As Eleanor struggled to keep the picture upright—and her fingers from getting bound by tape while Maura secured the brown packing paper—she couldn’t help but think of the men and women at other government institutions whose sole function was to take care of important artefacts, packing and transporting them, whereas here it fell to her and Maura to service all those needs.
‘Watch out! You nearly snipped my finger,’ she shouted, pulling her hand from the path of the blades. ‘I thought you were supposed to be good with scissors!’
‘Aye, I’m sorry,’ said Maura, ‘but it’s not really my fault, is it? I mean, you said yourself that it doesn’t seem fair that we have to do everything ourselves. There’s just not enough time.’
‘Well, we don’t really have a choice, do we? And I don’t think it’s too much of a sacrifice,’ Eleanor replied shortly.
Maura glared at her and they carried on in silence.
The storeroom was quiet, tucked down in the basement away from the offices and close to the underground shelter where they were sent during air raids and for practice fire drills. The basement hadn’t been decorated as recently as the floors above, and its walls were yellowing, the wooden floor knotted and rough. With only a few prints—reproductions of famous pictures—and no windows or natural light, it was a gloomy space, and Eleanor always hurried their work so they could leave quickly. Even the usually comforting smell of old wood was tinged with a mustiness that made her want to cover her mouth.
For now, the basement was the only room available for storing the artworks that were constantly trafficked between the artists’ studios and the British Restaurants. There were dozens of them: watercolours, posters, and a large stack of lithographs propped against the wall, the top one depicting a harvest with a bounteous crop from the English countryside. It was to be packaged and sent to a restaurant in Clapham where conditions were unsuitable for a mural; Eleanor had visited and decided that a full-colour lithograph would enliven the space instead.
‘You know that Clive is coming for this now, don’t you?’ Eleanor reminded Maura.
‘Aye, well, this isn’t going to give them much to think about over their eggless puddings, is it?’ Maura sighed as she took hold of the other side of the frame.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Eleanor said, considering the scene.
‘Well, nothing…and everything. They’re a little traditional, aren’t they?’
‘I think it’s wonderful to have a pastoral scene over lunch,’ Eleanor said with an air of authority. ‘If only more of our war artists would get on and paint some of our domestic scenes rather than just aeroplanes and battleships.’
What she really thought was that it was wonderful to have art coming out of the galleries and museums and into their everyday lives—not only the elite could enjoy art now. Of course, she didn’t want to say this in front of Maura for fear of sounding just like one of the snobs they encountered in those galleries.
‘I think it’s interesting to see what’s helping win the war for us,’ Maura replied. ‘It’s comforting to see the machines we’ve got on our side and—’
‘Shhh,’ Eleanor said, turning up the wireless. ‘It’s the one o’clock bulletin in a minute.’
‘Oh good, can we listen to Battle of the Bands after?’ Maura asked, looking up at the ceiling as the lights spluttered and nearly went out.
Eleanor nodded, eager for Maura to be quiet so she could hear the news. It was only a few weeks ago that the Japanese had made a surprise raid on the harbour and airfield at Broome in Western Australia, destroying planes and boats. If that wasn’t bad enough, they had taken Batavia, the capital of the East Indies. Only yesterday, the BBC World Service had reported how their aggressive campaign was intensifying. There were fears that they were advancing on Port Moresby and that this held a threat for Australia.
Eleanor’s two brothers were in the navy, and so was Mr Steadman’s only son—and on a ship that had taken part in the Dutch East Indies campaign. Squeezing onto the stool close to the wireless, she clutched her knees as she listened, planning to telephone her parents that night to see if there was any news of Clarence or Francis. A fingernail played between her teeth as she fought the urge to bite it off.
She was anxious about Jack too. It had been almost a fortnight since her visit to the Patriotic Building, and she had failed to find him. She had contacted the War Office, the Admiralty and the Ministry of Information, but there was no record of him having submitted any of his work. She thought that if she could just talk to him again, then she might get him to change his mind—to submit some of his work for the scheme, at least—and show Mr Steadman that she had tried.
‘As bad as you thought?’ Maura asked when the bulletin was over.
‘No, worse than I thought. And I was also thinking about Jack…how he seems to have disappeared.’
Eleanor finished securing the package, tying it with a small knot that the carrier could place their finger through, and passed it to Maura.
‘Perhaps he has joined up,’ said Maura. ‘Now they’ve extended conscription to forty-five, he might have got the message that he is actually needed. Who knows, maybe he’s been posted already…?’
Maura was probably right: there was a good chance that he had enlisted. Sir Robert’s scheme to protect artists by giving them the role of recording the war, rather than becoming cannon fodder, wasn’t for everyone.
‘But if you’re right,’ Eleanor said to Maura, ‘don’t you think I would have found mention of him at the Records Office?’
‘Aye, I would have thought so, but you know how mistakes can get made. Just face it, Eleanor,’ Maura said matter-of-factly, ‘you’ve missed your chance with him. Best get on with things and forget you ever met Jack Valante.’
But Eleanor couldn’t forget about him—she had thought about little else over the past fortnight. It was irritating, not least because danger was all around her and here she was worrying about an artist, albeit a handsome one, whom she barely knew.
She had only been in her role for six months and really wanted to do well. It wasn’t just to prove her father wrong but also to show him that what she was doing was worthwhile, even if she wasn’t a proper war artist yet, and that Francis and Clarence weren’t the only ones contributing to the war effort. It was expected that her brothers would continue their education and go into the family’s textile business but little had been imagined for her and Cecily. Her success at school, the scholarship, and the acceptance to art school, all of it had been a surprise—except to her. She thought with her paintbrush, saw the world more clearly once it had been committed to paper, or slate or linen or whatever was available, even when it had been off-cuts of fabric from their factory floor.
A picture on the wall caught her eye: a David Bomberg print. Its depiction of Canadian workers had caused a major stir because of its futuristic impressionism. She looked at the diverging lines, considering how she would feel if Jack had changed his mind and gone to fight. She wouldn’t think any less of him for it—probably the reverse, in fact.
‘If Jack has gone overseas, maybe he’s working for the WAAC and signed a contract after all,’ she said, thinking aloud. There was a chance he had refused her contract in favour of the one offered by the WAAC; after all, their terms were better.
‘Well, that’s another good reason to forget about him then. You don’t want someone who is so easily swayed, one minute thinking one way, then changing his mind the next.’
‘That’s not what I was thinking at all—have I really taught you nothing?’ Eleanor replied, propping another packaged lithograph against the wall and standing up straight. ‘If he had registered with any of the services then I really think I would have come across his name by now, so the fact that I haven’t must mean that he has stuck to his principles.’
‘Which means that you want to find him even more…’
Maura was right about this, but it wasn’t just because Eleanor wanted to sign him; she also wanted to make sure he was safe.
Suddenly, she needed to get out of the basement. ‘I need a distraction,’ she said, picking up Maura’s handmade jacket and handing it to her. ‘Come on, let’s go and see Myra.’ The celebrated pianist Myra Hess was playing another recital at the National Gallery.
‘But what about Clive?’
‘He’ll be fine—he should know where to go. And if not, he can just drive around in circles for a while,’ Eleanor said, giggling.
‘I’m really not sure I fancy it, to be honest with you,’ said Maura. ‘I had a bit of a session last night…my feet are still killing me.’
She did look a little the worse for wear: her usually neat brown bob hung limply against her neck, and her suede shoes had lost their sheen and some of the tassels were missing.
‘Alright, we can hop on the bus then,’ said Eleanor. ‘I’ll even treat you to a sandwich.’
It was only ten minutes to the National Gallery, where lunchtime concerts were held now that its vast rooms were empty, the precious artworks transported away for safekeeping. Eleanor knew that Maura would enjoy herself once they were there—the raisin and honey sandwiches alone were worth the trip. The recitals had become hugely popular, and so too had the temporary exhibitions by visiting and emerging artists.
‘I wonder what the Picture of the Month is?’ Maura asked.
‘I did hear that there’s an exhibition of work by CEMA, although I’m not sure we’ll have time to look afterwards.’
‘Really? I don’t think Steadman will be back until much later…and you are in charge,’ Maura replied authoritatively.
‘I’m not sure I like what you’re suggesting,’ Eleanor said, narrowing her eyes at Maura, ‘but let’s wait and see.’
It was an unusually blue spring day. The bus didn’t come straight away, so they were running late for the one o’clock performance by the time they reached Trafalgar Square and the rudimentary brick walls of the surface air-raid shelters came into view. The statue of Charles I was safely cocooned in stacks of sandbags, while nothing could be done to protect Nelson’s Column towering above, so it had been put to good use: its base was covered in posters to advertise for urgently needed nurses and volunteers.
Eleanor tried to tally up the hours and days that it must have taken, and still took, to safeguard the nation’s monuments and paintings—whole government departments were involved. It was important to preserve their culture, just in case Hitler succeeded and the worst imaginable outcome became reality—wasn’t that what Churchill had said?
Trafalgar Square was hectic. Office workers mingled with off-duty soldiers, and mothers pushed prams past arm-in-arm couples. In the middle was the incongruous sight of a group of women engaged in their lunchtime stretching class. Eleanor and Maura made their way past a small stand of fundraising servicemen and women, then headed to the gallery entrance. A queue stretched all the way from the imposing portico and around into Charing Cross Road where the empty theatres stood. As they drew closer to the entrance, Eleanor grasped Maura’s hand and pulled her to hurry up the stone steps.
Just inside the grand neoclassical columns, two women stood collecting the entrance fee, bold black letters on their collection boxes announcing that it was for the Musicians Benevolent Fund. Eleanor showed her government pass and then pressed two one-shilling coins through the slot.
‘Thank you, Miss Roy. Enjoy the concert.’
She escorted Maura up two flights of steps towards the Barry Rooms where the lunchtime concerts took place. They strode quickly past hollow galleries now out of bounds, where the walls were still decorated with frames like empty eye sockets, their treasured paintings gone. In another larger gallery to the right, grand gilt frames stood statesman-like against bare walls.
During the First World War, major artworks had been evacuated into the disused tunnels beneath the Strand. This time, the underground was needed for shelter during air raids, so Wales had been chosen as the destination for the nations’ treasures; Eleanor knew this because she had applied to be part of the curatorial team dispatched with the artworks to manage their safe transport and storage, but she had been deemed too young. Now she liked to visit the gallery regularly, and she considered herself to be a cultural caretaker here instead.
The piano music grew louder as she and Maura carried on down the marbled corridors, the air growing rich with the scents of tea and tobacco. As they approached, Eleanor saw through the half-open door into the brightly lit Barry Room where the audience was seated on wooden chairs, the concert well underway. Once inside, Eleanor realised that the room was absolutely packed, so they squeezed into the standing area at the back. Despite the Home Office mandate that no more than two hundred people should gather in a public place at any one time, there were at least twice as many here, and all equally transfixed. Everyone was sculpturally still.
Installed neatly behind the Steinway grand piano on a makeshift platform, her black hair middle-parted and pinned into its signature waves, Myra Hess’s head was bowed in concentration as she played. Eleanor wasn’t surprised to see Miss Hess in her usual black tailored jacket, white silk blouse with a bow and string of pearls, but today the sunlight shone down on her through the octagonal glass dome as if she was blessed.
Maura’s dark eyes darted about, taking it all in.
Eleanor looked at her and smiled. ‘See,’ she whispered, ‘I told you this would do us both the world of good.’
The crowd included men and women of all ages, servicemen and civilians, bald heads and horn-rimmed glasses, faces creased in concentration, smooth-skinned young women with necks craned, older ladies in flowered dresses and smart jackets, hands pressed in their laps, heads tilted in quiet contemplation. There were many other girls just like her and Maura, Eleanor guessed, who would rather substitute music for their lunch.
A woman sitting in the row in front of them had her head angled to one side, her hands resting under her chin, statuesque. Eleanor understood how she felt—that there was something quite sacred about this experience; other than church, this was the one place where people could forget, where music could reach through the numbness. Eleanor had brought her mother here when the string quartet had played Mozart and Sir Henry Wood had performed, and her mother had agreed that her spirit had soared. But Myra was still Eleanor’s favourite, even if there was never a chair to sit on, and she favoured Brahms over Schumann. Thankfully, Miss Hess was playing Mozart today, his Piano Concerto No. 17 in G—Eleanor’s wretched piano teacher had made her play it for years. In a stroke of luck, and with surprise, she realised she was not sick of the sound of it.
She took a deep breath and exhaled; she could listen to the music and focus on the present. If she could just stop thinking about Jack and concentrate on their catalogue of work, then when they returned to the office she would be prepared and able to get on with everything. It would be her own overture of sorts.
As Myra’s practised fingers danced across the keys, and the audience’s attention was held, Eleanor leaned her head back against the wall and looked up at the frescoes and curved panes of glass. No matter how many times she visited the gallery, she could never comprehend how craftsmen could produce such intricate works; it left her feeling overwhelmed by the accomplishments of her fellow human beings. How did those nine pieces of glass become one smooth dome assembled so precisely that it never fell down, despite the heavy storms and bomb blasts? And the frescoes—how had anyone achieved that detail over a hundred years ago? Sometimes it was too much to think about and she had to turn her mind to something more manageable, such as the mural she was currently overseeing at the restaurant in Barnet. That was simple enough: the artists chose their subjects and stood on ladders to complete them, as with all the other murals she had overseen. There must be dozens of them by now, and she slumped against the wall and tried to picture each and every one.
It seemed like barely five minutes, but it must have been fifty-five, when Maura nudged her. ‘Better be getting back.’
Miss Hess was playing the first chords of ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’, a sign that it was the end of the program and that others would be leaving too.
‘Let’s just hear this,’ Eleanor insisted.
The music reached its crescendo and the audience was still enraptured. Then Eleanor thought about Mr Steadman arriving back at the office and finding it empty.
The final notes spilled from the keys as Myra transported the audience beyond the confines of the gallery and away from the battlefields. As clapping replaced the fading music, Maura and Eleanor made their way out through the audience who lined the back wall.
They were nearly at the exit when Eleanor caught hold of Maura’s arm. ‘Let’s just have a quick look.’
‘But what about our sandwiches? I’m starving…’
Eleanor smiled. ‘Just a glimpse…’
She couldn’t resist the Picture of the Month exhibition, and so they turned back the way they’d come, detouring to the left through an archway and up a flight of steps. The applause was subsiding from the floor below, and the scraping of chairs and the rumble of voices reverberated through the century-old stone.
Now they were in rooms thirty-four, thirty-five and thirty-six. The galleries that had been given over to the exhibitions on war were wide and connected like honeycomb, with carved woodwork, ornate brass and twenty-foot glass ceilings creating an easy space to navigate.
Eleanor and Maura walked around freely, spending several minutes looking at the works on display, until the crowd grew and the swell of people behind them struggled to get a view. There were shared whispers and murmurs of appreciation, some artworks earning more enthusiastic praise than others. Eleanor saw the reactions and felt a reverence—a renewed understanding of the value of the war artist’s work.
The crowd had its own momentum, pulling her along and drawing her towards a series of pen-and-ink pictures and watercolours: small but vivid depictions of St Paul’s. This exhibition would be going on tour to America, so the pictures weren’t just about improving morale here but also promoting Britain overseas.
‘Don’t you think we should be getting back now?’ Maura asked worriedly.
‘In a moment,’ Eleanor said, without looking round.
She was totally absorbed in the picture in front of her. It was only a small watercolour but it captured the setting sun so vividly that it was like seeing a sunset for the first time. It took her back to her childhood and the memory of her father’s anger at her staying out to paint too long. There had been spectacular colours in the dyes at her parents’ woollen mill and in the skies that changed so dramatically from rose to storm grey. She and her siblings had wandered the foothills of the Pennines for hours, Francis and Clarence exploring, while she and Cecily recorded the tones and textures in their sketchpads until only a fraction of amber was left in the sky.
Maura was getting restless. She clearly didn’t share Eleanor’s sentiment about these paintings, and how could Eleanor explain how they made her feel? That she would do anything to sit in place of these artists, to have the chance to capture the images as they had? Instead she could only stand there and close her eyes, imagining it to be her fingers guiding the brushes, filling in the details and blending the tones.
Eleanor believed that she could produce pictures like these, that she could paint and draw as well as any of the war artists whom she had seen; but she also knew that only a few women were working as war artists, and none yet had gone overseas.