The English Boys (6 page)

Eight

In spite of its
location off Trafalgar Square, amidst the angry snarl of Charing Cross Road and St. Martin's Lane, the National Portrait Gallery remains a haven for deep thinkers and scholars who come primarily to transport themselves to other places and times. The massive stone walls shelter their inhabitants from the strident London traffic, which shunts incalculable numbers of passengers to and from various means of employment, meals, and business dealings of every kind. The gallery provides a place to contemplate the faces contained therein, some of which were fashioned of paint, others in
pen and ink, not to mention observe the stark contradiction be
tween the grandness of bronze sculptures and the more modest plasticine medallions. All are capable of inspiring interest and giving the viewer the ability to recreate, at least in the mind's eye, the exact mental picture he or she hopes to attain.

It was shortly after agreeing to appear in Sir John's film
that Daniel found himself doing precisely that as he stood in front of the portrait of
Thomas Hardy, oil on panel, by William Strang. The portrait was
how he'd imagined it: entrancing. Hardy's slightly balding head was captured bent in thought, eyes downcast, sad, almost, as if he were grieving or thinking of a love that he had once possessed but now lost. His full, bushy eyebrows dominated the upper half of his head, his even more voluminous mustache the lower, and the subtle play of hues behind his dark suit set the tone for an ominous mood. Certainly, if the author had been contemplating one of his characters, he was thinking not of
Under the Greenwood Tree'
s resilient Fancy Day but more likely of his heroine Tess, for the miseries with which he endowed her poor character would indeed have the power to cause him tremendous pain.

Daniel wasn't overfond of portraits, or pictures of any kind. They were antithetical to the dramatic arts. He did, however, see the activity of searching out any and all relevant information as an important exercise in the preparation for a role, not unlike memorizing lines of dialogue or watching a previous version of a film in order to determine what, if anything, might be useful to him in his art. Hardy's expressive face spoke volumes in the silent room. He had been a man who cared deeply about the people he created in his novels, and if he were able to see them now, would have opinions about every aspect of their depiction on film. At any rate, taking the odd hour in the NPG made Daniel feel he was substantiating his claim on his current undertaking.

He preferred the Victorian portraits to the other collections, for although he found photography somewhat more interesting, actors were frequently the subject of the newer collections and it was an odd sensation to see life-size photos of people one knew or with whom one worked. Hugh's likeness had recently been added to the collection; he could be seen posing with a glass of champagne on a perch at Stonehenge. That in itself was certainly worth avoiding. It was fine to celebrate the works of actors like Sir Laurence Olivier or Dame Judi Dench, who had created a body of work which could be nothing less than deeply admired and who perhaps deserved, after decades of honing their craft, to be showcased in just such a manner, but to have his contemporaries, even his own friends, portrayed thusly, the people he got drunk with and ate with and spent half his time with … well, it was unimaginable.

He sat down on a bench, having accomplished his plan for the morning. He'd done what he had come to do—taken a serious look at the face of Thomas Hardy—and now he had to decide what to do next. Daniel was rarely bored; the innumerable activities provided by a city the size of London practically forbade it; but, nonetheless, he hadn't found anyone available to join him for lunch and he didn't like to eat alone. His mother had asked him down to Brighton for the day, but he had begged off. In fact, for the last two years, he had seen his family only at Christmas and once or twice in the summer, when he would take the morning train down and the earliest return trip back to London that he could manage. He didn't mind seeing his parents, but his brother was an irritation he preferred to avoid. He had also been invited to spend the day with Hugh's family, but he had done so recently and felt he could forego that particular duty. He had looked forward to a day of complete self-indulgence, and yet, now that he had it, he had no idea what to do with it.

After sitting for a few more minutes, he resolved to get a curry on the way back to his flat and spend the afternoon watching old videos. As he stood, he heard a voice call out to him.

“Daniel Richardson!”

He turned, and though he had no idea whom to expect, it certainly wasn't the familiar face that beamed up at him, which belonged to the girl he'd recently met on the ferry. She looked even younger than she had before, wearing an absurd vintage frock that must have been quite the rage in 1962. If she had been wearing go-go boots instead of bottle-green ballet flats the color of her dress, she would have conjured images of the Beatles singing “Love Me Do.”

“I see you're stalking me,” Daniel said. He couldn't help smiling.

“In a city of eight million people, that seems rather impossible.”

“No doubt. What are you doing here? I hadn't pegged you as the sort to spend Sunday mornings looking at portraits.”

“I was supposed to meet someone for lunch. It looks like I've been stood up.”

“Then why don't you have lunch with me?” he said, the words erupting from his lips before he had even considered what he was saying.

“Do you often come here to pick up girls?” she asked in mock disapproval.

“Every day.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Come on. It'll be fun.”

She smiled, her broad, full lips devoid of any lipstick. Her hair was a riot of red waves, sun-streaked and natural, reminding him of girls at school. He wondered how old she was. Surely she was nearly his age. She looked younger, but there was something knowing in her eyes.

“Where would you like to eat?” he asked when they were out in the street, standing on the pebbled mosaic outside the door.

“Let's have a picnic.”

He was pleased with her suggestion. Anyone else would have named a posh restaurant where she might have been seen with him. He was used to that by now.

“Well, I haven't a blanket, for one thing,” he argued, hoping she would at least choose a respectable café. “Or a hamper from Harrods full of smoked salmon and caviar.”

“You're just spoiled. Anything can be a picnic if you eat it outside in the fresh air.”

They settled for a lump of Stilton, a loaf of bread, and two apples purchased from a nearby shop, taking their finds to a bench overlooking the Thames. It was a bit Parisian for his taste. Meals were meant
to be eaten with a knife and fork, and wine was meant to be poured into glasses rather than shared in sips from the same bottle. Yet at the same time there was something pleasant about sitting with her and staring beyond the London Eye to the violet clouds beyond. Rain threatened overhead, but for now, there was a stillness, almost an air of expectation.

“We'd better go,” he said a half hour later, trying to think of a way to ask if he could see her again.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked. “Some friends are having a party.”

“Sorry. I can't.”

“Of course not. You're too famous to mingle with the average Briton.”

“No, I mean, I'm going to Dorset tomorrow. I'm leaving early.”

“Oh! Well, I'll come with you.”

“Oh, you will, will you? No other plans to keep you here? What about the party?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Never mind about that. It would have been dull anyway.”

“Be that as it may, I'm not going away for the day. I'll be gone weeks.”

“Take me along anyway. The minute you're tired of me, put me on a train and send me right back to London.”

“And what might you do in Dorset, may I ask?”

“Work, presumably. I assume you're there to do a film, and as it's Dorset, it's bound to be a period drama. I could get a part as an extra. ‘Girl With Sheep' or something.”

“How very Bouguereau of you. Do you have your own little crook?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Still … ” he said, looking up again as he heard the first crack of thunder.

“I won't impose on you, really. I'll find someone to room with when I get there. I just need a change.”

“I can't believe I'm even considering it.”

“Of course you can. It's inevitable. We're going to be great friends. Might as well start now.”

To Dorset, she came. The following morning, he picked her up in front of the flat she shared in Paddington and stowed her two battered bags in the boot of his car. She wasn't talkative, preferring to nurse a cup of coffee, though whether she was hung over or deep in thought, he wasn't sure. After they were out of London, she lowered the window to feel the breeze on her face. Twice, she asked him to stop the car so she could get out and look at the view. He was happy to comply. It was a warm day, and he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Occasionally he glanced at his wristwatch out of habit, but in actuality he was unconcerned about the time. It had been a year and a half since he had been out of London to shoot a film in the country, and he had forgotten the elation he felt to be forced out of his usual habits and routines and given the opportunity to live life at a different pace. Acting was a hurry up and wait sort of job, with a great deal of preparation and action at the beginning degenerating into a measured, thoughtful activity of getting the retakes exactly right.

The second time Daniel and Tamsyn stopped, they were deep in the countryside. They got out of the car, she walking ahead of him, entranced by the sight in front of her.

“Look!” she cried, examining the blackthorn, which grew some distance from the road. “They're beautiful. You'd never see this in London.”

“You're Welsh, aren't you?” he asked.

“Yes. My family still lives there.”

She was almost beautiful then. Daniel smiled, bending over the flowers for a moment as she turned and walked deeper into the meadow. The air was still and quiet, and even a few steps from
the road one could forget that modern civilization was there behind them. He was used to the din of the city, the constant noise of the modern industrial society from which untold millions never had a rest and knew no other way of life. Hardy himself in
Greenwood
spoke of the blooming apple trees and fallen petals of the Dorset countryside, and though Daniel could never express with the same elegance or fineness of feeling what he saw before him, he felt it now, reaching his very bones. No sound could be heard apart from the wrens and thrushes warbling the occasional mid-flight tune. They were as alone as Adam and Eve, and as innocent as the biblical pair before Shame entered their souls and filled them with the need to cover their naked bodies.

Tamsyn ran through the grass, enveloping herself in the exquisiteness of it as though Daniel weren't even there, pausing for a moment to gaze ahead, where the European Chalk Formation gave way to the sandstones of east Dorset. The downs rose and swelled in perfect, damp greenness, a glorious postcard of beauty, making him wish he had a camera with him. Yet he knew that no man-made, artificial device could record what he saw in that moment. The clouds crouched low upon the farthest hills, as if heaven reached out to bless the earth in just that very spot, along with the frail mortals who had stumbled into Paradise.

He waited while she took her fill, and then without a word, they returned to the car and continued on their way. They arrived not long after in Colebridge, a village perched on sloping hills and dotted round with trees. There, they drove up to a row of stone houses, gray and white and tan, their colors muted and fading against the deepest cobalt sky. Daniel pulled a paper from his pocket and consulted his notes before turning at the first church he came to.

“What are you looking for?” Tamsyn asked. She hadn't spoken in some time, lost in a reverie he had been loath to interrupt.

“My friend's house. Well, not really his house. It's been rented for him during his stay. I thought I would stop in before I go to the hotel.”

“Why don't you stay in a house, too?” she asked.

“Not my style.” Daniel glanced at her as he pulled in front of a thatched-roof cottage and parked the car. “I like my freedom.”

“Doesn't everyone?”

They stepped out of the car. Daniel pocketed his keys and knocked at the door, which swung open almost at once.

“Ah, you made it,” Hugh said, stepping aside for them to enter.

The house, certainly a Grade I and possibly a Grade II, looked as though its owners had been booted out, leaving everything in a state of elegant comfort. There were deep armchairs and shelves of books and even paintings on the walls of peonies and English dales and the ubiquitous spaniels of which middle-aged persons are so fond. Someone had assembled a household of possessions selected with great care over many years, and it would be lived in for weeks or months as though it were a mere backdrop for the conversations that would be held within its walls.

“Hugh, this is my friend Tamsyn. She's hoping to get a small role in the film.”

“We'll have to put in a word for you, then,” Hugh answered. He held open the door. “Come in. I have lunch ready. I hope you're hungry.”

“Always,” Daniel said, watching Tamsyn as she walked across the stone steps and into the sitting room.

“Straight through,” Hugh called to her, indicating the open door that led to the garden out back. He stopped and looked at Daniel, arching a brow. “So, who is she? I'm surprised. This is not your usual style.”

“It's not what you think,” Daniel argued. “It's a lark. She's fun, that's all. She dabbles in acting and asked to come along.”