The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides) (28 page)

‘This is the man writing the book that I told you about, Juan.'

‘Indeed!' said Juan. ‘Marvellous! Marvellous! A celebration of Norfolk, isn't that right?'

‘That's right,' said Morley.

‘Well, welcome to you, gentlemen, to College Farm. A rough-made thing, but it is our own.'

‘Thank you. I wondered about the name, actually,' said Morley. ‘College Farm?'

‘We call it that,' explained Juan, ‘because we want it to be somewhere that people can come to learn. About art, and about music.'

‘And about life. And love,' added Constance.

‘An admirable aim,' said Morley.

‘Thank you. We do our best.'

‘I'm sure. And
docendo discimus
.'

Juan and Constance looked blank.

‘You learn by teaching,' said Morley.

‘Indeed.'

‘We were just admiring your husband's playing of the bandoneón,' Morley explained to Constance.

‘Ah! You know the instrument?' asked Juan.

‘I had the privilege once, while staying in Paris, of hearing the great Eduardo Arolas playing with an orchestra.'

‘
El Tigre del bandoneón
!' exclaimed Juan. ‘My hero! Mr Morley. You are an exceptionally lucky man. But Arolas is no longer with us, alas.'

‘No? I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘He died many years ago.'

‘And where did you learn, Mr Chancellor?'

‘I learned the instrument as a child. I was brought up in Argentina, but educated in England.'

‘I see.'

‘My father was in the Royal Navy. But he met my mother there, and settled. I have made the return journey, as it were.' He laughed again.

The remaining dancers were making their way elsewhere. Constance went over to say goodbye, embracing them all warmly, men and women, and kissing them on both cheeks, in the continental fashion.

‘You have quite a … thriving group here,' said Morley.

‘Ah, yes, we are very, very lucky.'

‘They all live here, on the farm?'

‘No, some of them do. Some of them are villagers. And some of them are just passing through.' He waved goodbye to the men who were leaving. ‘Michael there, he's an antiquarian. He visits from London occasionally. Stays in Blakeney. Donald is a retired commercial traveller. He stays here with us. David is a lutenist, a great interpreter of the work of Dowland. He comes with his wife. And Ed Dunne, who works in the shop in Blakeney, Podger's – you may have met him? – he sometimes joins us. He has one of the studios, in the outbuildings. He'd be a good person to talk to, for your book. A very promising young artist.'

‘Dunne, did you say?'

‘That's right.'

‘Make a note, Sefton.'

I duly did.

‘We'll perhaps get a chance to speak to Mr Dunne about his work another time. But how did you end up here yourselves, if you don't mind me asking?' continued Morley.

‘We were living in London, but we decided some years ago now to come to Norfolk and to live life more purely.'

‘More purely?'

‘Yes. All of us here at College Farm share a desire to create an atmosphere of honesty and of heightened consciousness. It is a new ethic of work and love we are trying to create.'

‘Very good,' said Morley. ‘A sort of religious community, then? Moral rearmament?'

‘No, no!' Juan laughed. ‘Here at College Farm we try not to impose upon one another our contradictory ideas, or desires, or … necessities.'

‘I see.'

‘We are trying to be free.'

‘Free? I see. And how do the local community find that?'

‘We have had our disagreements, Mr Morley. But that's only to be expected, surely, when one is attempting to establish a centre of intellectual and artistic activity.'

Constance came back over. ‘You'll come up to the house, gentlemen, and join us for lunch, of course?'

The house, splendid as it first appeared, was in fact on the verge of decrepitude, if not indeed collapse. Some of the windows were boarded up, door frames and doors were half rotten. Brambles and briars were making their way from outside to the inside. In the vast, primitive communal kitchen, paintings and books were stacked everywhere, and a dreadful fresco, which either consciously or unconsciously – and one hoped the latter, but feared the former – blurred the boundaries between Botticelli and Picasso, adorned the entire length of one wall, in which mottle-faced and multicoloured women sprawled across what was presumably a Norfolk landscape, flecked with frenzied windmills and startlingly erect churches.

‘These are yours, Mr Chancellor?' asked Morley, indicating a stack of canvases, crudely daubed with lines and dots.

‘Yes, indeed. I am their originator.'

‘Do I detect the influence of Paul Klee, perhaps?'

‘I wouldn't dare to compare myself,' said Juan. ‘But yes, maybe, a little. I'm most flattered, Mr Morley.'

‘He's very modest,' said Constance to me, having linked her arm through mine, and led me towards an enormous oak refectory table – a banqueting table, really, twenty feet long. ‘He was a Vorticist, you know, for a while. Now he's more interested in Innerism.'

‘Innerism. Very good,' I said.

‘Many of the paintings are in private collections,' she said. ‘One of the sisters of Lord Scarsdale is a great fan of our work here. Do you know Lord Scarsdale?'

‘I'm afraid not, madam, no,' I said.

‘Exquisite taste,' she said. ‘And also the French ambassador to the Court of St James. He has many of Juan's paintings.'

‘Known for their good taste, of course, the French,' I said, unable to think of anything else.

‘Precisely, Mr Sefton. How very true. Do you like them?' she called over to Morley.

‘They are very … fetching,' said Morley, though he later confessed to me that he thought the art more suitable for adorning bathroom curtains, if anything. ‘Semi-art,' he called it. Then added, ‘Demi-semi-art.'

‘Well, they're all for sale,' said Constance. ‘At the right price.'

‘Constance!' said Juan, clearly embarrassed.

‘I'm afraid we're not here to buy art today, madam,' said Morley. ‘Perhaps another time.'

‘Such a pity,' she said. ‘Now, lunch? And we'll talk about your book.'

‘Thank you. Thank you very much,' said Morley. ‘It really is terribly kind of you to entertain us.' He winked at me.

Between them, Juan and Constance produced, first, bread – ‘Our own, of course' – and cheese – ‘Our own, of course' – and boiled eggs.

‘Your own?' said Morley.

‘Of course!' said Juan.

And then Constance produced some soup, in a vast enamel pot from a large, modern fridge.

‘And what do we have here?' asked Morley.

‘It's a cold soup, Mr Morley, from Spain.'

‘Cold soup?' said Morley.

‘Yes! We rather like to defy conventions here, Mr Morley.'

‘Indeed?' said Morley. ‘
Gazpacho
, or
ajo blanco
?'

‘
Ajo blanco.
' Juan laughed.

‘You've tried it before?' asked Constance, obviously disappointed.

‘Ah, yes,' said Morley. ‘Something similar in Turkey. Nothing quite like the lively, and yet' – and here he sniffed the soup as Constance ladled it into his bowl – ‘slightly torpid scent of garlic to rouse one at lunchtime.'

‘Torpid!' Juan laughed. ‘Very good, Mr Morley! Torpid yet lively garlic! You're quite right, of course.'

‘Thank you,' said Morley. ‘What else is in the soup, might I ask? I'm afraid I've never been to Andalusia. It is an Andalusian dish, isn't that right?'

‘Yes,' said Constance, bitterly. ‘Almonds.'

‘Your own?'

‘Alas, no. And oil. And salt.'

‘All the good things,' said Juan.

‘Mr Sefton here may also have tried the soup before,' said Morley. ‘Have you tried it before, Sefton?'

‘You were in Spain?' asked Juan.

‘Yes,' I said.

‘Recently?'

‘Yes.'

‘Fighting?'

‘Yes.'

‘You brave soul,' said Constance, ladling more cold soup into my bowl.

‘Ever tried it?' said Morley.

‘Never,' I said.

‘First time for everything,' said Morley.

‘Indeed,' said Juan. ‘A first time for everything!
Bon appétit
!'

While we ate, Morley asked questions, and I made occasional notes.

I had of course eaten the soup before, though much colder and much, much saltier, in Spain.

‘And what brought you here, Mr Chancellor?'

‘I came here for the big skies,' said Juan.

‘Yes. It's often said,' said Morley. ‘Sixty-eight miles, east to west, and forty-one north to south.'

‘Is that so?'

‘By my calculation. And ninety miles of coast.'

‘It reminded me of Argentina. The sea, and the space and the light.'

‘Yes,' said Morley. ‘Peculiarly pellucid, isn't it?'

‘Very good!' Juan laughed. ‘Peculiarly pellucid! I like you, Mr Morley.'

‘And you, madam?'

‘I'm from Norfolk originally,' said Constance. ‘From here. Blakeney.'

‘Really? I had supposed you might also be from the Americas.'

‘Many people make that mistake,' she said.

‘It's her looks,' said Juan. ‘When I arrived here I fell in love with her ravishing gypsy looks.'

‘And you're an artist also, Mrs Chancellor?'

‘I trained as an artist in Oxford, Mr Morley. But I prefer to describe myself now as a maker.'

‘A maker? I see. You might want to make a note of that, Sefton.'

‘I believe woman is the source of all true making, Mr Morley.'

‘Really?' said Morley, lifting his moustache away from his soup spoon.

‘Yes. We are the source, are we not? The womb. We unleash the universe from within, Mr Morley.'

‘Indeed,' agreed Morley, slurping rather.

‘A woman's power is the power of the universe, Mr Morley. We have the power to give life.'

‘And to take it?' said Morley provokingly.

‘Constance works mostly in fabric,' said Juan, saving his wife from embarrassment, and gesturing towards the end of the room where, beneath a large window, stood a large frame loom. ‘Headsquares, scarves, stoles. She has her own signature colour.'

‘Her own signature colour?' said Morley. ‘Really?'

‘Yes.'

‘Saponaria,' said Constance.

‘Is that a colour?' said Morley.

‘Not strictly speaking, no,' admitted Constance. ‘But it's from the herb garden. It's an exceptional dye.'

‘Ah, purple!' said Morley. There were indeed swatches and tatters of fabric all in a strange, deep purple.

‘Saponaria,' repeated Constance. ‘It is reminiscent of mulberry.'

‘Reminiscent of mulberry,' repeated Morley.

‘And toys and ornaments,' added Juan. ‘Don't forget your toys and ornaments, darling. She makes the most wonderful ornaments. Do show them, Constance.'

Constance smiled, showing her yellowy teeth, and went over to a tool bench which sported a large vice and a rack of metal- and woodworking tools above it.

She returned to the table and placed something in Morley's hands – a small, smooth, highly polished metal object, which resembled a knuckle-duster, ridged with protuberances.

‘It's … remarkable,' said Morley. ‘I've certainly never seen anything quite like it before.'

‘I call them my adult toys,' she said, smiling. ‘I make them for all my friends.'

‘It's certainly heavy,' he said.

‘Yes.'

‘And cold.'

‘But it warms quickly in the hand, Mr Morley.' She reached out and held her hand tightly around his.

‘I see.'

‘No, wait.'

Morley struggled rather to remove his hands from her grasp, but she held firm.

‘You must wait for it to warm in your hands.'

Morley sat silently for a few moments, Juan and Constance smiling broadly and lovingly at each other.

‘There,' she said eventually. ‘Isn't that nice and warm now?'

‘Yes, lovely.' He went to give it back.

‘No, do keep it. Please.'

‘No, thank you, I couldn't possibly.'

‘No?'

‘Really, no, it's terribly kind of you, but—'

‘Perhaps your young friend then?' She reached across and seized my hand. ‘May I?' she said. ‘I am fascinated by hands.'

‘Erm …'

‘I can foretell by the lines in your palm whether you'll find happiness. Would you like to know whether you shall find happiness?'

I agreed that I would rather like to know, though it occurred to me even at the time that it was not something one might find, as one finds a coin, or a missing chess piece.