Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  “You certainly have your mother’s eye for detail. It’s quite recognisable.” He took a sip of his drink and moved to examine the next set of pictures. “Hmm, I’m surprised I didn’t see the likeness before. I’m a bit of an expert on your mother’s work.” He dropped back into father’s chair again. “During wartime I maintained aircraft. By the end of the war I was sick of Britain, rationing and wanted something new so I moved to America. While there I came across a piece of your mother’s work. I was in a junk shop, looking for some pieces to decorate my apartment, when I spotted a couple of small paintings. Did you know your mother spent time in America?’

  “I knew she’d lived abroad before I was born. Mrs P had told me that much, but not that it was in America. I’ve always been curious about how my parents met.”

  “Mrs P? Of course, your housekeeper,” Basil studied his glass.

  “Mrs P told me mother was a world-weary artist seeking a quiet life in England after living abroad. My father, a widower with two small children, rented a church cottage. I guess she must have met him in church, though mother wasn’t really a churchgoer. Anyway, three years later they married. Just after their first wedding anniversary I arrived.”

  “It’s strange that your mother married someone with no links to the art world, don’t you think? She was a recluse by all accounts, so maybe that’s what was so appealing about your father. All those vows of silence.”

  “Father wasn’t a monk, but you’re right. Maybe she found solace in his quietness. If mother was such a recluse, where did you gather your knowledge from?”

  “Ah, it was a lucky accident. It’s due to your mother that the doors to the art world opened for me. Purely by chance, the two paintings I found were earlier pieces by her. The framed watercolour sketches depicted the same woman’s profile. In both paintings, her hair streamed out behind her head and was interwoven with stars, the moon and setting sun. The pictures were a mirror image of each other. The style of paintings spoke volumes to me, so I bought both. I took the paintings to my friend Cindy to see if she recognised the name. It was as if I’d brought her the Holy Grail. She was ecstatic, explaining the paintings were rare and were worth a great deal of money. Of course, I wanted to know more, and that’s when Cindy introduced me to someone who knew your mother well.”

  “Who?” I demanded.

  “An American art agent, Chuck Sparks. He specialised in Native American works. He showed me some amazing photographs of her. According to him she wasn’t only beautiful but a prolific prodigy too. Her drive to paint was unprecedented according to him. Her style was a form of surrealism, like Salvador Dali’s. I loved her hidden messages within the paintings. You had to fully understand the piece to unravel the conundrum”

  I nodded. Prolific Prodigy. What an amazing title. I knew that she had the temperament of a diva rather than of a prodigy. She didn’t believe in making life easy for anyone, least of all for me. Father struggled to appease her every time the crew from the London gallery arrived to collect her work for an exhibition. Father knew that if she opened one crate none of the paintings would be going anywhere.

  On many occasions I stood at the top of the stairs watching the ghost of my mother, or with my eye pressed to a keyhole, or from behind curtains, or a door. The distance between her and me was unbridgeable. If she caught me watching she would fly into a rage, screaming her green eyes full of anger. I wanted so much to please the strange paradox who was never my mother, always an artist.

  Mrs P was my mother, a constant figure in my life. From my earliest memories, it was always her who bathed me, put me to bed and read to me. In the morning, she made my breakfast. During the day she made me laugh and played games with me. The woman that lived in the room, who smelt of turps and linseed oil, who constantly needed to paint, day and night, was not my mother.

  The only time she would emerge from her studio was when she had an exhibition. Her agent dealt with everything but, even then, they were unsure whether she would attend, or even allow her paintings to leave the house. If father wasn’t there to watch over her, during the night she would destroy her work.

  Mother’s agent would get her to sign the paintings over to them. Then a team of picture movers cased them up into wooden crates and secured them in our cellar overnight. The following morning they would be collected and taken to London.

  According to Mrs P, ‘Too many people expected too much too soon from her,’ after the success of her first art exhibition. She wondered if stress had been the catalyst that brought them together. She, an artist in search of spiritual guidance, and his quiet, ecclesiastical ways, made for a perfect match.

  “So are you going to show me what you are working on now?” Basil broke into my thoughts. I stood, and Basil was out of the door before I’d even taken a step. We made slow progress up the stairs. He stopped to take a look at every picture. I went ahead of him and waited at the studio doorway. Basil’s eyes never left the wall as he made his way towards me.

  “Unbelievable, James. Simply unbelievable,” he said, finally making it up the stairs.

  I stepped back, allowing him to enter first. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, slowly taking in the room. Once he realised where he was, all interest in seeing my latest work faded

  “This is her studio.” he gasped, more a statement than a question.

  I removed the cloth that covered my painting. The smell of the paints caressed my nostrils, reminding me of the unfinished work waiting for my attention in the attic studio. Basil stood fingering some large canvases leaning against mother’s desk, untouched since her death. As he thumbed through them, pleasure lit up his face. Basil pulled out one of the paintings. It depicted a naked figure of a mature woman knelt with her back to the viewer. Strands of golden light played off her hair and the smooth skin of the model. The artist had focused on the shape of the back, the length of the neck and upper arms of the sitter bathing them in a golden sheen.

  “I’ve never seen this one before—none of them,” Excitement edged his voice. “They’re not listed in any catalogue of your mother’s works I’ve seen.”

  I shrugged. My painting had more depth to it than mother’s. Each brushstroke captured the power of the stormy sky with its fast-moving clouds reflected in the turbulence of the tide-driven estuary as it approached the harbour mouth. Its emanating forcefulness was clearly visible, which pleased me.

  “This painting could help you make quite a name for yourself,” Basil said, his voice barely containing his excitement.

  “You think so? I’m very pleased with it, particularly the strength of the colours in the sky. I was a little unsure of it at first, but now I feel they work really well.”

  “Brilliant as always,” Basil muttered dismissively.

  My agent’s attention wasn’t on my painting but mother’s canvases. “What do you think of my painting?” My childhood angst surfaced, as I was unable to contain my annoyance. My constant wanting to please a parent whose attention was elsewhere.

  “James, the world needs to see these. They’re amazing.”

  “Those paintings are not for sale.” I focused on draping a damp cloth over my painting before I snatched the one he was holding and returned it to its place.

  “But—” He reached for another. I knocked his hand away and stepped between him and the canvases. Our eyes locked. He lifted his arm as he studied my face. For a fleeting moment he looked as though he considered striking me. Then, seeming to second-guess my thoughts, he let his arm drop. I pointed to the door, but he wasn’t about to give up.

  “Please—can I see the rest?”

  “No.”

  Basil stood his ground. For a moment I thought I might physically have to remove him.

  “I’m sorry. You need to leave now. If mother had wanted the world to see these, you would’ve known about them.”

  He backed out of the room, speaking to me as though reasoning with a naughty child. “They’re stunning works, James. Please, at least let
me catalogue them. It would be such a shame if they were lost forever.”

  “Only I need to know where they are.”

  I closed the door behind us and started down the stairs.

  “Can’t I persuade you?” Basil remained by the studio door, reminding me of my childhood. The locked room I wasn’t allowed to enter. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “But James she’s—dead!”

  “To you she may be, but for me she’s very much alive and living in this house. I won’t go against her wishes.”

  I continued down the stairs.

  Chapter Six

  We returned to the drawing room and Basil finished off his drink in one gulp and slammed the empty glass down. “When you’ve finished the painting, bring it to my office,” he said, heading out into the hall.

  I rose to follow him. Basil called back over his shoulder as he entered the hallway. “I’ll see myself out.”

  As he closed the front door, I turned towards the kitchen. I set the kettle on the stove and watched as Basil’s car swung around and disappeared from view. Just before the kettle began to whistle, I thought I heard the distinct click of the heavy front door closing. I glanced out the window to see if Basil had returned for some reason, but a large overgrown shrub blocked my view so I couldn’t see as far as the entrance gate. If he had returned, the sound of a car crunching over the gravel would’ve alerted me.

  Eager to get back to my studio I placed Mrs P’s teapot on a tray and added a jug of milk along with a tin of biscuits before carrying it up to my attic studio. On passing mother’s studio the contents of the tray rattled as I recalled a cold wet morning six years ago.

  At the age of twenty-two when I felt couldn’t endure the loss of another loved one, after the loss of both parents another the bombshell hit. It came without warning. Mrs P and I were sitting in the kitchen having our first relaxing breakfast after an insane few weeks of organising father’s funeral and sorting out his estate when the doorbell rang.

  “I wonder who that is, James.” Mrs P undid her apron strings, tugged it off and dropped it on counter before hurrying to the front door. On her return she held a letter. The look on her face told me it wasn’t good news.

  “Oh dear, James. I’m so sorry, but my sister needs me.”

  “Will you be away for long?” My hand shook as I set my cup down.

  “I’m sorry, James, but you’re old enough to look after yourself now. I must put my own family’s needs first.”

  I patted her thin hand. “You’re right, Mrs P. It’s about time I became responsible for my own life. Would you like another cup of tea?” I lifted the pot.

  “Yes please. I’m always at the end of the phone if you do need any advice.” She passed me her cup. “You can afford to hire help to run this place. Mr Jarman isn’t just your gardener, but quite a handyman too. Always happy to help out and earn a bit extra for his young family. I know a couple of reliable women in the village, if you would like their names.”

  “Let’s see how I get on first by myself, Mrs P. If need be, I’ll give you a call. Can I help you with anything?”

  “Please. Could you order me a taxi? It’ll only take me a couple of hours to pack. I don’t have much.” She began to clear away the breakfast things.

  Two hours later we stood in the hall saying our goodbyes while the taxi driver finished loading Mrs P’s case and boxes. Mrs P seemed tiny in my arms, as we hugged goodbye, her thin shoulders dug into me while her snowy white hair tickled my cheeks. She pushed lightly on my chest and stepped away.

  “James, remember all I’ve taught you.” She pulled a hanky out of her coat pocket and dabbed at her cheeks. “I know you’ll be wise with your money. Any problems, just call me. Here, these are yours now.” She dropped a bunch of keys into my hand and picked up her handbag. “Look after yourself, won’t you?”

  I nodded, lost for words.

  “Right, I mustn’t keep the taxi waiting, James.” She kissed my cheek one last time.

  I grasped the keys hard and my chest tightened. Hastily I wiped my cheeks and followed Mrs P out to watch her leave. On closing the door after the taxi left I shed tears, which surprised me as I hadn’t for my father.

  In the hallway the emptiness swallowed me up. Suddenly aware of a stabbing pain in my hand I looked down. Clenched in my fist were the keys Mrs P had given me. Some were familiar to me, especially the front and back door keys. Some had little tags attached to them, stating shed key, outbuildings, and store cupboards. One had a fine gold chain attached to it. A wave of unexpected excitement washed over me, drowning out the sadness of Mrs P’s departure. In bounding steps, I took the stairs two at a time as I headed for the locked door of mother’s studio. For years I had wanted to paint in there, to breathe in her creativity, to feel the weight of her brushes in my hand, and to play with her muses. Father had refused, insisting that Mrs P keep the door locked, and that she carried the key with her at all times.

  With a racing heart, I wiped my clammy palms on my jeans before inserting the key. Its click echoed around me. I pushed the door open and was hit by stale, musty. A wave of nausea rose sent a sickening pain shooting through my stomach. I bent, clutching my sides. The ghost of mother rose before me, her pale face veiled in the darkness that made her haunting green eyes shine. Her lips were a perfectly radiant smile. She lifted her arm and swung the bloodied knife. I screwed my eyes shut and waited.

  As the pain and nausea subsided, I opened my eyes. There wasn’t a ghost, just an empty studio. I opened the French windows and took a few deep breaths. Mother’s easel stood facing a large picture window that overlooked a balcony. On it rested an unfinished masterpiece that depicted a dark sky with skeletal trees against a setting sun. Through the window, I saw on the far side of the river the subject of mother’s painting a row of storm-damaged trees. Mother seemed haunted by their sadness, their fallen leaves and broken branches. She had painted them throughout her life. Maybe through them she recorded her own fractured life. Every spring, the warmth of sunlight brought rebirth to the surrounding countryside, but the skeletal trees remained the same just empty shells. The view of the fast-flowing river and the shattered trees made me wonder why the love I had for her wasn’t enough to fill her empty heart.

  I traced the diagonal slash across her last masterpiece mother’s final violent act towards the art world, and wondered, what drove her to paint. Was it the fear of failure, or the fear of rejection by the ones that loved her the most?

  I picked up one of mother’s brushes hoping to feel some connection to her creativity. Its weight nestled too comfortably in my hand. A sudden burst of electricity rushed up my arm and swamped me with a feeling of uneasiness. I dropped the brush and dashed from the studio. After locking the door, I left her to play among the shadows of my childhood.

  I threw a few belongings into an old suitcase, secured the house and left for London. Months later on my return to Halghetree, I moved into father’s bedroom. It was cell-like in its bareness, with just a metal framed bed, plain walls and floor. The only changes I made in the room were to add two bookshelves and fill them with paperback novels.

  ***

  Just past mother’s studio, at the end of the corridor, I set the tray down, and slammed my hand against a carved raven in the centre of a wooden panelled wall. The panel slid back and revealed a staircase that led up to my roof studio. Basil’s unexpected visit had irritated me.

  I cursed myself for allowing him to see the inside of her studio, but on reflection the pleasure of knowing how eager he was to get his hands on mother’s paintings meant a couple of aces up my sleeve. He was a desperate man, and I was going to use it to my advantage.

  As the panel closed slowly behind me, the knowledge that I had unexpectedly cleared myself of any links to the disappearances dispersed my anger. I picked up the tray and climbed the steps into my studio.

  My suspended muse disturbed my thoughts as a plea broke the silence. “Please… Please…Let me down— I need
water.”

  I banged the tray down, and hastily poured some tea into a mug and added milk. I scrutinised the unfinished painting, pushing all thoughts of Basil aside while sipping my tea. I picked up the palette and checked to see whether any of the paints had dried and scraped them off, before adding fresh paint. I reached for a brush my eagerness returning.

  “For fuck’s sake—” The girl’s rasping voice echoed through my concentration. “Why are you doing this to me?” she struggled, the cords binding her wrists cutting into her pale flesh.

  “Damn it!” I tossed the brush and palette aside, nearly knocking over my mug. “Bloody Basil!”

  I kicked the daybed over to where the fastened pulley ropes were on the wall and lowered her enough so she knelt before me. The body harness continued to support her full weight.

  “Don’t!” She tried to twist her head away from me, but the chinstrap held her fast. “Please—get me down—” Her tongue flicked lizard-like over her dry, cracked lips.

  “Don’t keep asking!” I gritted my teeth in an effort not to raise my voice. It wasn’t her fault we’d been disturbed. “I’m sorry. Until I’ve finished this painting, you’re not going anywhere.” I lifted the child’s beaker to her lips. “Here, drink this, Bella.”

  “No!” She pinched her cracked lips.

  “Shh— it’s only water.” I softened my tone. “You’ll be pleased to know you’ve been reported missing.” I forced the spout into her mouth. “Slowly now, otherwise you’ll start choking.” I moved the beaker away to allow her to swallow.

  “Let me go. I won’t tell.”

  “Please drink just a little more. It’ll help you.” I pushed the spout between her lips again. “Now suck gently, Bella.” I tipped the beaker in an effort to encourage her. She sucked hard on the spout causing the water to flood her mouth. While waiting for her to stop coughing, I wiped around her mouth and neck. Once Bella had regained her composure, she flexed her shoulders, trying to release her hands while her eyes continued to search my face. Confusion clearly visible in her eyes, but I had no time for explanations. I covered my nose and mouth before pulling a fresh chloroform-filled pad out of a plastic bag. She shook her head.