Chapter 16
One day, Stella thought, as she and Ted climbed into the Underground carriage beneath Paddington station, she would tell him about London Lives.
One day, she would show him the poster, still rolled up and kept in a cupboard in Mr C’s shop.
One day, when he was old enough – for it was a complicated story – she would tell him how she and his father had fallen in love.
‘Ooh, la la.’ Monsieur Corbières looked alarmed. ‘You cannot argue with fire.’
‘I won’t be fire-fighting,’ she said. ‘They don’t let women near the actual flames. I’ll be manning the phones or making tea or doing a bit of first aid. I won’t be in any danger.’
She didn’t tell him she was applying for her HGV licence. She could already drive, after all, and was used to a van, as she’d delivered mince and sausages to the schools around Wanstead often enough. They’d need back-up drivers when it all kicked off.
Monsieur Corbières surveyed her gravely and gave her a nod.
She thought she could see the glitter of a tear in his eye.
It was the same look her father had given her when she’d gone back home last Sunday and told him what she’d done.
Silent acknowledgement of her bravery and spirit.
Their saying nothing said it all: they knew they were all in for a rough ride, even if nothing had happened yet and everyone was calling it the Phoney War.
It was the ones who babbled on about it all being over by Christmas who were the fools.
Silence was chilling, for it was motivated by fear, and the memory of what had happened first time around.
Both her dad and Monsieur Corbières had seen things they never talked about.
This time around, Mr C was too old, and being a butcher was a reserved occupation, so they wouldn’t be called up.
Stella wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing. That’s not how you won a war.
As for thinking it would all be over by Christmas, she’d seen the preparations that were being made: the intense training, the equipment being shipped in, the buildings being taken over to provide extra fire stations …
the Government weren’t doing that for no reason.
It was only a matter of time, and the only answer was to be prepared. They were braced.
A few weeks later, she came into the shop to find Monsieur Corbières and Edwin deep in conversation.
Her heart tripped over itself, like a schoolgirl snagging her feet in a game of French skipping.
She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t thought about him ever since the last time he’d been in.
Ever since he asked her for dinner and she turned him down.
Every time she saw her poster on the Underground she wondered what he’d been thinking about when he’d painted it.
And she thought about his invitation, and how she wished she’d had the courage to accept it, only she’d known how it would end if she did.
She’d just be a plaything, picked up then discarded when the novelty wore off.
‘It feels cowardly, somehow. Prancing about on the side-lines waving a paintbrush. I’m not sure it’s right,’ Edwin was saying. ‘I don’t want anyone saying I’m hiding behind a canvas.’
‘But it’s important,’ said Mr Corbières. ‘This is how people will know what’s going on.’
‘I suppose so.’ He shrugged. ‘And I suppose it’s an honour to be asked. Not everyone will be. Sir Kenneth Clarke and his cronies won’t invite anyone if they think they’re a conchie. Or a communist. Though I don’t know why I was chosen, to be honest.’
Monsieur Corbières gave one of his Gallic exclamations. ‘Because you are populaire. People will flock to see your work. There will be exhibitions. You will be famous.’
Edwin didn’t look convinced. Stella had to hand it to him. He wasn’t full of himself. He smiled over at her.
‘Hello, Angela.’ It was the name he’d given the girl on the poster.
Stella rolled her eyes.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
Edwin held out a piece of paper. ‘An invitation, from the War Artists’ Advisory Committee.’
She took it from him and scanned the words. ‘That’s a real honour. Isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. And I like the idea of it. Getting up close to the action and getting it down on paper. But there’s something about it that feels … ignoble.’
‘Ignoble.’ Stella had never heard the word, but she knew immediately what he meant.
People were being scathing about signing up to the fire service, making out it was an easy option, a way of dodging the real conflict, so they would be even less impressed by an artist painting pictures of war instead of fighting.
‘You’ve got to show people the truth, though,’ she said to Edwin now. ‘If they don’t see the reality, they start making things up. And that’s not going to help, is it? You’ve got a duty to paint the real picture, so people can see the war for themselves.’
He stared at her, as if he was only just realising the importance of what he’d been tasked with.
‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is my duty.’
‘Of course it is. They haven’t asked you because they want to keep you safe. They’ve asked you because they need you.’
‘You’re sharp, Angela.’
‘Don’t call me Angela.’ She gave him a defiant glare, but her eyes were laughing. ‘You know my name.’
‘I do.’ He stared back at her, his eyes laughing too.
‘All right, Stella. I’m only going to ask you one more time if you’ll come out for dinner.
Just to say thank you. Nothing untoward.
’ He could see she was hesitating, so he closed in.
‘And it would be very churlish to refuse a man who’s being sent up to the North of Scotland to paint battleships.
We’ve all got to do things we don’t want to for the war effort. ’
Stella gave in, laughing. ‘If you insist. Never let it be said I haven’t done my duty.’
He looked delighted. ‘I’ll pick you up from here at six o’clock.’
When he’d gone, Monsieur Corbières gave her two ten-shilling notes.
‘You won’t have time to go home and change. Go and find yourself a dress.’
‘Twenty bob! But that’s nearly as much as I earn in a week.’ She’d never had this much disposable income. She gave nearly all her wages to her landlady for her board and lodging. Anything left over she spent on art materials.
He shrugged. ‘You can pay me back one day. When you sell your first picture.’
Stella laughed. He had such faith in her.
He was helping her with her drawing when it was quiet in the shop.
He would set her a challenge, then make her draw it again and again until it met his exacting standards.
It was a frustrating process, but she was getting better.
And last week he had actually praised her.
She had brought in a sketch she had done of her landlady, sitting at the kitchen table peeling a mound of potatoes.
‘That is good,’ he said, gazing at it. ‘Do not change a thing.’
And for the first time, she wondered if perhaps she did have talent.
She looked down at the money now, uncertain.
The thought of going out with Edwin dressed in her dreary blouse and rather shapeless skirt didn’t fill her with joy.
A new dress would give her confidence. A new dress!
She didn’t think she’d ever actually been out to buy a new one.
She made most of her clothes, or re-modelled other people’s cast-offs.
To actually walk into a shop and choose one was unimaginable.
And it seemed wrong, given what was happening in the world.
Monsieur Corbières could see her hesitation. ‘Stella, if the outbreak of war is to teach us anything it is to live while we can. Get the dress. Go.’
She didn’t need telling again. She ran to the Underground, blowing a kiss at herself as she went past the poster, and caught the next train to Oxford Circus, where she headed to the bargain basement at Selfridges.
She might have been handed more money than she knew what to do with but she liked to shop clever.
She spent half an hour browsing through everything on offer.
She didn’t want anything too showy. She wanted something she could wear again.
She certainly didn’t want to look as if she’d rushed out to buy something new.
She wanted something that suited her, that made her look as if she was the kind of girl who wore a dress to work that she could go out for dinner in afterwards.
Luckily, she’d still been in her coat when Edwin had seen her, so he wouldn’t notice she’d changed.
On a sale rail, she found just the thing.
It was in deep burgundy crepe with white polka dots, cut on the bias but quite plain, except for ruffled sleeves that swished when she walked.
It fitted perfectly. Her shop-girl shoes weren’t ideal, but hopefully his eyes wouldn’t travel that far down.
On the way back, she ran into Boots and bought a lipstick almost the same colour as the dress.
Most people would disapprove of a redhead wearing burgundy, but she loved the way her hair looked against the fabric, and her dark lips against the pale of her skin.
Back at the shop, she modelled her purchases for Monsieur Corbières. He nodded his approval, but yet again she thought she saw the glint of a tear. It was the war. Everyone was trying to put on a brave face, but underneath, emotions ran deep.
‘He is a good man,’ he told her at ten to six, when she reapplied her lipstick.
‘A lot of artists are not. They think too much about themselves while they are painting. But Edwin thinks about others.’ He paused for a moment.
‘He helped me a few years ago, when I was too fond of the …’ He mimed drinking.
‘He was not afraid to tell me I would lose everything if I didn’t change. ’