Keeping the World Away (25 page)

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said.

‘All right, thank you, artist.’

‘Alan!’

‘Sorry.’

‘I’m not an artist, you know that.’

‘Then what, who, is an artist? Someone who draws, paints, no? So you are an artist, good, bad, or indifferent.’

‘No. I play, I dabble, I try.’

‘You play, dabble and try all day long, then. That sounds like an artist to me.’

‘It’s embarrassing. I feel a fraud.’

‘I’m a fraud myself, I don’t find the term insulting.’

She was silent. They’d reached the broader path, where they could walk together, but she was still ahead. She knew what he meant: he considered himself a fraud as a man. It was best not to pick up on that. No good assuring him that as far as she was concerned he was a man and that she loved him as he was. Hadn’t she shown it? Hadn’t they lived together happily these two years, ever since the war ended? Never once had his being ‘a fraud’ mattered. They had what they had, and it was enough. If she had wanted a child she could have had one with Emlyn.

Alan went to lie down when they reached home. She went to her hut. When she opened the door, the little painting greeted her and once more a strange yearning filled her for something unobtainable.

II

SHE CHOSE TO
walk, though her paintings would have fitted into the basket on the front of her bicycle. It was a long way, all of three miles, but walking calmed her. She wanted to arrive relaxed and betray no signs of the agitation she felt. Because of course it was wicked, what she proposed to do, and most likely she wouldn’t be able to carry it off.

The pottery was at the top of a hill, up a track similar to their own leading from the road. Above it, to the west, loomed the tall ruined engine house of the Polgooth mine, which always made her shiver. She had to skirt the little town of St Austell to get to the pottery and the bag weighed heavier on the pavements than it seemed to on the grassy paths. But once she was clear of the town, she enjoyed the walk and took her time over it, sorting out in her head as she went along what she was going to say. Conrad Jenkinson was kind. If he suspected a lie, he would not accuse her outright. He would smile, and look at her searchingly, and she would have to be bold and hold his gaze. Alan thought Conrad (whom he had never actually met) liked her a little too much by the sound of it, and was, because of this ‘liking’ (said with sarcastic emphasis), a little too kind. But she had to believe he was wrong. Alan even suspected that Conrad had not sold her paintings at all but had bought them himself, to be ‘kind’ and make her grateful. She hated him when he suggested this, and said so, and then he had apologised and said he was just jealous.

The Jenkinsons, she knew, had been away. The last time she’d called, the girl who helped Mrs Jenkinson told her that they had gone to France and she didn’t know when they would be back. She was keeping an eye on the place for them. But that had been some weeks ago and Stella was sure they must have returned by
now
. As she approached the pottery, she wondered what on earth the Jenkinsons had gone to France for, and how they’d managed to go at all.

*

Conrad had not wanted to go to France but Ginny, his wife, longed to go and look at the house she’d suddenly inherited. She’d been there once, when she was five or six, she thought, and had only vague memories of the house being near a much bigger building, a
château
with a tower and a round turret on the top which convinced her that the Sleeping Beauty must be inside. She had no idea, though, of its precise location. Conrad got a map out and they eventually found it, on the northern coast of Brittany, some kilometres from Lamballe. Ginny wanted to go and look at it immediately and they talked, wild talk, of leaving Cornwall and going to live there permanently.

Getting there, with two small boys, was hard, and when finally, exhausted, they reached Pléneuf they had trouble, in the dark, finding the house, and then gaining entry. There was a wind howling round it that night and the sea, very close by, was crashing furiously against rocks. But then, in the morning, when the wind had died down and the sun dazzled them as it came through the uncurtained windows, they were charmed. The house was dusty and neglected but it hardly mattered – they spent all day on the beach. There were rough paths from the house leading to the beach, where black rocks were strewn all along it. The light was beautiful. They found the
château
Ginny had remembered, the Château Vauclair, and it was as mysterious as she had recalled. The iron gate was locked and they could see that the gardens inside were overgrown and when they asked about the place in the village they were told it was for sale. There was a woman interested, it was said, an artist from Paris. She was staying with friends in a cottage nearby and had been to look at it.

Conrad wondered if he might have seen her, a small, very thin woman dressed in a blue serge coat and skirt, walking away from the
château
and carrying what he recognised as a sketch pad. He followed her, not quite knowing why. She went into the church
and
sat in front of the shrine to St Thérèse of Lisieux, and began to draw. He wanted to see what she produced but did not dare disturb her privacy and came out again, quickly, into the sunshine. He told Ginny about her and she gave him a sharp look. ‘She wasn’t young,’ he said, though he hadn’t seen her face. ‘I was only curious because of her sketch pad.’ Ginny envied the woman. She herself would like to be sitting quietly in church drawing instead of tied to the children. Conrad had told her she could go and draw any time she liked, but she did not trust him to watch the boys, especially Sam. He would let them drown, she was sure.

They put her uncle’s house up for sale. It was a pity, but they needed the money and could not afford to own and maintain a house in Brittany. Living there no longer seemed an option. Establishing another pottery would be too difficult and then there was the language problem. It was an adventure that was over. After a month, Conrad was homesick. He felt disorientated, and he wanted to work; idleness did not suit him. It was Ginny who would have liked to stay. She could, she felt, have been happy there, starting again.

*

To her relief, Stella saw signs of life at the pottery. The two small boys were running up and down the path that led to it, trying to fly a kite and yelling at each other. She found Conrad on his own, emptying his kiln. He was a big man, bearded, beside him she always felt smaller than she was, more fragile. Sometimes, standing beside him, she imagined him picking her up with ease and the idea made her dizzy. Alan, when she had described Conrad to him, accused her of being attracted to him – ‘Any girl would be, if he’s as tall and strong as you say’ – but she truly believed she was not, or not in the way he implied. And yet there was some kind of attraction: she did feel she was held within a powerful magnetic field when she visited him, but then she was sure everyone did. Conrad
was
powerful. Physically powerful, mentally powerful, able to radiate energy all around him. People locally spoke of him with awe and talked of genius and wondered how he came to be where he was, apparently unrecognised by
the
world. They expected fame to come for him at any time and then he would leave them. Stella hardly knew him; she was just an amateur artist who turned up from time to time, timidly showing her paintings to him and asking his opinion. He had only recently asked what the star she signed her paintings with signified. He had never asked her any personal questions, and, as far as she was aware, didn’t know where she lived or with whom. She knew far more about him, just from the gossip around the town. He was reputed to be ‘a ladies’ man’.

He had his back to her, so she coughed nervously, and he turned round at once. He nodded. Encouraged, she put the bag down, leaning it against the wall. ‘I’ve something to show you,’ she said, ‘it’s different, I think, I hope.’ She’d thought long and hard about how to do this, whether to show him the others first, or whether to show none of her work; whether to preface the showing with an explanation, or whether to say nothing. Deceit was involved either way. She wanted it over quickly, but he offered her tea, and she found herself accepting. He had a little iron stove in his studio, and now he opened its door, raked up the coals, and put a kettle on top. ‘Takes a while,’ he said. Two mugs appeared, a tin with tea in it and a brown teapot. Whistling, he stood staring at the kettle admiringly, as though it were a work of art, and she stared too.

Time, she had noticed, never seemed to matter to Conrad. He was always vague about judging it. His ‘I’ll be with you in a minute’ could take an hour. But finally the kettle bounced with boiling water, the tea was made (neither milk nor sugar offered) and they sat companionably on the only two stools. The tea was so hot she couldn’t even begin to sip it but sat nursing the mug in her hands while Conrad alternately blew on his and gulped. Carefully, she put the scalding tea down. ‘Can I show you?’ she asked. ‘Of course. Show away.’ The decision, now that the time had come, seemed made for her – absurd to have imagined she could show him the others. Reaching into the bag, she found the painting she wanted and unwrapped it. ‘There,’ she said, holding it up in front of her. Her heart was thudding. She could hardly
bear
to look at him. She supposed she was looking for a dramatic reaction, but none came. Conrad had put his tea down, and sat with his hands on his knees, studying the painting held up before him with interest but no great amazement. ‘Good,’ he said, finally, nodding his head. ‘Can I see it?’ and he held out his hands.

She gave it to him, and watched him as he scrutinised it. ‘Cleverly done,’ he murmured, and then, ‘I wonder, is it applied in layers, the paint?’ It was a question. She ought to reply that she didn’t know, how could she when she hadn’t painted it, but she was silent, unable to give up her hope that he would believe she had painted it. He hadn’t said, ‘Did
you
apply the paint in layers?’ but nor had he said anything definite to show he knew she had not, and could not have done. ‘You’ve never brought me anything like this before,’ he said, and seemed to wait. ‘Can you sell it, do you think?’ she blurted out. He smiled. ‘Oh yes, I can sell it.’ ‘How much for, do you think?’ She hated herself for the eagerness in her voice. He shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘It depends who comes along, who will be discerning enough to buy it for what it is worth. Maybe as much as £5.’ He was still holding the painting, peering at it closely, but now Stella took it from him in one hurried movement, almost snatching it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but it is not for sale. I don’t wish to sell it.’ She turned and picked up the wrapping paper and wrapped the painting again and put it back in the bag. ‘And the others?’ Conrad asked, indicating the bag, which he could see was full. ‘Oh, the others,’ Stella said, ‘don’t bother with the others.’

‘But you’ve brought them, at least let me see them.’

Reluctantly, she took them out and handed them to him, leaving him to unwrap them himself. ‘Pretty,’ he said, ‘you’re coming on. These will sell, if you want to sell them.’

‘Yes, I do, please, if possible.’

He was watching her face intently, she could see. ‘And the other, the corner of the room? What will you do with it?’

‘Keep it.’ There didn’t seem any point any more in pretending. ‘It was a present.’ She was blushing, and he would know why. ‘I just wanted to see what you thought,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t really
pretending
I’d painted it. I knew you’d know I couldn’t have done.’

‘Being trained shows,’ Conrad said. ‘Technique tells.’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you ever thought of …’

‘All the time. But it’s never been possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘Money, opportunity.’

‘Does painting make you happy?’

‘Not really. Yes. Sometimes. But I know I’m playing, no more. There’s nothing in these but playing, and trying. It frustrates me. I can’t get into them what I want.’

‘Which is?’

‘Oh …’ She was embarrassed. Conrad hadn’t moved, was sitting in exactly the same position, scrutinising her, making her move about, backwards and forwards, in front of him as though rehearsing a part in a play.

‘What do you want to get into your work?’

‘That’s the point, it isn’t work, it’s – I don’t know what to call it.’ Suddenly, she snatched the other painting from the bag and tore off the loose wrapping and held it up again. ‘There,’ she said, ‘there’s the difference, this
says
something!’

‘But how do you know that it didn’t fill its artist with the same sort of despair that you feel about your painting?’

‘What?’ She was startled.

‘How do you know this wasn’t discarded as a failure?’

‘It couldn’t have been.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s perfect.’

‘To you, maybe. Not necessarily to the person who painted it.’ Conrad got up at last and went through to the other part of his studio where he stored his finished pots. He returned carrying a bowl, a large shallow bowl. ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Stella said. ‘Perfect.’

‘But not to me,’ Conrad said. ‘It isn’t perfect. I thought it was
going
to be, but it isn’t. The curve is a couple of millimetres too wide, the glaze is fractionally the wrong shade.’

‘Nobody else will see that.’

‘Probably not. I’ll sell it easily. But I’ll be glad to see it go because to me it’s a failure. We all do it, striving, aiming high and falling low.’

‘But it isn’t the same for people like me. You’re a real artist, I’m not. It’s no good trying to persuade me you feel the same as I do. You know the difference.’ She had begun to cry and yet hardly knew what she was crying about. ‘Oh, I’m being ridiculous,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what on earth is the matter with me. I must go.’

For a moment, she thought he was going to embrace her, but he only picked up the bag and put the painting back inside and handed it to her. She didn’t look at him, dreading the pity, or maybe the exasperation, she would see in his eyes. She would never be able to come again – he would have her down as a silly little fool who entertained delusions of grandeur. From the beginning, his kindness had been just that; he’d never thought what she produced for him to sell was anything but chocolate-box stuff. She didn’t know how she had ever had the nerve to show it to him. ‘Thank you,’ she said, more composed. ‘I won’t bother you again.’