Will & Tom. Matthew Plampin

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СКАЧАТЬ tinting the grass with shimmering yellow; and the clouds begin to ease apart, revealing pure blue above.

      Tom stirs, sitting up, fumbling with his tail-pocket. Instead of a roll of paper, however, or a porte-crayone of his own, he takes out a pipe and tinderbox.

      ‘You didn’t wait,’ he says.

      ‘Couldn’t.’ Will swallows some bread. ‘Work to do.’

      ‘Suppose you did retire early. Why, it was barely dark.’

      ‘And I’ll wager you was up till it was close to light again.’

      This is no wager. Will was woken in the early dawn by singing and ragged, drunken laughter, issuing from the flower garden, among which Tom’s voice was plainly heard. He’d clamped his pillow over his head and made an unsuccessful attempt to swear himself back to sleep.

      ‘Man must live, Will. Seize what he can.’

      ‘That’s living, is it, Tom? Prancing about with the Lascelles and their crowd?’

      Tom grins. ‘It does have its shortcomings,’ he admits. ‘These noble gentlemen are testing at times. Remove the carriages and the costly clothes and there’s nearly always a dolt beneath.’

      ‘Does your chum Beau number among the dolts, I wonder?’

      Untroubled by Will’s irritability, Tom opens the tinderbox and prepares the charcloth. ‘You know full well what that was, Will, as you must do it yourself.’ He fits his fingers in the D-shaped firesteel and strikes it against the flint. The sound is piercing, fractured; Will winces to hear it. ‘God knows, they’re easy enough to please. All a fellow really has to do is laugh at their damn jokes. It was Nelson last night. “Albion’s foes will discover that although now armless, he remains far from harmless.” From their mirth you’d think it was the sharpest line ever uttered.’ Tom strikes the flint again. ‘You heard of this, off on your tour?’

      The news had arrived on Will’s last day in York: a furious battle against the Spanish at Tenerife, a decisive defeat, England’s great hero so gravely wounded. Patrons had wept openly in the snug bar of the Black Horse. Will’s thoughts, as always, were of painting. It would surely make for a fine narrative subject, a scene both affecting and rousing – the enormous frigates; the perfect disc of the moon; the injured Admiral refusing all aid as he marched himself to the surgeon. But he doesn’t want to discuss this now.

      ‘What terms did he give you?’

      At the third strike a minute spark flits from the flint and smoulders on a fold in the charcloth. Tom is ready with a taper, which he then pokes into the pipe’s bowl, sucking on the stem as he does so. ‘For my chest,’ he murmurs, sucking again. ‘Monro’s recommendation. Damn nuisance, to tell the truth.’

      Will repeats his question.

      The tobacco catches, and for a minute Tom’s coughing prevents all speech. Will finishes off the bread; he watches the sun spread through the valley, casting a sheet of blazing white across the pond.

      ‘None as such,’ Tom says at last, dabbing at his eyes with his coat cuff. ‘Beau’s idea simply seems to be that I live in the household. Spend my days out here in the park.’ Sitting next to Will, his back against the rock, Tom tries the pipe again. This time is easier; he puffs twice, then exhales a coil of smoke. ‘But I have to say, Will, it’s a damn strange place to be. All of it is fake, from these woods here to the very hills they are rooted upon. It ain’t nature as I know her, that’s for sure.’ He leans forward, gesturing with his pipe. ‘And the house. Look at it. There’s a hundred exactly like it elsewhere in England, damn near identical in all but size. There’s no art in its construction. No history in its stones. It speaks of nothing but money.’

      ‘You’re happy enough to stay here,’ Will observes, not mentioning his own similar thoughts. ‘And not for the first time neither.’

      Tom smokes in contemplation. ‘Naturally I’m happy,’ he says. ‘London is hellish at present. The war goes badly still. Soldiers are everywhere. Friends of liberty, of any species of liberty, must be constantly on their guard. They’ll throw you in Newgate merely for speaking out of turn – and they’ll keep you in there, without charge, for as long as they damn well please. That villain Pitt wants us cowed, Will, and it’s working. Why, it feels sometimes as if every decent person has fled the city.’

      This picture is exaggerated. Tom has always been the sort who relishes a drama, preferably with himself playing a central part. Will pushes his sun hat to the back of his head. He waits for the other painter to continue.

      ‘Up here, though, all that noise goes quiet. A man can rest. Order his thoughts.’ Tom becomes confiding. ‘And there’s other advantages. This I learned well last year. Beneath the baron’s roof, and toiling in the baron’s farms, are many young women – and every last one of them, Will, is bored senseless.’ He draws on his pipe. ‘I mean, think of their lives. Their labours. How bleak and unending it must be. It don’t take much, at any rate, to win their favour. Most of them will clutch at a chance for diversion with all they’ve got.’

      Will smiles in dour amazement. Beside him is a raging radical prepared to bed down with arch-Tory aristocrats; a notable young artist content to travel two hundred miles and make no art; an urbane London professional eager to chase after Yorkshire chambermaids. ‘You’re adaptable, Tom Girtin,’ he says. ‘That I’ll allow.’

      Tom chuckles. ‘Surely you can savour some of what’s on offer here. Especially after the travellers’ inns. What a moment it is, for one resigned to lice-ridden straw, to lie upon a goose-feather mattress! And dear God, the peace. No need for your cork pellets at Harewood, or a bolt on your door. Or a call for the watch.’

      Will’s smile disappears. This is his tour no longer. This is Maiden Lane. ‘Beg pardon?’

      For a short while Tom does not respond; realising his error, he fiddles with the pipe, tamping its bowl with a corner of the firesteel. ‘It must be difficult,’ he says. ‘That’s all I meant, Will. I heard about the fight, the last one, over on Southampton Street. How she broke that barrow boy’s jaw. It’s a damn miracle, frankly, that you’re still able to work as you do.’

      And then Will sees it. Tom Girtin is attempting to unnerve him, to throw off his concentration and disrupt his schedule, and thus give himself a chance to catch up. Will has managed to bar this business from his mind for the better part of six weeks – as Father had ordered him to do, in the plainest language – and he rears from it like a horse before a fire. Without speaking, without even looking Tom’s way, he gathers his gear, gets up and walks west.

      But now it’s there, eclipsing everything, the memory louder and brighter than life. Mother at the height of her frenzy, spitting at Father and Will as they edge closer, trying to grab hold of her. The howl of the victim, blood spotting fast between the broken bottles. The feel of her pressed to his chest, so bony and fierce, kicking backwards at his shins as Father addresses the crowd, promising grand sums if only the incident can be kept from the magistrate.

      This is no use. This will accomplish nothing. Don’t you grant her a single thought, Father had said. The work must come first. Will passes through a screen of slender trees, swinging at some tangled bracken with his umbrella. He rubs his brow on his sleeve, then breathes deeply and wipes the matter away. He gulps; he blinks. It’s gone.

      Beyond the trees is a long expanse of pasture, СКАЧАТЬ