Page 49

London

In my last look at the studio before I left Cornwall, I saw Mum’s work back on display and the world felt better, which I hadn’t thought would happen without Katherine by my side.

But time with my father and my brother filled a little of the hole she’d left.

I’m looking forward to beginning a new direction at the Slade.

I can’t live off my grandfather’s generosity for ever, and my father reminded me that selling my work isn’t a bad thing.

He cautioned me not to become too high and mighty, saying, ‘Humility is good, and you still create art even when you do it with a view to paying the rent.’

New-school nerves play havoc with my stomach, but I’ve worked alongside some of the greatest artists living and that is a good grounding to go into this year at the Slade.

Besides, I’ll meet new people. My grandfather is a delight, but his friends are not.

How can he be so forward-thinking and still be friends with many who aren’t? It doesn’t make sense to me.

Entering the large studio space for my first class, I take the spot furthest away from other people.

A shyness I’ve never felt before overcomes me.

Just as the tutor is about to begin, a large woman dashes in and takes the space beside me.

She mouths sorry , and there is something delightful about her giant presence.

The hours fly by, and after the initial sketch, I don’t think about the room, who is there or anything other than the work. Not even hunger interrupts the burst of creative energy that rules my day. I look up from the paper surprised that the class has ended.

As I leave the studio, the woman who was next to me all day catches up. ‘Hello, I’m Martha Sykes.’

‘Sheba Kernow,’ I say.

Her glance narrows. ‘Your mother is an artist.’

‘Was. She died a few years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She doesn’t look away but continues to study me.

‘Thank you.’

‘Look, I’ve really put my foot in it. I’m from Manchester and I don’t know a soul here, and, well, you looked approachable.’ She wipes her palms down her trousers.

I feel her nerves. ‘Is it the red hair?’

‘Possibly.’ She grins. ‘Do you have time for a drink?’

‘I know just the place,’ I say.

We walk in silence to the Fitzroy Tavern.

Once we are inside, Martha asks, ‘What can I get you?’

‘As the weather is warm, a cider would be good.’ Because of the dark wood interior and the smoke, I grab a table by the window for some light and watch my new acquaintance. She is strongly built, and her brown hair is contained in a low knot on the back of her head.

‘Here we go.’ She places the half-pints on the table. ‘God, I need this after today.’

I frown. Nothing about today surprised me or, for that matter, really pushed me.

‘I hate drawing,’ she confesses.

I blink. ‘Hate?’

‘Yup, give me a slab of rock and let me go.’

‘A sculptor, then.’

She nods, and her eyes sparkle. ‘It’s in the family. Both my parents are, as is my younger sister, Viv.’

‘Can I ask why you are here then?’ The pub is warm and the cider is cool. I relax into the space, enjoying the black and white tiled floor and the effect it has on my tired mind.

‘My parents thought it would strengthen my work if I went back to basics, to be forced to draw properly and to learn something about perspective. They do despair.’

‘That bad?’

‘Bad doesn’t cover it.’ She takes a sip of her cider, and I notice the strength of her hands and assess again how powerfully she is built. ‘But you, surely with parents who are artists who would have taught you . . .’

‘I needed . . . something.’

‘If you say so.’

My father was surprised by the way my painting had evolved.

I no longer feel the need to capture what is in front of me.

I am pulled now by the essence of what I see.

‘I’m at a crossroads, I think, and going back to the basics, which I absorbed rather than learned, seems like a . . . a way forward.’

‘That sounds like it’s more about life than art.’ She casts me a sideways glance.

‘It might just be.’

‘New ways are always good.’ She raises her glass. ‘Here’s to new ways forward and to new beginnings.’

‘New beginnings.’ Maybe my father is right. There is a future ahead.

‘Hello, you two were in the class today.’ A lanky man with unkempt hair walks towards us. I draw back into my seat, but Martha beams.

‘Hello. Join us.’ She taps the stool beside her. I eye the newcomer over the rim of my glass.

‘I’m Jason Sewell.’

‘I’m Martha Sykes, and this is Sheba Kernow.

‘Kernow. Relation of Francis Kernow?’

‘Daughter.’

‘He’s a member of the St Ives Society of Artists?’

I nod and look down at my cider.

Martha whistles. ‘No pressure then, with that pedigree.’ She smiles and the atmosphere lightens.

‘State your goal, Jason Sewell,’ she says.

‘To become the best artist of the twentieth century.’

She snorts into her glass. ‘Nothing like a man who thinks big.’

We both join in her laughter.

‘And for that bravado, the next round is on you.’ Martha pushes him towards the bar.

28 January 1936

My head hums painfully all day while we work on perspective.

No matter how I try, I can’t get it right.

The day doesn’t want to end, but I do. I can barely keep my eyes open.

I would have thought my time in Venice would have prepared me for drinking with students, but between the cider and the terrible red wine that followed, I want to die.

Neither Martha nor Jason shows any ill-effects.

I can’t decide if I hate them or think they are the best things to happen to me.

Both of them live in Hampstead, and they want me there too.

I might just do that. My grandfather is wonderful and is supporting me, but recently he has taken up with a widow and I am distinctly in the way.

So tonight I will raise the idea with him, if Martha and Jason don’t distract me with the pub at the end of the day.

Stepping back from the work, I can see that my perspective is off. But rather than erase or start again, I madly transform it into how I feel. Nothing is where it should be and this has transferred to the paper. After an intense half-hour, I step away ready to go back to the task at hand.

The tutor comes up and assesses what I’ve done. I’m prepared to be booted off the course.

‘Your work is much stronger when you aren’t constrained by convention.

Your perspective in this is terrible, unlike your previous technically perfect pieces.

However, there is feeling here, passion even, that takes the distorted lines and makes them glorious.

’ He pauses. ‘Now put that aside and do the work I asked.’ He says the latter with a smile.

Martha leans over. ‘You dodged a bullet there, and that’s the best thing I’ve seen you do.’

Jason is on my other side. ‘Bloody teacher’s pet. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re sleeping with him. But since you refused me and I’m irresistible, I know which way you swing.’ He grins.

‘I am simply the second choice,’ Martha whispers.

‘Not second, equal first. I wanted you both at the same time.’ He laughs.

I roll my eyes, thankful for their friendship, and focus on the task at hand.

11 May 1936

Kensington Gardens should be a safe place. I’m working fast on the play of the vibrant spring greens when a dog dashes towards me and knocks over my easel.

‘Damn.’ I’m silently cursing the person who let their dog loose when my breath stops. Katherine stands in front of me with a broken dog lead. She looks little different than the last day I saw her in Venice, almost two years ago now.

‘Sheba.’ Her voice comes out dry and raspy.

‘Katherine.’ I look around her for evidence of Forster.

‘He’s not with me,’ she says, reading my mind, and I relax a little.

‘I’m sorry.’ I need to say so much more, but I don’t know how to begin.

‘There is no need. I walked into loving you with my eyes wide open.’

I gasp.

She smiles sadly.

‘Do you . . .’ I can’t say any more.

‘Yes.’

‘Then now, this moment . . .’ My voice trails away.

She smiles sadly, placing her hand on her heart. ‘I would, but there is one I love more, who is my whole heart and soul.’

I lean against the tree. She has found someone else. I can’t breathe as pain sears through me.

‘Isabella is thirteen months old. She is the product of that brutal night.’

I close my eyes, trying to process her words. She has a daughter.

‘My beautiful girl stayed the course and brings me joy.’

I exhale, feeling colour return to my face. ‘Oh Katherine, that’s wonderful.’ I take her hand in mine. The feel of her cool skin sets everything inside alight. I’m home. ‘Where is she?’

‘She’s napping with the nanny.’ The spaniel comes bounding up and Katherine catches him by the collar. ‘I came out to get some fresh air.’ She looks down at the dog. ‘I’m sorry.’

I’m puzzled by her apology. ‘I was the one at fault.’ Awkward silence fills the space between us. ‘Are you well?’ I ask, though there are a thousand other things I really want to know.

‘Yes, fine.’ She doesn’t meet my glance when she speaks.

‘And him . . .’

She ignores my question. ‘You look well.’

I grit my teeth for a moment. She knows what I want to know. ‘Thank you. And is Forster pleased about the child?’

She laughs bitterly. ‘What was it he said . . . that having children uses all women’s creative energy?’

I notice the hint of a bruise just above her wrist.

‘I must be off. Isabella will be waking soon.’

We stand a foot apart, but the whole world is between us.

‘I didn’t mean to . . .’ she begins. ‘Please forgive me. If she hadn’t arrived . . .’

‘I know.’ There is pain in her eyes and I feel it physically. Does she think I don’t understand how much having a child means to her? ‘Has anything changed with him?’

She turns away. ‘I’m just so sorry.’

‘You don’t need to apologise to me. Of course you have to stay with him now you have a child.’