GRACE WAS MEETING Norman Morrow again tonight at an art exhibition that included black-and-white illustration.
He greeted her warmly and she introduced him to her friends as they mingled and chatted, talking about their work. Norman fitted in well with her circle. He was over in Dublin for ten days and they had had dinner last night and were going to the Abbey tomorrow.
As they climbed the stairs of the United Arts Club, Norman gently touched the nape of her neck and told her she was beautiful.
‘Behave!’ she laughed, though she had to admit she did enjoy his romantic attentions.
They both had a piece on display at the latest exhibition and they stood making complimentary comments about each other’s work, which attracted attention. Countess Markievicz joined them and admired his etching, which had also been exhibited in a gallery in London.
‘The problem with the war is that no one is buying anything.’ He shrugged. ‘All the papers want is news journalism and work by war artists.’
Afterwards they slipped away quietly from the crowd to spend time on their own in a nearby café. Grace sat smoking and enjoying a glass of wine as Norman again tried to persuade her to join him in London.
‘Grace, it is impossible for someone like me to make a living in Dublin,’ he said, running his hands through his thick, curling hair. ‘At least in London there is more opportunity for illustrators and political cartoonists like us to work.’
‘You were just saying earlier that no one is buying,’ she teased.
‘Perhaps not as much as usual,’ he conceded, ‘but war or no war, people will always buy art in London. And there are so many print newspapers and magazines. My brother George has made his fortune working for Punch and I am getting some good work from magazines too.’
‘I work for the Review and the papers and magazines and theatre here too,’ she argued.
‘But you told me they rarely pay you,’ he reminded her.
Grace blushed. ‘Art is not just about money,’ she retorted hotly.
‘I know that,’ he apologized, stroking her hand. ‘It’s just that you are so talented and would definitely get work. Can you imagine us both in London, living and working together in our studio?’
Grace took a slow pull of her cigarette, giving consideration to what he was saying. She was a little in love with him, but Norman had never gone down on his knee or sworn undying love for her; he just talked about them living and working together in some kind of bohemian way. She presumed he meant marriage.
He held her hand and put his arm around her and she tried to imagine sharing her life with him …
‘Let’s enjoy the next few days,’ she said as the pianist began to play ‘The Song That Stole My Heart Away’ and Norman pulled her into his arms to dance.
When the time came for him to return to London, he promised to write and told her he fully intended to persuade her to join him in the next few months. But Grace was unsure. She could no longer imagine spending the rest of her life in London so far from her family and friends and Ireland …
His letters came regularly, some filled with cartoons and drawings, and she wrote back immediately, adding her own squiggles and sketches. But as the weeks passed she realized that, while she cared deeply for Norman and treasured the time she spent with him, she did not love him enough to move to London to live with him. He in turn did not actually love her enough to make the move to live and work in Dublin.
She wrote to him less and less.
‘Are you sad about Norman?’ asked Nellie.
‘A little – I do miss him sometimes,’ she confessed, trying not to dwell too much on their failed romance.
A few months later Norman wrote to tell her that he was going overseas to work as a war artist for one of the newspapers.