Bartle Clunes - Chapter 9
El Dorado County 1949 - A daughter returns
All previous chapters are listed chronologically in the Bartle Clunes archive. CLICK HERE
After sharing their first breakfast as man and wife, flirting with each other across the table, the Clunes’ left the hotel and drove down to the big city of Sacramento, a journey of two hours through rolling hills and the broad east side of the Central Valley.
At The Blake Gallery, Bartle delivered his work into the hands of the owner, who seemed very glad to see him and to meet the new bride. “Mrs. Clunes, so nice to make your acquaintance,” he said, shaking her hand with both of his. “Please have a look around. I hope you like what you see.”
While the men tended to business, Louvina wandered about gazing at, and assessing in her mind, all the presented works. They did not seem to attract her attention in any meaningful way, but her heart felt such pride on seeing her husband’s presence there in four of his modern landscapes. She noticed there were no other paintings quite like his. Picking up a glossy brochure, she found his name in the “Artists” section and read:
“The Blake Gallery is proud to represent abstract expressionist, Bartle Clunes. One of Central California’s rising stars in the world of fine art, Mr. Clunes brings the El Dorado foothills to life with strong bold strokes of color, vivid imagery and pure uncut emotion.”
Back out on the street, Bartle whispered to his new wife, “Mr. Blake sold three of my paintings this month, Louvina, and he was more than enthusiastic about getting the ones I brought today. That is such good news for us,” he said. “He told me he bought two of my pieces himself for his own personal collection, and that there is a woman from an old Sacramento family who wants to see more of my work. I have waited a long time for this recognition.” He kissed her mouth right there in the street.
They walked the few blocks to Hale Bros. Department Store on K Street and 9th. They bought a small yellow and blue flowered carpet for Ayla's room, then Louvina went off in one direction to buy spools of thread and a few cotton dish towels. Bartle started out in the other direction. “I’ll find you in a few minutes,” he said. “I am going to go buy some underclothes. What I have at home are all in rags, and I don’t want you to think I don’t care about those kinds of things. Which I don’t … but still....”
Before returning home Louvina said she would like to take a short ride on a street car just for fun. They rode out the Capitol Avenue route, passing all the magnificent Victorian mansions and large new Craftsman homes.
“These houses are just a wonder to look at,” Louvina said, marveling, “but who would want to live in something so big? I mean unless I had ten children, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for cleaning it up every day, that's for sure!”
Bartle leaned in and quietly said to her, “People with houses that large most likely pay other people to clean up after them, don’t you think?” She didn't like the sound of that idea, and voiced as much. Bartle noticed she spoke loud enough for everyone on the trolly to gain the benefit of her opinion, too.
When they arrived back at their home in the hills around seven, Maggie leapt all over them, licking their faces and sniffing briefly around their shoes and their bags to see where they had been - a welcoming committee of one.
On a late November morning, the Clunes’ awoke to the first snow of the season gently falling past their bedroom window, thin as tattered gauze. The bedroom was mostly dark at six a.m., everything in the room outlined in shadow. The two of them, tangled together like kittens under the old quilts, were disinclined to leave their bed. They had felt the same reluctance every morning now for ten days, their first ten days as married folk.
The house was quiet except for the gentle snoring of Maggie, asleep on the carpet next to them. A woodpecker was already at work battering a tree in the back yard. There was the creaking of wood against wood as the house contracted in the cold. A mocking bird, oblivious of the snow, had been in his own insomniac world all night, and was still at it on the highest tree, singing out words as fast as he could think them up and combine them: “Giggle. Giggle-giggle. Cheek! Cheek! Giggle-Cheek!” These were the morning sounds that brought the Clunes’ back into the world.
But today was the 21st of November! They couldn't loll about today. As they lay there wrapped up in each other, Louvina said, “Bartle, think of it - the California Zephyr is carrying Ayla home to us right this minute. She will be dropped into the arms of her new family today.” She jumped quickly out of bed, found her wool slippers, and went to make coffee. Maggie followed her into the kitchen. Bartle would meet his daughter at the Sacramento station about one o'clock.
Louvina insisted that Bartle and Ayla have their first meeting without a third person along. She told Bartle she would stay home. “I am going to get caught up on all this ironing,” she’d told him. “Then I will make a rhubarb pie and a pot of chicken stew with dumplings.” She would keep busy and stay calm. Her heart went out to her husband, and her thoughts were with him the entire day as he drove down to the valley to get his girl.
Bartle stood on Platform 2 as the sleek orange and silver Zephyr Streamliner pulled in. It was right on time. He stood back as scores of animated passengers alit and pushed their noisy way through to the lobby exit. He waited for what seemed like hours, but were really only minutes. Finally, he saw her.
The porter carried down the steps two small, heavy metal trunks which he stacked on a cart for her, and she stepped down off the train. Bartle recognized her, of course, from the photo she had sent, but more from his memory of the large brown eyes and crooked smile that were his baby girl’s. They were not unlike his own.
He found himself ill-prepared for the intense wrenching of his heart at the sight of her walking toward him. He would later describe to his wife the overwhelming feeling of grace that had flooded through him at that moment, the free and unmerited favor of God. He stood in front of his daughter and found no immediate words. He didn't even try to hide his emotions. Ayla, old enough to recognize both his joy and his sadness, stood quietly for a moment.
“Ayla,” he said, shaking his head and pulling out his handkerchief. “My Ayla.” She walked up to him and they put their arms gently around each other.
“Hello, Daddy,” she said.
I wonder if any of the paintings, illustrations or photos are yours? They fit so perfectly...that seems to be a talent you have.
What a sweet moment. I can’t imagine what I would say or do in Bartle’s shoes.