The Crimson Bed (20 page)

    The carved head of a lion in marble graced a small occasional table and a lacquered chest stood in a corner containing all his paper, boxes of chalks and charcoals and a box of brushes. Lining the windowsill, on which Ellie had placed a vase of sweet peas in all their effusive shades of pinks, whites and mauves, was a row of small pots. These contained various mixtures of oil colours, ready for use. Some canvases were stacked against a far wall, turned around so the designs could not be seen – for Fred, never confident about his work, preferred to hide it till he felt it to be passably ready.

    He regarded his latest effort at painting. It was a small piece, a little sunlit scene with Ellie seated in the garden reading a book.

    He took it over to the window and let the light fall upon it. He put it back upon the easel and stared at it for a few minutes longer, his face screwed up as if in pain. Then he picked up a brush and his palette and wondered whether to work a little more on Ellie's bare forearms. They looked a peculiar green just now. Maybe he had overdone the purple-green tinge that lay in the shadows of her neck as well. How did Gabriel Rossetti always manage to use the strangest tints in flesh tones and make it look normal? When Fred did so, faithfully following the instructions of the master, it always looked as if the flesh was going rotten and mouldy.

    Ellie entered the room at that moment and went to a drawer to fetch something. She stopped to look at the painting, smiled and taking the palette and brush from his fingers very gently, said, 'It's lovely, Fred. It's just right as it is. Now put away that paintbrush for goodness sake or you'll go fiddling about with it till you ruin it and then I shall be cross. Go and buy a frame instead and we'll hang it up in the dining room. It will look very pleasing there over the sideboard.'

    He sighed and let her put his palette aside.

    'But it's such an appalling picture, Ellie. I know you say it's nice to please me; you are such a dear, kindly wife. But my work is never going to improve, try as I will. I simply haven't the talent and I suppose I must face up to the fact.'

    'Nonsense! You do have talent. And I don't say I like it just to please you. I don't do that sort of thing. You know I always say what I think.'

    'True enough,' he said with a wry smile, 'you can be counted upon for that.'

    'Well then, Mr Thorpe, have faith in your missus. Your trouble is that you are such a perfectionist, everything has to be just so! Perhaps you need to find a new style. Look at Henry, he says he means to give up on this slow, painstaking method of painting that old fusspot Holman Hunt taught his pre-Raphaelite brothers. And as far as I know so has Millais. Henry adapts, that's the secret of his success. He adapts to his own nature. Maybe you should try that instead. Have a change of medium – try watercolours.'

    'Have a change of occupation. That might be wiser. All you say is sound and right, my dear, but it isn't the answer, not for me

at least.'

    He looked again at his painting and shaking his head, turned it to face the wall. Suddenly he hated his painting and even his poetry. It was hopeless stuff. He fooled himself thinking he could ever be like Rossetti or Millais or Winstone – or any of them. They all tolerated him as a friend but not as an artist brother. Probably they laughed at him behind his back with cruel jests at his expense. He felt himself go hot with shame at the mere thought of it; that his friends, those people he admired so deeply, might laugh at him. He was
not
a good artist and never would be. It was sweet of Ellie to try and encourage him but he had to be honest with himself.

    'Father was giving me a lecture the other day,' he said. 'He felt I needed to find what he calls a "proper occupation" and told me that I should stop fooling about with painting and poetry. He kindly informed me that if I had even a modicum of talent he would support my efforts. But as I haven't, he won't. He wants me to go into business, can you believe it? When I made a face about it, he said that I was as lazy as my dear mother. That really made me angry. I'm not a bit lazy, am I, Ellie?'

    She laughed merrily, 'Well, a
little
my love. But it would be hard to be as lazy as your dear mother.'

    'Y
ou
think me lazy too!' he said despondently and sat down in a chair, his face a study in gloom.

    Ellie laughed again. Her laughter was not malicious but she did find it hard to take Fred seriously at times. He was such a boy at heart but then all these artists were. Just like boys... jesting, teasing, quarrelling, playing around at life and love.

    She sat down beside him and took his hand in her own.

    'Maybe your father is right. You do need an occupation, Fred. I expect your father suggested that you should join him in the Bank?'

    'Well, yes, as a matter of fact he did. But, Ellie, you know I could never do anything as soulless as that.'

    She became serious now. 'No, Fred, I don't think you
could
follow a profession of that sort. Nor would I ask you to. I understand your heart. You're a sensitive soul, you are a poet. But you know, dear one, God willing, we shall have children sometime and maybe you should think about ways of maintaining a family. Neither poetry nor painting pays the bills. For the present we have nothing but our allowances to live on and I have no wish for anyone to die to help me live in lazy comfort, have you?'

    'Heaven forbid!'

    'Then you must think about it and see what you could do that would not offend your spirit and yet be a worthwhile occupation.'

    'I have given it thought,' he said with a frown, 'and I think as I cannot paint, yet love art, books and photographs, perhaps I should turn to writing about it all like Ruskin or William Rossetti. Write articles for the papers and the Magazine of Art, that sort of thing. In addition, I may begin to invest in a few pictures with the idea of buying and selling. If that idiot Ruskin can do it, so can I. I put that idea to Father and he felt it was a good one and that he could be of great assistance in such a scheme. He can find me plenty of wealthy Northern business men who want to snap up the sort of paintings our friends produce. And I can help out all our friends at the same time which would make me very happy.'

    'You're such a good soul, Fred,' said Ellie with a smile and a kiss on his cheek, 'such a good soul. Let's go round to tell Henry the news and take a picnic with us. We can sit out by his big window and watch the folks plying their boats up and down the river. Oh, come, it would be such a nice thing!'

    'Near that smelly old river! Why pass time there by those unwholesome docks when we have Hampstead Heath?'

    'Oh, you're a grump today and mean to see only the blight on the rose all the time. Yes, the river can be smelly but it is also beautiful and interesting. I love to see the bargees passing by and calling out to one another and the tall ships with their masts silhouetted in the sunset. Think of Turner and how romantic he made the river seem! One should look at that and not the faults all the time. That's half your trouble, Fred. You always see what is wrong and never what is right.'

    'True enough. And I'm sure you will help me to follow your good advice,' he replied humbly. 'How glad I am I have you in my life, Ellie, to wake me up and encourage me along my path. I'm a lucky man.'

Delighted to see his son stirring himself in a sensible direction at last, James Thorpe was indeed helpful in making introductions to various important and wealthy businessmen from Liverpool, Birmingham and Manchester.

    No longer were the aristocracy the patrons of art; as often as not half of them were strapped for cash themselves and were obliged to sell family paintings in order to upkeep their estates. Even if they had enough money to spare, their taste still tended towards the classical and well tested styles, suspicious of the value of anything new and av
ant garde
. It was the uprising middle classes who were eager to buy art at reasonable prices and were open to new styles and ideas; moreover, they wanted to see their beloved pictures hanging in their homes, not kept in dusty vaults. This meant smaller, more intimate works of art to fit in smaller rooms, not vast, imposing canvases that took up an entire wall of a mansion.

    Fred was so full of his new activities, meetings and splendid finds that he did not notice the fact that Ellie, despite her smiles and attempts to be cheerful, was feeling very unhappy.

    Before the British Expeditionary Force had left the country, Captain Anthony Neville had grumbled about it to James Thorpe over dinner at their club.

    'It's a real nuisance, d'you know? We shall miss the Season, by gad. First we knew of it was when they took all our swords off to be sharpened and we can't draw 'em now till we meet the enemy. That's the orders. And, believe me, we can't wait to go and slice up those evil Russkies and make mincemeat of them. They'll go limping off home and regret the day they ventured out of their holes. We'll get back for Christmas at least. But to miss Ascot... damned inconvenient!'

    When Fred heard his father's account of this conversation, he thought it very amusing and reported it to Ellie. She made no reply and didn't seem to see the joke. But then, he observed, she wasn't very good-humoured at all of late and he vaguely wondered why.

Ellie knew she would not hear anything from Alfie for a long time. The British Expeditionary Force had now set off for Varna in the Crimea. It would be many long, tedious, dangerous weeks on the sea before the army at last disembarked and were rallied together, ready for the march to Sebastopol. Alfie's parting words lingered in her mind and she wished she had been kinder to him, not so cold and rigid. She woke every morning with a sense of anxiety and trouble in her heart, a sense too of regret.

    Ancient practice had made her good at concealing her feelings and let her husband suppose all was well. It wasn't difficult. Fred's tastes in life were few and simple and as long as these were met, he was a happy man.

    'I have to say I am actually quite enjoying having a bit more hustle and bustle in life, going to the West End and the City and travelling up North and meeting some very interesting people,' he remarked to her one evening as he sat with her in the drawing room after a delightful dinner.

    Ellie smiled and nodded, her mind far away in Sebastopol.

    Fred looked genially at his pretty wife, sitting opposite him, her voluminous skirts spread out around her. She was busy with a tambour, embroidering a tablecloth, and looking tranquil. The fire blazed merrily in the grate, there was a newspaper in his hand a glass of whisky by his side and he felt himself to be in a state of delight and comfort.

    'Every man should get married,' he said with a sigh of content as he put his feet up on a footstool and regarded with admiration the slippers his wife had embroidered for him as a wedding present.

    She looked up and smiled at him.

    'Oh, you big, cosy cat,' she said, 'you'll start purring any moment.'

    She reflected that he made her feel relaxed and comfortable because his own contentment seeped out to her and filled the house, and she tried hard to put any thoughts of Alfie from her head. She had done the right thing, sending him away and telling him to forget her. That she did not regret. And yet... always somewhere in the background...

    'I suppose I
am
a lazy thing at heart,' Fred continued ruefully, 'there is no doubt that a worthwhile occupation is the best thing in life for a man. It gives him purpose, energy and direction. But for that he needs a wife and a family. I am a very fortunate man to be saved from myself.'

One morning, Ellie came to Fred in his study. He rose as she entered.

    'No, no, don't let me disturb you, my dear.'

    He sat down again and she took a seat beside him. He put down his pipe and looked at her, wondering what she might have to say. There was an air of both pleasure and sadness about her.

    'Is all well?' he asked, taking her hand.

    'All
is
well, Fred, dear. I have such news for you! We are expecting out first child.'

    Fred was overjoyed. Smiles wreathed his face.

    'This
is
marvellous news. We must arrange for Dr. Wilkins to see you, organise the nursery... quick, let's call Mulhall at once!'

    'Shush, shush... there are several months yet!' She laughed with him but was glad to see his joy. She knew instinctively that he would be a good father.

    'I suppose you'd like a boy?' she said with a smile.

    'My dearest, let's pray for a healthy child and that all will be well for you both. That is all I want. I am delighted.'

    Ellie smiled. 'Are you, Fred, dear?' However, she knew he was glad and that made her joyful in turn. The thrilling anticipation over her baby temporarily blotted out all her vague and insubstantial fears and regrets over Alfie.

Chapter 17

Ellie was delighted when Lord Dillinger invited them both to come over to Oreton Hall in September. She had not returned there since that summer's day when she and Alfie had disappeared together into the woods, their last day together as lovers. How long ago all that seemed now! She had been so immature and foolish, giving of herself carelessly – shamelessly even. She would never behave like that now. Sometimes this saddened her but at other times she liked to remember, to re-live the past and feel grateful for those romantic memories. Romance, she decided, had little to do with marriage.

    Fred, now he was to be a father, was happy to fulfil her wishes in everything she desired, treating her like some priceless piece of porcelain, which, though pleasurable at times, could also be extremely tiresome. She hoped she might lose him a little at the Hall for he was sure to go off hunting and shooting with the other men and leave her in peace.