The Girl in the Picture - Kerry Barrett

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there’s a hidden room,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s a portal to Narnia.’

      ‘Or maybe there’s a ventilation brick in these old, thick walls.’

      I snorted. ‘Don’t ruin it.’

      Ben grinned. ‘I think we’d notice if the house was bigger on the outside than the inside,’ he said.

      ‘Like the Tardis,’ Oscar shouted in glee. Then he frowned. ‘But the other way round.’

      I started to laugh. ‘I don’t think you guys are taking this seriously enough,’ I said, mock stern. ‘This could be something very exciting.’

      Ben nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this.’

      He went over to the wall at the far end of the room and tapped it. Then he tapped it again in a different place, and again and again. I sat down on the floor, with Stan on my lap, and watched.

      ‘What are you doing?’ I asked eventually.

      Ben looked at me in pity. ‘I’m checking to see if the wall sounds hollow,’ he explained. ‘If it sounds hollow then perhaps there’s another room behind here.’

      ‘Does it sound hollow?’

      There was a pause.

      ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

      I laughed.

      ‘Well then we need to compare it to the other walls,’ I said.

      And then there was chaos. Stan and Oscar raced around, banging the walls, as Ben and I listened and said, ‘hmm’. We had no idea what we were listening for, but it was fun. The boys shouted, and we laughed, and I thought that maybe everything was going to be okay.

      1855

      Violet

      I almost slipped on the rocks as I struggled down to the beach, even though I’d been that way hundreds of times before. My easel wasn’t heavy, but it was cumbersome, and the bag of paints and brushes I was carrying banged against my legs. Eventually, though, I found my perfect spot. It was warm, but the sun wasn’t too dazzling and I breathed in the sea air deeply.

      Working quickly, I set up my easel and pinned my paper down securely. I arranged my paints on the rock behind me, as I’d planned, pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and picked up my brush. I paused for a second, appreciating the moment; I was completely content. This was how I’d dreamed of working for – oh months, years perhaps. I finally felt like a real painter. My room in the attic was wonderful, of course, and I would always be grateful to Philips, the lad from the village who did all the odd jobs around the house and garden and who’d helped me secretly create my own studio.

      I frowned, thinking of Father, who didn’t like me to draw. He said it was vulgar. He wanted me to marry and lead a normal life. A normal, boring life, I thought. A mundane life. A life with no purpose.

      But out here, breathing in the sea air, I felt like I had a purpose. I was telling a story with my work and it seemed it was what I’d been waiting for. For years all I’d drawn was myself – and various kitchen cats. Endless self-portraits that helped my technique, undoubtedly, but – if I was honest – bored me stupid.

      Then, one day, I’d picked up Father’s Times, and read about a new group of artists known as the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. They painted stories – Bible stories, tales from Shakespeare, all sorts – and they used real-life models to do it. It had been like a light turned on in my mind. Suddenly I knew what I wanted to do – I wanted to be like those artists. Paint like those artists. Live life like those artists.

      After that, I devoured any articles on the Pre-Raphaelites in Father’s newspaper, and I read the Illustrated London News, and even Punch, when I could get it, though Father wasn’t keen on that one. I saved the issues that mentioned art and kept them hidden away with my drawing equipment.

      The Times – and sometimes the other papers, too – were often critical of my heroes, who were determined to shake up the art world. But the more criticism they received, the more I adored them. They were so thrilling and forward-thinking – everything I wanted my life to be like.

      I dreamed of living in London and imagined myself debating what makes good art with Dante Gabriel Rossetti – who was impossibly handsome in the pictures I’d seen – or John Millais – who had a kind, friendly face. I had to admit, I was hazy on the details of where these debates would take place – I had an uneasy feeling the painters I so admired spent a lot of time in taverns – but I knew just spending time with those men would make me feel alive.

      ‘Why, Miss Hargreaves,’ I imagined Dante or John saying. ‘You are truly a force to be reckoned with.’

      It wasn’t just the men I admired. I had read that Elizabeth Siddal, who modelled for the painters and who was rumoured to be in love with Rossetti, had taken up painting herself. Oh, how I longed to be like her. Sometimes when I was feeling particularly vain, I thought I looked a bit like her, because I had long red hair, like hers.

      Some people thought red hair was unlucky, but Lizzie made it look beautiful. She didn’t hide it or twist it under her hat like I always had, so I had started wearing my hair loose now, too, when I could. When I was away from Father’s disapproving eye. It got in my way and often irritated me but I thought it was all part of my plan – like venturing out to paint on the beach. After all, if Lizzie Siddal could be a painter, then why couldn’t I, Violet Hargreaves, do the same?

      Lost in my dreams of success, I painted swiftly, my brush flying over the paper. I was just painting the background today. I’d already sketched Philips, draped in a sheet that was strategically pinned to create royal robes and wearing a crown I’d found in my old dressing-up box. He was ankle-deep in a tin tray of water. He had been very willing to pose for me. He was so good to me, and though I was happy he was so amiable I did occasionally wonder if he was harbouring feelings for me that were, perhaps, inappropriate. Father would be furious.

      Mind you, Father would be furious if he knew what I was doing now, I thought. He grudgingly allowed me to indulge my love of art as long as I was in the house and out of sight. I’d never have dared go out to the beach if he hadn’t gone up to London for the week.

      I daubed white paint on the top of the waves I had painted, and stood for a second, gazing at the sea beyond the easel.

      ‘King Canute turning back the tide?’ a voice said behind me.

      I jumped, feeling a scarlet blush rise up my neck to my cheeks. I hadn’t expected to be interrupted, and I was horrified I had attracted anyone’s attention.

      ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ It was a man, older than me, and handsome with a kind, intelligent face and bright blue eyes. I looked at my feet, not sure what to say. Father’s disapproval of my painting stung, so I had never talked of it outside the house.

      ‘It’s very good,’ the stranger said. ‘Is this your own work?’

      I nodded. I felt the man’s eyes roam over me and I shifted on the sand uncomfortably.

      ‘It’s interesting that you’re telling a classical story within a real landscape,’ he said.

      ‘I’m influenced by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.’

      The man gazed at my painting and nodded slowly. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I can see that.’

      I gasped. He could tell? Maybe I was doing something right.

      ‘I adore them,’ I said, my words falling over each other as I spoke. ‘They’re wonderful. I want to paint detail like they do. The colours, and the form, of nature …’ I stopped, very aware that I was babbling and barely making sense.

      But the man tipped his hat to me and smiled.

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