Beauty Chorus, The (30 page)

He offered her his hand. ‘It’s a surprise. You’ll see.’ As they walked to the church door, he said, ‘Does this look familiar?’

‘The churchyard?’ Stella looked around. A monument of a kneeling angel caught her eye. ‘No, it looks just like every other English churchyard to me.’

They passed an old pram by the porch. As he pushed the door open, he said, ‘Wait a minute,’ and stepped behind her, gently covering her eyes with his hands.

‘You’re mad!’ Stella laughed. It felt good to have his arms around her, to be held after so long. As he guided her forward, his body was close to her; she felt the warmth of
his skin through the thin cotton against her bare arms.

‘Almost there,’ he said softly. Stella sensed the change in light from the darkness of the church porch as they walked forward, a golden halo around his fingers. Her hand reached out
blindly, felt smooth, warm wood, rough stone beneath her fingertips. ‘There, open your eyes,’ he said.

The interior was smaller than she had expected, intimate and warm. As her eyes adjusted to the light she saw on the front pew a man with a thatch of silver grey hair contemplating the altar.

‘It’s lovely, Mike, but I don’t understand why—’

‘Is that you, young Michael?’ The little man rose and strode down the aisle towards them, swinging a black umbrella. ‘Well, well.’ He peered up at Stella through his
thick glasses. ‘This must be your pilot, eh? What a beauty.’ He gestured towards her, his palms open. ‘Ah, Ruskin’s Athena, the Queen of the Air. I am sure the great man had
just such a face in mind.’

‘Stella, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Stanley Spencer,’ Michael said proudly.

‘
The
Stanley Spencer?’

‘Yes.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Do call me Stanley.’

‘Stella’s an artist,’ Michael said.

‘Oh no, I just dabble.’ She blushed. ‘I’ve seen photographs of your work, it’s marvellous.’

‘Only photographs? Well, we shall have tea at the studio later. Shall we go?’ By the porch he tucked the umbrella into the old pram and wheeled it up the path. ‘Have you been
to Cookham before, Stella?’ he asked. In spite of his height, Stella had difficulty keeping up with his quick, sprightly steps.

‘No I haven’t, it’s lovely isn’t it?’

‘Cookham is Heaven on Earth,’ he said authoritatively.

‘How did you meet him?’ she whispered to Michael as they picked up the bicycles.

‘Through the vicar, he’s a very devout man.’

‘So the little painting in your living room is—’

‘Yes, it’s an original,’ Michael laughed.

‘I thought it was a cheap copy!’

‘Stanley has been helping me with my painting, and I’ve sat for him once or twice. He gave me the painting for my birthday.’

As they followed his little pin-stripe-suited figure up the high street, every single person stopped to say good morning to him.

‘Here we are,’ Stanley said finally, as they cut through towards the river. ‘Isn’t there a wonderful something in the air on a day like today?’ he said as he chose
a grassy spot for them to work. Michael leant the bikes against a tree, and spread a blanket on the warm grass for Stella. He handed her a sketch pad.

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t, not with—’

‘Go on,’ Michael said. ‘Stanley is one of the most generous artists I have ever met. He won’t bite.’

From the pram Stanley pulled a folding easel and a fresh canvas. ‘I do envy you flying,’ he said to Stella. ‘How marvellous to be up there in the sacred spirit of the air. I
have always maintained I am on the side of the angels and dirt.’

Stella laughed. ‘You should talk to my friend Evie. She’s certain she has a guardian angel flying with her.’

‘Really? Fascinating,’ he said as he took up his palette and selected a brush from the pram. ‘Why not? I am quite sure angels go among us.’ He fell silent for a moment.
‘Heaven knows they are busy at the moment.’ He began to paint. ‘I was in Macedonia during the last war, you know. The things you see on the front line.’ He sighed.
‘Our poor boys.’

‘I can’t make any sense of it,’ Michael said. He stretched out on the grass next to Stella and began to sketch her as she worked. ‘Sometimes I wonder what kind of God
allows these ghastly wars.’

‘Man makes war, not God,’ Stanley said. ‘Never lose faith in Him.’

‘It’s hard,’ Michael said. ‘How am I supposed to comfort and help the parishioners when I don’t know the answers to their questions myself? What do you say to a
woman whose only son has been killed when she asks how God can allow such carnage, such evil as Nazism in this world?’

‘Sometimes there are no simple answers,’ Stanley said. ‘It is a question of feeling. I know when I came back from the last war, I lost that lovely early morning feeling I had
as a boy, but I’ve never lost my faith.’ He turned to Michael. ‘You have the potential to be a very good artist, but your vocation is the Church.’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked at Stella. Her head was bent in concentration over her painting, the breeze lifting her blonde hair.

‘I’ve told you before, my young friend,’ Stanley said. ‘There’s an illustrious history of clergymen artists – there’s no reason you cannot be
both.’ He looked up at Michael. ‘An artist’s only duty is to paint that which moves him. As a clergyman you care for people’s souls. As an artist, you move their
hearts.’ He followed Michael’s gaze to Stella, and smiled. ‘What do you think, my dear?’

‘About Mike?’ As she looked up, she felt Michael watching her. ‘I agree,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘Follow your heart.’

They sketched and picnicked by the river for a couple of hours, as barges drifted past with the bobbing coots and ducks. People stopped to chat and look at Stanley’s
painting.

‘Shall we go back to the studio for a spot of tea?’ Stanley asked. ‘I’m about done for today. Let me see what you have been doing.’ Michael handed the sketchbooks
to him. ‘Very pretty, Stella,’ he said. ‘You have a lovely sense of form.’ He flipped over to Michael’s portrait of her. ‘Ah.’ His eyes softened.
‘The work of a man who sees true beauty.’ Michael got awkwardly to his feet. ‘No, don’t be embarrassed, dear boy. There’s nothing like it. You have given Stella the
luminous face of an angel. All she needs is wings.’ He traced their pattern in the empty space.

Back at the house, Stanley’s daily help was just finishing up and putting her mop away. ‘Hello, Mrs Price,’ Michael said. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well thank you, my dear.’ She slipped off her floral housecoat and pulled on a summer jacket. ‘Now, Stanley …’

‘Yes, Mrs Price?’ He looked up like a naughty schoolboy.

‘There’s a bunch of lads hanging around by the back gate asking if they can watch you work this afternoon. I told them not to bother you again.’

‘They’re no bother. Let them in will you, Stella?’

She walked through the comfy, chaotic rooms and opened the back door.

‘I’ll be off then.’ Mrs Price pursed her lips as the boys rushed in. ‘And Michael, tell Stanley he needs to get his hair cut, will you? I’ve been on at him all
week.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Price,’ Stanley said as he closed the front door behind her. ‘Lovely lady, but she does boss me around. Half the time she’s more like a mother than a
housekeeper.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Right, let’s all go through, shall we?’

‘Shall I make some tea?’ Stella asked.

‘No, let me.’ Michael ushered her through after Stanley and the children. ‘I know where everything is and you must see the new paintings.’

Stella walked through to the bright studio. ‘What a marvellous place to work. I’d love …’ she said, her words trailing away as she saw the huge canvases stacked against
the walls.

‘I’ve been working up at Lithgows in Glasgow,’ Stanley explained. ‘The War Artists Advisory Committee asked me to record the shipbuilding up there.’ He pulled out
the canvas he was working on to show her. ‘There are going to be eight of these altogether. It’s a marvellous place. I can hardly tear myself away. In fact, I may just sneak in a little
self-portrait somewhere.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘This is “Welders”, the second panel. It was finished in February. I had to paint it in sections in a tiny pub bedroom,’
he laughed.

‘It’s huge … epic,’ Stella said as she stepped back to look at the nineteen-foot-long canvas.

‘Oh good, I’m so glad you think so. It’s the subject matter, you know, it has to be on a grand scale. Did you know they have women doing this work?’ Stella nodded.
‘I’ve made some marvellous sketches of them working, but I don’t know whether they will make it to the final piece …’ Stanley rifled through some pencil drawings.

‘That’s beautiful.’ Stella pointed at a small pencil sketch of a nude.

‘Ah, Eve,’ he said. ‘What are you doing in there, you naughty girl?’

‘That’s my friend’s name, Evie.’

‘The friend with the guardian angel? Then you must take it as a gift for her, a kindred spirit.’

‘I couldn’t possibly …’

‘Nonsense.’ He shuffled through some loose pages. ‘Here we are. A little memento for you too, lovely Athena.’ He handed her a sketch of the angel in Cookham
churchyard.

‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. I’ve had a delightful afternoon. Do come again.’ He turned to the children. ‘Right, my little friends. Settle down now, boys, find a seat. The show will
begin in a minute or two.’

Michael handed them both a cup of tea. Stanley sipped his quickly as they discussed the commission. ‘I know that look in your eyes.’ Michael laughed.

‘Yes, I do rather want to get going,’ Stanley said. ‘I am enjoying this piece.’

‘We should head home too,’ Stella said. ‘Early start in the morning.’

‘What time do you begin?’

‘You have to sign in by nine or there’s hell to pay.’

‘Well, we wouldn’t want to make you late. It was a delight to meet you, my Queen of the Air.’ Stanley kissed her hand again. ‘Pop in any time, I’m always around the
village somewhere.’

Stella and Michael rinsed their cups in the cramped kitchen. Stanley’s muffled voice drifted through to them; he was laughing and joking around with the boys as he
worked.

‘This has been such a treat.’ Stella leant against the draining board as she dried her hands.

‘Stanley enjoyed meeting you too.’ Michael turned to her, his hip brushing against her waist. ‘Athena, Queen of the Air …’

Stella laughed uncomfortably. Her breathing seemed to grow louder to her, her heart began to beat fast. She looked up at him. She saw the desire in his eyes, the unguarded longing.

Gently, he stroked her cheek. ‘Stanley was right, what he said. Though you are more beautiful to me.’ He kissed her then.

Warm light filled Stella’s eyes as they closed. She put her hand against his chest, gently pushed him away. ‘Mike, we can’t,’ she whispered, aware of the voices next door
in the studio.

‘Why not?’ He kissed her again. ‘I’m alone, so are you.’

She fought it, the desire to be with him overwhelming her. ‘But you’re a vicar, and I’m—’

‘I’m a curate,’ he corrected. ‘There’s nothing to say I’ll be one forever.’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘If you were with me, you
wouldn’t have to be just a vicar’s wife, serving up tea and sympathy. I know you wouldn’t be happy with that life.’

‘It’s not that.’ Stella leant in to his hand. ‘Mike, I’m—’

‘Widowed? Is that it?’

‘No.’ She couldn’t look at him. She knew if she looked into his eyes again she would be lost.

‘If it’s your baby, David, I’ve always wanted a family. We could be so happy together, Stella, I know it.’

‘Mike, I never wanted to lead you on, to make you think …’

‘Do you want to be with me?’

‘Yes, I …’ she paused. He kissed her passionately. She fell back against the counter, her hands in his hair, his weight against her.

‘Stella, let me make you happy,’ he murmured, his kisses brushing her neck.

‘No.’ She struggled out of his arms, breathing hard. ‘All I really want is never to feel anything again.’

He caught her waist, pulled her to him, his lips close to hers. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I can’t be with you. We should stop seeing each other.’

‘Could you really bear never to see me again?’

‘Yes, if you let me.’

Michael released her, and she picked up the pencil sketches from the counter. He sensed her anguish. ‘I won’t push you,’ he said gently. ‘Perhaps it’s too soon
after you lost your husband?’ He took her hand. ‘I just wanted you to know how I feel.’

‘Mike …’

‘I love you, Stella.’

‘I can’t.’ Her voice shook. ‘I’m so glad, so terribly glad to have met you. You’re a very special friend, Mike—’

‘Friend?’ he said angrily. ‘I just told you that I’m in love with you.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s impossible. I can never give you more.’ She ran from the studio, pulled her bike from the railings with shaking hands.

As she cycled home, the wind lashed her face, caught in her throat as the angry tears came at last. She skidded to a halt, threw the bike down beside a gate, and walked away
across the cornfields, tears streaming down her face. ‘It’s not fair,’ she cried to the sky, her arms flung out, fists clenched. Everything she had kept hidden – the raw
pain of her loss, the longing to be with Michael – swept through her. She walked until there was no breath left in her, and collapsed, sobbing, at the foot of an oak tree. As the canopy of
leaves shifted over her, she lay back on the hard earth. Her ribs heaved in and out, her heart pounding in her chest as the breeze whispered through the long grass around her. ‘It’s not
fair,’ she said, broken sobs rasping her throat as she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

31

As the men adjourned from the dining room, Beau stepped out into the hall, Leo’s voice carrying after him. He glanced back to where Pickard and Fielding were settling
into armchairs by the fire with their port and cigars. A third man sat with his back towards Beau.

‘May I be of assistance, sir?’ Ross asked him.

‘Yes, the bathroom please.’

‘Certainly, sir. The ground floor is occupied. Perhaps you would care to use the guest suite upstairs? The second door on the right.’