Landscape with Corpse, page 5
‘Hello,’ said the one with the moustache—so he had to be Martin. ‘Are you all ready and prepared for tomorrow?’
‘Impatient is the word.’
‘Ah yes. Well. That’ll wear off by Friday. Four solid days of painting, and you’ve about had enough.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s so.’
Then Oliver stood in front of me, a glass in each hand. ‘Either of you ready for a refill?’ he asked the twins. He was punctilious in this, which was probably a hangover from his days in the police.
As one, the twins placed a hand over their glasses.
Oliver sat beside me. ‘Is this true?’ he asked the brothers, knowing I was dying to ask. ‘What we’ve been told—that you’re married to twins?’
They laughed together, in harmony. ‘It’s a joke,’ Martin told us. ‘My wife’s a tall, slim blonde, and Philip’s is a shorter, stouter redhead. But we don’t like to disappoint people, so we invented it.’
‘What about painting styles?’ I asked. ‘Do you paint alike?’
‘Oh no. Not at all.’ This was Philip. ‘I’m watercolours and Martin’s acrylics. Different results—so it’s easy to tell which is which when we’re finished. You’ll see, I hope. If the weather holds…’
‘Oh, don’t say things like that,’ I appealed. ‘You’ll put the mockers on it.’
They both smiled. Philip said, ‘I’m watercolours and Martin’s acrylics. Much the same, you’d say, but it’s easy to tell which is which when they’re finished.’
‘You’ve already said that,’ Martin pointed out. ‘But the point is that you can overpaint with acrylics.’
‘But it’s the discipline of watercolours that counts.’ Philip nodded positively.
‘Oh yes,’ I agreed warmly. ‘That’s what I feel.’
At this point, Geoff walked in on us, and looked round. He seemed worried.
‘Anybody seen Jennie?’ he asked. ‘She said she wanted a word with me.’
Then Jennie came walking after him round the corner. ‘She’s here,’ she announced.
She seemed flushed, and her hair was a little untidy, but she was smartly dressed in slacks and a blouse with lace trimmings, a little jacket over it.
‘Where’ve you been hiding yourself?’ Geoff asked.
She moved a hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Down in the town.’ Then, at his expression, she added, ‘It’s a free world.’
But Geoff was persistent. ‘At this time? The shops must be shut.’
Jennie shook her head in impatience, getting the usual dancing effect from her hair. ‘I wanted to have a look at the wharfs. You know…check on them, and see what boats were in. You know. And Geoff—it was really beautiful. From the north side of the estuary—where Paul usually goes—from there, and with the street lights reflected in the water. And just a touch of red in the sky. If only I could get that down on paper…’
I glanced sideways at Oliver, and nudged him. He turned his head to me, smiling. He and Jennie were of a like mind, it appeared.
But Geoff wasn’t satisfied. For the week, we were his painters, and he felt responsible for our welfare.
‘So—how did you get there, if you haven’t got your car?’
‘Oh…I walked.’
‘On your own? Wasn’t that very rash?’
‘Oh…come on, Geoff. It’s not one of your dirty streets in a city. Nobody was going to touch me. I felt like a walk, that’s all there’s in it.’ And now she seemed annoyed by his concern.
‘Well—I think it was a foolish idea,’ Geoff said. ‘And on your own. Foolish.’
He looked round for support, and suddenly Pam Wilton was there, at his shoulder.
‘So what else is she—ever?’ she demanded, looking Jennie in the eyes. ‘Can’t help it—and it’s so dangerous, Jennie. Really it is. I’ll have a gin and tonic, love,’ she said, turning to see how close Paul might be behind her.
‘Already got one for you.’ His voice was toneless. ‘Aren’t we going to sit down?’
Not once did he look directly at Jennie, but allowed his eyes to roam restlessly. To Pam, he said. ‘Let’s go round the other side—shall we?’
It sounded as though he and Pam had put their dispute firmly in the past. She agreed to his suggestion. ‘Yes—round the other side.’ My eyes followed Paul.
I couldn’t understand what either of the women found attractive in him. He was craggily featured, with deep-set and I thought furtive eyes, a square jaw, and lips that dipped morosely in the corners.
There was an awkward silence. Jennie shook her head; that hair had very little rest. She spoke to Geoff.
‘It really was quite splendid, down by the wharfs, Geoff,’ she insisted. ‘At night, with just the street lights…’
‘I’ll look at it some other time,’ he assured her, but with a complete lack of enthusiasm. ‘Just sit yourself down, Jennie. You know you’ve been foolish…on your own…down there.’
She sat abruptly beside me, and pouted sullenly. Geoff smiled vaguely, and drifted away, leaving me hunting desperately through my mind for something to say, as Oliver settled himself the other side of her.
‘You didn’t tell me how you came to crash your Porsche,’ I told her. Anything to distract her. Her face was expressionless.
‘Oh…that. I was overtaking a trailer wagon. A bend coming up, and hidden by a railway bridge over it. Me…I reckoned I could get past, but just as I’d decided that, another wagon came round the corner towards us. So I dropped back, and pulled in behind the trailer. And I suppose the trailer driver didn’t know that corner, either—it was really quite deceptive. In any event, he braked hard, and I skidded under his tail, and found myself with a lapful of glass peas and the roof nearly chopped off.’
‘Well now…’ I said. ‘It must have been very horrifying.’
She stared at me, huge eyes vacant. Flatly, she added, ‘I think I’m pregnant, Philipa.’ She had to tell somebody.
As sometimes happens, the clatter in the bar had suddenly collapsed, leaving a hole of silence, into which Jennie’s statement rang out as though she had shouted it. The silence continued for three whole seconds, which seemed like an eternity, then the chatter burst out again—but louder. Nobody looked in our direction. Jennie said, ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured uselessly.
‘We’ll say goodnight, then,’ Oliver said. ‘See you in the morning.’ And he got to his feet as she stood up. He’s very old-fashioned, and I love it.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘See you on the coach.’ But there was no lively anticipation in her voice.
It was not much later before we decided to do the same. I was suddenly very tired. Perhaps it was the sea air. In any event, that huge bed beckoned.
But…sitting alone and looking sadly neglected, was Elise, I saw. I touched Oliver’s arm, and we moved over to join her. ‘What’s this, Elise? All on your own?’
‘I’m quite all right, thanks.’
‘Mind if we sit with you for a few minutes?’ I asked, slipping on to the space beside her on the settle. ‘I’ll have to unwind, or I’ll never get to sleep,’ I explained.
Oliver asked her whether she would like a drink, but she shook her head. ‘No…no, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m not much of a drinker. I come here for the painting, not to drink.’
‘Yes…well…you’ll be painting in the morning,’ I reminded her.
‘I shall, shan’t I!’ She seemed to wriggle her way into the idea of it. ‘I’m acrylics, you know. What about you?’
‘Oh…I’m watercolours,’ I told her. ‘And Oliver’s pastels.’
She pouted. ‘Pastels smudge.’
‘There’s a spray fixative,’ I said. ‘Oliver—we haven’t tried that.’
‘True. We haven’t. But I’ve got nothing to preserve, yet. Don’t suppose I ever will. Nothing worth the trouble, anyway.’
Elise laughed. ‘Is he always so modest?’
‘Well…no. But he’s an absolute beginner, and with no faith in himself at all. It’s just a bit of confidence he needs. We’ll have to find a good place to set up, and then see what he gets.’
She looked away. ‘I’ve got a good place,’ she said softly.
‘You all seem to seek out your favourite spots, it seems to me. From what I’ve heard. And we know nothing about the setting, at all. Perhaps you’ll be able to advise us, Elise.’
‘Well…’ She looked down at her hands, then looked up, smiling winningly. ‘Why don’t you both sit with me?’
I really hadn’t paid much attention to Elise. She had been the young woman whose splendid painting had been slashed. She had seemed to be shy and withdrawn, but behind it she was full of life, all bursting to be enjoyed.
‘Oh…’ I said. ‘We couldn’t, really. Your special place!’ I glanced at Oliver, but he gave me no help, merely lifted his eyebrows.
‘Please…’ she said. ‘It does get awfully lonely, you know.’ She looked across at Oliver. ‘If your husband doesn’t mind.’
That was a strange thing to say. If anybody should mind, surely that had to be me. Oliver winked. At Elise, I felt, rather than at me. I said, ‘I’m sure he doesn’t.’
This seemed to delight her. ‘And I’ll feel safe.’ She pressed her hands to her cheeks.
I didn’t understand that. ‘Safe?’
‘Safe to leave my painting. If I have to…you know. And the nearest toilets…you have to cross the bridge. And I’m always worried—leaving things.’
‘Hmm!’ I said. ‘You would be. And we mustn’t have that.’
She clapped her hands together. ‘Then that’s that. I’ll sleep better tonight.’
‘You can feel extra safe,’ I assured her. ‘Oliver’s an ex-policeman.’
He doesn’t usually like me to refer to that. It makes him feel that he’s there to keep the peace.
‘We appreciate why you’re worried,’ I told her. ‘About leaving things. It was a wicked thing to do.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. But now…’ She looked at us with a fresh light in her eyes. ‘Now I feel much better.’
‘Well—we’ll see you in the morning, then,’ Oliver said, catching my eye. He put out a hand to me.
She smiled. No words. But we left her more relaxed than she had been, though Oliver didn’t seem greatly pleased.
‘Don’t frown,’ I told him. ‘It saves us having to search around and make a decision. And this is her special spot, which she’s going to share.’
‘I’m not frowning, Phil,’ he said. ‘Just thinking.’
I, too, was thinking—that I’d found a special friend in Elise.
We said goodnight to those few left behind in the bar, and made our way to our room.
As I undressed, Oliver stood at the window. Down in the town, lights were flicking off. The magic gradually faded into the darkening sky as I went to stand beside him.
‘Better leave the windows open a little,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a warm night.’ Then he gently drew me away from the window.
‘What…’
He said quietly, ‘Down there. Jennie. Walking up and down the terrace.’
‘Then she won’t want you to be watching,’ I pointed out. ‘Let’s get some sleep, love. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
I remember laying my head on the pillow, Oliver’s hand resting gently on my waist, then abruptly it was morning.
He fumbled his legs out of the bed. ‘You first with the shower?’ he asked.
‘Are we in a hurry?’
‘Well…no. I suppose not. But I’d like to try that spray stuff for my pastels.’
So we wasted no time, and were down in the Glasshouse at eight o’clock.
Geoff was there already. He looked round. ‘You’re a bit early. We have breakfast first.’ He said it solemnly, to indicate he was ribbing us.
‘It’s just that Oliver wants to try his fixative spray.’
‘Fine. Go ahead. Oliver’s already got one masterpiece to try it on.’
‘Funny,’ said Oliver.
He found his pad, and tore off the used sheet. ‘Doesn’t look quite so bad now,’ he admitted.
A long row of sinks ran along one of the shorter walls. They were liberally splashed with a multitude of colours, from the years of countless artists washing their equipment. Oliver laid his vase painting face up on what was used as a draining board, read the instructions on the can, and squirted a fine cloud of colourless varnish.
‘It smells like hairspray,’ I said.
‘It could well be the same thing. Want to try it?’
‘No, thanks.’
My hair doesn’t need spraying. It’s like a tangle of copper wire, and does what it feels best. I can never do anything about it.
He waved the paper in the air, then put it down on a table.
‘Seems to do its job,’ he said, running his finger over it as soon as it was dry. ‘Last night it smudged as easy as pie. Look at it, and it smudged.’
‘So now you know it works.’
‘But it’s dulled the colours a bit,’ he complained.
I stood back and stared at him. ‘Not much wrong with your colour sight, Oliver,’ I told him. ‘Isn’t that so, Geoff?’
‘Pardon?’ He was busy. ‘No,’ he said, sparing a glance. ‘Nothing. But…a tip, Oliver. After you’ve used the spray you can work over it again. If you want to brighten the highlights, for instance.’
‘Right. Thanks.’ Oliver was vastly pleased with himself. ‘Let’s go and get breakfast,’ I said. ‘Oh…and Geoff…’
‘Yes?’ He was infinitely patient.
‘We’re fixed up with a site for painting. We’re going to be with Elise.’
‘Well now…’ He smiled. ‘Good. I’m pleased about that. She’s terribly shy, and this is the first time…anyway, I’m sure you’ll all three get along fine.’
I touched his arm. ‘The first time, Geoff?’
‘The first time she’s trusted anybody, since it happened.’
‘Because we’re the only ones it couldn’t have been?’ I asked.
He cocked his head at me. ‘Well…not exactly that, I feel.’
5
The college coach was a neat little twenty-seater, driven by the college caretaker, Larry. As there were only eight of us, plus Geoff and Larry, there was plenty of room for everybody’s equipment.
Geoff sat Oliver and me in the two front seats, so that he could explain things whilst sitting behind us and leaning forward. The rest chattered away amongst themselves.
‘We drive down the road to the junction,’ Geoff told us, ‘then turn right along the river until we get to the estuary. Everybody seems to want the sea and the boats in their pictures. Look, there’s the river, ahead. It’s not much of a river, but it’s all we’ve got.’
It ran quietly between trees, the other side of a long run of hawthorn hedge.
The coach turned right at the junction, and the outer reaches of the town now began to appear, backing up from the river, and to our left. To the right there was nothing but trees.
‘First stop just by the footbridge,’ Geoff told us.
We stopped. Oliver and I got out, and watched as Jennie sorted out her bits and pieces. So much, she seemed to need! Surely, she would never cover the surfaces of what looked like twenty sheets of very stiff watercolour paper.
The bridge over the river was a narrow wooden one, for pedestrians only. From its far end there was a short and steep cobbled lane, heading away, and apparently up into this final reach of the town. A squat building at the top was fronted by a clipped yew hedge, and the hedge by something that seemed to be the flat surface of a sheer sandstone cliff, rising a good fifty feet above the black estuary mud below.
‘She paints from up on that flat surface,’ said Geoff, pointing. ‘There’s a grand view from there of the entire estuary and the boats, but I can assure you, it’s not every artist’s dream. The high viewpoint makes the perspective very complicated.’
‘You’re not going to let her carry all that stuff and the stool and the easel—all by herself!’
Geoff gave a short laugh. ‘Heavens, no. Of course not. Larry and I give her a hand. It’s what we’re here for.’
We watched as they carried her massive load of equipment across the wooden footbridge, she, with her packed lunch in a plastic carrier bag, strolling along behind them. Then Oliver and I did a bit of strolling of our own, a little further along the route the coach was obviously to take, until the tarmac surface simply seemed to lose heart and melt away, leaving it to the grass expanse ahead. There was a double path, impressed in the grassland with the twin lanes of motor vehicles. This ran away into the distance, parallel to the coastline.
‘But how do they get motor vehicles up into the town?’ I asked Oliver, as we stood and stared at the estuary and out to the sea, so very far away, it seemed.
‘Didn’t you notice, Phil?’ Oliver asked. ‘There’s a proper road bridge crossing the river, further back. We passed it on the way here.’
‘No—I didn’t notice that.’
The estuary was very wide at this point, and it was clear that the mooring of boats depended to a great extent on the tide. It could by no means be called a harbour. At low tide, as it seemed to be at that time, the boats mostly lay on their sides, and no doubt would float free as the tide came in. The underlying surface was in no way sandy, and was very like a black sludge. It would not be attractive, surely, in any painting. So what would Jennie find to be worth painting, faced by a dark and drab grey in her foreground? It was not my problem, though, and no doubt Jennie had faced it before. She could—after all—paint the sludge as bright sand.
As Geoff would have said: it would be her estuary.
We turned and looked back. Geoff was waving to us from beside the coach. Jennie was standing, legs apart, on the forward edge of her cliff. Beyond her, even higher than the cliff, there was just visible what could well be the ruins of a very ancient castle.
We waved to Jennie. She didn’t wave back. She was wearing her black tight leggings and a bright red T-shirt. It looked as though Geoff had set up her easel for her. Behind her, the yew hedge nicely set off the red shirt.
