LONDON, 2010
The aircraft’s wingspan measured nine metres, the grey steel of its body innocuous enough to camouflage it against the dark grey of most European skies. The Harrier Jump Jet was suspended above the First World War Spitfire in the vast exhibition space, a V-2 rocket balancing just a few metres below.
This was the first time Kathryn had been to the Imperial War Museum, and the scale of the warplane and machines overhead filled her with a new sense of awe. No wonder there were men and women who dedicated themselves to becoming experts on the military and for whom these powerful machines held a deep fascination. She’d never understood it before, but surrounded by such might it was hard not to feel the fascination now.
She knew Chris would love it here, with the old brick walls of the original building left exposed next to the glass and concrete of the renovations. And Oliver would be interested in all the hardware. There was a pleasing symmetry to the way in which the old and new materials had been combined: a fitting backdrop to the scale of exhibits from different eras. From the edge of the ground-floor balcony, she could see everything from the fighter planes suspended above to the rusted outline of the Baghdad Car on the lower ground floor. That exhibit had recently arrived amid media uproar: a vehicle destroyed by a suicide bombing in Baghdad.
There was so much to see, but Kathryn couldn’t be late for the research session. She would have to take Oliver here on their next visit.
The previous day, she had waited until Mrs Halls had left and then shown Eleanor the papers from the attic. After revealing the photo of her grandmother’s younger self with Jack, she’d watched Eleanor’s eyes widen. ‘Ah,’ she’d said, sounding surprised, ‘I’d forgotten about that. Look at us—we were so young!’ She had given Kathryn a strangely expectant look, before complaining of a headache and taking to her bed. With the odd sense that she had missed something important, Kathryn had spent the rest of the day on the Nautilus project before catching up with Chris and Oli, as well as on much-needed sleep. Her concern that it was already her third day in England, and with so little achieved, had lessened when she got an email confirming an appointment the next day.
It was nearly time—eleven-thirty—so, feeling re-energised, she quickly followed the signs up to the second floor, home to the Second World War exhibitions. The central atrium had been flooded with natural light, but up here, where the displays revealed the intimate details of the conflicts, the machinery and the human cost of war, it was much darker, the exhibits casting their own shadows. Kathryn weaved through a group of schoolchildren, clipboards clutched in their hands, and headed towards the Family in Wartime exhibit.
The reconstructed rooms of the Allpress family home showed how ordinary Londoners had lived during the war. In the living room, two armchairs were angled towards a fireplace and a wireless sat between them; it played an original BBC recording, the newscaster’s clipped enunciation representing the British stoicism of the time. Kathryn made her way through to the kitchen, where tins and packets of food were stacked on the countertop, the portions of rations measured out on plates alongside. She walked into the bedroom, where life-size models displayed utility clothing and the tokens that had been exchanged for meagre fuel and clothes.
Kathryn would have loved to linger. The exhibit was so evocative, making it easier for her to imagine Eleanor’s life back then—but she was now officially late.
The research rooms were tucked into a corner of the museum with the mandatory battered metal lockers outside and the request for no food or drink to be taken in. Kathryn pulled out her laptop and the printed email that confirmed her request for books and papers, then pushed through the glass doors.
The desks were horizontal to the window and a pleasant light fell across the thoughtful-looking people who sat at them. Despite the request for silence, there were hushed voices as well as the tapping of fingers on keypads, and the clicking from cameras and phones.
Kathryn walked to the reception to collect her requested items from a librarian. She was soon seated at a desk with her hoard spread out in front of her: a manila folder of documents and Jack’s diary inside a protective plastic wallet. It was the same size and colour as the one at Stephen Aldridge’s house, certainly part of the same set.
Around her, other visitors were absorbed in their reading, the air conditioner circulating a welcome breeze. She settled into the space, pulled out the diary and opened its cover. Inside, in the familiar black ink script, it was dated 1942—the year Jack and Eleanor had met. Hopefully it would yield more answers than the 1944 diary.
Wednesday, 15th July
The men don’t trust me yet; not surprisingly they’re suspicious of anyone who holds a paintbrush instead of a gun. I firmly believe that I will need to prove that I will honour my pledge, and that I am prepared to lay down my life alongside theirs. I’ve been told that the days will be quite different from now on; we will be across the border tomorrow night, and that is when the games begin. I have been warned that while they will defend our freedom, the regiment can become lawless against each other, that the lieutenants and sergeants and ranks of officers can’t protect them from themselves—that it’s every man for himself—but I haven’t seen any evidence of this yet.
This seemed more direct than the other diary, the tone more urgent. At the bottom of the page was a small charcoal sketch of a soldier leaning against a tree trunk, smoking; behind him, a few of the soldiers had set up camp. She guessed that this was a depiction of a man Jack had met; perhaps the symbolic loner, or the expression of every man for himself. It was a revealing observation, penned as it was from a place of hiding, branches and leaves in the foreground, concealing the artist from view. How terribly excluded Jack must have felt, as an artist, from these men with their shared code of honour and rules.
She was tempted to flick through the pages until nearer the end, but something in the next paragraph caught her eye.
Friday, 17th July
The men had a riot last night watching me try to navigate through the trenches. I did as they instructed, creeping out of each hole, moving flat like a snake, all the while they shouted at me to get down lower and put my weight on the inside of my knees, big toes and elbows, and not to press on my kneepads and palms. I made it over the rise, staying low and bending my body over the top of the bank as if my chest were almost scrubbing it all the way. I was glad that I had left my pens and sketchbook behind and that I didn’t stab myself with any of the equipment inside these dozen pockets.
Kathryn wondered if this was a usual training exercise or if they were initiating Jack in some way.
She could see why the museum had been interested in exhibiting this diary: the descriptions were as revealing as the sketches on each page, and it made her want to read them all the more.
Monday, 20th July
It’s the common cause that unites these men and I must work hard to gain their trust. It’s the same as putting your trust in nature, only theirs has a cynical toughness that I have to overcome. My work is still elemental, that part hasn’t changed, but my environment has. The adrenaline takes over when you are here; it’s only afterwards when you reflect on it that you are able to function and work can start again. Some of the men get addicted to that. I can relate to them only in how my own body changes under these conditions: sounds are more distinct, I can see more clearly, it’s as if my perception has heightened, senses on full alert.
‘Elemental’, ‘perception’, ‘heightened’—the words seemed to float in midair, suspended like the images he was trying to construct. She felt a connection with what he was saying: she had thought she would get to know him mainly through his paintings, but now his ideas were drawing her in. This is what it must have taken to make a great war artist—one who could see clearly under pressure; one who could stay calm rather than be overwhelmed by the flight-or-fight mechanism. Being out in the field would have been such a contrast to art school: how strange it must have felt to Jack to go from life-drawing classes to life-or-death situations.
She turned the page, wanting to know what happened next, but the ink was a different colour and the entry dated a week later.
Monday, 27th July
The men shared their stories on the way over, the colleges and jobs they have come from, the families and girlfriends they have left behind, but once here it is so different, and all that matters is staying alive. Then food comes next—and trying not to die. I have spent a great deal of time training, lifting heavy objects and trying to improve my fitness so that I can keep up with them. We walked seventeen miles yesterday and much of it was difficult terrain but it’s how it’s going to be from now on. It is how I must work too, moving around, having little time to prepare, disregarding the rules I have learned up until now. I have to live in the instant, make notes and work when we stop. I am worried about how I am going to preserve the pictures and will have to send some home soon, the first in the series for Sir Robert’s ‘Heroes’ Journeys’.
Looking more closely at the fine lines, Kathryn could see that the sketches were in Conté crayon, but Eleanor had told her that he’d worked in pen and Indian ink, then used guar gum—a thickening agent—and watercolour in his completed pictures.
Thursday, 30th July
We have been on the move for three days now and are getting closer to our destination. Only another few days to go, but the conditions are harder than I am physically equipped for. The city has been under attack for months and we are the reinforcements. Yesterday we came under attack from heavy mortar and were forced to change our route, so it is expected to take longer now. The men are jumpy since our position is now known, and until we reach the rest of the battalion, they say, we are sitting ducks.
The tension in his words was evident, the small sketch accompanying them dark and the lines coarse, showing his strain. But it also looked familiar—similar to an image in Eleanor’s home—although Kathryn supposed that many of the battle scenes must look the same. She turned the page.
Saturday, 1st August
I was sketching the unit preparing to move when a mortar hit. Peters and DeWitt were killed outright. I couldn’t even paint the scene if I tried although I can’t get the image out of my head either, the torment of more lives lost. We have buried far too many already.
The racks of books on the wall, with their aged leather and linen spines that she usually found so appealing, were suddenly reminders of all that was withered and wasted, merely catalogues of the loss of human life. How many millions of lives and deaths were recorded here, and how many more would be added after future conflicts?
Kathryn focused back on the diary, leafing through and reading entries that stood out, taking photos and making notes on certain facts or turns of phrase that she would ask Eleanor about.
When she next glanced up it was nearly one o’clock, time for the research room to close for lunch. The one-hour break would be a welcome opportunity for her to take a walk and have a think. She headed downstairs to the cafe. The route took her past the gift shop and she made a quick detour, hoping to find something for Oliver. Plastic shelves showcased nostalgic British ornaments and books about the wars; round wicker baskets offered up army tanks on metal key chains and Spitfire pencil sharpeners. Walls of posters instructed everyone to KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON and EAT LESS BREAD: once important propaganda messages, now little more than catchphrases.
As she looked at all the paraphernalia, Kathryn understood how reaching back in time had made her appreciate what earlier generations had been through and the significance of these wars. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about the veterans before; she bought poppies and watched the Anzac Day dawn services, but she had never really put herself in their shoes. Perhaps understanding how Jack had felt was the key to uncovering what had happened to him.
Back in her seat at two o’clock, Kathryn opened the diary and hoped that her patience would be rewarded.
Thursday, 6th August
The supply ship arrived and it was all my Christmases at once: a full set of assorted drawing pens, the choice of artists and draughtsmen the world over. I wonder if Miss Roy had anything to do with it? I have begun a baroque painting on the roof of our tent. The men will get a surprise when they come in and find the dramatic figures of fellow soldiers aiming artillery at them! If it works out well I might suggest shipping it back home and we can then put the canvas up for display—I know that my darling girl would love it! I captured the scene of a recent night battle because of the intense atmosphere and dramatic colour and light, one that I know my fellow journalists could never capture with their cameras. So far it is working very well; I had enough red for the blood and by the time I have finished it I think it would make Caravaggio proud! First batch of drawings sent off, so praying the courier gets through.
She grinned. A few pages further on and there was her gran’s name, finally. And also, Kathryn realised, this must be the piece of canvas that she had found in the attic. She re-read the entry and took a photo before continuing to leaf through, taking in each scribbled note and detailed drawing as she hunted for another mention of Miss Roy. But there weren’t any. The diary abruptly ended in August, only a month after it had started, with a mere two lines on the page.
Sunday, 16th August
Didn’t sleep as felt wretched and coughed all night. Most of the unit down with flu and the Red Cross nurse said no more hospital beds so I told her to keep mine for some other poor bugger.
There was a rough pencil sketch of a group of men around a mound with a white cross at its head. In the foreground was a small tree, a bird sitting on the branch.
Jack’s work revealed an unusual empathy, a rare capacity for warmth; he understood emotions. Kathryn realised that not only did she want to find out for Eleanor what had happened to Jack, but now she wanted to find out for herself too.
As she put the diary back in its plastic case, her eyes caught the bound manila folder of documents at her elbow. She leafed through the few newspaper articles inside. Some covered the last war artists exhibition, and others the 2005 anniversary celebrations. She jotted down the names of art and military historians to follow up.
She came across an article with a picture of Jack. It was more recent than the others she had seen online. His full head of dark hair was grey around the sides and there was no hiding that he looked old but he was still handsome.
His image made her think of the black-and-white photograph of Jack and Eleanor and she scrolled through her iPhone until she found the picture she had taken of it. She looked at the younger Jack, searching for the secrets locked behind those enigmatic eyes. Through reading his diaries, Kathryn had come to understand that he hadn’t just been a war artist but an artist at war, and his paintings had brought her face to face with its realities. So what had kept him and the woman he loved apart?
Then Kathryn saw it. The memory of her initial surprise at how excitedly happy the two of them had looked made her shiver. How could she have missed it before? There in the centre of the photo, where the couple’s hands were clasped, was a small dark grey shape. Kathryn enlarged the picture and kept zooming in until she could be certain. Yes, there it was on Eleanor’s ring finger—a diamond solitaire.