Eleanor’s Secret

The coffee aroma was the same, and the trendy boutiques and crowded pavements could be mistaken for those of Chapel Street, Kathryn’s neighbourhood shopping precinct in Melbourne, but that’s where the similarity ended. The chatter of latte-sipping Aussies and flocks of cockatoos were replaced by the distinct accents of north London hipsters and the sight of scavenging pigeons. But even if Hampstead had changed since her last visit, the parade of shops she passed was reassuringly familiar: Oxfam, Hobbs, Whistles. There were just so many more cafes and restaurants than she remembered—nearly every other shop was a new food outlet.

It was a cold, crisp morning, the sun was shining, and she wasn’t due at Stephen Aldridge’s house for another fifteen minutes, just enough time for a takeaway and to carry on browsing along the street. Luckily there was still a Pret a Manger, and Kathryn couldn’t pass one without stopping for a coffee and pain au raisin. There hadn’t been any seats on the train and she’d been in too much of a rush to eat or drink anything before she left Eleanor’s farmhouse, so she desperately needed caffeine.

She and Eleanor had sat up well into the night, her grandmother sharing fragments of her past and of her London life during the war. Still, there had been no dramatic revelations and little to inform Kathryn why it was so important to find out what happened to this particular artist among all those Eleanor had known and worked with. Kathryn had deciphered as much as she could about Jack, and had come to the conclusion that with Stephen as the only family lead, this morning’s meeting was important and she needed to be alert.

Her map showed that she was getting close. As her footsteps quickened along the busy pavement, she held her breath, hoping to conjure Oli’s warm morning smell, but all that came was the snort of diesel fumes from the bus lane.

She wished she knew what Chris was planning to do with their son. Before she’d left, he had mentioned taking Oliver to an AFL game, but he hadn’t returned any of her calls last night or that morning, even though he needed to talk to her about work. Worryingly, Amy had emailed them both that morning asking Chris to pick Oli up by 9 a.m. Chris was already relying on their friends’ generous offers of help and sleepovers.

Walking hurriedly, Kathryn reached the intersection she’d been looking for and tucked the fold-out London guide back into her pocket. She’d been reluctant to use Google Maps since her last overseas trip, when she had run up a hefty bill while forgetting to turn off the data roaming—Chris had banged on about it for months.

Stephen Aldridge’s two-storey house was in an enviable location, just minutes off Hampstead High Street, but it was a poor relation to its neighbours. It still bore the look of a handsome aristocrat, only a little shabbier, with walls of cracking paint, where crisp white or sophisticated greys covered the woodwork and render of other houses up and down the street. Inside, frayed curtains hung, where blinds or plantation shutters dominated windows nearby. Even the garden looked neglected; it didn’t match the gravel drives, topiary, miniature bay trees and lavender hedges that the other houses boasted.

These were the kinds of homes and gardens she would want to live in when they came back—if she stayed with Chris, and if she could get him to agree. The Victorian terraces were like those in Camden where they’d once lived and still held the same appeal for her.

The figure on the threshold didn’t look at all as she had expected from their phone call the afternoon before. He was significantly younger than he’d sounded, around sixty, with small eyes peering from tinted glasses, and while his beard was whiskery and grey, his hair was still a deep chestnut brown.

‘Yes, of course. So good of you to come.’ He shook her hand, his eyes moving to the large hessian bag on her shoulder. ‘Please, do come in.’

‘Not at all.’ He closed the door and ushered her down the hallway. ‘I thought it was easier for you than coming to my office—just one tube change—especially when you’re carrying fragile goods.’ He smiled.

His voice was distinctly upper class, which made her suddenly self-conscious. She thought of her family telling her how much her accent had changed, the ends of her sentences eclipsed by an Australian twang.

‘It’s no trouble. I often work from home.’ He led her quickly past a separate front doorway and into a room at the back of the house.

French windows looked out onto an overgrown garden, and a moss-covered wooden picnic bench sat just outside the opened doors, which let in a cool breeze. The lawn stretched some distance, disappearing under tall oak trees where a small potting shed nearly hid between the boundary fence and an overgrown vegetable patch.

It appeared as though no one had taken the time to decorate the rooms. But they were clean enough, and she knew from her work and visiting many houses that this was often not the case.

‘Thank you,’ he said, observing possessions that covered the surfaces like a fine mould. ‘It is a little large for me now, but I manage to spread out.’

The room doubled as a dining room and a study, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two of the walls, and a large table filled with placemats, loose pens and piles of papers. The other two walls were unusually cluttered with pictures and brass ornaments, antiquated tools and weapons, leaving only a couple of empty hooks. If she ignored the smell of musty paper and residual cooking, she could envisage how attractive the house would look after a makeover.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t ask you on the phone,’ she said, ‘what is it you do for work?’

That made sense with all the books and artefacts, although Stephen didn’t share the lived-in look of the house: his designer glasses and the trousers and jacket appeared more expensive than the taste of academics she knew. He hadn’t acquired the clichéd look of a history professor—perhaps in a few more years he’d become grizzled, but for now he only had the proprietary air of a lecturer.

‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘So you would know more than most people about the Second World War?’ She was conscious of the rising intonation in her voice.

‘Somewhat,’ he replied, ‘although my field is Ancient and Renaissance History.’

‘Wonderful—are you going to write a novel and become a bestselling author?’ she asked with a smile.

‘I think not. Perhaps I’ll leave that to somebody else.’ He cleared a space at the table. ‘Please, have a seat.’

Kathryn sat down, placing the hessian bag on the floor against her chair. Stephen sat opposite, linking his fingers together on the table in front of him. By keeping things light she had hoped to gain his trust and quickly find out about his uncle, but first impressions made her doubt that this plan would work.

‘So…’ he said, taking off his glasses and exchanging them for a clear pair, brown eyes gazing back at her. ‘May I see the picture?’

‘Look—’ Stephen leaned forward, pressing his weight onto his hands ‘—as I told her when we spoke, I’m not in contact with my uncle anymore.’

‘At least five years ago. But I’m not sure I understand why she’s so curious. Surely it was a lifetime ago.’

‘She just wants to know about his life after the war, and where he might be now. Anything you can tell me. I don’t want to let her down.’

‘Jack wasn’t around a lot when we were growing up,’ Stephen said. ‘He’d kept our mother company after our father died—they were very close. Then after the war, as far as I know, he continued to work as an artist, always overseas, travelling to remote places for one conflict or another. My mother would have been able to tell you more but I’m afraid she passed away in ninety-one.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Kathryn’s sentiment was sincere but she was also frustrated; he wasn’t giving her much more than what she’d found online.

‘Thank you. So it seems he never really left the war artist role behind, just picked up a camera instead.’

‘And what sort of man was he?’ she asked, hoping her question might make him open up a little more.

‘Look, he was very private. And you know how teenagers are. We weren’t really interested in the war—or anyone but ourselves. It was the seventies.’

‘And what about the last time you saw him?’ she asked. The glint of a metal sabre on the wall caught her eye; he may not have been interested in the war as a teenager, but he certainly was now.

‘It would have been two thousand and four…no, two thousand and five.’ Stephen sounded vague. ‘There was an anniversary exhibition: sixty years since the end of the war. The Imperial War Museum put on an excellent show, and some of the war artists were there.’

‘Oh yes. Jack just didn’t get the same recognition as the others,’ he said, unable to disguise the bitterness in his voice. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve found it difficult to discover much about him, that’s all. That’s why I was hoping you might be able to help. Why do you think he didn’t get the same recognition?’

‘Oh, but I thought you knew all about his work—my grandmother said you were looking to complete your collection with The Crimson Sun?’

Kathryn considered him for a moment. He had the outward appearance of having an ordered mind, but something just didn’t add up. A famous war artist in the family and you lose touch for no apparent reason? Or, it seemed, there was one that Stephen wouldn’t or couldn’t explain.

She glanced away, casting around the room for a sense of Stephen Aldridge, the man outside his work. A shelf on the bookcase was given over to framed photos, and there were several of him with a middle-aged lady and two younger women, presumably his wife and daughters.

‘Look,’ he said, leaning forward again, ‘even if Jack’s still alive, he would be nearly ninety-three now.’

‘After the exhibition, he just went away and didn’t contact us.’ Stephen paused and she could hear a baby crying in one of the neighbour’s houses. ‘We tried to find him but, as I’ve told you, we weren’t very successful. If my mother, Elizabeth, were still alive it would have been different—as it was, I’m afraid we just stopped looking.’

But surely Stephen must have given it some thought over the years and speculated on what might have happened to his uncle—most family members would. And it didn’t seem to make sense, anyway. Why would Jack lose touch with his family just when he was getting old and needed them more than ever?

Kathryn hoped she came across as politely curious. ‘Could something have happened at the exhibition to trigger his disappearance? I mean, it is a bit strange, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is,’ Stephen mused, ‘but we never got to the bottom of it. Who knows what these men went through during the war and it just gets buried. These anniversaries bring back memories they’d rather forget. Open old wounds.’

Now he sounded more convincing: a historian who clearly respected the past and knew its claim on people’s lives. And understood people’s limitations.

Kathryn didn’t want to admit defeat when she had only just started, but couldn’t see what option she had. And she didn’t want to leave without discovering anything useful, so she needed to think of something, and fast.

‘I am sorry,’ Stephen said softly, ‘and I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I don’t think you stand much chance now. Some people just don’t want to be found.’

‘I don’t want to rush you,’ he cut in, ‘but can I see the painting now?’

She unwrapped the picture and laid it on the table between them, watching Stephen’s reaction as he surveyed the London cityscape and the two figures silhouetted against the fiery skies—sunset or war, she had never known for certain. The one thing she had always been sure of was how closely the figures were connected to each other, of the energy that radiated from them. Even the dark frame was shot through with gold, as if their strength and the sun’s rays had landed there.

Stephen picked up a magnifying glass and slowly examined the painting, his attention finally drawn to the initials in the bottom corner. Then he carefully turned it over, running his fingers across the smooth yellowing surface of the original backing paper.

‘It’s more stunning than I could have hoped for,’ Stephen said, finally looking up. ‘Thank you.’ His smile brimmed with genuine warmth.

Her mouth was suddenly dry and she swallowed, glancing around nervously because of what she was about to say. Her eyes came back to rest on the display of weapons.

Stephen gave her a concerned look. ‘Would you like a glass of water or a cup of tea before you go, or should I just get the cheque?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ She steeled herself. ‘But I can’t sell you the painting. I promised my grandmother I’d do what she asked and show it to you…but I can’t let her part with it—not until she knows what happened to Jack.’

‘You are pulling my leg?’ he said in a tone she imagined he reserved for his students.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she said, ignoring her speeding pulse. ‘I made a promise, Stephen, and as far as I can see, you’re the only one who can help us.’

‘Surely you could do a little more digging? What about your brothers; maybe I should speak to them?’

She had surprised herself—she’d only planned to question him, then turn him down and leave with the painting—but she couldn’t help trying this. It seemed as if there was more to Stephen Aldridge than met the eye. Besides, it was a fair exchange: he wanted something from Eleanor and Kathryn, and they wanted something from him.

‘I’m sorry, Kathryn,’ he said, sounding firm. ‘I think you had better leave.’

‘Alright, if that’s what you want.’ She stood up and pulled the cloth back around the canvas, wrapping it carefully and placing it in the bag. She reached for her handbag—

‘Really?’ she said, excited by the promise of a diary: it could give some understanding of who Jack was, show what kind of man he might have been. ‘How many are there?’

‘Only two remaining. We have one and the Imperial War Museum holds the other.’

‘It’s possible that you wouldn’t have done. It was for a new exhibition on war artists: they wanted some lesser-known works. We’ve loaned it to them. No one had ever seen the diary before—it was private, you see.’

‘Yes, I know it’s been on public display, so you might have to make a request to read it.’

It seemed odd that he wouldn’t remember, considering that he’d called her grandmother ‘the Eleanor Roy’. At least this was something, though, and she felt her neck and shoulders relax as her body released some of the tension that had built over the past half hour.

‘What about the diary you have; would it be possible for me to have a look at that?’ Kathryn asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said reluctantly, staring at his clasped hands. ‘It is very fragile.’

‘Okay, at least then you can see for yourself…but you’ll have to wear gloves.’

He stood up and walked off to retrieve Jack’s journal while she remained at the table, feeling vulnerable. His temperament had changed, his original warmth fading, and the unfamiliar surroundings of dark wooden furniture and cluttered possessions were crowding her in. Stephen was shuffling around behind her, a door creaking open, a key scraping in its lock. Then he reappeared, cautiously carrying an object bound in red cloth.

‘Yes, some would say too long,’ he said as he laid the object on the table. ‘Our family grew up here. My brothers both moved overseas, and I couldn’t bear to sell.’

‘My children have their own families now, so it’s good to have room for them all.’

He opened the red fabric to reveal the poor condition of the diary’s linen cover, which was badly stained and scratched.

‘Such a shame,’ she said, ‘although I’m sure my grandmother would still love to see it.’

He stiffened. ‘That’s totally out of the question, I’m afraid,’ he said vehemently.

She decided it might be better to wait and ask again before she left, when he would have, hopefully, loosened up. ‘Which year is this?’ she said instead.

‘It’s 1944,’ he replied, placing it in front of her. ‘The museum holds 1942.’

‘Both 1943 and 1945 were lost or destroyed, so we don’t get to follow the chronology of the war, but you get a bit of an insight into his work. And into the paintings he went on to complete. Of course, those are his most important legacy—the artworks from his time as a war artist.’

It was a blow that those two diaries were gone forever, but this one could be interesting: 1944 was two years after Jack and Eleanor met.

‘He had been making quite a name for himself as an illustrator,’ Stephen told her, ‘and not that long out of art school. It was how they found most of them.’

Rather than answering her question, Stephen asked one of his own. ‘So, how well does she claim to have known him?’

She had finally got Eleanor to admit that it had been more than a friendship, but her gran wouldn’t be drawn on how long the affair had lasted or how serious it was.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said. ‘Just shout out if you need anything.’

He went into the kitchen and set the door ajar, intermittently appearing as he moved about doing chores. Apart from the creak of the house, and the squeals of young children playing in the garden next door, it was disquietingly still. She glanced anxiously around the room and back through to the kitchen, but there wasn’t any time for nerves or second thoughts. She made herself comfortable and carefully opened the cover, searching through the first few pages for Eleanor’s name or a mention of a woman. But nothing caught her eye, so she turned back to the beginning and the faded black ink.

Tuesday, 11th July

Attended briefing session today and the Anti-aircraft Operations Room offered up lots of possibilities. It’s my first subject with the Div. and my first picture is a composition of the men with their maps and the plotting table; a powerful scene of the planning in watercolour and tempera to get richness of tone. Such a treat to paint again, I haven’t been able to for weeks because of the constant moving, and there’s never enough time for the paint to dry, let alone enough space to carry a board or canvas.

The entry didn’t state a location, but she guessed from his tiny pictures of cypress trees and olive groves that the troops were in Italy.

Thursday, 13th July

A dramatic thunderstorm last night and we took cover in a hotel. Any other occasion and it would have been pleasant but seeing the sickness that malaria brings and the living conditions outside the protected areas is hard. My father’s family were Neapolitans and I’m sure would welcome me with open arms if there were ever time to look them up or by some strange coincidence we found ourselves close by.

Saturday, 15th July

When I got back to base I was in the mood to paint (and not for mixing with the men) so I took all the strips of paper with jottings out of my pockets—there were bundles of them, some I don’t even remember doing. We had been caught in the middle of a hellish raid but found cover in a deserted village, not before some of our chaps got hit. We saw out the enemy counterattack in slit trenches before the all-clear to march back came. Picked up some Italian prisoners on the way, which took the best part of the afternoon. Luckily, the table, chair and drawing board were still set up just where I left them so I was able to start on the watercolours straight away. The colours as they came to life after the dry dirt of the past few days was a welcome relief, but the blue swirling water put me in mind for a swim, which of course there’s not a chance in hell of having!

Kathryn could almost see the aqua droplet forming at the point of Jack’s brush, its mark as it met the paper, and the wash as he shaded the cerulean sky. How vivid a portrait of war he painted through his pictures and writing, and how she felt for the men.

Jack’s depictions of conflict were no different from the horrific images of today—war-torn areas reduced to rubble, refugee camps, sickness and starvation—but, strangely, those modern images felt less real to her than these impressions from sixty-five years ago. Perhaps it was true that her generation had become desensitised by constant news feeds and being bombarded by footage, but where could they go from here? It was something that preoccupied her more and more, and something she tried to discuss with friends, who only ever gave it a few minutes of their time before focusing on events closer to home.

Thursday, 28th September

We moved twenty miles today, expected in Naples by Sunday ahead of the 50th Division. Slept fitfully last night because of the heat, and sleeping in ruins next to cookhouse and latrines esp. noisy, so felt rotten today and all I managed were a few brief sketches whenever we stopped.

A series of hieroglyphic notes accompanied the disjointed entry. It appeared—from the missing weeks of entries between July and now—that his spirits were low.

Saturday, 30th September

On the move today and I concentrated on the landscape and the abandoned munitions; like the men who have become weathered by the elements, they are rusted by exposure into amber and oranges and reds. Tomorrow I’m taking to the air in a craft attached to the infantry division to make sketches of the battlefield, ambulances and tents. It’s the first fine day with a break in many days of continuous rain. The terrain is hard, with water from the road covering the floor of the jeep and causing the engine to stall as well as waterlogging the tents. These are extremes we are still ill equipped for and the men are tired. Even the promise of some Vermouth and dancing with nurses didn’t muster a smile from them tonight. Will settle for a quiet one although might be tempted by a game of poker at the Guards Brig. H.Q. on the way back.

A detailed sketch of the scene with deserted tanks and guns, one that he had filled in with colour, took up most of the opposite page. Alongside were arrows and notations with names of colours, which she guessed indicated the ones he intended to use when he produced a painting back in his studio.

Monday, 2nd October

My supplies are running low—what I wouldn’t give for a new set of Conté crayons and some paper. I haven’t told the men that I’m intending to use some of the rations to make dyes and paints; there is only one tin of sardines left and I am keeping it in reserve to mix the olive oil with burnt twigs once my charcoal runs out. They would not thank me for it if they knew, and neither would the M.O.I. thank me if I don’t get any pictures through.

It was such a shame that Stephen wouldn’t loan her the diary. She would have loved to take it to Eleanor and compare the sketches to Jack’s finished work that they had found on the internet.

Her phone beeped on the table next to her: a text from her best friend, Helen, asking to meet in Covent Garden. Kathryn had just sent a reply when an idea struck her.

Of course, how could she have been so dense? She glanced quickly at the kitchen doorway—she couldn’t see Stephen—and then picked up her phone, selected the camera option and started taking photos of the remaining pages. She didn’t need to ask Stephen for permission and give him the opportunity to refuse her, or request the loan of the diary. This was for her grandmother.