Authors: A. L. Barker
‘James, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Do you want to get involved?’
‘I think she’s having trouble with him.’
‘Nothing, surely, that can’t be sorted out at school.’
‘I asked why he doesn’t go to school.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She didn’t.’ An equivocation, Owen knew: he had asked the boy, not his mother.
‘Mrs Latimer says they wouldn’t accept him for play-school because he vandalised the toy cupboard.’
‘It figures.’ Owen grinned. ‘He’s knocked the stuffing out of his woolly rabbit.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he – she’s kept him from the toys his father bought him. The trouble,’ Elissa said crisply, ‘will be of her making.’
She had taken against Angela Hartop, thanks to the invidious Mrs Latimer. ‘A woman either loves or hates, there is no middle course’. Horace probably said that.
*
Angela was at the window, watching. Owen didn’t altogether relish being watched for.
‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come.’
It seemed that the answer to Elissa’s question was that he was already involved. ‘Is James in bed?’
‘Yes, but he’s being tiresome and won’t settle. Let’s go where he can’t hear us.’
Owen followed her into a small room stocked rather than furnished with an over-large suite, a break-front cabinet and a pottery Alsatian. There was a disused air, like that of the front parlours of his youth.
‘Do sit down. It’s called “The Tree of Heaven”.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The design.’ She patted the settee beside her.
‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘I want you to know the truth.’
‘About James?’
‘It’s more than that’ – she was impatient – ‘much more—’
He held out his hand: she took it, came to her knees at his side. This time he did not resist: he touched her hair, threaded it through his fingers, as soft and silken as he had known it would be. But when she turned his hand and kissed his palm, he stood up, pulling her to her feet. Confused by his own feelings, he was unprepared for hers. She put her arms round his waist and folded against him. He didn’t believe it was happening, but didn’t Horace say ‘the story is about you’?
It was the child who reminded him that he was about to commit adultery: James, in his pyjamas, holding the rabbit-thing by its remaining ear. ‘He can’t sleep.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he can’t shut his eyes!’
‘Poor fellow,’ said Owen.
‘Come and read to me.’
Angela said, ‘Back to bed with you at once!’
Owen glimpsed James’s expression of open malice, fleeting and not unnatural in a child reproved.
‘Tell you what, we’ll read till you drop off. I know what it’s like when you can’t sleep.’ He whispered to Angela, ‘I’ll be back.’
When James was in bed, there was the question of what to read.
Owen suggested
Red
Riding
Hood,
Cinderella
,
Beauty
and
the
Beast.
James pushed the rabbit-thing under the bedclothes. ‘We don’t like baby stuff.’
‘What do you like?’
James hooted.
*
Owen told Angela, ‘I suppose it was fuddy-duddy suggesting the old fairy-tales, but I think modern kids miss something.’
‘Did he go to sleep?’
‘Sound. You know – I ought to be going. Elissa frets.’
‘Please – stay – hear me out. I haven’t been able to tell anyone, but I want you to know. I lied about Greville. He isn’t dead.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t take any more …’ She was breathless, wanting him to know.
Owen said, ‘Start at the beginning. Why did you lie?’
‘Because – it’s not an easy story to tell. Greville’s older than me, a lot older. Marrying late in life – we were happy at first, he enjoyed spoiling me, he said it would always be just the
two of us, we didn’t need anyone else. He didn’t want a child, but when James was born he didn’t want anything else. He was bewitched by the baby, idolised it, fussed and panicked, fought me over every detail of its care. I felt like an enemy – of my own child.’
‘Very distressing.’
‘It was ludicrous. As James grew older, Greville tried to grow younger. He tries to play with James – boisterous games – he puts on an old fur coat and pretends to be a bear, chases James all over the house. James doesn’t like it.’
Owen said dryly, ‘I imagine not.’
‘He doesn’t realise what an effort his father is making – James despises him, soon gets bored and starts teasing, mocking. It makes me cry. Can you understand? I’m ashamed of my husband – a good, kind sober man, lowering himself to please a child – he’s swamped my love for James – I begin to hate James, I can’t watch when Greville tries to romp with him.’
Owen, who was wondering where this was leading, said, ‘What’s Greville’s line of business?’
‘He’s a journalist. He works for a magazine based in London, but he spends a lot of time here, writing. He won’t talk about it. When I asked was he writing a novel he said who needs fiction with the sort of truth we’re up against?’
‘A sobering thought.’
‘We quarrelled, we often did, about James, and it was making him moody and withdrawn. Greville wanted to take him away. I told him James was in danger of having
a mental breakdown and Greville agreed to go away himself for a while. He didn’t go far, he’s put up at a hotel just beyond the village. That’s where he heard a story about a drowned child – he came rushing back yesterday evening.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was James he came to see. He wanted to touch him, hold him, to make sure he hadn’t been harmed. But James wouldn’t stand still, he ran rings around Greville. Trying to catch him, Greville tripped and fell. James dislikes seeing his father look silly – Greville doesn’t realise it’s the loss of his dignity – I can’t help him – he asked about you – cross-examined me.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That you were our new neighbour and kind enough to take James for walks. He was very upset, I could see he didn’t think I was telling him the whole story. I had to be so careful, I daren’t let him suspect how fond of you James is.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Owen. ‘It hasn’t worked out. I’d better keep away. We must think of something to put James off.’
‘No! That’s not the answer – I must see you – you’re my only breath of sanity – please don’t leave me!’
She came uninvited into his arms, raised her face to his. When they kissed, every fibre of his being rejoiced.
*
Coming off the beach, Charlie found himself face to face with the girl from the roadside café. She greeted him, ‘It
is
you, I wasn’t sure. I thought you’d grown a moustache.’
Charlie rubbed his upper lip. ‘I’ve never had a moustache.’
‘You’ve been sketching. May I see?’
‘It’s not finished.’
‘Tony Wallington says you’re a painter and decorator.’
‘Depends what you call decoration.’
‘I saw you talking to Piper. Will you introduce me?’
‘I don’t know your name.’
‘It’s Senga. Agnes backwards.’ She smiled a crooked smile. ‘Agnes means chaste.’
Charlie held out his hand. ‘Olssen, Charlie. Glad to know you.’
‘What were you talking to Piper about?’
‘A tree.’ When Charlie turned into the lane she followed him.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To fetch my toothbrush.’
‘What sort of thing do you sketch?’ She fell into step beside him.
‘Every sort of thing.’
‘I’ve got a Samuel Palmer. It’s called
Early
Morning.
A rabbit is going home, dead tired, been out all night. The trees are like big mushrooms. It’s dated 1825.’
‘That’s one of his Shoreham drawings, rarer than a dealer’s tears.’
‘It’s only a print – fubsy, fubsier than he intended. There’s a couple getting up out of a hole in the ground. They’ve been there all night too. I’ve hung it in the loo where I have time to look at it. It’s the sort of picture I like.’
‘What about Leonardo?’ Charlie pointed to her shorts.
‘Oxfam.’ She said, ‘Will there be anywhere open to buy a toothbrush?’
‘No problem, it’s in my car.’
She held up an apple. ‘Share with me, I can’t eat alone.’ Twisting the apple in her hands she broke it neatly in half.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’
‘Just one of my tricks.’
He believed it. ‘My car broke down. I had to leave it and put up at the hotel. It’s sheer coincidence you being there.’
‘I didn’t think it was anything else.’
‘You did. In the Hungry Eater.’
‘Where?’
‘On the A31 beyond Farnham you thought I was following you.’
Charlie lengthened his stride and reached the car just as rain started, heavy meaningful drops like the ones he had left in NW3. She said, ‘I’ll get in the back.’
‘I can’t move this car.’
‘Out of the rain, Charlie!’
When he got into the driver’s seat he noticed, as never before, the build-up of crud in the air-vents and crevices of the dash. Rain splashing through gear and brake outlets had soaked the floorboards. The car seemed to be blaming him for the way it was. ‘There’s nothing worse than a car that won’t go.’
‘Change it.’
‘Can’t afford to. I’m skint.’
Rummaging for his toothbrush which he seemed to remember shoving into the map pocket at the last moment, he disinterred a letter from Nina. ‘If you can get that old heap of yours down here I’d love to see you.’ She’d
love to, but J.T. Crawford wouldn’t. Charlie understood that. The letter was dated six months previous and he had not come until obliged by circumstance – lack of ready cash – and a not yet defunct wish to see Nina again.
‘You should never deride a machine, it will always get back to you.’ He pulled out the choke and turned on the ignition. A whirring, like clockwork running down, then silence.
‘Don’t your pictures sell?’
‘People don’t believe in paying for a work of art unless there’s no one to take the money except a dealer who picked it up in a job lot and is asking four figures for it at Christie’s.’ Charlie said glumly, ‘I had to part with the best thing I ever did for peanuts.’
She leaned on the back of his seat: her breath tickled his neck. ‘I wish I could see it.’
‘You might, I’ll leave it to the nation.’
‘People like you, artists, creators, never die.’
‘We die like flies.’ Turning, he looked into her yellow-flecked eyes.
‘What’s this?’ She pulled out one of the canvases from Lumsden’s pack on the back seat. ‘What’s it about? Everything’s out of proportion!’
‘That’s the general idea.’
‘There’s someone watching us – from behind the hedge
A man climbed over the field gate. Charlie said, ‘It’s Piper,’ and wound down the window. ‘Come and take shelter!’
Piper came to the car and looked in. He said, ‘I like walking in the rain,’ and walked away.
Senga got out and followed him. She caught him up and held Lumsden’s canvas over both their heads to keep off the rain.
Drenching mist came in from the sea. Charlie, when he started walking back to the hotel, was made aware of a stealthy withdrawal of solids. From his waist down he was invisible to himself. And had forgotten his toothbrush.
*
His jacket smelled of wet dog and had let rain through to his wallet. He counted the few limp notes. He had been a fool to take Crawford’s cheque, he should have insisted on a fairer price. But if he had, he might have ended with nothing. The cheque would not cover his bed and board at the hotel, much less the repairs to the car – expenses he hadn’t reckoned on. He was overdrawn and had had crisp warnings from the bank about continuing to use his credit card. He decided to skip dinner and took an umbrella from the hall-stand.
Senga called from the stairs, ‘You’re not going out again? It’s pissing down.’
‘I’m going to the Dolly P.’ When he opened the door the wind dealt a backhander which lifted the pictures off the walls.
‘Wait.’ Senga slipped past him and vanished into the dark. When he tried to put up the umbrella, it thrashed about like a bird in the claws of a cat.
Senga brought her car round, a vintage Morris Minor with
rococo fenders. It had to be forty years old if it was a day. Sie leaned across to open the door.
‘Nice,’ said Charlie, ‘collectable.’
The wind had shredded the mist and was chasing scraps of it in catchment areas. Senga sang as she drove, a song about never seeing a poem lovelier than a tree. Charlie didn’t care for the concept.
The sign of the Dolly Pentreath was swinging to and fro. Dolly herself, buxom and all the brighter for being rained on, was threatening to fly off her board. Light from the pub windows blazed in puddles. The verge was festive with foxgloves and ragwort breaking out like banners. The door of the public opened on a rich whiff from the bar.
Charlie said, ‘What’s it to be?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’
He would have liked Scotch, but two, possibly four, would set him back. ‘I’m having bitter.’
Senga said, ‘I love beer.’
The barmaid remembered Charlie and asked if he was suited.
‘Yes, thanks. I got into the hotel you told me about. The Bellechasse.’
The barmaid raised her eyebrows, already over-hooped. ‘Well, you would.’
Taking her first pull of beer Senga asked, ‘Why don’t you get paid for your pictures?’
‘I’ve yet to find out what people will pay for.’
‘Do they want the sort of thing I saw in your car?’
‘I don’t know what you saw.’
‘Listen,’ she was excited, ‘someone who painted man-eating babies and people with pigs’ heads has just died. He was Greek or Polish, you must have heard of him. I can’t remember his name – it began with Z – Zorbo or Zanzi or something.’
‘Zeuxian?’
‘Yes, well, collectors are queuing up to buy his work—’
‘He died around 400
BC
.’
‘I said I can’t remember his name!’ Charlie saw the function of the yellow flecks in her pupils. They lit up when she was roused. ‘I’m trying to help. If it’s just a question of style—’
‘You think I’d be better as a faker than an originator?’ Charlie was suddenly angry with generalities and the tolerance accorded artists like himself – would-be creators and bringers of reason. In a small way – there was no big way – he sought to invoke reason in his brush-strokes.
‘I didn’t say that! Don’t put words in my mouth. The best thing you ever did – what was it?’
‘A nude. Of my wife.’
‘Ah.’ She waited, digesting it. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She divorced me and married a house.’
She blinked at him, believingly. ‘So what will you do?’
‘Try to get a loan from her.’ Not the ideal solution. ‘She owes me, at least her husband does.’
‘Her husband – the house?’
‘He goes with it.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘The other side of Truro. I’ll go as soon as my car’s fixed.’
‘I could take you.’
‘Thanks, but no. If I were to drive up with a girl beside me Nina not only wouldn’t believe I’m skint, she’d see me damned before she’d part with a penny.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep out of sight.’
*
When he had first glimpsed the valley of the Fal Charlie felt he ought to do something about it. The combination of hanging woods, dark water and white mud had started the old sequence: first the spark, then the flicker and the long slow burn. He had begun working out how to catch the bilious colours in the shallows.
‘China clay,’ said Senga, ‘washed down from the workings. That white stuff reminds me of clowns.’
‘A grin on the face of the waters – if I could get that!’
‘Would you like to go down to the creek and take a closer look?’
‘I don’t want to look close but I shan’t feel I’m in the picture until I’ve got the gist on canvas.’
She pulled into a lay-by and lit a cigarette. ‘What’s the name of where we’re going?’
‘Tregurgle, or gargle, Tre-something.’
‘The nude of your wife, was that your only way of getting into her picture?’
Charlie said softly, ‘Can we push on? Through the village and over the bridge.’
‘I’ve never made contact with a graphic artist, a re-creator. Writers, yes, I’ve had experience of journalists, that ilk. Their images are ephemeral but a picture’s conclusive, you can look at or leave it, you can’t argue with it.’
‘You can. I’d like to get somewhere with El Greco, but his people look as if they’ve only been half-digested.’
‘I’d like to get somewhere with you, Charlie.’ She laughed: Leda and the Bird pressed against his thigh.
Surprised, he said lightly, ‘I’m accessible,’ but he shifted in his seat.
She drove out of the lay-by, they shot through the village and on to the bridge at speed. The bridge was old, with barely room for one horse and cart to cross at a time. Charlie held the edge of his seat to steady himself.
They drove in silence, for which he was grateful. He needed to prepare his encounter with Nina. He wasn’t even certain of the way to Mellilot. He kept thinking he recognised something but the lanes were lookalikes. Passing a dead hedgehog he was sure it was one he had seen before; its front paws were lifted beseechingly but in vain, and he had been sorry about that. Then they emerged on an A-road.
‘Which way?’ Senga demanded.
‘Left.’ He felt a pull in that direction. Half an hour later another hedgehog scuttled across the road under their wheels. Senga swerved. ‘I hit it!’
Charlie got out to look, saw the avenue, the yews and beeches, the gate, the name. ‘You missed it. But this is the house. This is Nina’s.’
She peered at the gate. ‘Mellilot?’
‘If you don’t mind waiting here I’ll walk up.’
‘I’ll wait, but if you’re too long I’ll leave you to walk back to the hotel.’
She parked in front of the gate and was lighting another
of her cigarettes as he started along the drive. He was visited by the thought that if Nina had not returned from lobbying in London he would have to lobby J.T.
He saw her – for the first time in five years – on her haunches with her back to him, delving in the basin of a non-playing fountain. Nina, wife of his bosom. His bosom reacted with a couple of sharp raps on his sternum. It seemed she, too, was informed: he was still yards away when she looked round.
‘Charlie!’ She sounded pleased as well as surprised. Rising and coming to meet him, she said ‘Charlie!’ again, positively joyful. He went to take her outstretched hands, not caring they were muddy, but she snatched them away to wipe on the seat of her bright pink jeans.
‘You always hated pink,’ he said.
‘Time for a change.’
She herself was changing. He noticed a scarlet craquelure on her cheeks which had been so creamy-white. Her hair, which had been inky-black, was highlighted with yellow streaks.
‘This is lovely.’ She put her arm through his. ‘Thank heaven you had the decency to come back.’
‘Come back?’
‘The times I’ve wished! Then you came when I wasn’t here.’
‘I came to see J.T.’
‘He told me. He told me why.’
‘I’ve had a feeling, you could call it a scruple, ever since we broke up.’
‘Come and have a drink.’
Remembering how alcohol mellowed her, he let himself be steered towards the house. He was aware of affluence as soon
as he set foot inside. There was a smell, impossible to define; simple home-loving couldn’t provide it, it cost money. It came from Afghan rugs, cigars, good wine, beeswax. And Nina’s perfume. Once, while they were married, in a moment of passion and desperation, he had bought her a phial of Arpège and she was still addicted. That hadn’t changed.
He sat on an over-stuffed, over-floralised settee overlooking the terrace. ‘Why were you grubbing in the fountain?’
‘It’s a lily-pool and needs cleaning out. You’d be surprised what ends up in a lily-pool besides lilies.’
She gave him a large whisky. He said gratefully, ‘How was the lobby?’
‘Successful. We brought the minister to his knees. He’s a small man, about two inches high. There were women who kept baying and yelping as if it was a fox-hunt. Rather distressing.’
‘You were always soft-hearted.’
At the end, she had disciplined her heart against him; he had better be prepared to find that had not changed, either.
‘Tell me what you’ve been doing.’
‘Scraping canvases together for a show when I can afford a gallery. I hope you’ll come.’
‘Why did you let J.T. have my portrait in the nuddy?’
‘I couldn’t think who else it should belong to. I meant to give it to him, but he insisted on paying.’
‘Too much, he said, but wouldn’t tell me what.’
‘Thirty guineas.’
‘Why did you accept?’
‘I was taken by surprise.’
‘It was an insult.’
‘I didn’t think the price was quite right,’ Charlie said mildly. She splashed more whisky into their glasses: indignation made her reckless. ‘I left London with the intention of making a meaningful gesture. The more I thought about it, the more meaningful it was – a far, far better thing than I’d ever done.’
‘What do you mean?’
Charlie, who hadn’t gone into it in depth, now tried to do so. ‘That picture is a testament to you.’
‘As a sex symbol.’
‘As a woman, as everything a woman should be. And you were.’ He pressed her knee, earnest, not lubricious. ‘It was wasted, turned to the wall in my studio. It doesn’t belong to me any more, it belongs to your husband. I wanted him to have it.’
‘So you can compare notes.’
‘What do you think I am?’
‘A fool. He would have paid anything to keep anyone else from seeing it.’
‘We both feel like that.’
Nina ran her fingers up and down her glass, looking thoughtful.
Charlie took a swig of whisky. ‘I came here reckoning on turning round and going straight back. But my car’s broken down and I’ve had to put up at a hotel.’
‘You could stay here, at Mellilot.’
‘I don’t think J.T. would approve. The fact is, I need ready cash to pay for repairs. I can’t use my card, the bank won’t give me any more credit.’
‘Hard times?’ She was crisp, dismissive. Listening might
be as far as she was prepared to go, plus tea and sympathy – or just the whisky. ‘Which hotel are you staying at?’
‘The Bellechasse, a little family-run place. Until I can get the car repaired.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I had a lift.’ He voiced the thought which had been uppermost in his mind. ‘He said he was going to burn it.’
‘He hasn’t.’
She was with him, always had been when it came to his work. He felt a glow in his bones which outshone other considerations, including the money. Even the money. ‘I miss you. You were the only one who knew what I was trying to do.’
‘I often wanted to do it myself.’
‘I bet he doesn’t give you moments like that.’
‘Charlie, my darling, if you’re jealous, my cup will overflow.’ So saying, she emptied her glass. ‘Another for the road? You’re not hitching, surely?’
Suddenly the glow was gone, leaving him as he had been, less than he had been. Miserable. Whisky did that to him.
‘Stay for lunch.’
‘I can’t. There’s someone waiting.’
‘Waiting?’
‘To take me back, a fellow guest from the hotel.’
‘He can stay too.’
‘We have to get back. Thanks all the same.’
‘Come when you’ve got your car fixed and talk to J.T. I’ll get you the right price for my portrait. It’s worth at least five hundred to a connoisseur of nudes.’
‘Would you care if it went to someone like that?’
‘Why should I? You painted what you saw and no one else has seen.’
‘Suppose J.T. burns it?’
‘He won’t until he’s done looking at it. Come back tomorrow.’
‘Someone said the big end’s gone. Isn’t that the worst that can happen to a car? I may have to dump it.’ His eyes watered. ‘Why do we drink this stuff?’
‘John Barleycorn the golden.’ Nina herself was riding high.
‘God knows when I’ll see you again.’
‘Have the garage send me the repair bill. You can pay back when you’re able.’
In a gush of emotion he sprang up to take her hands and drew her to him. But over her shoulder he sighted Senga crossing the terrace.
‘Come tomorrow,’ said Nina, ‘or the next day or the next. But come.’
‘Did you mean what you said? About the garage bill?’
‘I want to see you!’
She folded against him. He lifted her arms from his neck. ‘Someone’s coming.’
‘Damn!’ She went to the window. ‘Who on earth’s that?’
‘A girl from the hotel.’ Nina had a way of shutting her face. He hadn’t seen her do it for a long time: it was an eminently unhelpful sign. Under his breath he cursed Fate which was screwing things up. ‘She was kind enough to drive me here.’
Senga came in, held out her hand. ‘Mrs Mellilot, I presume?’
*
The evening meal had been enlivened by the Claphams
waiting at table. They kept the swing door into the kitchen permanently swinging, passing each other with laden trays and uncooperative cries. Eashing and Mildred felt unable to give undivided attention to their food.
Afterwards Felicia Soulsby delivered a lecturette on what she called the uncoefficiency of the Bellechasse.
‘The kitchen is outdated. All working surfaces should be of synthetic material, unproliferating plastic.’
‘I find no fault with the catering,’ said Mildred.
‘I give you Mrs Clapham’s a good plain cook, traditional to a degree. Certainly not nouvelle cuisine.’
‘I have never been attracted to foreign dishes.’
‘I’m no foodie,’ said Felicia. ‘The point is, our good Mrs Clapham could do with more help.’
‘Now that the greater-busted Bet has flown,’ remarked Senga.
‘Flown?’ Progressively and systematically deprived of his faculties, Eashing had every reason to be sorry for himself and little sorrow left over for anyone else. But now he was vividly reminded of Bettony, her diligent breathing as she came to his table and the miscible kitchen odours she exuded. ‘Flown where?’
‘Back to Grandaddy. They live in a council flat.’
Mildred said thankfully, ‘That’s nice.’
‘The old man was accustomed to spit in the fire when they lived in a cottage. Now he spits at the central heating, one of his more mentionable habits.’
‘He isn’t unkind?’
‘He only beats her when she breaks something.’
Felicia said alertly, ‘So there’s a history of breakages?’