told him. ‘But don’t you go joining up,’ she said. ‘The army’s just another trick they play on us.’ Her dad, Riley knew, had been killed somewhere in Africa, in the army. ‘You don’t want to go getting involved with abroad,’ Bethan said.
France, to Riley, meant the golden sunflowers Van Gogh had painted in Arles, the bright skies, the lines of trees, the colours of Matisse, the sea, Renoir’s girls in bars, David’s dramatic half-naked heroes, Fragonard’s girls with their petticoats flying, Ingres’ society ladies with their white skin, black hair and melting fingers . . . He thought of Olympia, naked on her chaise-longue, with the little black ribbon round her neck and that look on her face. He thought about Nadine. He thought that, as he was naked, perhaps he had better think about something else.
It was only natural that Terence should stare at Riley’s body, given that he was drawing it. He stared at Riley standing, sitting, lying across the chair. Riley was what they call ‘not too tall but well-knit’, cleanly muscled, and his skin was particularly white like an Ingres lady’s.
‘I don’t suppose . . .’ said Terence, that afternoon. ‘No, of course not.’
‘What?’ said Riley, but Terence wouldn’t say, and suggested they pack up as the light was going, which it wasn’t.
Chapter Three
There was a recruiting party up by Paddington station. On the Sunday, coming back from his mum and dad’s, Riley had seen them marching around in their red coats, the sergeant pointing at men in the crowd, telling them they had to go to France because gallant little Belgium needed them. He’d seen gallant little Belgium on a poster: she was a beautiful woman in a nightie, apparently, being chased by a red-eyed Hun demon in a helmet with a point on it. She became, slightly, in his mind, Nadine’s mother, Jacqueline.
You had to be five foot eight, the sign said. Riley saw a fair number of lads turned away for being too little and skinny. The rest were piling in, and everyone around was cheering them along, and they were grinning sheepishly. Happy and excited. Going to France! Shiny buttons and boots and, Jesus Christ, square meals and a different life!
Once again Riley thanked God, who had so completely blessed him. In his mind he ran through: Sir Alfred, his kindness and generosity; Mum and Dad, their love – except when Dad said art was all very well but a bit nancy, wasn’t it, for a man?; the education he was getting. Though he needed more. Always more. Perhaps in the evenings. There was a Working Men’s Institute . . . history, science, philosophy, maths . . .
And Nadine, that bloody girl. Whom he had to kiss. I will die if I don’t kiss her. But how on earth can I kiss her?
I am a lucky, lucky boy, he thought, and I will do better, I will do whatever it takes, and he swore to himself once again that he would not squander what he had been given.
*
One Saturday Nadine did not turn up.
‘Miss Waveney ill, sir?’ Riley enquired of Sir Alfred, at the ewer in the studio.
Sir Alfred, without looking up, said: ‘Miss Waveney’s well-being is not your concern, Riley.’
Oh!
‘Is it not, sir?’ Riley said carefully, after a moment.
‘No,’ said Sir Alfred.
Riley let that settle a moment. He tried to. It wouldn’t. It grew tumultuous in his belly.
Riley’s fingers moved over the silken tip of the brush he was cleaning, a hollow feeling threading through him.
‘Is she not coming again, sir?’ he said, giving a last opportunity for what was happening not to be true.
‘That’s not your business either, Riley,’ said Sir Alfred.
Oh.
Brush. Fingers. Turpentine.
Damn it, ask outright. He’s implying it.
‘Would she continue to come, sir, if I wasn’t here?’
Sir Alfred almost snapped: ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ Then he thought for a moment and said precisely: ‘Changes are not made to my household to accommodate the parents of my pupils.’ He looked a warning at Riley: Don’t pursue this. I am not going to discuss it.
Riley had to think about that.
What does he mean? What – what has happened?
Have Mr and Mrs Waveney asked him to get rid of me? Because of Nadine? . . . And has he refused?
He couldn’t read it any other way.
But it’s not fair . . .
‘Miss Waveney is talented, sir,’ he said. ‘More than . . . most.’ He didn’t want to say, ‘more than me’. He knew he couldn’t set himself up against her. Why not? Because she is posh and you are not?
Sir Alfred took his time answering. Eventually he said, ‘Miss Waveney is a girl. She will be happiest and most fulfilled in the bosom of her family, making a good marriage.’
Inside, Riley reeled.
But you knew that all along! a voice inside told him. You’ve always known! You didn’t really hope!
This is not fair. They’ve taken her away. I won’t see her. She won’t learn any more. I won’t see her.
Actually, he had really hoped. And it’s not fair on her! She wants to be an artist, and she could be!
‘I’m going to Terence’s studio this afternoon, sir,’ he said. His voice was small and tight. ‘I shouldn’t be too late.’
He was furious, furious, furious.
*
Rain was gushing down so hard the drainpipes were rattling and overflowing on the back of Terence’s building, and the sky was bruise-coloured at five in the afternoon. Riley bought a newspaper. Over there, men of many nations were fighting the battle of the Marne. The light was bad and Terence couldn’t draw.
He said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea or a beer or something? Wait till it blows over?’
Riley said he’d have a cup of tea, and proceeded to make it on Terence’s little gas ring. The milk jug he kept on the window ledge for the cool (not that it was much warmer inside) had filled up and overflowed already with rainwater. They couldn’t be bothered to go all the way down to get more, so they drank their tea black. Terence brought out some buns, and tried to start up a discussion on proportion and perspective, using the raisins as examples. Riley was not responsive. He was staring round the studio, at the kit, the space, the myriad signs of relaxed independence and creativity. Why should talentless Terence have all this, and Nadine not?
Terence lit a small cigar. ‘What do you think about how the war is going?’ he asked.
‘If we had female succession,’ said Riley, containing his restlessness in a sort of vicious languor, ‘we’d be on the other side. Think about it.’ (He was copying Terence’s quiet confidence. He was mastering it) ‘If Queen Victoria had been succeeded by her eldest daughter, who was . . . ?’
‘Can’t remember,’ said Terence. ‘She had so bally many.’
‘Princess Victoria,’ said Riley, noting that it was not necessary to be well up on the entire royal family to pass, ‘and bearing in mind that Princess Victoria was married to . . . ?’
‘The Pope?’ drawled Terence.
‘Emperor Frederick the Third. She’s Kaiser Bill’s mother. So, Kaiser Bill would be King of England, and we’d all be fighting alongside the Hun.’
‘I say,’ said Terence. ‘Isn’t that treason?’
‘No,’ said