The Right Choice
Lily, dear, you must see this isnt sensible! Aunt Nina gently tapped the folders of sketches on the table with her polished nail.
Her old friend, Margaret Josephine, Lilys mother, had pleaded with Nina to have a word with her daughter, as, in her words, she barely listens to her family anymore. Mums advice fell on deaf ears, any attempts by her father to broach the subject of a sturdy profession were met with a warm hug about his neck, and hed instantly melt.
Shes always racing about with those wooden boards, paints, and brushes, like some sort of house painter! Margaret had fumed that very morning over coffee in Ninas office. Its pure folly! Its fine as a pastime, Ill allow that, but as a career its a disaster!
While Margaret rolled her eyes, Nina unwrapped a chocolate from her golden-foiled box and offered it around.
Margaret, Nina, and Lilys father, Victor, all worked in the hospital. Doctors a respectable, honourable, necessary profession. People listened to them, greeted them. They were always needed. Of course, Lily should follow suit, carry on the line! But
Shes completely out of control! Leaves after school and disappears, doesnt show up at the classes, comes home smelling of cheap luncheon meat and, heaven help us, turpentine, all to produce those ghastly sketches once again. I cannot abide them, Nina! I cant! The glaring colours, the jagged lines. Lily says its realism tinged with abstraction and I say its the opening act of madness. Nina, talk to her! Youre practically family. Help! Margaret despaired, anxiously checked her glinting gold-braceleted watch, and gasped. Already ten past nine a full ten minutes into her shift!
She whirled out the door, the sharp click of her heels echoing, doors banging behind her
Later that evening, Margaret and Nina, arms folded, both watched Lily as she arranged another folder of drawings on the table, tying her hair with a ribbon and humming some tune to herself.
Lily, you must knuckle down. Enough fooling about: its time to prepare for the exams! University applications! Aunt Nina gestured, rings shining on her fingers.
Apply where, exactly? Lily smoothed her hair at her temples and grinned cheekily.
Where? To medical school, of course! It’s not even a question, really. Well help you revise, make some calls, make sure you get in on the first round! But you need to get your head in the books, study, cram. Lily, get a grip!
Nina flipped her hand, accidently nudging a stack of watercolours from the shelf. They fluttered down like autumn leaves, scattering gently.
Lily scrambled to gather them, plopping to her knees in a flurry of hair and skirts.
Goodness, Lily! What on earth is this?! Ninas finger pointed scandalized at a study of a naked man. Absolutely grim! Out with it, now! Margaret! Did you see this?
Without a word Lily tried to reclaim her drawing, but Margaret snatched it up, hurrying to the kitchen, where she was hurriedly frying up fishcakes. Shed have preferred to serve pike, but as usual, there simply wasnt time.
Nina, arching an eyebrow, presented the offending sketch to Margaret.
She stared at it dumbfounded, spatula in hand, then blinked widely at her daughter.
Well? Whats this supposed to be? Lily crossed her arms, unbothered. Its perfectly natural for artists to study the human form, mum, honestly. Hes wearing underclothes, you just cant see
Darling, its natural to dwell on serious things like the fact that youre our daughter. Goggling at naked men in some dodgy studio, though, is depravity, Lily! Disgraceful! Margaret brandished her spatula. How shameful!
She said it as though her daughter had joined the circus.
Oh, mum, youre a hypocrite! You doctors all poke about in anatomy classes yourselves and no one minds! Lily snatched the sketch, frowning at the grease stain. The difference is, mum and the reason you dont understand me is that you only see organs, illnesses, fluids and swelling. I see people, mum. People! I want to paint them, so they look at themselves and feel beautiful. I have no desire to view their bodies as mere machines to fix. Im applying to art school and that’s that.
She stamped her foot, darted out, and, after a moment, sheepishly peeped back in.
Aunt Nina, would you like me to paint your portrait? In a proper dress, with your hair done up, not just your surgical coat and a bun. Would you? she said, spearing a fishcake with a fork, kissing her mothers vexed cheek.
Oh, Lily, I don’t wear “proper dresses,” as you call them. There’s no time. Work is relentless. Nina shook her head.
You could wear one. Maybe then workll give you a break, maybe all your whatevers will drop away, Lily said cheekily, blowing on her burning mouthful.
Lily, mind your tongue! Off to your room, now prepare for your courses! Youve anatomy to study tomorrow! Margarets voice snapped. The teachers ring constantly, saying you sketch the other students heads during lectures. Unacceptable!
Which heads, exactly? The structure is complex, I could help, you know Nina began.
Her classmates portraits, Nina. She gifts them to the others, distracting everyone! Spring comes, youll be off to medical school, Ill call in favours, your father will see to it. Youll be accepted, cant be helped. Were not simply ordinary GPs, weve earned respect! Margaret straightened her back, proud.
Lily merely shook her head.
It was a hazardous life straddling her mothers belief that Lily was a natural born surgeon and the conviction of her art club instructor, Mr Timothy, that Lily was a raw, rare talent whose work already glimpsed beyond the face, into the soul. Her portraits, even when awkward and not quite settled, seemed to breathe.
You must push on, Lily. Study, perhaps even abroad someday. For now, the Academy. Ill ring round, find the right people Once you know the basics, the foundations then comes life, and art. Mr Timothy gazed thoughtfully from the window.
He himself had never finished at the Academy; lifes events intervened. Hed become an autodidact, opened his own studio, teaching what he knew and what he didnt, he sensed. Lost and doubting souls found him. He undercharged, poured himself into his pupils, having no family of his own, no one waiting at home. He lived next to the studio, in a room adjacent to the old parlour, sun-dappled parquet, canvas stands, fake fruit in vases for target practice. There, he gave lessons.
Hed met Lily at the greengrocers, dithering over grapes none quite right, too bedraggled, too pale, too chopped.
If you want a snack, these will do, plump and sweet despite their appearance. But if a male voice interrupted her thoughts, a hand plucked at a bunch of sultanas.
Lily glanced up.
Mr Timothy, in a dull grey overcoat, matching cap, battered satchel at his side, shrugged sheepishly.
Sorry, you looked so lost, I he murmured.
Not for eating, Lily replied evenly. Id like to paint a still life. For mums birthday. She might hang it in the kitchen.
She said this simply, as if any reasonable adult would understand.
And he did
Shes been scribbling since childhood, Margaret pursed her lips, polished her fork, and heaped up potatoes. Used up every scrap of paper in the house. Other girls asked for dolls or trains, but Lily wanted paints all sorts of stuff. Always: Ill be an artist! she said. But who are artists now? They never prosper! Its feast one year, famine the next. Lilys too generous shell give her work away for nothing! And what of those live models? Those jaunts out-of-doors, whatever they’re called Sketch-outs or summat? All nonsense. Hippies! Margaret pronounced, pressing another fishcake onto Ninas plate. Eat. Victors on call tonight, so wont touch leftovers. Ill make fresh ones.
Nina, tired and ravenous, ate. She yearned only to get home, but Margaret seemed out for a long chat, and Lilys dilemma was nowhere near resolved.
After her O-levels, Lily was signed up for medical college preparatory courses; Margaret knew the ropes, Victor also, they could pull strings, help out. Lily, with stunning regularity, skipped classes and did not lie about it. “No,” shed say, “I just didnt go.”
Young people have not an ounce of conscience, responsibility, or duty these days! Margaret fretted.
Nina nodded thoughtfully and then spoke.
Maybe it’s for the best, Margaret. I wasnt convinced medicine was my path either when I applied. But I studied learned my Latin got through, thank heavens, got on staff. Still, in truth, Im a craftsman of sorts, I say, though nearly a Matron by now. Its all technique, really, not much intuition, not at all. Know what I mean? Ninas eyes met Margarets.
I do not. Whats that about intuition, Nina? Everythings set down in books, all well established, nothing to invent! And you do yourself down for nothing! Margaret scoffed.
The point of the visit had not been to help Nina justify her own career, but to have her persuade Lily.
Still, being in the wrong profession is hard, sometimes, terribly hard Nina trailed off, fork idle.
She had gone into medicine to prove she could. Chose the hardest course she could imagine, learned everything by force of will, wept with her Latin. Parents had never believed shed amount to much, nor had her boyfriend, but she did it.
Dont get above yourself, girl, her mum said. Work at the factory with me, or with your dad, theres always work somewhere. Machinists do well! Youll be happy.
Evenings, her parents drank their tipples and giggled behind the curtain, while Nina buried herself in textbooks at a friends house. She made her way, did not repeat their life. But how much it had cost her, she couldnt admit to anyone. Nina avoided the wards these days, took on administration found a niche, settled. Still, she sometimes thought of becoming a dressmaker, a designer, a cutter. But her own mother, the seamstress, had always looked so drained and dull Nina feared repeating her fate. She rarely used needle and thread herself. Was she happy? Mostly, yes. There was money, almost no free time to mope. No family either shed channelled it all into her work.
Paintings easy, though, its a flight of fancy, a sort of idleness, you know that yourself, Nina! And our work, at least, is honest and well-respected. Tea? Yes, Ill put the kettle on. Bit late for coffee! Margaret declared, setting the kettle to boil.
Nina left after half an hour, feigning a headache and complaining about the darkness. Margaret had quite exhausted her. She could argue endlessly about Lilys wrong choices, but had little care for Ninas troubles.
Lily watched her leave, frowning in thought
Mr Timothy turned up at their house quite by accident.
This is where we live. Do come in, Ill put the kettle on its so cold out, Lily chirped. Take these slippers, please! The floors stone cold, the heatings not on yet.
Her guest, embarrassed by his threadbare socks, hurriedly slipped them on, burying his hands in jacket pockets.
Scent of perfume that fresh, light kind, not at all musky and oppressive. Pleasant.
Lily, perhaps Id better go? he hesitated.
No, not at all! Ill make tea, show you my work. You can help me select something for the competition oh, heaven, nothing feels suitable!
She vanished, rustling through sketches and watercolours, propping canvases against the walls.
Not this nor that. Mum thinks this ones a mess. Funny, she called as she rummaged. Mum doesnt take to painting, not mine, anyway. Believes I should have a real job like herself. Signed me up for those classes, but I dont always go. Mr Timothy, mind the stove! The kettles whistling!
But he hadnt moved, lost in the black-and-white photographs in their frames on the wall Lilys family, younger Margaret in a puff-sleeved dress, just after graduation, photographed from the side, masterfully done. Victor as a student, sturdy in tracksuit and windcheater. Little tooth-gapped Lily, all endearing silliness
Kettle! Lilys voice cut through.
Forgive me, but I should go now, Mr Timothy said awkwardly. As for your paintings… better you decide. You must make the final choice yourself.
But Lily was flummoxed. Shed barely talked him into coming, desperate to win the art contest if she did, surely her mum would see sense.
Hed have made his escape but for Margaret, who suddenly stood in the hall, disapprovingly eyeing his scuffed shoes.
She didnt care for unexpected guests always conscious her home might not look as spotless as a doctors surely should.
Lily? Is that you? Whos here? she asked, then stopped short, her voice quivering.
Margaret, its a misunderstanding. Honestly, I Ill be off, you won’t have to see me again. I promise I shant…
Lily watched the odd scene, then strode forward.
No one’s leaving. Mum, take off your shoes and come in. Theres tea boiled and pastries in the fridge. Ill heat supper. You two are adults youll sit and talk. Mum, hes my art instructor. I invited him to help with the competition pieces. If I win, Ill get a grant to study and then
Margaret cut her off, dropping her bag, storming at Mr Timothy.
You! Again! Will you never stop? Out out of my life! And keep out of Lilys too! Ill see to it youll never come near us! Down with your art and easels! Now its clear why she burns with all this nonsense. Is it fate? Is it? Margarets laughter was shrill and unpleasant. She passed him straight into the kitchen, rattling crockery just to drown out the silence.
Lily, I should leave. Goodbye, Timothy laced his shoes and tried to open the door, but Lily blocked his way.
Oh, no you dont. Go tell her what you wanted, like sensible adults. Why must you all make life so hard?! she ushered him to the kitchen.
And he obeyed, meek as a child
Sometimes, when Lily took up painting, I wondered is she really yours, a twist of fate, though of course biologically shes Victors. But inside shes got your spirit. She wants to be another Constable or perhaps a Sargent. How absurd! Hilarious, really! We split up over this same struggle, didnt we? Margaret sighed, twitching the kitchen curtain aside.
Timothy poured tea.
Sugars in the cupboard. Sorry, only granulated, no cubes, she whispered.
She remembered everything, how he liked it, always sweet, a bit too much, really. And the wildflowers in the morning, always a posy, and the picnics in meadows, never caring a jot for the usual routines or his aching back.
Theyd had love true, proud love but it was never planned, never laid out. Timothy lived for the present, for art. He painted Margaret and won prizes for his works; a few light-filled summer portraits were sold off to wealthy Londoners. It pained him, others admiring her, but the price had been too good to pass up.
You never came back, never called. I searched for you, feared something dreadful had happened. Then I buried myself in my studies, took a post at the hospital, filled my life so tight there was no room for anything else. Ill have coffee. Stop fiddling with your spoon! Margaret snapped.
Timothy fell silent.
I was offered a place in Venice, with a group. Couldnt refuse. I grew so much as an artist, Margaret, truly! I learnt, I he spoke earnestly.
Yes. I see. Thats why Ill never allow Lily to become an artist. Its fine as a hobby everyone has one now but she will earn her keep decently, and grow up sound, Margaret shrugged. Understood?
Not all artists are as I was. Not all betray. Its nothing to do with the profession. I’ve known heartless, unkind doctors too. My own mother you never met her. She simply faded away. Eighty-five, put away in a hospital, long forgotten. Ive disliked doctors ever since. Not you, nor your husband. Just… doctors. So you see, it’s not the job, it’s us who spoil things. Forgive me. Dont punish her for my failings, please.
Margaret sprang up suddenly, a teacup upsetting, brown tea running across the cloth. She didnt care. Red-faced and trembling, she shook her head.
Because of you? Dont flatter yourself! Well make our own decisions. Lily will make hers. And you vanish back to Venice or Florence, or wherever you wish. Go on!
He all but fled, making a great noise retrieving his umbrella before disappearing.
Margaret finally broke down in tears, smearing her cheeks with tears and mascara.
Mum, hes a lonely soul, truly His flats empty, not just the furniture, just empty a studio in one room, lives in another, lifeless kitchen. Lily hugged her mothers shoulders, sniveling. You loved him, didnt you? Mum, I had no idea Ill stop painting if you want. If it pains you, I wont. Ill go off to medical school, everythingll be fine. Agreed? Mum, darling, precious love
She showered her mum with kisses. Margaret sobbed harder, then at last calmed, drank water, wiped her mouth on her sleeve like a child, and sniffed.
No, Lily. You must do whats right for you. My silly notions shouldnt hold you back. I hope, more than anything, Ive taught you love to not abandon people. Did I? Why cry now? I just gave you my blessing. Go be whatever! A road sweeper, if you wish! Margaret now wiped her daughters tears, held her to her heart, stroked her bony back.
No, mum. I couldnt sweep streets failed PE ever so often! May I paint you and Aunt Nina? Properly, I mean? Now lets have tea. We havent touched the cakes! Which do you want with rose petals or walnuts? No, wait, coffee first!
Margaret watched her daughter and felt the weight lift, felt light, free. Why? Shed let go, at last. Saw Timothy again let go of the bitterness.
Lily waited nervously in a long queue. It felt daunting.
Miss, what do you have there? A portrait? Those are submitted upstairs! barked someone by her ear.
Oh, Sampson! They arent bottles for recycling, for heavens sake! tittered a cheerful woman with glasses. Upstairs, young lady, portraits upstairs. Sampson, do be a dear and help her! Where do they find these boys?
Lily eyed the burly volunteer not an artist in the least, broad-shouldered, muscular, but with a kind face.
Here, let me help. Those are hefty. I volunteer because creative folk need a hand, he explained.
So what do you do? Lily asked, suddenly shy about her stretched-out old jumper.
Im in construction. London Uni. Theres a ball soon, youll come, wont you? I cant dance for toffee, but do come. Im Alex.
She came and Alex was, indeed, a terrible dancer, which made it more fun.
Lilys painting two women in evening dresses before the Royal Opera House drew much attention. One judge in particular peered this way and that with his spectacles, retreating and advancing, frown deepening.
Dont like it, Mr. Oakham? I think its splendid! chuckled Mr. Southcombe, from the Art School in Bath. Glamorous women on the way to art! Wonderful! Oh, to be seventeen again
He wandered off.
But Mr. Oakham lingered. At last he nodded to himself. He must ring Nina, certainly her mustnt he? Or oughtnt he? So much time since their acquaintance No, he must! Coincidences like these are never just chance.
Nina sat smiling in her armchair, having just taken a call from Oakham, another from her distant past, so gallant and gentle. Hed suggested a meeting she promised to consider. Lily had painted her beautifully, hed recognised her straight away. How marvellous! Goodness, how fine it felt to be alive.
Nina hadnt felt so content for years. Now at last, all truly was well.
