The Dream House (30 page)

‘Here!’ he shouted, waving his umbrella at a cab, and instructed the driver to go to Green’s, in Cork Street. ‘It’s a viewing,’ he said to Agnes. ‘A sculptor I’ve met – his first exhibition. I told him I’d try and go. Interesting stuff, I think you’ll find.’

Raven was unusually talkative on the journey down to Green Park, mentioning this painter or that poet he hoped would be there, and saying that it was time Agnes saw a bit of life that wasn’t one of those ‘stuffy dances’ where you couldn’t get much to drink and had to be polite to boring women.

People seemed to be queuing to get into Green’s when they arrived but it turned out the sculptor, a small thin man with a beard, dressed formally in a black suit, was insisting on the courtesy of greeting anyone who came through the door. After passing over her coat to an attendant and enduring with surprise the sculptor’s garlicky breath, only thinly disguised by peppermint, as he kissed her cheeks, Agnes was propelled forward by the pressure of those in the queue behind. She and Raven entered the crowd like swimmers, making their way past vast hewn blocks of stone like icebergs, to the far end of the room where there were fewer people and where the smaller pieces were displayed. Raven introduced Agnes to a stout fiftyish lady dressed all in purple, a Mrs Proudhart, then waved at someone across the room and disappeared back into the throng.

‘What do you think of my nephew’s work, Miss Melton?’ Mrs Proudhart’s voice quavered with emotion as she gestured to her right towards several blobs of bronze welded together like a clump of toadstools. She fixed Agnes with an intense gaze. ‘Is he not a genius?’

‘His work is certainly very . . . challenging,’ said Agnes, hoping she was saying the right thing. She had been profoundly moved by some of the works of Henry Moore she had seen, but in truth, these strange objects aroused in her only a faint repulsion. She was more attracted by a sudden glimpse of some framed drawings on the far wall.

Fortunately the lady nodded vigorously. ‘It is time,’ she intoned. ‘No more statues of generals on horseback. This is the new age. We must feel our way forward.’ And she stroked the sculpture lovingly as though fondling poisonous toadstools was a perfectly normal thing to enjoy.

Fortunately they were interrupted by the arrival of a balding man in white tie and tails. He was in a somewhat agitated state.

‘Allow me to present my husband,’ murmured Mrs Proudhart. He nodded briefly at Agnes.

‘We must be away now, Martha. We’ll be late for the Bleesdales,’ he barked.

Agnes took the interruption as an opportunity to get a closer look at the drawings. They were mainly charcoal sketches, studies of female forms in various poses. There was something poignant, exhilarating about them and they appeared to have been drawn effortlessly by someone utterly sure of their craft. Each was initialled in a bold hand
H.F.
She stood back and looked for a notice of the name. Ah, there it was:
Harry Foster
.

As she moved along the group of drawings, studying each one, she became aware of a man glancing at her from where he stood at the edge of a laughing, gossiping group. She took care to give him no hint that she had seen him but, after a moment, he peeled himself off from his companions and wandered over to her, his hands in the pockets of his navy suit.

‘Something about these interests you in some way?’ he asked, slightly diffidently.

Agnes turned and looked at him through lowered lashes. Gradually, her eyes widened and she met his gaze. His was an interesting face, not classically handsome, but his brown eyes were warm against his pale skin and his mouth turned up at the corners as though he were perpetually amused about something. She noticed the shadows under his eyes, the beginnings of crows’ feet at their corners, and a slight hollowness to his mobile face. She opened her mouth to speak, but he broke in first, offering her his hand.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve startled you,’ he said. ‘Here, I’m Harry. Harry Foster. The artist, dontcha know.’ He waved at the array of pictures.

Agnes gasped and blurted out her own name, looking from the drawings and back to Harry Foster. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I mean . . .’ She stopped. ‘They’re very good. You make it look so easy. Do they take you long to do?’

He laughed. ‘Not at the rate per hour I have to pay the ladies to sit,’ he said. ‘Seriously, though. I make many sketches each time. Only one or two are usually any good. Or none, sometimes. I’m working on a bigger piece now. Oils. But it’s a long-term project so I have to keep doing these crowd-pleasers to pay the rent.’

‘I love them,’ she said firmly. ‘They’re so . . . I feel uplifted by them, free.’

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, studying her.

‘This one here,’ Agnes said, indicating a nude, ‘the curve of her back is so beautiful. She’s like a lovely crouching animal.’ Although they were now studying the drawings, she was strongly aware of the warmth of Harry’s presence beside her, his faint scent of sandalwood and Russian cigarettes.

‘That’s just what I thought about her, too. She’s a shop girl, you know. I spotted her in a cinema queue. Agnes Melton,’ he said suddenly. ‘Say, are you Raven’s sister? He talks about a little sister, but I didn’t think he meant one that was all grown up.’ He looked her up and down appreciatively and her face glowed with embarrassment. She knew her shingled hair made her look older than many girls of her age, and she was glad she’d taken the time to put on a little powder and lipstick for she didn’t like to admit to this man possibly ten years her senior that she was only seventeen.

He offered her a cigarette from a silver case, which she took, although she rarely smoked, and while he was engaged in lighting it she noticed his graceful movements, his long slim fingers and, as he bent over the lighter, the springy chestnut hair that matched his eyes.

‘I’m glad you came over,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anyone here. And Raven’s just gone off somewhere or other. Do you know him well?’

‘No, hardly at all. He’s a friend of Tom’s. Tom knows everybody.’

‘And who is Tom?’

‘Chap over there with the snorty laugh. Works for the
Sketch
. Miss Melton, Agnes, I’m glad I had to rescue you,’ he said. ‘Though I never saw myself in the role of knight before,’ he added. ‘Can I fetch you a drink?’

Agnes shook her head, not wanting to lose him for even a moment.

‘Do you know Mr Proudhart?’ she asked.

‘My fellow exhibitor? Only met him for the first time tonight. Don’t know why Raoul – know Raoul Green? runs this place – put us together really.’

‘I hate them,’ Agnes said in a low voice. ‘These . . . lumps,’ she said fiercely, nodding at the toadstools. ‘He has no soul.’

‘So you’re passionate about art, are you?’ Harry said, teasing, his eyes sparkling at her.

‘I don’t know anything really,’ she admitted, feeling her face grow warm. ‘I am rude, aren’t I? Sorry.’

‘Not at all. If he weren’t my fellow sufferer on this occasion, I might feel freer to hold an opinion myself. Doesn’t do to bite the hand that feeds me, though. Tell me, Agnes, if I may call you Agnes, what are you doing later, you and Raven?’

‘Me?’ Agnes was surprised. ‘I don’t know. Raven hasn’t said. Dinner somewhere, I expect, though we don’t have any invitation. Look, there he is!’ Raven was making his way towards them through the crowd, his eyes shining, his normally smooth hair ruffled.

‘Good to see you, Harry! You’ve met Agnes, I see. Your pictures are going well – I saw a lady just now brandishing her chequebook. Gone for one of the saucy ones, I expect. Look, I’ve just been talking to Tom. Freda Brett-Jardine’s having a party later. Why don’t we go to Previtali’s and mosey on there afterwards.’

‘Well, why not? Agnes, are you game for it?’ Harry asked her, an expression of lazy amusement in his eyes.

She had felt her heart flutter in fear at the thought that this might be the end of their time together, but now all was arranged, she believed she would burst with happiness. Dinner, with this wonderful, fascinating man, and then a party. She nodded, her eyes bright as they locked on his.

‘Let’s get our hats and coats,’ said Raven, not seeming to notice his sister’s unusual behaviour. ‘We’ll find a cab with Tom and meet the others there.’ And he grabbed Agnes’s hand. On impulse, she offered her other hand to Harry and he gripped it. The warm pressure of his touch was the only thing she was aware of as they made their way towards the door.

‘It is the most extraordinary night of my whole life so far,’ Agnes sighed. Later, much later, she lay awake on cool sheets, giddy with the effects of drink and dancing, her ears buzzing from loud music and voices, remembering Harry’s body brushing against hers as they danced, his breath warm in her ear. She knew without doubt that she was in love. When she finally left him, standing on the stairs outside the party, she had felt bereft, hardly noticing the ride home with Raven through the quiet streets.

The dinner at Previtali’s had passed in a kind of dream. Raven and Harry had ordered for her and dishes had come and gone with her hardly having tasted them, though she sipped at her wine. Their party was a noisy one. Tom was a lively fellow, a bluff, red-faced man who regaled the table with his journalist’s stories. They were joined by Raoul Green, a lithe Jewish-looking man, and he brought another half a dozen people with him from the viewing, including a Mr Beales who seemed to own a publishing company, and two glamorous-looking women who took little notice of Agnes but giggled a lot and had to take frequent trips to the powder room, knocking into other diners’ chairs on the way and apologizing too loudly to their annoyed occupants.

Agnes didn’t mind their rudeness. She was just content to sit between Raven and Harry, listening to Raven describe to Sam Beales some stories he was writing and answering Harry’s questions about what she had been doing in London. She gauged that he lived alone, using a bedroom with a north light as his studio.

‘Where do you come from, Harry?’ she asked.

‘Cambridgeshire,’ he replied. ‘Though I don’t go back there much now.’ He toyed with the grilled fish on his plate. ‘My father didn’t like my becoming an artist. No money in it. Certainly not respectable. Fortunately, my older brother was happy to take over the business when he retired, so they’ve tried to forget about me.’

‘That sounds very hard. Aren’t they pleased to hear how well you’re doing?’

‘Maybe if I chose religious subjects or painted pretty landscapes. But my mother is very pious – we’re Catholics, you see – and the priest has told her I paint pornography, though I don’t think he’s ever seen one of my pictures, just read a review somewhere, I expect. I . . . anyway, I’ve disgraced myself in a whole variety of ways, so it seems better to keep away.’

‘But aren’t you very lonely without your family?’

‘Lonely?’ Harry gave her a curious look as the dishes were taken away and ices placed in front of them. ‘When you are a stranger amongst your own family then you can feel the loneliest person in the world.’

Agnes leaned towards him and whispered, ‘I sometimes wonder whether Raven feels like that. Father is going to be furious when he hears he has thrown over his job.’

‘Have you, Raven?’ Harry raised his voice to break into the noisy conversation on Agnes’s other side. ‘Have you really left the City?’

‘The City has left me! Thrown me out, rather. An occasion to celebrate, don’t you think?’

While the others all laughed and drank, unthinking, to Raven’s newfound freedom, Agnes sat quietly. She was imagining the reception they were going to get on their return.

The rain had stopped now. The air was muggy and it was getting dark. As they drifted out of the restaurant, the girls squabbling about what to do next, she pulled Raven aside. ‘Don’t you think we ought to go home and face the music? Father and Vanessa won’t even know where I am.’

‘Jeanette will have told them you’re out with me. Come on, I promised Freda I would show up. Let’s go.’

And when Agnes found herself sitting close to Harry in the cab, she forgot everything but the exhilaration of the present moment.

Freda Brett-Jardine lived in a top-floor flat in one of the white terraced streets off Kensington High Street. It was utterly unlike any of the opulent venues frequented by Agnes in the past few weeks. For a start, there was a winding staircase covered in elderly carpeting, up which they had to climb three floors, Harry pulling Agnes by the hand, Raoul’s girls complaining all the way. They could hear the unmistakable sound of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet growing louder as they went and at the top was waiting the most extraordinary-looking woman Agnes had ever seen.

Freda Brett-Jardine was as dark as an Egyptian, her exotic beauty highlighted by kohled eyes and a gorgeous floaty dark gold dress and jacket, both embroidered with black swirls, like an Indian sari Agnes had seen in a book. She could have been any age between twenty-five and forty-five. Her expression was one of boredom. Even when she smiled, it did not touch her eyes.

‘Darlings, you came! Raven, Harry, Raoul, it’s wonderful to see you. I was just giving up on you all. No Vanessa? Well at least I’ll have you for myself tonight.’

Agnes’s eyes widened at her brazenness, but Raven ignored the comment. He introduced everybody else, but Freda’s eyes passed vaguely over the rest of the party and returned to Raven. She hung onto his arm as she led them into the flat and straight through to the drawing room where two or three young men in white ties loitered stiffly, clearly waiting for everything to start.

‘Freda’s husband was an antiquarist,’ whispered Harry in Agnes’s ear, as she stopped to look round in delighted amazement. ‘Travelled all over the East.’ The walls were covered with hangings, the floors festooned with Turkish rugs and great cushions, the ceiling was oxblood red, as were what she could glimpse of the walls. Bright-coloured throws disguised sofas and archairs. Huge chests, cupboards and carved decorative pieces in dark Indian wood completed the transformation of a shabby Kensington apartment into a boudoir of a maharajah. Agnes breathed in the heady scent of incense and some mysterious sweeter smell wafting through it.