Monet's Angels Read online

  ‘Onion soup,’ explained the woman. ‘I think that is sufficient for tonight.’

  Judith smiled. Soup! Exactly what she needed. This was not chicken soup with barley, her mother’s answer to all sorrows, but it would certainly do. The tureen was set on the table with a jug of wine and there were rolls wrapped in a red-checked napkin.

  Madame Baudy filled an earthenware bowl. ‘Bon appetit,’ she said and closed the door quietly behind her.

  Judith took a sip of the savoury liquid, then another and realised how hungry she was. She ate greedily, breaking off chunks of the rolls, dipping them in the soup. A glass of the rough red wine and she was feeling steadily better. Soon she heard the scrape of chairs along the floor, the buzz of conversation from the dining room below. There was laughter, and then someone began to play the piano. She was glad she was up here, on her own. It was wonderfully peaceful, an evening breeze stirring the muslin curtains. Mr Harrison was kind but she had been thrown among strangers since she left New York, inundated by new experiences. Tonight, she needed to stay quiet, go over the events of the past weeks and plan her next move.

  Mother hadn’t wanted her to come at all. When that other ship, the Titanic, had gone down last year, she declared it a sign. Judith’s passage was not yet booked, there had been a long delay in finding a chaperone who measured up to her mother’s standards: physically strong enough to cope with Judith’s energy, not too young but neither too old. Why not forget the whole idea? It was outlandish, anyway, to embark on such a trip when Judith should have her mind focused on her forthcoming marriage. Then Emily Whitaker’s application had arrived, accompanied by excellent references. Her placid, round face gazed from the photograph, inspiring confidence. Father had announced the problem solved. Miss Whitaker would be waiting on the quay when the Mauritania docked in Southampton and would remain by Judith’s side to accompany her on her European tour until the time came for her return home. He saw no reason why his daughter shouldn’t have a lark before she embarked on marriage.

  Mother was still not convinced. ‘You indulge the child too much, pandering to her whims,’ Judith overheard her say. ‘All this delay over setting the wedding date. If you’re not careful the family will call the whole thing off.’

  ‘Good,’ Judith had murmured, ‘I wish they would.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ Father had replied. ‘Young man’s head over heels. He’d never let them do that.’

  Her mother sighed. ‘Sometimes, Maurice, you are so naïve. There’s far more at stake than just love and you know it.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he had replied. ‘So isn’t she entitled to some little reward?’

  It wasn’t that Judith didn’t love Charlie; at least, she thought she did. She enjoyed the wooing, the theatres and dinners, seeing the expression on his face when she came into the room. It was the same as she had seen on Mr Harrison’s at first sight of her this afternoon.

  ‘You’ve inherited my magnetic quality,’ her mother told her once. Her tone was grudging. ‘It can get a girl into trouble. The sooner you’re settled the better.’

  But she did not want to get married, not yet. She was only twenty-five and there was so much still to do before she joined other young wives to talk about problems in finding an even-tempered cook, and a good nanny for the children. She had hardly dared hope Father would agree to this trip, not after all the other things he had allowed her to do. There had been the painting lessons, piano, learning to speak French, though much good that seemed to be doing her among these folks. Somehow she had managed to persuade him to send her to London and Paris but nobody, least of all herself, had calculated she would end up staying in a small Normandy village; one she would never have heard of if it hadn’t been for Emily developing a sick headache.

  The relief after she’d said goodbye and turned her back on Mother’s tearful face, then seeing those tiny figures far below blur and disappear as the ship moved out into the open sea. Oh, that glorious feeling of escape.

  Judith had a second bowl of soup, poured herself another glass of wine and gazed about the room. It seemed familiar already, its cleanliness, the simplicity of the rustic oak wardrobe and night table, a red and blue tufted mat on the wooden floor. And here I am, she told herself. Here I am in my very own room in Giverny and he is only a few yards away.

  She went to the window and looked out over the garden. It seemed to be constructed on several levels, steps dimly glimpsed leading upward in the dusk. And there were roses again, masses of them, standards, clambering over arches and walls, ghostly in the fading light. It was all so new and different from home; mysterious what lay ahead of her, waiting to be discovered.

  The notion came that all this was meant to be, beginning with that glorious afternoon when she had slipped out of the hotel to roam the streets of Paris alone, crossing the Seine with the voice of Emily in her ears: ‘Not a very nice area, Miss Judith, it’s full of artists and other down and outs.’ Then the café where she’d ordered café au lait and smoked a cigarette, marvelling that nobody stared or appeared to think she was being too bold. There were other women seated in the café, though mostly in twos and threes, some of them also smoking cigarettes. They seemed very free and lively and she longed to join them. Then she caught the sound of American voices and glancing to a neighbouring table, saw a group of men deep in conversation. When one of them tried and failed to light his cigarette, she offered him her Ronson. Half an hour later, she was sharing their carafe of red wine. When she finally made her way back to the hotel it was almost eight o’clock.

  ‘Oh, Miss Judith, I’ve been beside myself with worry. When I came downstairs in the afternoon no-one seemed to know where you were and as time went on…’ Emily reached for her handkerchief. Her eyes were red; it was obvious she had been crying. ‘I kept thinking about that horrible story I once read, The Vanishing Lady, you know where one of the women disappears and the hotel staff swear only the other is on the register.’

  Judith took out her compact and was satisfied with what she saw. ‘Well I am here now so everything is dandy.’

  ‘But where on earth have you been, Miss Judith?’

  ‘Oh, out and about, exploring this wonderful city.’

  Emily’s eyes widened. ‘I can’t believe you just wandered around Paris on your own – anything might have happened. And all because of my silly sick headache. I am so sorry.’

  Judith was growing bored. ‘Please stop apologising, Emily. Nobody was going to murder me in broad daylight and I had an extremely pleasant time. Now shall we go into dinner before the restaurant closes? I’m starving.’

  A hearty serving of veal blanquette accompanied by asparagus and green beans, followed by apple tart seemed to restore Emily. She began to talk of their plans for the following day. ‘The Louvre I thought and if there’s time we might do the Cluny after luncheon.’

  She popped a piece of bread into her mouth. Judith had noticed she never wasted a morsel of any food set before her. ‘I’m just relieved that you are safe and we can put all this behind us.’

  For Judith it had only just begun. Over the next few days, visiting this or that art gallery or museum, walking in the Tuileries Garden, her attention was elsewhere, trying to work out her next move. That conversation in the café with the American artists, their tales of Monet’s Giverny and the hilarious life at Hotel Baudy had set her mind racing. She wanted to experience this place for herself. Who knew what might happen if she managed to get herself there? She had to meet the artists again and she had to dispense with Emily.

  Somewhere from the depths of the garden a bird began its evening song. From a distance another answered it. She would not think of her time here being limited; in three months she must return to the life set up for her. Something would prevent it. That something was vague at the moment but promising. All would be well. She had got herself here; that had been the major hurdle, managed to wheedle more time and money from her father, why shouldn’t the re
st of her plan work out? She sat on the wide windowsill, sipping her wine, and let the essence of the June evening pervade her.

  Below, the voices grew louder, the pianist was singing a song she recognised. Judith smiled wryly, recalling Charlie. He had taken her to see the show on Broadway not long before she left. Softly she sang along:

  By the light of the silvery moon,

  I want to spoon, to my honey I’ll croon love’s tune,

  Honeymoon keep a-shining in June,

  Your silvery beams will bring love dreams,

  we’ll be cuddling soon,

  By the silvery moon.

  She struggled to recall the feelings those words had evoked, seated close to Charlie in the darkened stalls, smelling the scent of his macassar hair oil. Already, it seemed a long time ago.

  The pianist switched to a French tune Judith also knew. It was the Gaby Glide. Only last November she’d seen her idol dance at the Winter Garden. Wonderful Gaby Deslys! She’d learned the Turkey Trot because of her. Mother was, as always, disapproving of any of these new dances while Father just found her birdy movements comical.

  She stayed at the window until the garden merged with the sky and night came then she slipped between the sheets. They smelled deliciously of lavender. The images were there but growing fainter now as sleep gained its hold. She dozed, woke to the sounds below, dozed and woke again. This time the voices and piano were silent; she heard the mournful hoot of an owl.

  In the morning after breakfast, Judith sent a letter by the Baudy’s boy servant to Le Pressoir.

  – THREE –

  CLAUDE

  T

  he darkness thins, grey light seeps into the room and the shapes of furniture swim up from oblivion: the marquetry desk, the chest of drawers. He is learning to perceive things from memory, knows by heart the subjects of the three paintings that hang on the wall: Haystacks by dear Blanche, Gate Onto Flowering Cherry Trees by Butler and Camille on her Death Bed painted by him.

  He shuffles his feet into slippers, drawn, as always, to the window. Here he remains, watching as the sky lightens and changes colour from indigo to lavender to pink before that moment when first light brings another day. He prefers dawn and dusk to any other time and not only because of the shadowy effects of light. These are the hours when he shares his clouded vision with the rest of the world. The garden is coming to life under the sallow sun; soon it will appear to him as an explosion of colour, of orange, yellow and red hues bleeding into each other. He is barely able to discern the detail of trees and plants although he knows them intimately. Like children he has seen them grow into the mature garden it is today. In fact, rather than his eyes it is his mind that sees: a fusion of sensations and memories as if in retrospect, as if he were looking back on a visit to his beloved garden. This, he understands, is also what now drives his painting, memory traces of the paths, the shrubs and the lily pond coming to replace the ever more fragile images of his failing eye.

  Cataract. In his head he hears Dr Coutela’s voice. Aware of photography’s influence on his patient he had likened the eye to a camera. ‘Light rays focus through your lens onto the retina, the layer of light sensitive cells at the back of the eye. In a similar way to film, the retina allows the image to be “seen” by the brain. But, mon vieux, as we get older, chemical changes occur in the lens that make it cloudy and that prevents light rays from passing clearly through it. Voila, a cataract.’

  They had viewed photography as a threat, he, Manet, Degas and the others. It captured the moment, seemed to undermine their painterly talent to mirror reality. People were talking about the ‘truth’ of the camera’s eye. It was a challenge and he had taken it up: colour of course, which photography lacked and his perceptions of nature, rather than create exact images of the world. Set an artist beside him, even Blanche, and their expression of the lilies would be very different because their eye was different. This was what you were always trying to capture, to get under the carapace, reach the essence of the thing. He smiles to himself. You could say like cracking a lobster’s claws to reach that delectable meat.

  He is startled to notice how time has passed. Over these last months he seems to have spent hours in a meditative state. ‘Never thought I’d get to this,’ he mutters aloud. ‘I was always up at the crack of dawn and out without a backward glance.’ Suzanne and then Alice: losing them seems to be tilting him into old age. Still he lingers, his thoughts turning to Blanche. How he weighs on her and how she puts up with him. He is sometimes amazed by her patience. The ‘blue angel’ Georges calls her; a bit of an exaggeration in his opinion. They have their moments, well, what can you expect when there are just the two of you, rattling around in this big house? But she is a good girl. What would he do without her? And it isn’t going to get any easier, not with this business of his eyes. At least they agree on that: a cruel streak of nature to one whose life lies in the looking but…

  ‘It’s risky, Papa, at your age. Surgery might or might not help.’

  They might bicker about Marguerite or rather the lack of her but on this point they are united. Even if he has to give up painting he would not hazard losing what sight he has and therefore not seeing his garden, the people he loves.

  In his dressing room, he selects one of the summery white linen suits. Dieu, the belt of the trousers is tight! Alice’s voice swims into his head: ‘You’re too fond of cream, Claude.’ What’s wrong with cream? Marguerite’s banana ice cream, marriage of an exotic fruit and cream, was a Noel joy. Thick smooth cream from Normandy cows: he adores it. Palate or palette, someone once teased him, which comes first, Claude? All right, he enjoys his food: it is one of life’s pleasures. Thank God that hasn’t deserted him. He takes a deep breath and the button fastens. He doesn’t often glance in the mirror these days, doesn’t want to see an old man looking back.

  He moves on to Alice’s bedroom as he does every morning. ‘Good morning, cherie,’ he says to the bed with its white cover tightly tucked. As always, he pauses by the fireplace to look at her photograph with Nadar’s scrawl on the bottom. Nadar! Dear friend, crazy friend with his dream of flight and that ridiculous giant air balloon. Ah, but if it wasn’t for him they’d never have had that first exhibition, so long ago. He’d been a good age but somehow you thought he would go on forever. He passes the silent children’s rooms, treading carefully over the boards – a habit that clings – down the stairs and lets himself out into the garden.

  Roses fill the air with their fragrance but he walks under their arches, making for the door at the end that leads to the other, now more important, area: the lily pond. No trains at this hour, simple to cross the stretch of tarmac and enter the water garden. Here he strolls among the arrowheads, marsh marigolds and agapanthus, pausing for long moments to admire this peony, that azalea, or simply gaze in the water, shaded by willow and poplar, continuing and then stopping again. The lilies or rather their reflection on the water absorb him, these days. They lead him into another world of mists and transparencies.

  Some lines of poetry come into his head.

  They are not long the days of wine and roses

  Out of a misty dream

  Our path emerges for a while, then closes

  Within a dream.

  Morbid type, Ernest Dowson, always writing about death. Drank but didn’t eat. That time at the Café de Paris, he was hardly able to get a word out, and he, a poet. No wonder he’d died so young. Claude moves on but the words stay in his head and with sudden urgency he makes his way back to the house and his studio.

  Here are his paints waiting for him with their labels in Blanche’s neat handwriting. He just prays she’s mentioned to that girl, Annette, not to lay a finger on them, never change their precise order. He absolutely relies on this. He knows he is using stronger shades of blue and green; that the reds are beginning to look muddy. Another symptom of cataract, Cautela said, something about the yellowing of the lens. Think of the days when a painter
had to grind and mix his own colours. He’d be in a pickle then. His style is changing too from short to much broader brushstrokes, though still the pursuit of sunlight and colour, of impression or snapshot, as Nadar called it.

  He takes up his brush. Venice this morning, the exhibition isn’t far off, still something to be done to the gondola picture.

  Alice was smiling in all the photographs of that trip, happy, she said, seeing him doing ‘such beautiful things, something other than those same old water lilies.’ He’d moved through the city to the sun’s rhythm: early morning, San Giorgio Maggiore, at ten, St Mark’s Square, facing San Giorgio. After lunch, the steps of the Palazzo Barbaro, painting the Palazzo da Mula. As the sun set they treated themselves to a gondola ride, but always at the back of his mind how to translate this beauty, express time stopped, an instant of light.

  The painting isn’t going well, he throws down his brush; it is almost half past eleven, after all. Time for luncheon.

  – FOUR –

  BLANCHE

  I

  n the kitchen Blanche gazed out of the window at a fine show of Reine des Violettes. Such a beautiful rose, it made her think of pastel crayons from pink to lilac and blue to deep magenta, smudged one over the other to achieve a delightful smoky effect. It was doing well this year, in spite of Papa complaining it had been over-pruned in March. It was all very well his saying it bloomed better if left alone but you simply could not allow it to grow unchecked. She wished she could be out there, burying her nose in those large rosettes, sniffing the damask scent.

  For the past ten minutes, she had been discussing Yorkshire pudding with the new cook.

  ‘It is unbelievable!’ Marie exclaimed. ‘This pudding served with meat! I don’t understand.’

  Reluctantly, Blanche tore her gaze from the garden and turned to face the woman.

  ‘There is no need to understand. The English have a different view of food, I know. The only thing you do have to understand, Marie, is that m’sieur adores Yorkshire pudding. And when he adores something, it has to be prepared to perfection.’