Black Valentines

  BLACK VALENTINES

  By Barrymore Tebbs

  Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved.

  For my sister.

  Part One

  “Dahl!” an excited voice called from behind me. I turned.

  “Clive Dahl, it’s me. Harry Clemmons. Don’t you recognize me?”

  The man who approached was a bit too happy, a bit too well dressed to be someone of my acquaintance. I did not recognize him, neither his face nor his name.

  “What’s gotten into you, Dahl? You look a right mess.”

  Of course I did. I had just left work, a lowly clerk’s job at the firm of Bates and Reed, Solicitors, where I slaved ten hours a day over a typewriter at a cluttered desk in an equally cluttered room with dismal lighting, breathing in the infernal air of Mr. Bates’ wretched pipe tobacco. Perhaps Clemmons would forgive me for not immediately recognizing him as I squinted in the harsh glare of that otherwise glorious summer afternoon.

  Aside from the eye strain and general weariness of working long hours in cramped quarters, my monthly ration from the chemist had been used up, and I had lain awake the night before unable to sleep from the pain in my leg. In the mornings I was frequently too tired to shave and dress myself properly, my clothes were often wrinkled, my hair tangled, and as I had no reason to see or be seen by the clientele at Bates and Reed, I was often careless about my appearance.

  “I had no idea you were in London these days. Do you live in the neighborhood?”

  Hardly. Lodgings in Holborn were something I would never afford in this lifetime. The pension wasn’t enough to live on and so I had been forced to take a job doing the only thing I was skilled to do, the one benefit from my years of service in His Majesty’s Army.

  “No,” I said. “Please forgive me. It’s been a long day, and I’m quite tired. I haven’t the foggiest—”

  “Of course you don’t. I can tell by the look on your face. I suppose we’ve all changed a bit over the years, some of us a bit worse for the wear and tear. I suppose I never would have expected to see myself in these sorts of togs when we were in school.”

  School, ah, yes. I finally gave him a good looking over, but it wasn’t until I held my palm up to shield the sunlight and looked him straight in the eye that it slowly came back to me.

  “Clemmy?” I said. How I remembered such a dreadful nickname I’ll never know.

  Clemmons’ face brightened further, if that could have been possible. He brought to mind a frisky puppy I had when I was a lad, always at my heels when I was just home from school, all watery eyed and slobbery tongued.

  “It’s good to see you, Clemmons,” I lied. I couldn’t have cared less, but perhaps if I pretended affability he might take me around the corner pub for a pint.

  “It’s good to see you too, Dahl, though a sight for sore eyes, I must say. Having a rough time of it since the war, are you?” His eyes took in the cane and the weight my body placed upon it.

  “I manage to get by,” I said. I loathed being the center of attention, and whatever he had been up to, from the looks of him, it was far more interesting than anything I could say about myself. “But what about you? You’re looking fantastic.”

  He smiled and fingered the fine threads of his lapels. “Whoever thought I would end up becoming assistant curator at one of the finest museums in London? We live in such a small world when we are young, with our dreams and aspirations. I remember you wanted ever so much to be a constable, like your old Dad, eh? And me? I wanted nothing more than to draw and to paint. Either way, we would both have our pick of the ladies. What young woman doesn’t succumb to a man in uniform, or isn’t flattered when one offers to paint her portrait?”

  I personally thought him a bit of a dandy, but perhaps that’s what women were after these days. I wouldn’t know. They certainly weren’t after me.

  Sometimes it’s difficult to keep the disappointment from my face. Life was full of them it seemed, and I found it harder each day to keep up the good façade. “I don’t mean to bore you, old chap,” Clemmons said, obviously misinterpreting my expression. “I’m sure you have far better things to do with your time, but you see, well, as I said I’m now assistant curator at the Tate. We’ve put together a retrospective of the paintings of Julian Balfour.”

  Clemmons searched my face for a flicker of recognition of the name. I was unable to grant him one. “Balfour was only one of the finest portraitists of the last half of the century. His use of reflected light on the faces of his subjects is renowned in the art world, and it’s quite a coop that I was able to gather so many of his works in one place at one time. It’s my first as assistant curator, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited. The private viewing is this Sunday. So, well, that is, if you don’t have previous engagements I would be delighted to see you there. It’s an exclusive event, black tie of course, but I suppose you could get by wearing your uniform.” He leaned toward me with a conspiratorial whisper, “Complimentary food and drink. I’ll put you on the guest list and expect you at seven.”

  “Really, that’s very thoughtful—”

  “It’s nothing. You haven’t been getting out much, have you? I didn’t think so. It will do you a world of good. I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  He pulled a card from his wallet and placed it in my hand. The name and address of the museum were embossed in gold on a cream colored card, with the name Harold Clemmons scrawled in elegant script across the bottom.

  “Thank you,” I said and managed a smile.

  “I’ll see you there, then?”

  I nodded.

  Clemmons slapped me affably on the shoulder and then turned to go - damn the man, he nearly had a skip in his step – but just before he dashed away he turned and said, “And Dahl, do try to clean yourself up a bit.”

  He flashed his teeth, tipped his hat, and merged with the crowd.

  I am not certain what possessed me to go for I had not been out for an evening’s diversion in months. Occasionally a mate would look me up and drop by and, if I was lucky, drag me round for a pint, but certainly I had done nothing that would require me to make myself presentable.

  On Saturday I had a bath, and went to the barber, but after a shave and a haircut I felt no better about my appearance. Even until the last minute on Sunday afternoon I was not certain I would go, but then I dressed and stood before the shaving glass in my room and polished the buttons on my uniform and decided I didn’t look half bad. What did it really matter? I was going to a museum to stare at paintings of which I knew nothing about, so I didn’t expect to be dragged into any dreary conversations about the aesthetics of art. Besides, what did anyone care about an old soldier anyway?

  At six thirty I hailed a cab. On my wages I can’t afford to catch cabs and trains all over town. I walk wherever and as often as I can. If I tire my leg too much I look forward to a night with the needle, or, when I have run out, a night spent staring into the shadows on the ceiling.

  The place was too brightly lit and far too noisy for my taste, but even in the crowded rooms I felt invisible and utterly alone, which was just as well. I hate it when a fuss is made on my behalf. I was not the only soldier in uniform, so I did not feel so conspicuous in my red jacket. I made my way slowly, not only because of the limp but also because the museum was crowded and patrons were given to standing in one place for long periods, turning their heads this way and that, commenting, viewing, and discussing yet again. The paintings were indeed quite lovely, but it was not until I saw the waiters buzzing about with trays laden with flutes of champagne that my interest began to pique. Champagne is far from my favorite drink, but I helped myself indeed, thank you very much, and took a step toward the center of the room to escape the closeness of
bodies around me. I finished one glass, and straight away another and it was when I had just begun a third that a sort of curtain opened (when one group in front of me went this way and a second went that) that I saw her.

  Or should I say her portrait.

  She looked directly into my eyes from across the room, commanding me to step forward for a better look. I had no choice but to heed her siren’s call. The closer I came the more beautiful she looked. Clemmons had told me that the artist was known for his use of reflected light and I suppose it was evident in all the works on display, but in this portrait it was downright mesmerizing. It seemed as if the light bounced onto this young woman’s face perhaps from the ripples of some pool of water before her, just below and out of view of the frame, so that in appearance it seemed that her face was filled with some unearthly glow. When I say young woman, I use the phrase loosely, for in the portrait she was barely older than a girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age, no more than sixteen. And the closer I came to her, the more mysterious and beguiling she appeared. She was pale and fine boned with a heart shape faced surrounded by masses of white blond curls. Her head seemed too large for the delicate neck which supported it. Her eyes were of a narrow, almond shape which only added to that otherworldly quality about her face. It was the eyes which enraptured me most. From a distance they seemed to be looking directly into mine, yet up close they seemed to be looking just below my eye level, as if down and through me, perhaps into my soul, perhaps somewhere beyond that only she could see.

  “I see you’ve found Laura,” said a familiar voice beside me. It was Clemmons, beaming from ear to ear like a child in a candy store. “Isn’t this a fantastic turnout? I couldn’t be happier.”

  I switched hands on the cane in order to shake his proffered hand. “You’ve done well for yourself, Clemmons. I should be very proud if I were you.”

  “Believe me, I am.” His gaze darted past mine, and if it was at all possible the smile broadened as he nodded in recognition to someone.

  “She’s absolutely beautiful. And the painting, I must say you were right about the lighting and all that. You say her name is Laura?”

  “Laura Balfour. She’s the artist’s daughter. Would you like to meet her?”

  “You mean she’s here?”

  “Of course.” Clemmons’ hand touched my shoulder and the pressure indicated that I should turn and follow him.

  “Clemmons, I can’t.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “I’m not presentable.”

  “You look fine. Rather dashing in that uniform, if I may say so. Besides, Laura is not concerned with appearances.”

  “You’re certainly on a first name basis.”

  “And why not? This exhibition wouldn’t have been possible without the complete cooperation of the family. Come, she’s right over there. I’ll introduce you, and if she scares you off you can go scurrying back to your corner.”

  I followed Clemmons as he wove his way in and out among the crowds and found myself actually hoping that I would lose him. He stepped into one of the side rooms – less crowded than the others – and led me to an alcove with a row of chairs where the woman in the portrait was sitting by herself. She was a few years older than she had been when she sat for her father’s painting, but just as beautiful. Her chin was held high, although it somehow did not manage to convey any trace of haughtiness. There was a permanent smile painted on her face as she seemed to bask in the glow of her surroundings.

  “Hello, Laura, I’ve someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “Oh, Harry, you know how I hate to attract attention at these things,” she said and her voice was as lovely as I expected it to be.

  “Which is why you sit pouting in the corner all evening.” Clemmons smiled, Laura smiled, and I could not help but smile along with them. “Laura Balfour, may I present Mr. Clive Dahl, recently retired from service in His Majesty’s Armed Forces.”

  What a tactful introduction, I thought, and once again the cane switched hands so I could take her extended hand. I lightly grazed the back of her glove with my lips.

  “Miss Balfour, I am honored.”

  “A soldier, how exciting,” she said, her eyes simply glowing as she stared up and through and beyond me. What an absolutely stunning pair of eyes she had, as pale and blue as any I had ever seen. “Are you wearing your uniform?”

  I was briefly taken aback by the absurdity of the question. I was standing directly in front of her. Couldn’t she see that I was wearing my uniform? And then I understood; the almost mystical quality about her eyes, the way her gaze, both now and in her portrait, seemed to stare directly through me. She was blind.

  “I am,” I said, “but it’s not as exciting as all that.”

  “Do you have any medals?”

  “No. No medals. Just buttons.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone? Forgive me. That was rude. I just thought that if a man were to be sent into battle, he should be awarded a medal and more if he were to kill anyone.”

  “Well, then,” said Clemmons. “Shall I leave you at it?”

  “Of course, Mr.Clemmons. Mr. Dahl will keep me company until Lionel returns.” Scarcely had she uttered these words than Clemmons flitted off into the crowd. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Dahl?”

  “Please call me Clive,” I said and gratefully lowered myself into the chair beside hers. It was a relief to at last be off my leg.

  “Then you must call me Laura.”

  “Of course.”

  “Does your leg cause you much pain, Clive?

  I turned and studied her profile. Her gaze remained fixed straight ahead though she tilted her head slightly in my direction. She was blind, wasn’t she?

  “Frequently. At night I take morphine for the pain but I am afraid I always use my allotment far too quickly. But how did you know about my leg?”

  “I heard your cane both as you approached, and when you sat down. When you took my hand, you shifted the cane from your right hand to your left, so the pain is in your right leg, and when you sat down, I felt the weight of your body as you very nearly dropped into the chair and you emitted a slightly audible sigh of relief.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “Not really. When one is blind one’s other senses naturally become more developed. But I gather someone like me is far more observant of her surroundings than the average person who still has their sight. Ask anyone in this room to close their eyes and tell you which of your hands is holding the cane and I am almost certain they will guess incorrectly.”

  I liked this young woman. I liked her very much indeed.

  “Moreover, you are most self conscious about your appearance due to the limp and the cane. And you needn’t be. The majority of the men here tonight are not half the man you are for having braved the battlefield.”

  If she only knew how badly I had fared in battle, the lives my own incompetence had cost.

  “It is nothing.”

  “It certainly is something! I can’t think of a more honorable way for a man to serve his country. What do these men here do? They discuss politics and create laws, or uphold or break them, as the case may be. They are overfed, indulge too frequently in drink, and come to places like this to bolster the pretense that they know anything about art. You’ll think me a braggart for saying as much, but I know more of art than the average person in this room, and I can’t see any of it.”

  “Have you been blind your entire life?” You might think the question too forward since I had only just made her acquaintance, but already I was at ease with her. The hubbub in the other rooms faded away until it was just the two of us, here in our own world.

  “If I hadn’t I may as well have been. I was in an accident when I was quite young, a dreadful fire, and if it were not for my brother Lionel I should not be here today.”

  “I’m so very glad you are,” I said and gently touched her gloved wrist. She smiled and tilted her head in my direction yet again, and I could te
ll that she was as fond of me as I was of her.

  “Sometimes I remember certain things from before the accident; I can see my father’s face as clear as day, though it has in actuality been nearly fifteen years; I remember a dog I had – do you like dogs, Clive? – a big fuzzy thing with a body full of white-blond curls—”

  “—like your own—”

  “—yes, like mine; a doll I once had, an ugly little thing with a red hat and a long nose that had a club he used to clobber people—”

  “— like Punch.”

  “Yes, of course, that’s who he was! Ugly little Punch. I used to hold him up when Lionel would torment me and club him and we would laugh,” which she did now, and the laughter at those long ago memories brought a smile to my face.

  “But you know, Clive, I have a secret, and I hope you shan’t think less of me.”