certainly want to come to look at the house again before long, in spite of anything you might like to say to the contrary.’

With something of a shock she realised the truth of what he had said, and not until he had reached the front gate and was out of speaking distance did she think of a suitable reply. She could have run after him, she could have shouted after him like a fishwife, but she gathered the remains of her dignity around her and slammed the door shut, hoping he would hear that.

Aside from which, he had once again had the last word.

CHAPTER THREE

Determinedly, during the next few weeks, Ruth set about finding a house to buy. She had no thought of leaving the New Forest. She had so many friends here, and now it seemed her only link with her father. Not only that, but in spite of anything Ross Hamilton might say or think, she was gradually earning a reputation as the ‘artist who paints scenes of the New Forest’. Perhaps one day, she might cease to be a chocolate box artist and—who knows—even be hung in the Royal Academy. Not that she was in the least ashamed of being a commercial artist. There was a lot of nonsense talked about that. Any artist who sold their paintings for money could be so labelled.

Each day she tried to get a certain amount of painting done, then in the afternoons, set off to view houses and cottages advertised for sale in the local newspaper. But it was a heartbreaking business. Either the houses were too large or too dear, or they were too small and not in the remotest sense suitable. Forestry Commission old houses and cottages by the score stood empty for five days of the week, occupied only at the week-ends by people who lived in London.

Each time she saw the District Officer, he told her blandly: ‘Not to worry. I’m sure Ross is in no hurry, and he seems quite comfortable where he is.’

‘And where is that?’ Ruth enquired at first.

‘Oh, he has a bedroom and sitting room in Brockenhurst—somewhere near the Appleton place.’

Near the Appleton place. How convenient for Linda and himself, thought Ruth. Except for occasional glimpses of him, usually in his car and frequently with Linda by his side, Ruth had not seen him since that Sunday morning he had shown up to look over the house. She was relieved, naturally. She did not want to see him or to speak to him. It was odd, though, each time she drove through Brockenhurst or went anywhere near the office of the Head Forester, she unconsciously looked out for him. For two Saturdays, as well as during the week, she kept away from the Foresters’ club.

‘You could have saved yourself the trouble,’ Jill told her one evening when they were talking, and Jill had asked her why she had not been to the Club. ‘He hasn’t been, either. He’s something of a disappointment, really. He appears to spend most of his time with Linda Appleton.’

‘She’s a good catch, of course,’ mused Ruth. ‘She has looks, money—everything.’

‘Except a sweet nature like yours,’ Gareth put in. ‘She’s as bitchy as they come.’

‘Well, she evidently suits Ross Hamilton,’ Ruth answered.

Jill gave her a sharp glance. ‘You sound as though it matters to you.’

Ruth looked at her in astonishment. ‘You must be joking! I’m just weary trying to find somewhere to live, that’s all.’

There was such a chorus of ‘why don’t you come and live here’ and a look of reproachful significance from Gareth that she wished she hadn’t spoken about her difficulty. But she had had to say something to deny that Ross Hamilton’s doings meant anything to her at all.

‘So his popularity with the women is waning, is it?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t say that exactly,’ Jill answered. ‘I know quite a few who’d give their right arms to get a date with him, but he’s certainly difficult to get hold off, especially as he doesn’t come to the Club very much. Still, it’s early days, and as far as one can ascertain, he’s not engaged to Linda.’

‘Not yet, anyway,’ teased Hugh.

‘How are you finding him to work with?’ Ruth asked him and Gareth.

‘Oh, fine—seems to know his job all right,’ Hugh answered.

‘Gareth?’ queried Ruth, as he didn’t immediately answer.

Gareth shrugged. ‘He’s all right, I suppose, but you know what they say about new brooms. As Jill says, it’s early days yet.’

‘You sound doubtful about him,’ Ruth said.

‘Well, nobody’s perfect. The work’s well organized, your father saw to that. I always suspect people who purport to be so good. Who started all these rumours that he was the ace Forester and such a lady-killer, anyway? As far as I can see at present he’s just an ordinary trained Forester. He’s got plenty of time in which to trip up.’

‘You talk as though you’d be glad if he did,’ Jill said, in a shocked voice.

‘Not at all. It’s some of you women—except Ruth. You’ve formed yourself into a sort of Ross Hamilton fan club, though heaven knows why.’

‘Well, of course, we all know you have eyes for no one but Ruth, and you seldom can get a man to acknowledge another man’s potential with women.’

‘Rubbish,’ answered Gareth. ‘Ruth and I are just about the only two people who don’t look at the man through rose-coloured spectacles.’

‘I haven’t any,’ put in Hugh. ‘But he still seems to me a decent enough bloke and a good Forester.’

‘And what’s so special about that?’ demanded Gareth. ‘So are you a decent bloke and a good Forester.’

‘O.K., let’s leave it at that, shall we?’ Hugh said. ‘We’ve talked about the man long enough.’

Ruth agreed with him, though she was conscious of the fact that she was the one who started the conversation. She didn’t know why in particular, but one thing she did realise. She had come to miss their verbal battles.

The cold winds of March had given way to the softer breezes and warm spells of April. Feeling the need for fresh material, Ruth set off early one morning with her sketching and painting gear. Without having any clear idea as to what she was looking for, though knowing from experience that there was always something new to find, some fresh inspiration, she ambled along.

The morning mist had not yet cleared, but as the sun began to pierce the milky whiteness, Ruth felt her spirits lift. Without realising it she had come to the pinewood inclosure where she had first met Ross Hamilton, and she smiled to herself as she recalled their encounter.

She put down her folder and with a kind of quietness of spirit which told her this was what she was going to paint, she unfolded her easel. She felt it in her bones that in a very short space of time the sun was going to come slanting through the trees and provide her with just the picture she wanted, and it would be different from any other similar picture either she or any other artist had painted.

She worked quickly, knowing how rapidly lighting and colour could change. First, she sketched in the trees, some close at hand on which could be seen the markings of the bark, the knots, the lower spiky branches, the seedlings, one tree felled for some reason, then distant trees, keeping the perspective right even through the mist. Through the mist she thought she saw the figure of a man, and this was just the extra touch she needed. It would help to give height to the tall Corsican pines.

Soon the first pale gold rays of the morning sun began to slant through the mist with breathtaking beauty. Feverishly, Ruth worked, mixing her colours with practised skill, impatient when she did not get the effect she wanted as quickly as she would like. Those who threw scorn on painting from nature did not know what they were talking about. Painting a sitter in a studio as portrait painters did was easy in comparison, her thoughts raced. Nature was a moving, changing, living thing.

The man she thought she had seen was not there any longer, but she left him in and it flashed through her mind that she would call the picture
The Forester.
Her father, she recalled, often rose early and started his rounds. The man in the picture would make this different from all others depicting the morning sun slanting through the mist in a forest.

‘That’s very good.’

The voice behind her startled her almost out of her skin. She looked around to see Ross Hamilton.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, her stomach giving a violent contraction. In a state of some confusion unusual for her, she turned back immediately to her work, and tried to stem the rapid beating of her heart.

‘Who did you expect to see in the inclosure at this hour—Robin Hood?’ he asked.

She swung round. ‘Will you please go away and take your sarcastic remarks elsewhere?’ she flamed.

He shook his head at her. ‘Tut, tut. Have you no sense of humour?’

Of course she had a sense of humour, but every remark he made seemed a veiled insult.

‘Not when you’re around,’ she answered him.

‘Not even when I pay you a compliment?’

‘What compliment?’

‘On your painting. Or are you hard of hearing?’

She drew a deep breath. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need your compliments on my work.’ He had sounded condescending, anyway, she thought. ‘In any case, it’s not finished yet and I’m far from satisfied with it.’

‘There speaks the true artist,’ he said.

She was finding his towering presence overwhelming. In addition the sun was climbing rapidly, and the mist thinning before she had got the effect she wanted.

‘Will you please go away?’ she said vehemently.

‘With pleasure,’ he answered cuttingly. ‘I’ve rarely if ever come across anyone so consistently rude as you.’

She felt conscience-stricken, but was not in the mood to argue. She was not usually rude to people. It was just that this man seemed to goad her all the time and indeed, bring out the worst in her. But at the present moment she was in a fever of anxiety to get her picture right.

Feverishly, she mixed her colours. This golden mist was not easy to capture.

‘Perhaps you haven’t met many artists, Mr. Hamilton,’ was all the excuse she felt she could offer at the moment.

‘I see. Taking refuge in artistic temperament.’

She swung round, sorely tempted to run her loaded paintbrush across his face.

‘Think what you like—but please leave me alone to get on with my work!’ she almost yelled at him.

‘Don’t worry,’ he ground out. ‘Just keep out of this inclosure in future, that’s all.’

He turned and strode away with long, easy strides. If she had had anything to hand other than her precious palette she would have thrown it at his retreating back. But then she found herself thinking what a splendid figure he had and how nice it would be if—

She uttered a few mild swear words and turned to her canvas. Keep out of the inclosure indeed! She would see the D.O. about that.

Then she became lost in the object of her creation. At last she had the right mixture of colour. Now all it needed was the exact amount on to the canvas. It was going to be one of the best things she had done, she told herself.

All too soon the penetration of the sun had dispersed the mist. Ruth rinsed her brushes in the turpentine and wiped them on a piece of rag and scraped precious blobs of paint from her palette and deposited them in a shallow, airtight tin she kept for the purpose. The rest of the picture she could finish indoors.

She walked slowly back home, feeling drained as she often did when she had concentrated hard on a new and difficult piece of work. In such circumstances, her emotions, too, became involved—the excitement, the tension, the desperate creative urge. All were taxing. And this morning she had had the additional element in the figure of Ross Hamilton. Why did he have to appear always at the wrong moment? Why did he have to appear at all? Why couldn’t she like him, be ready and willing to worship at his feet as some of the other women in her circle apparently were? And why did they always do verbal battle each time they met? One after the other, the questions chased each other around her brain.

Hunger now gnawing at her stomach, she let herself in the house. As usual, on these early morning excursions she had had no breakfast. Perhaps that was why she was feeling low-spirited, depressed. Or was it all the fault of that odious man Ross Hamilton?

She wandered disconsolately into the kitchen, thinking nostalgically of the days when her father was here. How trouble-free were those days. Now she had the problem of finding a house, keeping the present house and garden in some kind of order and still paint enough pictures to earn a living. And on top of all this, she had Ross Hamilton breathing down her neck.

Tears of loneliness and self-pity filled her eyes. It was all too much. She simply could not cope. Hunger still gnawing at her, she made some tea and spread two small slices of brown bread with butter and marmalade and took them up to her studio. There she did not feel so alone. Had Ross Hamilton really admired her work, she wondered, or had he simply been sarcastic? Suddenly it was important that he was sincere, but she thrust the thought aside. She didn’t care what he thought. She didn’t like him and she never would. The sooner she found a place of her own the better. As to forbidding her entry into the inclosures, she would see about that!

Doing a mental battle with him made her feel better. She finished her breakfast, then went downstairs again and brought up the new picture. The man strolling beneath the trees looked altogether too much like Ross Hamilton, she thought, and began to mix the colours to make him look fatter, but then halted. If she did that it would spoil the picture. Tall and slender, he looked just right. She would leave it.

While the weather remained dry it seemed sensible to work out of doors. Ruth liked to have plenty of pictures on hand, and she was rather short of spring scenes. Each season had a beauty all its own, and every inch of the Forest and time of day revealed new and fresh delights. No two trees looked exactly alike to Ruth, but were as individual to her as people.

But this morning, a few days after her encounter with Ross Hamilton, Ruth decided she would do a series of paintings showing Foresters at work. Figures were not easy to draw and paint, but she had not done too badly at them in the college of art where she had learned such techniques.

She knew that at this time of year the men would be felling larch trees for electricity poles, lopping and topping from felled trees and jobs like cutting wood for clothes props, bean rods and firewood.

Some of the men knew Ruth, naturally, as they had certainly known her father, and when she arrived at the place where a number of them were working they raised something of a cheer. Some of the younger ones called out facetious remarks, but Ruth only laughed. They did not mean any disrespect. The ganger, Bill Rogers, strolled up to her, to find out, in a friendly way, Ruth presumed, what she was up to.