Drizzle. London had been nothing but drizzle since she'd arrived. And now, just as she emerged from Chancery Lane tube, it started again. She lifted her collar to shield her neck and arched her shoulders. Pulling her cheek between her teeth she searched for Matthew's face but he was nowhere to be seen. Several impatient City workers pushed past her and with a sigh she huddled under the awnings of a nearby shoe shop.
Edith Crawley was annoyed - cold, damp and waiting. Her foot was shaking, her frustration pooled there and was trying to break its way out. There was something particularly bleak about weekday lunchtimes in the capital, especially in early March. Everything was grey. Yorkshire never seemed grey, neither did Cambridge, but London had been this way since she'd arrived.
She looked at her wrist. The delicate, small hands of the art deco watch told her it was fifteen minutes past their agreed meeting time. She wiped the damp from the battered glass with her thumb. It had been her great grandmother's. After that it was her grandmother's and then it skipped a generation to Sybil. A sharp pang darted through her chest cavity. She wondered why she wore it; it was a constant reminder of the loss. Punitive, and for what?
Over the car engines and cab horns she heard her name, "Edith! Ede!"
Matthew was half jogging up the street carrying an enormous black umbrella. The crowds parted for him, not that they had much choice. He was breathing heavily and he beamed a warm, genuine smile, "sorry I'm late old girl."
"Very late."
With mock solemnity he parroted the words back to her, "very late."
Edith rolled her eyes and noticed his collar. He was still wearing his bands, two ridiculous strips of superfluous white fabric hanging from a starched collar over the lapels of his black suit. Her eyes narrowed, "Matthew, are you mid-trial?"
His hand went to his neck and he smiled sheepishly, "well-" he drew the word out.
She couldn't believe it, couldn't believe him and she begun to walk, stomp really, up High Holborn, "you are infuriating. I came all the way up from bloody Brixton to see you." She gestured erratically towards him, "You bloody asked me to."
Matthew jogged a few steps and caught up with her, looping his arm through hers and levering the umbrella over their heads, "I know, I know but you know how it is, I'm a criminal barrister, juicy brief comes in - I can't turn it down just because I'm having lunch with my baby sis." He squeezed her elbow and cheerily sung the words, "there's still time for a burrito."
Burritos were her weakness, as well he knew, she looked resolutely ahead but turned them towards Chilangos, "you could've text me. And I'm not your sister, you really need to stop calling me that, s'weird."
"Why? You basically are."
They'd grown up together. Edith, Mary and Sybil in the decaying Abbey and Matthew and his family in one of the many outhouses; converted into beautiful family homes and sold off to try and shore up the finances of a once great aristocratic land holding. Coincidentally his family shared the same surname and a fast friendship between their parents had ensued. The forced bonding of their respective children was the inevitable result. Matthew was rather like the older brother Edith never had, he chased her round the garden with snails, helped her muddle through secondary school, encouraged her to apply to Cambridge and visited her when she went up. He was kind and supportive when the rest of her family, with the exception of Sybil, seemed nonplussed at her very existence.
Nonetheless his term of endearment no longer held the same appeal. He pulled down his umbrella and they walked into the bustling burrito bar, "it's weird, Matthew –" she turned pointedly to look at him as they joined the long queue to the counter, "because you are sleeping with my actual sister."
He covered his mouth as though scandalised, "I do not know to what you are referring Ms Crawley."
Edith rolled her eyes again. She didn't know for certain, of course, Mary didn't talk to her about anything, particularly not about Matthew, but she'd seen them together at Christmas and she was not a fool. He didn't want to talk about it and Edith decided not to push. She couldn't see why Matthew, who was kind and warm and funny would want to be with her sister, who was none of those things. She found that she didn't care enough what either of them did to interrogate him on the issue, "Fine. Whatever. Just stop calling me sis."
Large burritos in warm silver wrappers were ordered and they huddled around a small table shared by four other patrons. Matthew checked his watch.
"What time do you have to be back?"
He mumbled through a mouthful of rice and chicken, "Jury coming back just after 2." He wiped his mouth, "so moving quickly on to why I wanted to buy you a meal -"
Scowling she arched an eyebrow, "this doesn't count as buying me a meal; we're not sitting down and my food is wrapped in tin foil."
He waved his arm dismissively, "I got you a job."
"What?"
"Well, an interview for one, sort of."
"Matthew, I have a job."
"Edith. You waitress. You want to be an artist, right?"
He asked the question as though he was still surprised, still needed to check she was sane. He'd said the word quietly and quizzically – artist? - pregnant with otherness and confusion. Matthew, rather like the rest of her family, couldn't quite believe that she wanted to paint, for a living. He wasn't cruel about it like everyone else, but baffled nonetheless. She could be a banker or a management consultant or a lawyer, like everyone else with a degree from Cambridge, like her sisters, her father, her mother, like Matthew. Her parents fully expected she'd realise this, her Father labelled her painting a phase, "like when you took to wearing black and dyed the ends of your hair blue."
Somewhat sceptically, she responded, "yes."
"Well, you know I'm a committee member of the John's Law Society?" He didn't wait for an answer, "we've been told that one of our alums will be appointed to the High Court."
Furrowing her brow with confusion Edith balled up her empty wrapper, "ok."
"It's been eight years since our last one, scandalous really." She nodded in agreement without having any real idea what he was talking about, "every High Court Judge from John's gets a portrait for the library." He put his rubbish in the overflowing bin and they walked outside, "and I put your name forward to – you know – paint it."
Edith laughed, "Matthew!" He looped his arm through hers, forcing her to walk back to Court with him and rendering her unable to end the ridiculous conversation, "I am not an artist."
He tilted his head, "you just said you were."
"That's – that's" she huffed in annoyance, "I'm trying to be, but I don't paint portraits. I've never painted one. I don't even think I can –"
"Si-Ede, all your doing is throwing your hat into the ring. You send some work in and then the Judge picks whoever he –or she – likes." He stopped them on the corner by the Old Bailey, "can't hurt to try, can it?"
Edith pulled away from his arm and traced a semi-circle on the blackened pavement with her shoe. The whole idea made her feel slightly queasy. Painting someone she didn't know - a Judge, no less – and then that painting being forever hung on a wall at a Cambridge college, examined and derided for eternity. There was also the pretty significant problem that ever since Sybil died she hadn't actually been able to paint. Her factory space in Brixton, rented for the sole purpose of facilitating a life as a professional artist, was full of blank, white canvasses. Perhaps the time had come for confession, "Matthew, it's just –"
"They pay the chosen artist £25,000." The shock of such a sum stopped Edith's worrying mind for a moment and she felt her mouth drop open. Matthew laughed at her, "Silly money, right? Look –" he fished in the pocket of his trench coat and handed her a small business card, "get a selection of stuff together and send it there. The Judge probably won't even pick you – but you've got to be in it to win it Ede."
She looked down at the sharp text on the cardboard,
"Mrs E. Hughes
Judge's Clerk
Snaresbrook Crown Court."
"You want my umbrella? Ede?"
Her attention snapped back up to Matthew and he waved it in her direction, "oh, I-no, thank you. It's not raining that hard."
He leant in and kissed her on the cheek. Lines worried his forehead and the lightness left his voice. He was very serious when he spoke again – his court voice as Mary dubbed it - "Edith, are you alright?"
She looked at him and briefly considered telling the truth. No. She was not. She'd come to London to be an artist, to forge a creative existence but she couldn't paint. She waitressed, came home, read, slept and did the same thing the next day and the next. She worried she'd drift like this forever, half a person. Pointless. She had thought it was grief but now she suspected it was her lot in life to feel this way.
She said none of it, instead she plastered on her best smile, "I'm fine." She gestured towards the court doors, "go on – Jury's waiting."
With a flash of brilliant white teeth Matthew darted through the doors, clapping the security guard on the back as he went. Edith ran her finger along the sharp edges of the small piece of cardboard and slipped it into the front pocket of her handbag.
The rain persisted the whole way home. Edith's hair matted together in thick strands and dripped onto her shoulders. She was shivering as she stepped onto the factory floor and the wave of heat from the large presses was a relief. From above she heard a wolf whistle over the din of electricity and metal on metal. Thomas was sitting astride the nearest machine. He was in tight jeans and an even tighter white tank top with ink stains covering the plain cotton. He raised his chin, said something and laughed but Edith couldn't hear him over the noise. She shrugged and pointed at her ears. He held a finger aloft and bent to the control panel. The machine shuddered and chugged into silence and Thomas climbed down.
He whistled at her again, "looking good Ede!"
"Is the wet look not 'in'?" She air-quoted the last word with an eye roll. She quickly dropped her hands to her side when it occurred to her that it was something her mother might do – or, worse, her grandmother.
"Not done like this, no. You're a tragic mess." He rapped her on the shoulder and shook his head.
Edith shrugged out of her wet coat and frowned, "Have I mentioned how much I enjoy returning home to a barrage of insults?"
"Shush, it's how I show my love." He grabbed her elbow and planted a wet kiss on her cheek, "better?"
"Please don't, you're all –" she waved her hand in front of his face, "grubby."
"Some girls like that."
"What would you know about what girls' like?"
"Touché." Thomas moved round to the front of the machine and knelt down to work the front panel open, "how was lunch?"
"Brief."
He spoke through grunts as he worked the paper tray out from underneath, "That good, eh? How was Matthew?"
The tray sprung free from its hold and Edith peered inside. Rows of bright pink roses were print into crisp, thick paper, "same as ever."
"Admitted to sleeping with Mary yet?"
"Nope, still denying it."
Thomas pulled out the paper and set it on the large wooden table in the middle of the factory floor. With a cheeky grin he waggled his eyebrows, "maybe they haven't done the dirty deed."
"I'm sure they have." She'd seen them together over Christmas; Thomas hadn't seen them since Matthew's birthday party in October. There was something going on between them then - there had always been something going on between them - but it was markedly different by the holiday. Sybil died in November, of course, it affected them all.
"This is Mary. She's a frigid bitch."
Punching him on the arm Edith choked back a laugh, "that's my sister you're talking about!"
"Such a fine specimen of a man is wasted on her." Thomas looked to the ceiling as if praying to God that Matthew might see the error of his ways.
Laughing, Edith pointed at the first row of sparkling pink roses, "they're cracking you know."
"Shit, where?" Thomas snapped back to business and examined the print, "she's insisting on this Barbie pink, it's impossible to get a mixture which sets smooth."
Moving round the table they both examined the pattern, "some of the ones down here are ok." Lightly Edith touched the paper, "I'm putting in for a painting job."
"To paint what?"
"Some Judge."
His eyebrows furrowed towards his nose, "A person? Can you paint people?"
"Maybe. I don't know." The uncertainty was apparent in her voice, but she'd decided on the way home to send in her portfolio. It wasn't because of the money, although it was more money than she could imagine. She didn't think she could paint someone's picture. She suspected she wouldn't ever paint again but she had to do something. A rejection was inevitable, but better that than not trying at all. "I won't be chosen anyway, so it's not a problem."
Thomas's eyes narrowed, "such an optimist." He shook his head and huffed, "they're all cracking now. I'll have to try another batch. Want to help mix?"
Thomas was an artist. He created beautiful pictures with layers of brightly coloured metal thinly painted onto paper. Foil blocking, as it was called, was an expensive and difficult business. The colour pigments did not get on well with the metal and getting the image to set precisely and evenly was a lesson in trial and error. To fund his art he'd set up a printing company to make glitzy invitations using the technique - Barrow's Blocking. The weddings of Belgravia nouveau riche and the dinner parties of Mayfair old money now paid for his own foil exploits.
Seeing the molten metal mix with the bright colour pigments was one of Edith's favourite activities and to be allowed to gently stir the air bubbles from the mixture was a particular treat. There was something calming about pulling the wooden stirrer through the thick sluice and watching the heavy grey dance with red or purple or yellow or whatever colours were required. It was also the most delicate part of the process; air bubbles were fatal. Thomas must feel very sorry for her indeed.
"No, no, it's too important, besides I have to sort out a portfolio for this thing and get ready for work. Thanks though." She reached out and squeezed his elbow, offered a meagre smile and headed towards the metal stairs in the corner.
"Ede?" She turned back as Thomas begun to ball up the failed attempt, "you feeling ok?"
The sigh that escaped her lips couldn't be stopped. She thought she was faking contentment quite successfully, perhaps not. She couldn't explain herself to Thomas any more than she could to Matthew.
"Just tired. Good luck with the next batch." Before he could quiz her any further she took the metal steps two at a time and walked hurriedly across the walkway that stretched over the factory floor. Thomas's eyes followed her.
At the other end she took the next staircase more slowly. It came out on a small walled landing with a heavy wooden door at one end. Edith's keys jangled in the lock and she shook the handle to coax her way into her flat.
Calling it a flat wasn't exactly accurate. It was the second floor of the factory. A huge open space with enormous picture windows split into smaller panes by uniform white metal bars. The walls were grey and weathered, large oak panels covered the floor. At one end there was a kitchen, made up of a few units and an oven. She came home one day in January to find Thomas had painted them a vivid shade of lilac. They looked absurd but they made the whole room seem warmer. A small table and two mismatched, rickety chairs sat in front of the kitchen. This dining area, of sorts, gave way to Edith's bed and wardrobe.
In the middle of the room was a huge painting table, splatted with various swatches of colour from the previous occupant's enthusiastic endeavours. Edith's brushes were set neatly atop it, beside numerous tubes of expensive paint and her watercolours. All were untouched. Easels were scattered across the floor with canvasses of different sizes set into their bindings, all blank. Behind the painting table, covering some of the windows was what Thomas had dubbed her 'Pollock canvass' – an enormous linen board on which she could paint a picture as large and as unique as her surroundings. On which she could truly realise the scope and brilliance of her creativity. It too, was blank.
Running along the far wall was an overflowing bookcase. The first section was all history, left over from her degree and now collecting dust, Edith had trouble believing she once held much of that knowledge in her head. The rest was fiction. Wonderful, glorious fiction. An escape into any world she chose at the tip of her fingertips.
Behind the door, in the corner, was the one sop to privacy. A toilet and sink had been assigned their own room. The bath, however, was large and copper and sat beside the entrance. Edith ate, slept and washed all in the same room.
It was terribly clichéd. Bohemian in the worst way. But she loved it. She had a sense that if she was ever able to make something of herself it would happen here, with the chugging printing presses below, and a view over South London's rooftops.
Kneeling on the floor beside her bed Edith drew out a selection of paintings from underneath. Without any real thought she shuffled a number of them together and put them into a large artist's file. She snatched her laptop from the bookshelf and plugged in the small picture printer. Opening her files she found a photograph of the only portrait she'd ever painted. She slipped a copy of it into the file. Edith suspected she should do a covering letter, detailing all the reasons she was perfect for this project and promising a remarkable painting suited to John's now and into the future. Neatly she scribed her address and telephone number.
"Dear Mrs Hughes,
For the Judge's consideration, please find pictures enclosed.
Yours sincerely,
Ms Edith Crawley"
The paintings would have to do the talking.