Beautiful little fools, p.1
Beautiful Little Fools, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
PART TWO
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
PART THREE
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About Embla Books
First published in Great Britain in 2022 by
Bonnier Books UK Limited
4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1B 4DA
Owned by Bonnier Books
Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden Copyright © Olivia Horrox, 2022
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Olivia Horrox to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eBook ISBN: 9781471413094
This book is typeset using Atomik ePublisher
Embla Books is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk
For Dean, who showed me that art and science belong together
PART ONE
‘I was aware of a sense of freedom, as though I had no responsibilities at all.’
– Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca
Chapter 1
HERTFORDSHIRE
Spring, 1932
I should realise that the arrival of a prospectus will bring nothing but trouble, but I flick through the pages over breakfast in what I hope is a nonchalant manner. On the inside, my heart is skipping with excitement beneath my blouse. I want to leap up onto the old walnut table, scattering the plates and teacups to the floor, and sending buttery wedges of toast flying through the air. I want to shout at the top of my lungs, because somehow I have been discovered! A beautiful little art school set atop a cliffside in Cornwall has managed to track me down in this tiny suburban town where nothing exciting ever happens to anybody, and they want to sweep me away to the seaside to start my career as an artist.
‘How interesting …’ I murmur, choosing to feign indifference rather than opting for the table-top theatrics. You have to play to your crowd, and neither of my parents strike me as the type to enjoy a cabaret. Father’s head is buried deep in the business section of The Times, and Mother is trying to spoon-feed runny boiled egg to my brother George. She tries swooping the spoon up into the air and bringing it down towards his firmly closed mouth, and he screws up his little red face as he shakes his head in violent protest.
‘I wonder how they found our address …’ I say a little louder in case they didn’t hear me, but neither of them look up, until my little sister Mary calls out from behind me and dive-bombs for the prospectus.
‘Elizabeth’s got a letter!’ she cries as she tries to snatch it. I hadn’t even heard her enter the dining room and start in surprise, whipping it out of reach just in time. Ever since she got her hands on my Agatha Christie books, she has become obsessed with playing detective and has taken to sneaking around the house, silently creeping up on people to obtain what she loosely refers to as ‘evidence’. I call it snooping.
‘It’s not a letter,’ I retort, holding it aloft. ‘It is a prospectus. Your skills of deduction still require a little more work, Mary Marple.’
She takes the seat beside me and grabs a piece of toast with a slight frown as Father finally lowers his newspaper. ‘A prospectus for what?’ he asks shrewdly, narrowing his grey eyes at me across the table.
‘The St. Agnes School of Art,’ I reply, my throat tightening a little. ‘I didn’t apply, so I’m not sure why they’ve sent it.’
‘I thought we had put this art school nonsense to bed?’ he replies in a slightly bored tone, dropping his gaze to pour another cup of coffee.
I know it is supposed to be a rhetorical question but I answer anyway. ‘Would it hurt if I were to send them a portfolio? It must mean something if they have sent me a prospectus without a request.’
Mother finally turns her attention away from George, who has started smearing pieces of egg all over his highchair. ‘Elizabeth, don’t start. Not today.’ She sighs, then begins to dab the egg off George’s face with a napkin.
Oh, to be George … I think to myself as I watch him shake his head some more, his beautiful chestnut ringlets bouncing around his cherub-like face. The apple of both my parents’ eyes simply for being born a boy. George would be allowed to go to art school, George would grow up to be allowed whatever he wanted, but my mother only has one plan in mind for me.
‘What’s so special about today?’ I ask as I reach for another piece of toast.
Mary pipes up before Mother can answer. ‘Charles Bonham is coming to tea!’ she says, resting her elbows on the table and batting her eyelashes at me as I let out a groan. How had I forgotten? My mother has spoken of little else for days.
‘Elbows off the table, Mary!’ Mother snaps immediately. ‘But you are precisely right. And you, Elizabeth, are not going to make a show of yourself this time. I am running out of potential suitors to introduce you to, and Lord knows you won’t be invited back to another dance at the village hall after the last fiasco …’
She pauses for dramatic effect and I try to hide my smile as I remember fondly how I stamped so hard on Robert Callaghan’s foot when he tried to grope me at the last dance that I broke three of his toes. No one was ever that interested in my side of the story though, and somehow I got painted as the villain and labelled ‘too feisty for courtship’ by the local Women’s Institute.
‘You’re going to put on a pretty dress, smile and make polite conversation with Charles;’ she continues. ‘Do you think you can manage that for a couple of hours?’
‘Yes, of course, Mother,’ I mutter, and she smiles contentedly.
Father drops his paper on the table and pats at his moustache with a napkin, then gives me a long hard look. ‘Your mother has arranged this meeting with your best interests in mind, Elizabeth. Try to look a little less grim about the prospect.’
I can’t help but think that perhaps we have differing opinions on my best interests, but I keep my thoughts to myself as I spread a thick layer of raspberry jam on my toast. The doorbell rings, causing our Labrador Astrid to start barking and skittering up and down the tiled hallway. All our heads snap towards the sound, with the exception of George, who couldn’t care less and is now blowing bubbles of spit with glee.
‘That can’t be Charles, he’s two hours early!’ Mother exclaims in a flap, trying to smooth her hair and skirt at the same time.
‘I’ll go and see.’ Father says, rising from his chair at the head of the table. ‘You get upstairs and get changed,’ he adds, glancing back at me.
I scuttle past him as Astrid continues to bark and gallop up and down the hall. I take the stairs two at a time, but rather than getting dressed, I hang over the banister to watch. I can hear muffled voices and I lean further over the rail as Father steps back to let someone into the hall. It is not Charles Bonham, thankfully; I spy a familiar bird’s nest of grey hair and a shabby fur coat that could only belong to my Aunt Clarice. I smile, my shoulders relaxing as she looks up, her grey eyes finding me instantly.
‘Hello, trouble.’ She winks, resting heavily on her cane.
‘What are you doing here?’ I cry, taking the stairs two at a time and wrapping my arms around her, breathing in her familiar smell of freesias and pipe smoke.
‘I heard Charles Bonham is coming to call today. You didn’t think I would miss that, did you?’ she chuckles as we make our way back down the hallway to the dining room.
Mary barrels into Aunt Clarice the moment the door opens, almost knocking her over and Mother chides her with an exasperated sigh, but she doesn’t seem to hear. ‘I knew it was you, I knew it! Didn’t I, Mama?’ Mary babbles excitedly, her arms wrapped tightly around Aunt Clarice’s middle.
‘Very astute,’ Aunt Clarice says proudly, tousling Mary’s mousey brown ringlets. ‘Still enjoying your detective novels then?’
‘Yes, but I’ve nearly read all the ones that we hav e.’ She pouts, narrowing her eyes at me like it is my fault that I don’t have more books for her to steal.
‘Well, I hope you don’t have this one,’ Aunt Clarice says warily, pulling a book out of her bag. I can’t help but feel an undeniable stab of jealousy as Mary grasps at the copy of Peril at End House and instantly begins reading it.
‘I believe that one is set in Cornwall,’ Aunt Clarice continues, but Mary isn’t listening. The mention of Cornwall distracts me from my resentment as I remember the prospectus, still lying on the table. Mary can have all the detective novels in the world if I can have just one summer in Cornwall … Aunt Clarice must notice the look on my face because she smiles warmly and puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘Speaking of Cornwall, I have a much bigger gift in mind for you,’ she murmurs fondly. Then her eyes fall upon the prospectus. ‘Oh good, it looks like it has already arrived.’
‘You sent it?’ I ask in surprise.
‘Of course! Have you had a proper look? What did you think?’ She grins and I try to smile back with enthusiasm, but I can’t deny the rising disappointment in the pit of my stomach. The school didn’t seek me out after all, of course they didn’t. How could they, when I am a nobody with no formal training? Dreams of landing a scholarship begin to fade, and without one, there is no way I could go. My parents could never afford the tuition fees.
‘Why, dear sister, would you send my daughter a prospectus without consulting me?’ Father asks Aunt Clarice with a rather peeved expression. He draws up to his full height, but somehow, he never seems very frightening next to Aunt Clarice.
‘Because she wants to go to art school, Arthur, and this is supposed to be one of the best,’ she replies simply, resting both hands on her cane with a nonchalant shrug.
‘And I would like a new automobile. Can I expect to find one parked out on the driveway?’ he responds curtly, pouring her a cup of tea as she sits down at the table.
‘Then I suggest you save up your pennies. You’re old enough and ugly enough to buy your own,’ she snorts, dropping several sugar cubes into her cup. ‘This is my gift to Elizabeth. A little bit of freedom before she settles down. The poor lamb has barely left Hertfordshire, and at school they said she had a real talent.’
‘You really should have discussed this with us, Clarice,’ my mother chips in, bouncing George up and down on her hip. I feel like I must have turned invisible as I glance between the three of them, listening to them decide on my future.
‘Does anyone care about what I want?’ I ask quietly, resting my elbows on the table.
‘No.’ My parents respond in unison.
‘Well, why can’t she go?’ Aunt Clarice asks. ‘I think it would do her the world of good. I’ll pay for it. You needn’t worry about a thing.’
The fact that Aunt Clarice is considerably better off than our family has always been a point of contention for my father. We don’t struggle exactly, but it has always been Aunt Clarice who has come to the rescue when our shoes have grown so tight that they pinch, or Aunt Clarice who conveniently drops by before Christmas with a spare turkey. Neither of my parents ever seem particularly grateful for her help, and I have heard Mother complaining that it is easy to play the saviour when you don’t have three children to raise. Personally, I think they give her an unnecessarily hard time, considering all she wants to do is help. Aunt Clarice’s husband owned a button factory that ended up supplying soldiers’ uniforms in the war and they made a small fortune off the back of it. But their lives were far from perfect. They were never able to have children, and Aunt Clarice said she didn’t mind because she had Uncle Ted and her nieces and nephews. Then Uncle Ted caught the Spanish Influenza and Aunt Clarice was left alone. She sold the factory, making even more money, but she always says she would take one more day with Uncle Ted over all the money in the world. But the message never seems to sink in with my parents. I suppose people always want what they don’t have.
Father’s moustache bristles, and he responds quite sternly. ‘It has nothing to do with money, Clarice. We don’t want her to go because we have finally found a respectable suitor who has shown an interest in her. Women aren’t supposed to be artists, they are supposed to get married and raise children.’
I am not sure if that comment was aimed at me or Aunt Clarice, but it hurts all the same and I realise with a sense of hopelessness that they will never let me go.
‘What utter nonsense!’ Aunt Clarice cuts in, clearly less dissuaded than I. ‘There are hundreds of female artists, going back centuries. You’re living in the Dark Ages, Arthur, and you are letting your pride get the better of you.’
‘Let’s not argue over this anymore,’ Mother interjects, still wrestling with George, who is becoming increasingly grizzly, not that I can blame him. ‘One complaining child is quite enough for me to manage. Elizabeth, go and get ready for Charles’s arrival. We can talk about this later.’
I traipse back upstairs to my bedroom and close the door behind me, savouring the peace and quiet. The floor has been recently re-polished and it still smells strongly of wax, so I tiptoe carefully across the room to open the window and let in some fresh air. Mother has laid a peach-coloured tea dress with flutter sleeves out on the bed, and I run my fingers over the chiffon with a sigh. I know the dress will have cost her a fair bit of money and she will have bought it especially for today’s visit, but it looks simply awful. I swap my slacks for silk stockings and step into the dress before glancing at my reflection in the mirror. I look ridiculous. Peach is evidently not my colour, and the dress makes me look pale and sickly. I try to run my fingers through my hair in a vain attempt at taming the unruly frizz, but it is no use. Unlike my siblings, my hair absolutely refuses to form beautiful little ringlets, but by some cruel trick of genetics, it won’t lie flat either. I thought cutting it fashionably short could only improve matters, but it doesn’t seem to have done me any favours, and now it forms a sort of fluffy triangle frame around my face. I am distracted from my pitiful reflection by a scratching sound at the door, then it pushes open and Astrid pads across the floorboards.
‘Hello, girl,’ I murmur, rubbing her velvety ears. ‘What do you think?’ I ask, twirling on the spot. She starts whining and I chuckle, ‘I know what you mean. I look like a peony, don’t I?’
I grab my sketchbook and flop down on the bed as she sits in front of the fireplace. I start by sketching out her rough shape, the long line from her head to her tail, the muscular curves of her legs. Then I start to add a little more detail here and there, chewing the end of my pencil as I focus on getting her facial features just right. I eye up a set of paints, lying open on my bedside table. I really shouldn’t paint in this dress, but it is so rare for Astrid to sit still long enough to be my model. I reach for my paintbrush and dip it into a glass of water before I can change my mind. To my amazement, Astrid sits in silence until I have finished, and I carefully place my sketchbook on my desk to dry, and give the dress a once-over. There is not a drop of paint on it.
‘See, Astrid, it is possible to be both ladylike and an artist,’ I say smugly, just as she lets out a low, guttural growl. She sits up a little straighter, her ears pricked, then right on cue, the doorbell rings.
‘It’s all right,’ I start to say, but she has already sprung to her feet. She barks loudly, her tail wagging chaotically in my tiny bedroom. I take a step towards the door to let her free before she knocks something over, but my stockinged foot slips on the freshly waxed floor. The ground disappears from beneath me and my heart plummets as my legs fly upwards and Astrid starts barking more urgently, knocking ornaments and books onto the floor with each powerful sweep of her tail. I fling my arms out to steady myself, grabbing a shelf for support. I grasp onto it, feeling relief for a split second, before it gives way and I collide with the floor with a loud thud. The contents of the shelf fly into the air and I watch in slow-motion horror as multi-coloured chalks, pots of paint and bottles of oils come cascading down. I scrunch my eyes closed and brace myself as glass smashes all around me and paint spatters everywhere. Astrid panics and makes for the door, slipping in the oil and covering her glossy black fur in canary yellow paint as she escapes onto the landing.
