Summer in February (10 page)

‘No, it’s not simply my work, important though that is. It is that I have already promised to sit on a horse for Mr Munnings.’

‘On a … horse?’

Harold seemed to find difficulty with the concept.

‘He asked me today … he called on us again this morning. Somehow I could not refuse.’

‘Oh, he didn’t come here,’ Laura said with some sharpness. ‘What time exactly did he call?’

‘He wishes to paint you on a horse?’ Harold blinked.

‘Yes, it seems so. Outside his studio.’

‘Oh, ah, oh, I, yes, I see. On a … horse. Yes.’

Harold nodded sadly to himself, and to their tortoiseshell cat by his feet. Munnings, he thought. Munnings, the procurer of
models.

‘You do ride, do you?’ Laura asked, as if willing to be surprised.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘A.J. is a great rider, the best in the district, I’m told, better than anyone else.’

‘So we hear,’ Harold said. ‘So we hear.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with exercise, Harold. Some people rather enjoy it.’

Harold focused on his thin knees, trying to recover his equilibrium, and trying to imagine what in God’s name could be achieved
by placing a person of Florence’s exquisite beauty on the back of an animal.

‘You could ask Dolly to sit for you, or Prudence,’ Laura went on, ‘I’m sure they’ll be keen.’

‘I think … perhaps … not. Not quite … my …’

‘Cup of tea?’ Laura offered.

‘No, not quite,’ he said to himself.

And as soon as he could Harold excused himself to finish a, well not to finish exactly, it had not reached that point, but
to … return to … to continue with … his work upstairs.

‘So,’ Laura took over, watching her husband leave, ‘what exactly were you doing before you came down here?’

‘In London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing,’ Florence smiled, ‘nothing at all. Just waiting.’

‘Waiting for what?’

‘Just waiting.’

Florence stared at Laura as if ‘waiting’ were self-evident.

‘Oh,’ Laura said.

Then Florence laughed, and laughed in a way which quite
worried Laura, as if Laura’s question were quite absurd. As quickly as Florence had laughed she was serious again.

‘May I ask
you
something, Laura?’

‘Of course,’ Laura beamed.

‘Do you like Alfred Munnings?’

‘Now there’s a question! There
is
a question.’

‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, I mean I can see he’s crude and loud and unpolished and Joey says he cuts his toenails at
picnics but I wanted to know if that stops you liking him. You are quite sure you don’t mind the question?’

‘No, I don’t mind the question.’ Laura felt her face flush, transfusing from strawberry to raspberry, a colouring which reminded
Florence of a sight in Joey’s aquarium.

‘I think Alfred is quite splendid, yes, he’s one in a million, a breath of fresh air, and he’s frank and fearless, which is
always a fine thing. He has a rare quality, he seems to seize life, to
seize
it, and not many of us do that, do we?’

‘You do like him!’

‘Yes, I do.’

There was more defiance than warmth in Laura’s toothy smile. There was a pause. And then Florence asked:

‘And do you like Captain Evans?’

‘Gilbert!’

‘Yes.’

‘Gilbert? Of course I do. Good God, who doesn’t! Any more questions?’

It seemed there were not. Then it seemed there was just one more.

‘If you don’t mind? But I fear I am going too far.’

‘Anything, anything, why not?’

Laura laughed. Then Florence stood up.

‘No, I think I should go. I have clearly overstayed.’

Laura followed her to the front door.

‘Why, don’t go, no, I was enjoying our talk, there’s no need to rush off like this, just as we are getting to know one another.’

‘There is. Will you excuse me? And please tell your husband I will indeed sit for him … I answered him very clumsily, didn’t
I? Very stupidly. Especially as I had asked for his kind help and support over Joey. Sometimes I am very selfish.’

They shook hands rather formally, even though Florence had merely to walk down the garden path one way only to walk back up
it the other side of the wall. Laura watched through the window as Florence opened and closed the gate behind her. There was
nothing clumsy about that. Nor about the way Florence looked back at the watcher at the window and nodded.

Laura coloured once again, from strawberry to raspberry.

‘Did I hear your brother call you “Bloat”?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you spell that?’

‘B-l-o-t-e.’

‘And what sort of bloody silly name is that?’

‘I wish I knew.’

Her absence of curiosity over her name intrigued him. He painted. She sat. And then she said, without any change in her position
or tone of voice:

‘And do you have to swear all the time?’

‘Where does it come from? This B-l-o-t-e business?’

‘I have to say I don’t know. It’s just a word.’

Florence’s eyes were steadily trained on the middle branch, exactly as A.J. had bidden them to be. Her expression was thoughtful,
her skin pale and faultless, exactly as he wished them to be. He also liked the odd way her mind worked and the little unexpected
jerks her answers gave his hands. His brush touched the canvas, no, bugger, it was meant to be only a touch of the brush but,
hell and high water, he hit the canvas far too hard. Blast his vision!
That
was a sodding
splodge
he’d just put on the
canvas, not a touch. Don’t tell me this girl was already affecting his skill? He scraped some of the paint off, which only
made everything even worse. He burst out:

‘You must have
some
idea!’

‘My Uncle John in Carlisle was the first to use it, I’m told.’

‘Well, I’d want to know why I was called something, so ask him.’

‘That would be difficult, he’s dead.’

She waved away a fly, a winning wave.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Quite a nasty death, I understand.’

Tilting the brim of his Panama Alfred looked up to check the expression on her face. He could not quite tell: a filter of
bright light behind her head left the eyes and mouth, the seats of mockery, in shadow.

She, Florence/Blote, was sitting as still as a statue, sitting side-saddle on Merrilegs, wearing her ankle-length coat and
cream hat. That afternoon it hit Alfred again and again that Miss Carter Hyphen Wood was as paintable a girl as he had ever
seen. No,
more
paintable! And what a bewitching poster she would make! No one in Norwich, in his Caley’s poster days, no one in London,
not even the buxom nudes in his Paris atelier caused more stir in his fingers than this Aloof Florence Female.

And was this aloofness of hers genuine or was it false aplomb?

Good question, A.J.!

Either way, how very different she was from the strapping and sturdy fishermen’s wives in Newlyn, standing together outside
their houses in their black hats and aprons; how different from the masculine Laura Knight who was always making eyes at him
in her hobnails. This girl was delectable, without a doubt, de-lect-able, and as for that
small bunch of sweet peas hanging from her waist, was that a sweet disorder, a careless random decision, or a studied effect?

Good question, A.J.!

But there was no question she had the best-cut nose he’d ever seen, lovely chin too. Perfect hands as well, while we’re at
it. But … the question was, when hot nights were scented with roses, did she have a tempestuous petticoat?

Did … she?

He put down his brush. It was time for a little Herrick. Yes, he felt a little Herrick coming on. He stepped away from the
canvas, flexing his stiff fingers and loosening his rigid lower back a little, before announcing to the empty clearing:

‘Robert Herrick.’

She turned to look through the trees.

‘Is someone arriving? You might have mentioned it.’

‘No, I said “Robert Herrick”. He was a poet.’

‘Oh.’

‘Kept a pet pig too, Herrick did.’

‘Did he?’

‘
And
taught it to drink from a tankard. His father committed suicide.’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’

‘No, the suicide came just after Herrick was born, before the pig, that is. But listen to this. Listen, and you won’t find
anything finer.’

‘Shall I get down?’

‘No, it won’t take long. Just listen. Stay exactly where you are and listen to every word.

‘You spoke that beautifully,’ she said. ‘And I do like the final lines. Would you please say them again?’

He did so and she thanked him.

‘No, thank
you
for listening. More to the point, the lines are true. You prove them true in every particular.’ She smiled and nodded her
acknowledgement of the compliment.

‘You obviously like poetry a great deal?’

‘I write poems as well, I’ll write one for you if you like.’

‘Would you? You really write poems?’

‘Painting is a kind of poetry too, poems are paintings I keep in my mind. And this painting is a poem, the best poem I’ve
ever written.’

He looked at Florence on horseback, unable to assess her, then rubbed his hands in anticipation.

‘
So
… back to work. Back to the girl on a horse with a name no one understands.’

‘I thought you said the horse was called Merrilegs.’

He stopped.

For a moment he was confused by her remark, then worked it out.

‘What? Oh, I see … Never could sort out my syntax.’

Merrilegs was standing at the edge of the wood, in a clearing close to Munnings’ studio, and from the clearing, looking the
other way, you could see part of the mill, and before he went to bed most nights Alfred liked to wander along there with Taffy
to listen to the plash of the water. That sound made all the difference, it made a man feel he belonged.

Florence adjusted her hat.

‘Don’t move!’ he barked.

The leaves above her head had caught the sun, and the light was running down to her hat, making it almost white, that light
must be caught and caught now, he mustn’t miss that, the way it ran down to her hat, his eye moved up and down, from her neck
to her cuff, back and forth, from point of light to point of light. He made fast moves, using greens, yellow, white, ochre,
more blue, just a … that’s
enough
, not too much, lighter touch,
barely
touch … and the brown behind her hat, that helped if he whitened the … and the stronger and the mellower … it was vital he
…

On he muttered to himself.

Then, without taking his eyes off his work, he asked:

‘And is Joey being a good boy?’

‘Do you mean is he attending his classes?’

‘Amongst other things. Tilt your head back a bit more.’

‘Like that?’

‘Yes. Yes!’

‘You’ve obviously heard about Joey’s truancy.’

‘Yes … And his billiards. He … enjoys life, your brother. What’s he up to at the moment? Out in the exploding foam? Looking
at his beauties, is he? Out with his chisel and oyster knife?’

She disliked this knowing tone.

‘I really don’t know. Oh, he’s so annoying, he’ll ruin everything.’

‘In what way?’

‘He’ll sacrifice me, I know he will, he’ll sacrifice me to dredge up something the tide brings in!’

‘Well, we can’t have that, can we? Can’t have you being sacrificed … lower your hand a little … the cuff’s not quite right.’

Even the horse seemed now to have caught some of his sitter’s stylish stillness. Alfred knew he must not lose this moment,
this was a flying start, though he might need to whip her a bit coming round the bend.

‘Tell me about your family. Then yourself.’

‘My father owned a brewery in London.’

‘A brewery?’

‘And our home is in Chelsea.’

‘A brewery? You’d better keep me away from it then.’

‘Why?’

‘Why!’ he snorted back.

‘Because you drink too much? Is that what you mean?’

A.J. put the brush between his teeth for a second, like a pirate pausing for a breather during an attack, and put his hands
defiantly on his hips. She was some girl, this one. A girl who seemed to know her power. Feeling his colour rise up the back
of his neck he took the brush out of his mouth.

‘Yes, that
is
what I mean. I drink too much. All right?’

‘But that is no concern of mine, surely? Men do as they choose.’

Part of him wanted to attack her hard, but he needed her to stay exactly where she was, so he nodded a rueful recognition
of her point.

‘No, no, you’re right.’

‘And we have a house in Silloth.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Well, it is there, nevertheless, on the Solway Firth.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Would Carlisle help? Have you perhaps heard of the Lakes? The Lake District?’

‘Wordsworth, good man. So, you’re rich? You strike me as rich.’

‘Yes, we are. It is no disgrace, I hope?’

‘No, no.’

‘Good.’

He started to paint again. Then he felt a competitive pride welling up in his chest, until his pride burst out.

‘I’m not rich, but I’m coining it and soon will be. I’ve sold ten paintings this year, twice as many as anyone else down here,
including Laura,
and
I’ve got an exhibition coming up in less than a month.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘From Laura? You heard about it from her? Was it from Laura?’

‘Of course. She’s always talking about you, but then one finds everyone is, Laura, Joey, Gilbert, everyone.’

‘But not Harold?’

‘Yes, even Harold.’

He was now painting very quickly. He was Constable.

‘At the Leicester Gallery. That’s where I’m exhibiting. In Leicester Square.’

‘Really? I know the gallery quite well. I’ve been there with Joey.’

‘Well, go there next month and you’ll see the works of Alfred Munnings.’

‘You’ll be famous, I can tell, there’s absolutely no doubt of that.’

He needed the whip.

‘Oh, do sit
still
! You were doing so well … Yes, that’s
better.
Still
! I said. So … so … your father sent you both down here, getting you off his hands?’

‘My father? No, I came of my own accord, I wanted to.’

‘But he allowed you to? Must have! Can’t have a girl like you wandering around here. Unless … that is … no, you’re not one
of those advanced girls, are you?’

‘I do have to have Papa’s permission on everything, of course. So, for me, it is a matter of persuasion. But I do not intend
ever to be … swallowed up, if that is what you mean?’

‘Can’t hear you,’ he said. ‘Wallowing in what?’

‘It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t important.’

The clearing was now very still, and the sky was woolly and soft. They could hear the mill grinding.

‘So you’re
not
one of those advanced girls … flowing silks, reading books you can’t understand, soft in the head, paintings by Rogering
Fry, that sort of caper. No?
Good
! You’re not.’

‘Evidently not.’

Her hat was making the picture glow. It was coming to life, keep going, Alfred, keep going. She was as alive on the canvas
as she was on Merrilegs. He had the light running down her coat, transmitting, he was doing exactly what he wanted, today,
in this clearing, he was Constable, didn’t Constable say landscape painting at its best was a branch of natural philosophy,
and these trees were a presence rather than an instance, and wasn’t a picture an experiment in philosophy, your whole body
alive to the world and its rhythms, his body taut yet malleable, alive with the work, a tumult of energy, he knew this was
his art at its best, a conflagration. And that was no surprise because – well—

Because had any woman ever looked better on a horse? And had there ever, in the history of women and the history
of horses, ever been a less horsy woman who looked so at home on a horse? They were
as one
. They were made for each other.

‘But he allowed you to come to Cornwall because down here you’d be safe and sound?’

‘Yes.’

A.J. looked up at her, his eyes screwed against the sun.

‘And to keep you away from the undesirables?’

‘I suppose that could be right, yes.’

He grinned and said:

‘But that plan hasn’t worked, has it?’

‘Why not? Who here is undesirable, apart from Mr Knight?’

That was sharp! That was sharp indeed. A.J. hadn’t laughed so much in … well, in a good while, not since he saw those undergraduates’
faces in The Fox and Grapes. Poor old Harold! Yes, this girl took some beating, this one sitting for him now was a champion
filly all right, a complete stunner, but his laughter was cut short because at that moment Taffy, his damned dog, overexcited
by his master’s loud laughter, escaped from the stables and ran barking and yapping up the lane. This unsettled Merrilegs.
More important, it upset the picture. A.J. dropped his brush and chased Taffy and if he’d caught the little terrier he would
have beaten him to within an inch of his life only he realised he’d better behave himself as he was being closely watched
by his sharp sitter. Taffy eluded him like a mad hoop. Each time A.J. dived at the dog, it swerved.

Unperturbed by the chase Florence dismounted and spent the time looking closely at the unfinished painting. She studied the
stippling, the intersection of lines, the form, the techniques pointed out to her only the day before by Stanhope Forbes.
She could perhaps learn even more from Alfred Munnings than she could from
Stanhope Forbes. Or would it not be better to learn from them both? Or should
this
be where she spent all her days?

‘Taffy! Come here! Heel. Heel! You little bastard.’

After a humiliating five minutes chasing this fugitive itch Munnings grabbed the dog, and brought him back, half pulling,
half smacking him.