Will & Tom. Matthew Plampin

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СКАЧАТЬ done unconsciously, without calculation; he’d surely be taken aback he was made aware of it. An intimacy exists here, Will sees, well beyond that normally found between a patron and an artist. It is obvious, too, that Tom has been to Harewood before, despite Beau’s father having owned the estate for little more than a year. Will has never heard him mention this. He looks off into the shadowy valley and decides that he will head inside.

      ‘A fruitful day, Mr Turner?’ Beau enquires suddenly, with the artificial cheer of one attempting to remedy neglect. He glances at Tom; they have guessed Will’s intention. ‘The weather has certainly been fine.’

      ‘Very, sir,’ Will replies. ‘Very fruitful. I believe that I’ll be gone from here by this time tomorrow. I’ll have all that I require.’

      Their reaction is gratifying. Tom is wide-eyed with dismay; Beau takes a half step backwards, letting out a sigh of lordly disappointment.

      ‘My dear Mr Turner,’ he murmurs, ‘there is no call whatever for that. Perhaps you misunderstand this experiment of mine. Collaboration, my young friend, of the intellect at least.’ Beau warms to his theme. ‘Two kindred art-spirits drawing strength and vision from one another, like Raffaelo Sanzio and Michelangelo, Nicolas Poussin and Claude, Murillo and … and that other Spaniard, what was his name?’

      ‘Velazquez?’ Tom ventures; Beau snaps his fingers in approval.

      You mean to pit us against each other for your entertainment, Will thinks, and by God, you’ve already picked your favourite. ‘I have my terms, Mr Lascelles,’ he says, ‘which you were so kind as to give me. When the six sketches are done I shan’t burden your household any longer.’

      Beau waves this away, but he recognises the determination on Will’s face. There is a pause; his smile becomes strained. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I can hardly force you to stay, Mr Turner. I am no gaoler. This house of mine is no damned gaol.’

      ‘Come now, Will,’ says Tom amiably, ‘can’t you be convinced to remain with us a while longer? How many hundred times, back in London, did we wish for a chance like this?’

      Will addresses Beau. ‘I am fatigued, sir, after my labours, and hungry too. I must ask your permission to retire.’

      Beau gives it offhandedly, amusedly, with a faint nostril-flare of disdain; and as he speaks, his attention shifts to his dinner guests, who are still watching and chattering in the bright windows behind the portico. Will bows, then turns towards the service door. Tom Girtin stands in his way. He has hardened a little, affronted by Will’s intransigence, and seems to consider holding the smaller man in place to hear another appeal. Past experience, however, has taught him to know better, and he steps aside.

      ‘Be sure to wait for me in the morning,’ he says. ‘We’ll have one good day out here together, Will Turner.’

      *

      The service floor is on high alert. Maids and footmen hurry along the corridors; orders and queries are shouted through the haze of tallow smoke. There is a crisis, Will soon learns – too many guests for the dining room. Nobody can agree whether this is due to faulty information from the family as to how many were invited, or late, unsanctioned additions, hidden in the larger carriages, but the talk is of relocating the dinner to the gallery. This would involve retrieving the banqueting table from a store-room, assembling it upstairs and then setting it for twenty-eight, all in a matter of minutes – an undertaking viewed with a mixture of panic and black resolve. Mr Noakes stands at a corner, up on a stool; clad in livery, the tie-wig in his hand, he dabs his shining pate with a handkerchief as he yells for the groom of chamber.

      Will edges by unremarked. His goal is the kitchen, and the supper he hopes will be available within. He succeeds in reaching the doorway. Servants stream constantly in and out. Past them, he glimpses billowing steam clouds, a surface covered with gold-leafed plates, a spout of orange flame. There is a searing hiss, like fat sliding across a hot pan; someone, the chef presumably, curses loudly in French. Will moves on, further into the house. If he enters that kitchen now and asks to be fed he’ll be lucky not to have a spoon thrown at him. Better to sit in the servants’ hall until the weight of their duties has eased.

      Suddenly the servants come to a stop, stepping against the walls, bowing their heads and dropping cramped curtseys. Beau walks through, unmindful of all, on his way to rejoin the festivities on the state floor; Tom Girtin is beside him, finishing a story. Will slips down a corridor, out of sight. He recognises this tale immediately. It’s one of Tom’s favourites.

      When they were but fourteen years of age, the two of them had been due to join a sketching party to Hampton Court, under the stewardship of Tom’s erstwhile master, Edward Dayes. A boat was hired, and the company of young artists and apprentices gathered on the wharf at Blackfriars. Will voiced a desire to sit at the prow; Dayes had this privilege marked for himself. The resulting clash, between a renowned watercolour artist and a barber’s son from Maiden Lane, was terrible to behold, and resulted in Will remaining ashore, stalking back to Covent Garden as the boat and its mirthful cargo eased out onto the river.

      ‘The pattern of Will’s life was set that morning,’ Tom concludes. ‘Everything since has been mere reiteration.’

      Beau laughs. ‘It is fair to say, then, that Mr Turner tends towards obstinacy?’

      ‘He’s a brother to me, honestly; but the most ill-tempered old donkey, denied his feed-bag and left out in the rain, is a picture of good humour by comparison.’

      They mount the stairs and are gone. The servants return to work as if freed from a spell. Will takes a breath; he rubs the frown lines from his brow. His capacity for astonishment or umbrage at this situation is exhausted. Tom’s words, in truth, do not anger him particularly. Donkey, mule, ox – such epithets lost their sting long ago, and are now heard with something close to pride. Let them, he thinks. Let the Lascelles make Tom Girtin their pet. It’s hardly a secret that the fellow has no diligence, no discipline and a host of other defects. Let them wait month upon month for his drawings, long after Will’s are adorning their walls, winning widespread admiration. Let them—

      ‘A hand, Mr Turner, if you please?’

      Mrs Lamb is at Will’s shoulder, standing close and smiling wide. She has a small sack clasped to her chest and another resting between her boots.

      ‘London brawn, sir, is what I need. Seems I’ve overreached myself – this here load is more than I can manage.’ She leans in yet closer, her mouth inches from Will’s ear, and lowers her voice conspiratorially. ‘I can promise you a fine reward.’

      Will reaches for the sack on the ground. It holds only three slim silver trays – Mrs Lamb could surely have carried it without difficulty. This request for assistance is a ruse, but Will is content to play along. He has a question of his own for the still-room maid.

      ‘Lead on,’ he says.

      She doesn’t move. ‘You’re friendly with him, in’t you – with this other artist, Mr Girtin. I saw you from my window, just now. Out on the lawn.’

      ‘We’ve known each other a good while.’

      Mrs Lamb catches the distinction; her mouth narrows very slightly. ‘The gentleman’s arrival this afternoon was the talk of the house. He was at Harewood last summer as well, you understand. Among the very first guests the new family admitted. Couple of the housemaids grew quite besotted with him. Our dashing young painter.’

      Will has no response СКАЧАТЬ