Page 52 of These Old Lies
There were canvases on every available surface, as well as many more wrapped and stacked along the walls. Despite the chaos, the gallery had long been one of Ned’s sanctuaries, a place where art was valued more than the people who bought it. His visits here were one of the few remnants of his misspent years twirling with artists and socialites.
He was on such good terms with the owner that the old dealer had flipped on the lights, told Ned to take as much time as he needed, and went back upstairs to his dinner and radio play.
As Charlie turned to examine the paintings, Ned let himself have a moment to enjoy the sight of the other man. Charlie’s hair was more greythan brown now, and he had finally succumbed to some softness around the middle. The clear blue eyes were the same, though. A few freckles on the pale skin. The familiar grace of movement.
“This looks like something Ellie drew when she was little.” Charlie looked sceptically at a painting filled with long oval figures circling each other in dance.
“You aren’t as philistine as that. The rawness is part of the technique. Although, if your daughter can draw like that, I know some galleries she should talk to.” Ned found he still felt awkward talking to Charlie about his family. “Have you evacuated the children out of the city?”
“Betty says we need Frank to help tend to the shop.” Was Charlie’s son that old already? “Ellie has been in Cornwall almost a year now. The couple that took her in are elderly, but a decent sort, and she writes often. Betty doesn’t like her being so far away, though.” From Charlie’s expression, Ned guessed that Charlie didn’t like the situation much either.
Charlie looked around, clearly trying to change the subject. “For something called cubist, there aren’t a lot of squares.” Then he smirked, showing Ned he was winding him up on purpose.
“I knew William for a while, actually.” Ned had almost forgotten that fact.
“When you were a Bright Young Thing?”
“I should have never taken you to those jazz clubs. In any case, William and his wife lived in Fitzrovia for a time. He was nearly insufferable, going on and on about his French influences.”
“A pretentious artist? I’m shocked.” Charlie crossed his arms and turned to look directly at him, pinning him down with a simple stare. “So, what’s the matter? We haven’t heard from you in what, almost a year?”
Ned didn’t want to calculate if Charlie was correct. “I write.”
“Christmas cards drafted by your secretary,” Charlie corrected. “And then you ring out of the blue in the middle of the afternoon asking to meet. Immediately. In an art gallery.”
Charlie’s bluntness put Ned more at ease than any awkward pleasantries. Charlie could still see through Ned’s overwrought manners to the fears,anxieties, and demons that Ned kept hidden from everyone else.
Ned pointed to the next painting on the wall, another of William’s pieces, in the same cubist style. “I wanted to show you this.”
Charlie went still, his pale skin going even whiter as his hands clenched and his jaw locked. “Jesus Christ.”
Ned generally avoided this painting. A morass of figures slithered across the canvas in broad stripes of colour, so different from the sombre greens and browns of most war art. The reds, pinks, yellows, and blues each contrasted in their own sickening ways. William had used the same technique as with the dancers, but there was no joy in the arching figures in this painting, with hands over mouths and eyes silently screaming in pain.
A gas attack. A scene that Ned instantly recognised. Remembered. Hated.
“Imagine a situation where I’ve been asked to draw up a plan to use gas against our enemies.” To Charlie’s credit, he didn’t react, but waited for Ned to explain. “Obviously, if I was to disclose such a thing to you, it would be a violation of national secrecy.”
Charlie nodded, meeting Ned’s eyes, confirming that he understood perfectly what Ned meant and what he needed. Of course, Charlie had some experience at being discreet.
Ned continued, “We can’t risk holding back any tool when the nation’s survival hangs by a thread. When the lives of our nation’s children are in the balance.”
Two specific faces jumped to mind—bright and round, with their father’s curly hair.
“You think we’re losing the war?”
“We certainly aren’t winning.” As a public official, Ned should never admit such a thing, but the facts spoke for themselves. “Yet, there are also plenty of rational arguments against gases. The indiscriminate killing. The fact that you open the door for your enemy to respond in kind. Dammit, the wind blows the wrong way, and you kill your own men.” Ned gestured back towards the painting with its vivid horror. “Then there is also this. You lived through gas attacks, we both did. You know the smell, the screams. How can that whole bloody quagmire of a Great War have meant anything if we repeatthe same evil?”
Ned had thought the painting would help explain his dilemma to Charlie, but as he stood in front of it, Ned realised it was he who had needed to be reminded. To have the courage to explain his indecision.
Ned waited for Charlie’s response. Would it be with horror that Ned was considering unleashing this weapon? Or anger that Ned wasn’t already furiously drawing up strategies to gas whole cities?
Instead, Charlie kept staring at William’s painting of gassed soldiers. “Sometimes I’m grateful that not everyone lived through that horror. That they need paintings like this to understand. And, sometimes, I could punch them for it.”
A remark that was soCharliethat Ned couldn’t suppress the smile that it brought to his lips. “An odd feeling, to be jealous of someone’s ignorance.”
“Their innocence.” Before Ned could respond, Charlie was already strolling away toward other pieces in the gallery. “Do they have you in uniform yet?”
“Soon enough, I suspect. I’ve been told to expect an embarrassingly large promotion. You will have a field day.”