Motherland (25 page)

‘Of course it’s a commercial show,’ he says. ‘One shouldn’t be surprised. It’s all about opening wallets. These days the kind of people who can afford to buy want to be reassured that the old world is with them still, in all its bourgeois glory. One has to expect to have one’s mouth stuffed with bonbons.’

Tony Armitage is present, being one of the ‘artists of promise’. He is as nervous as Larry, but shows it in a different way.

‘Don’t you hate the shits who come to these private views?’ he growls. ‘They wouldn’t know real art if it was stuck up their bums with a poker.’

Despite this, Armitage’s striking portraits are among the first to achieve the coveted red spot. Larry moves away, unable to bear the sight of his own unloved works. He sees Nell come in with her employer Julius Weingard, and another man who is small and prosperous and in his forties, if not older. He has his arm looped through Nell’s in a proprietorial way, and is smiling at her as they go by. Two well-dressed middle-aged women pass near him, one saying to the other, ‘Why are English artists so dreary compared to the French?’

This is hell, thinks Larry to himself. The glory of having been
selected is all forgotten. He feels only the humiliation of looking on as his works are ignored. His distress is not wounded vanity. He has no conviction that his works deserve more attention. It’s the gap between what he felt as he painted them and what he feels seeing them now that is so unbearable. These three all gave him such joy in the making. He can recall the heart-stopping excitement of realising the work was going to emerge at last, whole, living and harmonious, from the marks and daubs that went into their making. Impossible to describe to someone who hasn’t attempted it. There’s a magic to it, like being present at the birth of new life. And now these perfect creations, these gifts of wonder, are dying before his eyes. They hang on crowded walls, denied the love and attention which alone caused them to shine, revealed as commonplace efforts by a painter of no more than average ability.

‘Larry!’

He looks round. There stands Kitty, her eyes bright, her pale face lit up by a smile.

‘I’m so proud of you!’

She takes him in her arms for a warm hug.

‘Kitty!’ he exclaims. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’

‘Of course I’ve come. Your first exhibition! The others are still in front of your paintings, bathed in reflected glory. And I’ve come to find you.’

‘Oh, Kitty. I just hate it here.’

‘Do you, darling?’

Her eyes at once fill with sympathy, gazing at him intently, wanting to understand.

‘It’s all too much,’ he says. ‘Too many works. Too many people. I feel like an impostor. Any minute now someone’s going to tap
me on the shoulder and say, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, please take down your miserable daubs and leave.’

‘Oh, Larry. How silly you are.’

But her eyes show she feels for him.

‘No one will buy them, Kitty. I’m sure of that.’

‘Louisa has George under orders to buy one,’ says Kitty.

‘Are George and Louisa here?’

‘Of course. We want to take you out to dinner afterwards. Can you come? Or will you be going off with your smart art crowd?’

‘I haven’t got a smart art crowd. I’d far rather be with you.’

‘Your paintings are wonderful, Larry. Really. I mean it.’

‘Oh, Kitty.’

He doesn’t care if she means it, he feels so grateful that she wants him to be happy. Now that she’s here, before him, everything is transformed. He could stand in this corner for ever, gazing at her, filled with the sweet sensation of how much he loves her. It seems to him that she understands this, because she too stands there, saying nothing.

When he speaks again it’s as if they’ve moved into a different and private space.

‘How are you, Kitty?’

‘Same as ever,’ she says. ‘Only older.’

‘How is it with Ed?’

‘Same as ever.’

Then he hears his name hallooed across the room, and Louisa is heading for him, with George in tow.

‘Larry, you genius!’ Louisa cries. ‘We’re all so excited! We know a real live famous artist!’

‘Hello, Louisa.’

‘We love your work. George loves your work. He’s going to buy the big one with all the roofs. Go on, George. Go and tell them you’re buying it.’

George shambles away to do as he’s told. Ed now joins them.

‘Larry, you old bastard,’ he says.

His eyes glow with friendly warmth as he pumps Larry’s hand. His face has grown even thinner.

‘Hello, Ed,’ says Larry.

‘Next time you have a do, why don’t you lay on some wine? You’ll sell a whole lot more pictures. We’re offering a very decent white right now. Between you and me it’s made of peasants’ pee, but only peasants who’ve drunk the best Grand Cru.’

Larry is taken unawares by just how pleased he is to be surrounded by his old friends.

‘This is very decent of you all, I must say,’ he says. ‘Coming all this way.’

Nell comes over, bringing Julius Weingard. Larry makes introductions all round.

‘Julius thinks he may have a buyer for you,’ says Nell to Larry.

‘No promises,’ says Weingard. ‘But this is a collector who likes to encourage new talent.’

‘New talent is so much cheaper, isn’t it?’ says Louisa.

‘That is so,’ says Weingard with a smile.

‘Lawrence darling,’ says Nell, ‘did you know you’ve sold one already?’

‘That would be my husband,’ says Louisa. ‘He likes to encourage new talent too.’

Weingard at once produces his card.

‘Send your husband to me,’ he says. ‘This is a circus.’ He glances round in contempt. ‘In Cork Street we are more civilised.’

He gives an old-fashioned bow and leaves the group of friends.

‘What a repellent little man,’ says Louisa.

‘Louisa!’ says Kitty, with a glance at Nell. ‘Behave yourself.’

‘He is a bit creepy,’ says Nell, ‘but he’s terrifically good at what he does, and he knows everybody.’

Ed is looking at Nell with interest.

‘So you’re a friend of Larry’s,’ he says.

‘A sort of a friend,’ says Nell, glancing at Larry.

At once they all realise that she sleeps with Larry.

‘Why don’t you join us?’ says Kitty. ‘We’re taking Larry out to dinner to celebrate. We’ve booked a table at Wilton’s.’

George has a car outside, but they can’t all fit in. Larry says he’d rather walk anyway, and Kitty says she would too, so in the end they all walk.

Larry walks with Ed. They fall at once into the real conversation that’s only possible between old friends.

‘She’s interesting,’ Ed says. ‘Is she a serious proposition?’

‘Maybe,’ says Larry. Then realising Nell is not far behind, walking with Kitty, he says, ‘How’s the wine trade coming along?’

‘Slow,’ says Ed. ‘The English seem to think drinking wine is like committing adultery, something you do rarely and abroad. What I really like is all the driving down empty roads in France.’

‘Haven’t you had enough of being away from home?’

‘I’ve had enough of just about everything, if you really want to know. Do you ever get that feeling that nothing tastes of anything any more? Nothing excites you. Nothing hurts you.’

‘Not good, Ed.’

‘Sometimes I think what I need is another war.’

Outside the restaurant Nell says she won’t come in with them
after all. She has made other arrangements. She gives Larry a quick almost shy kiss as she goes, saying, ‘Nice friends.’

‘Why wouldn’t she join us?’ says Ed.

‘Nell’s like that,’ says Larry. ‘She likes to go her own way.’

Dinner turns out to be rather grand.

‘Have whatever you want,’ Louisa says. ‘George is paying.’

Kitty is intrigued by this notion that Nell goes her own way.

‘But what does she do?’ she keeps saying.

Larry does his best to explain, but in the telling even he has to admit that Nell’s life sounds as if it’s going nowhere in particular.

‘I don’t see why she has to go anywhere in particular,’ says Ed.

‘Because otherwise what’s the point?’ says Kitty. ‘We all want to feel our life has some sort of point.’

‘I don’t understand this,’ says Ed. ‘A point for who? A point when? Right now we’re celebrating Larry and his paintings. We’re eating good food, surrounded by good friends. Doesn’t that give our lives a point?’

‘You’re deliberately misunderstanding me,’ says Kitty.

Larry, watching and listening, sees that Kitty is unhappy. He wonders a little at the edge in Ed’s voice.

‘Well, I think Larry’s friend is rather wonderful,’ says Louisa. ‘And she is very young. I’m sure she’ll find her way soon enough.’

‘And I say Larry’s a great artist,’ says Ed. ‘I say he’s had the guts to stick to doing what he loves, and now it’s paying off. Here’s to you, Larry. You’re a great man. I salute you.’

‘Thank you, Ed,’ says Larry. ‘All I have to do now is sell more than one painting.’

‘Look what I found,’ Nell says to Larry.

Her bicycle basket holds six small empty clear-glass bottles, of the kind used for medicines.

‘You know what you do with bottles?’ she says. ‘You put messages in them.’

‘Of course you do,’ says Larry.

‘Come along, then,’ she says.

Larry heaves his own bike out onto the street, and together they cycle up the Walworth Road, round the Elephant and Castle, past Waterloo station, to the wide expanse of the new Waterloo Bridge. Here Nell comes to a stop, more or less in the middle of the bridge, and leans her bike against the parapet. Larry does the same. It’s a fine sunny day, and for a few moments he stands admiring the view. To the east, the dome of St Paul’s stands clear of the bomb-damaged buildings of the City; to the south, round the bend in the river, the Houses of Parliament.

Nell has one of the bottles out, together with a pad of paper and a pencil.

‘So what’s our first message to be?’ she says.

‘We really are sending messages in bottles?’

‘Of course. I’ll do the first one.’

She writes on the pad, tears off the sheet of paper, shows it to Larry. She has written:
If you find this message you will have good luck for the rest of your life
.

‘You don’t think that’s going to end in disappointment?’ he says.

‘Not at all. If you believe in your luck, it comes.’

She screws the cap on the little bottle and drops it from the parapet of the bridge into the river below. They see it hit the water and sink and then come bobbing up again, to swirl away downstream.

They cycle across to the north bank of the river, and along the Victoria Embankment to Westminster Bridge. Once again, Nell parks her bike in the middle of the bridge.

‘We’re on a bridge crawl,’ says Larry.

‘I want this to be a day you’ll never forget,’ says Nell.

She takes out the pad and pencil.

‘Earth has not anything to show more fair,’ says Larry.

‘What?’

‘Wordsworth’s poem. On Westminster Bridge.’

‘Next message. Here. It’s your turn.’

She hands him the pad. Larry is remembering the poem.

‘No fields now,’ says Nell.

‘No smokeless air, either.’ He looks at the Houses of Parliament on the riverbank. ‘You think all this has been here for ever, but Wordsworth never saw this. This isn’t even a hundred years old. There were other buildings here, that have just vanished.’

‘Send the next message.’

Larry thinks for a moment and then writes:
If you find this message, look around you and enjoy what you see, because one day it will all be gone
.

‘That’s a bit glum, isn’t it?’ says Nell.

‘It’ll make them appreciate what they’ve got.’

He rolls up the paper and pushes it into the bottle. He gives the bottle to Nell but she says, ‘Your message, your throw.’ So he drops it from the bridge into the river below, and watches it bob away out of sight.

They mount their bikes once more and ride round Big Ben and down Millbank to Lambeth Bridge. The obelisks on either side have pineapples on top, according to Nell. Larry claims they’re pinecones.

‘Why would anyone carve a giant stone pinecone?’ says Nell.

‘Why pineapples?’

‘Pineapples are thrilling. All hard and scratchy on the outside, and sweet and juicy on the inside.’

She’s pushing her bike up onto the pavement, sunlight gleaming on her hair. Larry gazes at her in admiration.

‘How did you ever get to be you, Nell?’ he says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re so open, so uncorrupted, so … I don’t know. You just go on surprising me.’

‘Is that good?’

‘It’s very good.’

She writes her message and shows him.

If you find this message, go out and do the one thing you’ve been wanting to do all your life, but have been afraid to do
.

‘What if he wants to rob a bank?’

‘Who says it’ll be a he? It might be a girl. She might want to kiss the boy she’s secretly in love with.’

She kisses Larry, there on Lambeth Bridge.

‘Now it’s not a secret any more,’ says Larry.

He feels light-hearted, happy in a way he’s not been happy for a long time. Nell’s game makes everything good seem possible, and everything bad seem far away.

She drops her bottle into the water.

They ride on past the Tate, past Vauxhall Bridge – ‘Too ugly’ – along the embankment to Chelsea Bridge. Here on the guardian lamp-posts in place of pineapples or pinecones there are golden galleons. Across the river looms the immense block of Battersea Power Station. Two of its four chimneys are streaming black smoke into the summer sky.

Nell gives Larry the pad.

‘Your turn.’

If you find this message
, writes Larry,
believe that happiness exists, because I am happy now
.

‘That’s beautiful, Larry,’ says Nell. ‘I want you so much to be happy.’

He drops the bottle into the river on the downstream side and watches it swirl away under the railway bridge.