WEDNESDAY, 2 OCTOBER 1924, ASHINGTON COLLIERY, NORTHUMBERLAND
It had been twenty-seven years since Agnes had first painted the curve of railway line leaving Ashington. It was a motif that recurred time and again in her work: roads, rivers, railways – leaving somewhere and petering off to somewhere else. It had become one of her signatures; that and her brazen use of colour. Her first tentative experiments with it under the overly watchful eye of Michael Brownley had become bolder over the years. Influenced by Gauguin, Matisse, and Van Gogh, she had learned to push her palette to extremes. Solid blocks of colour approximated trees and buildings that demanded the viewer either embrace it or look away. It was the colour – that splash of ochre on her hem – that had given the game away to her mother. She had personally gone to see Brownley the following week and told him in no uncertain terms to stay away from her daughter. It turned out that was his last ever lesson. He was to die later that night.
Memories of her time with Michael had not surfaced for many years – not until that reporter yesterday had mentioned it. The last time she was here – in 1916 – the village was in mourning for the thirteen lives lost in the mine explosion that had killed her father. And she was focused on seeing her family again for the first time in seventeen years. It hadn’t gone well. If she had expected the warm embrace of her mother, she didn’t get it. There was no overt animosity, just indifference. Her mother shook hands with her – yes, she shook her hand – as if she was just one of the few dozen well-wishers, and then moved on down the line. Her brother, Jeremy, had been a little warmer. But as the new head of the family, trying to save his mother from eviction from the mine house she now lived in alone, he didn’t have time to catch up with his estranged older sister. But he did at least say she “looked well” and that something good must have come from her running off. And then, before he went to talk to Reverend Denby, he had said: “Give Mam time. She’s missed ya. It’s just all mixed now with her missing da.”
So she had given it time. For three days she wandered like an unwanted house guest around her family home. She helped with the cooking and cleaning and hanging out washing, but none of these tasks penetrated through her mother’s defences. On the fourth day, at breakfast, she asked her mother if she would like to get away for a while. She said she could take her back with her to London for a bit. Her mother dropped her porridge spoon, splashing milky oats onto the green checked tablecloth. “Why would I want to do that? So you can show me off to your posh friends? I don’t think so, lass. But I do think it’s time you went back yaself.” And so Agnes packed her bag, gave her mother a kiss on her cold cheek, and got the first train back out of there.
Now, eight years later, she was returning again. And this time, worries about how her mother would receive her were vying for head space with Michael Brownley. She had not loved Michael. She had slept with him more out of not knowing how to say no to someone so important, rather than out of any uncontrolled adolescent desire. He had not forced her. He had asked her if she wanted to: and she had said yes, simply because she didn’t know how to say no. He had been kind and gentle, but he was no great lover. Not that she had anything to compare it with then, but even so, she had felt that it was all just a bit messy and silly. But if that’s what Mr Brownley wanted, who was she to say no?
If she had, where would she be today? Married to a miner with a brood of kids? Still working at the village laundry? She might have been “decent” but would she have been happy? Would she have been able to continue with her art? She very much doubted it. And even though she wished she hadn’t lost children and lovers, or been estranged from her family, she did not wish she’d never become an artist. She did not wish she had never lived and worked in Paris and London. But it had come at a cost. She looked at the young blonde woman beside her: Malcolm and Alice Denby’s daughter. She too had left home and was following her dream. But she had had more opportunities than Agnes. She had connections and class behind her. Yes, her family were not rich, but they had had enough to give their daughter a start. Unlike Agnes, whose only chance at “a start” was to become someone’s mistress, Miss Poppy Denby had more respectable options open to her.
Agnes recalled that Alice Denby had been pregnant with Poppy when Michael Brownley died. And that her little boy, the cherubic Christopher, had later died in the war. Yes, she too had suffered loss. Agnes did not for one minute think Poppy had a silver spoon in her mouth and she was grateful the young journalist had agreed to accompany her today. Just as she had been grateful Poppy’s mother had accompanied her away from Ashington all those years ago. She had wondered how much Alice had told her daughter about what happened at the time, but after a few conversations with the honest and open young woman, Agnes came to the conclusion that Mrs Denby had been true to her word and not told anyone about her shame.
The train shuddered to a stop at the station, and there on the platform was a delegation from Armstrong College and the Ashington Miners’ Institute waiting to greet her. She smoothed down her exquisite mink coat, put a regal smile on her face, and said: “Are you ready, Poppy?”
Poppy was pleased to see such a good crowd waiting outside the Agnes Robson Community Hall to greet her new “client”. Poppy appraised them, wondering for a moment whether a new career lay ahead of her in public relations or arts management. No, she thought, it wasn’t for her. She was happy to help out today, chatting to reporters on behalf of Agnes, but it wasn’t what she was cut out for. She eyed up the press corps: two reporters and two photographers. In the end only the Morpeth Herald and the Newcastle Daily Journal were there, the latter represented by the grinning Peter MacMahon who raised his bowler hat to her and Agnes as they arrived. The gentleman from the Morpeth Herald was someone she knew attended her parents’ church.
When they had first got married, Malcolm and Alice had worked for a Methodist Mission here in Ashington, but when Poppy was a few years old they had taken up an appointment in the more well-to-do market town of Morpeth, just a few miles up the road. They had never lost touch with the mining village though and continued to be involved with the local Methodist circuit, sharing resources and preachers.
The reporter, a bearded man in his early sixties called Walter Foster, raised his hat when he saw Poppy. “Miss Denby! What a pleasure to see you! I was hoping to have a word with you at your father’s birthday party on Saturday. You will still be coming, won’t you?”
Poppy smiled. “Good day to you, Mr Foster. Yes I will. That’s why I’m here, actually. I just stopped off in Newcastle for a few days to see some friends and relations. But I shall definitely be there on Saturday. I’ll look forward to catching up with you then.”
Foster nodded to his rival from the Newcastle newspaper. “Have you met young MacMahon, yet?”
“I have. I had the pleasure of making Mr MacMahon’s acquaintance yesterday.”
MacMahon winked, cheekily, at Foster. “Indeed we did. And I had the pleasure of getting an advance interview with Agnes Robson. Isn’t that right, Miss Denby?”
“Well, she told me the two of you had a little chat, which reminds me…” Poppy readied herself to probe what the reporters knew about the Brownley death, when suddenly they were all called to attention by an elderly gentleman in a brown suit, who had been introduced to Poppy earlier as Professor Reid of the art school.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming today to open this marvellous facility. And thanks also to…”
The professor droned on for fifteen minutes. In his speech he thanked the serious-looking gentlemen from the Miners’ Institute, wearing their best cheap suits and collars, starched within an inch of their lives; and he thanked the “good people of Ashington and Hirst”, represented by a group of mothers and their children, who had been scrubbed until they shone. The children were learning to paint and draw and an exhibition of their work was hung inside the hall. Professor Reid told the children, very solemnly, that they were honoured to have a world-renowned artist here to judge the competition and went on to give an overview of Miss Robson’s illustrious career. He mentioned that she had first tried her hand at painting right here in Ashington. That she, like the children, was the daughter of a miner, and if they worked very, very hard, they too might have work hung in the world’s leading galleries. The children looked at Agnes in awe. The mothers, if Poppy were not mistaken, appeared to suppress a collective smirk. Or had she just imagined it?
Professor Reid did not mention the death of Michael Brownley or Agnes’ years of exile. He summed up her difficult years in one simple sentence: “Although from humble beginnings, Miss Robson had the good fortune to learn from the great masters in Paris before being discovered by the famous art critic Roger Fry in London.” No mention of her running off to Paris with an older man and living in sin. No mention of failed pregnancies. No mention of a scandalous Bohemian lifestyle. Instead, he spoke of her as one of the country’s best-loved avant-garde artists. She was a leading light in British Post-Impressionism. Her work was challenging, and at times controversial, always pushing the boundaries of conventional form and palette. He was proud, although she had not studied at Armstrong College proper, to consider her an alumna of their community outreach programme and honoured that she had agreed to lend her name (and money) to their ongoing work here in Ashington.
As his hagiography came to a close he was rewarded with polite applause and camera flashes. He looked quietly pleased with himself, thought Poppy, and she wondered what Agnes made of it all. The artist seemed politely appreciative of the plaudits but, Poppy noted, kept her gaze turned away from the women and children. It was then the turn of Agnes to say a few words. The reporters’ pencils were poised expectantly, but her comments were few, and her accent decidedly middle English.
“Thank you Professor Reid; you are too kind. It is the ongoing work of the Newcastle Art School at Armstrong College that is to be applauded, not my humble contribution. Gentlemen of the Miners’ Institute, thank you for the honour of allowing me to lend my name to this hall. I hope it serves the people of Ashington and Hirst well. And now, children, I think it’s time you showed me your paintings.”
“It should’ve been called Brownley Hall!” a woman from the back of the crowd shouted out.
“What is that, madame?” asked Professor Reid. He was met by a wall of silence from the mothers and quizzical looks from the children. A number of gentlemen from the Miners’ Institute cleared their throats awkwardly.
Agnes flashed a terrified glance at Poppy. Poppy stepped forward.
“I think the lady said it should be called Brownley Hall. That, I believe, is a reference to Miss Robson’s first art teacher. In fact, she was just telling me about him on the train ride coming up, isn’t that right Miss Robson?”
Agnes looked like a deer in the headlights. Poppy willed her to calm down. They had spoken about this eventuality over breakfast: what to do if Brownley’s name was brought up. She had urged Agnes to not skirt away from it but to mention her gratitude to him and all the other teachers she had had in her life. That way he would be just one of many. But would she?
Poppy caught a glimpse of Peter MacMahon out of the corner of her eye. He was raising his finger to ask a question. Come on, Agnes…
And then, just as Poppy thought she would have to intervene again, Agnes spoke. Her voice, thankfully, was calm and clear. “The naming of the hall was not my decision. But I’m sure Armstrong College meant no disrespect to Mr Brownley. Yes, he was their first teacher here, but there were many more who came after him; each of them made their own contribution to this community and we should be grateful to them all. And now, I think it’s time to see what these wonderful children have been doing.”
With that she turned on her heel and walked into the hall.
“What do you remember of Michael Brownley, Miss Robson?” Peter MacMahon’s voice called out after her.
Poppy stood beside a confused-looking professor who appeared unsure as to whether to follow Agnes inside.
“And you, Professor Reid,” shouted Walter Foster from the Morpeth Herald. “Do you recall Michael Brownley’s death? Should his name be on the hall too?”
Reid took on a glazed look and turned to Poppy.
She took a step forward. “I think Miss Robson has said all that needs to be said today. Michael Brownley was the first of the teachers here, and she and the community will always be grateful to him. Isn’t that right, Professor Reid?”
“Er, yes, we are. And to answer your question, Mr Foster, no we did not think his name should be on the hall. Michael Brownley, and I remember him from when I too was a young lecturer, did an excellent job getting this project started. But it wasn’t his only project. He worked elsewhere too. In fact, we have a commemorative plaque in his name in the department along with others of our colleagues who died while working for us. Granted, most of them were during the Great War, but he and one or two others, who died outside of combat – by illness or accident – are remembered too. So I can assure you, he has in no way been snubbed. If you would like to come to the college I can show you the plaque.”
Oh dear, thought Poppy, if only he had not added that last sentence…
“I’ll take you up on that, Professor,” said Peter MacMahon before the older reporter could answer.
“And so will I,” said Foster, stepping in front of MacMahon. “It’ll make an interesting side article.”
Poppy groaned inwardly. Oh dear; this press liaison malarkey is turning into a fiasco.
Inside the hall Agnes enjoyed her time with the children. She was surprisingly at ease with them, slipping, without realizing it, back into her native dialect. She was introduced to the children’s teacher: a young man in his late twenties, around the age Michael Brownley had been when she’d first met him. She looked at the older girls in the group and wondered if any of them had the same type of relationship with their teacher as she’d had. She hoped not. One of the girls – a red-headed young beauty, around twelve years old, who said her name was Edna – looked like she might be a prime candidate. Agnes took extra time with her. Her work was good: a watercolour of a pit head silhouette with an orange poppy growing through the cracks in a paving stone in the foreground. It was a little cliched in subject, but the technique was strong and it showed an understanding of emotional narrative.
“That’s very good, Edna.”
“Ta, miss.”
“D’ya like paintin’?”
“Aye miss, I do.”
Agnes looked over at the art teacher who was in conversation with one of the men from the Miners’ Institute, then lowered her voice. “And d’ya ever stay after class to help Mr Simons?”
Edna screwed up her nose, making her look very young. “Nah miss. Me mam needs uz back home. I go straight back, I do.”
Agnes nodded her approval. “That’s good Edna, that’s very good. And what do you want to do when you grow up?”
Edna looked across at the group of mothers sipping tea and munching on egg sandwiches. “I don’t know, miss. Get married? Have bairns of me own?”
Agnes pursed her lips. “Have ya not thought of doing something with ya art? Ya very good, ya know.”
“Like you, miss?”
“Aye Edna, like me.” But even as she said it she realized Edna’s chances of becoming a professional artist – or in fact anything other than a wife and mother – were very slim. It was then that an idea began to form in her mind. What if she were to set up a bursary scheme? To help gifted female artists to go to a good school? There were a couple of well-respected girls’ schools in the area, but not for the likes of young Edna. She could speak to Dot Denby about it. That would be just the sort of thing Dot might want to get involved in. And perhaps Grace too. Grace, a bookkeeper, was very good at administration. Not Agnes’ or Dot’s strength. She would give it some more thought.
She had three rosettes in her hands. She selected a boy of around eight for third place, a girl about the same age for second, but reserved the first for Edna. The girl looked tickled pink and blushed like a beetroot when Professor Reid congratulated her, before she ran over to the group of mothers calling: “Mam! Mam! I won!”
Her mother came over to have a look. “Eeee pet, well done!”
Agnes stepped forward and reached out her hand. The woman looked at it curiously for a moment, then reached out her own. It was limp and quickly withdrawn. “Hello, I’m Agnes Robson. You have a very talented daughter, Mrs…?”
“Storey. Mrs Storey.”
“Storey? Are you related to Mr Storey from the general goods shop? I used to get sweets there when I was little.”
Mrs Storey’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, I remember.”
Agnes stiffened. Mrs Storey was in her late thirties. Storey would be her married name. Had Agnes known her as a child? Under a different name? She would have been one of the younger children in the group… Agnes couldn’t remember, and didn’t want to open a hornet’s nest by asking.
Agnes forced herself to continue making small talk, then moved on to the parents of the second- and third-placed children. Then something caught her eye. A man had entered the hall, standing in the doorway, cap in hand. He was tall and slim, stooped slightly at the shoulders. His greying hair made him look older than his thirty-nine years. It was Jeremy, Agnes’ brother.
He caught her eye and smiled. She made her apologies to the group she was with and walked over to him. She wanted to fling open her arms and embrace him, but she didn’t. She knew that might be considered acceptable to her arty middle-class friends in London, but it would not be in working-class Ashington. Not even with her brother.
“Jemmy, I was wonderin’ if you’d come. I’m glad ya did.”
She looked over his shoulder, hoping to see any other family members. Hoping to see her mam.
“Anyone else with ya?”
“No, Aggy. They wouldna come.”
Agnes struggled to hide her disappointment.
Jeremy looked over to the gossiping mothers eyeing him and his sister with disapproval. “Because of them’uns.”
Agnes glowered at the women. Challenged, they turned away. “Aye, I could have done without them’uns today too.”
“But she’s asked uz to ask ya if ya’ll come home for tea. She’s put a spread on.”
Agnes’ heart jumped into her mouth. “She has? Really?”
“Aye, she has. Will ya come, Aggy?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Aye Jemmy, I will.”
He smiled. “That’s grand. And ya can meet me wife. And the bairns. I’ve told them all aboot their Auntie Aggie.”
Suddenly, they were joined by Poppy Denby. Poppy had been valiantly keeping the journalists away from Agnes. But she looked frustrated.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Agnes,” she smiled at the tall, stooped miner, “but I really think you need to say a few words to the reporters.” She turned to the man, then said: “Hello, there. I’m Poppy Denby.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Agnes, instinctively reverting back to her middle-English accent, “this is my brother, Jeremy Robson. Jeremy, this is Miss Poppy Denby, the Reverend and Mrs Denby’s daughter.”
Jeremy reached up and pulled his forelock. “Pleasure to meet ya, miss. Ya mam and dad are good folks.”
Poppy smiled and thanked him. “Yes they are. It’s my dad’s sixtieth birthday coming up.”
“Aye, so I’ve heard.”
“Listen,” said Poppy, turning to Agnes, “I don’t want to keep you from your family, but the reporters are – they’re, well – digging a bit. And I think we need to give them something to distract them from…,” she cast a quick look at Jeremy, “… from you know what. And the best way to do that is to get them interested in another story. I was wondering, do you have any ‘scoops’ you can give them? Something about your upcoming work or anything like that?”
Agnes thought for a moment, then said: “Actually Poppy, I think I might. What do you think of the Agnes Robson Bursary for Artistic Young Ladies?”
Poppy’s face lit up. “I think that sounds splendid! Have you spoken to any other reporters about it?”
“No, not a soul.”
“Then that’s perfect. Would you be prepared to talk to them about it now?”
Agnes looked over at the reporters, then at her brother, waiting patiently for her. “Actually Poppy, do you think you could put them off a bit? Give them enough to keep them interested but then delay the actual interview? I need to give it a bit more thought first, and…” she smiled at Jeremy, “… me mam’s waiting for uz.”
Poppy nodded her understanding. “Yes, I can do that. But we can’t leave them too long.”
“Not too long, Poppy, I promise. Just not today, please. Not today.”