Уильям Николсон - Motherland

Larry does as he is told. The model is young and has a thick fringe. Her straight brown hair falls to her shoulders, framing a pale face with sleepy eyes. She seems not to mind being looked at.

Coldstream moves among the students as they work, peering at their sketch pads, saying nothing. Larry finds the process of measuring and making marks an awkward business, far removed from the rapid freehand sketching with which he has always begun before. The student beside him, a very young man, almost a boy, evidently feels this too, judging by the way he scowls and mutters as he works. When the teacher is by him he vents his frustration.

‘It’s like painting by numbers, isn’t it?’ he says.

‘What would you rather do?’ says Coldstream, unoffended.

‘I’d rather paint what I feel.’

‘That comes later,’ says Coldstream. ‘First you must see.’

As the students work, the girl model’s gaze roams the room and comes to rest on Larry. Her eyes linger on him with disarming directness, as if she supposes he doesn’t see her. Larry realises with a shock that this face he’s been so obediently mapping is, if not exactly beautiful, certainly very striking. Her nose is too strong, her mouth too full, her eyes too startling; but the overall effect is undeniably attractive. She looks both very young and very sure of herself, almost imperious.

When the class ends some of the students gather round Coldstream, who is pulling on a beige officer’s topcoat against the night chill. The others pack up their sketch pads and drift out down the bare-board corridor to the street.

‘Poor old Bill,’ says a voice behind Larry.

It’s the young model. Larry is vaguely aware that Coldstream’s first name is Bill.

‘Do you know him?’ he says.

‘No, not at all. But you just have to look at him to see he’s unhappy.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’

It hasn’t occurred to Larry to consider the personal happiness of his teacher.

‘I’m Nell,’ she says. ‘Who are you?’

‘Lawrence Cornford. Larry, I mean.’

‘I like Lawrence better. How old are you, Lawrence?’

Her command of the situation so surprises him that he doesn’t think to object to such a sudden personal question.

‘Twenty-seven,’ he says.

‘I suppose you had a harrowing war and now you’re mature beyond your years. All I’ve been doing is going quietly mad in Tunbridge Wells. It seems so unfair that just when I’m old enough to be harrowed they take the war away.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Nineteen. But if you count former lives, I’m about nine hundred.’

‘Do you believe in former lives?’

‘No, of course not,’ she says. ‘Do I look completely potty?’ Then without waiting for an answer, ‘So why are you here?’

‘To learn,’ says Larry. ‘I want to be a better painter.’

By now they’re out on the street. Coldstream and the group with him are walking down the road. Without thinking, Larry and Nell follow.

‘So you have a private income, I suppose,’ Nell says.

‘My father is supporting me.’ Larry blushes a little at the admission. ‘But we have a strictly limited agreement. He’s giving me a year.’

‘To prove you’re a genius?’

‘To prove I’m in with a chance.’

‘How do you prove that?’

‘I’m to show my work. And we’ll see if anyone buys anything.’

The group ahead turn into the pub on the corner, the Hermit’s Rest.

‘How about you buy me a drink?’ says Nell.

They go into the pub, which is half full and noisy and smoky. The intense young student who was Larry’s neighbour in the class leaves Coldstream’s group and joins them.

‘Old boys’ reunion,’ he says, nodding behind him. ‘They were all at Euston Road. What do you make of all this Ruskin and taking measurements like a fucking tailor? I signed up to be inspired by an artist not trained by a draughtsman.’

‘I suppose he could be both,’ says Larry.

‘Never!’ The boy’s eyes flash with contempt. ‘An artist is an artist above everything. He may teach to earn his bread, but even when teaching he’s an artist. Why should he care about us? We’re impedimenta. I’ve seen his work. It’s good. But there should be more of himself on the canvas. He should take more risks. There should be more danger.’

Having so delivered himself of this verdict, he departs.

‘God, how the young bore me!’ says Nell.

‘You being so very old,’ says Larry.

‘Oh, I promise you, I bore myself. But I mean to grow older just as fast as I can.’

‘Not too fast, I hope.’

‘Why? Did you like being nineteen? Was it the best year of your life?’

‘No,’ says Larry.

‘You know life models pose naked.’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall I tell you why I’m doing it?’

‘If you want to.’

‘No. I’m asking you if you want me to tell you.’

She fixes him with truth-demanding eyes. Confused by her nearness, Larry smiles and shakes his head.

‘You don’t want me to tell you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘Well, then,’ she says. ‘I’ve left home, and I’m not going back. I would have died if I’d stayed one day longer. I’m starting my whole life again, and this time I’m going to live it quite differently, among quite different people. I’m going to live a real life, not a show life. And I’m going to do it among people who live real lives. I know I’m not an artist myself, but I want to live among artists.’

‘Sounds like you want danger, like that boy.’

‘That’s just silly play-acting. Who wants danger? I want truth.’

This is strong stuff, made all the stronger by her unrelenting gaze, and her pale sensual face. The more he looks at her the more fascinated he becomes.

‘I think that’s what I want too,’ he says.

‘Then shall we help each other find it? Shall we, Lawrence?’

‘Why not?’ he says.

‘No, that’s no good. We don’t do things because we can’t think of a reason not to. We do things we want to do. We act out of desire.’

She doesn’t smile as she speaks, but nor is she as sure of herself as he first thought. Her intense gaze is asking for his support.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes.’

‘The rule is, we say what we want. We tell each other the truth.’

‘Yes.’

‘So I’ll start. I want to be friends with you, Lawrence.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Do you want to be friends with me?’

‘Yes. I do.’

He takes her hand and holds it, not shaking it. He feels her warmth.

‘There,’ she says. ‘Now we’re friends.’

‘Golly, you were hard to find,’ says Kitty, giving Larry a warm hug. ‘You shouldn’t just disappear and leave no forwarding address.’

‘I thought I had.’

She ushers him out of Lewes station to a dark green Wolseley Hornet parked outside.

‘George bought her in ’32. Isn’t she glorious?’

The December roads are icy. Driving slowly back to Edenfield, Kitty confides her worries.

‘You’ll find Ed’s changed a lot.’

‘I suppose it must be hard for him to adjust,’ says Larry.

‘See what you think when you meet him.’

Larry gazes out of the window at the familiar hump of the Downs.

‘You remember that place where you were billeted?’ Kitty says. ‘George is offering it to us at a peppercorn rent.’

‘Are you short of money?’

‘We have no money at all. We’re living off Ed’s demob payments. No, actually we’re living off George and Louisa. Ed’s looking round for some sort of job, but you wouldn’t say his heart was in it.’

‘He’s a VC, for God’s sake! Where’s the nation’s gratitude?’