The Muse (12 page)

‘And you're not mine.'

The words came out before I could stop them. Quick winced; I was horrified. ‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I'm very sorry—­'

‘No – you're right,' she said. ‘You're quite right. You must think I'm interfering.'

‘I didn't mean – I'm only trying to help him.'

‘Mr Scott isn't stuck,' Quick said. ‘I'm sure he could do many things. His existence doesn't hinge on that painting. He should just take it home and enjoy it for what it is. A very good painting – an
excellent
painting, designed for private pleasure.'

‘But isn't it better that more than one person can see it?' I asked. ‘Isn't that the ethos of a place like the Skelton – shouldn't it be shared?'

‘That's fair. But like Reede said, we don't know enough about the painting yet. We need to go slowly. You don't just
happen
upon a painting like that, Odelle. ­People always have something to hide. Listen to the words Mr Scott isn't saying.'

‘Lawrie is an honest person,' I said, my voice rising again.

‘Of course,' Quick said, her own words tightening with emotion. ‘Of course he is. But you can still be honest at the same time as having something to hide. And if there is something to hide, then the Skelton could look very foolish indeed.'

She levered herself out of the chair and walked slowly into the cottage. I sat, stupefied, unable to think properly. What was going on here? The bees appeared to drone again, looping from flower to flower. Above, the sky was now cloudless. Suddenly everything seemed so very alive, vibrating, the green leaves turning slightly gold, moving in a psychedelic pattern as the sunshine rippled.

For a mad moment I imagined Quick might be fetching a revolver, that she was going to point it at me and demand answers that I couldn't give. Something had switched rapidly over the brief course of our picnic, a change of energy like the light through the leaves, impossible to catch. But when Quick came back, she was holding a beautiful octavo leather notebook. ‘I bought this for you,' she said, holding it out.

I could almost laugh, thinking about this scene now – no, it was not a firearm, but Quick knew full well it was still a weapon.

‘For me?' I said.

‘Just a small present, to say thank you for doing such a wonderful job. I'm very glad we found you, Odelle. Or you found us, more to the point. Happy Birthday.'

I took the notebook from her. It was handmade, thick calfskin leather with a matte ruby finish. The pages were the colour of cream. It was a Stradivarius of notebooks, compared to the flimsy numbers I bought in Woolworth's. ‘Thank you,' I said. ‘It's so kind.'

From somewhere over the fences, a lawn mower ground itself up to a mechanical whine, and a child shrieked. ‘Well,' said Quick peaceably. ‘Don't they always say? You never know when inspiration is going to strike.'

 

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins
Publishers

....................................

IX

O
n Sunday, I sat on my bed with my new notebook from Quick, and thought about what she'd said in the garden. Like most artists, everything I produced was connected to who I was – and so I suffered according to how my work was received. The idea that anyone might be able to detach their personal value from their public output was revolutionary. I didn't know if it was possible, even desirable. Surely it would affect the quality of the work?

Still, I knew I'd gone too far in the opposite direction, and something had to change. Ever since I could pick up a pen, other ­people's pleasure was how I'd garnered attention and defined success. When I began receiving public acknowledgement for a private act, something was essentially lost. My writing became the axis upon which all my identity and happiness hinged. It was now outward-­looking, a self-­conscious performance. I was asked to repeat the pleasure for ­people, again and again, until the facsimile of my act became the act itself.

Cynth's wedding poem was to me a perfect example of how I felt my writing to be bound up with obligation. I'd been writing for so long for the particular purpose of being approved that I'd forgotten the genesis of my impulse; unbothered, pure creation, existing outside the parameters of success and failure. And somewhere along the line, this being ‘good' had come to paralyse my belief that I could write at all.

So admitting to Quick that I wanted to be published was no small step. It communicated, to a certain degree, that I believed I should be taken seriously. And here she was, telling me,
Well, maybe you're not that special, maybe you are – but that doesn't actually mean anything, and it certainly doesn't have any bearing on whether you can write
.
So stop worrying, and do it.

She had told me that the approval of other ­people should never be my goal; she had released me in a way I hadn't been able to myself. She trusted me. Quick had encouraged me to lay myself bare, and it had not been that difficult at all.

I ran my fingers over the ruby leather of the notebook and remembered. I first started writing as a little girl because I liked imagining parallel possibilities. That was all it was. That Sunday, I picked up my pen for the first time in a long time, and began to write.

•

At the end of the day on Monday – my actual birthday – I left a short story typed up on Quick's desk. I wasn't completely bullish – the top-­grade schoolgirl dies hard – I did not creep into her office without a feeling of trepidation. I put no note on the top; she'd know who it was from.

I appreciated the irony that just like at school, at university, I was delivering a story for someone else to approve, but I had been too long inculcated with the act of writing for an audience. This time, however, I wasn't going to hinge everything on my audience's response. If Quick didn't like it, maybe that was a good thing. It was now out of my control.

Pamela stopped me as I was leaving. ‘You can't hide it any longer, you know,' she said.

‘Sorry?'

‘Oh come on. You're going round like Cupid smacked you in the chops. You forgot to put stamps on these envelopes. That ain't like you.'

I winced; Pamela was more observant than perhaps I'd given her credit for. ‘I don't know what you mean,' I said.

‘Odelle, I'm only gonna keep askin'. Gonna be your Scotland Yard. It's you and that feller, isn't it? There was barely five minutes between you when he turned up.'

I weighed up my options. Don't tell Pamela, and suffer her interminable hypotheses, which, knowing her, would become more outlandish and indefatigable – or just tell her, and be done. ‘Maybe,' I said.

‘Lawrie Scott, eh. Bit posh, ain't he?'

‘How do you know his first name?'

She looked pleased with herself. ‘It's
right
here, in the appointment book. Written by your own fair hand. Shall I draw a heart round it for you?'

‘Shut up, Rudge.'

‘Does Quick know?'

‘Quick knows.'

‘How?'

‘Saw us kissing in the reception.'

‘Hoo-­ee!' Pamela whooped with laughter and I couldn't help a smile; it was a thrilling admission. ‘Bloody
hell
, Odelle, I didn't know you had it in you. She must like you, 'cos most girls woulda been out on their ears.'

‘Pamela, shut
up
.'

‘Ahh, you
like
him.'

‘Don't be an idiot.'

‘All right, all right.' Pamela put up her hands, and her ringed fingers glinted in the light. ‘I was like that when I first met Billy,' she said. I suspected no two men were more different than Lawrie and Billy, but I let it pass. ‘It's like you can't
breathe
,' she said.

‘I can breathe perfectly well.'

She laughed. ‘Miss High and Mighty. Honestly, Odelle, are you sure you ain't a secret African queen?'

‘I'm from Trinidad.'

‘Keep your knickers on. Or maybe
not.
'

‘
Pamela.
'

‘Come on,' she whispered. ‘Have you done it yet?'

‘Mind your own business.'

She smirked. ‘That'll be a no then,' she said. ‘Get on with it, Odelle. You don't know what you're missing.' She fished under the reception counter and placed a brown-­paper bag before me. ‘Happy birthday,' she beamed, mischief dancing in her black-­kohled eyes.

I eyed it suspiciously. ‘What's that?'

‘Take a look, Miss Bastien.'

I lifted the edge of the paper. Inside were two strips of pills. ‘Are
these
—­'

‘Yep. Got some spare. I thought you might want them.' Pamela looked at the expression on my face, and her confidence faltered. ‘You don't have to take them—­'

‘No, thank you. I'll take them.'

Pamela grinned. It was funny to me, the different gifts ­people employed to show their friendship – with Quick it was a notebook, with Pamela, the contraceptive Pill. I'd spent weeks pressing novels onto Pamela, which in many ways said all you needed to know about me. Pamela's offering was a perfect reflection of her utilitarian sensuality; a pragmatic approach to the pursuit of pleasure. It was no small thing for an unmarried girl to get hold of the Pill in those days; no doctor would prescribe it.

‘How did you get these?' I asked.

She winked. ‘Rubbed a lamp, didn't I.'

‘Come on, how?'

‘Brook Advisory,' she relented. ‘Gold dust.'

I shoved them into my handbag. ‘Thank you,
Rudge
,' I said, skipping down the Skelton steps before Pamela could ruin the moment with a salacious addendum. Still – she was a woman of the new world, giving me a slice of freedom. I should have been more grateful.

FOR MY BIRTHDAY, LAWRIE WAS
taking me to the house in Surrey. Gerry was away, he said, and he wanted to show me the place. In the near six years I'd been in England, I'd not seen that bucolic heaven peddled to us in Trinidad. I was ready for hedgerows, crumbling Eleanor crosses covered in yellow lichen, the dip of autumn trees overburdened by their fruit, village shops selling eggs in boxes by the step. In fact, when I saw Lawrie's house, this wasn't actually far off, which made me think that perhaps the only truth my colonial educators had told me was the one about the English countryside.

Lawrie's family lived near a place called Baldock's Ridge, in a detached red-­brick Victorian farmhouse. In a childlike simplicity, it was called The Red House. It had a mature orchard of apple trees in the front, and peeling paintwork on its windows. It was enchanting. Inside, however, there wasn't much evidence of feminine life, despite how recently his mother had died. I wanted ball gowns hanging up in dignified tatters, tobacco-­infused dining chairs, chocolate-­box paintings on the wall, the smell of dog hair on old picnic rugs. But there was nothing like that. Either she'd lived as a spartan, or Bastard Gerry had cleared his dead wife out.

I sat in the kitchen, and closed my eyes as Lawrie made the tea.
Just be careful of him. You don't just
happen
upon a painting like that, Odelle.
I pushed Quick's words away with a flash of anger. Did she want to ruin this for me?

‘Here we are,' said Lawrie, handing me a chipped blue cup. ‘It's still lovely and warm out. Shall we sit in the garden?'

I followed him, my hands wrapped round the cup, padding along the rugless hallway.

THE BACK GARDEN WAS A
bit of a mess in a Hodgson Burnett way; overgrown bushes and gnarled plum trees, broken terracotta pots sprouting mint, wild pansies faring perfectly. There was a greenhouse at the end of the long lawn, its windows streaked with dried mud and rain so it was impossible to see inside. Who had tended this place? Perhaps Lawrie had, once upon a time, up and down the furrows.

‘How long have you lived here?' I asked.

‘On and off all my life. We had a flat in London, too, but my mother stopped liking the city. She preferred it here.'

‘I can see why. It's beautiful.'

He sighed. ‘It has its moments.'

We sat in silence for a while, listening to the blackbirds in the dusk. ‘Are you excited for what Reede might discover next?' I asked.

He stared out at the orchard. ‘What if it
was
stolen?'

‘It wouldn't be your fault – or your mother's.'

‘Well – no. No, I suppose not. Imagine if it's worth a fortune. God, the look on Gerry's face. The only thing she left me and it's worth a bomb.'

‘If you sold it, you wouldn't have anything of your mother left.'

He turned to me, a shrewd expression in his eyes. ‘Don't you go soft. My mother was the least sentimental person I knew.'

‘I think it is quite sentimental, leaving you a single painting in her will.'

‘You didn't know her,' he said. ‘It's more likely a loaded gun.'

‘What do you mean?'

Lawrie cast his eye over the wilderness before us, sipping on his tea. ‘She always attracted trouble. I think she would have liked you very much.'

‘Why? I never attract trouble.'

‘And she could be a pain in the arse as well.'

‘
Hey
.'

He said he had made a shepherd's pie; I was impressed that he could cook. I wondered when Lawrie had learned, and had the suspicion he had spent quite a lot of his life looking after himself. He said he'd lay the table, I was the birthday girl – so whilst he was doing all that, heating up the oven and looking for forks, I took the opportunity to go upstairs.

I WENT INTO ONE OF
the large back rooms, evening sunbeams slanting through its windows, a shade of deep whisky, dust motes swirling in the shafts. Again, no rugs or carpets on the floor, no paintings on the wall, just the bed frame and a wardrobe, empty save for a percussive clutch of wire hangers when I opened its door. Upturned bluebottles were scattered against the skirting. There were piles of documents and boxes of paper everywhere, curled and faded with time.

I tried to imagine Lawrie's mother in this house; what she looked like, her marriage to Gerry, what she'd done in her life after her husband died in the war. There were no photos of her anywhere, but there was the faintest trace of perfume in the air; sophisticated, woody, alluring. I sat gently on the edge of the metal bed frame, wondering whether another family would fill this place again with life, with second chances, hopes and failures. I felt a pang of anxiety that Cynth would never speak to me again.
I must telephone her
, I thought.
It's gone on too long. Or write to her, at least.

I rose from the bed and approached the window to view the rolling Surrey hills in this extraordinary light. I rested my elbows on yet another pile of old papers, and Quick's caution over Lawrie entered my thoughts again. What was it that bothered her so much? It was none of her business, but I couldn't get her comments out of my mind.

Absently, I sifted through a pile of papers on the windowsill. They were receipts mainly, one for a butcher's delivery back in 1958, a Guildford shopping centre parking ticket, electricity bills, an order of ser­vice for the Baldock's Ridge Carol Concert, 1949. Here was someone who didn't throw things away, yet Lawrie had said his mother was not the type who kept receipts.

Underneath the carol ser­vice sheet was a tissue-­thin pamphlet for an exhibition of young British artists, from 1955. I opened it. It had been held in the London Gallery on Cork Street, and whoever had attended had put a line through the names of the artists and their works one by one with a pencil.
No Sign
, they had written at the bottom. No sign of what? I wondered. The frustration of whoever had written this was evident in the pressure of lead upon the paper.

I folded the pamphlet in two, slid it in my pocket and went downstairs, telling myself that in that mess of papers up there, no one would miss it.

LAWRIE HAD LIT CANDLES, WEDGING
them into empty wine bottles and a burnished, sinuous candelabra that had more than a hint of murder weapon about it. We sat in the kitchen, the day now faded, eating his shepherd's pie, drinking cider that the neighbour had made from the orchard. ‘Happy birthday, Odelle,' he said, and raised his glass.

‘Thank you. I feel like we're hiding from the world out here.'

‘Sounds good to me.'

‘It doesn't seem obvious that Gerry lives here. Upstairs is a bit of a mess.'

‘That was my mother, more than him. I expect Gerry will sell the house.'