Eleanor’s Secret

The young woman sat astride a bronze lion, waving her placard high in the air, ignoring the pleas of the young red-faced policeman to get down. Another woman, in the grey-green Harris tweed overcoat and grey beret of the Women’s Voluntary Services, climbed into the empty fountain and was joined by other supporters wearing blue and red armbands. It was Warship Week, and members of the Greater London division of the WVS had overtaken Trafalgar Square, a sea of people reaching as far back as the spire of St Martin-in-the-Fields Church in the east to the arches of Pall Mall in the south. Despite the serious purpose of the event, and the continuing rain, they were singing and in high spirits.

Eleanor watched for a few moments, moved by their actions in raising money to build a battleship. If these past few years had taught her anything, it was not to be surprised by the strength of her fellow countrymen and women.

She turned towards the National Gallery. Morning visitors were already crowding the wide steps up to the portico, and so she found her way to the staff entrance at the side to which Mr Steadman had directed her. A security guard greeted her, escorting her up the main staircase and into Staircase Hall, passing dark rectangles where the portraits of former gallery directors had once been. She shadowed him along private corridors and through closed galleries, marvelling at the frescoes overhead, noticing the institutionalised smell of this inner sanctum and the increasingly loud voices from the room ahead.

The guard left her at the threshold, where she saw through to the committee, already assembled around a long wooden table. The eight men were deep in discussion so she waited, examining the pictures on display and trying to identify the names of the war artists.

Then Sir Robert looked up. ‘Ah, Miss Roy…Come in, won’t you? No need to hover. I’m Sir Robert Hughes,’ he said as he stood, extending his hand. ‘So pleased that you agreed to join us.’

After installing her on the chair next to his, he introduced her to the other seven committee members. She studied their faces as he spoke, attempting to remember each one by a distinguishing feature: the gentleman in the formal dark suit was Edward Rothwell, committee secretary, then there was Ceri Phillips, with fine red hair, whom she knew as the esteemed First World War artist and trustee of the Imperial War Museum. Next to him was the artist James Hazelton, almost bald but with a moustache that looked set to take flight, the principal of the Royal College of Art, and then the artist Louis Sepple, keeper of the Royal Academy Schools. The other men were Alasdair Palmer, war office representative, and Henry Tonkins, Admiralty representative. And, of course, there was Aubrey Powell, Slade’s fair-haired professor of Fine Art and her former mentor—she smiled briefly.

Then Eleanor had a better idea and took out her notebook, scribbling down their names and drawing a quick caricature beside each of them; it was intimidating enough being in the same room with these men let alone worrying about forgetting their names and titles. She had heard of and read about some of them since she’d first become interested in art, long before she started at the Slade; she knew what they had done for their institutions and their country.

They were all still talking, but when she looked up Sir Robert was gazing at her, his face so familiar from the newspapers and magazines that she couldn’t help smiling back.

He leaned in and whispered, ‘We are pleased that you are here, Miss Roy, but since there’s a lot to get through, why don’t we get started and then have a chat afterwards. Does that sound like a plan?’

MINISTRY OF INFORMATION

ARTISTS’ ADVISORY COMMITTEE

Notice of Meeting and Agenda

The meeting will be held at 10am on Tuesday March 24^th in The National Gallery

AGENDA

1. Minutes of last meeting

2. Matters arising out of the minutes

3. Selection of Artists

4. Any other business

5. Date and place of next meeting

‘And the only other thing that I have to say is that we have a certain way of doing things,’ he said, loudly enough for the others to hear. ‘Quickly and with enthusiasm!’

‘Alright, let’s get started then,’ he said. ‘Please take the minutes, Miss Roy. You will then need to type them up and distribute them this afternoon. Will you be able to do that?’

He raised his eyebrows and she decided that now might not be the time to tell him that she couldn’t do shorthand; luckily her handwriting was so fast, he might never notice.

The other members were sharing an amusing anecdote about a less-than-popular admiral, and she listened to the tail end of the conversation, thinking how surprisingly unconventional they all seemed.

Close up, Sir Robert appeared far younger than in any of his photos. In profile his wide forehead and slicked-down hair made his face seem rounder and smoother. He was long-limbed and graceful, leaning forward with his arms crossed over each other and elbows resting on the table. She tried not to stare but she hadn’t been in such close proximity to anyone famous since she’d met Tommy Trinder at the opening of a British Restaurant.

‘Come now, I would like to call the meeting to order,’ Sir Robert said and waited for his colleagues to settle. ‘I think we should combine items one and two into matters arising out of our last meeting: the issue of donations that need approval. I have the accounts here that list the major contributors as the RAF Benevolent Fund and the National Gallery concert funds. We have also had the WVS for two mobile canteens, the YMCA and the YWCA, the SOS fellowship and British Red Cross Prisoners of War Fund, and Mrs Churchill’s Aid to Russia Fund. The amounts are listed in your information.’

They moved quickly through the agenda items and Eleanor managed to keep up, but after an hour of note-taking her hand began to ache.

‘Let us take a ten-minute break,’ Sir Robert said, noticing as she rotated her wrist.

When the others moved away from the table, Eleanor took the opportunity to look at the pictures on display, crossing through to an area of the gallery that was closed to the public. The image that captured her eye was Cliff Rowe’s original picture of The Call-out, a scene of the National Fire Service crew, dark except for a menacing glow in the background.

‘I don’t suppose you ever needed shorthand at the Slade?’ Sir Robert said as he approached.

‘It’s quite alright,’ he said. ‘Half of what these old fools say isn’t worth recording, anyway.’

Eleanor relaxed, and they were silent as they studied Rowe’s lithograph. It had become a well-known image over recent months. The fact that Rowe had been a politically active communist artist supporting refugees was not wasted on her, and she decided it must be a sign of the progressiveness of the committee and a good omen for her.

‘It’s a real privilege to be working with you, sir,’ she said, her confidence bolstered. ‘I think the work of the committee is envied by the rest of the world.’

‘Come now, Miss Roy, do we have any other choice?’ he said, turning to her. ‘When people’s lives and possessions are being destroyed, who in their right mind would be choosing to buy art? If we don’t look after the artists, then who will?’

His frankness surprised her, so she replied with honesty too. ‘But don’t you think that people are more interested in culture now, not less? They know that it’s part of what they are fighting for.’

He looked at her intensely. ‘Yes, I do, Miss Roy, but where is the money for this art or the means to produce it?’

She knew he was right, but people found a way to do what they believed in; they always had. ‘I’ve read the article you wrote in Apollo, sir. You encouraged buying art. Don’t you think that people still want to read, to be entertained—that they need to be informed and distracted?’

‘Yes, I certainly do, but how can we do so with fewer books being published?’

‘So you are not one of these people who believe that war is the enemy of creativity then?’ he asked.

‘Not at all, sir, on the contrary—it is for all of us that the war is being fought. And the role of the artist is to record it.’

‘Very well spoken, Miss Roy. Which conveniently takes us back to where we started,’ he said, smiling.

Further encouraged, Eleanor continued, ‘Have you ever thought of extending the scheme to lesser-known artists…perhaps to the émigré artists?’

‘There are enough out-of-work British artists, Miss Roy,’ he said, suddenly frowning. ‘It would hardly be wise to encourage a whole new generation under the current circumstances, don’t you think?’

‘I know, sir, but the old masters are in Wales, safely out of the way, so you are making room for new artists anyway, are you not?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said with a near-imperceptible twitch. ‘You are quite right, but it is one thing promoting a few well-known artists and quite another promoting a whole new generation of lesser-known ones.’

‘You are full of new ideas, Miss Roy. I can see why Mr Powell recommended you.’ But his expression didn’t support the compliment and he was circumspect before continuing. ‘Take a regular artist—I don’t mean Nash or Cole, or Anthony Gross, for that matter; not a prominent artist but a regular artist who could have got thirty guineas for his work in a magazine like Tatler or Picture Post before the war. What hope is there for that now? We need to look after these men in the best way we know how. Not be irresponsible and encourage unknowns or émigrés, Miss Roy.’

‘Remember, it is because of your background that you are here, not your opinions.’

The committee members were reassembling, taking their seats and glancing over in Eleanor and Sir Robert’s direction.

‘I think we had better get back to business,’ he said, his face devoid of a smile now.

Eleanor took a seat next to Aubrey this time, away from Sir Robert. She felt as if she had ruined her chance to make a good first impression, and she felt guilty that she had let Mr Steadman down. What was it that he had said to her? And it may be as well to remember the high regard in which Sir Robert and the committee are held.

The meeting carried on good-humouredly, although her pen struggled to keep up with the speed with which they spoke and with deciphering the artists’ names, only some of which were familiar to her. It had already been explained that item three of the agenda, ‘Selection of Artists’, was the time to meet artists and see their work, and that the following week the committee would decide on whether to give them a commission—overseas or at home—or to purchase their works outright. The process followed meant that some artists would be offered permits to access restricted areas and rationed materials, while others would just be grateful to get payment for their submitted work.

Suddenly tired, and still disappointed in herself for her lack of discretion, Eleanor sat back and glanced up at the black marble doorframes as the oversized doors swung open and the artists walked in. There was a few dozen—young men in suits, men in uniforms, and men in manual workers’ clothes—who filled the chairs at the end of the table, the overflow standing against the walls.

From where she sat next to Powell, Eleanor listened, guessing at which hopeful would be offered a full-time salaried contract and which would secure short-term work. She didn’t recognise any of them from the art societies and organisations she belonged to, although a number of new ones had sprung up in recent months.

Then Eleanor froze: leaning up against the back wall, head turned towards them, was a man who resembled Jack. She had to keep glancing up from her note-taking and, while she’d only met Jack briefly, it was hard to believe that the man was anyone but him. His thick dark hair fell forward in a familiar unruly way, his stance was the same as Jack’s, and although his clothes were smarter, the way he moved was identical—time studying forms had taught her what set people apart.

Eventually she had to give up trying to look. It was too distracting, and she reasoned that in all likelihood the man was just someone who looked like Jack, since she had searched so hard for him and hadn’t found a trace. If he meant what he’d said about not signing any contracts, then there was no reason for him to be here now. Of course, it was possible that he had changed his mind and was offering his work to be purchased—or perhaps her eyes were playing tricks, or it was wishful thinking. Her father had always told her that Newton’s third law stated that every action had an opposite reaction, so if she wanted to see Jack again then surely she wouldn’t. She reasoned that maybe she should hope that she would never see him again, in which case she would.

The debate about the artists had become heated. Aubrey was talking, then Alasdair Palmer, their voices raised. She tried hard to follow, but her attention was broken. Unable to deny herself another look, she glanced up, but this time Jack’s double had gone.

‘Yes,’ she said, repeating the line she had scribbled down. But Aubrey’s gaze followed hers as she looked to the doorway again, and she knew that he had noticed her distraction.

The sky behind Canada House was stained orange and London was hurrying home by the time Eleanor left the National Gallery. Too long indoors and the intense concentration had left her light-headed, so she put out a hand to balance herself, breathing in the cooling air. It had been a curious day: memorable because of her new role with the committee, but disappointing because of the poor impression she had made. Not that she’d intended to offend Sir Robert, and who could blame her for being unnerved at seeing Jack’s lookalike? She could have told Aubrey why she was distracted but then she would have needed to explain that Jack was an artist who had got away.

Now that the rain had finally stopped, all she wanted was to catch the last of the sunset and walk back to Bayswater west, along Piccadilly and through Hyde Park. Her route would take her past the Ritz, where she could see the guests; it was one of the ways in which she had learned to live well vicariously since Cecily had moved in.

Agreeing to look after Cecily while she attended nursing college had curtailed Eleanor’s social life. And she wasn’t entirely sure if it was worth it: the training didn’t seem to be going at all well, and her sister seemed just as fragile as when her boyfriend, Giles, had first been killed in combat. If anything, Cecily was probably worse, so much so that Eleanor couldn’t imagine how her sister could offer the capable presence that a wounded soldier required. Coping with her anxieties was one thing, but it really was quite wearing on Eleanor to continually try to buck Cecily up. Eleanor had again invited friends over that night for a meal and a game of cards in the hope that this might help.

He was wearing a black fedora and worn tweed jacket; the hat suited him but it was also one of the reasons she hadn’t been certain it was him earlier.

‘Yes, I noticed you. I thought I should explain…’ He moved onto the step below her, so he was much closer. ‘What you said, when we met—you made me think…’

‘Yes, let’s say there are a number of reasons why it seemed to be the right time.’

‘I can see the value of the work,’ he said, meeting her gaze, ‘and I can see why it would be an honour to be part of the scheme.’

She was surprised: not just that he had come today, but also that he felt he had to tell her why.

‘Well, that’s wonderful, but you really don’t have to explain yourself,’ she said, then instantly regretted it. He had been so certain in his refusal before, but now that he had changed his mind she was interested to know why.

‘I’ve explained why I’m here, but why are you here? I thought you worked for the Ministry of Food.’

He was still staring at her, waiting for an explanation, but she had barely registered the appointment herself. What terrible timing; she would love nothing more than to talk now. Having just found him again she was reluctant to let him go but she really did have to get going. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said finally.

‘I’m awfully sorry, but I haven’t—I need to get home,’ she said, knowing that she needed to help Cecily prepare the food and imagining her sister already becoming stressed.

‘Then perhaps I could walk you?’ Jack said, loosening his tie. ‘You can tell me on the way.’

‘Well, since I don’t have any plans this evening, it doesn’t really matter. I can keep you company.’ He smiled.

As well as the known number of friends arriving at her place, others often dropped by unannounced—old classmates from the Slade, other artists who were always looking for somewhere to talk and play cards—and it was all she could do to fight the impulse to invite him too.

‘Of course,’ she said, setting off with Jack across Trafalgar Square. ‘Is Bayswater on your way home?’

They followed the shadows west, Eleanor explaining the day’s developments. They soon reached Pall Mall, then went on past St James’s Palace and through the entrance into Green Park. From their left, a distant hum of traffic filtered between the trees from Constitution Hill, and to their right came the buzz of Piccadilly warming up for the night.

Vast canopies of foliage cantilevered overhead, enticing them further into the park. Squirrels danced up and down a tree trunk, but raced away as Eleanor and Jack wandered past. They discussed the committee and their work, inquiring about each other, until it seemed the right moment for her to ask him what had happened the day they’d met.

It was a moment too long before Jack answered. ‘Those men were business acquaintances. You know how impatient some people can be—they want everything straight away,’ he said, glancing at her and smiling. ‘I’m sorry that I had to leave you.’

‘That’s quite alright,’ she said. ‘So does this mean that I’m going to be able to talk you into doing the lithographs now?’

‘What, lithographs for you and a contract with the WAAC? I don’t think so.’

For months, Eleanor had been keeping a curious eye on artists who worked for the War Office—Freedman, Ardizzone, Gross and Lamb—and how they were covering actions in Britain and overseas. It seemed to her, from the pictures that were coming through, that their kind of work was an opportunity most artists would be keen to take advantage of. She had also learned that both the Admiralty and the Air Ministry were looking for artists to accompany them, so it was good timing if Jack decided to sign up now.

‘It’s hard for me with my family,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘They would find it very difficult if I went away.’

‘Oh…yes, I’m sure,’ she said, glancing at his ring finger with sudden jealousy. She hadn’t noticed a wedding ring when he was painting but perhaps he took it off while he worked.

‘My work as an artist has served my family well,’ he continued. ‘I’ve done short contracts for the navy and the army because of the flexibility, but I’m not sure it can last.’

‘There are pressures on all of us to do as much as we can, sometimes more than is really possible. You know that—you discovered it today!’

He was right; her new responsibilities were still sinking in, and she was yet to see the effect of her extra work on her family.

She and Jack had made their way in to Hyde Park and were approaching Duck Island, the isthmus on the lake. Soon the dark inky water surrounded them, the sunset casting an orange and lilac shroud over the trees. The shrubs and bushes cocooned the two of them from the outside world, just as the sandbags and armaments were supposed to on the streets a short distance away.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said as they came to stand by the wooden fence.

Music floated across the lake from the bandstand where couples danced. It was a wedding party and the light sheen of the bridal dress was luminous in the moonlight, snatches of laughter and chatter reaching across the tranquil water.

Another couple stood on the Blue Bridge up ahead, and when Eleanor noticed Jack watching them, she smiled. ‘So which part of this would you paint?’ she asked.

His answer was so instant and unexpected that Eleanor’s cheeks flushed red and her reply came in a whisper. ‘Thank you.’

‘The bandstand, for sure. I love them…Although they do look better with their balustrades.’ She was referring to the wrought ironwork that had been taken away, along with the rest of the city’s signs and railings, to make arms and ammunition.

‘I just can—good eyesight; its hereditary. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.’

‘Well, there are some—Dora Meeson and Ethel Gabain, for a start—but I don’t want to paint the Wrens or the Land Army like they do. I want to go overseas.’

‘You mean like Laura Knight and Doris Zinkeisen did in the First World War?’ he asked, suddenly thoughtful.

‘Yes. Working as a real war artist in the field and with regiments, just like Bawden and Ardizzone. Like you’ll be doing soon.’

‘And you’re confident that you know what’s required of a war artist?’ he said at last.

‘And what do you think you need to know?’ he asked and moved a little closer.

‘As far as I can tell, it boils down to three things,’ she said, focusing on the layers of inky sky in the distance. ‘They must be able to convey their image, it must be convincing, and lastly…’ She paused.

‘Lastly, those two things must be connected so that they create a unified experience, so that they don’t seem disparate. In short, there must be truth, integrity and splendour.’

He seemed to be listening, but she couldn’t tell from his expression if he was taking it as seriously as her.

‘Because some situations demand that the artist must improvise, when its not always possible to paint what’s in front of you. Then reality is the artist’s interpretation of events.’

Eleanor thought for a moment. ‘Well, of course, Jack,’ she said. ‘That’s a given. It needs to be a record as well as a work of art.’

‘The hand records what the eye sees,’ he said. ‘So perhaps you should go in my place.’

‘I’ve only just started. Besides, it’s not that simple. There are procedures and rules. I had intended to submit a painting, but then I got offered this role and I’m needed there.’

‘It sounds as though you just need to be patient,’ Jack said with a meaningful look that she found hard to read.

‘You’re right, but it’s hard when you’re surrounded by pictures from other artists, and you feel that yours could be just as good as any of theirs.’ She sighed and leaned further over the fence, feet close to the water’s edge.

‘Yes. It only seems fair—after all, you’ve seen mine. And what if yours are better? Then I could ask that you should go instead of me.’

‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s not kind to tease?’ she said, laughing lightly.

‘Who said I’m joking?’ he replied. He looked at her intently. ‘Although I’m sure there would be a lot for you to think about. You would need to consider sleeping arrangements, for a start. I shouldn’t imagine you’d be able to bunk in with the other chaps, even if there was room,’ he said with a sheepish smile.

She shrugged. ‘All that could be worked out. Surely the most important thing is whether or not my pictures are good enough.’

The light was nearly gone and she still couldn’t tell if he was just humouring her.

Jack leaned back against the wooden fence as he lit his cigarette, the smoke circling upwards into the fading light. ‘So, what do you say? Are you going to show me?’

‘Anyway,’ she said eventually, ‘even if they liked my painting, they would never let me go abroad. I may have only been working with them for one day, but I already know that Sir Robert is not someone who bends the rules.’

‘No, I suppose not. Anyway, tell me one of your better ideas,’ she asked with a grin.

She pretended to take time to consider his proposal, hoping that her excitement wasn’t too obvious. ‘Well, that would be rather nice, and I do have a couple of pictures at home that I could show you.’

‘Tomorrow then,’ he said, suddenly animated again as he dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with his shoe. ‘How about we meet tomorrow?’

She smiled to herself—signed contract or not, she didn’t much care—she just couldn’t wait to see Jack again.