Encounters

  ‘Dead right, they’re not,’ I hissed back. ‘You promiscuous so-and-so. You keep your child company.’

  I didn’t lock my door, though, and I was quite disappointed when the dulcet tones of Joe’s snores began gently to vibrate across the landing.

  ‘Happy Christmas, darling.’

  I was struggling up through layers of exhausted sleep, clutching at daylight. It was dark.

  I could feel Joe’s arms around me. ‘What time is it?’ I managed to ask before his mouth closed onto mine. After a moment – a lovely moment – he replied, ‘About three, I should think. I’ve just fed Paul.’

  I sat up abruptly, pushing him away. It wasn’t going to be that easy for him. ‘Three in the morning? You’re mad. Go away!’

  ‘But Penny …’ his voice in the dark was hurt and pathetic.

  ‘Get out, Joe. I told you.’

  I was indignant. Three in the morning is not on, by anybody’s standards. Not after three years. Not after all those other women who didn’t know how to cook.

  He went.

  At breakfast he was looking innocent again. Dangerously so.

  ‘Happy Christmas, darling.’

  ‘You’ve said that once today already, if I remember.’

  ‘Have I?’ He smiled. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’

  In spite of myself I was excited. ‘Really?’ I should have been suspicious.

  ‘Really.’ He looked suddenly serious. He felt in his pocket and produced an envelope which he pushed across at me. Hesitating I took it. It had something small and hard in it. Without looking I knew what it was. The ring I had thrown at his head so long before. I pushed the envelope back.

  ‘No, Joe, it wouldn’t work.’

  ‘It would. I’m more mature now.’ He smiled wickedly and left the envelope on the table.

  ‘It wouldn’t.’ I got up to make the toast. ‘So, when are you leaving?’ I bent down to light the grill pan. It meant my face was hidden and he couldn’t read my expression.

  Ten years, or so?’ He sounded hopeful.

  I laughed. And in spite of myself my heart leaped. ‘We’ll try it until lunch,’ I said.

  Cabbage à la Carte

  Kate pulled the mini thankfully into the parking space and switched off. For a moment she rested her forehead against the cool rim of the steering wheel, breathing deeply. Her hands were shaking. The first, The lesser, part of the ordeal was over – driving the borrowed car through the overcrowded streets on market day and finding a meter. She leaned over to glance in the mirror and check her hair. Her face was pink and shiny again, her lipstick had turned too red.

  She grabbed for her tapestry bag and applied a new layer. It looked artificial and hard. She wasn’t used to bothering with make-up. She never usually dressed up. She had never owned her own car. But today she was endeavouring to be someone quite different. Kate Millrow, painter, recently – very recently – of St Agnes’s School of Art, would never dare to try and sell her paintings to a smart town gallery.

  Miss Rowmill (she was especially pleased with the name), artists’ agent and talent spotter would be able to do it every day. Think yourself into the part, Kate, think yourself into the part,’ she muttered desperately as she climbed out of the car and groped for the money. The coin, so carefully hoarded for this occasion, slipped from her fingers and rolled away towards a gutter. Frantically she leapt after it and caught it up before it disappeared down the grille. Even putting the money in the parking meter once she had recaptured it was something of an ordeal. She studied the thing intently, reading the instructions. The slot seemed to be the wrong way round. She couldn’t get the money in. Then at last the needle buzzed across and she found herself with two whole hours in which to carry out her mission. She pulled out the portfolio, locked the car and made her way slowly towards the gallery. She knew it didn’t open until ten so she made her way slowly towards a coffee shop, clutching the cardboard folder awkwardly. Its sharp edges at the top cut into her armpit, at the bottom they sliced into her fingers.

  Sitting down thankfully with an espresso she set down her burden. By rights she ought to be at college now, settling into her final year. What had possessed her to think she could make it on her own? The offer of the cottage in the country? Somewhere where she could really paint? There’s nothing much else to do there, Kate. It’ll keep you at it. Then we’ll see what you’re really made of,’ John had said as he handed her the key before setting off on his trek to Katmandu. For a year at least she had the place, rent free, to herself. It was a dream come true. Only John hadn’t mentioned the fact that the rain came through the roof, there was no electricity and the nearest neighbour was half a mile away.

  She had been shocked, afraid and then angry in that order when she first saw the cottage. Was it for this that she had thrown up college and antagonized her family? Then eventually she had begun to see the funny side. Perhaps fate had presented her with a challenge. Anyway it was too late to go back. There was nothing to do but weed cabbages (‘You won’t starve, love, help yourself from the kitchen garden’), eat cabbages and set up her easel.

  And surprisingly she had painted. She had painted non-stop day after day, as long as there was light. But the moment had come when she realized that she could not live on cabbages for ever, and even if she could she had to pay for the calor gas to cook them, and oil for the lamps.

  Nervously she had painted a board, ‘Millrow Studios’, and hammered it to the gate, thinking someone might come and buy at the cottage. She had waited heart-thumping for half an hour for a car to come down the lane and then she had run out and torn down the notice before anyone could see it.

  Her only visitors had been her nearest neighbours from the form up the lane. They had been kind and helpful and once brought her a chicken and often eggs, and now today she had borrowed their mini. They had looked at her pictures, made noises of polite incomprehension and suggested the gallery in town. They knew it opened at ten (‘Lazy devils; don’t know the meaning of the word work’) and directed her to the coffee house. (‘The pubs aren’t open then, but if you need a stiffener, that’ll be the next best thing.’)

  It was ten past ten. Her knees wobbling, she paid her bill and crossed the road.

  The girl in the gallery had round moon glasses and an expression of disdain. Kate forgot she was Miss Rowmill, agent and became shy and diffident Kate Millrow, beneath the girl’s supercilious gaze.

  ‘Are you the owner of the gallery?’ she asked in a strained falsetto, totally unlike her own voice.

  To her surprise the girl gave her a friendly smile. ‘No, but he’ll be back any minute. Take a seat.’

  Kate sat numbly, the portfolio balanced against her knees. The paintings on the walls of the gallery were to her eyes mannered and uncomfortable. But they were good and very professional. And, dear God, they were framed! Perhaps she should have tried to frame hers before she brought them in? She started to shake again, wishing she hadn’t come.

  Then the door opened and the owner appeared. He was a young man, tall and arrogant-looking. His lips, she decided instantly, were mean beneath the thin moustache.

  Her only concern now was to get out as soon as possible, with the least embarrassment for everybody, especially herself.

  The other girl had her coat on as soon as the man appeared. ‘Here’s Mr Chambers now,’ she announced and she was gone without a word to him.

  ‘Ask her to watch the place for five minutes and she acts as if I’d told her to swim the channel, the silly bitch,’ he muttered angrily at her retreating back. ‘Now, what do you want, young lady?’ He sounded irritated.

  He didn’t seem to realize that she was Miss Rowmill, artists’ agent. Nettled, she told him.

  He was not impressed. ‘We’re fully booked well into next year,’ he said coolly. ‘But let’s see what you’ve got.’

  He leafed through the paintings and sketches casually, taking hardly any time to study them. Occasionally he muttered ‘humph,
not bad,’ or ‘weak, weak,’ or ‘very derivative’. Kate was mortified.

  ‘They’re all by the same girl?” he asked, not raising his eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you find her, art school?’

  She was furious. ‘No. She’s a local girl. I think she has great talent, a great …’ She hesitated, trying to think of a word.

  ‘Potential?’ He glanced up at her, smiling suddenly.

  ‘Exactly.’ She felt she wasn’t playing her part sufficiently convincingly. ‘I like to watch out for up and coming new names, and so,’ she added pointedly, ‘do most of my clients.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She did not like the way he raised one eyebrow.

  He reached the end of the pictures and began to shuffle through them again. ‘Did she have any oils, this Kate Millrow?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Did she sound too eager? ‘I didn’t bring any today, but I could arrange to collect some.’

  ‘No, no,’ He held up his hand. ‘I’ve seen enough. I’m afraid, Miss …’ he hesitated over the name. ‘Rowmill was it? I’m afraid these are not really suitable for this gallery. However,’ he glared at her as he saw her about to speak, ‘however, I do believe like yourself in giving an encouraging help to the young occasionally, so,’ he pulled out a watercolour and looked at it closely, ‘I will take a couple of these if you agree. I’ll have them framed and hang them in my next show. I’ll take framing expenses plus ten per cent, agreed?’

  Kate was speechless with joy. It wasn’t the praise, the one man exhibition she had dreamed of, but it was something. Excitedly she gave him the address of the cottage.

  ‘And now your address, Miss Rowmill. I generally prefer to deal through an agent direct if there is one.’ He looked at her closely and waited, his pen poised. It nearly stumped her. She thought fest and then gave him her sister’s address in London. It seemed to impress him.

  It was not until she was nearly home that she realized that in real terms she had achieved very little. The condescending acceptance of two pictures by a stuck up opinionated gallery owner, out of charity rather than anything else, and a lot of quite unjustified rude remarks. ‘Horrible prig!’ she muttered to herself as she turned up the lane. And what was worse she realized, she still hadn’t actually earned any cash, and her desire for some rather more exotic food than eggs and cabbage was increasingly daily, if not hourly.

  Reluctantly, nervously, she rehung the notice on the gate before she changed and took the car back to the farm. If Miss Rowmill could hang the notice up, she hoped desperately that she could persuade Miss Millrow to leave it there.

  Once more dressed in jeans and barefoot, she selected the paintings Mr Chambers had made the least derogatory noises over and put them prominently round the room.

  Then she sat back to wait. No one came. She left the notice on the gate, refused to be discouraged, went to dig some potatoes and then at last settled down to paint again.

  ‘Derivative indeed,’ she snorted. ‘The man was an ignorant fool.’

  It was on the Saturday afternoon that a car drove by, slowed and backed to the gate. Two people got out and wandered up the path, exclaiming at the honeysuckle and roses, pointing up at the fields behind the cottage.

  Kate felt sick.

  They knocked and she let them in, wishing she wasn’t quite so shabbily dressed and that her toes weren’t quite so grubby from the garden.

  But they obviously liked to see her like that. She saw suddenly through their eyes a glimmer of the so-called glamour of the artist in the garret, and glad that for once she had got rid of the smell of cabbage from the house, she was content to let them wander around the room she used for a studio.

  She crossed her fingers, praying they would buy something, but they completed a round of the paintings without seeming to see anything in particular.

  Then the man turned to her hesitantly. ‘Is anything for sale, Miss Millrow?’ he asked.

  Anything! He must be joking.

  She smiled politely. ‘Well, some of my best work is away on exhibition,’ – was that Miss Rowmill talking? – ‘but most things here are for sale, yes.’

  She desperately tried to think of prices. Too high and they would be scared off; too low and they would think her valueless.

  ‘I’ll give you ten pounds for this, I love it.’

  She could not believe her ears. Ten pounds for a tiny painting of a posy of spring flowers. It wasn’t even modern in style.

  ‘That seems very fair.’ She smiled as graciously as she could.

  She sat for a long time after they had gone, gazing at the two fivers on the table. Could it be true that at last she was earning her living by painting?

  Two hours later she was chopping vegetables in the kitchen when there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find Mr Chambers standing on the doorstep. Her heart sank with embarrassment but he held out his hand blandly with absolutely no sign of recognition on his face.

  ‘You must be Miss Millrow. How do you do.’

  Had her make up been so good then? She stammered a greeting in return and showed him at his request into the studio.

  Reaching into his pocket he produced an envelope. ‘I’m glad to say I’ve managed to sell one of your paintings, Miss Millrow.’

  ‘Already?’ her voice came out in a squeak.

  ‘Already.’ He grinned at her amicably. ‘It was lying on my table after you, that is your agent,’ he corrected himself quickly, ‘had left it with me and I had a buyer almost at once. It seems my initial judgement may have been a little harsh.’

  ‘I’ll say it was,’ she muttered under her breath, and then out loud she asked. ‘How much did you get?’ She took the envelope with shaking fingers.

  ‘There’s thirty-five pounds there. I’ve already taken my commission.’ He grinned again. ‘I imagined that under the circumstances you would rather pay your agent her commission yourself.’

  Kate felt herself blushing crimson. ‘You must think I’m an awful fool.’

  ‘Not at all. You’d be surprised how many people come in with pictures they say a “friend” has painted. Mind you,’ he looked her up and down pointedly. ‘Not many of them go to the lengths you did for a disguise.’

  She blushed again. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather a mess at the moment. I was cooking.’

  He nodded. ‘Cabbage. I had guessed.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid I live on it.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and continue while I poke around here for a bit and investigate your,’ he paused and winked, ‘your potential.’

  She fled.

  It took only a few minutes to throw the vegetables into a pan and scrub her hands and then she ran upstairs to comb her hair and change her skirt. When she came down he had piled several canvases on the table.

  ‘I’ll take these next,’ he said without preamble. ‘Sale or return of course, and I’ll buy this one myself …’

  Again it was flowers, she noticed amazed.

  ‘… if it’s not exorbitantly priced. Now,’ he looked at her again. ‘Could that concoction you were making wait do you think? If you were to transform yourself, not into that hard hitting woman Miss Rowmill, but perhaps into a slightly tidier version of yourself I could take you out to dinner to celebrate your sales.’

  She looked at him amazed. She had got the firm impression he despised her and her kind, and she certainly disliked him. So why ask her out? And anyway he was insufferably rude. A slightly tidier version of herself indeed. She curbed the desire to stick out her tongue at him. Instead she lowered her eyes meekly to the floor. ‘That would be nice,’ she said. ‘Much better than cabbage.’

  She had a Laura Ashley dress upstairs and pretty Venetian sandals. Her hair beneath its gay scarf was at least clean. Oh yes, Mr Chambers. She could be tidier when she tried.

  She debated over lipstick for several minutes in her bedroom and then decided against it. Miss Rowmill might wear lipstick, but she did not.
She clipped on the silver bangle her parents had given her for her eighteenth birthday and gazed at herself in the stained old mirror. The image, she had to admit, was rather attractive.

  Mr Chambers evidently thought so too, for he stopped being rude, told her his name was Derek and ushered her out to his car with exaggerated care. He even helped her with the seat belt.

  ‘I have a ten per cent interest in you, my dear Miss Millrow,’ was his only comment when she protested.

  They drove back into town and he took her to the most delightful French restaurant she had ever been to. He almost talked her into having something called Dolmas Maigre, but the suppressed glee in his expression led her to guess it might have something to do with cabbage and to his chagrin she checked with the waiter before she ordered. Once that hurdle was over the evening continued fairly well. She found herself telling him about art school and John’s offer of the cottage and her parents’ anger when she had ‘dropped out’, as they of course put it. To her surprise he threw his head back and laughed.

  ‘Dropped out, a prim little miss like you? Nonsense. Besides, they ought to be proud of you. You have a great deal of talent. And not only for painting. If you ever get bored with that, you could go on the stage.’

  She looked at him to see if he was taking the micky, but his expression was all innocence. He quickly topped up her wine glass. ‘Yes, Miss Millrow, you have a great deal of talent.’

  To her annoyance she found herself blushing although she was quite sure he was teasing. His fingers had strayed towards her own on the blue table-cloth and as they so very casually, almost by accident, made contact, she snatched her hand away. She was not going to be that easy to placate. She took a gulp of wine.

  When they parted that evening, however, it was on the understanding that they would meet again the following Saturday and that, if she could face the bus ride into town, she would go to see him at the gallery even before then.

  ‘Now,’ he said, looking up at her mischievously from the driving seat as he started up the engine. ‘About what you wear when you come. Shoes, yes. Lipstick, no. Jeans, yes if decent. Right?’