A Brighter Tomorrow - Maggie Ford (thriller novels to read .txt) 📗

Before she knew it both pictures were sold, the older woman not even haggling over the seven shillings and sixpence that Ellie boldly quoted for each one. So this was what people wanted. She felt oddly disappointed but heartened. Fifteen shillings! Unbelievable. For those nondescript pieces of nothing! Not only was there enough to buy some decent food, there would be enough for more paint, canvas, linseed oil, a little more varnish – crucial if she must do more paintings to sell. And she would have to forget trying to be clever. If people wanted pretty pictures, then pretty pictures she must paint, if she wanted to live – not only live but accrue enough money to enable her to look for her father. This, after all, was her main quest, and if she wanted to continue that, she would have to get down to serious work.

The problem was where to go to buy the things she wanted. She had never bought artists’ materials herself before. Michael had always provided them, to be reimbursed by Doctor Lowe, as was right and proper.

‘Do you know where can I buy paints and canvas?’ she asked Felix when he chanced to look her way.

He had smiled at her as the two women had hurried off with their purchases. She thought at first that he couldn’t begin to know the utter relief of having money in her hand, but something in that smile told her he knew exactly how she felt, that he had felt the same, perhaps many times.

Now he smiled again. ‘When we pack up for the night I’ll be able to show you. It’s not far. Do you mind my taking you?’

‘No, not at all,’ she returned.

Having him with her, she wouldn’t feel so out of place buying her own materials with no idea what she should be looking for. She would be glad of the company too.

Since having come to live in the area she had met no one, talked to no one, except for a few words yesterday with this young man Felix. Tomorrow she’d try her luck here, hopefully pass the time of day with Felix if he turned up; but Sunday would be spent alone. Monday she’d have the privilege of a word or two from the landlord, looking for his rent for the following week. That was a thought: she must keep back some of her money for the rent. In buying her artists’ materials she must be sure to have enough left for that.

‘I’ve no idea how much canvas and paints cost,’ she began, but was interrupted by the sight of an elderly man approaching. Short, chubby, for one alarming second he reminded her of Bertram Lowe, but he had a much bushier beard.

She stood by as he peered at each of her three remaining paintings, the scrutiny seeming to take ages. Suddenly he pointed to the one of the menacing male figure and said in a sharp, abrupt voice, ‘This one tells a story, does it not?’

‘Yes,’ she responded, oddly abashed.

‘Hmm! A lot of them these days tell a story. I get sick of seeing them.’

It didn’t strike her as a hopeful remark. Why did people make such comments if they weren’t interested in buying anything?

‘Far too melodramatic for my liking,’ the man went on, his voice carrying. ‘Some bloody voluptuous, diaphanously clad female chained to a rock, sea foaming around her waist, the same damned painting of the same female gazing heavenwards and the same damned sea receding – bloody rubbish! But this one I like. This one has some strength to it. I’d say almost vicious. You didn’t do this, young lady. Who’s the artist?’

‘I am,’ she said, rankled that he doubted her abilities.

She saw his eyes squint with incredulity as he regarded her. ‘You?’

‘Yes, me!’

He was studying her as if imagining her to be lying.

‘Why not me?’ she shot at him.

His expression didn’t change. ‘You surprise me. How would a delicate young lady concern herself to paint such – I’d go as far as to say, malevolent themes?’

Ellie burst into laughter despite her initial annoyance. ‘Rather than sweet little watercolours, pretty little landscapes?’

He didn’t laugh, and although there came a glint of amusement into his pale eyes, he remained serious. ‘I wonder what has caused you to choose such – may I say, strange subjects? – all three of them.’

Ellie sobered. ‘That’s my business.’

‘Hmm,’ came the response. ‘They intrigue me. But I would like to buy the self-portrait.’

She was astounded. ‘How did you know it was of me?’ The man smiled at last. ‘Odd as it may seem, there is no mistaking it for anyone other than yourself. Though why you see yourself in that light I can only guess. How much are you asking for it?’

Taken by surprise, with no idea what she should be asking, Ellie hesitated. She’d sold those two earlier paintings for what she’d thought was a fair price, astounded that the price asked had been accepted without question. She could have asked more and, pleased though she was at having sold something, she’d wanted to kick herself. Incredibly, she might be making yet another sale almost on top of selling the two landscapes; but what to ask? He seemed to see her hesitation as a preliminary to a spot of haggling. His voice grew sharp.

‘I don’t intend to go to more than four pound, young lady, if you were expecting more.’ Ellie gaped. Four pound – it was a fortune!

‘That or I walk away!’ she heard him say through what sounded like a buzzing in her ears. She nodded and felt four gold sovereigns drop into her hand. Never had she held so much money at one time – never even possessed so much.

The man was taking down the portrait, now his property, from the railings and tucking it under his arm. Turning to leave, he paused.

‘One more thing, young lady,’ he said slowly. ‘You’ve talent – your work, expressionism, like Munch, Rouault,