The English Wife. Adrienne Chinn
wasn’t going to let herself be hurt.
She shakes her head, catching a sideways glance from the over-tanned Florida retiree beside her as she grabs for an earbud that pops out of her ear. Bloody Sam. What is he doing in her head like this?
Sophie turns off the music and stares out the window at the sky. They say time heals all wounds, but they’re wrong. Time buries all wounds. Dig them out, and the wounds still bleed. Better to keep them buried. The words from a pop song spring into her mind. Absolutely no regrets. She has absolutely no regrets. There’d been a crazy moment when the idea of living an artist’s life on the north coast of Newfoundland with a widowed lover and his deaf daughter, not to mention that ridiculous beast of a dog, had brought her up short on the path that had always been so clear and straight. Then Sam had rejected her. The phone messages he’d left her in New York couldn’t erase that fact. If he’d done it once, he could do it again.
No, she has absolutely no regrets. Her path is clear, her focus laser-sharp, as long as she stays on course. The prize is everything: partner in the firm now; then, in a few years, when Richard retires, managing director of Richard Niven & Associates Architects. A long-distance relationship with Sam would have complicated everything. Some things were better left alone.
All she needs to do now is convince Ellie and Florie and some of the villagers with places along the tickle to sell up. The consortium wanted to build a restaurant down on the shore too, and put in a marina for the multi-millionaires’ yachts sailing up from Massachusetts and Rhode Island. The financial package the consortium was offering to the villagers was generous. It shouldn’t be that hard. She’ll keep telling herself that. But she has a bad feeling. Her stomach flutters and beads of sweat break out on her forehead. She brushes the sweat away with the back of her hand. Why’s it so bloody hot everywhere?
The plane veers right. Sophie flips up the window blind. The sun, bright in the western sky, burns out the blueness until all that’s left is throbbing white light. She leans her forehead against the warm glass and closes her eyes. Willing the heat to erase the face that threatens to form again in her mind. Wondering if coming back is a huge mistake.
Norwich, England – 26 July 1940
Ellie steps back from the easel and squints at the dimpled peel of the orange on the canvas, looking, she thinks, like the spitting image of the dents and pores on the face of Mr Pilch, the greengrocer. She picks up a small, fine-tipped paintbrush and dabs at the titanium white paint on the palette she balances in her left hand. Leaning closer, she brushes delicate strokes of white onto the dimpled skin, copying the effects of the light filtering through the branches of the elm tree outside the large arched window as it gleams on the fruit.
‘Cracking job, there, Miss Burgess. You’ve caught the feeling of that orange extremely well. Can you see when you paint, that you must put aside your notions of what you’re observing, and become like a child observing an object for the first time?’ The woman points a blunt-tipped finger at Ellie’s artwork, dragging the sleeve of her embroidered white muslin blouse across the rainbow of wet paint on Ellie’s palette. ‘Can you see the green cast to the orange? The way the shadow at its edges is almost violet? Can you see how the orange is telling you its story?’
Ellie’s heart jumps. Four weeks into the advanced oil-painting class and this is the first time the celebrated guest tutor, Dame Edith Spink RA, has singled her out for praise.
‘Thank you, Dame Edith. I do think I understand. I’d always thought an orange was round and smooth … and orange. But, it’s not at all. My brain was telling me one thing, but my eyes are telling me another.’
The great woman stands upright and rests her hands on the yellow canvas skirt covering her generous hips. ‘Indeed, Miss Burgess. Now you begin to be an artist, rather than simply a renderer.’
Ellie’s face burns, the compliment almost too much to process. She catches a blue-eyed glare aimed at her by Susan Perry-Gore. ‘Thank you, Dame Edith.’
‘You’ve heard that I’ve been commissioned to do some work for the War Artists’ Advisory Committee?’
Ellie nods at the other students dabbing earnestly at their canvases. ‘We … we’ve all heard.’
‘Indeed. I’m working on a portrait of Corporal Deirdre Cross. Very brave young woman. Saved one of our pilots by pulling him out of his burning plane and throwing herself on top of him when the plane’s bomb went off.’
Ellie shakes her head. ‘I hadn’t heard of that.’
The older woman huffs and runs her hand over the neat central parting of her greying brown hair. ‘The war isn’t just about men, Miss Burgess. There are many brave and capable young women out there doing their part. Their stories must be heard.’
‘Yes, Dame Edith.’
‘I find that I’ll be requiring an assistant. I have another commission to start as soon as I finish Corporal Cross’s portrait.’ The woman frowns, a deep line creasing the still-smooth skin of her broad forehead. ‘Just to mix the paints and clean the studio, of course. Would you be interested, Miss Burgess? I couldn’t pay you, of course, but you could watch and learn.’
Ellie sucks in her breath. Had she just heard right? Had Dame Edith Spink, the first woman to be elected as a full member to the Royal Academy, asked her if she’d like to help in her studio?
‘Oh, yes! I’ll do my absolute best for you.’
‘Right. See me after class on Monday. We’ll make arrangements. You’re not worried about travelling around town, are you, what with this bombing nonsense going on?’
Ellie shakes her head, the net snood holding her ash-blonde hair bouncing on the shoulders of her blue cotton dress. ‘Not at all. My father said the Germans are mainly after the factories down by the riverside, so I don’t go anywhere near there. In fact, I’m meeting my friend Ruthie to see a film after class. We’re not going to let any Jerry keep us away from Tyrone Power in Jesse James. We’ve been waiting ages for it to reach Norwich.’
‘Good show. Nil illegitimi carborundum. We’ll speak after class on Monday.’
***
Ellie spins out the door of the imposing Victorian red-brick edifice of the Norwich School of Art and Design, her heart beating so fast that she’s sure it will fly out of her chest. This is the day her life starts. She’ll be an artist, just like the wonderful Dame Edith. No, no, that’s not quite right. I AM an artist. I AM an artist. Dame Edith has chosen her over everyone else in the class. Over that swot Graham Simmons and his aggressive Cubism, over Grace Adamson and her neo-Impressionist dots and splashes, over even Susan Perry-Gore and her precise Constable landscapes.
She hurries up the road, skirting around the cobbles filled with muddy water from the morning showers, past the knapped flint walls of the medieval Halls, and up St Andrews Hill towards the shops in London Street. She glances at her watch as she rushes past the outdoor market and weaves her way through the busy shopping streets to All Saints Green. When she reaches the soaring Art Deco exterior of the Carlton Cinema, she stops under the canopy and leans her flushed face into the cool, light breeze.
She can’t wait to tell Ruthie the news. And George too, of course. She’ll ring him tomorrow before he heads off to work at the chocolate factory, though she already knows what her fiancé will say: ‘Well done, old girl. I always knew you had it in you. You’re as good as that French fellow, Money, in my eyes, you know that.’
Sweet, faithful, reliable George, who’d once got Picasso confused with a piccolo. He was nothing like Tyrone Power, but maybe that was all for the best.
***
A