The Eye of Love Read online

  It was no hardship. Martha liked Mr Punshon’s shop very well. There wasn’t much room, she had to stuff herself between the end of the work-bench and a shutter hung with bunches of shoe-laces that tickled the back of her neck, but she enjoyed the craftsmanly atmosphere and worked well there; and Mr Punshon made no objection, so long as she didn’t glare at the customers.

  —“I didn’t know I did,” said Martha, genuinely surprised.

  “When they get in your light you do. Like a young Pachyderm,” said Mr Punshon, employing his favourite simile. “I won’t say trade’s suffered as yet; but any more females in the family way such as we just rubber-heeled may well get nervous how their basketful’s going to turn out …”

  Martha took the warning to heart. Thenceforward her amiable expression, in Mr Punshon’s shop, occasionally covered exceedingly black thoughts, but rarely failed altogether. It was a useful piece of discipline such as she was all too unaccustomed to; for as Mr Phillips rightly pointed out, she had never really been disciplined at all.

  “You must remember she’s an orphan,” pleaded Dolores.

  “I do,” said Mr Phillips.

  For at least he had fathomed Martha. King Hal’s Spanish rose, already declined into a landlady, had submitted also to decline into an aunt.

  Mr Phillips’ surprise at hearing Martha address her as Dolores hadn’t been unmannerly—when was he unmannerly?—but it had been apparent. Miss Diver glimpsed a danger, however absurd, that he might jump to some wrong conclusion. She therefore casually referred, one evening, to her deceased brother (in the Civil Service), to her poor sister-in-law who had died so young (this was actually all Miss Diver knew about her late sister-in-law), and of course to Martha in so many words as her niece. Mr Phillips’ attention was rewarding. The few questions he asked—“In what branch of the Civil Service?” enquired Mr Phillips. “The Post Office,” Dolores told him, rather shortly—but underlined a sympathetic interest. Dolores had no doubt but that she was believed; nonetheless, just to fix the relationship firmly in his mind, she bade Martha in future address her as Aunt.

  “I think you’d better call me Aunt,” instructed Miss Diver.

  Martha didn’t protest. A little burst of protestation Miss Diver couldn’t help feeling would have been in order—“But Dolores suits you so much better!” Martha might have wailed: even a flat refusal—“I can’t call you Aunt! I won’t!” Miss Diver would have forgiven. She was ready to comfort and persuade. But just as four years earlier, in the taxi going home from the funeral, Martha’s reaction was unbecomingly placid.

  “Aunt Dolores, or just Aunt?”

  “Whichever you like,” snapped Miss Diver.

  It struck her how little, in four years, Martha had developed. Even physically she looked much the same, she’d grown simply from a fat child into a stocky little girl, with no upshooting into grace, and her disposition had flowered no more. Admittedly she was useful in the house; admittedly, and importantly, she’d found Mr Phillips; but where was the harvest of affection her aunt so richly deserved to reap?—It was a point on which Mr Phillips was truly sympathetic.

  “I only hope she appreciates all you’ve done for her,” said Mr Phillips gravely.

  Dolores hoped so too; but there were few signs of it. It would be wrong to say that she had begun to dislike Martha, but she began to be discontented with her—perhaps unfairly, the child’s affection never having been important to her so long as she possessed King Hal’s, yet understandably, now that a kiss or a caress, spontaneously offered, would have a little warmed the chill about her heart. Miss Diver, living on the husks of love alone, found them but a Lenten diet.

  She definitely, though it was her own doing, disliked her new title. Like the chattiness of the shop-people, like Miss Taylor’s familiarity, the unromantic appellation was sadly abrading to the image of a Spanish rose.

  3

  With so much on her mind—remembering to call Dolores Aunt, also not to glare at Mr Punshon’s clientèle, besides keeping guns trained in readiness on Mr Phillips—what wonder that Martha, setting down the latter’s breakfast-tray, one morning made a slip of the tongue? She herself didn’t notice it; but Mr Phillips did; and a few evenings later used it to his advantage.

  In the meantime, Martha had been back to Almaviva Place.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1

  When Martha, in Almaviva Place, stood memorising the chestnut-tree, she had confidently expected to be able to put it on paper as soon as she got home; but this was not so. She couldn’t get the two triangles, into which the whole tree should fit, in the right proportions. She put the attempt aside, but now and then took it out to look at; it bothered her to leave any piece of work unfinished. In the end, as she’d done with Ma Battleaxe’s bedroom, she returned for a check on site.

  This time her methods were more professional; she took her equipment with her. A single sheet of cardboard obviously wasn’t rigid enough to draw on (and rub out on), standing up: but Martha laid five or six together, used ones, and so made a very satisfactory block. She took also her best pencil, a knife to sharpen it, and a good-sized hunk of bread. This last turned out to be a slight nuisance, since the crumbs attracted pigeons; otherwise, in the quiet cul-de-sac of Almaviva Place, she was undisturbed.

  Martha propped her back against a convenient lamp-post, emptied her pockets, and set to work. It was a brilliant October morning, but the first cold snap; her hands were awkwardly cold. This difficulty Martha overcame by pulling down the wrists of her jersey inside her reefer-jacket and cutting slits to push her fingers through. Thus mittened, her hands warmed; only her feet froze. She looked about for something to stand on. In Alcock Road there would almost certainly have been an old newspaper about, perhaps even an old sack: Almaviva Place was unusefully well-kept. Martha considered; she knew her temperature would rise as soon as she started drawing, and her jersey was thick; so she removed her jacket and stood on that. It took her ten minutes or so to get comfortable, then she settled down for a good long spell.

  It looked almost as though Fate was offering a second chance. If Mr Gibson had glanced from his office window, he might have seen her. But he didn’t. He was too deeply engaged with old man Joyce, completing a survey of the first quarter’s trading under the new régime.

  2

  Mr Joyce occupied, naturally, the chair behind the desk. Harry Gibson didn’t mind. His welcome had been genuine—based not only on friendship but on gratitude to his friend for not dropping in more often. The illusion that he was still his own master might be an illusion and no more, but Harry Gibson had at least been allowed to cultivate it, and find what comfort he could in it, without the daily interference circumstance would have warranted.

  He didn’t mind seeing Mr Joyce go through the balance-sheets; as always, Harry Gibson felt the force of the old man’s sympathy—a sympathy which naturally hadn’t prevented the sinking of Gibson and Son without trace, nor the diddling of Son in the way of business, but which humanly speaking amounted almost to love. They were fond of each other! “What a damned queer turn-out it’s been!” thought Harry Gibson.

  Also, as far as the business went, he felt himself in good, if rapacious, hands. Rapacity in the way of business was something he understood; even appreciated. Harry Gibson sat content enough.

  “Not so bad,” summed Mr Joyce at last. “For a beginning, not so bad!”

  He got up, shaking himself like an old dog—also with the off-hand air of a knowing old dog who has just buried a bone. Harry Gibson read the signs and smiled.

  “Also not such a bad bargain?”

  “When do I ever make a bad bargain?” countered Mr Joyce. “A man like me cannot afford bad bargains.” He was at the moment putting on his overcoat bought because it was like Harry’s; because he was so fond of Harry he wanted to look like Harry; he still wasn’t giving anything away, in the way of business, to Harry. “But you know what?” added Mr Joyce. “Such a place as this I’d like to have
myself. Not too big, not too small; just right. But for me it’s back to Bond Street.”

  On his way downstairs he dropped into the show-room for a word with Miss Harris and Miss Molyneux. They received him enthusiastically, and what he heard there pleased him: the little trickle of business was swelling to a little stream. Miss Harris indeed shouldn’t have been there at all, she should have been in the work-room tacking up a canvas. “Which is the first, Mr Joyce, I really do believe, since old Mr Gibson’s time,” marked Miss Harris—her excuses benevolently accepted. “How I wish he could see it!” “Perhaps he can, dear,” said Miss Molyneux, looking spiritual. “He’d get a shock if he saw the label,” said Mr Joyce; and left in a very good humour.

  Outside he paused. It was always his habit to look over any piece of property with thoroughness; having noted the new brass plate properly cleaned, he stepped back and looked up to note the show-room blinds properly aligned, then walked round the corner to check the fitting-room windows at the side. (Properly curtained, nice clean net.) It was also in his mind to wave to Harry if Harry happened to be looking out of the office; but he wasn’t. Mr Joyce paused a moment, quite disappointed, on the pavement of Almaviva Place; and thus chanced to observe, on the other side of the road, backed against a lamp-post, a stocky little girl making a drawing.

  It was a sight to attract him at once. Friendly, inquisitive, fond of children, also fond of giving advice—how often in trouble with Miranda for stopping at a Guy or a one-man-band!—if the child had been merely skipping, Mr Joyce would have stepped across to count for her a bit. That she was drawing struck him (and it was the first time Martha so struck anyone) as a sweetly pretty sight. “A little artist!” thought old man Joyce benevolently; and unlike Mr Gibson three months earlier, crossed the road.

  3

  “By Gum!” said Mr Joyce.

  It wasn’t what he’d intended to say. He wasn’t even addressing the child at all—upon whom he’d intended to bestow a few kind words and perhaps sixpence. Approaching from the rear, his eye fell on the drawing first; and what he saw so startled him, he simply pushed his nose over Martha’s shoulder and stared as though the drawing under her fist had been hanging in a gallery.

  His long haunting of art-galleries had given Mr Joyce an eye. He had a couple of Modiglianis, bought at a gallery in the Tottenham Court Road, that he was holding on to while the price went up and up. He stared. Only when Martha turned and scowled did his attention shift—it being impossible to ignore Martha scowling at close quarters.

  “Did you do that?” demanded Mr Joyce—foolishly enough.

  “I’m trying to do it now,” growled Martha.

  With her usual defensive movement she pushed a forearm lion-cubbishly across the sheet. But she was holding six or seven sheets at once, and the cardboard was slippery; the motion fanning them out, they cascaded to the pavement—kippers in jugs, saucepans and casseroles (for they were all covered on both sides) and the kitchen-stove.

  “By Gum!” repeated Mr Joyce; and again oblivious of the artist instantly squatted down on his heels to see better.

  —There was always a touch of the street-arab about Mr Joyce. His ancestors had been used to trade on pavements. He squatted down, in his new check overcoat and his good custom-built suit, with as little self-consciousness as Martha would have done. A lady just then passing by he noticed as little as Martha did.

  “You drew all of these?”

  Martha nodded. She was still wary, but no longer savage. That spontaneous unselfconscious squat, so unexpected in an adult (and so like one of her own motions), roused hopes that this was a person of good sense. Martha was beginning to be rather hungry for criticism and appreciation—from a person of good sense. To put her hopes to the test, she pointed with one stubbily-shod toe at the drawing Mr Phillips had called a bird-cage.

  “What’s that?” demanded Martha sternly.

  “Gas-oven,” replied Mr Joyce at once.

  Admittedly Mr Phillips had seen only the edges, but the unhesitating answer warmed Martha’s heart. She had been a little doubtful about the gas-oven herself. She warmed.

  “I opened the door because of the lines across inside.”

  “Had to have ’em,” agreed Mr Joyce. “D’you know why?”

  Martha thought.

  “They make the rings on top look rounder.”

  “By Gum, you know what you’re doing,” marvelled Mr Joyce. “Where d’you go? I mean, who’s teaching you?”

  “No one,” said Martha.

  “Mozart and holy angels!” ejaculated Mr Joyce. “You mean you found all this out for yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Martha. “And I don’t want to be taught.” There was here a slight confusion, Martha equating being taught with going to school; she already regretted letting out, as she thought she’d done, that she didn’t. But to her relief this extraordinarily sensible adult merely nodded reflectively.

  “Just now perhaps you’re right,” agreed Mr Joyce. “Not later, but just now you may be right. Might be like training a voice too young. D’you always draw on this shiny stuff?”

  “It’s all I’ve got,” said Martha.

  Mr Joyce rose to his feet and considered her with active benevolence. From her respectable but unprosperous aspect he divined a decent home but no spare cash; from the peculiar ferocity of her manner, that her talent was unencouraged. Filing both these larger points for future reference—and with a sensation almost of joy—he took in the details of her equipment. The bending, slippery cardboards were used on both sides. Looking at the drawing in his hand (while Martha carefully gathered up the rest), he saw the pencil-lines doubled and tripled to achieve substance.

  “Ever tried charcoal?”

  “No,” said Martha. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “Come with me,” said Mr Joyce.

  4

  It would be hard to say which of them had the better time, in the big artists’ colourmen’s shop in Kensington High Street. Martha was nearly sick.

  It was indeed fortunate for her that Mr Joyce didn’t let her have her head. He nearly did; in an exuberance of generosity he nearly lost his own. Easels, canvases, paints—his money almost jumped out of his pocket at the sight of them; a quarter-size lay-figure (boxwood, articulated, eleven-pounds-ten) practically hypnotised him. But he was too wise to throw such strong meat even before a lion-cub, and held himself in. Also wisely, he let Martha choose nothing for herself. He kept her away from the oils-section altogether; and finally bought her four drawing-blocks, two large and two small, four packets of charcoal-sticks, of varying thicknesses, and two boxes of sanguin chalk.

  “Anything else?” asked Mr Joyce.

  “Rubbers,” gasped Martha.

  He bought her rubbers.

  “Anything else?”

  “Could I have a pencil-sharpener?”

  He bought her a pencil-sharpener. Martha gazed at him reverently. It was a pity that her eyes were small and grey, rather than big and blue, even looking reverent Martha still looked uncommonly stolid; but Mr Joyce’s notion of her character was now fixed to his complete satisfaction, and he felt no disappointment. The egoism of the artist was by both hearsay and experience familiar to him, gratitude he knew to need prompting.

  Mr Joyce accordingly prompted it. A patron—and no one more eager than he to shoulder a patron’s rôle—has still certain admitted rights.

  “Now don’t you want to give me one of your drawings?”

  How true to type as an artist!—Martha, her arms encumbered with his bounty, hesitated.

  “Which one do you want?” she asked uneasily.

  “If you let me choose—this,” said Mr Joyce, flicking out the gas oven. Martha didn’t actually snatch it back. “I suppose you wouldn’t want to give me the lot?” prompted Mr Joyce.

  Again Martha obviously wrestled with her better feelings; and this time won.

  “No, because I might want to look at them. Anyway, you’ve got the best.”
/>   “Fair enough,” agreed Mr Joyce. “I see I should have made a bargain first. Now then: you take this card, it’s got my name on it and where I’m to be found, and when you get home tell your mother to come and see me, because I want to have a talk with her. What’s her name?”

  At this point, Martha lied.

  It was inexplicable. She liked Mr Joyce, she felt confidence in him, she had every cause for gratitude. Yet she lied. She didn’t even say “Hogg,” which would have been true, if not the truth as Mr Joyce meant it. She said, “Brown.”

  For some reason, Mr Joyce grinned.

  “Why not?” said Mr Joyce, grinning. “No fancy names, for the real thing! Now you cut along home; I’m an hour late already.”

  5

  With so much to carry, Martha would have been glad to take a bus; but she couldn’t, because she had no money. The tramp back across the Gardens was arduous; twice she had to stop and sit down; and the second time tore Mr Joyce’s card into very small pieces and dropped them under the bench.

  She didn’t know why, any more than she knew why she’d lied. It just seemed wisest.

  It also seemed wisest, when she got home, to go round by the back and conceal her burden behind the coal-shed, until she could smuggle it up to her attic.

  6

  Mr Joyce was equally secretive. He knew better than to display Martha’s drawing to his womenfolk, whose taste was strictly Royal Academy, and he didn’t think Harry would appreciate it either. (From the latter, indeed, Mr Joyce concealed his artistic leanings altogether, in case Harry should find them un-British.) He stowed Martha’s drawing in excellent company, in the special portfolio that housed his two Modiglianis, now and again took it out to admire, and waited for the arrival of Mrs Brown in Bond Street.