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