Eleanor emerged from the Ministry of Food’s grand marble doorway, a paper package wedged under one arm, handbag in the other. ‘Hello again,’ she said to Jack, smiling.
It was a few minutes before five o’clock but he had been there for nearly half an hour, pacing back and forth in front of the offices. It was inconceivable to him, really: she was virtually a stranger, yet he’d felt compelled to see her again. The second time they’d met had been a happy coincidence, but this time—for him, at least—it was the fulfilment of a frantic need, one that he hadn’t experienced before. And it was despite the fact this might be one of the last few days before he left on his mission—time he should spend addressing what would happen to his mother.
‘Are we destined to always meet on steps?’ he asked Eleanor as she drew closer.
‘I can think of worse places.’
Her grey raincoat was pulled in tightly at her waist, while a red felt beret, perched on the side of her head, gave her a coquettish air; he felt like kissing her there and then. Instead he just replied, ‘Yes, so can I.’
‘Don’t you have an umbrella?’ she said, glancing at his grey trousers, long patches stained darker with rain.
‘Afraid not,’ he replied. ‘I wouldn’t even know how to put one up.’
‘Well, it’s a good job one of us is practical.’ She opened out a large black umbrella and handed it to him. ‘I wouldn’t want to damage my picture.’
‘Certainly not. I’m looking forward to seeing it,’ he said, nodding at the package. ‘But before that we need to work out where to go; the place I planned to take you is a bit of a hike in the rain…’
‘That’s alright, there’s a cafe on the corner,’ she replied.
It was a short walk from Portman Square and she clutched his arm tightly as he guided her along the pavement, trying to avoid hitting other pedestrians with the spokes. He liked how it felt having her beside him, the pressure of her arm on his, her light floral scent: not the sickly fragrance that other girls wore but one that summoned up fields and woods.
‘Here we go,’ he said, opening the door, relieved they’d made it without incident.
The cafe was frenetic with after-work trade, the air milky with smoke and condensation. Round tables and chairs cluttered the middle of the room, while around the edges rectangular tables and benches were framed with rails and curtains as in a railway compartment’s dining car.
Eleanor and Jack followed the manageress over to a large booth by the front window, and Eleanor took off her coat before sliding into the seat opposite him. Moisture had built on the windows, obscuring the street, but as Eleanor ordered the tea, Jack could just make out the heavy rain splashing off the wheels of passing cars, drenching pedestrians on the pavement.
‘Well, are you going to let me take a look then?’ Jack said with a smile.
‘Maybe,’ Eleanor teased as she nudged the package very slowly across the table.
‘Thank you,’ Jack replied, fingers stretching out and pulling it towards him. ‘Well, perhaps you should give me some background first; tell me about the artist,’ he said, hands resting on the painting. ‘Do you remember the first picture you ever painted?’
‘You mean as a child?’ she asked with a surprised laugh.
He nodded, her laughter enveloping him like a hot summer day.
‘It was probably our house or the dogs, I imagine.’ Her eyes crinkled as she concentrated. ‘I really can’t recollect…’
‘What about the first painting you saw that you liked?’
‘I suppose it was the portrait of my great-grandfather—he was a colonel in the Royal Air Force. We all thought the artist must have tied him to the chair and tortured him, there was such a look of anguish on his face.’
‘Handsome chap then?’
‘No, not really. It was in the entrance hall, so you couldn’t miss him!’
Jack leaned back, the leather booth squeaking as his weight shifted. He loosened the tie he had worn for her benefit, which seemed so unnecessary now.
‘So you come from a military family?’ he asked.
‘I suppose I do. My father served with the RAF in the Great War, but my brothers chose the navy. I don’t think he’s really forgiven them yet.’
‘And what does he think about your hopes to see some action?’
She looked suddenly startled, wide-eyed like an animal, before the waitress arrived and set the tea tray down clumsily, spilling the contents on the formica tabletop.
‘Milk?’ Eleanor asked as soon as the waitress had stopped apologising and left.
‘Yes, please. And if there’s any sugar, I’ll have a dozen scoops.’
‘Will you now; you don’t want to share it round then?’ she said with a small smile, stirring in half a teaspoon of sugar. ‘And what about your family?’
‘I have my mother, Anne, and a sister, Elizabeth, and two nephews.’
‘But no wife?’ Eleanor asked, glancing at his left hand as he took the cup she offered.
‘No, our mother is an invalid so I’m still living with her at home. We can look after her best that way—Beth does what she can in the day and I’m there at night.’
‘It must be hard.’ She looked sympathetic.
‘Yes, it is. If I’m honest with you, it’s why I haven’t signed up yet. There’s no one else to help and it’s a lot for Beth.’
‘I can imagine. We don’t realise how important our loved ones are until they’re not there anymore.’
Those were his exact thoughts. He had spent most of the night wrestling with his decision: should he find a way to stay and look after his mother with Beth, or complete the final part of his SOE training and go abroad?
After he’d said goodbye to Eleanor last time, he had crossed the city to his shared studio in the railway arches under Clapham Junction. The night air was freezing, and Fred and Johnty—the artists he shared the studio with—rarely chose to work late, so he was alone to check through his equipment and pack the supplies he would need in the field.
As he filled his trunk with the bare essentials—brushes and pencils, Conté and charcoal—he believed he had made his choice, even though the second stage of his training the week before hadn’t shored him up as much as he’d thought it would. Rather than giving him skills and tools, it had made him realise how lacking in knowledge and strength he really was. If he did need to defend himself, or anyone else, he wasn’t sure how well he would fare.
But that was immaterial now that everything was in place. He had nearly completed the training and he’d already signed the WAAC contract, so he had the cover he needed to work as an agent in the field. All he needed to do was figure out how to care for his mother.
‘Jack?’ Eleanor was staring at him. ‘You were miles away. I said, they must miss you when you’re not around.’
‘Yes, they do.’ He swallowed, trying to put thoughts of leaving to the back of his mind. ‘And what about you?’ he asked before he drained the last of his tea. ‘Is it just you and your brothers?’
‘No, I have a sister too, Cecily.’
‘Nice to be part of a big family. I imagine it was a lot of fun.’
‘Well, my mother knew she couldn’t stop once she set eyes on me—only she got more than she bargained for!’
‘And how did you all got along?’ he asked.
‘Not terribly well,’ she said, shaking her head and frowning. ‘My brothers were so bossy they would never let us join in, so Cecily and I made our own fun.’
‘I suspect you were leader.’
‘How can you tell?’ she asked, a smile playing on her lips.
‘If you spend enough time looking at people, you get to know things about them. But, then, you understand that, don’t you?’ he said with a knowing look.
‘So what else can you tell about me then?’ She tilted her head as she studied him.
‘I can tell that you stayed up late last night working…and that you don’t have any turpentine.’
She frowned and then followed his gaze. Her hands were covered in paint, fingerprints as visible as if they were an X-ray.
‘Yes, I did, rather,’ she said, picking at the paint.
‘I think it might be time to open it now,’ Jack said, grasping the package with both hands. ‘But am I allowed one last question?’
She nodded solemnly.
‘What was the painting you saw that made you want to paint?’ he asked.
‘I don’t remember it being any one particular painting,’ she said, gaze darting up at the ceiling then back to him. ‘It was the illustrations in my books. My mother collected children’s books for us, and they had the most beautiful coloured lithographs and prints—Peter Pan and The Secret Garden were my favourites. They transported me as much as the words did…It made me wish that I could do it.’
‘It’s a long way from children’s illustrations to war pictures,’ he said. ‘Do you really think you could?’
‘Am I strong enough, you mean?’ she said, looking squarely at him. ‘Don’t let these hands and this face fool you. I am very determined when I set my mind to something.’
‘I can see that. No, I mean, do you have it in you to see what happens to people in battle—to stay calm and record what you observe?’
‘I’ve seen my fair share with the air raids and rescues, and I worked with the ambulance service…’ She paused, staring down at her hands before carrying on. ‘It was ghastly. We rescued lots of families, and reunited mothers with children—dead and alive. But do I have it in me to stand by and watch men kill each other, as shockingly brutal or unforgivable as it may seem?’ She stared at him. ‘Yes, I think so.’
He nodded. He didn’t doubt that she could.
After sliding his finger under the paper, he opened the flap, careful not to rip the painting as he pulled it out. He recognised the setting instantly and glanced up at her, before his gaze moved slowly across the woman and the children’s faces. The composition certainly drew the eye, the tones were warm and the scene gestural, but there was enough detail and variation to focus the viewer.
‘Is this the only one you brought?’ he asked, finally looking up at her.
‘Yes.’
‘So, you consider it to be your best?’
‘Well, yes…I do,’ she said hesitantly.
‘Does it compare to the exhibitions you’ve seen, the ones at the gallery?’
‘Well, it’s my best. And I think it compares to one of yours, but everyone’s view is different, it’s subjective—you know that.’
He glanced back down, examining her painting once again. What she had chosen to leave out was as revealing as what she had included: the focus was on the children, and she hadn’t drawn Jack. The burnt umber, reds and oranges gave it a warm tone, despite the meeting having been in the middle of a cold day.
Eleanor was watching him expectantly. ‘The committee meets again next week, so what do you think?’ she asked. ‘Do you think it stands a chance?’
‘Of course. You should let me submit it as one of mine; they wouldn’t think twice about it.’
‘Come on, I’m being serious,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
‘So am I,’ he replied, realising that he meant it too.
‘So what are you suggesting?’ she asked.
‘That if they accept the painting, then I shall nominate that you go instead.’
‘Now you’re just being daft.’
‘Why? It seems like rather a good idea, if you ask me. And where would the harm be in expanding their selection?’ Jack said. ‘Surely it would be a good thing?’
‘It would be a deceit.’
‘Well, I won’t say anything if you don’t.’
He smiled at her, guessing at how she might respond. She had already told him that she’d heard of artists being excluded from the establishment for forging paintings and even though substitution wasn’t that kind of deception, it would involve pretence when he knew that she wanted her art to be included on its own merit.
‘You don’t believe it would just cause embarrassment; that they would look on me less favourably than before?’ she suggested.
He wasn’t sure how to answer that. Looking at those children’s faces had made his thoughts turn to the war that needed to be fought. There had been wins and losses on both sides, but the Axis position was strengthening in the East, and the Allies’ casualties had been particularly heavy over the past few weeks. Among them were many of the boys Jack had grown up with, leaving families and girlfriends behind.
And here he was, allowing this crazily optimistic, darling girl to distract him. What for, he wasn’t completely sure—even if they managed to pass her work off as his, they would have to admit the truth in order to give her the chance to become a war artist; and she was right, who was to say they wouldn’t get into trouble then?
‘I don’t know but I know that your work is good enough,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said smiling.
She appeared more relaxed, all traces of her initial nervousness now gone.
‘If I do submit this to the committee and they like it,’ Jack said, unable to dismiss the idea, ‘I shall have to train you. Get you ready.’
As she looked back at him earnestly, he realised this was serious—what had started as a wild idea had taken on a life of its own.
‘And it’s a risk you’re willing to take?’ he asked.
‘I suppose so,’ she said.
He wondered if she was just getting swept along, but then she added, ‘Yes. Yes I am,’ and he knew she was truly on board. Even though they both knew the consequences, they were ready to set things in motion.
Jack made himself taller, shoulders stretched back, his eyes locking with hers. He didn’t know if he would even still be here in a week when the committee met again, so he would need to contact Aubrey straight away, ensure there was a chance to present his paintings before he left. After all, what was the worst that could happen?