by Simon Brett
‘Why? Because you’re sorry about the emotional trauma caused to Francis?’
‘No. Because I’m sorry about the emotional trauma caused to me by having the selfish bastard staying here!’
Carole and Jude exchanged another momentary look. Either Debbie Carlton was a much better actress than either of them had ever considered likely, or she had had nothing to do with the anonymous letter that fingered her ex-husband.
‘Well, we’re on the case,’ said Jude, in a parody of a cop show. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll find out who sent that anonymous letter and, when I do, you will be the first to know.’
‘Thanks.’ Debbie grinned.
‘Meanwhile,’ said Carole, ‘if you could ask around in Fedborough . . . ? You’re much more likely to find out something than we are.’
‘I’ll put my mum on to it. If there are any secrets to be found out in this town, she’ll root them out. I will unleash the not-inconsiderable power of Billie Franks.’
‘Right,’ said Jude. She turned ruefully towards Carole. ‘Oh well. I suppose we’d better move on . . . assimilate a bit more culture. Though I must say, Debbie, I’m absolutely delighted with my purchase.’
‘I’m glad you like it. If you don’t mind, I want to keep the exhibition intact until the end of the Festival . . . so if you could pick up the painting then . . . ?’
‘Suits me fine.’
‘Let me just take your address.’ She wrote it down at Jude’s dictation. Then, proudly, Debbie Carlton detached a red circular sticker from a sheet and placed it on the frame of Jude’s painting. ‘Looks good. The more of these, the merrier. Maybe it’ll convince people they’re missing something by not buying my paintings.’
‘Yes . . .’ said Carole awkwardly. ‘I, er . . . I think they’re lovely. I’m sure I’ll . . . er, in a few . . . Do you mind if I take one of these catalogues?’ She was blushing at her clumsiness, but totally incapable of overcoming the habits of a lifetime to make an on-the-spot purchase.
‘No, of course. And do take your Art Crawl maps.’
‘Oh yes.’ Carole picked up two of the folded bright blue sheets. ‘Thank you. So I’ll hope to be back . . . you know, to have another look . . . when I’ve made up my mind about the, er . . .’
They were interrupted by the arrival, unannounced as ever, of Billie Franks. She recognized Carole and was introduced to Jude. After the briefest of conversations, the two women left, Jude calling out to Debbie as they went, ‘Let me know if you find out anything about that anonymous letter.’
On the street outside, Carole still felt gauche and stupid. So much of her life seemed to have been wasted in introverted anger at her own gracelessness.
As a result, she was surprised to hear Jude murmur, ‘Well done.’
‘Why? What’ve I done?’
‘Very clever.’
‘What?’
‘Pretending you hadn’t decided which painting you wanted.’
‘Oh?’
‘Leaving the door open to go back and conduct further investigation. Nice thinking.’
Carole Seddon smiled, as if to say, Yes, it had been quite a clever idea, really.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Smokehouse Studio, as Andrew Wragg had left them in no doubt the previous Friday, was on the Art Crawl map, but Yesteryear Antiques, formerly Stanley and Billie Franks’s grocery store, wasn’t. Not that that stopped Carole and Jude from going inside.
The shop appeared to be unoccupied, so they had an opportunity to browse through the goods on offer. The word ‘Ye steryear’ should have been a clue that Terry Harper specialized in domestic antiques. There was a lot of Victorian kitchen furniture and equipment, instruments like patent apple corers, knife sharpeners and marmalade cutters. One table was devoted to old butcher’s tools, another to a rich variety of tea-caddies. There were besoms, washboards and mangles. Bottles of dark blue and pale green glass stood in ordered rows. On the walls, between multi-drawered apothecary’s chests and elaborate hatstands, hung old metal advertising signs, puffing the custards, beef extracts and health drinks of an earlier age.
Another side of the main room concentrated on relics of the outdoor life. Deckchairs with fading stripes stood alongside white-painted cast-iron tables and chairs. Fine salt-glazed chimney-pots held sprays of garden tools and farming implements, hoes, rakes, billhooks and fruit-pickers. There were elegantly shaped watering cans, wooden trugs and manual hedge-clippers.
Despite the profusion of objects, the impression was not of disarray. A designer’s eye had put everything in its place and, though in another setting the goods might have looked like junk, everything in Yesteryear Antiques had been punctiliously restored and polished. The quality standards maintained by Terry Harper in his choice of stock were extremely high. So, Carole and Jude observed when they looked at the tags, were his prices.
At the back stood a tall dresser with many drawers and shelves, which must have been retained from the shop’s former life as the local grocer’s. Some of the tools, utensils and containers on sale probably replicated ones that had once been part of the shop’s equipment in those days. There was a kind of irony in that. Carole wondered whether Billie Franks got a sense of déjà vu if she ever went into Yesteryear Antiques.
Brass rings clattered on a brass rail as a velvet curtain was swept aside, and Terry Harper appeared from the back of the shop. ‘Sorry, just on the phone. I . . .’ Then he saw who his visitors were. ‘Well, good afternoon. How lovely to see the pair of you.’
‘We were just passing,’ said Jude. ‘Doing the Art Crawl and—’
‘Don’t talk to me about the Art Crawl!’ On his own Terry Harper seemed more camp than he had at the Listers’ dinner party. The round tortoiseshell glasses looked impossibly affected. Maybe it was only by comparison with Andrew Wragg’s flamboyance that he’d seemed restrained; or maybe when his partner was present he deliberately cultivated the image of straight man in the double act.
‘Honestly, it’s the artists who’re supposed to suffer from artistic temperament, not the people who’re just allowing their houses to be used. You wouldn’t believe the fuss I’ve had from the good burghers of Fedborough about security details and insurance. I tell you, this is the last time I work with amateurs! If I ever do anything else like this – which I must say, given my current aggravations, is extremely unlikely – then it’ll be with professional galleries. Members of the public are such a nightmare!’
‘We’ve just made a start on the Crawl,’ said Jude chattily. ‘Seen Debbie Carlton’s stuff – lovely. I bought one of hers.’
‘Ooh, hooray, an actual purchaser! Someone who’s more interested in the art than in what books people have got on their shelves. You must go and see Andrew’s work – particularly if you’re quick on the draw with a chequebook.’
‘I only buy stuff I really fall for.’
‘Hm. Not sure whether the wunderkind’s work is something one would actually fall for. But it is very good. Very challenging. He’s building up quite a reputation,’ Terry concluded proudly.
Carole indicated her Art Crawl map. ‘Andrew was going to be our next port of call. The Smokehouse Studio.’
‘He’s just down the alley behind here.’
‘Why’s it called the Smokehouse Studio?’ asked Jude.
‘Because that’s what it used to be. Don’t know whether you know, but this used to be the Fedborough grocer’s . . .’
‘Yes, we had heard.’
‘And next door – the one that’s now an estate agent’s – used to be the town butcher – and behind that was the smokehouse they used for home-curing all their bacon and stuff like that. It was on the market at the same time as this place. The people who bought the butcher’s didn’t want it, but I did.’
‘That’s where Andrew works?’
‘Right. When I thought about buying this place—’
‘When was that actually, Terry?’
‘Three, three and a bit years ago.’
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‘Did you buy it directly from Stanley and Billie Franks?’
‘Yes. They’d let it run down because they knew they were retiring soon, so I got it at quite a good price. Needed a hell of a lot doing, though. Everything was in a terrible mess, really filthy.’
‘Were they giving up the business because Stanley was starting to get ill?’
‘I’ve always assumed so. Certainly Billie was the one who did the negotiation of the sale. Mind you, Stanley must’ve been late sixties by then, so maybe that’s when they’d planned to retire, anyway.’
‘Sorry, I interrupted you. You were talking about when you were thinking of buying this place . . .’
‘Yes, well, I knew, if Andrew was going to come with me, I’d have to find him a studio space, and the smokehouse was ideal.’ For a moment, Terry Harper betrayed deep insecurity, the fear that Andrew Wragg would walk out if his every whim was not catered for. ‘That’s really what sold the place to me.’
He moved quickly on, perhaps embarrassed about the lapse into self-revelation. ‘Anyway, the conversion job is just wonderful. You’ll see it in a minute. You cannot begin to imagine the state the smokehouse was in when I bought the place – much worse than in here. Hadn’t been used for a while – except as a kind of storeroom. Full of all kinds of junk, packing cases, rusty tools – a real glory-hole. But local architect – Alan Burnethorpe, don’t know if you’ve met him . . .’
Jude nodded. ‘He’s the one who’s got an office on a houseboat down at Fedborough Bridge?’
‘That’s right. Done a lovely refurbishment on that. Alan’s very clever, and he’s known every building in this town all his life. Very sympathetic to their history. He did a wonderful job on the smokehouse too, kept a lot of the original features – the kiln, that kind of thing – and really created this magical space. Andrew’s very happy with his studio.’ He spoke the last words with relief, again revealing an edge of paranoia.
‘We look forward to seeing it,’ said Carole formally.
‘Not to mention seeing Andrew’s challenging art,’ said Jude.
Carole looked around Yesteryear Antiques. ‘You’ve done wonders with this place too.’
‘Yes, well, I wanted to keep that old-fashioned-shop feel. Fits in with the kind of stock I carry.’
‘You must be something of an expert in social history.’
‘Just a bit.’ He picked up the top copy from a pile of hardback books, and coyly straightened the tortoiseshell glasses on his nose. ‘This is one of mine.’ The Edwardian Kitchen by Terence Harper. ‘I’m working on a new book, about Edwardian garden furniture. At least I am when I get any time . . . which in the last few months, with this endless Art Crawl palaver, hasn’t been very often.’ He gestured round his Aladdin’s cave of domestic treasures. ‘Anything I can interest either of you in?’
Oh dear, thought Carole, how embarrassing. He thinks we’re here as customers.
As ever, Jude smoothly defused the situation. ‘Sorry, there’s too much to take in in one visit. I’d like to come back and have a really good riffle around. But this afternoon we’re concentrating on art, not antiques.’
‘Right you are.’ Terry Harper seemed unoffended. Jude had again found the right words. ‘Well, give my love to Andrew. Tell him I’m expecting him to join me for a G and T at six-thirty sharp.’ Again he allowed them a glimpse of his possessive anxiety. ‘But it’s lovely to see you two. People like us must stick together in a place like Fedborough.’
‘Like us?’ said Carole. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We sexual minorities.’ He breathed the words and winked. ‘I’d have known, incidentally, even if Fiona hadn’t pointed it out. But, as I say, we must stick together. Not the most broad-minded place on earth, Fedborough.’
As they emerged from Yesteryear Antiques, Jude could no longer control her pent-up laughter. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she crowed. ‘Thanks to the wagging tongue of Fiona Lister, all of Fedborough thinks we’re a lesbian couple. Isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?’
Carole’s frosty expression suggested she had heard funnier ones.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Smokehouse Studio lived up to Terry Harper’s glowing preview. Alan Burnethorpe’s conversion had been imaginative, but respected the existing features of the building. The original structure was little more than a large shed with a slate roof. The interior walls had been stripped back to their russet brickwork; the supporting beams buffed down till the fine light grain showed through. On one side of the roof the slates had been retained, on the other, the spaces between the bare rafters had been glassed in. These windows could be opened by a ratchet mechanism, so that a healthy breeze diluted the warmth of the July sun.
At the back of the large room, a wall had been built to slice off some of the space. Two doors in this presumably led to a bathroom and utility area. But the most striking feature of the studio was the old smoking kiln, a brick cylinder which tapered upwards like an inverted funnel till the chimney found its way out through the roof.
The large doorway in this structure had been bricked into a recess, which contained the matt-black pillar of a Scandinavian wood-burning stove. The studio that Terry Harper had had built for his partner reflected the strength and the insecurity of his love. Andrew Wragg could have no complaints about the working space that had been provided for him.
Everything was meticulously tidy. The untouched canvas on an easel in the centre of the room contrived to look neat, even the array of brushes and acrylic paints were somehow regimented.
Only the paintings themselves showed wildness and indiscipline. Terry Harper had described the work as ‘challenging’; the word Carole would have chosen was ‘dreadful’ – in both senses. There was a fury in the screaming splashes of colour across Andrew Wragg’s canvases. None of the shapes that struggled and strangled each other in the compositions was representational, and yet they were very evocative. They spoke of deep anger, and even deeper pain.
The artist himself also looked angered and pained. When Carole and Jude entered, he was sitting in a thronelike wooden chair, flicking restlessly through a design magazine. His eyes rose from the page to greet them.
‘Thank God,’ he drawled. ‘I was beginning to think the world had ended out there and nobody had told me.’
‘I’m Carole and this is Jude, my . . . er . . .’ Terry Harper’s recent misunderstanding about their relationship was still unsettling her. ‘ . . . my neighbour,’ she concluded firmly. ‘You remember, we met at . . .’
‘At the infinitely dreary James and Fiona’s. Yes, I remember.’
Andrew Wragg seemed out of sorts, tired and listless. When they were on their own, it seemed, the partners reversed roles. Terry was the extravagant queen, Andrew the restrained introvert.
‘Do I gather from what you said,’ asked Jude, ‘that we’re your first visitors?’
‘Yes. The avid art-lovers of Fedborough are somehow managing to curb their wild enthusiasm for my work.’ He hadn’t risen when they’d entered, and now he slumped further into his chair. ‘God, it’s a dreary place. You two are not from here, are you?’
Carole shook her head.
‘No, I remember it came up in conversation on Friday. Buggered if I can remember where you did come from, though.’
‘Fethering.’
Andrew Wragg groaned. ‘That’s just as bad. Costa Geriatrica. The entire south coast is God’s waiting room, a repository for washed-up widows and washed-out maiden aunts. Why do you live down here?’
‘It’s . . . convenient,’ was the only answer Carole could come up with.
‘Convenient for what?’
‘Well . . . shops . . . the sea . . . the Downs. Anything you might need.’
‘Assuming you don’t need intellectual or creative stimulus.’ He turned his gaze on Jude. ‘And why do you live down here?’
She shrugged easily. ‘Everyone’s got to live somewhere.’
‘Do you
think you’ll stay here for the rest of your life?’
‘I very much doubt it.’
Carole was amazed how much the words hurt her. She had come to rely on Jude too much. She was stupid. She shouldn’t have let her guard down. Life worked better for Carole Seddon when it was strictly circumscribed and self-contained.
‘Where would you move to then, away from this rural mausoleum?’ asked Andrew Wragg.
‘Quite fancy Ireland,’ Jude replied lightly. ‘Where would you go to?’
‘London. If I stayed in this country. Otherwise, I don’t know. South America perhaps. Somewhere that’s got a bit of life. Somewhere where you don’t have to explain what an artist is.’
‘You’re not seriously thinking of moving, are you?’ asked Carole.
‘If I could, I’d be off tomorrow.’
‘Why can’t you?’ asked Jude.
‘Well, I . . .’ He sighed and ran a hand through his short black hair. ‘There’s Terry and . . . That’s not going to last for ever, but . . .’ He sprang suddenly from his chair. ‘God, I hate this place!’
Carole was beginning to understand the reasons for Terry Harper’s anxiety. It wasn’t just paranoia. His lover’s recurrent threats of leaving were real enough. The older man was living on borrowed time in the relationship.
‘Did you know Fedborough before you moved into this place?’ asked Jude.
Andrew shook his head. ‘No. Terry and I met in London. He kept saying he wanted to move back down here, but I didn’t think he really meant it.’ Another gloomy shake of his head. ‘Now I know he did.’
Carole picked up on a detail. ‘You said “move back down here”. Terry had lived here before, had he?’
‘Oh yes. Fedborough born and bred. Terry is a . . . what? “Pilchard” is it they say locally?’
‘Chub.’
‘Right. A Chub.’ He handled the word as though it were unwholesome. ‘So Terry thinks this is seventh heaven. He’s back where he grew up, sniggering gleefully at all the local gossip and intrigues. He loves it.’