Theirs was an irregular skyline, with distorted shapes of well-known landmarks recognisable by day, now forming a spider-web that glistened in the half-light. Eleanor and Jack were on the edge of a parapet with a bird’s-eye view over the city—and it felt to Eleanor as if she was on the edge of the world.
They had commandeered the firewatchers post on the roof at Portman Square and watched as the sun melted on the horizon. Eleanor had taken to sneaking up here at the end of the day when the sun afforded her the best light to paint. The conditions were ideal tonight, the sun creating bold silhouettes of the buildings, its far-reaching rays reflecting light off metalwork and glass. Eleanor didn’t just respond to the glowing colours, but also to the textures they highlighted: the smooth ancient sandstone of the church opposite, the tessellated tiles of the surrounding roofs, the chiselled masonry that sat at myriad angles alongside the carved and painted wood of the shopfronts below. The city was organic, emerging from the ground—rock, wood, glass and metal, then layers of cloud and sky—just like the strata of the Earth itself.
She was waiting until they had finished painting, when the dusk had finally settled over them, to bring out the picnic she had packed to share.
‘Don’t you think that if you paint it, it somehow helps to make sense of it all?’ she asked, looking across at Jack.
They were sitting slightly apart, angled away from each other while they worked on the small canvases balanced in their laps. Jack was thoughtful as he leaned over to refill his brush from the palette at his feet. She hadn’t seen him since their outing to the exhibition, and he was unusually reserved, barely reacting when she had told him how the arrangements were coming along for the launch of the war artists’ booklets in a few days’ time, or how Cecily had got on with her first exam.
‘Jack, did you hear what I said? Does painting help you come to terms with things in some way?’
‘Yes,’ he murmured.
‘Really? It doesn’t sound ridiculous?’
‘Not at all,’ he said, still distracted.
‘So is that how you feel too?’ she asked, pushing him for a definitive answer.
‘Isn’t it how most artists feel—artists, poets, writers—not just trying to make sense of the war but everything?’ he said and glanced up at her. ‘Love, loss, tragedy—but this war especially.’
Here was a glimpse of that man again; that special soul who could rouse angels from children. Only a glimpse, though. Today he was not his usual self—he was distracted.
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘My next lesson, of course. Painting for the field, part three.’
‘I’m glad you find my lessons so entertaining now,’ he said dryly.
She had come straight from work and was still in her suit, which restricted her movements, her calf muscles straining as she propped herself against the chimneystack. Jack had been in his studio so his shirtsleeves were rolled up, streaks of paint visible on his forearms, tiny track marks across the coarse hairs.
It was true that at first she had sometimes been reluctant to listen to him, not wanting to be his pupil. But what he had shared about working in the military sectors, and the ports and factories he had visited, was fascinating and sounded so different from painting in a studio.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but you know that if you really were in the field, you would only be doing a quick thumbnail sketch now, a pen and ink that you would work up in your studio later. None of this lengthy layering with colour.’
Of course she knew—she had been working with the war artists for months now. He really wasn’t thinking clearly.
‘Oh dear, shall I wash it away then?’ she said, joking.
‘No, I think that might be a little extreme,’ he answered seriously.
‘Alright, so once I have my thumbnail, is that when I ask the press officer to post it home and start on another one?’
‘Yes, if you were working on a series, you would. What is your series, Captain Roy?’
‘Captain?’ she asked, pleased to see a sparkle in his eyes.
‘That would be your mandatory title, remember?’
‘Of course, that’s right.’
She thought for a moment, remembering the themes of the upcoming War Pictures by British Artists books; she would have chosen ‘the Blitz’.
‘I shall be doing a series on the capital’s treasured monuments: St Paul’s, Westminster Abbey and Tower Bridge, as I’m trying to summon a sense of national pride.’ She spoke in a haughty voice, parroting the messages that had been written in the press release.
‘Excellent,’ he said, warming up at last. ‘So which building are you working on tonight?’
‘I think you should be able to tell that, don’t you?’
‘Let’s see.’ Jack moved behind her so that he could check her canvas.
She felt him standing close, his breath against her neck, the smell of him. She tried to ignore his proximity and concentrate solely on the picture, examining it as closely as he was. The mixed tones represented melancholy and hope, but devastated buildings had become such a predictable metaphor for loss and death that she saw through his eyes an image that was unsurprising and technically weak. The realisation depressed her; it was so frustrating not being able to create original imagery, but how could anyone hope to catch the patterns and images of the capital as it was continually reshaped? Was it even possible to show where the bombs had etched their marks, or how its citizens had ground away even more of their precious city as they attempted to rebuild it? Hers wasn’t a picture of a particular building but a pastiche of the city she loved: the one that she was hoping and wishing would survive.
‘I like it, but I think you should spend some more time on it at home,’ he said after a few moments.
‘Agreed,’ she said flatly. ‘I suspect that’s my failing as an artist. Can I see yours, quickly? Before the light fades completely.’
Jack tilted his canvas towards her and she saw that the elements of his picture were much simpler than in hers. It was the same city at sunset, but just a stark silhouette against orange skies. He’d created it in the brief time they’d been there, yet it was as accomplished a picture as one that another artist would spend days working on.
She sighed. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Then it will be yours.’
‘Don’t be silly, you’ll get a couple of pounds for it,’ she said. ‘And, anyway, it’s not yours to give—the committee have the first right of refusal on all your work.’
She knew the WAAC conditions off by heart: six hundred and fifty pounds a year with transport, accommodation and meals included. She still held onto the idea of being a war artist but of the fifty artists the WAAC had taken so far, only one was a woman.
Jack was shaking his head. ‘Not on this one, they won’t—it’s for you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
She loved it; not just because it was in his quintessential style, but because it would remind her of all the days they’d spent together—and their time up here on top of the world.
She glanced at the last of the sunset, at the yellow and orange light that speared the sky. ‘You have captured the colours perfectly. I shall call it The Crimson Sun.’
He held it towards her, and she reached out and took it, but he was still unsmiling.
‘Eleanor…’
‘Yes?’
‘I…’
‘What is it?’
Laughter from the streets stole onto the rooftop, reminding her that this wasn’t their kingdom alone. They had been chased away by the security guard on more than one occasion recently, and she was listening out for his footsteps on the metal fire exit stairs.
‘Jack?’ she asked.
He came to sit next to her. ‘Well, here’s the thing,’ he said, eyes locking with hers. ‘I’m leaving…I got my papers today. I’ve got my posting.’
They had talked about him leaving, about how important it was that he contribute, use his skills in the best way he could, but now she just felt numb. She simply didn’t know what to say.
‘Eleanor,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘are you okay?’
‘Yes, yes, I am.’ She finally exhaled. ‘It just feels so…so quick.’
‘I know.’
‘When are you leaving?’
‘In two days.’
‘Just two?’
‘Yes.’
She needed to be brave, consider Jack’s feelings in all of this, remember that she had been the one who had pushed for him to become a war artist in the first place.
He placed his fingers under her chin, gently lifting her face towards his, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes roamed across his face, taking in the thick dark lashes, the soft crease from his nose to his mouth, the generous curve of his lips, the shadow of stubble just beneath his skin.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’ she asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘How are your mother and Beth?’ Her voice quivered as she struggled to hide her emotion.
‘I’ll tell them in the morning. Let tonight be ours.’
She gazed out across the skyline at the crimson sun and the dark silhouette of an expectant city, a population who deserved better. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to bear the goodbye—but that she should take what little time they had together.
Then they embraced, clinging to each other, her head buried in his shoulder.
‘Promise me that you’ll write whenever you can and that you will stay safe,’ she said as tears stole down her face. ‘Don’t try and be too brave.’
‘I promise,’ he replied.
‘I’ll wait for you, Jack.’
‘I’m not asking you to.’
‘I know.’
And then he kissed her. It seemed to last longer than any breath she had ever taken, any thought she had ever had, and when they finally parted he looked into her eyes and spoke with utter certainty. ‘I love you, Eleanor. And I will come back for you.’