Free Die Happy by J. M. Gregson

life, could have told anyone who was interested that this was a mark of excitement in her friend and lover. When Ros was at work on a painting, the sound was a sure sign to her sometime model that the work was coming along well, that Ros was pleased with some part of the painting, some effect she had sought for and achieved. And when Kate stretched comfortably in bed and heard Ros humming over the toaster in the kitchen, Kate knew that her partner was pleased with the night that had passed and with the life they lived together.
    The source of Ros’s pleasure this morning was much more worldly. She was driving to Cheltenham to discuss the exhibition of her work which was to be mounted there in May. When you were thirty and almost unknown outside the world of art, to have an exhibition mounted at all was wonderful. To have one mounted in Cheltenham was bliss indeed. The local tradition was that there was far more money available in Cheltenham than in Gloucester. Gloucester was an ancient city with a magnificent cathedral, but Cheltenham was the fashionable spa town which the prosperous English establishment chose to visit and where the affluent middle classes chose to settle. There was money available for fripperies like art in Cheltenham, whereas the Gloucester folk were altogether more down to earth. Ros wasn’t at all sure that these distinctions still applied, but she was delighted that her work was going to be on show in a prominent gallery in Cheltenham for three whole weeks.
    The owner of the gallery was a hard-headed businessman, with no pretensions to artistic expertise himself. Ros found this reassuring, since she had no idea herself about how best to exploit her gifts to make a living. She needed someone like this man, who would be concerned with the commercial rather than the aesthetic properties of her work. Harry Barnard was that practical presence. His concern was to cover the extensive overheads of his gallery, such as council tax and publicity, and then show a handsome yearly profit. He had already been doing this for twenty years.
    Barnard was taking a chance on Ros Barker, though he did not tell her so. It was part of his policy to mount two exhibitions a year by promising but not widely known artists. It helped to keep his gallery in the public eye and secured his position in the artistic press as a patron of the arts, a man who was happy to foster new talent. If he broke even on these two exhibitions, he was content. If he discovered a saleable new painter or sculptor, that was a splendid bonus. He revealed none of this thinking to Ros Barker.
    â€˜It’s good that you have such variety in your work,’ he told her as they discussed the best spots to display particular paintings. ‘That always excites interest and makes a tour of your work more interesting for the general public.’
    â€˜You mean that I haven’t yet found my distinctive vein?’ said Ros with a grin, recalling a critic’s phrase from his review of an earlier and much more modest display of her work.
    Harry Barnard grinned. ‘When you do, make sure it’s one that sells. I’ve seen too many clever artists and sculptors who please themselves and almost no one else.’
    Ros enjoyed making decisions with him on which of her paintings would look best where. It was good to have a dose of common sense in her life, from someone who knew what he was doing and how to sell. She remembered asking someone years ago why it had taken Lowry so long to become popular. The answer had been that it was only late in life that he acquired a shrewd and successful agent. The preparations for the exhibition occupied most of her day, but she decided that she didn’t mind that at all. She would return to her studio with a better perspective and a better grasp of the life led by the sort of people who might buy her paintings.
    Kate Merrick was already in the house by the time she got back from Cheltenham. Kate