Pat Barker - Noonday

I came back home to a rare event — a letter, readdressed from the house, of course — just before we left we added our new, separate, addresses to the noticeboard at the end of the street. People don’t write to each other much these days, we’ve all shrunk into our little colonies, the people we see every day, but this was an official letter. And as soon as I saw the Ministry of Information stamp I guessed who it was from. One quick scan of the page, there was his signature: Kenneth Clark, chairman of the War Artists Advisory Committee. Would I…? Could I…? With a view to discussing, etc….Oh, I would, I could. I will, I can. Though I’m going to have to be quick about it, because the interview’s tomorrow morning, the letter having been delayed by the change of address.

If I get a commission — actually, I don’t think there’s much “if” about it, but let’s be cautious — if I get a commission, it’ll be on a painting-by-painting basis. Men — Paul, for example — are salaried; women aren’t. And I’ve got a pretty good idea of what he’ll want me to do — rosy-cheeked children, safely evacuated from the bombed cities, merrily playing on ye olde village greene. There’s a big drive on to get children back into the country, an awful lot of them have gone home. Though we didn’t know it at the time, Kenny was one of thousands. Oh, and land-girls, that’ll be the other thing. Come to think of it, probably mainly land-girls — something about girls’ bums in breeches appeals to the male visual imagination as almost nothing else can — as long as the girl’s young and pretty and the bum not so gigantic it fills the whole canvas.

Still, I don’t mind, as long as I can do the things I really want to do as well. It’ll give me access to materials, and that’s no small thing, these days, because they’re getting awfully expensive, and scarce. And of course I’ve lost a lot of mine. Then there’s the license — I’ll be able to go (almost) anywhere and draw (almost) anything. Status, recognition…I’d love to be able to say they don’t matter, but they do. Hear Kit Neville on the subject!

The interview’s at ten, so by half past I ought to know one way or the other.

Then what? Go to see Paul, I suppose. It’ll feel odd seeing him again in London. I can’t tell him I’m coming — there’s no telephone in the studio — I’ll just have to hope I catch him in.

Two or three days later (I could probably work out the date if I really tried but I’ve been awake all night and I can’t bloody well be bothered)

I caught him all right.

But I’m not going to plunge straight into that, because there’s Kenneth Clark and the War Artists Advisory Committee and, arguably, that’s now more important than Paul.

I know Clark vaguely, as I suppose everybody on the art scene does. He came to the door of his office to greet me, looking taller and broader-shouldered than he actually is — it’s amazing what a first-rate tailor can achieve — and shook hands with me very warmly, I think without seeing me at all. Women of my age are invisible to Clark, but, given his tastes, I’ve probably been invisible for the last twenty-five years at least — so there’s no point getting upset about it now!

He started by saying the War Artists Advisory Committee was determined to recruit the largest, most varied, most representative array of talent possible, and as part of this endeavor they were commissioning some of the most distinguished women artists. It was, he said, particularly important that the visual record of the war should include work that conveys the uniquely feminine vision that only women artists can supply. Etc. I’ve no idea if he really thinks there’s a “uniquely feminine vision,” or whether he just thought that would go down well. Rather to my surprise, I found myself arguing against the idea. I said I didn’t believe women were necessarily more compassionate than men…He just sat there looking cool and amused, and when I’d finished pointed out that my best-known paintings are, nevertheless, of women and children. True, of course. Of the three paintings I’ve got in the Tate, one’s a mother feeding her baby on the night-ferry crossing to Belgium, another’s of convent schoolgirls in a park, and the other’s one of a series of winter landscapes I painted after Toby’s death. (Not the best one either!) And then he started explaining that women were paid on a commission-by-commission basis, unlike men, who get a salary. (Part of the “uniquely feminine vision” perhaps: we don’t need to be paid.)

And then we moved on to suitable subjects. Children, but only in safe areas well away from the raids; land-girls, bums not specified; women in the forces, though obviously not in any aggressive capacity, definitely no guns; factories, etc.

All very much as I expected, and of course I said yes. So — looking forward to a long and productive relationship, etc. — we shook hands again and off I went. I felt an enormous sense of relief getting out of that building; I can quite see why Kit hates it.

Though I must say, standing there on the pavement, I felt better than I’ve felt since the house was destroyed. Solider. That awful snail-without-a-shell feeling had gone. I was moving back to London, I was absolutely determined on that, but I also felt I owed it to Paul — and myself — to have one last go at persuading him to rent somewhere big enough for both of us. Not a house, necessarily. A flat would do.

So I set off to walk to his studio. And this is the difficult bit. I’d only just turned the corner when I saw him on the pavement in a dressing gown, accompanied by a girl, a stocky, little figure with long dark hair and short legs. She was standing on tiptoe, reaching up to kiss him. She was so short it was almost like a child reaching up to kiss her father, but there was nothing fatherly about the kiss. His arms were round her, he was laughing, pretending to ward her off, she was tugging at his sleeve, trying to persuade him to go back into the house. He kept shaking his head, pretending to be reluctant, but then, with a shrug of mock defeat, he let himself be led back inside — and the door closed behind them.

I walked a little farther along the road, and then I just stood and stared at the door. My brain was whirring away, trying to come up with an innocent explanation. I just wanted it to go away. Only of course there was no explanation except the obvious, and I couldn’t bear to think about that, so in the end I didn’t think at all, just tottered off, feeling ancient, frail, as if my bones had turned to glass.

Now I wonder why I didn’t bang on the door, force my way up the stairs. But it never occurred to me to do that.

Instead, I went to the house, which was probably the worst thing I could’ve done. All the outer walls are intact, but the roof’s in a bad way, ceilings collapsed on the floors below. And open to the weather because of the roof, so it’s bound to deteriorate quite rapidly. I cried. But also I was following Paul and the girl upstairs, into the studio, onto the bed. We made love on that bed once. I wonder if he remembers that when he’s rolling round on it with her?

I felt naked, shivering in the sunlight, everything stripped away, not just the house, Paul as well — all gone. And if you take away all the relationships, the possessions, the achievements of somebody’s adult life, what they’re left with — what I’m left with — isn’t youth. I noticed I was walking differently — more slowly, a bit hunched over. I had to force myself to straighten up.