Chapter 24
Stella’s fingers were flying across the typewriter.
As she reached the end of each line, the bell tinged and she whacked the return.
Black letters appeared on the white paper as if by magic, pouring out of her mind so quickly she could barely keep up.
Sometimes she stopped, for her brain would race ahead to the next part of the story and she panicked she wouldn’t be able to remember the words, so she scribbled them down on a notepad next to her.
The characters in The Towpath Gang bounced off each other, good-natured, teasing and mischievous.
There was the impetuous one, the cautious one, the outspoken one, the caring one, the forgetful one.
Sometimes they argued but it was spirited debate rather than rancour.
Stella wanted to show her young readers that there could be two sides to every argument.
By lunchtime, she had finished the next chapter.
She would go through it carefully this afternoon, making sure every word was the right one.
Tonight, she would sit in the lamplight once Ted had gone to bed and draw the illustrations.
She had asked Harriet if she would like her to send each chapter as she finished it, but she had said no, she would rather wait to have the whole lot so she could read it in one go.
She poked another couple of logs into the stove and had a look in the cupboard to see what there was to eat for lunch.
Writing might be a very stationary occupation but it made you hungry.
Bread and jam would do, she decided, thinking longingly of the rich minestrone soup she’d had with Harriet.
Perhaps one day soon she’d be able to fill her cupboards with anything she wanted.
Big fat sausages from the butcher like the ones she used to make.
Sticky ginger cake. A lovely slab of cheddar.
Fresh kippers. She was tired of drab, grey food: the stale loaf she got cheap from the baker, thin watery porridge – one day she would make it with the top of the milk and coat it with crunchy brown sugar.
At least Ted got a decent hot meal at school, with pudding, and sometimes she got a rabbit from the poacher who lived in a tumbledown shack further up the canal.
A plump chicken to roast. That’s the first thing she would buy. Ted had never had roast chicken.
She wondered if she was cruel, to keep him here, living hand to mouth.
But the boat was her home – their home – and although life was tough it had a beauty to it.
Winters were harsh but come the spring: what joy there was to be had.
And this boat was her talisman, her connection to the man she loved with all her heart, and Ted’s father. They couldn’t cut that tie.
After that first stay on the boat, Edwin had moved from Scotland to more far-flung postings.
He brought back drawings and paintings that radiated cold, of a warship floating on a pale icy-blue sea that turned to black when the Arctic sun went behind the clouds, a scene so still everything seemed frozen in time.
His work was exhibited all around the country so people could see what England was doing abroad. The reviews were ecstatic:
No one takes you to the heart of war like Arbutus.
His work is more subtle than the more obvious work of other war artists.
On the surface everything seems tranquil, the sun shining on the water, but the unseen looms, ominous.
The threat is there, in every brushstroke, underneath the beauty. It is how we live now.
‘I’m so cold. I don’t think I’ll ever get warm again,’ Edwin would say in his letters.
And although he was painting, not fighting, she was always afraid for him, for he put himself into the midst of everything, leaping on board aircraft carriers and battleships and into trucks and planes.
He was fearless, gung-ho, with a journalistic curiosity and a perspicacious eye that captured the chilling truth.
‘There’s no point in just drawing the pretty bits,’ he told her, although he did that too, with his more intimate portraits of life behind the scenes, men eating, drinking, playing cards, smoking cigarettes, laughing despite the awful conditions and the constant high alert.
You were there with them, living their life, feeling their dread, worrying about what might happen to them.
Which was the whole point of the war artist scheme.
Empathy would win them the war. The ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes.
And meanwhile, London burned and fought the flames and shook its fist at the enemy.
Stella did her bit, doing her shifts at the fire station where she veered between the tedium of waiting for something to happen while praying it didn’t, to the sheer chaos of an attack when everyone sprang into action, knowing exactly what they had to do even though that was nearly impossible because you never knew when or where or how many bombs would drop.
You had to stick together and trust each other, that was all.
Pay attention during training and the meticulous planning and do your job.
Teamwork, camaraderie, preparation, obedience.
The smell of exertion and fear and the heavy canvas uniforms, water turning to steam on hot brick, scorched air.
The shouting and screaming, bells and sirens, the crack of overheated glass as it shattered. It was hell on your doorstep.
She was pleased that somehow they had manoeuvred their relationship into a meaningful friendship, even if her heart did a somersault every time he came into the shop when he was on leave.
She hid her feelings well, for there was always Mr C’s eye upon her, but she lived for his visits, his anecdotes, for his praise when she showed him her work (The Ditch Babies were coming along; she nearly felt ready to submit them to a magazine) and his request for her opinion on his work.
One night he invited her to a private view at the National Gallery, the opening of a grand exhibition showing the very best war art.
He invited Mr C too, so she had felt comfortable accepting his invitation, but at the last minute Mr C had cried off with a nasty cold.
She wasn’t sure if she had the nerve to go on her own, then told herself there would be lots of people there, so she wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb, and she could slide away after she’d looked at the paintings if she felt awkward.
She wore the same dress she had worn for dinner with Edwin, for it was still the nicest thing she had in her wardrobe.
She found the exhibition overwhelming. She moved from painting to painting, spellbound.
She watched the reactions on everyone’s faces as they were confronted by different versions of the same war that held them all in its grasp.
She could see Edwin in front of his work, deep in conversation with the great and the good who had turned out: politicians, public figures, other artists.
She absorbed the atmosphere, the reverence, the pure power that art had to tell the truth.
After two hours, she decided she would slip away.
She had caught Edwin’s eye once or twice, but he was much sought-after, and she didn’t want to disturb him.
They could talk it all over next time he came into the shop.
She was making her way through the front door, heading out onto Trafalgar Square, when he came up behind her and caught her elbow.
‘Don’t you dare think you’re getting away without saying hello. Give me ten minutes. We’ll go for a drink.’
He’d seen her. He’d chased after her. He wanted to go for a drink.
She wasn’t going to argue. She thought it was above board.
They’d been to an exhibition and needed refreshment.
She sat outside on a bench until he re-emerged a quarter of an hour later.
This would be the first time they’d spent time together outside the shop, since their weekend in Somerset.
She stood as he bounded down the steps, that familiar big coat flying out behind him.
‘Sorry. I had to say my goodbyes. It takes for ever. What did you think? What was your favourite?’ He took her arm and hurried her along the pavement.
‘I’m in awe of Evelyn Dunbar.’ He gave a sigh of admiration.
‘Her paintings of the nurses. There’s something deeply moving about the humanity in them.
The dedication. I think she’s marvellous. ’
She loved how enthusiastic he was about everyone, and how inspired he seemed by their work.
It showed a generosity of spirit. He led her in a zigzag down to Mayfair, where they headed underground into a smoky bar and ordered glasses of thick, dark brown stout.
He seemed filled with a strange energy, perhaps galvanised by everything he’d seen.
Or perhaps a little drunk? She couldn’t be sure.
They were tucked away in a corner, their legs pressed together.
She could feel the heat of him and her heart thumped, a pulse somewhere deeper echoing its rhythm.
He finished his drink and put his glass down on the table. He slung an arm around her neck, and pulled her towards him. She laughed, then stopped laughing when she heard what he’d murmured in her ear.
‘I can’t pretend anymore,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to do something. I’m falling in love with you, Stella.’
‘But you can’t!’
‘I can’t help it. And you can’t tell me you’re not just a little bit in love with me.’
She felt her cheeks flame. Was it so obvious? She couldn’t deny it. But she had to make sure to protect herself. She was not going to be his toy.
‘Of course I’m falling for you, Edwin. And it’s not just a little bit. But I’m not being your piece on the side.’