Eleanor’s Secret

This was Eleanor’s last chance: she hadn’t been able to find the last four artists she had been sent to sign, and Mr Steadman was losing patience. One for the forces, one for us, he had told her, huge eyes magnified through his glasses, expression grave. But it seemed as if she was always a fraction too late; each artist she tracked down had already signed up or recently packed out. It was looking more like ‘four for the forces, one for us’.

Eleanor felt even more irritated now because she and her driver, Clive, were lost—either that or all the roads looked the same. Just as she felt like giving up, their Austin Eighteen fought another pothole, rattling towards the junction, and she spotted the unmistakable yellow of Yorkstone through the trees.

‘Very good, miss,’ Clive replied from the driver’s seat, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror.

‘It’s much bigger than I expected,’ she said, as she wondered if the rumours about the place were true.

The three-storey Victorian building was shrouded by thick canopies of oaks and pencil-thin trunks of silver birch. It was also half-hidden from street view by large detached Wandsworth houses, home to the city’s up-and-comers until war had wrenched them away. Eleanor had plenty of time to peer through their elegant windows as the large saloon crawled past, and she imagined the works of art that might be languishing inside.

Her journey from Portman Square had taken twice as long as it should have because of diversions through the bomb-damaged streets—and thanks to Clive’s overly cautious nature. The first reason was unavoidable but as for the second…She had to bite her tongue as Clive drew the car to an excruciatingly slow stop on the gravel driveway.

She had grown used to working out the routes with fewer street signs than before the war, but she would never get comfortable with being chauffeured when cars were being requisitioned and the manpower was needed just as badly. She was quite sure she could do a better job of driving than Clive too. If only Mr Steadman would agree to let her take her driving test, but there was little chance of that—only last week, the divisional officer had commented that she wasn’t ready yet: It is highly irregular for a woman to take her test after only two months of lessons, Miss Roy.

Eleanor double-checked inside her leather satchel, making sure that the papers and contract were all there, and then stepped from the Austin and into the shadow cast by one of the Gothic towers.

The Royal Victoria Patriotic Building really was much bigger than she had expected, altogether more imposing, and it made her think of the stories she had heard about the place. It had been built as an asylum for the orphaned girls of the Crimea, and some said they haunted it still, while others said that it was inhabited by the ghosts of Great War soldiers who had died within its walls.

That morning, before Eleanor’s workmate Maura had left the office, she’d leaned over the desk and clutched Eleanor’s hand. Her soft Irish brogue had been hushed and full of exaggerated kindness. ‘Good luck, my dear. You do know they torture spies and traitors there, don’t you?’

Eleanor had laughed, assuming her friend was joking. But as she looked up at the building’s French-style turrets, and at the roofs that were a sinister grey, like an ominous sky before a thunderstorm, she thought that perhaps it might be true.

She straightened her wool skirt and told herself to stop being ridiculous. She was there for a purpose that was unlikely to take very long, anyway. In just an hour she would be back at the Ministry of Food, spinning Maura an outlandish tale about the ghosts she had seen—or maybe she should feign injury and make up a story of how she had been tortured but released when her captors realised she didn’t have any intelligence to share.

While the building was foreboding, its vast gardens were inviting. To the east, manicured lawns led down to a lake surrounded by a cathedral of trees; a refreshing wind barely moved the branches, whistling through the long, fragile grasses. They were only six miles from the Ministry’s office at Portman Square, but it was strangely peaceful. Quiet, except for the chatter of finches. The noisy, battle-scarred streets could have been a hundred miles away as the afternoon slowed to its natural rhythm. For just a moment, Eleanor felt as if she and Clive were the only people there—until a door banged inside the building.

She lowered her head to her driver’s window. ‘I shan’t be too long, Clive,’ she said, her hazel eyes holding his gaze. ‘You will wait here, won’t you?’

It was more of a request than a question, and he winked up at her, tapping his grey cap with crooked fingers. ‘Certainly will, miss.’

She hoped that he meant it this time, that he wouldn’t park the car and stroll around as he had done before—especially when she might be eager to get away. The woodland and birdlife might prove too much of a temptation for him, and she really didn’t want to be stuck here any longer than necessary.

‘Oh no, miss,’ he said, extending them out under the steering wheel. ‘I reckon they’re just about as long as they’re going to get!’

Inside, the building was not nearly as impressive—the painted walls were flaking badly and the plaster had come away in places, leaving large areas of exposed brickwork. The air was so thick with dust that Eleanor wanted to throw open the windows to let the building breathe but they were bolted shut with grimy locks. Maybe she wasn’t in the right place after all; it didn’t look like somewhere to bring grieving children for comfort and support.

A large entrance hall extended into a reception area with three doors and a wide staircase, but the only noise came from the floors above. She followed the echo upwards, slowly trailing behind dust motes that chased the sun before they disappeared into the roof-light.

Voices drifted from somewhere higher up, and so she carried on: past the first floor, where rooms stretched along unlit corridors that disappeared into shadows at either end, and up the second set of stairs. The voices were becoming clearer, and she could make out words—the closer she drew, the stronger they became, tiny voices, some barely more than whispers, singing ‘Ring-a-Ring O’Roses’.

Up here the walls were in an even poorer condition. Splintered planks of bare wooden studwork gave glimpses into the room behind, where a small group of children sat cross-legged on the floor at the feet of a woman seated on a stool. The woman, in her mid-twenties like Eleanor, flipped through a book as they started on a new nursery rhyme.

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,

When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing…

When the woman glanced up, Eleanor raised her hand in greeting. The woman waved back as she continued to sing.

Eleanor drew closer, so she was level with the door, and was so absorbed by the children’s singing that it was a moment until she noticed the outline of a man. His tall frame would have looked awkward, arched forward as it was over the easel, had he not moved so gracefully, white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal unusually sun-tanned skin.

On the walls around him was a scattering of black-and-white sketches: some depicting the children grouped together, others of them individually. These pictures weren’t as beautiful as Murillo’s seventeenth-century street children, but they were mesmerising in their detail, a fretwork of greys and blacks. Eleanor moved forward, drawn to the startlingly intricate lines that built the shading, with smaller lines indicating where an eyebrow might be or the edge of a smile.

The artist was sketching a girl of about six, and every time he looked up his dark hair fell across his face, hiding it from view.

The room was an old dormitory—skeletons of bedframes were spaced along its length, and windows with rails but no curtains were higher up on the walls. Across the narrowest part of the room, a simple line was strung, now home to delicately coloured paintings from the same hand as the sketches. The artist must have been here for some time, Eleanor realised, since there were several of these watercolour pictures, raw in form but each capturing the expression and characteristics of the child.

Eleanor glanced across the frayed and dirty creatures with their slumped backs and earnest faces. They presented a strange contradiction, not because such sweet song arose from them, but because of the enthusiasm with which the tribe did their best to sing and the woman her best to lead them. Perhaps they were bewildered by their recent fate and exhausted, allowing themselves to be easily shepherded and cajoled. The last thing Eleanor wanted was to disturb them, so she stood quietly as they sang and the artist sketched; she imagined it to be minutes of welcome abandon for them all.

Then the artist twisted round, exchanging his pencil for a brush, and she noticed how quick and fluid his movements were. She supposed he would have to be nimble to go where he went, to do what he did. And as she watched him drawing, she wondered what other qualities a man like this would need. People were used to seeing beauty in nature, to seeing its magnificence reflected back and preserved in great works of art: there had been centuries of it, from Constable to Monet, from landscapes to monuments. But now British artists were engaged to record the atrocities of war—all that was base and deplorable in humankind. And yet here were watercolours so beautiful, the children so vulnerable, that they were some of the most haunting images she had ever seen. She knew the artist’s work, had seen his book illustrations and some of his portraits, but these were something different. He had captured the souls of these children, brought the angels out of them, preserved their innocence before the war had the chance to pluck it away.

Eleanor was so engrossed in watching him work that as she took another step, her foot hit a loose plank. The wood squeaked, and the artist turned around.

He glanced up, dark eyebrows knitting in a momentary frown, then he smiled. As his green eyes bore into her, her cheeks burned. It was clear now that, as his name suggested, he was of Mediterranean descent. He was also much taller than she had expected, and altogether stronger and more poised, with the physique of an athlete rather than an artist.

It was dark here in the attic, with less air circulating, fewer windows to open; perhaps that was why she felt overwhelmed. Then she remembered why she had come. She stepped towards him, offering her hand. ‘Hello, Mr Valante. I’m Eleanor Roy, from the Ministry of Food. I’m here with the contract for you to sign.’ She had been ready to be efficient and businesslike, get the contract signed then return to the office as soon as possible, but all she could think about was how this unexpected man could create such extraordinary work. He looked vague, though, his expression so remote that she continued: ‘We wrote to you about having some of your pictures decorate our British Restaurants.’

Her purpose must have finally registered because he came towards her, rubbing his hands on a rag, until he was as close as the narrow ceilings would allow. He carried the scents of turpentine and tobacco.

‘Pleasure to meet you, Miss Roy,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Call me Jack.’

His skin felt warm and smooth, not the dry and callused palms she experienced from days spent painting and long nights cleaning equipment and brushes.

‘You too, Jack,’ she said brightly, ‘and I must just say, I am a huge admirer of your work.’

She was so relieved to finally be speaking with an artist, she had got carried away. As soon as she’d spoken the words she regretted them; self-conscious, she looked about to see what the children were doing. The infants were lying on their bellies, while the older ones sat cross-legged, their singing now muted as they drew or painted.

‘Oh, really,’ Jack said, sounding surprised. ‘Where have you seen it, Miss Roy?’

‘At the Slade School of Art—they had two of your pictures on loan last year.’

‘Thank you. Do you go to many exhibitions?’ he asked, his arm resting on the beam overhead, his body filling up the space.

‘Yes, I did,’ she said. ‘He is a tireless advocate for his students…in fact, he put me forward for our decoration scheme.’

‘Oh.’ Jack looked at her more intensely. It was an artist’s gaze: one that she recognised, one that assessed the subject. ‘And what do you like to paint, Miss Roy?’

He’d caught her off guard and she hesitated. ‘Well, I don’t get to paint much anymore…but I really am much more useful at the Ministry,’ Eleanor said, hoping she sounded convincing. ‘Anyway, unless I was as talented as Anna Airy, then I doubt very much that anyone should miss me,’ she added with a forced laugh. Anna Airy was her hero. Also a former Slade student, Anna had painted during the Great War, often in very difficult circumstances, and had shown Eleanor how female artists could share the stage with men.

Jack smiled warmly. ‘So tell me again, what brings you here, Miss Roy?’ he asked.

‘I have the contract for you to sign,’ she said. She raised the document towards him.

He took the paper and glanced over it, then handed it back. ‘I am sorry, Miss Roy. I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.’ His smile turned apologetic, and he moved away from her, going back to his painting. He picked up a brush and traced the outline of a child’s silhouette. Then he glanced round and smiled again. ‘Please thank the Ministry for its interest, but—’

The wind was picking up outside, reminding her of Clive waiting in the drafty car to drive her back into town—and of the irritation she would be greeted with from Mr Steadman at her failure.

The children also carried on with their artworks, so she watched them as she decided what to do; an artist had never just flatly refused to sign a contract before—at least as far as she knew. Surely there must be some protocol or procedure to follow, but she couldn’t think what it was.

‘You do know that it really is quite an honour,’ she said, her heart beating faster, her breathing constricted beneath her navy woollen suit.

‘A great many artists would be flattered to have their work as part of this scheme. Dozens, in fact, would jump at the chance.’

Eleanor was about to tell him that she had clear instructions to get the contract signed, and that she needed a date for the completed lithographs, when there was a heavy tramping on the stairs.

Two men appeared in the doorway. They weren’t in uniform, but something about the way they wore their dark suits and trilbies suggested they weren’t ordinary civilians. The tall one had his face half-hidden, black moustache just visible beneath the shadow of his hat, and the shorter one, with fair hair and a ginger beard, held an unlit pipe balanced between his lips.

Her gaze flicked between him and the children. They were so very tired that they paid little attention to the visitors, while outside the doorway there seemed to be some kind of disagreement going on.

After a few minutes, Jack returned and began packing away his equipment, then he paused to roll down his sleeves. At first he seemed composed until she noticed his movements were hurried and clumsy, and how he fumbled over his shirt buttons.

The smell of turpentine and tobacco had been replaced with something more—the scent of Jack.

‘It’s a pleasure,’ she said, gazing up at him. An hour earlier, she had never set eyes on Jack Valante, and now she felt as if she couldn’t let him out of her sight.

‘These chaps don’t take no for an answer.’ He glanced back through the doorway to where the men waited, their eyes fixed on him.

The atmosphere in the room had changed; the gentle chorus of nursery rhymes had given way to an uneasy tension. Jack looked over at the children, then picked up his jacket, draping it casually over his shoulder, and walked towards the door.

When he reached the doorway, he stopped and turned. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Roy. I hope you find your artist.’

Surely there must be something she could do or say? It was unclear whether Jack knew the men or not—he was reluctant but not refusing to go. Yet with barely any time to react, she just looked helplessly at the teacher, and listened as the trudge of footsteps on wooden stairs faded, and, with it, her chance of signing the artist.