face burns, the compliment almost too much to process. She catches a blue-eyed glare aimed at her by Susan Perry-Gore. ‘Thank you, Dame Edith.’
‘You’ve heard that I’ve been commissioned to do some work for the War Artists’ Advisory Committee?’
Ellie nods at the other students dabbing earnestly at their canvases. ‘We … we’ve all heard.’
‘Indeed. I’m working on a portrait of Corporal Deirdre Cross. Very brave young woman. Saved one of our pilots by pulling him out of his burning plane and throwing herself on top of him when the plane’s bomb went off.’
Ellie shakes her head. ‘I hadn’t heard of that.’
The older woman huffs and runs her hand over the neat central parting of her greying brown hair. ‘The war isn’t just about men, Miss Burgess. There are many brave and capable young women out there doing their part. Their stories must be heard.’
‘Yes, Dame Edith.’
‘I find that I’ll be requiring an assistant. I have another commission to start as soon as I finish Corporal Cross’s portrait.’ The woman frowns, a deep line creasing the still-smooth skin of her broad forehead. ‘Just to mix the paints and clean the studio, of course. Would you be interested, Miss Burgess? I couldn’t pay you, of course, but you could watch and learn.’
Ellie sucks in her breath. Had she just heard right? Had Dame Edith Spink, the first woman to be elected as a full member to the Royal Academy, asked her if she’d like to help in her studio?
‘Oh, yes! I’ll do my absolute best for you.’
‘Right. See me after class on Monday. We’ll make arrangements. You’re not worried about travelling around town, are you, what with this bombing nonsense going on?’
Ellie shakes her head, the net snood holding her ash-blonde hair bouncing on the shoulders of her blue cotton dress. ‘Not at all. My father said the Germans are mainly after the factories down by the riverside, so I don’t go anywhere near there. In fact, I’m meeting my friend Ruthie to see a film after class. We’re not going to let any Jerry keep us away from Tyrone Power in Jesse James. We’ve been waiting ages for it to reach Norwich.’
‘Good show. Nil illegitimi carborundum. We’ll speak after class on Monday.’
***
Ellie spins out the door of the imposing Victorian red-brick edifice of the Norwich School of Art and Design, her heart beating so fast that she’s sure it will fly out of her chest. This is the day her life starts. She’ll be an artist, just like the wonderful Dame Edith. No, no, that’s not quite right. I AM an artist. I AM an artist. Dame Edith has chosen her over everyone else in the class. Over that swot Graham Simmons and his aggressive Cubism, over Grace Adamson and her neo-Impressionist dots and splashes, over even Susan Perry-Gore and her precise Constable landscapes.
She hurries up the road, skirting around the cobbles filled with muddy water from the morning showers, past the knapped flint walls of the medieval Halls, and up St Andrews Hill towards the shops in London Street. She glances at her watch as she rushes past the outdoor market and weaves her way through the busy shopping streets to All Saints Green. When she reaches the soaring Art Deco exterior of the Carlton Cinema, she stops under the canopy and leans her flushed face into the cool, light breeze.
She can’t wait to tell Ruthie the news. And George too, of course. She’ll ring him tomorrow before he heads off to work at the chocolate factory, though she already knows what her fiancé will say: ‘Well done, old girl. I always knew you had it in you. You’re as good as that French fellow, Money, in my eyes, you know that.’
Sweet, faithful, reliable George, who’d once got Picasso confused with a piccolo. He was nothing like Tyrone Power, but maybe that was all for the best.
***
A poke in the ribs. ‘C’mon, Sleepy. We’re home.’
Ellie blinks and rubs her eyes with her gloved fingers. The bus lurches to a stop. She yawns and rises from her seat.
‘Sorry. I wasn’t snoring, was I?’
‘Fit to beat the band. You must’ve been dreaming about divine Tyrone. He’s absolutely gravy, don’t you think? I just love his little moustache.’
Ellie looks over at her friend’s broad, friendly face, the cheeks flushed bright pink from the warm summer air. Under her navy felt beret, Ruthie’s carefully rolled brown hair sits unravelling on the collar of the summer dress she’s remade out of her mother’s old floral dressing gown.
‘Last week it was all about Clark Gable. You’re as fickle as they come, Ruthie.’
Ruthie Huggins prods Ellie down the bus’ stairs. ‘Hurry up, Ellie. It’s late and I’m starving. Mum said she’d save me some shepherd’s pie.’
‘Shepherd’s pie? Where’d she get the lamb?’
‘Uncle Jack’s old ewe kicked the bucket last week. He’s been divvying it up. Dad’s taking the train up to Fakenham tomorrow to get some more.’ She presses her forefinger against her lips. ‘All strictly hush-hush.’
They jump off the platform onto the pavement. Ruthie grabs Ellie’s arm and pulls her back sharply as a bicycle whips by in front of them.
‘Crumbs!’ Ellie exclaims. ‘That was close.’
Ruthie tucks her hand into the crook of Ellie’s arm. ‘You’d think they’d be more careful in this blackout. Margery Roberts’s cousin got run over by a bicycle in London last week.’ She reaches into her sleeve and pulls out a white handkerchief, waving it into the inky night as they pick their way across the road.
They hurry past the boarded-up windows of Mr Pilch’s greengrocer’s and down the road, stopping at an iron gate in the cobbled flint wall of St Bartholomew’s Catholic School for Boys. Ellie jangles her key in the lock. The gate swings open, screeching like a gull. Ruthie reaches over and gives Ellie a hug. Their arms intertwined, the girls gaze up at the sliver of moon in the sky. A lone cricket chirps from somewhere in the school’s new vegetable garden.
‘Do you suppose they’ll come back, Ellie?’
‘I hope not. But they probably will.’
‘It’s been quiet since the nineteenth. And that was only one plane. They’ll probably go after London before us. There’s nothing much here but mustard and chocolate.’
‘There’s the munitions works down by the riverside, Ruthie. They shot that up the other day.’
‘I know.’ Ruthie sighs and leans her head on Ellie’s shoulder. ‘I like to think they’d ignore us. I don’t want things to change.’
Ellie brushes her hand against Ruthie’s soft hair. ‘Everything changes.’ The night air, humid with the promise of rain, is like a velvet cloak around them.
‘That’s such great news about working for Dame Edith, Ellie. Your dad’s going to be so chuffed.’
‘I’m over the moon. But it’ll probably mean I won’t see much of George.’
