The Royal Institute of Painters in Watercolours stood at 190 Piccadilly, a magnificent four-storey building with carved stone busts on its façade: Turner, Cozens, Girtin, Cox, De Wint, Sandby and Barrett, all luminaries who had been honoured by their inclusion at the galleries. Jack had seen the busts before but they appeared even more impressive today, their usually austere gaze passing as recognition of the importance in which they were held. Or maybe it was because everything held more appeal today; even the sight of troops in the streets, which usually signalled the vulnerability of their city, made him feel safer. The boarded-up shopfronts that showed how their commerce had been destroyed also showed how, after three years of war, they were still standing firm.
Or perhaps it was because of Eleanor, the most enchanting creature he had ever met, and who—for some reason that he hadn’t yet figured out—had chosen him.
He was early. Ever since he’d received the telegram from Professor Aubrey Powell the day before, he had wondered at the significance of meeting here: the institute had been founded by artists over a century earlier in response to the Royal Academy’s refusal to treat watercolours as ‘serious art’. Was Powell trying to tell him something, or was it just a coincidence that the professor had chosen this as their meeting place? And, more importantly, Jack had barely been back a week so what was so urgent that he needed to see him now?
The traffic was flowing freely down Piccadilly and the pavement relatively un-crowded, so Jack saw Powell straight away—he was easily recognisable, after all, in his long trench coat and wide-brimmed hat, pipe jutting between clenched teeth. The professor’s trousers swung as he walked and were cuffed, and Jack wondered why he had traded his old suits for the new style and wasn’t supporting the war effort as he should.
‘Good morning, Professor Powell,’ Jack said, shaking his hand. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m very well, Jack,’ he replied, removing his pipe. ‘Please call me Aubrey. And thank you for coming—early start, I know. Shall we go inside?’
Jack let him lead the way, following him up a wide carpeted staircase to the first-floor galleries, where doors led off to various rooms. The lobby area was all grand frescoes and gilt cornicing, watercolours by master painters lining the stairwell and walls. Signs for functions in the private rooms stood on easels, and a reception area ran the length of the back wall.
‘Wait here for a moment,’ Aubrey said. ‘I’ll sign us in.’ He was back after a few minutes and ushered Jack towards the members’ lounge. ‘Let’s go in here,’ Aubrey said, holding open the door.
The dark wooden bar, attended by two middle-aged men in white jackets and black bow ties, was relatively empty, but the smell of alcohol and tobacco lingered heavily in the air. Groups of people sat in clusters around low tables and chairs, and the walls were crammed full of paintings by members who had been invited to exhibit there. With all the table lamps and large ferns and palms, they could have been in a colonial hotel in India drinking gin and tonics rather than about to sip coffee in the heart of Piccadilly. And despite the stern dark wood of the furniture, there was an informal atmosphere about the place—and there were a few artists Jack recognised. It had been years since he’d been inside and he looked around at the work as he followed Aubrey to a table at the back, wondering again what this could be about.
‘Good spot, eh?’ Aubrey said. ‘They make a terrific kedgeree too, if you are hungry.’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you—just coffee will do,’ Jack replied. ‘It’s a bit of a walk for you from Gower Street, isn’t it?’
‘All part of the golden triangle, my dear boy: the National Gallery, here, and then the Slade. I can usually do it in half an hour, as long as no demolitions are underway.’
Their table was near a window that afforded a view onto the street, and Aubrey ordered coffees while Jack settled into one of the leather wing-backed chairs and took in the view. He hadn’t mentioned this meeting to Eleanor; she would have been even more curious than he as to why her old professor had asked to meet him here.
‘You’ve been in Italy, haven’t you?’ Aubrey asked.
Jack nodded, although he was interested to know how Aubrey knew. Eleanor had promised to keep their conversations private, and he had told her little else—it was one of the conditions of the SOE.
‘And how was it?’ said Aubrey.
Jack had done a good job of compartmentalising his work, not allowing his thoughts to dwell on the brutality of what they saw, doing as the other chaps had suggested: walk, talk, eat, sleep. Get up the next day and do it all over again. The odour was the worst; he hadn’t expected the smell of dead bodies to linger so long—even when he and the men had driven for miles, leaving the villages far behind, the stench had still been in his nostrils. He wondered if his brain was conjuring it from the images of blackened, limbless bodies in the pictures he’d sent home.
He lit a cigarette. ‘It was pretty bad,’ he said on a deep exhale.
Then he spoke honestly, telling Aubrey about the barren farmhouses they came across, with families slain beside their animals. How they’d passed battalions on foot that looked as if they were going to fall down and trucks full of prisoners whose expressions showed they knew their fate. He talked of the men’s courage and the camaraderie of the other war correspondents when they travelled together, of their feelings of awe, amazement and horror as the sky filled with planes and they watched the dogfights overhead.
He was about to tell Aubrey how he’d seen a group of British men strip and kill a badly injured Italian soldier—and how it had made his blood run cold, but that he’d congratulated them just the same as the other men afterwards and drunk whisky with them back at the barracks—when something made him stop. He had talked for ages as Aubrey nodded and listened; he hadn’t even drunk his coffee. And he had a responsibility to make sure that he didn’t give too much away.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack, ‘I don’t know where…’ The leather creaked as he leaned back in the chair and looked across at Aubrey. He knew the professor had served in the Great War and been an artist too, so he took it that he understood.
‘It’s fine, Jack. Absolutely fine. I don’t have to be anywhere until eleven.’ Aubrey leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. ‘You see, dear boy, I know that the War Office doesn’t fully prepare artists for what they are going into, but there really is no other way. The alternative is one that would not keep you out of the firing line—at least this way, you are a good distance from it.’
‘I know, I appreciate that. It’s just that sometimes…sometimes you feel that you should be in it. Why do they deserve it and we don’t?’
Jack was still speaking honestly, but he sensed that Aubrey might know more than he was letting on. He needed to remain guarded about his operational work and play up his role as an artist. Could Aubrey have any knowledge of his work for the SOE? Could he himself have worked as an agent, or still be involved?
‘No one deserves it, Jack. It’s war. If you want to get off the magic carpet, then you can, but I suspect that you’d like to keep on it.’
Jack nodded. It wasn’t just that this had been his first posting, a venture into the unknown—he had reconciled his roles as an artist and as an agent, but he still felt like a fake soldier when he was in the field. But that was even more reason why he wasn’t going to quit.
‘I’ve seen some of your paintings,’ Aubrey added. ‘They’re good.’
‘Thank you,’ Jack replied, ‘but that isn’t why you’ve asked me here, is it?’
‘No.’ Aubrey cleared his throat. ‘That picture you submitted, Children in the Attic…I know that it isn’t yours—that it’s Eleanor’s.’
Jack clasped his hands together and thought for a moment; he could deny it and Aubrey would never be able to prove him wrong, or he could admit that it was Eleanor’s painting. It was Aubrey’s fault; when Jack first came home Eleanor told him how Sir Robert had humiliated her and that Aubrey did nothing to defend her. She also told him that it had made her even more determined not to give up—that she needed just one chance. Jack had seized that chance when he had submitted his paintings a few days later and, still fierce with protective fury, he hadn’t consulted Eleanor.
‘It’s not good practice, Jack. If the others knew about it…if Sir Robert knew, well, I think you might be off the scheme.’
‘I don’t understand why. Surely it proves the point—if a painting is good enough to be selected, you can choose it regardless of the artist.’
‘She was never selected, Jack. She was never supposed to be part of the scheme. Miss Roy works for the committee, for goodness sake.’
‘But she’s good enough to be a war artist, so why isn’t she one?’
‘You and I know that’s not possible.’
‘Why? There are others. What about Stella Bowen or Kathleen Guthrie—or Dora Meeson, for that matter. Why is Eleanor any different?’
‘Yes, she is good enough. But that’s not the point. She has a role to play in this war and she is doing it right now.’
Jack leaned forward and spoke assertively. ‘She doesn’t know what I’ve done—she can’t know. Especially now.’
‘You should have thought about that before. What damage you could have done her.’
‘Are you going to tell the rest of the committee?’
‘No. In any case, Eleanor has already tried promoting her own work, and Sir Robert was not impressed…She didn’t tell you?’
Jack nodded his head. ‘Yes, she did.’
A vague smile played on Aubrey’s lips as he recollected. ‘She wanted to make replacements at a recent exhibition; one of her pictures was conveniently among those she had selected. Good piece, but even so.’ Aubrey paused. ‘Anyway, you should talk to her.’
‘I have—but she knows what she wants.’
‘I know what she wants too, Jack—painting on the home front is one thing, but an overseas posting for a woman?’ He looked Jack squarely in the eye. ‘It just isn’t going to happen.’
Jack didn’t flinch. ‘Why? They are taking just as many risks here at home, so what’s the difference?’
‘Come on, you and I know what we’re talking about. You don’t think you’re the sort of man who could ignore a woman by your side, or in the quarters, for that matter?’
‘At least I’m standing up for her now…’
‘So, you still believe she should do it. I thought you loved her, Jack?’
‘I do,’ Jack said, shifting to the edge of his seat. ‘I don’t want her to get hurt but I don’t see why girls like her don’t get a chance.’
He also thought it was extraordinary that so many women were working as couriers for the SOE, and yet they weren’t allowed to work as war artists overseas. But he couldn’t tell Aubrey about that.
The professor narrowed his eyes. ‘Let me put it another way. If you do anything like this again, then she will be out of the Ministry and you will be in the front line. You have committed fraud and Eleanor has committed forgery, and I will not deceive the public or have you make fools of the committee.’
Jack knew that the committee had the power to do what Aubrey was threatening. He was reminded of what had happened to Edmund Wright, the war artist whose brother had painted pictures on his behalf so that he didn’t have to fight. Their whole family had been disgraced.
‘Do the WAAC know it’s not mine?’ Jack asked.
‘No, and I can keep it that way, but you need to stop this now. The committee was set up to help artists like you.’
‘And what will happen to Eleanor?’
‘Nothing…if you do as I say. The best way for Eleanor to serve her country is by doing exactly what she’s doing now—you would do well to remember that.’
Jack wondered whether Aubrey’s motive was really that honourable or if he might be more concerned about keeping Eleanor close; he certainly had an odd, almost proprietary way of speaking about her.
Either way, Jack couldn’t continue to jeopardise her future, her reputation and her livelihood. Whatever he said now would affect both of them. He longed to keep her dream alive, but for now all he could do was help her keep her job, so he reluctantly agreed to go along with what Aubrey wanted and keep all that he’d done for her a secret.