Spare Brides (25 page)

It didn’t seem enough.

The statues became difficult to look at. There were so many bosoms and penises. Lydia could feel the sculptors’ hands on the clay and marble almost as she had felt Edgar’s hands on her body. A myriad of thoughts flung through her head. She thought of her bruised buttock, the way she’d acquired the blemish; she considered the leaflet the doctor had given her suggesting alternative sexual positions, and she began to feel breathless.

‘I like it here. It keeps us civilised. It reminds me that we are small but that it will go on,’ commented Edgar.

‘What will?’

‘Time.’

She had hoped he would say that they would go on. Lydia Chatfield, née Hemingford, and Edgar Trent as lovers. It was agony that he didn’t refer to them as an item or a possibility. He didn’t mention the study or the weekend at all. She didn’t know where she stood or what he wanted. They were intimate strangers.

She sighed and looked around her. She had no idea how to start the conversation that she had to have. They wandered around the William Morris room and saw various treasures that had once belonged to Marie Antoinette. Lydia couldn’t give them her attention. She was absorbed but her taut nervous energy was focused entirely on Edgar. His chiselled bone structure covered by paper-thin skin and his eyes the colour of dappled summer light falling through trees had a sinuous charm and compelling beauty that surpassed all the exhibit pieces.

There were a significant number of young women sketching, serious and focused, capturing what other artists had already created, and whilst Lydia understood the practice on an intellectual level – studying the great artist was an approved technique for learning oneself – she found something insidious in the occupation of these earnest young girls. They copied what the male artists had made. The work of the male artists would endure; the women’s work seemed counterfeit or diluted by comparison.

‘Oh, my God, that’s Beatrice,’ Lydia whispered, shocked. Beatrice was bent over her sketchpad, solemn and involved like the other women set on imitating. Lydia’s first thought was to turn in the opposite direction to avoid an awkward introduction and the dredging up of a reasonable explanation as to why, exactly, she was in the V&A museum this bright spring afternoon with a strange gentleman.

A man, at least.

Lydia noted the curve of Beatrice’s bent neck; it was familiar and startling. Vulnerable. Her short hair didn’t suit her. She used to wear it braided at the back in a French plait; it had been unfashionable, but flattering. There was something about seeing her hunched into such a tight ball of concentration that reminded Lydia of the girl Beatrice had once been; the fun, hopeful girl who’d blended optimism with a penchant for serious study. It had been a long time since Lydia had thought of her that way. If people thought of her at all – just her, not her as an adjunct, sister to Sarah and Samuel, aunt to a bunch of boisterous children – they tended to think only that it was a pity. The issue as to how Lydia would explain her own presence was momentarily blurred as she considered why Beatrice was in the museum, here in London. The opportunity to dodge was taken from her as Edgar rushed forward, practically shouting, ‘Isn’t she a friend of yours? Over there, near the Shakespeare bust. She was at the house. Beatrice, you say? Beatrice!’

Beatrice heard her name and looked up. Both women were flustered. They allowed one another a moment. Beatrice closed her sketchpad, Lydia constructed an alibi. They kissed on the cheek. As Lydia withdrew from the embrace, she quickly went on the offensive.

‘Beatrice, what a surprise. What are you doing in London?’

‘Didn’t Ava mention it? I’m staying with her for a few days, in Chelsea.’

‘Ava? No.’ Lydia politely hid her astonishment that Ava would extend her hospitality in Bea’s direction. ‘How lovely.’

‘I come here to the museum so I’m not under her feet all day.’ Bea shrugged; the gesture suggested that whilst Ava had opened her doors, she might not have opened her heart to Bea, and that the stay wasn’t necessarily a delightful and totally relaxed one. ‘It’s very pleasant here.’

Lydia glanced around. ‘Wouldn’t you be better visiting a tea shop?’ She didn’t know why she’d said such a stupid and frivolous thing. She’d actually found the last hour in the museum one of the most thought-provoking and charged of her life, but still part of her would have preferred to stride through the streets with Edgar, visit busy restaurants and shops, if only she could. Given a choice, she wouldn’t hide away. She wondered why Bea might choose to come somewhere so quiet.

‘I like it here. I find it soothing. It’s austere yet peaceful.’

‘I see.’ Lydia blushed. She was aware that Beatrice must be going through a hard time. That awful business with the chap she’d been flirting with at the Pondson-Callows’ must have unsettled her. They hadn’t seen a lot of one another since that weekend. Thinking about it now, Beatrice had only attended one or two of the subsequent parties. It wasn’t like her.

Lydia wondered how she ought to introduce Edgar, but was saved the trouble when he assumed a familiarity with Beatrice and said, ‘Let’s have a look, then.’

‘Oh, I’m … It’s not finished.’

He ignored Bea’s demurring and firmly took the pad from her grasp. ‘These are damn good.’

‘Do you think so?’ Beatrice blushed with delight.

Lydia leaned over his shoulder to look at the drawing book. ‘Goodness, Bea, you have a gift. I never knew.’

‘Really? I’ve always enjoyed sketching. It’s just a hobby.’

‘You’re extremely talented.’

The threesome huddled around the sketches and Lydia was forced to reappraise and reject her earlier assumption that these artistic women, huddled on the benches and floors of the museum, were imitating or parasitical. The sketchpad erupted. There it was, on the paper. Dark and light lines, strokes and delves. Sex. Beatrice had sketched sex. Sex and desire and – Lydia turned another page – misery. Bea was able to illustrate a depth that she never articulated.

Edgar coughed and Lydia suggested they ought to take tea.

‘Will you join us?’ She prayed that Beatrice would decline – she couldn’t stand the idea of sharing her precious moments with Edgar – but, having just witnessed the tender rage and beauty in the sketches, she couldn’t walk away from her friend. There was a loneliness on the paper that Lydia was unable to ignore.

Still, she was relieved when Bea replied, ‘No, thank you. I want to finish this today.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘Yes, I am quite sure.’

Suddenly Lydia wanted to leave as quickly as she could. She realised that thus far Bea hadn’t asked for an explanation as to why she was out with Sergeant Major Trent, and that was a blessing. She would need time to think of a viable excuse. The women kissed one another on the cheek once again, then Lydia turned to Edgar.

‘So, tea?’

Edgar held out his hand for Beatrice to shake and said, ‘I’m so terribly sorry to hear about your loss. I was only vaguely acquainted with Oaksley, but he seemed a very decent chap. He gave our country everything. My sympathies, Beatrice.’

Bea held on to Edgar’s hand and nodded briefly. She didn’t say anything. Lydia saw that she was fighting tears.

B
EATRICE WAS STUNNED.
The sergeant major was the first and only person who had mentioned Arnie to her; acknowledged that she might be feeling a loss. Grief. The world was so saturated with grief that people had become hardened to it. Bored of it. Arnie had died inconveniently late; three years ago, on a battlefield, his demise would certainly have solicited much more sympathy. Yes, Sarah, Ava and Lydia had said how awful the entire thing was and that she must be shocked, but they had not hinted at the core of it. They had not admitted that another door had slammed in her face. Perhaps the last door. She was now alone in a black corridor of despair.

One of the other female artists, sitting just two or three feet away, nodded at Bea; perhaps she’d overheard the condolences. Perhaps she had her own anguished story. Bea had met quite a few other girls here, girls about her age or a little older. Well, not met exactly. They tended not to introduce themselves to one another, but rather to work peacefully, silently, side by side. There was some solidarity in that. Some company. Bea thought she might need some new pals. Despite Ava’s unexpected and undoubtedly generous offer to visit her in London, she didn’t feel quite as shored up by her friendships as she used to. Not since Arnie. It made no sense. She had only known him for a weekend; most people would agree that she had no real right to feel so terrible, yet she did. Naturally, she couldn’t expect a great deal of sympathy from Sarah, who had lost an actual husband rather than a brief encounter, but both Sarah and Lydia had been distracted and distant since the weekend at the Pondson-Callows’ and no help to her at all. Bea guessed they might be sharing a secret, yet another one that she was not privy to. It was frustrating and demeaning. She felt locked out and discarded from their intimacy. Another expulsion.

Perhaps Ava was feeling the same. Perhaps that was why she’d casually thrown out the invitation to Beatrice. Bea really couldn’t think of another reason. She’d always been aware that Ava tolerated her rather than sought her out. Why the sudden change? Still, she had not questioned Ava’s motives too closely; she’d bitten off her hand, practically packed the suitcase before the telephone line cooled down. She was so sick of feeling like a spare part at Seaton Manor. Sammy retired to bed as soon as supper was over; his painkillers made him drowsy. Cecily was becoming increasingly reclusive. Both she and Sarah turned in as soon as the children and Sammy were tucked up. Bea frequently found herself alone in the drawing room, wondering what she could do with the evening stretching out in front of her. She knew there would be many more of them to come. ‘I’d better get used to it,’ she told herself, and then she wondered if talking to herself was a sign of madness. Certainly a sign of loneliness. She made plans. One night would be devoted to sketching, the next knitting, a third watering the plants or writing letters. She found it helpful to write lists and decide what to do day by day. She could usually amuse herself until nine o’clock. Then she lay on her bed and sniffed her pillow. It smelt of her hairspray. Never of anyone else. ‘I’d better get used to that too,’ she told herself.

London and Ava’s invitation was some sort of escape. Even though, as it had turned out, they hadn’t seen that much of one another. Ava was always at some meeting or other. Causes. Bea had thought that was all over, now that the suffragettes had got what they wanted, but Ava had tutted crossly when she had suggested as much and said that Bea ought to come along and see how things really were.

‘Women in Britain can only vote if they are over thirty and meet certain property qualifications. How can you think the job is done? Neither of us has the right yet.’ Bea had noted the frustration flare through Ava’s body; it made her rigid. She was normally such a serene woman, but this thought set her nerves on edge. ‘Women living with their parents, those in service and the younger gals who worked tirelessly in the munitions factories and such are being ignored. It’s not on.’

‘You can’t change the world,’ Bea had sighed.

‘Why not? I thought that was what it was all about. The Great War and everything.’

‘I thought it was about trying to keep things the same.’

‘Well in that case it was a bigger catastrophe than even I could possibly have imagined.’

Bea had shot Ava a look of rebuke, sensitive to Arthur’s sacrifice, to Sammy’s, to Arnie’s.

‘Sorry,’ Ava said sulkily. ‘I don’t always engage my brain quite as swiftly as I allow my tongue to function.’

Still, Bea had declined; she wasn’t yet ready for rowdy meetings. She needed cool, slow spaces. She needed to feel her smooth pencils and charcoal in her hands, the texture of the thick parchment of her sketchpad under her fingertips. The letter was secreted between the pages of her book; she kept it with her always.

Beatrice took comfort in the women she’d become acquainted with at the gallery. They were like her. Respectable, but not wealthy, sincere, a shade too grave, and many of them were plain. The gallery was chilly, but no colder than her bedroom at home; besides, when at closing time she struggled to her feet, her legs numb with crouching on the marble floor, she knew she was only a short tube ride away from the sumptuousness of Ava’s apartment. Ava always saw to it that there was a fire burning and scones with butter and strawberry conserve waiting for her.

Bea was so enchanted with the idea that the sergeant major liked her work and so touched that he’d acknowledged her loss that it took her a full fifteen minutes before she considered what on earth Lydia was doing out with him. Was he a friend of Lawrence’s? Where was Lawrence? She didn’t pursue the mystery for more than a few minutes. She wasn’t of a suspicious nature, and even if she had been, Lydia’s behaviour was always exemplary. Bea didn’t doubt there must be a reasonable explanation for them being out together alone, if indeed they were alone.

Besides, she didn’t really care enough about other people’s lives to want to involve herself unnecessarily. That way danger lay. Look how it had ended with Arnie. Once again, perhaps for the hundredth time, Bea flipped through the pages and found the envelope. Her name,
Miss Beatrice Polwarth
, written in his hand on the front. It was a messy, childlike script. Each letter unnecessarily large. It must have been extremely difficult for a blind man to write with ink. Since receiving the letter, she’d closed her eyes and written her name over and over, in order to gauge what level of concentration was required, to understand how difficult a task writing the letter had been for him. Her script, normally so neat and precise, became a spidery scrawl. She’d had a glimpse of how tiring and demanding even the smallest task must have been for him. The thought had ripped at her heart. She berated herself for underestimating, for miscalculating. She sighed wearily; she was not sure she could make herself read the note again. But then she didn’t really have to; she knew what it said by heart.