Loretta Proctor Page 4

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘I might. She’s a good girl and very fond of me.’

  Fred sighed and said no more. It was up to Henry who he slept with.

  ‘Can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ he muttered.

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Henry comfortably, ‘but it doesn’t bother me. I’m not a social being like you so I don’t need a paragon to grace my home. I just want an easy-going, caring woman, warm and welcoming in bed, who thinks I’m wonderful and who doesn’t expect me to earn a fortune to keep her in smart clothes. I’ve become content with little while you’re used to having money all your life and not working for it. I know you want to keep a smart establishment some day and hob-nob with the rich and famous. So, you keep looking for your Arthurian princess. You’ll find her someday.’

  ‘If she’ll have me,’ sighed Fred. ‘Would Perfection want me?’

  ‘Oh, cheer up. Perfection will love you. You’re a very good catch – handsome, rich and idle.’

  ‘I’m certainly not idle!’ protested Fred indignantly. ‘I finished off a splendid commission this morning for Watson. His wife wanted her little spaniel commemorated in oils. It was a bit of a bore – but I felt pleased with it afterwards and Mrs W raved about it. My only fear is she’ll get me to do the cats and then all her friends’ pets next. I’m not that fond of animals. The damned thing tried to bite me when I wanted to settle it on a cushion. Wouldn’t stay still till Mrs W decided it might be easier to put the wretched creature on her lap and hold it for me.’

  Henry smiled. ‘Animals are damnable, that’s certain. I steer clear of ‘em unless it’s vital. Even horses can be trouble. Sheep and cows are about the best – at least they stay still for two minutes. Ah, here’s our coffee at last.’

  Rosie returned carrying a tray with a steaming coffee pot and cups on it.

  ‘Some saucers would be nice, dear,’ said Henry.

  She stared at him. ‘You ain’t got none what match.’

  ‘Oh, you want them to match! Well, that shows a little taste. Don’t worry if they match or not. Just fetch ‘em, there’s a girl. And spoons, cream and sugar too.’

  He proceeded to pour out the coffee. Fred watched Rosie flounce off into the small room that served as kitchen-cumstoreroom. It was mainly filled with painting materials and books but some dry goods, wine glasses and odd crockery were stored in a cupboard there and these Rosie proceeded to bang about while searching for saucers and cream jugs. Fred’s face clouded over for a moment. Her large, comfortable frame awoke unpleasant memories in him. Memories he would far rather forget. Perhaps it was for this reason that he felt an irrational dislike for her. She came back with the required implements, a hotchpotch collection of patterned saucers, which she discarded upon the table, leaving the men to sort them out for themselves.

  Rosie now bent over to stir up the fire and Fred found himself staring at her ample buttocks that were almost thrust into his face. He felt sure she flaunted herself like this on purpose. She seemed determined to disturb him. He tore his eyes away, glanced swiftly at his friend. Henry however, was equally interested in Rosie’s backside. In fact, he got up with a laugh and seizing the girl’s thighs made a mock show of butting into her which made her shout and swear at him. The pair of them rolled onto the floor together.

  Fred turned his eyes away and looked elsewhere. Henry sat up and catching the look of faint disgust, laughed uproariously and scrambled back to his feet. He patted his friend on the shoulder – Fred’s mobile features were screwed up, lips tightly pursed like some puritanical old woman.

  ‘There, there, my dear! There, there! Damnation, Fred, old chap, don’t play the mimsy man with me. You used to like a bit of horseplay too – or so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Where have you heard such a thing!’ snapped Fred, ‘Where?’ He half arose in his indignation. Who knew his secret? Dammit! Who’d been spreading gossip about him? His heart palpitated in dismay.

  Henry put out a hand, helped haul Rosie to her feet and dusted her bottom down with a lavish care that set her off in gales of laughter again. She gave Fred an arch look at the same time, as if to say, ‘Don’t like it, eh? I’ll betcha, Mr. Peep an’ Pry!’

  At least this was how Fred interpreted her challenging stare. Sinking back into his chair he glowered at Henry who smiled and said soothingly enough, ‘Don’t take on so, Fred! I’m only joking. You really do need to stop playing the puritan martyr about to be burnt at the stake. You never used to be like this when we were lads.’

  ‘Some of us mature a little faster,’ was the acid reply, ‘and learn the stupidity of our ways.’

  ‘Maturity, is it? Oh, aye.’ Henry nodded. Suddenly he looked serious and sad. Once they had told one another all their youthful secrets and misdemeanours, joking, laughing and curious about each other’s behaviour with the other sex, as fascinated as most young fellows were about women’s bodies.

  ‘I suppose you’ve always been a bit of a prude, Fred,’ Henry sighed, ‘you just like to sit and worship a woman – and if we all did that where would the human race be?’

  ‘I have my ideal woman, just as you do, Henry.’

  ‘Yes, some classical statue, some Galatea with you to be her Pygmalion and breathe life into her, I suppose. You’re damned right, I do have my ideal. All women’s bodies are beautiful to paint as far as I’m concerned, in youth or even in old age.’

  Henry loved to try and capture the quality of what inspired him and that was the sense of touch rather than sight; the thrilling feel of soft, plump female flesh. Warmth, solid form, glorious large rounded breasts and buttocks. Earthy, substantial, enveloping, generous. That was his ideal. Not often to be found amongst the over-refined ladies of his own class, he sought her out amongst the women of the street or in the back of some tawdry little shop down an alleyway where some ‘stunner’ might come to light. Rossetti, Millais, Hunt, Fred, himself– they had all spent time looking for ‘stunners’ as they called them. And found a few too.

  ‘Something’s happened to you, Fred,’ said Henry. ‘Rosie, dear, go out and get some coal for us. The fire’s dying down.’

  ‘It’s all fetch and carry,’ grumbled Rosie, ‘I’m not your bleedin’ servant.’

  ‘Rosie! Just do it, there’s a good girl. Of course you’re not my servant, you’re my lover.’ He pulled her down towards him and they both indulged in some lengthy kissing. There was a sense of heat arising between them that was not to do with their proximity to the fire. Fred turned his head away, stared at the dying embers and wondered whether it was envy that he felt.

  Rosie picked up the empty hod of coals and giving Fred a glare of dislike, sallied forth into the hall to yell for the housemaid to come and take it to be filled. Henry shook his head at Fred’s expression of mild distaste and said again, ‘Something happened, didn’t it? You never told me. But there was some gossip. Why not unburden yourself, old man?’

  Fred put down his coffee cup, rose and paced the room. His face had paled and he moved away from Henry as if to escape his questions.

  ‘I sinned, Henry. That was what happened. I sinned and have been paying for it ever since.’

  ‘Come now, nothing could be that bad. What sin, for Heaven’s sake? So you laid some maidservant as a lad… not the first to do it, not the last.’

  ‘It seems the world knows about it,’ said Fred bitterly, ‘and that will be due to my beloved mother. I can always rely on her to open her mouth and reveal all. I assumed that even she wouldn’t say anything on a matter like this. How do people seem to know everything? Why can nothing be kept secret?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Because people are always prurient and interested in other folks’ misfortunes. Where the tittle-tattle began I have no idea. Servants as like as not. They know exactly what’s going on upstairs. These things are always spread around and you’ve done nothing to refute any rumours.’

  ‘No,’ sighed Fred. ‘You’re right, I should speak of it. It’s a burden I
’ve carried about for some time now and I can tell you it’s poisoned my life ever since. I cannot be rid of the guilt I feel.’

  ‘Then let’s go into my studio and shut the door and you tell me about it all. Get it off your chest. Let me be your father confessor. You know you can trust me. We always spoke to one another about our secrets. Do you think I’m a gossip too?’

  Henry looked hurt and Fred put an arm about his shoulder.

  ‘Henry, I know I’m a fool. I find it hard to talk about even after all this time. I’ve let it sit on my heart and grow into a dark, monstrous thing that haunts me day and night. Yes, I know full well I can trust you. You’re right, maybe then it will go away. I suppose that’s the whole purpose of the confessional, is it not? To relieve the heart and soul of unspoken burdens which eat away inside and cause one pain and suffering.’

  ‘Come on then. While you’re in the mood for it.’ Henry grabbed a bottle of whisky and the two men went into his studio.

  Henry’s studio looked out onto the Thames. The room had broad windows and a small skylight. A bright, cheerful light streamed in, warmed by the glow of the setting sun. Fred went over to the window and stared out at the deep waters, the rising tide swirling and streaming below. He had on his gloomy, poetic look and murmured to himself:

  ‘Life’s just a sigh among the treetops

  A mere ripple on Time’s never-ending stream

  What is it worth to have a great ambition?

  Our little thoughts are fleeting as a dream…’

  Henry threw up his hands in mock horror. ‘For God’s sake, Fred, old man, you don’t believe all that. Keep your pathetic grinds to yourself, you’re depressing me.’

  ‘Life is depressing,’ was the reply.

  ‘Only if you let it be. Get yourself a wife, man. That’s what you need. If not a wife, a good lay at least.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder if that’s all you think about, Henry.’

  ‘Well, damn me, what red-blooded fellow doesn’t? You’re turning to a shade of milky-white, Fred. That’s what all this philosophising does for you. Right, here’s a glass of amber then. Down it, get some Dutch courage and start your tale.’

  Fred took the glass and stared for some time at it. He looked at Henry and seeing his friend’s puzzled expectancy, hesitated, then gathering himself inwardly, downed his drink and began his account.

  ‘It was a terrible night, Henry. Some houseguests had stayed at the table after dinner and we all drank deep into the night, passing bottle after bottle of the port. At midnight most of the guests had to be helped to bed by the servants. Oh, but I… I felt myself to be fine, a regular fellow who could hold his liquor. I brushed my man aside; I could make my own way, I said, and taking a candle, wended my way hazily towards the stairs. Somehow, my errant feet led me towards the basement area where I found myself standing, rather stupid and uncertain of purpose, outside the door of the kitchen where I knew the two scullery maids, Susanna and Bessie, slept at night on their little pallets spread out on the kitchen floor.

  ‘Bessie was a girl whose powerful, coarse limbs attracted me. I’d seen her once or twice toiling in the scullery, her arms and hands reddened by the water as she worked in that dingy place from dawn to dusk. One day, I decided to pass by her and catch a proper look at her face though why such a dirty, unkempt creature should interest me, I had no idea. I felt fascinated by the earthiness and strength she exuded like that of some wench in a Dutch painting. As I came close, the girl raised her head and turned towards me. Her face was moist and glistening, her hair in damp, fair strings which fell untidily out of a gathered knot at the back of her head; her blouse was slightly unbuttoned and sweat glowed on her in the heat that arose from the copper where the water was being boiled up for the wash. I remember staring, transfixed by the sight of the top of a large, rounded breast, unable to tear my eyes from her.

  ‘The startled girl suddenly become conscious of her dishevelled looks, as well as astonished at seeing me in this area, a part of the house I so seldom visited. She pulled at her blouse a little and stared back, mouth half open, a stupid expression of surprise on her face. Henry, I can’t explain why, but I had to conquer a yearning at that moment that overpowered and frightened me; a yearning to pull that blouse back again and reveal those milk-white breasts beneath, to hold them and kiss them. Meanwhile, Susanna, the other girl who helped in the scullery, watched us both and her little ferret eyes took good note of all the proceedings, no doubt storing it up in her cunning little mind. That girl made me feel nervous; it was as if she could see into my mind, she wasn’t a fool like Bessie and I realised I should go away at once.

  ‘On that fateful drunken evening, I stood, clutching the candle, wavering unsteadily before the kitchen door. Susanna came and opened it, sensing someone there. She stood staring at me. Her eyes took in with one swift glance of appraisal my loosened cravat, my reddened eyes; her keen nose snuffed the smell of port and brandy. A faint smile came to her face. It was not for her that the young master stood there, that was for sure. The girl moved over and let me walk into the kitchen and took herself off somewhere out of the way with a knowing look in her eye. As for myself, I set the candle on the table and approached Bessie who cowered on her little pallet and tried hard to fend me off. She was a strong girl, this excited me the more, and so did the ensuing tussle. Naturally, I was the stronger and forced myself upon this frightened young woman, despite her protests and calls. No one seemed to hear her or take notice and thus I lost my virginity before passing out on the floor in a drunken stupor.’

  Fred paused now and refilled his glass from the whisky bottle. Henry twirled his own glass in his hands and then said, half amused, ‘Well, Fred, it’s not to your credit, I agree. But it’s hardly the most evil of sins. I doubt the girl was a virgin anyway. These country girls seldom are. I suggest you forget it and put it all behind you now. After all, no-one’s the worse for wear.’

  Fred tipped up his whisky glass and swallowed the contents in one gulp. He refilled it and did the same again. The fact was that he hadn’t told Henry the entire story nor did he intend to do so. The remainder of the story, the consequences, were even worse in his opinion and he still felt pain and anguish over it all. Henry with his robust and sensible view of life would not understand. Fred had always had deep, strong ideals that he now felt were shattered; he had always longed to be pure of heart but it seemed as if that purity was blemished irretrievably and nothing could take away the stain.

  ‘No woman will ever love me, Henry,’ he said sadly,’ no pure and lovely girl will ever want me.’

  ‘Nonsense, Fred. She need never know. You wouldn’t surely speak of all this to a bride on your wedding night.’

  ‘No, of course not. But I would know. And I feel it would unman me.’

  ‘Heavens, man, you’re far too sensitive. It would do nothing of the sort. I’ll get you “manned” again. Come over here and I’ll show you something that will raise your cock, I promise.’

  Henry began to gather some chalks that were scattered on a small table and flung them pell-mell into a box so vigorously that some of them broke in half. Fred came over and helped him. ‘For Heaven’s sake, you’re so careless, Henry! Here, let me do it.’

  ‘Oh, you do it,’ snorted Henry, ‘you’re worse than an old woman; you’re so infernally tidy and fussy. Come and see this stunning brunette. I know you prefer brunettes to blondes. What d’you think of her?’

  Fred turned round to view the easel near the window.

  ‘A brunette?’ he smiled. ‘What, no redheads and blondes? This is a change of heart for you.’

  ‘You’ll like this one,’ said Henry, ‘I can definitely wager she’ll be your type. If you’d been here an hour ago, you’d have seen the goddess herself.’

  Fred paused, intrigued and interested, and took a long look at the large sheet of paper on which his friend had been busy before he came. It was already well sketched out and much of the face drawn in fine detail. He
nry had captured the expression and the features of a young woman with an extraordinary mass of dark, luxuriant hair dressed in large plaited coils about her face. Fred drew closer to take a better look.

  This girl had an unusual and striking kind of beauty, quite unlike Henry’s usual models and certainly nothing like the plump and florid Rosie whose attributes filled most of his designs these days. There was a harder quality about this long, narrow face. The bone structure was well defined, the mouth had full, curved and sensual lips and the eyes, slightly turned up at the corners, looked into the distance full of intelligence and expressiveness.

  Henry often made sketches and plans in chalks or pencil before transferring the ideas to canvas. Fred wondered what completed picture he had in mind.

  ‘You never mentioned anything about this. I didn’t see this last time I was here. Are you planning some dark Morgana or a Lilith?’

  ‘No, no. This is to be a paid-for portrait of the young lady. And just in the nick of time too. I owe a month’s rent and Mrs Russell won’t let me chalk up any more on credit. Reminds me, have you got any tin on you? Can you let me have a couple of guineas? I’ll pay it back soon.’

  Fred stared for a long time at the picture. He loved this face. It was so unique and exquisite that he didn’t even hear Henry’s last comment properly and absent-mindedly handed over two guineas.

  Henry chuckled as he pocketed the money. ‘I knew you’d fall for this face.’

  ‘As always, you’re absolutely bloody right. I’ll buy it when it’s finished,’ said Fred. He felt serious all of a sudden. This was a face that pulled at something deep within him. ‘Where the devil did you find her? Is she one of your latest discoveries?’

  ‘She’s a stunner all right, but she’s not for sale, Fred, not the picture, nor the girl.’