Chapter 2
Thank goodness for May, thought Stella. She was still lying in bed at nine o’clock, enjoying the luxury of a lie-in on a Saturday morning, with no need to jump up and relight the fire.
The early morning sun was trickling through the weeping willow above, and occasionally she caught the jewelled flash of a dragonfly.
Outside on the deck, Ted lay on his stomach, lining up his soldiers, meticulous, thoughtful, his mind full of some sort of elaborate battle plan.
In a moment, there would be the noise of gunfire, the noise that only small boys can make – peow peow peow.
May meant they had turned the corner, for April could be fickle, its promises of warmth snatched away by a stiff breeze or a sudden squall.
May meant you could make plans, leaving behind the memories of winter, the ice on the inside of the windows and frozen pipes and a mist that seemed to be made of icicles hovering over the canal each morning.
And it meant adventures for Ted, and hopefully farewell to the nasty cough that made its way unbidden into his chest every time he got over-tired or came home from school with a cold.
Life was tough over winter, for the two of them, for although he was a good boy, the best boy, she couldn’t just leave Ted alone on the boat, ever, to do the things she needed, so he had to come along, if she went shopping in Breverton, or to the doctor’s, or to a meeting at the magazine in London, which meant him missing school if it wasn’t the holidays and coming with her on the train.
And he needed a bed of his own, a room of his own, not to have to curl up at night in the bunk with his mother, although they’d built a wall of pillows in between them because he kicked, endlessly, and she needed her sleep.
Winter was about survival, clinging on, trying to keep warm, her frozen fingers stiffening until they could barely press down the keys on her typewriter.
It was all she could do to finish the stories she had to post off every week, the ones that kept the wolf from the door.
But now, with the longer days and the promise of a reliable sun, she could turn her mind to her escape plan.
After all, if children all over the country waited with bated breath for her weekly instalments, surely they would welcome a whole book by her?
Producing an illustrated story every week for Roundabout magazine was never going to make her a fortune.
But it meant she could work at her little table on the boat, typing during the day, then drawing late into the night when Ted was asleep.
She posted her endeavours off every Tuesday morning to be edited and sent off to the printers ready for children to collect from the newsagents two weeks later.
She loved the thought of them burying their noses in the adventures of the Ditch Babies, mischievous little creatures who lived on the side of the road who might, if the mood took them and you deserved it, let down your bicycle tyres, steal sixpence from your purse or swap round the washing on your washing line.
They were hugely popular because although they were naughty they were never malevolent, and they did good deeds as well as bad ones, making sure justice was done and everyone got what they deserved.
Living on the canal had opened Stella’s eyes to a whole new world and it had given her the inspiration for an illustrated children’s book.
It seemed the perfect setting. After all, most people lived not too far from a canal, so she’d created a magical world inspired by her and Ted’s life, and the creatures that surrounded them, capturing the same sense of mischief and fun that she’d threaded throughout The Ditch Babies.
Children loved a bit of anarchy and a bit of rebellion.
Perhaps even more so after years of being told to keep quiet during the war and making themselves invisible.
The world was there for the taking now, and with The Towpath Gang, Stella was determined to show the next generation of children the joys of the countryside so they could explore it for themselves.
She hoped to give them a spirit of adventure.
The same spirit Ted had, for in summer he roamed for hours along the canal, fishing and building dens and climbing trees.
It was sad, she thought, that he didn’t have a brother or a sister to roam with, but that was always going to be the case.
The last thing she wanted was someone else.
The very thought made her shudder. There was only one man she wanted, and he was gone. For ever.
She opened half an eye. Ted was still embroiled in his soldiers, so perhaps she would allow herself to think about him, something she only allowed herself to do for fifteen minutes a day.
Sometimes she divided those minutes up into three lots of five.
Sometimes she saved them all up until she climbed into bed at night.
It depended what she was doing and how busy she was.
When her mind wandered towards him, sometimes she would tell herself off, like a nanny slapping the hand of a child reaching for a forbidden biscuit. Not now. Not yet.
If she thought about him too much, her mood plummeted, which was how she’d come to ration her daydreams. After all, they were used to rationing, even though it had officially ended now.
How long it was taking, she thought, to disentangle themselves from the aftermath.
War didn’t just end, with life going back to normal the next day. There were scars.
‘I think rationing’s quite good for you, actually,’ he’d once said. ‘Not being able to have things you like. It makes you enjoy other things more.’
‘Like what?’ she’d teased him. ‘Fresh air?’
‘Yes. Fresh air. Birdsong. Whistling. Morning dew. The top deck of the bus.’
‘You can’t eat any of those.’
‘True.’
‘All I want,’ she said, ‘is a Chelsea bun. A big fat Chelsea bun covered in sugar.’
‘As soon as it’s all over, you shall have one every day. I’ll bring it to you for breakfast, on a silver platter.’
He mimed whisking off a dome and presenting her with it.
Remembering their exchange, she smiled. She still hadn’t had a Chelsea bun, even though they were readily available, because she couldn’t bear the thought that, now, he would never bring her one. She shut her eyes against the glare of the sun, to relive the first time she saw him.
Stella had been ticking off the new paints against a pro forma when the bell had tinged more forcefully than usual, startling her, and a man bowled into the shop, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hair dishevelled, bringing in a restless energy.
‘I’ve run out of Cadmium Orange,’ he announced. ‘You can’t paint an Italian sunset without Cadmium Orange. I tried mixing but there’s no getting away from it.’
Stella put down her paperwork. ‘Any one in particular?’
‘Old Holland,’ he said, in a tone of voice that suggested there was no other choice. ‘Please.’
Stella made her way over to the Old Holland stand and ran her fingers along the tubes until she found the right one.
She turned and jumped to find the new customer standing right behind her.
He smelled of linseed and burnt toast and Pears soap; a combination that was both comforting and exciting.
It made her want to step closer to him, but girls like her didn’t belong with someone like him.
For underlying the toast and linseed and soap, she could also smell money.
Instinctively, she stepped away.
As soon as she did, he realised he’d come a little too close and put his hands up in apology.
‘Sorry – I just wanted a look at the other paints. I’m a bit low at the moment.
I might as well stock up while I’m here.
There’s nothing more aggravating than running out while you’re in the middle of something.
It’s hard to get back into the flow. Scarlet Lake, Purple Madder, Winsor Emerald.
’ His face was screwed up as he tried to remember.
She picked them out as he recited. ‘Thank you.’
He stared down at her, smiling. She held the paints in her hand and stared back, hypnotised.
‘I’ll wrap them for you,’ she managed eventually.
He frowned.
‘Have you worked here long? I haven’t seen you before.
I’ve been away in Italy, trying to get a bit of warmth into my bones before bloody Hitler puts a stop to it all.
’ He followed her back to the long pine serving table where she began to roll the tubes up in tissue paper.
She was filled with envy. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be long before she could afford to buy herself some paints of her own.
‘I’ve been here two weeks,’ she told him.
‘Well, you’ve certainly transformed the place.’ He looked around with approval. ‘Is this all your handiwork?’
She laughed. ‘I couldn’t find anything. So I tried to put it all in order.’
‘You’ve done a great job. And this is a wonderful place to work. Old Corbières is a good egg. I’ve had some of my best evenings with him, on the grog. He’s had a pretty colourful life.’
‘He’s quite a character,’ she agreed. ‘Though I barely understand him half the time.’
‘Nobody does. Right, what have I got to cough up?’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of grubby notes and a few coins. She counted up his change and put the paints in a brown paper bag with Corbières Fine Art Supplies printed in green across the middle.
He was staring at her as he took hold of the string handles.
‘I expect people ask you this all the time,’ he said, ‘but would you consider sitting for me?’
She sighed. ‘Mr Corbières has told me to tell him if anyone asks that. And they won’t be allowed back in the shop.’
His face fell. ‘Oh God. I hope you don’t think I meant anything other than … I’d like to paint you. Just because Mr C staggered around Paris with all those absinthe-soaked reprobates doesn’t mean we’re all like that.’ He seemed genuinely upset.
‘I didn’t think you were. I’m just not sure about being painted.’
‘But people must ask you all the time. Your hair. It’s extraordinary.’
Stella made a face. ‘Just don’t say Pre-Raphaelite,’ she said. ‘Or mention Lizzie Siddal. Or Ophelia.’
‘Oh. Do people say that to you all the time? Am I a cliché? I’m so sorry. I can’t bear the thought.’
She sighed. ‘I suppose I’m in the wrong place if I don’t want to be endlessly compared. I should have stayed in Wanstead. No one there has a clue who the Pre-Raphaelites are. They just call me Ginger Nut. Or Bryant and May.’
He laughed at that. ‘So what is your name?’
‘Stella.’
‘Stella. As in star?’
She shrugged. ‘As in my gran.’
‘It’s beautiful. And it suits you. Your eyes are the colour of stars.
’ He was gazing at her. Most men she came into contact with back home found her too overwhelming – she could see it in their faces, a mixture of fascination and repugnance at the match-red flame of her long mane of hair, her pale skin and almost silver eyes.
They liked their women to fade into the background.
Here, in the middle of the city, she had aroused more interest than she’d ever had in her life.
And this man, in particular, seemed enthralled.
She stared back at him, taking in the mop of sandy hair that needed cutting, the faint stippling of stubble on his jaw line and the blue circles under his eyes.
He was scruffy and dishevelled, his hands covered in paint, his nails ragged and chewed, indicating nerves, but the dirt on him wasn’t engrained.
It was the kind of dirt that would float away in the scalding hot bath he’d no doubt be able to draw for himself this evening.
He would scrub himself with the delicious soap she could smell on him, emerging pink and clean, then pull on a snow-white shirt …
‘Well,’ he said. I’m Edwin.’
She started at his voice, at his breaking her reverie –
‘Peow peow peow!’
Just as she predicted, the gunfire started and her daydream was shattered, pulling her rudely back into the present.
She didn’t chastise Ted for startling her, or for the apparent violence of his game.
It was just what boys did, which was hardly surprising, given that the war, although it was over, was a not-so-distant memory.
She rolled out of bed and climbed the steps that took her out onto the deck.
The entire platoon was scattered all over it.
‘Careful they don’t end up in the drink,’ was all she said by way of admonishment. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
She put her hand over her eyes to check where the sun was.
She’d have to see what she could scrape together for lunch later: a boiled egg and some bread and dripping, and an apple.
Was that enough for a growing boy, or should she walk into Breverton for a tin of corned beef?
She hated this time of the month, when her money was dwindling and everything had to be eked out.
Payment for her last lot of stories should arrive on Thursday and she could put the cheque into her post office account and with luck it would have cleared by the next week.
Is this what they meant by living hand to mouth, she wondered?
Three chapters, she told herself. When she’d done three chapters she would have something to show a publisher and then perhaps their luck would change.