The Man and the Woman by Helen McLean

Author:Helen McLean
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cormorant Books
Published: 2014-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

16

ELIZABETH

Lesley and Kevin departed for Canada, and I moved in with a houseful of people I hadn’t known existed a few months earlier. I was drawn into that quasi-communal establishment so gently, almost osmotically, that I couldn’t recall afterward having made a decision about it. To be accurate, it was not into the sprawling mansion that I moved, but into the self-contained little studio-house behind it, where the original Gerald Mossop had earned his knighthood painting portraits of horses and dogs.

I had still not decided where I wanted to live when I took up my life as a full-time artist. I’d had visions of a whitewashed cottage — thatched, if possible — on the edge of some lovely old Tudor town, where ancient half-timbered buildings cast protective shadows over the narrow cobbled street. I had made plans to spend a week or two cycling in the countryside with some friends from the Slade, thinking I might come upon my idyllic village along the way, when the Mossops, knowing that I no longer had a flat in town, asked me if I would care to use the studio as a sort of home base for the time being. It was sitting there unused, after all, and when I’d had enough of wheeling through the lanes and byways I might like to unpack my gear and paint there, while I made up my mind as to what my next move would be. I demurred, of course, I couldn’t think of imposing, et cetera, but they went on about it as though the matter were settled and it was only a question of working out the details.

Great-grandfather Mossop’s massive oak easel stood stoutly under the skylight in the middle of the studio, awaiting the arrival of the next incumbent. It would need a good dose of oil in its hinges and its raising-and-lowering apparatus, Gerald said; he would see to that himself while I was away with my friends. The studio bathroom was in working order, he’d checked that, tried the taps, given the chain a pull. I could use the little sitting room as a bedroom if I wanted to; Toddy would get someone to bring over a bed and whatever I needed in the way of blankets. There was enough stuff around the place to furnish another whole house, maybe two. Things kept coming in year after year and nothing ever went out. Speaking of which, there was a nice old four-panel Japanese screen in one of the upstairs sitting rooms I might like to use as a backdrop for a portrait, or to fence off part of the studio for some reason of my own. Say the word and he would have it brought over. If I saw anything else around the house I fancied — nice cloisonné vase, pair of ivory elephants, priceless antique escritoire — let him know or just help myself. He would also find the key to the studio door for me, or have a new one made.

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