A Mad, Wicked Folly (15 page)

I WAS ON
my way out to my adventures, heading down
the stairs of my house, when I saw Papa standing in the
hall, a look of bewilderment on his face. He was staring at
the new telephone, a copper upright desk stand with ornamental finishing, on the hall table. I was surprised to see
him home in the middle of the day.

I paused, my hand on the newel post. “Good afternoon,
Papa,” I said.
He looked up. “Victoria. My, you look so grown-up.
Very fetching, my dear.” He stared at the telephone again.
“I’m going to my church charity. Do you wish to make
a telephone call?”
He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I would prefer not to,
but Frederick says I must embrace this new machinery or
else be left behind.” He clasped his hands behind his back.
“I must say I feel the fool. How does one speak into such an
apparatus? I feel as though I’m talking to a doorstop.”
“It is intimidating the first time you make a call.”
“Have you made one?” Papa looked surprised.
I nodded. “Lily’s family has a telephone When I was
visiting their home in France, she showed me how to work
it. It’s ever so much fun, as it goes. Once you get the way of
it.” I held out my hand. “Would you like me to show you?”
“Hmm, yes. I would.”
I sat and demonstrated. “You sit on this little bench
here and rest your elbow on the table, like so. You want to
hold the receiver to your ear with that hand. And speak
into the mouthpiece here.”
“How do you contact the person you want to speak to?”
“Press down this little lever and wait for the operator
to answer. You give her your party’s details and she’ll connect you. If you want to answer when it rings, simply lift
the receiver and speak.”
“Well, I never! Aren’t you clever? Does one have to
shout to be heard?” Papa asked, warming to the subject.
“Not at all. Only your normal voice is required.” I stood
up. “Would you like to have a go?”
Papa sat down and I directed him through the steps. He
flinched and pulled the receiver away from his ear when
the operator answered, but he soldiered on and placed his
call. I waited to make sure he was comfortable before I
went on my way. When I left, he smiled at me.

JOHN TOOK ME
to All Saints Church in the carriage midmorning. I’d told Mamma I’d be coming home in a friend’s
carriage. Of course, in reality I’d make my own way back.

I walked up and down the Fulham Road but I didn’t see
the address or anything that resembled an art studio. I was
growing frustrated but then finally I found it behind the
main buildings, down a quiet tree-filled mews. The studio was a large brick building with arched windows, and
a large black door bordered by a white colonnade.
avenue
studios
was printed on the window. Someone had planted
pansies and daffodils in tubs on either side of the door.

I went inside and immediately the scent of art hit me:
an earthy aroma of clay and the woodsy perfume of oil
of turpentine. I walked down a long hallway bordered by
doors leading to art studios. Avenue Studios was a much
larger space than Monsieur Tondreau’s, which had consisted of one small room. Some of the doors were open, and
I saw sculptors at work in one and a painter working on
a large canvas in another. Behind a closed door, someone
was playing classical music on a gramophone. There was a
lot of activity coming from a studio at the end of the corridor. I could hear a murmur of voices, a bang as someone
dropped something, and the swooshing sound of someone
dragging heavy material across the floor. Then I saw
stu
-
dio
1
a
:
sylvia pankhurst
written on a sign outside a door. I
stepped inside.

When Lucy first mentioned the mural, I assumed
it would be a simple affair, a large picture with a motto
to hang against one wall, but what I saw took my breath
away. The cavernous space of the studio was hung floor to
ceiling with several canvases. Some were still blank and
some were traced with patterns of angels, flowers, trees,
doves, and wildlife. One of the canvases was already finished; it featured a figure of a woman sowing grain. It was
ten feet high, maybe even more. There were several artists
at work—half were women and half were men. Some stood
on ladders or knelt on mats filling in color with paintbrushes; others were moving huge canvases around.

“Excuse me,” said an artist carrying a panel. “Can I get
by, please?”
“I beg your pardon.” I stepped out of the way, and he
hoisted the panel over his head and continued on. I took a
couple of steps after him. “Excuse me, I wonder . . .” But he
didn’t stop.
I looked around. Everyone was busy doing something.
I felt completely insignificant. Engrossed in their work, as
artists were wont to be, no one took any notice of me. I
eyed the door, thinking maybe the best action would be to
leave and come back another day.
No. I was here now; I’d just have to wait.
Over by the window, I spotted a taboret laden with an
untidy jumble of oil-paint tubes, mahl sticks, rags, and jars
with brush handles poking out. From time to time, I had
cleaned the brushes for the more experienced students at
Monsieur’s, so I knew how to do it. I headed for the table and
got to work. I wiped each brush clean with a rag dampened
with turpentine and rinsed it in a bottle filled with mineral
spirits. Under a pile of rags I unearthed a paintbrush comb
and ran it through each brush to get the dried paint out. I
was organizing all the oil tubes according to color—mostly
white, purple, and emerald green—when someone spoke.
“You look like you know what you’re doing there.” A
woman dressed in a plain cotton blouse and wool skirt
stood by the table. Her dark-blonde hair was piled up onto
her head in a messy bun that was held together with two
pencils. She had a kindly look about her, but dark circles
smudged her eyes, as if she’d not been to sleep for some
time. “It’s good of you to do that. Someone’s always meaning to do it, but we’re so busy around here that brush
cleaning gets put off.” She pulled a face. “Shame to treat
good brushes that way.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sylvia
Pankhurst.”
What luck!
I shook Sylvia’s hand. “Pleased to make
your acquaintance. I’m Vicky Darling. I was told by Lucy
Hawkins that you required artists to help with the mural.”
“I do. I’ve undertaken a vast project, I’m afraid to
admit,” Sylvia said. “I began in February and already I’m
exhausted. Several of my friends from art school have
helped me, but it’s still a huge undertaking.” Then she broke
off; her gaze fell on the tie Sophie had given me. “William
Morris’s
Strawberry Thief
, isn’t it?”
I looked down at my tie. “Is it?”
“I’d know that pattern anywhere. We studied Morris
when I attended the RCA. He was the leader of the Arts
and Crafts movement, and a student of the Pre-Raphaelites.
How clever of you to wear it as a tie.” Sylvia smiled. “Very
artistic.”
How had Sophie understood how to reflect my personality so quickly? To suggest an accessory that harkened
to the Pre-Raphaelites? I had assumed she was in league
with my mother then, but she had dressed me exactly how
I wanted to dress without my knowing it myself.
“Your mural reminds me of the Pre-Raphaelite
Brotherhood,” I said.
“They were my inspiration for the mural! Their use of
symbolism is extraordinary.” Sylvia’s face held the slightly
maniacal expression all artists seem to have when discussing painters they love. “The woman planting grain
symbolizes hope. I’m going to add another woman harvesting the wheat. So she’s reaping what the other woman
has sown. I need to draw some ideas first.”
Needing to make an impression on Sylvia right away,
I waded in. “I . . . I could sketch it for you,” I said, feeling
suddenly shy. “If you like, I mean. I attended an atelier in
France. I have nearly a year’s training in life studies. You
don’t have to say yes. I’m happy with doing basic work, too.”
I was happy to see that Sylvia looked relieved when I
suggested this. Sometimes artists didn’t like others to interfere with their designs. So far I’d impressed Sylvia with
my brush cleaning and my sense of fashion. If she liked
my sketch and I showed commitment to the mural, maybe
she’d write the reference letter for me. I had to put in the
time, however. I knew I couldn’t just come once or twice. I
had to show Sylvia exactly what I could do. I needed a true
reference that reflected my work, not just some generic
letter.
Sylvia set me up at a makeshift table and I got to work,
and for the next hour I was so engrossed that I barely
noticed when someone came up. I felt a tap on my shoulder,
looked up, and saw Lucy standing there, but for a moment I
didn’t recognize her. Gone were the serviceable face-cloth
clothes. Today she was wearing a loose scoop-neck dress
with wide sleeves and an elaborately embroidered bodice.
Her dark, curly hair, freed from the clutches of her felt hat,
tumbled down her back.
“I was wondering when you were going to show up,”
she said. “How was church?”
“Church?”
“Didn’t you go to church first?” Lucy said, raising her
eyebrows.
“Oh, that!” I shrugged. “I don’t actually
go
to church. I
tell my mother I’m going to a church charity. It’s how I get
out of the house.”
Lucy hooked her foot around the leg of a stool, dragged
it over, and sat down. “What’s the matter? She won’t let you
keep company with suffragettes?”
“Let’s just say the word
suffrage
is not to be uttered in
our home. Among many other things.”
“Well, join the club.” She waved her hand at a girl
around our age, standing on a ladder painting. “Clara isn’t
supposed to be here either.”
I touched the embroidery on Lucy’s sleeve. “You look
like a medieval maid. Beautiful.”
“I only wear that other hideous outfit at the rubber
factory and when I’m working for the WSPU. As you saw,
sometimes the coppers get a bit handsy. Often people
throw rotten veg at us, too.”
“Why do you work in a rubber factory?”
“Some of us have to work,” she said, looking at me
askance.
“Oh,” I said, feeling like a toff. “Of course. I didn’t
think.”
“It’s not like I get my fun there or anything. I need the
money. I came over to study jewelry making at Goldsmiths
College, but my dad won’t send my tuition,” Lucy said,
resting her chin in her hand. “He wants me to come home.
So I do piecework at a factory in Lambeth. It pays for my
tuition and I rent a flat in Clement’s Inn, above the headquarters. Mr. Pethick-Lawrence owns a bunch and lets
them out cheap to WSPU members. That doesn’t leave much
else, but I make jewelry in suffragette colors and sell it at
department stores. Suffragette jewelry is very chic, and
Selfridge’s, that new department store on Oxford Street,
buys all I can make.”
At that moment, the door opened and a disheveled teenage boy burst into the room. He was very delicate, almost
elf-like, with blond hair and blue eyes. Tall and whippet
thin, he looked as though the slightest breeze could bowl
him right over.
“That’s Sylvia and Christabel Pankhurst’s little brother,
Harry,” Lucy whispered. “He showed up on Sylvia’s doorstep awhile back. Did a bunk from his job as a builder up
north in Clydesdale. Best thing he did, really. Can you
imagine him carrying bricks and climbing scaffolding?
Some say he’s the only girl in the family.”
“He looks very young,” I admitted.
“He’s nineteen. He’s been helping Sylvia with the
murals, carrying things and filling in color.”
Seeing Lucy and me, Harry came over. Lucy introduced us.
“Hello.” He waved his hand.
“I’d better go help,” Lucy said, standing up. “I’m not
much of a painter, but I do the grunt work.”
“Are you an artist, Harry?” I asked after Lucy had
gone off.
“I dabble. I’m nothing like my sister. I’m really just putting in the colors.”
“Oi, Harry. Who’s your girl?” one of the artists, a slender
blond man in his twenties, dressed in a purple waistcoat
and striped trousers, called down from a ladder.
I could see a slow flush crawl up Harry’s neck. He shot
a quick look at me. “She’s . . . she’s not my girl, Austin.” To
me, Harry added, “That’s one of Sylvia’s friends from the
art college. Austin Osman Spare.”
Austin waved his paintbrush at me. “How d’ya do?”
“I’m quite finished with my sketch,” I said, looking up at
him. I had a little time to spare before I had to leave to meet
Will at the Royal Academy. “Would you like some help?”
He gestured at an empty ladder near him. “Come on
up!”
Harry set me up with paints and brushes, and I got to
work between Austin and Harry filling in the colors—violet, green, and white—on the garland of ivy and flowers
that arched over the canvas.
After an hour we all broke for tea. I met some other
artists: Amy Browning, who was another friend of Sylvia’s
from the RCA, and Clara Watson, the other girl whose parents didn’t want her at the mural.
Everyone was laughing and eating sandwiches and
drinking tea out of chipped mugs. The scene reminded
me of Renoir’s
Le déjeuner des canotiers
, which depicted a
luncheon at the Maison Fournaise restaurant held after he
and his artist friends had been boating on the Seine. The
mural artists had the same carefree and exuberant expressions as Renoir’s friends in the painting. Automatically, I
reached for my sketchbook and began to draw.
No one chastised me or looked embarrassed to see me
drawing them. Artists knew what it was to have an idea
and itch to get it down on paper as soon as possible. I drew
Austin, sitting on a stool, his elbow braced on his knee. I
drew Harry sprawled in his chair, nibbling a digestive biscuit, head ducking shyly; Amy, Clara, and Lucy leaning
forward, laughing at what Austin was saying to Harry.
And then Sylvia sitting with her hands resting in her lap,
eyes closed, stealing a moment’s calm. I didn’t know Will
all that well, but I could see him sitting there, too. He’d fit
right into the picture.
A familiar feeling washed over me as I drew. It was the
one I’d had with Bertram and the other artists in the café
that day in France after I had posed. I felt accepted for who
I was. I didn’t have to sort the words in my head first, making sure they were socially acceptable before I said them. I
groped around for a word that fit.
Peace.
I felt peaceful. I had come looking for a reference, but I had found so much more. I knew I would come
back.