painting smock?’
‘I don’t suppose so,’ Troy said vaguely, and walked up the path from her studio to her house. It was a cold afternoon. Naked trees rattled in a north wind and leaden clouds hurried across the sky. ‘Suppose,’ Troy pretended, ‘I was to walk in and find it was Rory. Suppose he’d kept it a secret and there he was waiting in the library. He’d have lit the fire so that it should be there for us to meet by. His face would be looking like it did the first time he stood there, a bit white with excitement. Suppose –’ She had a lively imagination and she built up her fantasy quickly, warming her thoughts at it. So clear was her picture that it brought a physical reaction; her heart knocked, her hand, even, trembled a little as she opened the library door.
The man who stood before the unkindled hearth was tall and stooped a little. His hair, which had the appearance of floss, stood up thinly like a child’s. He wore glasses and blinked behind them at Troy.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I’m Thomas Ancred, but of course you know that because of the card. I hope you don’t mind my coming. I didn’t really want to, but the family insisted.’
He held out his hand, but didn’t do anything with it when Troy took it, so that she was obliged to give it a slight squeeze and let it go. ‘The whole thing’s silly,’ he said. ‘About Papa’s portrait, I mean, of course. We call him “Papa,” you know. Some people think it sounds affected, but there it is. About Papa’s portrait. I must tell you they all got a great shock when your telegram came. They rang me up. They said you couldn’t have understood, and I was to come and explain.’
Troy lit the fire. ‘Do sit down,’ she said, ‘you must be frozen. What did they think I hadn’t understood?’
‘Well, first of all, that it was an honour to paint Papa. I told them that it would have been the other way round, if anything, supposing you’d consented. Thank you, I will sit down. It’s quite a long walk from the station and I think I’ve blistered my heel. Do you mind if I have a look? I can feel through my sock, you know.’
‘Look away,’ said Troy.
‘Yes,’ said Thomas after a pause, ‘it is a blister. I’ll just keep my toe in my shoe for manners and I dare say the blister will go down. About my father. Of course you know he’s the Grand Old Man of the British stage so I needn’t go into all that. Do you admire his acting at all?’
‘A great deal,’ said Troy. She was glad that the statement was truthful. This curious man, she felt, would have recognized a polite evasion.
‘Do you?’ he said. ‘That’s nice. He is quite good, of course, though a little creaky at times, don’t you feel? And then, all those mannerisms! He can’t play an emotional bit, you know, without sucking in his breath rather loudly. But he really is good in a magnificent Mrs. Beeton sort of way. A recipe for everything and only the best ingredients used.’
‘Mr Ancred,’ Troy said, ‘what is all this about?’
‘Well, it’s part of the build-up. It’s supposed to make you see things in a different light. The great British actor painted by the great British artist, don’t you know? And although I don’t suppose you’d like Ancreton much it might amuse you to see it. It’s very baronial. The portrait would hang under the minstrels’ gallery with special lighting. He doesn’t mind what he pays. It’s to commemorate his seventy-fifth birthday. His own idea is that the nation ought to have given it to him, but as the nation doesn’t seem to have thought of that he’s giving it to himself. And to posterity, of course,’ Thomas added as an afterthought, cautiously slipping his finger inside his loosened shoe.
‘If you’d like me to suggest one or two painters who might –’
‘Some people prick blisters,’ said Thomas, ‘but I don’t. No, thank you, they’ve made a second-best list. I was telling you about Ancreton. You know those steel engravings of castles and halls in Victorian books? All turrets and an owl flying across the moon? That’s Ancreton. It was built by my great-grandfather. He pulled down a nice Queen Anne house and erected Ancreton. There was a moat but people got diphtheria so it was let go and they’re growing vegetables in it. The food is quite good, because there are lots of vegetables, and Papa cut down the Great East Spinney during the war and stored the wood, so there are still fires.’
Thomas smiled at his hostess. He had a tentative sidelong smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s Ancreton. I expect you’d hate it, but you couldn’t help laughing.’
‘As I’m not going, however –’ Troy began with a rising sense of panic.
But Thomas continued unmoved. ‘And then, of course, there’s the family. Well! Papa and Millamant and Pauline and Panty to begin with. Are you at all keen on the emotions?’
‘I haven’t an idea what you mean.’
‘My family is very emotional. They feel everything most deeply. The funny thing about that,’ said Thomas, ‘is that they really do feel deeply. They really are sensitive, only people are inclined to think nobody could really be as sensitive as they seem to be, so that’s hard luck on the family.’ Thomas took off his spectacles and gazed at Troy with short-sighted innocence. ‘Except,’ he added, ‘that they have the satisfaction of knowing that they are so much more sensitive than any one else. That’s a point that might interest you.’
‘Mr Ancred,’ Troy said patiently, ‘I am on leave because I’ve not been well –’
‘Indeed? You look all right. What’s the matter with you?’
‘A carbuncle,’ said Troy angrily.
‘Really?’ said Thomas clucking his tongue. ‘How sickening for you.’
‘– and in consequence I’m not at the top of my form. A commission of the sort mentioned in your sister-in-law’s letter would take at least three weeks’ intensive work. The letter gives me a week.’
‘How long is your leave?’
Troy bit her lips. ‘That’s not the point,’ she said. ‘The point is –’
‘I had a carbuncle once. You feel better if you keep on with your job. Less depressed. Mine,’ said Thomas proudly, ‘was on my bottom. Now that is awkward.’ He looked inquiringly at Troy, who by this time, according to her custom, was sitting on the hearth-rug. ‘Obviously,’ Thomas continued, yours –’
‘It’s on my hip. It’s very much better –’
‘Well, then –’
‘– but that’s not the point. Mr. Ancred, I can’t accept this commission. My husband is coming home after three years’ absence –’
‘When?’ Thomas asked instantly.
‘As far as we know in three weeks,’ said Troy, wishing she could bring herself to lie freely to her visitor. ‘But one can never tell. It might be sooner.’
‘Well, of course Scotland Yard will let you know about that, won’t they. Because, I mean, he’s pretty high up, isn’t he? Supposing you did go to Ancreton, they could ring you up there just as well as here.’
‘The point is,’ Troy almost shouted, ‘I don’t want to paint your father as Macbeth. I’m sorry to put
