You'll find out, Glasp said.
He sank deeper into the chair, bending his knees above the footstool, saying meditatively:
I'll introduce you to Christine some time. You'll like her. She's a talented child.
Does she paint?
A little. I'm trying to teach her. She has a lot of talent… more than me.
Seriously?
Seriously. I'm not talented; I have to work like hell for all my effects. She does it easily.
How old is she? Nine, did you say?
No, twelve. She looks nine, though.
How did you meet her?
In rather an odd way. One day, I was standing outside a bookshop in the Mile End Road looking through the sixpenny case, and this little girl stood at the side of me. She kept looking at an old leather covered autograph book — years old, the pages discoloured, but for some reason unused. And I could see she wanted this thing. When I looked inside it, I saw it was more expensive than the other books — not much — a shilling or one and six. And she kept putting it back and looking at other books, then taking out this thing again. I began to wonder if she intended to pinch it. But she didn't. She finally put it back, and walked off. Well, I'd found a couple of books I wanted, and I'd just sold some woodcuts to a shop, so I took the autograph book and bought it with the other two. Well, when I got outside she was already about half a mile away, so I ran after her, caught her up, and gave her the book.
Sorme asked, laughing:
What did she do?
She just took it, and stared at me. I felt a bit silly about buying it, so I turned and walked away. And that was that. Neither of us spoke.
What a strange thing to do!
Oh, I dunno. It was just an impulse, you know.
But how did you get to know her?
That happened later. I saw her a couple of times in the street, and guessed she must live near me. But I wasn't really curious, you know… Anyway, one day I was walking past the cinema in the Commercial Road — it was a Saturday afternoon and there was a queue of kids outside. And she came running out of the queue and said hello. Then she went belting back into the queue before I could say anything. Then about two days later I met her as I came out of a bread shop in Vallance Road, and she walked along with me. I felt a bit embarrassed — you know, I hate asking kids how old they are and what they do at school and all that stuff — I remember how it used to bore me when I was a kid. But it's difficult to think of much else to say. Anyway, she asked me what I did, and I said I was a painter. She said 'Oh!' not very interested — she thought I meant a painter and decorator. Then when I said I painted pictures she got very interested. I could almost see her building romantic daydreams about a real artist. Well, she had to go home that day, but I said I'd show her my pictures some time, and the next day I found her outside my house at about four in the afternoon, so I asked her in. She was funny. She looked both ways to see no one was watching, then dashed through the doorway like a jack rabbit. And I showed her my pictures, and gave her a cup of tea, and told her to come in any time she liked. She was obviously pretty shy… Well, the next Saturday afternoon, she turned up and insisted on watching me paint. Her parents thought she'd gone to the threepenny rush again… And that was how I got to know her.
She sounds charming, Sorme said. Was she really romantic about being an artist?
Oh yes. I found out that she'd developed a grand passion. I met her one day with some school friend, and she blushed like mad. And the following Saturday afternoon I started to pump her about it, and finally got her to admit that she'd told her friend that I'd asked her to marry me when she was sixteen!
Sorme said, laughing:
Well, why not?
Glasp shrugged:
Well, it's a possibility, I suppose — she has only three years to go. She's nearly thirteen.
Sorme said with astonishment:
Are you that interested?
I… You don't understand. You see, she comes from a big family — she's got seven brothers and sisters. They used to sleep four in a bed once. And her father's a warder in Brixton gaol — an absolutely bloody moron who spends all he can on booze. She's got an elder sister who's married. She married a Pole, and they live next door. And when the Pole comes home drunk and tries to beat his wife, she goes next door and sleeps with Christine and her other sister in a single bed… She sleeps down the other end. And I saw her mother once — a poor, wrecked old thing with terrific sagging breasts and no teeth. She can't be more than fifty, and she looks seventy. That's the sort of background she comes from. She wants to study at art school — she's brilliant enough to get a scholarship — but her parents wouldn't even dream of it. Her mother told her that art students are no better than prostitutes. And, anyway, they want her to go to work when she leaves school and bring in a few shillings a week until she marries. Her family have lived in slums for generations. They don't want to do anything better.
That's stupid. Can't you persuade them?
Not a hope. Christine daren't even let them know she still sees me. I had a fight with her father once.
Blimey! How?
Glasp shrugged, then shook himself, grimacing, as if rejecting an unpleasant memory.
He's a drunk, a blustering stupid drunk. Christine's brother saw us in a cafe and told her parents. They gave her a thrashing and made her promise not to see me again. Luckily, we spotted the brother when he saw us, and I was able to warn Christine not to tell her parents everything — to say she'd only met me once or twice in the Whitechapel Art Gallery. Otherwise she might have told them about posing for me and had the skin beaten off her. Anyway, the next day I was passing a pub in Hanbury Street when her father came out and started to yell at me.
How did he recognise you?
Oh, he'd seen me around, and I'd seen him — they only live five hundred yards away, round the corner.
What was he shouting about?
Stupid lies… filthy lies. If a quarter of it had been true, he could have had me thrown in gaol for ten years. I didn't know what to do… I didn't want him to get Christine into any more trouble. So I tried soothing him. That only made him worse. He was half drunk. He grabbed my collar and started shouting in my face — shooting spit and beer all over me. I told him to let go and he just shouted louder. So I jerked my knee into his crotch, and hit him in the face.
Sorme exclaimed: Christ! He found it hard to imagine Glasp hitting anyone.
Then luckily a policeman came along and threatened to throw us both inside, so we broke it up and separated pretty quickly. The Whitechapel police don't stand much nonsense — they're a rough crowd. I half expected him to start telling the policeman I'd seduced his daughter, but he didn't. He just slunk off. I was pretty shaken…
Did he take it out on Christine?
No, that's the odd thing. She came round the next day and told me about it. She'd been in the kitchen when he came in, and he started to yell about taking her to a doctor to get evidence against me. Then her mother flew into a rage and threatened to leave him if he tried anything of the sort. And later her mother questioned her about me — wanted to know if anything had ever happened with me, and, of course, Christine denied it, and her mother believed her.
Sorme listened gravely, nodding, wondering how to phrase the question that was forming and anxious not to let it appear on his face. He said:
But even if he'd taken her, nothing would have come of it?
Nothing… except gossip, probably. That'd be bad enough. If it came out that she'd posed for me it might cause trouble.
Did she pose often?
Oh yes… I drew her the first time she came. But not in the nude, of course.
Then why should there be trouble?
Because later on she started posing naked for me.
Ah… that's difficult. Did she want to?
Oh yes. At first she was shy. Then one day she fell in the brook in Victoria Park and got soaked. Her mother'd
