Authors: Matthew Plampin
The dust cloud drifts towards the village. A silence falls between the painters – the disgruntled silence of men whose differences have been exposed, but who lack the energy or the will for further argument. Tom’s colour subsides. After a minute he lets out a long sigh, bored with discord; then he looks at Will’s feet and starts to smile. Will glances down himself. His stockings are grass-stained, mud-caked, dew-soaked, their colour and shape quite lost. On the right, a big toe pokes through the cotton like the tip of a grubby turnip.
‘Boots got left in the hall,’ he says.
Tom is already removing his own. He pinches the pair together and holds them out, over the road. Will tries to refuse, so he rises and lopes forward, setting them on top of the sketchbooks.
‘Take them,’ he says. ‘Don’t be a chump, Will.’
These boots are better than anything Will has ever owned – a gift, no doubt, from Beau Lascelles or somebody like him – although the leather is cracked and scratched, and the soles nearly worn through. He eases them on. It’s a peculiar, not entirely pleasant feeling: they’re much too large, predictably enough, and still clammily warm. But he is shod. He is a traveller once more.
Tom helps Will up. By adopting a shuffling, wincing limp, he manages to advance a few yards along the road. It can be done. He turns; Tom is on the verge, watching with his arms crossed, his bare feet half-buried in the grass. The sun is behind him, breaking over his shoulder, obscuring his face with a painful radiance. Will squints, raising a hand to shield his eyes, but to no avail. Nothing else can be seen.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
Will is caught on Chandos Street, just by the Swan tavern. He’s moving quickly, along a route so familiar it can be followed without thought – crossing between the western end of Maiden Lane and the mouth of Half Moon Street, a narrow alley that will bring him straight to the Strand. The Swan serves as a perch for all manner of predators; it stands on a corner where the thoroughfare grows uncommonly wide, allowing the passing multitudes to be surveyed with ease, and targets selected. Will, furthermore, wears no coat or hat, which makes him conspicuous on a cold November afternoon. He’s keeping his head firmly down, reciting Thomson’s
Seasons
in a gruff whisper, hoping that the verse will sustain him through this unwanted interlude – an interruption that has arrived at the
worst conceivable moment
– when the success of a picture, of an oil destined for Somerset House, hangs by a single straining thread.
‘Till in the western sky, the downward sun looks out effulgent …’
The leader has Will’s arm – is latching onto it as if to anchor something that might otherwise blow away. It startles him quite witless, and for a few seconds he can only continue with his recital, stammering another line beneath his captor’s galloping salutation.
‘Serendipity, Mr Turner, blessed serendipity! The fates do so delight in it, don’t they? Throwing the like-minded together, I mean – surprising them most pleasantly with the society of a comrade!’
‘The – the rapid radiance strikes the illumined mountains – a yellow mist …’
‘But how are you faring, young sir? You must tell me all, every detail. I insist on it. Much has happened, I gather, since last we two spoke.’
Will’s poetic momentum runs out. Adjusting his footing in the greyish mud, he sees a pair of greasy green lapels; a cream stock tied a touch too tight; a spatter of pimples upon a jutting, apple-shaped chin. Jack Harris, he thinks. It’s Jack Harris. He damn near faints with relief.
Hirelings were the initial fear – the torment, in fact, of Will’s first days back in London. Any man of uncertain occupation who lingered on Maiden Lane, any knock that came at the barber-shop door, was a blade-wielding brute sent to punish his thievery. Soon, though, this was supplanted by a vigilance for tall, well-made females and curly black hair; and gypsies too, and people in the plain attire he associates with Abolition. She’ll come, he told himself, a strange excitement mixed with his fright. She’ll want that centrepiece. She’ll talk of slavery, and evil, and the need for funds – and she’ll surely demand some manner of restitution when she discovers what has happened. Amidst the doubt and the unanswered questions, this seemed definite.
Yet Mrs Lamb stayed away. Weeks passed without incident. Summer’s high stink diminished, leaving Covent Garden to the milder pongs of autumn. Work took over; Will’s watchfulness slowly slackened. Then this hand closed around his arm.
The joy Will felt at the sight of Harris’s shrewd, spotty visage is extremely short-lived. He’s to be interrupted, it appears, even in the course of his interruption; annoyance is to be piled atop annoyance. The fellow is a frame-maker, among other things, with premises on Gerrard Street – one of the burgeoning number trying to make their living off London’s artists and print men. An especially bushy-tailed specimen, he’s well known for these expeditions out of his shop, in search of advantageous encounters. Will despises this tactic. He needs to be
prepared
, always; to have established in his own mind what he’ll pay, and what he’ll have in return. He’s never made an agreement in the street, not once, and has taken pains to spread this fact about. It doesn’t deter them.
Realising that Will isn’t going to begin a discussion of his circumstances, Harris does it for him. ‘You’ve had a good summer, I’ve heard. A
prime
summer. You’ve been sporting in the lap of Xerxes, ain’t you Mr Turner, and you’ve had your pockets filled with his gold. Seven drawings, was it? Quite the haul, sir. Quite the haul.’
Will is scowling now, vexed as ever by the transformation of his private business into public knowledge. There are any number of suspects for this leak – foremost of which is his own father, who is presently scouring the piazza with a bloody handkerchief clamped to his ear. He glances back into Maiden Lane. The striped barber’s pole can just be discerned; and beneath it, through the dark casement, some of the disorder left by Mother’s escape. He wonders how much these men have seen.
‘I’ve someone already, Mr Harris.’
The frame-maker ignores him. ‘And taking commissions in oil! Heavens above, Mr Turner, you’ll be an Associate in no time. We’ve been talking it over, my pals and I, and we all agree. Next year’s elections. Your hour is nigh.’
Two others wait at Harris’s rear, lackeys from the look of them. Both are nodding.
‘Aye,’ says one.
‘Next year,’ says the other. ‘For sure.’
Beau Lascelles’ letter was received on the fifth day of September. Will shook it open with quivering, sweat-sticky fingers, convinced that he was about to read words like
theft
and
proof
and
witness
and
magistrate
– that he might as well just cast himself out the damn window right then and be done with it. A minute later, though, he was frowning with perplexity and fast-gathering delight. In his feathery, careless hand, Beau informed him that – on account of the hour or so he’d spent studying the sketchbooks – he would have his six watercolour drawings, consisting of four views of the house and two of the castle; and that he desired to order an additional drawing, taken from the sketches of Kirkstall Abbey, for which he would pay a further ten guineas. Remuneration would be made upon delivery of the completed works to Hanover Square: all at once, individually, or in any combination Mr Turner pleased. For whatever reason, he was pretending that the ugly scene in the stable block hadn’t occurred. Will wasn’t about to question it. The terms were improved. His finances were secure, until Christmas at least. The hirelings would be held back.
Better was to come. A second letter arrived a fortnight later, this time from Lord Harewood himself, requesting oils of Plumpton, of which he understood Mr Turner had sketches: two canvases, and pretty large ones at that, to add to the decoration of the saloon. The fee would be thirty-two pounds, with nine shillings allowed for materials. Will showed it to Father, who seized hold of him for a bow-legged jig before the parlour fire.
By God, boy,
the barber declared, stopping to catch his breath,
you must’ve charmed them nobs something proper.
At first, it seemed a great gift. Will could now afford to forswear the likes of Dr Monro and the Sans Souci and concentrate on his Academy submissions – on works derived from the northern sketchbooks, which he’s convinced will be his finest yet. Before long, however, he recognised the Lascelles’ largesse for what it was. They were binding him with kindness. He was in their service. Toiling for their coin. His silence could be taken for granted.
Harris has started talking up his frames. ‘I’ve this moulding in from Amsterdam – very grand it is, but complimentary also – a fine fit for Romantic matter. The pins, also, are best steel, and fish-hooked so they withstand the sharpest of knocks, such as might reasonably be sustained during the traversal of our fair city. What’s more, the gilt I employ …’
Street women drift in, carmine over their bruises, murmuring invitations – ‘Walk with me a while, my tup? There’s a place, not far …’ – Will they know, and know he’s no good for it, but the usual persistence is shown towards Harris and his companions. Sleeves are stroked and shoulders smoothed; and one of the lackeys orders them away, cocking a fist when they hesitate.
‘Mr Harris,’ says Will over the curses, trying to pull free, ‘I have someone. I ain’t got time. I must be off.’
It’s right there, in his voice: a dread of being asked why he is in such a desperate hurry, clad only in a shirt and nankeen breeches, with the buckle of his left shoe flapping loose. He looks at Harris. The fellow sees his unease, sees it plainly, and is thinking of how it might be used to his advantage.
‘What about drawings, then? I know you’re busy, Mr Turner, but anything you have that may be surplus to your commissions, anything that may be in need of a quick sale, would be gladly received. I have my buyers, sir. Five guineas I got last week, for our mutual friend Mr Girtin. Perhaps he’s mentioned this to you.’
Will is halted. He shakes his head. ‘No. He ain’t.’
They haven’t met since Harewood. Will’s bundle, left behind in the casket chamber, arrived by post at the end of August, the clothes laundered and neatly folded. Even the sun hat was included. Accompanying it was a note from Tom, expressing the hope that he’d recovered from his fall upon
that slippery riverbank
, and had reached home without further mishap. Will sent a reply to the effect that he had, that the knee was fully healed, and that he looked forward to returning
the articles so kindly loaned
in the near future. Before he could act on this intention, however, Father came across Tom’s boots lying in the downstairs corridor and gave them to a beggar.
Harris smiles. ‘You’re aware of our association, I’m sure. Two years now, I’ve been selling for him. And interest in his drawings has never been higher. Mr Girtin is
thriving
. It’s most satisfying to witness. Your own patrons, the Lascelles, are helping him as well. They’ve appointed him drawing master at Hanover Square, and every day he gains new pupils from among their fashionable friends. He told me that he’s looking to leave his mother’s house at last. Lodgings on Drury Lane, apparently.’ The frame-maker’s tone drops; his fingers refresh their grip on Will’s arm. ‘I’m concerned, though. A touch. I won’t deny it. There’s a quality about him, Mr Turner, that I can’t quite comprehend. Perhaps you can assist me here. A
shadow
, you might call it. Cast, I’d say, during the summer just gone.’
Will is staring into the gutter. ‘What is – How do—’ He blinks; he clears his throat. Something is coming. ‘Beg pardon?’
The plot, as delineated by Mrs Lamb, has certainly failed. No pregnancy was announced. Prince Ernest Augustus was reported to have left the country, in pursuit of battle against the French. Early in October, the Lascelles family arrived at Hanover Square for the season, but Mary Ann was not among them. Will made some discreet enquiries; her whereabouts were unknown. Word around town puts Tom in his old haunts – back on the same circuit of artists’ taverns, theatre scenery and drawing lessons that Will is attempting to avoid. Harris’s account makes it clear that he too has been bound to the Lascelles. How he might feel about this, though, and what he might say or do, is less easy to determine.
Harris seems to back down. ‘It ain’t important. Mostly he’s his normal self. Starting trouble. Rallying folk to some great cause or other.’ He laughs, relaxing; then abruptly returns to it. ‘There was a night, however, in the upstairs room of this very establishment behind us here – an assembly of a little tavern club we run, for men of our profession. We was making our toasts, and it was the usual sort of thing: the immortal Muse, so-and-so’s pet pug, Miss Emma at the Key. But when Mr Girtin’s turn comes, he proposes “the Lascelles family of Yorkshire” – says something like “the most generous of patrons, who only two months previous showed me the kindest and most disinterested hospitality”.’
Will stays very still.
‘Such displays of gratitude to a benefactor are hardly unknown, of course, in a club like ours. But a couple of things caught our notice. First was that Mr Girtin had told us he was going west this summer, out into Devon. Second, and more striking, was the way he spoke. He wasn’t grateful at all, Mr Turner. He was angry.’
Dear God
.
‘We drank, at any rate, and we sat back down. Several people asked Mr Girtin to enlarge, but he refused. Not a word more. Looked like regret from where I was placed. Like he’d give much to take back that sour toast of his.’ Harris turns to his companions. ‘What do you say, gentlemen? Ain’t that a fair description?’
‘Aye, Mr Harris.’
‘Poor devil was ready to black his own eye.’
‘And afore the next charging of the bumpers he was gone,’ Harris continues. ‘Thundered down the stairs. All but ran off up Bedford Street. We talked on it a while, as you’d expect, and it transpired that one of us had recently been in Lord Harewood’s employ himself. Giuseppe Forli was his name – a decorative painter from Ravenna, originally, brought into Hanover Square to do up the columns so they’d look like marble. This Signor Forli said he’d overheard a great deal from his scaffold, among the family and their callers, of
your
stay at the Yorkshire house over the summer, of the commission made and the results anticipated, yet none whatsoever of any by Mr Girtin. Mr Turner this, Mr Turner that – but Mr Turner only.’ The frame-maker pauses, rather pleased; his challenge has been set. ‘Odd, wouldn’t you agree? This disparity?’