Eleanor’s Secret

The Barry Rooms were uncharacteristically noisy as artists, dignitaries and the media jostled for space. A small orchestra played Bach, waiters circulated with drinks and canapés, and the visitors animatedly discussed the paintings. Eleanor was completely detached from it all. Even the artworks—vast oils of dockyards and warships, smaller pictures of factories and airfields, intimate portraits of officers and crews, most of them in a limited tonal range that matched her sombre mood—were all reminders that Jack had gone away.

‘Good evening, sir, madam,’ she said, forcing a smile as the high commissioner for Canada entered with his wife.

Maura gawped so long at the woman’s blue gown with its tightly cinched waist that Eleanor had to nudge her and tell her to hand them a booklet.

‘Gracious me, I’m surprised Churchill or King George himself isn’t here,’ Maura whispered as the couple walked away. She was referring to the calibre of visitors attending this exhibition to celebrate the publication of the new War Pictures by British Artists booklets: the first four pocket books that the committee had produced to help improve morale—not to mention harness their propaganda value overseas.

Maura and Eleanor were standing at the entrance greeting attendees, while Eleanor struggled to maintain her composure. She had awoken that morning to splintered sun through the blackout blinds, the birds singing their usual chorus and the familiar sound of traffic in the street. It was only when she allowed herself to drift back to sleep again that her eyes startled open with the memory that Jack had left. She must have shouted before the tears came because suddenly Cecily was by her side and Eleanor was sobbing into her sister’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry,’ Cecily whispered, ‘I’m so sorry.’ Eleanor’s body weakened under her sister’s embrace, the knowledge that she didn’t know if or when she would see him again.

She’d replayed her and Jack’s last moments together after he walked her home; and their shared sense of grief and longing when he left her outside her building. He had told her that he loved her on the rooftop, and that he would come back for her. She held onto that as she eventually collected herself and got ready for work—and she was replaying it again now.

‘That is Lady Hughes over there, isn’t it?’ Maura asked, finger angled directly at an elegant brunette standing in front of a painting.

‘Alright, I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve seen that coat before—I think it’s Jaeger.’ Maura obviously coveted the fashionable ivy-green coat. ‘I’d lose the fur stole, though. It’s not necessary.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ Eleanor said in a gentler tone, understanding that these things were important to Maura. ‘Just don’t stare, and remember to mark guests off and give them a copy of the booklet.’

‘I will, and I’m getting loads of ideas, so thank you. I reckon I’ll be up all night drawing patterns.’ She glanced at Eleanor. ‘And I think you’re doing really well,’ she added with a warm smile.

Eleanor smiled back but she wished Maura hadn’t said anything, a new well of tears springing into her eyes. She dabbed them with a handkerchief, grateful to Maura for volunteering at the last minute. She’d been helpful so far, despite the running commentary on the women’s clothes, but Eleanor hoped her friend would stop being so sympathetic or she might cry all night.

As they waited for new entrants, Eleanor watched Lady Hughes progress around the room. She thought about the awful timing of Jack’s departure this week: the week of Cecily’s exams and the most important event that Eleanor had been involved with. She’d spent weeks compiling and managing the guest list. Tonight she had greeted journalists from The Illustrated London News, the Times, Vogue, Sketch, The Tatler and Bystander, and only a few feet away a reporter from the Mirror was questioning an artist about his impressions of life around the capital.

She had every reason to feel nervous too. The leaflets were the culmination of the committee’s work, and she was responsible for pulling it all together. The committee had spent months selecting the artists, then reviewing the paintings and drawings they submitted, and, finally, making the difficult choice of which to include. It had been a time-consuming affair, and only once they had come to the end of it had the committee congratulated themselves on what they had achieved and the compendium of hope they believed it would deliver to the public.

A group nearby stopped talking to pose for the official photographer. Despite how Eleanor felt, she couldn’t ignore the energy in the room, anticipation palpable among the establishment as the war artists congregated.

‘Have you got more booklets?’ Eleanor asked when she noticed Maura’s empty hands.

‘Yes, they’re under here,’ Maura said, lifting the tablecloth. ‘The same as they were five minutes ago, when you asked last time.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Eleanor rearranged the four stacks of books for the umpteenth time.

As much as she tried to put Jack from her mind, there was the intrusive fact that the only love she had ever known had gone—and there was nothing she could do about it. Thousands of others felt the same as her, more every single day, but what was worse was that she felt responsible for sending him away. If only he hadn’t listened to her; if only he had stayed working as he always had and not joined the WAAC.

She distracted herself, picking up the first of the paperback booklets, War at Sea. She was relieved that the purple and black cover image had turned out okay after a number of issues with the printing; it befitted the affecting artworks inside. The committee had chosen equally appropriate colours for the other three booklets: flame orange for Blitz, gunmetal grey for the RAF and red for the Army, and she admired them too for a moment. It had fallen to her to liaise with the experts engaged to write the introductions for each booklet, and to arrange the transport of artworks to and from the printers. The committee had wanted to start the collection with a drawing of Air Raid Warden D.I. Jones OBE by Eric Kennington, and it had taken several letters to get Admiral Sir Herbert W. Richmond to write the introduction in time for it to go to print. It was at the eleventh hour that his two-page introduction was delivered to the office and then swiftly transported to Oxford University Press by Clive—and only then because of another of his surprising short cuts, although, thankfully, a more successful diversion this time.

When she opened the cover and started reading the introduction again, it gave her pause.

These pictures were merely a selection of a greater number of Civil Defence subjects. Many more will yet be painted; and the Ministry of Home Security is anxious that all possible opportunities shall be allowed artists serving in the Civil Defence Forces today. The committee have in mind that some of the best pictures of the last war were painted by members of the Armed Forces. To-day war has come to civilians. Subjects for the artist, whether or not he is a member of the Civil Defence Forces, are on his doorstep and, to judge by its beginning, the pictorial record of war on the home front will be a worthy and impressive one.

Admiral Richmond was right: the pictures from the home front would be worthy ones, but why was it that most of them were still painted by men? It was women who had taken on the bulk of the jobs and duties on the home front; women who had felt the impact of missing fathers, brothers and sons; women who were suffering at home—yet they weren’t the ones telling their stories or painting their pictures. She had only obtained pictures from one female war artist, Laura Knight, for this booklet, and Ethel Gabain for Blitz, and she wished there could be more. Maybe Jack was right and they shouldn’t have waited; she should have just let him submit her picture when they first had the idea and the confidence to see it through—now that he’d gone away that might never happen.

‘Aye, it’s going really well.’ Maura nudged her, looking as pleased as if the artworks were her own. ‘They must all be feeling very proud.’

She could see representatives from all the ministries; if she hadn’t felt so remote from it all, she would have been intrigued to meet them—the Ministry of Information, the Air Ministry, the War Office, the Ministry of Home Security, not to mention members of the Royal College of Art, the Royal Academy and the Slade—it appeared as though anyone who was anyone in the art world had congregated in these rooms tonight. Eleanor would usually have talked to each and every one of them and been eager to do a good job, but tonight the images of warfare just made her think of Jack.

And she had another feeling that didn’t sit well, like a cloak around her sadness. It was something she couldn’t mistake for anything other than envy—she wished Jack well but she also wished that it could be her.

It was almost ten o’clock when Eleanor reached the pub on Praed Street and pushed her way through the smoky, crowded bar. Cecily was sitting alone at the back behind a curtain of raucous young men and women. ‘Eleanor—what are you doing here?’ she said, her cheeks flushed.

Eleanor had arrived at their flat to find it empty before she remembered the end-of-exams drinks with the other student nurses of St Mary’s.

‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ Cecily’s smile beamed. ‘Be a love and buy me a drink—I’ve run out of money,’ she said in a voice that didn’t belong to her.

‘Really, I think it’s time to go.’ Eleanor said quietly, not wanting to draw attention.

Her sister sat up straighter, looking cross. ‘If you wanted to stay out, we would. Why can’t we now, when I want to?’ she asked, tipping her head back as she emptied her glass.

Eleanor had wanted to accompany Cecily to drinks before realising it clashed with the exhibition, so she’d encouraged her sister to go alone; she thought it would do her good, the exams having pushed her hard. Judging by the state of her now, she might have been wrong. Around them the revellers were growing boisterous, young doctors and nurses singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to a man who was standing on a chair.

‘Oh, come on, sis…one for the road,’ Cecily said, holding the glass towards her.

Eleanor felt quite desperate; she had never seen her sister like this before. She looked around for their friends. ‘Where’s Lindsay?’

‘Really? I find that hard to imagine. They wouldn’t have left you by yourself.’

‘I’m not by myself.’ She wafted her arms towards the singing group. ‘I’m with my friends.’

‘Harry could have seen you home,’ Eleanor said louder, her temper fraying as her sister slumped on the stool, head lolling to one side. ‘I said, Harry could have walked you home.’

‘Lindsay told me. Apparently, he’s in love with someone but he won’t tell her who.’

‘You never do! I’m not like you, Eleanor. I don’t want the things you do. You always want me to be better or different, or be with someone, but that’s not what I want. Not if they don’t want me.’

All this time Eleanor had thought she had her sister’s best interests at heart. She’d been taking instructions from their mother, doing what her family had asked—and it wasn’t what Cecily wanted. For all her parents’ fussing, and her chaperoning and worrying, it seemed that her sister knew what she wanted for herself.

‘Don’t worry, I forgive you,’ Cecily said soberly. ‘You are thoughtful, Ellie, but you’ve got to stop thinking your ideas and thoughts are better than anyone else’s.’

Eleanor bit her lip. She felt close to tears, but she really didn’t want to cry; she wanted to focus on giving her sister what she needed.

‘Oh God,’ Cecily said, clasping her hand across her mouth. ‘I forgot about Jack. I’m so sorry!’