Set in Stone by Linda Newbery Page B

appearing in my mind were those of my father. ‘Painting’s all very well as a leisure interest,’ he admonished me, ‘but you’ll never make a living at it. How d’you think you’ll ever support a wife and family? Keep it as a hobby, boy, that’s my advice to you.’
    What would he think of me now, my father? He would disapprove; he would find me a disappointment. When I announced my intention of studying at the Slade, he had all but washed his hands of me, only grudgingly persuaded by my mother to give me a meagre living allowance. My solitude here was allowing thoughts to surface, uncomfortable memories which I preferred to suppress. I had let down my father; but, equally, he had let me down. I found myself recalling an episode in which I had set up my easel in the park, and was absorbed in trying to capture the autumnal light through trees, when my father had approached, walking briskly, with Monty on his lead. Father threw a disparaging glance at my canvas, which I tried to turn away from his view; then he told me, ‘You’re squandering your time, Sam. What can you hope to do that’s not been done a thousand times before? Photography’s the thing now – your paints and canvases will soon belong in museums.’ And he had stumped on across the grass, calling irritably to the dog, who showed me the whites of his eyes in a regretful look before trotting after his master. Monty, I consoled myself, would have preferred to keep me company, lying close by my easel while I painted.
    This memory infected my idyll, wrenching me like the pain of colic. I groaned, and tore the page from my sketchbook, crumpling it in my hand.
    As I rose to my feet, Marianne walked towards me from the southern side of the house, carrying a tapestry bag. She did not notice me at first; when she did, she quickened her steps and approached me, her face alert.
    ‘You were drawing him!’ she cried. ‘I know you were, and now I have spoiled it.’
    Him? The figure I had drawn was female.
    ‘No, you have spoiled nothing,’ I assured her, revealing the torn page clenched in my hand.
    ‘Let me see!’
    She attempted to wrest it from me, but I resisted. ‘It is not worthy of your attention, believe me.’
    ‘You are trying to put things right!’ She looked at me keenly. ‘You know how important it is – and I am grateful. But you cannot know the West Wind, Samuel. Be glad that you cannot.’
    I was newly struck by her strange zealousness. ‘Why do
you
not attempt its likeness?’ I suggested, on an impulse. ‘I should be most interested.’
    ‘Maybe.’ She spoke off-handedly, her interest quenched as suddenly as it had been aroused. Giving me a vague smile, she moved across the grass to sit on the bench I had just been occupying. I stood and watched, but she paid me no further attention; she sat quite still, gazing up at the empty space on the house wall. After a few moments I walked on, wondering where I might find Charlotte, and left Marianne to her meditation. When I turned to look, I saw that she too had brought sketchbook and pencil, and was drawing almost feverishly, with quick upward glances at the blank space, as if drawing something that was not there. She had only been waiting for me to be gone.

    My days had settled into an agreeable pattern. After breakfast with Charlotte, and sometimes with one or both of the girls, I worked alone for most of the morning. I wanted to produce a set of detailed preparatory drawings, which I would show Mr Farrow before beginning to paint. Inexpressibly proud, and more than a little anxious, at being entrusted with this commission, I was determined to fulfil it in a manner which exceeded all expectations. I roamed around the house, inside and out, with a speculative eye, considering the angles and approaches I might choose.
    The early part of each afternoon was devoted to my drawing lessons with Juliana and Marianne. Charlotte accompanied us, taking, I supposed, the role of chaperone; she