Chapter Four

Art for Art’s Sake

It seemed a long time before Mannering answered, and when he did it was in a matter-of-fact voice carrying just a hint of reproof. He felt at once deeply compassionate towards her and at the same time a little angry. He finished his tea, put the cup down and remarked: “Tom thinks his painting is irresistibly good, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does.”

“And you think your body is irresistible, too, don’t you?”

She winced; drew back; and began to lose her colour. It was the last response that she had expected, so she wasn’t in any way prepared for it. Mannering watched her very closely, thinking how beautiful she was, and how desirable any man who allowed his feelings to roam would find her.

“I didn’t—I didn’t think of it that way,” she said at last.

“Have you found men so predatory?” he asked.

“Pred—oh, yes.” She paused, caught her breath and went on: “Yes. Most of them. They seem to think that because we younger people want a permissive society, because we won’t accept a lot of the conventions, that we’re all promiscuous, that—well, one pair of arms is like another.”

“Don Quixote,” Mannering murmured.

“Dulcinea,” she said huskily. “I—I’m sorry.”

“I think I ought to apologise for the kind of men you’ve met,” Mannering responded gently.

“It’s not that!” she exclaimed, suddenly angry. “It’s not just some kind of men. I have to go and ask them for something and it’s like a reflex action for them to ask me what I’m going to pay with. You—you seem to be the exception.”

Mannering made no response.

“Mr. Mannering,” she said, “will you help Tom?”

“If he’ll let me,” Mannering replied.

“What do you mean by that?”

“If he’ll accept whatever I’m able to suggest,” Mannering answered, leaning forward and taking her free hand in both of his. “Julie, you know as well as I do that it would be folly for anyone simply to offer to support him until he can support himself. That could break any real spirit he has left.” When she didn’t answer, he went on: “You do realise that some way has to be found for him to help himself, don’t you?”

“I suppose so,” Julie sighed. “What—what do you think you could do?”

“Before I can give any opinion I need to talk to him again, and also a chance to look at his work more closely, and I would like my wife to see his paintings. Do you know who she is?”

“Yes,” Julie replied. “She paints portraits as Lorna Fauntley.”

“That’s right.”

“She is very good,” Julie declared. “If—” she broke off.

“If traditional,” Mannering finished for her.

“I really didn’t mean to be rude,” Julie said, flushing a little. “I’m so tired, absolutely worn out and—and living with Tom is like living next to a volcano. He’s desperate, Mr. Mannering. It doesn’t matter what he tries to do, it turns sour on him. And he feels he’s let me down. At first he fought against letting me help but eventually he had to, or else starve, so he gave way. I came home one day after going to a gallery where a man offered to buy some of Tom’s pictures if I would sleep with him, and I told Tom. I shouldn’t have, but I was so upset. He went straight off and attacked the man, and ever since then he’s been much more difficult, sometimes almost uncontrollable, and terribly moody. I’ve been afraid he might kill himself, but this is the first time he’s tried.” She paused, and he squeezed her hand; and then she went on: “If I’d been twenty minutes – ten minutes – later, he would probably have died.”

“Yes,” Mannering said. “You certainly saved his life.”

“After driving him to attempt suicide!”

“Nonsense! Circumstances and my attitude this afternoon did that.” Mannering gave her hand a final squeeze and let it go. “What do you do, to keep things going, Julie?”

“Type,” she answered.

“Just type?”

“Yes – manuscripts for authors, memos, reports, letters – any kind of typing. I built up a connection years ago, that’s how I’ve always earned my living. I’ve a little room across the street, and pay for it partly by baby-sitting, as I told you. It’s better than working here. I don’t interrupt Tom and he does not interrupt me.”

“And Tom?”

“He paints,” she replied heavily.

“Does he ever sell anything?”

“Not since he stopped painting copies and what he calls pretty picture postcard scenes. He has to paint as he sees things, creatively, and even then—” once Julie broke off, as if reluctant to finish what she had started to say.

“Please go on,” he urged her.

“He won’t sell for nothing or next to nothing! If he’d accept two or three guineas for a picture he would make a few sales, but his lowest price is ten guineas and that’s low enough.” She looked at Mannering defiantly. “It may sound arrogant but he is right in one way. He really is.”

“Yes,” Mannering said. “Or he would be if he could keep the wolf from the door. What made him come to see me, do you know?”

“There was an article about you in The Antiquarian Dealer,” she answered. “It said you believed that artists should have patrons, as in the olden day way, that if a man was really potentially good he needed to be able to concentrate on his work, not just on finding food and drink. You did say that, didn’t you?” She caught her breath, as if fearful that he would deny it.

“And believe it,” Mannering assured her. “The trouble is to decide whom to back, Julie. There are a hundred artists who think they deserve it to every one who really does.” He stood up and went to the window, hearing a car pull up outside; it was a small one on the far side of the road. A tall, fair-haired young woman got out, carrying a baby, and a good-looking, easy-moving man appeared on the other side and led the way to a house which was painted blue and had No. 20 painted in white on the blue above the porch. “I went up into the attic, and spent a little time in the kitchen and the bathroom,” he went on. “Are all the paintings Tom’s?”

“Yes. They are good, aren’t they?” Again, her heart seemed to be in her mouth.

“I like the look of a lot of them,” Mannering told her, turning to face her. “How does he offer them?”

“Well, how can he? He takes them round in portfolios or in suitcases, and shows them to the dealers.” When Mannering didn’t respond, she went on: “How else can he offer them?”

“I’m nearly sure that isn’t the way,” Mannering replied.

“Then what is, for goodness sake?”

“Give me a little time to think,” Mannering begged.

“Oh, I will!” There was fresh brightness in her eyes, eagerness and hope. “You are really serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Mannering said. “I’m really serious.”

“So you do believe in art for art’s sake!” she cried.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Mannering replied. “I believe that there is a commercial future in these paintings, and if there weren’t I wouldn’t be so inclined to help.” He laughed at the expression on her face. “Don’t be too disappointed, Julie! History’s made it clear that the greater the art the greater the price that should be paid for it! There is a direct relation between quality and fees even today, you know.”

“I suppose there is,” Julie said, but she did not sound convinced. “I can’t thank you enough for—for saying you’d try.” She pushed the folk-weave blanket off her and began to get off the bed. “What do you think I ought to do with Tom, now?”

“How long do you think he’ll sleep?”

“Four or five more hours, at least,” she said, and looked at a tiny travelling clock on the mantelpiece. “Goodness! It’s half-past six!”

“And so he’ll sleep until midnight,” Mannering said. “No need to worry about him.”

“It isn’t that,” she cried. “I should have been with the Pagets. I’m always there at six o’clock to help with the baby. I must fly.”

“Julie!” Mannering said sharply. “You’re not well enough to rush about.”

“But I must! It’s—it’s my job, it’s why I get the room free for working. I must—”

She spun round, staggered, and obviously turned dizzy. She pushed a hand against the door to steady herself but it closed under her weight and she fell against it. He reached her just in time to save her from falling, and she stood shivering with his arm round her shoulders.

“Julie,” he said gently. “You’re suffering from shock, and you must have some rest.” He helped her back to bed, and she made no protest, even when he pulled the blanket up over her again. “I’ll go across and explain to the Pagets,” he promised. “Are they close friends?”

“Not—not really friends, they—” she shot out an arm. “You won’t tell them what Tom did, will you? Please.”

“I shall not. Do you want them to come over?”

“I’d rather just rest, please.” She was shivering, and he looked round for another cover and found only a lamb’s wool top-coat, which he spread over her.

“That’s more like it! May I borrow your key?”

“Why—oh, yes, do. It’s in my bag.”

Her bag was a felt one with some velvet patterns embossed on it, and the keys were on the top of a jumble of cosmetics, letters, matches, handkerchiefs and tickets. He took the keys and turned to her.

“Do the Pagets live at Number 20?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“They’ve only just got home,” Mannering tried to reassure her. “I won’t be long.”

By the time he reached the front door he was aware of the old grey-haired man peering from a partly open door, and of a curious sense of unreality. When he closed the front door it was like turning his back on a dream. But this was no dream, and it could have been stark tragedy. A youth on a motor-cycle passed slowly, an ancient car swung into the nearer end of the road; and he waited for this to pass before crossing. There was much less room to park, now, although still a few vacant spaces. The car outside Number 20 was a dark green M.G., which suggested that the Pagets were reasonably successful. A child’s toy was on the passenger seat next to the driver, other baby oddments on the back seat. He opened the blue-painted gate and pressed a brass surrounded bell-push centred on the front door which was painted the same colour.

Footsteps sounded almost at once, and as the door opened the man whom Mannering had seen getting out of the car appeared. He was of medium height, had an athletic looking figure and wore a suit not unlike the Edwardian elegance of the two assistants at Quinns. He was dark-haired and dark-jowled, obviously having to shave twice a day. Yet his cheeks, where there was no incipient stubble, were apple-red, his face was rather broad-featured, his nose rather short and slightly tip-tilted; and he had a big cleft in his chin.

“Good evening.” He looked puzzled.

“Good evening,” said Mannering. “Are you Mr. Paget?”

“Clive Paget, yes,” the other answered. “And you?—”

“My name is Mannering, John Mannering. I’ve just come from Julie and Tom Forrester,” Mannering said. “I wonder if you can spare me a few minutes.”

“Of course,” Clive Paget said. “Come in.” As he backed into the hall and stood close to the wall, he called out: “It’s someone from Tom and Julie, love.”

At the door at the end of the passage identical in lay-out to the house across the street, was the fair-haired young woman, who had the baby in her arms. It was almost as if there had been some strange metamorphosis and the old man had changed into the attractive girl. The door closed slowly and the blonde’s face was the last thing he saw.

“Let’s go in here,” Paget said, and opened the door of a room opposite the stairs. It was small but surprisingly bright, with one large window overlooking the back of the house. Slantwise across the window was a typist’s desk with a large typewriter on it, some papers and odds and ends. Against one wall stood a filing cabinet, against the third, a trestle table. The room was very orderly, and gave an impression of precise organisation. “Julie works in here.” Paget went on. “We couldn’t understand why she wasn’t here when we got back, she’s usually so dependable.” Then, belatedly, an expression of concern crossed his face and his dark, brown eyes glowed as if with anxiety. “But what’s wrong? Is she all right?” He gripped Mannering’s forearm.

“Forrester had a bit of trouble climbing down from the attic,” Mannering said, “and Julie had her work cut out to get him to bed and manage first aid.”

Paget looked alarmed.

“Does she need help? Shall I go across? Or Doris—”

“They’re both fine now,” Mannering assured him. “I arrived just after the accident and was able to help a bit. Tom is resting, and I persuaded Julie not to come across to you.”

“Quite right, too,” approved Paget. “Well, I’m glad it’s no worse. She’s such a worker! Sometimes I feel sorry—but that’s neither here nor there! Er—” Paget pursed his lips, frowned and then relaxed and asked: “May I ask what took you there, Mr. Mannering?”

“I’d come to see his pictures,” Mannering answered.

“Oh, I see! Julie never stops trying! Did you—er—form any conclusion?”

“There was a lot of confusion and I didn’t get a good look,” Mannering replied. “I’ll have to come again.”

“Confusion? Oh, about the accident – of course! Yes, there would be. Did you have time to have a glance into the bathroom for instance?”

“A very quick one, yes.”

He was keenly aware of the brightness of Paget’s dark eyes, of an expression which was both cautious and bold at the same time. Obviously some remark was on the tip of Paget’s tongue, but he wasn’t sure whether he ought to make it. Then he made up his mind and his expression was a cross between a smile and a leer. He thrust his face a little closer to Mannering’s.

“He’s a bit of a queer, isn’t he? Tom, I mean. A bit obscene, if you know what I mean. All those bosoms in the bathroom! He’s obsessed with sex, not much doubt about that, is there?”

“He’s preoccupied with some aspects of it, anyhow,” Mannering conceded.

“That’s one way of putting it! Well, I hope he makes a go of it if only for Julie’s sake. She really is a sweetie. She is all right, isn’t she?”

“Completely all right,” Mannering assured him. “She wanted to come over as usual and I persuaded her that it would be best for them both if they relaxed completely and had an early night.”

“Jolly good idea,” approved Paget. “And if you’re going back over there tell her not to worry but call on us if she needs anything. We,” he went on, stressing the plural pronoun, “are very fond of Julie.”

“She is certainly most charming,” Mannering said.

“Charming’s the word! She—” Paget broke off again, and turned to the door. “Tell her we hope Tom soon gets over the accident,” he repeated, and led the way into the narrow hall. “Er—do you think the paintings are any good?”

Mannering dissembled. “The real question is whether he has a future, and that’s hard to judge.”

Paget opened the street door and ushered him out with many ‘Goodbyes’. Mannering had a feeling of unease, not liking the man yet suspicious even of his own first reactions, as he crossed the street. Two boys came tearing along on roller skates and he froze. They skimmed round him, one giving a cheeky grin. He let himself into the house, smiling, and was startled to find the wizened, grey-haired man already at the foot of the stairs. He was very round-shouldered and frail looking, but turned round with surprising speed as Mannering stepped inside. In a wheezy, querulous voice, he asked: “Is everything all right with them hippies upstairs,” he wanted to know. “Tell me now. Is it?”

“As far as I know everything’s fine,” Mannering assured him. “What makes you think it might not be?”

“I heard a hell of a thump,” the old man wheezed. “Felt as if the whole house was falling down, it did. Frightened the wits out of me.” He waited for Mannering to reach him but did not budge from the spot and so barred Mannering’s way. “I don’t want no one murdered in my house, mister.”

Mannering asked sharply: “What do you mean by murder?”

“Those hippies are always murdering one another, like they did in Californy,” the old man charged. “I don’t want none of that here in my house. You just tell them so, mister.”

“Aren’t they good tenants?” asked Mannering sharply.

“Oh, they pay their rent regular,” the other conceded. “But I’m not so sure I hold with all those pictures they paint, it doesn’t seem decent to me. And the way they quarrel sometimes, it’s something awful. Just so that they don’t start murdering each other that’s all I care. You tell them.”

He glared demandingly at Mannering for several seconds, then turned and shuffled along the passage. Mannering felt sure that he could hear the old bones creaking.