By the time I returned it was late in the afternoon. After parking my newly acquired car in the garage, I carried the shopping into the kitchen, via the side door from the courtyard. I stood in the hallway and called to Candela letting her know I was back. On getting no response, I returned to the kitchen. After putting our supplies away, I went through to the drawing room. Candela had been busy. The sun poured through the clean windows and reflected off the highly polished glasses on the drinks cabinet. The freshly vacuumed carpet and rugs gave off a sweet lemon scent, while every surface from the bookshelves to the picture frames looked fresh and clean. She would’ve impressed Mrs P.
I took the stairs two at a time. On the landing, next to the window, I found Mrs P’s tidy-box on a seat with some discarded cleaning rags. The door to mother’s studio stood ajar, but I knew I had locked it before leaving the house. As I pushed the door open my chest tightened as a wave of nausea washed over me.
In mother’s studio, on the left was her dressing room and en-suite bathroom. To the right on a raised platform stood her bed, she would often lay here, looking out at the view of the fast-flowing river and broken trees. I held my breath, praying Candela hadn’t touched anything. No one had the right to touch mother’s things, not even me.
Nineteen years ago father had locked mother’s studio door and handed the key to Mrs. P, telling her not to let it out of her sight. Only after I had inherited the house did I enter the room. There before me were the faint traces of my footprints on the dusty floorboards. I had tiptoed to the window to see the view mother had constantly painted, and then retraced my steps by treading in my footprints back again. On other occasions I had stood in the doorway just gazing in, or relived my childhood by peering through the keyhole, hoping to catch a glimpse of her ghost.
My heart hammered as I followed Candela’s footprints. On reaching the open door to mother’s dressing room, she stood, with her back to me, transfixed before a large dressing mirror, twisting from side to side as she held out a hem of the white georgette evening dress, trimmed in deep burgundy lace.
The bright light of the dressing room emphasised the richness of the lace and the narrowness of her waist where a velvet sash hung. For a brief moment I became a child again. Candela became mother.
Mother stood at the top of the stairs, dressed for a long-awaited evening out. Father stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh my sweet darling. You look stunning. The car is on its way.”
“Will there be many there, Donald?” she asked, her bottom lip trembling. Fear clouded her fine features as she floated down to his side. He placed her mink wrap around her narrow shoulders.
“No, I shouldn’t think so. You know what Major Bygraves is like, my dearest. Just the usual crowd.”
“I hope that dreadful Yarwood man won’t be there this time.”
“You mean Major Yarwood? I don’t know, my dear. Would you like me to phone and find out?” Father’s face took on a resigned look, aware that, no matter what he said, they wouldn’t be going anywhere together.
“No dearest,” she sighed, easing the wrap from her shoulders. “I think I will go and lie down again, if you don’t mind. Please go out and enjoy yourself. It’s such a waste having a car driven all this way for nothing.”
Mother went back to her room, shutting us out of her life again.
***
“Oh, God. James, you’re home— I’m so sorry!” said a frightened voice coming from afar. It filled the room, cutting across the years, banishing the shadows of people waiting to return.
Then everything blurred.
“Please let go of me, Tommy! James don’t—!”
Voices mingled with words that made no sense. The terrifying screams of a woman and a man’s urgent shouts mixed with long forgotten voices. A fury exploded within me as my fingers circled something soft.
After a second or an hour— I lost track of time— the voices became silent. I released my grip and opened my eyes, aware of where I was. “Candela?”
She lay on her back, bathed in a shimmering white and red aura, with her arms trapped beneath her amid the fallen gowns and dresses. I found the paleness of her skin confusing, but something about the angle at which she lay mesmerised me. Her twisted body reminded me of a figurehead on a ship, as the dress wrapped around her legs hid their natural form.
Candela’s braided hair was pulled tight under the weight of her body and gave her head the appearance of a skullcap. Her black eyeliner stained her face, like that of weatherworn marble statue where the elements gave it the appearance of crying. I carried her over to mother’s bed and gently laid her down. She showed no signs that she was breathing, I leant over her and placed my fingertips on her neck. Relief flooded through me as I felt a slight pulse, and I reached for the phone. As I lifted the receiver I paused, unsure of what I should say. Then the ghosts of all those people who had crowded into the house on that fateful day reminded me of what father had gone through with all the endless questioning about the state of mother’s mind.
The image before me sparked my imagination. Desperate to capture it, I pulled open drawers and scattered mother’s drawings and broken pencils. On finding what I needed, I dragged her artist stool over to the bedside and began to sketch. Once the page was full, I flung it aside. My pencil flew across the paper capturing every detail.
As I gathered up the fallen drawings another idea came to me. I moved her head slightly to one side and peeled the dress from her shoulders, ignoring the raw scratch marks on her neck. Candela’s breathing seemed a little stronger. I worked on while the ideas flowed. As if possessed, my excitement growing, I prayed nothing would interrupt me as the image of my ‘Stone Angel’ revealed itself.
A low inhuman groan emanated from the bed sending chills through me. As my mind comprehended the sound, the pencil hovered in mid-flow. On the bed, a white butterfly-like creature lifted. It hovered briefly before disappearing. I threw the drawing pad aside and dashed along the landing to father’s study. I hunted among his bottles and potions, until I found what I was looking for, I grabbed a large wad of gauze.
On the bed Candela sat, like a discarded ragdoll, caressing her throat. The bruising on the back of her neck clearly showing imprints of fingers in her skin. She sensed my presence and turned. I gasped as our eyes met. Her beautiful green eyes were now blood red.
“Don’t hurt me—” Candela rasped, turning away. “Please don’t— come near me”
“Candela, it’s okay— I’m sorry.”
“Why did you hurt me?”
“I told you not to. Mother’s things are precious to me.”
“Sorry—” She slumped onto the pillows, weakened by the effort of speaking. “I want to go home, Tommy.”
“Here— this will help you sleep.” I leaned over her. Her eyes widened as she lifted her hand in protest. I knocked it aside and pressed the chloroform gauze on her face until her body slackened.
I carried Candela to the lift at the end of the corridor and took her up to the attic studio where I worked. In a small adjoining room, I placed her on a daybed and covered her with a blanket. In mother’s studio I tidied up. Once satisfied it was as mother had left it, I collected up my drawings, relocked the door and hurried back to my studio.
As the muses gathered, begging me to start work, I placed the largest canvas I had on the easel. Once the background was sketched in with charcoal I stood back, satisfied with the layout. I hunted through the sketches I had done for the right pose, but frustratingly there wasn’t the exact one I wanted, and cast them aside.
The mound on the daybed hadn’t moved and I wondered if it was possible to get Candela to stand in the position I needed. I offered up a silent prayer to whatever god was listening and, to my surprise, was rewarded with an answer. There in the ceiling were a series of hooks. In the past the maids brought the damp washing up to the attic through a hidden doorway at the end of the corridor which now housed the lift. On a series of drying racks, suspended from the c
eiling, the maids hoisted the washing up using a set of pulleys. Then opening the large French windows on either side of the attic, they created a through-draft.
The image of my angel hovering over a city flashed through my mind as I stared at the hooks. A body harness was what I needed. I dashed downstairs to the outbuildings. Once again, the gods had been kind to me. In father’s workshop I scoured among the clutter in two of the stables. In the third one on a hook, covered in dust and cobwebs, hung a couple of old horse harnesses, which were perfect for what I wanted. Back in the studio I used linseed oil to soften the straps and, with only a few adjustments, I created a body harness.
I knelt beside Candela and with a struggle eased the straps over her shoulders. She let out a low moan but didn’t stir. Once the body harness was fitted to her front, I rolled her onto her stomach and placed a large metal O-ring in the centre of her back. Then I slipped a rope from the hoist through the ring and lifted her into the air. Her body shuddered as she struggled, but I took no notice. Once her legs were strapped into place, with her arms behind her, I manoeuvred her body into the pose I wanted. Finally, using a horse chinstrap, I pulled her head into the right position and wheeled the daybed away. Candela hung like a wingless angel with her chin held aloft from the ceiling. After admiring my handy work I was ready to paint. But something wasn’t right. Her eyes needed to be open.
In mother’s dressing room I found what I wanted. I lowered Candela onto the bed again and clamped her head between my knees. I dug the top half of the skirt lifters into her forehead. As the claw penetrated her skin, Candela stirred, woken by the shock. She whimpered and tried to turn her head. A thin trickle of blood bubbled up and ran down her face covering my hands as I held her face still.
“Noooo— Please don’t!” she sobbed while rattling the straps that held her arms out. I ignored her protests and continued to hook the other half of the skirt lifters over her eyelids, before placing the chloroformed pad to her face. Once I knew her eyelids would stay open, I lifted her back into position.
Like a magician about to do a conjuring trick, I lifted my palette and selected the first colour. I inhaled deeply allowing the smell of turps, paints, and linseed oil to fill my nostrils. As the shadows gathered around me, I squeezed Prussian blue onto the palette and then selected my favourite brush, allowing its bristles to come in contact with the dark blue paint. As the two met, my muse appeared. I raised the brush to the virgin whiteness and, with sweeping strokes, the power of light, colour, and shadow began to take on a physical form.
Chapter Four
Stone Angels
The Second Painting
1964
By the time I was born my half siblings from my father’s first marriage, Lydia and Robert were young adults, which meant I was the only child in the house. Father educated me at home. Sometimes he hired a tutor when his reoccurring illness left him unable to teach. Being home-schooled meant I didn’t come into contact with other children or their mothers. This left me at a disadvantage because I didn’t know how different my mother was from other mothers nor did I know the full extent of her success as an artist.
At the age of fourteen I made two important discoveries. The consequences of timing and adults aren’t always honest. Father decided it would be best for me to finish my education at a boy’s boarding school. The lessons that caught my imagination were art history and theory, but my peers found the art teacher far more appealing than her lessons.
Ms Dearborn was younger and far prettier than most of the other teachers at the school. She conducted her lessons perched, cross-legged in short skirts and low-necked sweaters, on the front of her desk, giving the boys much to think about late into the night.
I enjoyed her art classes, but not her special attention. One day, while I was working on a painting, she leaned over my shoulder, pressing her ample bosom hard against me.
“James, your creative flair for mixing colours is just like your mother’s.” Her husky voice caressed my ear as her perfume choked me.
“How— how do you know my mother?”
It was shocking to me that someone like Ms Dearborn knew my mother when she spent so little time outside of her studio. Aware that the rest of the class was watching, Ms Dearborn straightened and, giggling, said, “My dear boy, everyone knows of your mother. She’s famous.”
Tucked up in bed that night I cried for the mother the rest of the world knew better than I did. In the morning, as sunlight broke through the thin, faded curtains of the dormitory, I made a promise to myself. Whatever fame was I wanted it as it gave you the ultimate power over others.
I had grown up surrounded by my mother’s paintings, unaware of their significance, not fully understanding she was a legend, an inspiration to others, and an enigma. Her paintings, like father’s bell jars, were valuable to me because she had created them. Each contained not only her love, but also her sanity. Like angels’ kisses, I felt their presence without seeing them. If I was to compete with her, I had to get under her skin and find the source of her creativity. What compelled her to paint such powerful pictures?
All Father would say on the subject was that she was my mother, and what more did I need to know?’
“Why did she lock herself away from me?”
“My dear son, all you need to understand is you were very important to her. Unfortunately, her time was not her own. There were deadlines to meet if she was going to be paid.”
Then I asked for the truth.
With a look of disdain he said, “You’ll have to find that out for yourself, my boy. If you do, you’ll be a better man than I am.” The conversation ended and he refused to discuss her anymore.
As father’s illness progressed, he sought his God for comfort. At night, Mrs P read the Bible to him. Sometimes I would take over while she prepared lunch or saw to some other chore. This would give me the opportunity to question him further about mother, but his mumbled answers left me confused.
Within his befuddled mind she had become part of his butterfly collection, a pale clouded yellow butterfly that hovered on the periphery of his mind. He longed to be with her but, as in life, she never quite wanted him enough to spend all eternity at his side.
In my childhood I had accompanied father on his butterfly hunts. Together we ran across the meadows on a bright summer day, nets in hand. Once he had enough specimens we would return to his study, normally forbidden to me, like mother’s studio. The dark, jar-lined room was a place of sadness, yet splendour.
Both my parents had a creative flair and sought some form of everlasting beauty. Father’s was not on canvas, but under bell jars. After catching the butterflies he would gas them in his killing box. Then, carefully opening their wings, he would glue the delicate creatures onto dried flowers so they looked to be feeding. Once they were dry, the flowers were placed under the glass to look as though they were growing naturally.
***
One sunny morning in 1964, I was busy amusing myself in shades of darkness by adding bold strokes of colour to a new canvas. Then the phone rang and shattered my concentration, cursing I snatched up the phone and yelled, “Hello!”
“Hi James. Basil here.”
At first I didn’t recognise who was speaking and was ready to slam down the receiver.
“Look— I know you didn’t invite me, but—”
“Sorry. Who’s this?” I glanced up at my latest muse.
“Basil! I know it’s at short notice, but I was in the area. I’ve just sold another couple of your amazing land and seascapes and thought—” He inhaled sharply before continuing. “Look, you’re probably busy. Well, at least I hope you are, but would you mind if I dropped by?”
“What? Of course I’m busy!” My stomach somersaulted.
My agent knew my address, so the possibility of an unexpected visit was always on the cards. I should have been more prepared, but normally Basil would phone to explain what the client wanted. Once the painting was ready, I would deliver it to his
office in London. There his secretary would pass on any further instructions to me.
I breathed out slowly, wishing to be alone with my muse. I relaxed and asked, “Whereabouts are you?”
“About an hour away.” He hung up.
Left staring at the humming receiver, I slammed it down, and turned to my muse. “What the fuck am I to do now?”
I ignored her condemnation and cleaned my brush with a rag. A dreadful thought struck me. Basil would expect to see my studio and the latest work-in-progress. I tossed the rag and brush onto the table, snatched up an unfinished landscape, and hurried downstairs to my mother’s studio.
After clearing the dust away from around her easel I swapped her unfinished painting for my landscape. I looked about to see what else I needed to do to make her studio look like mine. Mother and I were organised, her set up mirrored my own. Satisfied everything was in place; I squeezed fresh paint onto her old palette and began to paint.
Lost in the moment I added in more of the finer details in shades of greens and blues. Just as I began to blend the colours to the shade I needed, a car crunched over the gravel outside. I dropped my brush into a jar of turps and hurried downstairs.
Basil climbed out of a brand-new Jensen CV8 and looked up at the house.
“Nice car,” I said with a nod.
“Nice house, James. You kept that a secret. Is it the family pile?”
“I suppose you could call it that, but my mother bought the old rectory for my father.” I looked up at it as though seeing it for the first time through someone else’s eyes. Mother had purchased the property before I was born using the money from the sales of her first major exhibition, though I didn’t tell Basil that, instead I said, “My father was Reverend Donald Ravencroft.”
“What? Your father was a vicar?” He gave a light laugh while scrutinising me. “I never expected that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I suppose I thought an art teacher. You don’t give me the impression that you’re religious, James.”
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