Katherine Woodfine - The Painted Dragon

As she drew closer to the station, the street became busier, and she saw to her relief that a little crowd of people had gathered outside a brightly lit concert hall. The evening performance was about to start: there were motor cars and hansom cabs outside, and the sound of voices and music. She made her way into the crowd, weaving her way through the mass of people, and then out again, on to the street beyond, red-cheeked and panting – but alone.

Just around the corner was the entrance to the underground station. She hurried thankfully down the steps and out of the rain, her heart still bumping, fumbling for her ticket with shaking fingers. She made her way along the empty tiled passageway, moving more slowly now. The sudden quiet was a relief.

There was no one to be seen on the station platform – not even a guard on duty. She stood alone at the edge of the platform, staring up at the big clock, watching the second hand flick forwards. Here, everything seemed ordinary again. The ticking of the clock, the tattered advertisements for Bird’s Custard and Fry’s Milk Chocolate, the colourful poster instructing her to ‘Take the Two-Penny Tube and Avoid All Anxiety!’ were soothing. Her breathing began to slow. She almost began to wonder if she had imagined the man in the bowler hat was following her, after all.

She felt more tired than ever now, and she stared down the tunnel into the darkness beyond, willing a train to appear. But even as she did so, she heard it again: the heavy, hollow thud of footsteps approaching along the empty platform.

There was no time to turn around; no time to think; no time even to scream. The man was behind her; she felt the scratch of his rough coat sleeve, the cold leather of his gloved hand, pressed hard and shiny across her mouth, silencing her before she could make a sound.

Even as she tried to twist away, she knew it was hopeless. The leather glove covering her mouth was scarlet: the bold cadmium red of her paintbox. It was the last thing she saw clearly before he pushed her. There was a clatter and a gasp, and she was falling through the air for a moment, landing on the train tracks with a sickening thump – then everything was still.

She groaned. Her eyelids fluttered. She was sprawled painfully across the tracks: she could feel the hard metal rail pressed against her side. Before her, the dark mouth of the railway tunnel yawned open, vast and pitch black. Then came a flicker of light ahead – and the scream of a train, rushing out of the tunnel towards her.

CHAPTER TWO

Three months earlier – July 1909

The letter was lying on the silver tray on the hall table when she came down to breakfast. A narrow white envelope with her name, Miss Leonora Fitzgerald , typed at the top. The sight of it made her mouth suddenly dry, and her chest squeeze tight. She knew there was only one thing it could be.

She reached for the envelope, but before she could take it, Vincent came swaggering into the hall, still doing up the studs on his collar. She snapped her hand back at once, but it was too late.

‘What’s this? A letter – for you ?’ He grabbed for it, but Leo shot out her hand and snatched it up first. She might not be very fast on her feet, but she had learned to be quick in other ways.

‘That’s mine,’ she said. She began to back away, but Vincent stepped forwards and seized her wrist.

‘I know what that is,’ he said, his voice triumphant. ‘That’s a letter from your little art school, isn’t it? Let me guess what it says: Dear Miss Fitzgerald, We are terribly sorry but we can’t accommodate talentless lady daubers at our establishment. ’ He twisted her wrist hard and Leo gasped, but she kept clutching the letter. ‘Shall we have a look and see?’

To her enormous relief, just then, she heard the jingling of the housekeeper’s keys: Mrs Dawes was coming along the corridor towards them. Scowling, Vincent let go of her wrist, and Leo shoved the letter into the pocket of her frock, darting down the passage and away.

Breakfast didn’t matter. She was too excited to eat anyway, and it wasn’t as though her absence would bother anyone. Most days Father barely grunted at her from behind the newspaper; and as for Mother, she always took her breakfast in bed, then spent the morning relaxing in her room. The main thing was to get as far away from Vincent as fast as she could, so she could open her letter in peace.

She slipped around a corner where an old tapestry hung on the wall, woven with a design of lions and unicorns. Glancing quickly around her to be sure that Vincent hadn’t followed, she lifted up one corner, revealing a small door in the wooden panelling. A moment later, she was through the door and into the narrow, stone-flagged passageway that lay beyond, letting the tapestry fall back across the door behind her.

Winter Hall was an enormous old mansion, rich in secret stairways, forgotten cubbyholes and concealed corridors that no one seemed to know or care about, except for Leo herself. These hidden passageways had fascinated her for as long as she could remember – but what’s more, they came in useful. This wasn’t the first time they’d helped her escape from her family.

Now, she made her way carefully along the crooked passage, and then up a skinny staircase. There was a hidden room tucked away at the top that was one of her favourite corners, which she had furnished with an old chair and an oil lamp. She kept her sketchbooks there, away from Vincent’s prying eyes, as well as a collection of objects that were interesting to draw, but that Nanny would certainly say were ‘nasty old rubbish’: some pieces of wood twisted into interesting shapes; a couple of small animal skulls that she had picked up on her walks in the grounds; an abandoned bird’s nest.

Safe at last, she felt able to take out her letter – a little crumpled from being stuffed into her pocket, but no less precious for that. She held it for a moment, weighing it in her hands, and then she ripped it open, drawing out the thin sheet of typed paper inside.

The rest of the words swam in front of Leo’s eyes: she couldn’t take them in. She sank into the chair, the letter fluttering down into her lap. She had actually done it. She had been accepted to the best art school in London!

It still seemed incredible that she had been allowed to apply to the Spencer at all. She had been begging Father and Mother to let her go to art school for more than a year, but they had barely listened, while Vincent had scoffed and jeered. Even Nanny had said ‘nonsense’ and that such places weren’t for young ladies. If it hadn’t been for Lady Tremayne, she doubted that any of them would ever have taken her seriously.

Lady Tremayne was Leo’s godmother. She was an old friend of Mother’s, a wealthy widow who lived in London, and who seemed to Leo to be unimaginably sophisticated. She always wore wonderful clothes: gracefully draped dresses in jewel colours; embroidered silk shawls; gorgeously feathered hats. She talked of the writers and musicians she knew; the art galleries and concert halls she visited; the new books she had read.

Lady Tremayne was the only one who cared about Leo’s passion for drawing. Mother just said ‘very nice, dear’ in a bored voice; while Nanny grumbled that the charcoal marks on her muslin frock were dreadful to get out, and suggested she might like to learn some nice embroidery stitches instead. But Lady Tremayne was different. On her all-too-rare visits to Winter Hall, she always asked to see Leo’s sketchbooks; and sometimes she even brought her presents – pencils, a new drawing book with lovely paper inside, once a little set of watercolour paints in a neat leather case.