’Twas of a brisk young ploughboy, come listen to this refrain
And join with me in chorus and sing the ploughboy’s praise . . .
‘You’ve given me such an education,’ she quipped as they left.
‘All part of the service,’ he said, bending to kiss her lips.
‘Tell me about him,’ Lena said when she got back home. ‘What does he do for a living? Where does he live?’
‘Not much to tell.’ Milly changed the subject. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell her sister. She’d enjoyed being with him, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being disloyal. Silly really. It was Seebold who was in love with somebody else, so she owed him nothing. And another thing, she still genuinely didn’t know much about Eustace. He preferred to ask questions rather than answer them – and he did it so cleverly that it wasn’t until she got home that she realised he still hadn’t told her anything about himself, and the little he had told her about his family didn’t add up. His mother was dead – but she was in Austria. His father was an MP – but he was in the Foreign Office. His sister wore callipers – but she still didn’t know the girl’s name.
It was February, and at long last Milly was on her way to London with Eustace. At first she hadn’t been sure if she should go, but in the end she reasoned that it would make a welcome break from her normal routine. She enjoyed the ride in his MG TA Midget sports car, stopping off at Box Hill to use the toilets. It was enormously satisfying to see heads turning as they pulled into the public car park; he certainly kept the car looking in tip-top condition with its polished red leather seats and black wet-weather soft top. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked as they climbed back in.
Milly nodded happily.
‘Next time I take you for a drive we’ll go in the warmer weather,’ he said. ‘It’s even better with the top down.’
The engine was quite noisy so they didn’t talk very much during the drive. His friends’ art studio was in Bedford Square, Bloomsbury, and it turned out to be inside a beautiful Georgian terrace. They parked opposite the square itself, where the trees waved their branches gently in the breeze. Milly loved it. An oasis of green calm in the middle of the bustling city.
As they headed towards the door, Eustace told her that the house next door was once the home of Frederick and Norman Warne. She must have looked slightly bewildered because he added, ‘They published Beatrix Potter, you know.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m full of useless information like that!’
There were several people working on different projects in the studio and they seemed a little surprised to see her. Milly was introduced to a few but quickly forgot their names. The leading light was Stanley Richardson, a man who had apparently had a number of his paintings hung in the smarter London galleries.
‘Eustace tells me that you are an artist,’ he said. ‘Have you had any exhibitions?’
Milly shook her head. ‘My portfolio is a little thin at the moment,’ she confessed. ‘I studied for two years at Worthing School of Art and Science under Principal Salt,’ she said, ‘but since I left I’ve been working as a window-dresser in several large department stores.’
‘A window-dresser?’ Stanley seemed taken aback.
His tone was such that Milly flushed with embarrassment.
‘She’s frightfully good,’ said Eustace. ‘In great demand in both Worthing and Brighton.’ Stanley excused himself and went back to his easel. Milly felt like a fish out of water. She shouldn’t have come. She didn’t belong here, that much had been made very clear.
At Eustace’s invitation, Milly glanced over Stanley’s shoulder. The painting he was working on was rather confusing. In the centre was a woman’s face, but the eyes were missing, and the top of her head ended just above her eyebrows. The woman’s chin rested on a barrel and her left foot (missing the big toe) was emerging from the ground beside her. The sky was blood red as if it were sunset. As he picked up his paintbrush again, Stanley began working on the face of a clock in the top right-hand corner of the canvas. As she watched, he painted the two hands of the clock to say ten past five.
Milly was dying to ask what the picture represented but, after Stanley’s icy reception, she didn’t dare.
‘Roland old boy, said Eustace, moving on, ‘I’d like you to meet Milly. Milly, this is Roland Rotherford-Smuts.’
She shook hands with the tall, distinguished-looking man with deep-set eyes and dark slicked-back hair.
Roland’s painting was far more recognisable because he was painting a model who lay in a relaxed position on a couch on the other side of the room. Her name was Wanda and, as soon as she spoke, Milly knew she was an American. Her face was familiar but it wasn’t until a little while later that she realised that the face in Stanley’s picture and Roland’s work was one and the same.
Roland and Wanda took a break and shared some tea with Milly and Eustace.
Watching the artists at work fuelled Milly’s desire to pick up her paintbrush again. It had been ages since she’d had the time to paint.
‘What sort of art do you do?’ asked Wanda, as she joined them at the table.
‘Nothing as avant-garde as this,’ said Milly. ‘Landscapes mostly, but I also enjoy painting wildlife. I’m fascinated by anything in the natural world which can make itself look like something else; for instance, a stick insect that looks like a twig or a deer that blends so well with its natural surroundings that it becomes invisible.’
Wanda seemed impressed.
‘Do you paint?’ Milly asked.
‘Me? Lord no. I’m a poet.’
Milly smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a real live poet before.’
‘She’s brilliant,’ said Roland. He put his arm around Wanda’s waist and drew her close to him. Milly looked away as they started kissing.
After they’d spent about an hour in the studio, Eustace suggested that they leave. Milly excused herself to go to the toilet and freshen her make-up. As she walked to the sink, Wanda came out of one of the cubicles.
‘Enjoy yourself?’ she said as they stood side by side.
Milly nodded. ‘You’re all so talented.’
Wanda grinned. ‘I’m only the model, darling.’
They heard a commotion out in the corridor, then Stanley’s voice said, ‘Don’t do this again.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Eustace retorted crossly. ‘Get a hold of yourself.’
‘This place is not a peep show,’ said Stanley. ‘If you want to impress your tarts, do it somewhere else.’
Milly felt her face heating up. Wanda moved to the towel rail to dry her hands.
‘Let me remind you who found you this place,’ they heard Eustace say.
