The Fraud (18 page)

I do not know what I expected as he clasped at me and pushed into me except that I did not expect it to be so painful; I cried out and there must have been something in my cry, or in my body, that made him know it was indeed the first time as he tried to enter me, because he got more and more excited, again and again he pushed, sweating and sweating and his breath became wild, on and on as he understood, on and on pushing but now the stone wall bit into my body as he plunged me back and back, I was aware of other sounds from further along the wall
four parcels of paint
, I kept almost crying,
four parcels of paint
perhaps I cried aloud and as I cried something made me remember Poppy’s instructions and I felt round him into a pocket and felt many coins, I took only three in my hand and left the rest as I cried out and at last my gentleman called out
God God God
in the churchyard as if it was appropriate and fell upon me, and at last was still.

I serviced four gentlemen that night. The third complained that I was pretty but that I was bleeding. The fourth complained that I was crying.

I told myself I’d seen it fifty times at least on Christmas Steps, so what was it to me? It was nothing.

I gave Poppy four sixpences: two shillings.

‘See yer tomorrow,’ said Poppy.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I said.

 

Next morning, my basket on my arm, my back and all inside my body hurting and ripped and bruised, I was the first customer at the Colourman’s shop in St Martin’s Lane - as well as my one shilling and sixpence multiplied by four I had extracted three guineas from the first gentleman’s pocket as he called to God above me, and a half-guinea had fallen from another’s cloak as he left.—I had a
fortune
.

I bought some charcoal, two sixpenny pencils, three brushes, two boards, sheets and sheets of paper, and twelve little parcels of paint,
twelve
- all these things were mine - and I was to be seen lighting the candles, making sure all was well, at three in the afternoon , as usual.

As if nothing had happened.

 

But: I could not, I
could not
go back.
I could not face the idea of doing that again
.

 

From that night, I was driven in a different way: you might almost say that from now on demons drove me as I began to turn myself into a proper Painter - and in my bed-room, I secreted the things I had obtained: I had no palette to hold my colours, I did not have an easel, I sat on my bed and laid out my brushes and oil on the chair and smoothed out the paper on the table as my candles flickered and danced - and I had Miss Ffoulks’ little sewing boxes that she had given me, hidden side by side in the drawer in my mahogany wardrobe, and these sewing boxes held my treasures: my colours, and I wished that I could tell her so - and right at the back, a smaller box still, with the remains of the money that had changed my life.

My small bed-room in St Martin’s Lane was my very first Studio.

The assistant, frustrated that I had truly abandoned my brother’s Studio, nor given him any answer, grabbed my arm from the shadows on the staircase one night - I had almost forgotten him, I did not fear him now, I punched his ear, he was so surprised he cried out, ‘What did you do that for?’

‘You keep away from me,’ I shouted, not caring who heard, ‘or I’ll get you dismissed!’ and I added ‘I was only playing, all those weeks ago, I’m not interested in such tedious matters as painting Pictures any longer!’ and I laughed to myself, my new laugh, when he disappeared back into the Studio. ‘Tell him what you like!’ I called after him, ‘I’m never going back there, I do not care and you should take care to say nothing for the maid saw you by my room, and will speak for me!’

And so I began, tentatively, painting in my own space.—Every night I drew, and then painted (with my heart beating oddly at how far I had now travelled) people I had seen in the streets outside , but
differently
, painting the light and the dark.—Sometimes I made the faces turn away from the source of light in my mind so that shadows fell; I never, ever went near my brother’s Studio, unless I was certain the house was empty, I only stole now discarded boards and torn canvases from dark corners if I absolutely had to and with my money, my own money, I bought more paper and more charcoal and more brushes and more tubs of colour and some linseed oil and another board.—My Paintings were darker than anything I had seen, or perhaps more weird, anyway, less distinct - perhaps this new way I had found was insane, but it was my own way - I was not sure where the new darkness came from: it was not just Mr Wright of Derby, it seemed to come from inside me.—The assistant lurked still, confused, I could smell him along the passageway but I took no notice, he had no power now; I worked and worked and worked, night after night after night - yet over and over again I saw it was not right, I could not remember the faces I had seen clearly enough, if only I could have a model, my own model, a real face before me as I worked - but I persevered and sometimes in the night when I was painting with such concentration, the girl I had painted on the wall in Bristol, my pretend friend Mary-Ann, seemed to come into the room, or at least into my head, and I talked to her quite naturally, told her what I was doing; I tried to draw her face but could not get her exactly, as I had that morning in Bristol when the baker was making his bread, because, although she was the only friend I had ever had, I could never, now, exactly draw her sweet face - but it was so wonderful to be able to speak to someone even if - I was quite sane and knew I was talking to myself - she was not a real person.—I told Mary-Ann how painting by candlelight had made me paint differently - I did not tell her about Covent Garden and yet she seemed to say to me,
You never went back. You never even thanked her. Poppy looked after you. You should have told her you were not coming back
, but I could not go back.

I avoided the
piazza.

Once in the night when I was painting with such concentration, I painted the young, knowing face of Poppy, but when I finished it I was so shocked that I destroyed it: a face that was knowing and pretty and hard and cold.

Because I saw there was much in that face, of me.

 

Because I had become so cunning with all my Secrets now I realised there was one more very cunning thing I had to do; my brother must not know what I was doing, he must not, not till I was ready to be free, I knew that he did not want me to paint,
that he was nervous that what I had might be a Talent
- so I hit then upon my plan, to make him think I had forgotten such foolishness.

I knew that because of the long hours I was now working in my room it would not be possible to completely hide the fact that I dabbled in painting in this house; that assistant already knew, eventually someone would see, or guess; it was not possible that someone would not walk into my room one day; it was not possible that I would never have paint on my fingers - but I lived in the house of a Painter, after all.—They said Mr Joshua Reynolds’ sister dabbled, an
amateur
- it would be natural, would it not, that the sister of an Artist might dabble, might paint flowers say: an
amateur
Lady Painter?

Very well. I would add yet another layer to my pretence, I would pretend to be a rather untalented Lady Painter, who occasionally painted flowers in her room - that is what people had to think - so one evening I painted, in crude oil paint (I did not mean to laugh when I painted it but I could not help myself: of course I had learned perfectly well to mix the oils and the colours but I did not want Philip to know that) a bunch of Lilies: stiff, white Lilies, as far away from anything in the world that I was interested in as the stars in the sky - although actually I am interested in the stars in the sky
take him and cut him out in little stars and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night
as I learned from Mr Shakespeare, they are part of my firmament and my learning, the stars - and in London I often watched how the clouds and the smoke of that dark night-city moved across the stars sometimes, like drifts of pale silk, how beautiful it can be, and sometimes how unsettling, the stars.

The Lilies, then, were not my style, but it was to be the one painting you would clearly have seen should you have felt called upon for some reason to enter my room - the Lilies were there, on the wall, my secret and my defence.

And I painted something else with the white Lilies: a green Daisy - like the one I had painted that day of my Ninth Birthday in the garden of the house in Queen’s Square, and where was Tobias now to bring me a red Rose? - a green, spiky Daisy -
My name is Daisy
, I had said on the
piazza -
as a tiny warning to my brother, Philip Marshall of Bristol: a green and dangerous Daisy.

And my Masterstroke was to show it to him while the assistant was present: I actually took my Painting to the Studio. ‘
I fiori
,
Filipo
,
caro mio
,’ I said to him in my now rather fine Italian accent, ‘I am painting, as Mr Reynolds’ sister is painting - here are my own Flowers,’ showing him the finished Picture - and I caught it,
I saw it I saw it I saw it
: the look of -
relief -
upon his face - he did not even notice the green, menacing Daisy -
Insane Daisy
as he had called it so long ago,
fool
- for it seemed clear to him from the clumsy Painting that I was to be, after all, no threat at all to my illustrious brother, Filipo di Vecellio; he did not even ask where I had got the board, the oils (I was prepared: I was going to say that I had met Mr Reynolds’ sister, Fanny, and she had given them to me, he would never have been interested enough to question her) but he asked me nothing: he no doubt explained to himself that I had given up my childish fancies of painting faces -
fool
- if I wanted to paint bad Flowers in my own room in my own time what was that to him, why would he care where I got my rather badly-mixed colours from?—And it was always said that Mr Reynolds’ sister Fanny painted rather badly, it was what Artists’ sisters obviously did, in the shadow of their Famous Brothers, and I saw the assistant looking also from a corner of the Studio and I know that I flashed him a look of Triumph - he was just lucky, that horrible man, that I was not a Farmer’s Wife, and did not have a carving knife.

 

‘I shall now buy old Art from Europe,’ Philip announced casually at dinner one day. ‘I am rich enough to buy such Paintings now - even one day an Old Master perhaps,’ and the others nodded approvingly but my heart did a somersault:
an Old Master that I could properly study! a real Old Master living here in St Martin’s Lane!
and he did indeed begin to invest in old Art: some Paintings from the Netherlands, from Italy, always asking Mr Hartley Pond to verify that he was not being defrauded (for it was known there were many fake paintings that had made their way into London from across the water) and finally he put a painting of Venice, believed to be an early Canaletto, just at the bottom of the stairs and people commented at its Form and Beauty - I could have wished for more faces, but this was better than nothing.—I would spend hours in front of it at night when the house was empty, studying close up by candlelight old paint, old skills, old colours, how he painted water; trying to discern secrets, always in the night, always by candlelight.—To copy it from where it hung so publicly would have been impossible: one night I lifted it - it was quite large and heavy - and took it to my bed-room, copying this was a much harder task than copying Philip’s Portraits, and I stared at the wonderful colours and the light, the way the light glowed on the water and the small boats and the figures and the great buildings - I tried to guess the Recipes for colours, experimented with my own colours secretly as small candles flickered, hated taking the Painting back to the hallway.

And every week I counted my supply of money: it grew smaller and smaller: I closed my thoughts to what I would do next but soon it would start all over again: no money, no paint - one of the little parcels I had bought, a vermilion, seemed to have been mixed with something else to give it bulk, I had heard at the dinner-table of this practice, I saw when I used it that it had been meddled with and was not pure paint, I had been cheated and I wept with rage.

 

I was staring at a good, honest portrait of an old lady in the window of Mr Valiant’s auction house in Poland-street, DUTCH SCHOOL it said, when I felt the pull on my arm, sharp, fingers in my arm.

‘Well, Miss Grace?’

It was Poppy - I was so shocked and so ashamed I felt my face burning: shocked at her accosting me in public but much worse - shame that I had not at least gone back to talk to her.

‘Please do not be angry with me Poppy,’ I said at once. ‘I could not.’

‘You could not what? Speak to me? Have the decency to speak to me after all I done for yer? The other girls said I was a fool and I was. Ungrateful cow you are when I shared my Secrets, and rude as well - look at yer - looking up and down the Street now, in case yer seen with me. And why are yer talking funny?’

How did I know who I was, there outside the auction house with Poppy: Grace or the
signorina
? ‘Poppy please, it is my fault but I could not.’

‘An’ if I feel like that? That I “could not”? No choice, me!’ She was almost spitting, her pretty face hard. ‘Too High and Mighty to even tell me you ain’t returning, and me your Friend - I waited for you.’

‘Poppy, I beg of you, do not be so angry, for I was so grateful to you - but I cannot do it.’

‘Too late. You done it, Miss. He come back looking for yer, he wanted you again even though yer took his money. He said you was worth it.’ She did not even bother to lower her voice.

I was so ashamed and so angry and so embarrassed that I took her shoulders and shook her, Grace Marshall from Bristol. ‘Poppy, listen to me, I was grateful, I needed you, I needed the money and I promise, one day, I will repay you for your kindness!’