Another Life

by Sara MacDonald

  ‘While I’m in Penzance I thought I might buy myself a mobile phone. It would be useful when I’m out working. It means I can take calls, and I won’t lose business.’

  Charlie reached for another piece of toast. ‘What’s the matter with the answer-machine in your workroom? People leave messages if you’re out. Mobile phones aren’t cheap, you know.’

  ‘You’ve got one,’ Nell said before she could stop herself.

  ‘I have men all over the place, Nell, and I need to know where people are and that they can contact me.’

  ‘Well,’ Gabby said, ‘the other reason I thought it might be a good idea was if my car broke down. It would be quite nice to know I could ring someone, Charlie.’

  ‘I think you should definitely get one, Gabby,’ Nell said, meeting Charlie’s eyes and holding them. ‘Especially with the age of your car.’

  ‘The good thing is I could put it against my business, Charlie.’

  Charlie grinned at her. ‘You are sweet, Gab, you haven’t earnt enough to pay tax yet.’

  ‘That’s because I haven’t been working full time. Now I am, the work should come in.’

  Before Nell could interfere again, Charlie said, ‘It’s up to you, Gabby. It seems a waste of money to me, but if you want a phone, go ahead.’

  Nell felt like saying, big of you, but she bit her lip and made for the door.

  ‘If you are going for supplies, Gabby, I need some more Japanese tissue and beeswax.’

  ‘OK,’ Gabby smiled, relieved; horrified at how easy it was to lie.

  ‘I’m off.’ Charlie got up from the table. ‘I’m going to check the pheasant pens, then straight on to the auction at Tresillian to try and get that bailer. Did you remember to make me a flask of coffee and sandwiches, Gabby?’

  ‘Yes, they’re in the old scullery next to your cap.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He shrugged his jacket on.

  ‘What are the chances of you getting the bailer?’ Nell asked.

  ‘Well, I’d be lucky to. I looked at it yesterday; it’s in good condition for its age, so there will be a good bit of bidding. I’m taking Alan with me – to make sure I don’t get carried away and spend too much money.’ He grinned at them both and disappeared out of the door.

  ‘Good luck,’ Gabby called as she carried his plate and mug to the sink.

  The buildings and harbour in Penzance were bathed in early yellow light. With the figurehead in mind, Gabby spent a satisfying half-hour gathering materials together. She treated herself to a new ultraviolet light and x-ray equipment. Solvents and adhesives, oil paints and waxes. Japanese tissue and beeswax for Nell. Fine brushes and powder pigments, swabs of cotton wool on slim sticks, some new pots to hold the solvents so that they wouldn’t spill, and, finally, resins to make varnishes and some new scalpels.

  It was a good thing Charlie could not see the size of the cheque she wrote or know that the estimate she had given for work on the figurehead was on the low side. She happily flicked through the manuals lying on the counter. She loved this, this checking out new chemicals, chatting to the girl who ran the shop, sometimes meeting people she knew and swapping the merits of new brands of cleaning components or varnishes.

  It had been all this, Nell’s array of little bags and boxes of resins, drawers full of varnishes and paint pigments and unknown substances, that had first fascinated Gabby. In the beginning, before she knew anything about restoring, it had seemed as if Nell worked a form of magic; an alchemist, transforming a painting, bringing out the subtle colours, reverting it to all its former detail.

  And it was the detail that was so satisfying. Working out carefully and scientifically testing and patching, watching something damaged coming slowly alive under your fingertips. Even the smell of the potentially dangerous chemicals used to clean canvas or wood excited her with their possibilities.

  Gabby knew the importance of wearing gloves and a mask, and sometimes she felt like a surgeon about to perform a tricky operation. She still felt thrilled at an unexpected discovery and the fact that each painting had a history, a story behind it. Each restoration was entirely different and often revealed secrets and questions as the cleaning progressed. Sometimes the point of interest was merely in the people who had once owned a painting, carefully setting it in a time and a place in history.

  When she had finished she peered in the windows of the myriad mobile-phone shops and picked one at random. A boy as thin as a pencil in a shiny suit that flapped strangely round his thin ankles swooped, and with a cherubic smile began to explain with enthusiasm the various wonders of each phone.

  His boss, an older, stocky man, very dapper in a suit with enormous lapels, brought her coffee, and Gabby suddenly wanted to giggle. The two men looked so incongruous, like the Mafia in a bad American film.

  The boy like a pencil set it all up for her, showed her how to text and how to use the answer-machine. Flushing painfully, he put various numbers in her phone book, including his own in case she got stuck, and Gabby suddenly realized he was rather taken with her.

  She emerged from the shop, triumphant with mobile phone. This was the first major transaction she had ever made on her own and she felt heady. Per-lease, she thought, I’m pathetic.

  She sat in her car, seeing if she could remember how to text Josh. Her anticipation was out of all proportion. HI JOSH. SEE GOT MOBILE LUV G.

  She started to drive home when she remembered Charlie’s hay trough. She turned back, loaded it into the back seat and set off again, worrying guiltily about the waste of a working morning, the primary object of which had really been to buy the mobile phone.

  As she turned off the main road towards the Lizard, she avoided the question, too, of whether she would have the courage to phone Mark Hannah; but the possibility that she could if she wanted to lay there like a shiny washed pebble.

  As she drove into the yard Nell came out of the cottage in her walking shoes with Shadow bouncing excitedly beside her.

  ‘The Canadian, Mark Hannah, rang, Gabby. He said he would ring again. He said to tell you he had traced some graves and turned up something quite interesting about Tom Welland.’

  Gabby got out of the car and bent to lift her packages out. ‘Heavens, he works quickly, or he must have loads of contacts.’

  ‘He probably has research assistants or something,’ Nell said, then, looking into Gabby’s car, ‘I really don’t think Charlie should ask you to carry farm stuff. If that had fallen on you, Gabby, it would have been nasty.’

  ‘It was tightly wedged, Nell, I don’t think it could fall anywhere. I’ve got your stuff and some new brown varnish I’m going to try.’

  Nell smiled. ‘Interesting. I shall look at it later. I’m tired of the monster, I’m going to walk over and see Elan. Did you get yourself a mobile phone?’

  ‘Yes, it took ages, there are hundreds.’

  ‘Well done. See you later.’

  Inside, Gabby made herself a coffee and took her phone out. She put Mark Hannah’s name in the phone book then turned again to the instructions to text him. RE TOM HOW EXCITING GABBY.

  As the message vanished down the line she saw Charlie drive into the yard for an early lunch. She went to her room and put the phone into a drawer. Coming back, she placed bread and cheese and pickle onto the table and put the kettle on the Aga. Charlie was pulling the trough out of the back seat.

  She saw the sun was not going to last; dark clouds were gathering over the sea. Even if it rained Gabby knew she must walk this afternoon. She could not stay inside, she felt jittery and wound tight. She would work tonight. She felt as if a part of her had detached itself and was poised, waiting. The other part of her turned to Charlie and said automatically, ‘Hi there, how did you get on? Did you manage to get the bailer?’

  Chapter 14

  Gabby drove over to St Piran the next day. She wanted to run some tests and take photographs of the figurehead before she started the restoration. She had been given an airy space to work in on the fir
st floor of the small museum; the light was good and she had plenty of room.

  Lady Isabella lay carefully wedged on her back on a large table as if she was sleeping. Gabby saw now in the better light that the wood section at the central lower front, under a fold of drapery, was rotten and would have to be investigated. This had caused deterioration in both gesso and paint layer. The gesso had become crumbly and the paint was flaking. Most other wood sections appeared sound and the adhesive secure.

  Lady Isabella measured approximately sixty inches/152.4cms high. Her core consisted of vertical rectangular pieces of wood, glued and possibly nailed together, although the nails were invisible. The outer wood was carved into the figure shape. The paint layer was mainly cream in colour, probably oil and white lead. There was, as Valerie Mischell had said, evidence of an earlier cream paint and traces of gold and blue.

  Gabby had brought Nell with her and she too was captivated. Gabby knew Nell would not give advice unless she asked for it so she outlined the initial treatments she intended to follow before she asked Nell for her opinion.

  ‘There seems to be about four areas of paint loss and missing gesso beneath the neck, with cracks in between … on the upper chest there …’ Gabby got out her measuring tape ‘… and here, Nell, see? Those vertical cracks following the underlying wood edges, they are …’ Gabby measured them carefully ‘… six centimetres apart on the lower half and skirt front. And here, the edges of the restorer’s paint are chipped on the lily she’s holding, and here on the dark edges of her hair.’

  Nell peered down at the figurehead. ‘She doesn’t appear to have a varnish layer.’ She borrowed Gabby’s magnifying glasses and moved slowly round the table. ‘Rot has set in there, definitely. You can see the wood is more fragile here. Damage to the area has caused loss of paint and wood. This area will have to be carefully prepared, Gabby, before she is moved again, so as not to cause further loss. It will need to be consolidated …’

  ‘Mischell said the same thing. To start with I’m going to treat all the flaking edges of paint with conservation consolidant and then test the stability of the wood and any poor areas I find. The central lower front section here can be injected with resin B72. The gesso and paint losses I thought I’d fill, texture and retouch to match the present colour and tone down the brightness of her hair. The lily leaf and the braid on her robe could be toned down with muted tones in acrylic paint. What do you think?’

  ‘Gabby, have confidence. You don’t need me to advise you, you’re spot on. I would do exactly as you’ve outlined. But I wouldn’t spend too much time on toning the rather garish paint from the more recent renovations. It’s possible there will be a future repaint as the museum researches the original colours. Concentrate on conserving and repair. Modify the colours by all means, but leave evidence when you clean of natural wear and tear.’

  She touched Gabby’s arm. ‘Before you begin, it really is important to investigate the structure and run tests, which you are doing …’

  Nell suddenly bent and peered again at the flowing robe under Lady Isabella’s damaged left hand. She picked up a pair of tweezers.

  ‘Mischell found traces of original blue-green paint, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. Later, to get at the exact colours, you must be sure to find the right pigment. You see the dress here? This blue, if you look carefully, differs from that piece in the crack there …’

  She lifted the tiny piece of blue paint and dropped it into a small polythene pocket Gabby held out for her. ‘My only advice is don’t hurry, take your time. Never assume there are only one or two differing paints applied, there will probably have been many over the years, with only a vague thought to the original colour or period. Run as many tests as you think necessary, until you are absolutely sure. How much time have you quoted for?’

  ‘I couldn’t be absolutely sure how long it would take me, but I told them I would rather overestimate. I said possibly two months.’

  ‘Good. It’s taken long enough to reach its resting place, a few weeks here or there in the interests of getting it right should be immaterial. Your quote for the figurehead was rather low, I thought.’

  ‘Well … Nell … it’s good experience.’

  Nell bent to Isabella’s face. ‘Her face is exceptional, wonderfully carved. It seems familiar, somehow; perhaps it reminds me of a painting I’ve seen. Tom Welland was an extraordinary carver. He went into such detail, and of course his speciality was faces. Like a photographer, he seemed to capture the person behind the face; imbued wood with the tangible essence of a live woman, in the same way an artist does.’

  Gabby stared at her. ‘Nell! What do you know about Tom Welland?’

  Nell laughed. ‘I looked him up in one of my father’s ancient marine books when Mark Hannah mentioned him the other day on the phone. There was only one short paragraph.’

  ‘So what did it say about him?’

  ‘It just commented on the high quality of his work and how well-known and sought-after he became in France and Spain and Canada, where he spent some years. He was at the height of his career when all record of him disappeared. It was rumoured that he may have upset some sponsor and moved abroad for a while. There is no record of what happened to him.’

  ‘That’s what Mark Hannah and Peter found, too.’

  ‘All my old books will be in research libraries. There is a huge growing interest in figureheads and marine wrecks. Mainly because there are so few records and so many figureheads have been allowed to just rot away.’

  Nell went downstairs to talk to John Bradbury while Gabby took her samples of paint and placed them into the little self-sealing polythene pockets. Elan, who was joining them for lunch in the pub with John, came up the stairs and sat and sketched the figurehead while Gabby made notes of what she would need initially. Looking up into the blind wooden face of Isabella she longed to make those eyes see, replace colour and life into her face, dress her in her blue and gold.

  They walked over to the pub and Gabby was amused at the shorthand Nell, Elan and John had, in the way of people who have known each other for a long time.

  ‘Why is your Canadian researching in Devon,’ Elan asked Gabby, ‘when the Isabella was registered in a Cornish port?’

  ‘Sir Richard Magor, who built and owned the Lady Isabella, grew up in Devon. His family had a big shipbuilding business near Appledore and also in Prince Edward Island.’

  ‘The 1860s,’ Nell said, ‘when the Lady Isabella was being built, was an amazing time for trade around the islands. These ships travelled all round Britain, and Tom Welland’s work must have been admired everywhere. It’s such a pity there are so relatively few photographs or records left of the carvers of figureheads of that time.’

  ‘I suppose the women on some of the figureheads had to sit for the carvers, like a muse for a painter,’ Elan said. ‘Lots of room for naughty dalliance.’

  ‘I shall view your evocative paintings in a different light from now on,’ John Bradbury said dryly. ‘There I have been, humbled and admiring of your spirituality, when it was possibly lust.’

  Elan laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. You know how rarely I paint people. However, standing in front of that figurehead this morning I thought what a challenge that face would have been to paint. So much there. Such a contradiction of innocence and sensuality. I hope your Canadian discovers who she was and what sort of life she led.’

  The conversation turned to what everyone wanted to eat. Gabby wished she had brought her own car as she longed to get to Truro to send her samples off.

  ‘Lunch is on me,’ Elan said. ‘I’ve sold quite a few paintings this month and I am very pleased indeed.’

  ‘Did you know Mark Hannah bought two of your paintings on Tresco, Elan? As soon as he saw them he had to have them.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. How touching. Hurrah for Canadians.’

  ‘He would like to meet you. Perhaps when you have your
London exhibition?’

  ‘Be delighted. What are you going to eat, child?’

  ‘Oh, a sandwich – prawn, I think.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Gabby wants to be off,’ Nell said. ‘Elan, if I lend Gabby my car, would you give me a lift home?’

  ‘Of course, but the child must eat her sandwich first.’

  Gabby grinned. ‘Yes, Daddy. Will you all think I’m rude if I leave straight afterwards? I want to go back via Truro to post off my paint samples.’

  John Bradbury winked at her. ‘Poor girl, stuck having lunch with the camp and the aged.’

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ Elan and Nell chorused together.

  The wind was getting up by the time Gabby drove out of the car park. Spring squalls could erupt and as quickly subside before the sun set. The sea had turned into a mass of white angry waves and a tanker was heading for shallow water. The fishing fleet were coming in early but the sun was still warm on her hands as she drove in Nell’s wonderful high-sided Land Rover. Gabby only noticed the limitations of her own car when she drove Nell’s.

  As she parked in Truro her mobile phone bleeped. She picked it up and studied it. She had two text messages. The first was from Josh. WELL DONE. U CAN TEXT! WELCUM 20C. GOT LNG WKEND. WILL RING. LUV JOSH.

  Gabby decided to save her rude reply until later. She looked at her second message. WHAT GOOD TIME TO RING. BE NICE TO TALK. TRAIL GONE COLD. MARK.

  Gabby posted her samples at the post office then drove home. The farmyard was quiet, she had the place to herself. Shadow, who objected to being left, was ecstatic to see her and pranced round her like a horse. Gabby made tea and sent two replies to the outside world:

  DON’T BE RUDE. LOOK FWD WKEND, LUV GX.

  Then, to Mark, SIX QTE GOOD TIME. GABBY.

  She got Shadow’s lead and they both skirted the scarred field and jogged along the coastal path down to the cove. The tide was coming in and Gabby ran along the sea’s edge to the rocks at the end of the cove. She loved the power of the rough sea which blew spray in great salty bursts into her eyes. The wind, cold against her face, was as light as air as she ran. She felt a wonderful euphoric freedom that made her imagine she was flying, or poised on the crest of a turning wave with the combined exultation of a seasoned surfer and the equal terror of the pull of the sea.