A Brighter Tomorrow by Maggie Ford (read with me .txt) 📕

But it didn’t matter. For her it was something of a relief, having his attention drawn away from her a little. He still made much of her, asking to see her work, hovering over her, enquiring whether she was happy and content, still calling her ‘my dear’ and, more importantly, making sure she was well dressed and had money enough to buy nice things with.

That was what she most wanted from him; the rest could go hang and perhaps, when she decided to leave here, it might not be so hard as it had once looked. He wasn’t taking her out on so many of those uncomfortable and boring little visits to places of culture. Nor did she eat with him at table now his wife was sharing his company once more. That had been short-lived anyway and she ate in his study again. In a way she was glad not to have Florrie serving her in the dining room, her nose up in the air, being deliberately slapdash when serving her.

So the days went by. Spring came in fine and warm. Her seventeenth birthday had come and gone. A birthday cake had been made for her at Doctor Lowe’s request, she and Dora quietly sharing it in his study. If his wife knew about it, perhaps from Mrs Jenkins, she made no sign.

The trouble was, being left more and more to her own devices was getting tedious, leaving her feeling lonely and isolated, her mind turning more and more to the day when she could get right away from this house.

She looked forward to seeing Michael three days a week. She wished it was even more and was beginning to feel a fear that Doctor Lowe might decide to terminate it, thinking she had learned enough. It was a dilemma. If she let him see her greatly improved work she might risk his saying that she needed no more tutoring; but to display her worst attempts might make him decide Michael was a waste of money. Either way she’d not see him again.

They no longer used the doctor’s study. Now that she had progressed to painting in oil, the odour of oil, varnish and turpentine pervaded the room. A few weeks ago he had suggested they avail themselves of the little attic room where Florrie had once been obliged to sleep. From there would waft no smell of her work.

The place was small but bright. Light came in from a small dormer window in the roof during the day – perhaps not as bright as an artist’s studio would have called for, but adequate enough for her. She spent most of her time here with all her materials to hand, as bought by Doctor Lowe. She and Michael were completely isolated from the rest of the house. They could talk and laugh without being overheard.

Better still, there was no Doctor Lowe to come barging in to interrupt them as he might have done had it been his study. Not that Michael ever behaved in any way improperly. He’d never even attempted to kiss her cheek again, but if he came close, she’d feel a thrill pass through her, wondering if his reaction was the same as hers. One thing did change – one secret thing.

One Thursday evening in May, with the twilight still lingering over the roofs of the houses opposite, it was almost time for him to leave when he gently took the paintbrush from her hand. ‘You’re so cooped up here,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t you feel the need for a breath of fresh air?’

The words took her by surprise. The way he’d taken her hand had put her suddenly on her guard, even though his touch had for a second excited her.

She turned and gave him an enquiring look. ‘A breath of fresh air?’

Why did she always echo what he said?

‘We could creep out,’ he whispered. ‘It’s a lovely evening. We could take a walk, find a coffee stall; then I can bring you back. What do you say?’

What could she say? The idea tempted her. ‘How do we creep out?’

‘Wait until the staff retire – which will not be long now, as it’s getting late – and Mrs Jenkins is closeted in her room with a book and cup of cocoa. Florrie can let me out the front door as she usually does before going to bed. If Mrs Jenkins isn’t still in the kitchen, you can creep out the back door. I’ll wait for you there. When we return, I can leave you at the back door. No one will see you enter and no one will ever need know.’

He was like a small boy arranging to bunk off out of a school dormitory. But the idea was tantalizing – the exhilaration of risk, the prospect of being completely alone with him for the first time ever. She found herself nodding eagerly. Why not? She was her own mistress, virtually.

In the dwindling twilight, in an ordinary day skirt and jacket, not even a hat – but who would see her or care? – she walked with her arm through his, thinking that surely this must be the beginning of something between them.

From Roman Road they turned left into Cambridge Road, crossing over towards Bethnal Green Road, her old haunt immediately bringing back a host of memories that she hastily cast aside. Just as he’d said, there was a coffee stall on the corner outside the Salmon & Ball, busy serving a few customers. Many a time she and Dora, as children, had sat on the pavement outside that pub, nibbling a hard arrowroot biscuit and sipping a glass of lemonade while Mum and Dad had been inside enjoying a few glasses of beer. She’d been quite small then, Dora a mere toddler, her brother Charlie out with his mates.

That was when Mum had still had her looks and Dad had still been interested in her.