Eleanor’s Secret

Back at the office, Maura insisted that Eleanor tell her all about the trip, but she had decided to keep it to herself: at least until she figured out who the two men were and why Jack had been compelled to go with them. The whole affair had been rather strange, and on the journey back she had wondered if Maura might be right about the building—that spies and traitors were tortured there.

‘Aye, you’re a dark horse, Eleanor Roy,’ Maura said, brown bobbed hair bouncing as she tilted her head to one side. ‘What is it that you’re not telling me? What have ye been gettin’ up to?’

‘Oh, you know, just the usual—tea at the Criterion and then an exhibition at the National Gallery,’ Eleanor replied with mock formality, adding her jacket to those already piled on the wooden coat stand.

Clive had actually made good time, only getting delayed in a diversion near the Chelsea gasworks where the army had been detonating an unexploded incendiary that was threatening to demolish the area. Clive had driven the long way around because, as he had so delicately put it, Miss, wouldn’t half know about it if it went off! She had been inclined to agree.

‘You seem different,’ Maura said, looking her up and down with alert grey eyes. ‘Yes, there’s definitely something different about you…’

Maura had a small frame and so could wear anything she wanted, yet she always found something to say about Eleanor’s appearance; it was as if the slogan Make Do And Mend had been created with Maura in mind: that and the fact her mother worked in a laundry and often brought home damaged clothes that Maura versioned into something far more original on the family’s old Singer. And sometimes with surprising results—a floral blouse under a corduroy waistcoat, or a man’s jacket teamed with a silk pencil skirt. It was also one of the reasons that Maura had developed an obsession with magazines; she fawned over actresses’ organza ball gowns and polka-dot tea dresses, and envied their pleated skirts and sailor pants. She had told Eleanor, on more than one occasion, that she was going to get a job in a fashion house as soon as the war was over: Everyone will want to brighten up their wardrobe and their lives!

But although Eleanor usually trusted Maura’s opinion on these matters, she couldn’t see what was so different about her appearance this afternoon. All she could think of was that her wavy blonde hair fell around her face rather than being pinned back as it usually was, and shiny black leather shoes replaced a worn-out pair.

‘No, still the same old navy suit,’ she said with a smile. ‘Only the shoes are new-ish.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t stop off somewhere else?’ Maura asked suspiciously.

Perhaps Maura had picked up on her anxiety about Jack not signing the contract…or perhaps her eyes were small and puffy because of her interrupted sleep.

‘The only place I would go,’ Eleanor said, ‘is back home to check on Cecily.’

Eleanor wished she could have stopped by to see how her sister was getting on, but the Bayswater flat they shared just wasn’t on the route back to the office.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Eleanor sighed. ‘She was coughing all night. It seems that she’s spending more time nursing her own colds than anyone else’s.’

Ever since Cecily had started her nursing training, she had been sick with one thing or another; the doctors had told her that her immunity would build after a year or two, but it seemed their mother’s concern that she had conceived her fourth child too soon after giving birth was unfortunately being proven right.

‘Steadman wants the information about the new lithographs double-quick,’ Maura said. ‘He says the memorandum needs to be sent out to the boroughs today.’ She spoke with an exaggerated seriousness so that Eleanor couldn’t tell if she was joking. ‘Honestly, Miss Roy!’

Eleanor couldn’t see what all the fuss was about; they were already doing what Lord Woolton had asked of them. She glanced at the framed letter kept nearby as a daily reminder of their duty.

At the present time, two of the Ministry of Food’s British Restaurants a day are being opened in this country. May I venture to impress upon your Council, if it is proposing to bring into existence any new British Restaurants, the importance of ensuring that these places shall be so designed and decorated internally as to give an air of brightness and cheerfulness? I believe that it would add to the morale of the country that these war-time creations for communal feeding should be pleasant to eat in and that the design should be suitable for the purpose for which they are created.

Mr Steadman was in conversation behind the glazed door of his office, and Eleanor strained to see if she recognised the visitor from his voice or silhouette. When she couldn’t, she gave up and went back to her desk.

Back when the Ministry had first approached her about the decoration policy for British Restaurants, she had been surprised. It took her barely a moment to agree, and she soon realised that it was Aubrey Powell, her professor at the Slade, who had put her forward for the scheme. She wrote home immediately to tell her parents about the new role, and of the fifty-five boroughs she would have to visit and the hundreds of pictures and lithographs they would need to supply. There were murals by students from all over London, and it had sounded simple enough: she would visit the restaurants, assess their requests and make sure their conditions were satisfactory—not too much condensation or dust—and then report back directly to Mr Steadman, the chief divisional officer for London.

The job had been a challenge to begin with, and each week she wrote home with details of her new responsibilities. She’d hoped it would prove her father wrong for writing off her desire to be an artist as a waste of time, but he still insisted that her place was at home and helping with the family business. It seemed as though he would never be satisfied with her choices or accept that all their lives had changed—especially women’s—but now she also had concerns over whether Mr Steadman would keep her on after she had failed to sign another artist.

Across the room, coats dangled unevenly on the wooden stand, and she went over to rearrange them as neatly as if they were flowers in a shop display. She couldn’t bear the way the other office workers had no interest in their surroundings. At least these rooms were bright and recently painted, the high ceilings with pillars and cornices a slightly darker shade of cream for contrast, and with brass fixtures and fittings that reflected the fleeting sunlight. Even the solid wood bureaus and desks were arranged neatly, some looking old enough to have been there as long as the building had, as if they had taken root. Even in sparsely furnished government buildings, a little beauty could be found if you knew where to look: a small painting here or there, a window that offered a view of the treetops or a panorama of the city’s skyline—you just had to use a bit of imagination.

‘I say, you don’t fancy having a go at the memorandum yourself, do you?’ Eleanor asked Maura as she slid into her seat and placed the folders on the desk’s scratched leather surface. ‘There’s a packet of ciggies in it for you if you do.’

‘I’ve got more visits to make and, well…there’s just a lot to think about.’

But it wasn’t only the workload. Eleanor knew she was being melodramatic, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Jack and what had become of him. Who were those men? He’d appeared to go with them willingly, but it was so abrupt. Where had they taken him? Perhaps she should tell Mr Steadman after all—ask what he thought, at the very least.

The memory of Jack’s pictures was distracting her too, and how he had made it all look so easy. Her own brushstrokes were clumsy and childlike in comparison, and she’d meant it when she told him that she no longer had time to paint; now that they were working every hour God sent, she wouldn’t have time to complete any of her unfinished paintings, let alone start new ones.

Eleanor reached into the side drawer of her desk and pulled out a linen-bound sketchbook. She placed it on her lap, half-hidden from view, and looked through the pages; they were sketches, pencil figures, roughly drawn in pen and ink, all images from streetscapes and parks around the capital. Mild depictions of war and the struggles on the home front, not the grand records of combat that war artists like Pitchforth, Bawden and Cundall had produced, of men and their machines.

‘Just a minute,’ she replied, searching the drawer again. She pulled out a book of earlier sketches and flipped through until she found the picture of a female worker at the wool mill her family owned. Her fingers traced across it; she had embellished only the fabric with colour, a pastel watermark staining the page, and had left the worker in black and white. The worked-up painting from this draft, The Factory Worker, had secured her place at the Slade, from where she had been recruited for the Ministry. It was a privilege to be working here, but to be offered a contract for her art, to be contributing paintings to the schemes that would help improve wartime morale—that was all she hoped for, and she just couldn’t understand how Jack could turn it down.

Eleanor took the contract from her satchel and passed it to her. ‘Can you file this with the others, please?’

Maura looked at the empty signature line and back at Eleanor. ‘But he didn’t even sign it…’

Eleanor shrugged, not sharing the fact that she wanted to be able to find it again soon.

‘And what’s wrong with your filing, anyway?’ Maura continued. ‘Or have you forgotten the alphabet? It goes under “V”.’

‘“V” for very funny,’ Eleanor said, smiling. ‘So, what’s in the diary for later?’

Maura picked up her teacup, narrowing her grey eyes at Eleanor over the rim as she drank. Despite being employed as a clerical assistant, Maura still didn’t like taking instructions from Eleanor and she considered herself to be on an equal footing—even though she was far less qualified and a little younger.

Maura’s parents, Patrick and Caitriona Sullivan, came from Kilkenny—just south of the River Nore, she always specified—and had moved to Greenwich just after they were married. Before then, her father had worked for the local brewery and her mother the wool mill, so Eleanor believed that she and Maura had something in common—although she had only three siblings in contrast to Maura’s five, and her family owned the wool mill where they worked. Because Maura had grown up living hand-to-mouth, she made no secret of the fact that she couldn’t wait to move, and that her upward mobility would require as much instruction and help as Eleanor was willing to give.

Maura drained the cup, making Eleanor wait for her to reply. ‘You’ve got the restaurant in Finchley this afternoon. It’s your third visit, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, hopefully they’ll have sorted themselves out this time. Far too steamy for any of the paintings, though maybe not for a lithograph or two.’

‘But before that, you are going to tell me what happened today,’ Maura said. She stretched herself over the top of her Blue Bird typewriter, part of her upper body nearly disappearing into the machine’s cavity.

Eleanor tried to compose the memorandum and field Maura’s questions at the same time.

In connection with the decoration of British Restaurants, I am directed to bring to your notice a series of colour lithographs specially designed by modern artists and published by the Council for the Encouragement of Music and the Arts (CEMA).

These reproductions are now becoming available. In general, the pictures have as a subject the ‘occupation of the months’ e.g. October Tree Felling and May, a Picnic. They have, therefore, a popular appeal. The size of the prints is 40” x 30”…

‘“V” is actually for “very confusing”, if you really must know,’ Eleanor replied as she carried on typing.

‘Really? Why?’ Maura said, abandoning the typewriter altogether and coming to sit on the edge of Eleanor’s desk.

A group of pigeons shuffled noisily on the windowsill outside, and Eleanor tapped the glass in an effort to shush them away.

Eleanor was tempted to tell her friend about the meeting and Jack being spirited away, but Maura wasn’t known for her discretion.

‘Well,’ Maura said craftily, ‘you could start by telling me what he looks like…and what he was wearing.’

‘I suppose you would say he is rather good-looking. Maybe Italian heritage.’ Eleanor pictured his dark hair, sun-tanned skin and steady gaze.

‘Maybe I should draw you a picture!’ Eleanor replied with a trace of sarcasm.

‘Now there’s no need to be like that. I just want to know the basics. You know, the important ones like hair colour, eyes, that sort of thing.’

‘Alright, green. They were green. And I was watching him paint. He was just so…so patient with them.’

‘The children, of course!’ Eleanor said, as if Maura should know exactly what she was talking about.

‘Well, not that much, really. He was painting, and I didn’t want to spoil the moment.’

‘You don’t understand. I was just standing there watching him, but it seemed so…intimate. I didn’t want to intrude.’

Maura sighed. ‘And that’s why you didn’t manage to get the contract signed?’

‘No, I didn’t get the contract signed because he didn’t want to sign it—there’s really not much that one can do in those circumstances,’ she said, knowing it to be half-true.

Clearly disappointed with the lack of any remotely interesting details, Maura returned to her typing. ‘Aye, come on then, better get this sorted before Steadman finishes his meeting. And well done, Eleanor. It’s another artist you haven’t saved from extinction.’

‘Oh dear, Steadman’s not going to be very happy with me, is he?’ she said, worried all over again. ‘Who is he in there with, anyway?’

‘I have no idea, but they’ve been talking for ages. He arrived just before you got back.’

Sir Robert Hughes was the chairman of the War Artists’ Advisory Committee, and he had never visited their office before. His wife, Lady Hughes, had been advising Lord Woolton on the decoration policy in British Restaurants, so perhaps Sir Robert was getting involved now too.

Eleanor was growing excited at the thought of meeting the man she had read and heard so much about, when the door opened and Sir Robert walked out. He was taller than he looked in any of the newspaper articles. His hair was thinning across the crown, but he had the confident walk of a man with authority. Before he reached the door, he turned and smiled.

Eleanor smiled back. As soon as he had gone, she gave Maura a meaningful look, snatched the memorandum out of her Blue Bird typewriter and hurried into Steadman’s office.

‘What do you mean Mr Valante wouldn’t sign the contract?’ Mr Steadman said, astonished when Eleanor broke the news. ‘What did he say?’

‘He simply said that he didn’t want to. He said he would rather…How did he put it?’ She fiddled with the string of the manila folder. ‘He said he would rather be free to work with whichever department he chose.’

Steadman pursed his lips and frowned, wrinkling his unusually youthful features, before selecting a pen and scrawling a quick signature at the bottom of the memorandum. He wore his usual dark-grey pinstriped suit with a white shirt, red tie and matching pocket handkerchief. Middle age suited him, his fair hair and boyish features giving him an attractive youthfulness.

Eleanor was toying with how to explain what had happened next; it sounded so implausible that Jack had been virtually escorted from the room by two men who weren’t even in uniform. She was beginning to think she had imagined the whole thing.

‘Really!’ Steadman continued. ‘What sort of chap is he? The nerve of it…Hold on a minute—’ he peered at Eleanor over the top of his glasses ‘—what did you say to him, exactly? You did have the right contract with you, didn’t you?’

‘Of course I did. I know all the different contracts, including the Ministry’s one for artists working on the decoration policy.’

Its terms weren’t as generous as the six-month commissions that the WAAC gave—six hundred and fifty pounds a year with transport, accommodation and meals included—but it offered some security at a time when there was little else for artists.

‘That’s right,’ Eleanor said, ‘I remember now—he said he’d rather take his chances and submit work to the various departments than be tied to what and when to paint.’

Steadman stood up and walked to the window, gazing out thoughtfully over the square below. The grassed area had been replaced with a Victory Garden, and a few lunchtime workers were tending the beds. Eleanor stared out too, her eyes fixed on a woman who was turning the soil with a small hoe, nestling seedlings into place.

‘Is that really what he said?’ Steadman asked, looking over his shoulder at Eleanor.

She knew that she had to tell the truth now or her chance would slip away. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what he said,’ she replied, losing her nerve. Her attention came back to Steadman, noticing that his thumbs reached for his waistcoat pocket and missed.

‘And there’s nothing you can think of that would make him change his mind?’

‘I don’t think so, Mr Steadman. He seemed quite decided. But maybe if I try him again?’ She had already made up her mind to take the contract and find Jack; that way she could learn what had happened to him and convince him to sign.

‘Very well, what else is there to do?’ Steadman asked. ‘Nothing, it seems.’ He answered his own question, as was his habit.

‘It is a shame, especially in light of my discussion with Sir Robert, but it can’t be helped.’

‘Never mind, we won’t waste any more of our time on Mr Valante. I am sure that there will be someone else suitable who can take his place.’

Of course, there were artists ready to fill Jack’s shoes—ones who were now free from their advertising jobs, former art-college teachers, commercial artists with no one to buy their work—the country was full of them. And there were no longer books for them to illustrate: the paper ration had seen to that. Artist friends of Eleanor’s who had earned upwards of twenty guineas for their work on magazines such as The Tatler or who had been regular contributors to Picture Post, The Sphere or The Illustrated London News were now all unemployed—but none of them were Jack.

‘Excuse me.’ Mr Steadman retrieved his coat and hat from a hook on the door. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m late for a meeting. Please close the door on your way out, Miss Roy,’ he said abruptly, as he left the office.

Eleanor returned to her desk, frustrated and confused; what had he meant by ‘in light of my discussion with Sir Robert’?

‘Aye, I think he’s really cross,’ Maura said. ‘Your Mr Valante has set the cat among the pigeons. I don’t think anyone has refused an offer before.’

‘No, I don’t think so either.’ But Eleanor didn’t believe that Mr Steadman was so worked up because of Jack; it was more likely something to do with Sir Robert.

‘Come on, Eleanor, what aren’t you telling me?’ Maura said. ‘There’s something more to Mr Valante…’

Eleanor agreed, but right now she was more concerned about letting the department and her family down—and about how she could find Jack and make him change his mind.