A Brighter Tomorrow, Maggie Ford [types of ebook readers .TXT] 📗

that was just a pipe dream. There’d been no sign of him for ages.

By May she was mildly surprised that Dora had stayed this long with her. She’d expected at any time to have her say she wanted to go back to the Lowes’ whenever some small disagreement or other came up. But time had cut the girl off from them and there was little Dora could have done about it.

No longer was it hard trying to keep the girl’s mind occupied. Finally having succeeded, Ellie couldn’t believe how easily Dora had suddenly begun to mingle with those whom she herself mixed with, enjoying the witty talk and laughter, though any serious discussion went completely over her head.

Lately she had begun trying to copy the flamboyant dress of some of them, starting with haunting second-hand stalls for cheap bright clothes like they did, until Ellie had to stop her.

‘You’re not wearing that!’ she exploded as Dora appeared in a well-worn, shapeless red-and-black skirt and bright, shabby blouse with a low, baggy neckline, ‘wasting hard-earned money on that sort of rubbish.’

Dora pouted. ‘A few bits and pieces – it hardly cost a fortune.’

‘We have to eat, pay the rent, and what’s left, if any, I need to save for a rainy day.’

‘You don’t do all that bad. Those nice paintings sell all right.’

Yes, they did sell – just enough to keep body and soul together. Where was the wealth she had dreamed of, the plan to revenge herself on her father? And where was Hunnard who’d promised to sell her other paintings? He had lost interest – that was the truth. She could forget him.

‘And what’s more,’ she told her angrily, ‘I won’t have you showing yourself up dressed like that. You’re showing every thing!’

‘Other women wear clothes like this. And I’m not showing everything.’

‘Most of that type like to look eccentric. They’re usually no better than hangers-on, not serious painters. Women artists have more interest in their art than in dressing up. And one day someone is going to take you for a prostitute.’

Dora looked shocked, her pout fading, and Ellie’s anger diminished.

‘You’ve not yet turned sixteen, Dora, and I feel responsible for you. No one will think wrong of you if you dress as you’ve always done.’

There seemed to be more women painters than she’d first noticed. It wasn’t just them: women everywhere were looking towards recognition, freedom of expression – to be accepted as having brains. Like those whom the newspapers called suffragettes, shouting the odds from street corners and at protest gatherings; but none flaunted themselves in garish clothing.

They didn’t interest her, but she was heartened to find women like herself taking their art out of the drawing room and into public view. Maybe they had always been there – she just hadn’t noticed. Now, with Dora here for company, she felt more at ease and found it easier to fit in. But she did intend to put her foot down about Dora’s choice of dress.

The girl was beginning to behave a little too grown-up. That was well apparent when she noticed her half-stupefied one evening. Dragging her from the café, she knew instantly what the girl had been imbibing: the man she’d been talking to had been pouring her another glass of green liquid that turned a milky colour as he added a little water to it.

‘How dare you take advantage!’ she shot at him, halting the babble of conversation around them for a moment. ‘She’s not even yet sixteen.’

The man had grinned up at her. ‘Sixteen’s old enough for more than a drop of absinthe. And I wouldn’t mind if—’

What he wouldn’t have minded was cut short by a loud slap around the face.

With a roar he was up, his fist drawn back ready to hit back, whether she was a woman or not. It was Felix who leapt between them and somehow, with a gentle word, brushed away the man’s rage. How he did it Ellie didn’t know, but she felt deeply indebted to him.

If only he’d been different from what he was, she thought as he and Jock elected to help her get a befuddled Dora back home.

‘Don’t you ever touch that stuff again!’ she berated her after the two men had left, having seen them safe and settled. ‘You’ll end up in the gutter.’

‘But everyone drinks it,’ mumbled Dora. ‘Felix does.’

‘He knows what he’s doing,’ she argued. But that wasn’t always true. She’d seen him slumped beside Jock, and not only from absinthe and other concoctions: from the opium that she’d come to realize he was addicted to.

He saw no wrong in it. ‘It’s relaxing,’ he’d told her at one time. ‘Takes away the cruelty of the world for a while, let’s me weather its condemnation.’

She knew what he meant. She too had felt that, her portraits viewed with distaste by those who sought something less worrying.

Talented painter though Felix was, his days as an artist were most likely numbered. It was sad: good-hearted, young and handsome, but for an accident of birth he could have married, become a good father. Instead he was doomed to fade away unnoticed. Did he have a family somewhere? He never spoke about himself. She just hoped that Jock would stand by him through his life. If only…

Ellie sighed as she put Dora to bed to sleep off the absinthe. Why did she fall in love with the wrong people? – thinking she’d found love with the wealthy Michael Deel, weaving dreams of confronting her father as a wealthy woman; falling for Felix, who could never give her the love she’d hoped for.

Then there was Ronnie Sharp. She’d always had a soft spot for him. He’d have been her ideal, but he’d found someone else. When that had fallen apart she’d hoped he’d turn his attention to her, but he hadn’t.

It hurt and it had made her think about him more and more. Some would have said out of sight out of mind, but for