Page 1 of The Christmas Retreat
Arwen
13 May 1919
The Spanish flu was no respecter of youth or strength: it preyed on the young and healthy as avidly as on the frail and elderly.
My mother had been a good twenty years younger than Papa, a tall, sturdy, fair Yorkshirewoman, full of vitality, yet her life blew out like a snuffed candle within days of contracting the vile illness. Papa, shattered by her loss, did not even try to put up any resistance. After his death, I discovered that he had given some thought to what might happen to me, his only child, although when the solicitor, Mr Browne, explained things to me after the funeral, I wished he had not!
Mr Browne, a small, wiry man with frizzled hair the colour of dust, and with eyes to match, accompanied us back to my lodgings, together with my friend Milly, who was staying with me, and Mama’s friend Mrs Clark, who had been providing support and good advice.
There, once Mrs Clark had made tea and then tactfully retired, the solicitor proceeded to explain things to me.
He had already taken on himself the arrangements for the funeral and used what little money my father had left to disburse the more urgent of our debts. Everything other than my personal possessions was to be sold off to pay the rest, and our lodgings and Papa’s studio taken over by another artist, a friend of his.
I had begged Milly to stay with me while Papa’s will was read, and once I had thrown off the borrowed black coat that Mrs Clark, a stickler for observing proprieties, had insisted upon, Mr Browne eyed my short, bright blue plaid dress with some disapprobation. I was sure he was equally shocked by Milly’s emerald-green skirt and blouse, and our daringly short cropped hair.
He cleared his throat, which I expect was just as dusty as the rest of him, after sitting in an office full of ancient papers every day, year after year, and began.
‘I have your father’s will here, Miss Madoc, which is a simple document stating that once all debts have been repaid, the residue of his estate goes to you. Since, as I have already informed you, most of his income derived from an annuity, which ceased at his death, I am afraid there will be very little money left over, even after everything is sold.’
‘I knew about the annuity and of course, with his deteriorating health over the last couple of years, his portrait commissions had dwindled,’ I said.
I did not add that ever since I turned fourteen and the tremor in Papa’s hands had begun to be a problem, I myself had taken an increasing role in completing the final details of his portraits, for I had a great facility for copying any style of painting or artist.
In Papa’s case, while he was still much influenced in his work by the Impressionist style of his youth, he was not unaware of the various more avant-garde groups of young painters that had sprung up around us in London.
A Post-Impressionism exhibition he had taken me to in 1910 had inspired great admiration in my young mind, and he had also frequently let me accompany him on visits to the studios of his friends.
Of course, I had no desire to pursue a career as a mere copyist, for I aspired to develop my own style and become an artist in my own right, and to this end had been studying at the Slade School of Art for the last two years, since I was sixteen, although I had been largely absent since Mama died in February.
I felt a yearning to escape from my grief back into my work and, now the war was finally over, there were so many exciting things going on as newer and younger artists explored our modern world. I wanted to be part of that.
Mr Browne gave his dry cough again to get my attention, and I realized I had let my thoughts wander a long way from the reason we were here. I was suddenly struck once again by the devastating blow of my double loss and I blinked away tears and said: ‘I’m so sorry – did you ask me something?’
He looked at me more benignly: clearly a rush of womanly tears was more to his taste than stoicism.
‘I was merely remarking that it was convenient that your father’s friend wishes to take over the studio and lodgings and purchase the furnishings, once you have removed any personal effects you wish to keep. And Mr Timmins, the art dealer, will shortly come to examine your father’s remaining artworks and make an offer for them.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, but did not tell him that I had already removed to my own room certain treasures from the studio, including Papa’s large Japanned tin paintbox and two small oil portraits, one of Mama, and the other of myself at fifteen.
‘Mrs Clark is being so kind, helping me to sort what must be disposed of, and what to keep – as has my dear friend Milly.’
I smiled at Milly, whose square and somewhat pugnacious-looking face broke into a gamine grin, although Mr Browne cast her a doubtful look.
I think her independence of manner, combined with her bright red curls, green eyes and the brevity of her skirt, a scant two inches below the knee, all combined to alarm him.
He said: ‘It is a relief to me that you already realize how little you will have to live on once everything is settled, but I am here to reassure you that you need have no worries for the future, for your father had put arrangements into place in case he should die while you are still a minor.’
‘I’m eighteen and quite capable of fending for myself,’ I said indignantly.
The solicitor’s smile was infuriatingly like one you would give to a child.
‘But my dear Miss Madoc, you will not be of age until you are twenty-one, and until then you will have a guardian – your father’s distant cousin, Cosmo Caradoc.’
In the stunned silence that followed Mr Browne’s announcement, Milly turned and stared at me.
‘I never knew you were related to Cosmo Caradoc.’
I had been vaguely aware of it and, since he was a renowned artist, I’d always supposed painting ran in the family … although, of course, Papa was much older than he, and less well known.
