Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  “My dear child.” She took hold of my hand. “I wish I could answer your question, but I can’t.” She leaned forward and kissed my forehead. I threw my arms around her neck, burying my head into her shoulder and sobbed. “I’m sorry I wet myself, Mrs P, and upset mummy. Tell daddy I’m so sorry I spoiled my birthday.”

  She hugged me and whispered, “Master James, you dear, sweet child. I’m sure your mother does love you. But she doesn’t know how to show it. Your father knows it wasn’t your fault. You must never forget he loves you.”

  The sunshine poured through a gap in the curtain and woke me. After yesterday’s upset, an air of indifference hung in my attic bedroom. I slipped from my bed and went to investigate why my door stood ajar rather than locked. Normally I had to wait for father to let me out, as mother hated being disturbed when she was working. I paused only for a second. Then I pulled on a white t-shirt and bright red shorts before dashing downstairs. I wanted to see mummy so I could tell her how sorry I was for upsetting her yesterday.

  On the landing below, I pressed my eye against the keyhole in her studio door. She stood with her back to it, muttering to herself. She wore a long white lace nightgown and rocked side to side. The cascading lace fell around her feet like a waterfall and imitated her movements. I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. Something was wrong with a painting that rested on an easel behind her. In an effort to see properly, I pushed my eye closer to the keyhole and hit the door with my knee. I froze. Mother let out a low moan and spun round.

  I stifled a cry at the sight of the deep gash that ran the full length of the painting. With my hands over my mouth I was unsure of what to do next. I didn’t want to upset her again. I took a deep breath and counted as Mrs P told me to do if I felt a panic attack coming on.

  “Was it red paint that soaked the front of her nightgown?” I pressed my eye to the keyhole again.

  Mother, with a pained expression, faced the door with her eyes shut. She held one of her painting knives against her arm. Red paint dripped onto the bare floorboards and splashed against her gown. I reached for the door latch, wanting to rush to her, but for some reason, the sight of the knife stopped me. Then I heard voices.

  I did not want to be told off for disturbing her, so I dropped to my knees and shuffled backwards, hiding beneath the heavy, velvet cloth that hung over the side of the table just outside her studio door.

  Below, Mrs P asked young Kelly, her daily helper, “Where did Madam sleep last night?”

  “In her studio again, I suspect…” came the reply. Their voices faded as they moved from the hall in the direction of the kitchen. I slid from my hiding place but remained on my knees while peering through the banisters into the hall below. I hesitated, not wanting to upset mother. I left.

  Outside the window the river sparkled in the morning sunlight. Freedom called to me, a chance to explore the river on my own. I dashed down the stairs and hid in the coat cupboard just before the kitchen. The musty smell coming from the collection of old coats, shoes and boots, made me pinch my nose as I waited. All was still as I shot across the space between the cupboard and the backdoor out into the brilliant sunlight.

  On leaving the courtyard, I ran bare foot along the path that led to the river, avoiding the other one as Kelly would take it to collect vegetables from the garden. The mowed grass path ran between swathes of long sun-bleached grasses and wildflowers and hummed with buzzing insects. The warmth of the sun on my face and the sound of the birdsongs lifted my spirit as I quickened my pace. The only sadness for me was not bringing a bug box to collect some butterflies. The grass path petered out, and I arrived at a high hedge with a wooden gate at its centre. I stood on tiptoe and reached for its latch only to discover the gate was padlocked. I slammed my fists against the gate and sunk down with my back to it.

  I sat smacking the grass and kicking my legs in frustration when a fluttering movement caught my attention. Against the glaring sun four large flashing eyes danced above me. I stumbled after the peacock butterfly, eager to possess such a beauty. It landed on a clump of yellow flowers and made me wish I had brought father’s net. I reached forward and closed my fingers over it.

  On opening my hands enough to peer in, I held nothing in my grasp. I tore at the flowers, scattering the petals. As I surveyed my destruction the teasing butterfly danced overhead. I snatched at it, but it floated just out of reach. I punched the nettles. Not daring to lose sight of my prey, I ignored the stinging sensation crawling over my bare feet, up my legs and on my hands as I followed the butterfly to a patch of white flowers.

  Moving slowly, with my hands cupped I expected the butterfly to take flight again, but it remained where it was. It fluttered madly as though caught by an invisible thread. I leaned over, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Within the flower’s petals was a white spider. It embraced the butterfly twice its size in its outstretched front legs. I ignored the red swellings that appeared all over my hands, feet and legs while watching with fascination as the butterfly struggled to free itself. The spider twisted the prey in its legs, drawing it towards its mouth. With a single bite the butterfly was dead. The spider manoeuvred itself to feed on a well-earned meal, but I snatched the butterfly from its grasp.

  A sense of pleasure overtook the stinging pain in my hands and legs as I watched the spider search for its missing meal. I plucked a piece of dried grass and poked it; enjoying the power I had over it.

  “What in God’s name have you been doing, child! Just look at the state of you!”

  I swung round to face father. Dressed in black with a white collar, he reminded me of a strutting jackdaw.

  “Why aren’t you in your bedroom? Your mother is still upset after yesterday.”

  Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes and I dropped all that remained of the butterfly.

  “James, I won’t have you upsetting her again. I’ll give you such a hiding. Now come here.” As father reached for me, an unearthly scream rang out, causing the rooks and crows to take flight. We turned in its direction. I glanced up at father. Something flashed across his face causing his eyelids to droop. He seemed to be praying. In the silence that followed, father dragged me across a patch of stinging nettles onto the footpath.

  “Come on, boy! Something’s wrong.”

  I could only just keep up with him as we hurried towards the house. A sound of excited voices and pounding feet came towards us. Then Mrs P appeared, red-faced and panting around the corner.

  “Oh, Reverend— it’s the Mistress. She’s—Oh dear God…” She rubbed at her eyes with a floral tea towel while stifling a sob. “I’ve called the doctor. You best let me take the boy.”

  Father released my arm and pushed past Mrs P, almost knocking her over. As she steadied herself, she called after him. “She’s in her studio!”

  At that moment I slipped round Mrs P and sped after him. Crashing through the back door, I bolted up the stairs and tore into her studio. Father lay slumped in the centre of the room. “Why, Jane? Dear God, why?” he pleaded.

  Mother lay with her eyes closed and her right arm hanging off the side of the bed. Red paint had run down the heavy tapestry cover, across the floor and pooled just before her easel.

  “Is mother asleep?” I asked. “I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for spoiling my birthday party. She was busy painting with a knife and had it all over her nightgown.”

  Father, with wet cheeks, pulled me towards him. In his softly spoken Sunday school voice he said, “I’m so sorry, child. Your mother has left us to live with the angels in heaven.”

  “Left us? When will she be back?”

  “They won’t let her come back, son. They need her there to help paint the stars and keep them shining until it’s our time to join her.”

  “But I need her awake now,” I sobbed, rubbing my eyes. “I have something important to tell her.”

  “I know, my son. But heaven needs her.”

  “I need her more!” I screamed, runnin
g from the room.

  To this day I’ve never understood the reason why I had to learn to share my mother with everyone, but I couldn’t have her to myself. On that fateful day, when the darkness shattered the dreams of a child on his birthday, no amount of praying to my father’s God could answer my prayers.

  Chapter Eight

  Stone Angels

  The Third Painting

  1965

  “I find London far more fascinating when I’m not here,” I muttered, knowing that Basil wasn’t really listening. I regretted joining my agent on his trip into the city centre when I could’ve been heading home. My hope had been to locate my next angel but, so far, no one suitable had sparked my interest.

  “Have you been to Grafton Gallery before, James?” Basil asked as we turned into a narrow alley way off Old Bond Street in Piccadilly.

  “No, but I’ve heard of it. It has quite a history.” I was excited to be walking in the footsteps of other great artists. As Basil peered intently over the top of his glasses at one of the paintings he had agreed to see, I didn’t understand what his excitement was all about. My paintings were far more superior than the crap before me. The artist Joseph Easter was new to the market and unknown to me, yet somehow he had caught Basil’s attention.

  No matter how hard I tried to muster enthusiasm, the paintings left me cold. The tawdry collection of watercolours depicted a series of pastoral scenes from a bygone rural England with an array of farmers leaning on five-barred gates, pipes in hand, watching their cattle, while in the distance thatched cottages and church steeples peeped above the hedgerows. The scenes showed golden crops and wildflowers, ploughed fields with waves of rooks and crows heading skyward, as well as winter views of snow-covered sheep and cattle standing in wind-swept fields. In among all the trappings from a bygone era, the artist had inserted modern mechanical machinery as if to remind the viewer that time isn’t static.

  I had arrived at Basil’s office earlier than expected. I was heading up as he came down.

  “My dear boy, you’re keen.”

  I held out my latest finished landscape to him wrapped in brown paper, like some peace offering. He gave a disinterested nod and continued.

  “I’ve just received some good news. An artist whose work I came across last night is having an exhibition at Grafton Gallery in town. I’d like to add him to my books today if possible. He has potential to become a top seller. I’m desperate to sign him up but wanted to see more of his work before I do.” Basil smiled broadly as though expecting me to react to his news. I dropped my gaze to the package I held. “Why don’t you give that to Jenny and join me?”

  My impatience grew while waiting for Basil. I tried to look for something positive to say about them. They bored me rigid. Grafton Gallery was a spacious area divided into small sections by wooden moveable screens. On these screens, two rows of paintings hung so that buyers could clearly see the wide variety of pictures they had on offer. Basil moved with assured confidence to the next picture. He fixed it with his critical eye, no doubt counting the pound signs in his head.

  It surprised me that Basil didn’t pick up on my annoyance. A third painting by mother had gone missing. Since her death, Basil was the only other person to enter her studio. Of course, there was Candela, but she didn’t take them. While sorting through the dust-covered canvases I discovered Basil’s distinct handprints on some of the pictures further back from where he had stood when I had shown him into the studio. In the short time he’d been with me, he couldn’t possibly have touched them then.

  Basil wasn’t the expert he thought he was on Jane Elspeth Maedere. She kept meticulous records on all her works, including the ones she destroyed. I knew exactly what was in her studio. Every painting bore a unique code, she had devised. The code told the history of the painting’s existence from when she created it to where they were exhibited, who bought them and for how much.

  When the time came to confront Basil, I had more than enough evidence, but my desire was to catch him red-handed. He couldn’t sell them on the open market. Three unknown works by a major artist would cause quite a stir. No doubt that’s what he wanted them for, but it came at a price to his career. There would be questions, their whereabouts for the last twenty-one years. Eventually someone would track me down. I would be horrified at their theft. In my distress I would let slip that the police were already questioning Basil about the disappearance of some young girls.

  Basil looked up as though sensing my attention on him. I gave a nod and then refocussed on the paintings. I wanted to find one I liked. For some reason the artist had called them ‘Of the Lost Age’. A more fitting title was ‘Victoriana Rubbish’.

  I pondered the artist’s use of burnt oranges, reds, yellows and soft greens to which he had added rock salt, sand, eggshells, and other materials to give texture and depth to his pictures. Lifting a price tag, I was surprised to see how much they were asking for it and muttered, “Do people really buy this stuff?”

  “Yes, of course,” came a softly spoken voice in reply to my question. I spun round to find a petite woman with short bobbed brown hair that framed her delicate features. She wore a tight-fitting, light brown tweed two-piece suit. The skirt just brushed the tops of her knees while flat brown suede shoes encased her small feet. She held out her hand to me. As our hands met, a tingle of excitement raced up my arm. I returned her pleasant smile and looked into a beautiful pair of dark green eyes.

  She pulled her hand from mine as Basil’s voice boomed from the other side of the dividing screens.

  “Hello, Charles. Thank you for allowing me a private viewing of Joseph Easter’s exhibition.”

  “That’s quite all right, Basil, my good man,” Charles replied in a high-pitched nasal tone.

  “Have you met James Ravencroft before?” Basil said.

  “Ravencroft? He’s here? I’m a great fan. His work’s so dark. It’s almost a physical presence; you can hear, see and touch. It’s powerful. You’re a dark horse yourself, keeping him back—”

  “James! He was here a minute ago.”

  I turned to apologise to the girl only to catch a glimpse of her back disappearing through a door. Disappointed at not having a chance to speak to her, I made my way through the maze of screens to find Basil.

  “Ah, there you are. James, this is Charles Jefferies, the owner of the gallery. We were at college together.”

  Charles, a short, stocky man with thinning, oily hair, held out his hand. Reluctantly I took it, feeling its sweaty grip. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance, James. I’ve always admired your work. It’s an honour to have you here.” He gave my hand a firm shake, before turning his attention back to Basil. They chatted about the paintings that lined the screens. Pleased to be free to wander again. I went in search of the girl. The door she went through was marked private.

  “James! Where on earth are you now?” Basil’s voice boomed. On returning to Basil’s side at the front of the gallery, I was delighted to find the girl seated at the reception desk talking to Charles.

  “Emily, please make a note of any calls which come in while I’m away having lunch with Mr Hallward and Mr Ravencroft.”

  “Yes of course, Mister Jefferies.”

  “Is everything ready for tonight?” he asked while tapping his fingers on the desk.

  “Yes, I’m just waiting on the arrival of the catalogues we’ve ordered for tonight’s showing.”

  “Aren’t they here yet?” Panic edged his voice.

  “Please don’t worry. They’re en-route. We’ve allowed for up to two hundred with postal orders, which we’ll send out after tonight.”

  “Thank you. You’re a star. You’ll be working tonight, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Mister Jefferies.” She pushed a strand of hair behind an ear.

  “You’ll be coming won’t you, Basil?” Charles asked as we left the gallery.

  I trailed behind them. After checking to see which restaurant they were heading for
, I went back to the gallery. Through the window I saw the girl was still sitting at her desk. As I entered, she looked up, puzzlement flitted across her face.

  “Hi Emily. The exhibition, I didn’t catch what time it opens.” I pulled out a small notebook.

  “Here, take this.” She handed me a leaflet. “All the details are on it.”

  “Thank you.” I examined the leaflet. “So you’ll be here until the end of the show?”

  “The bitter end I’m afraid. It’s all part of my job.” Sarcasm edged her tone. “Though it’s given me a great insight into the working of a gallery.”

  “Thanks for this.” I folded the poster and slipped it into my pocket.

  In the restaurant I looked for Basil and Charles among the diners but couldn’t see them. For a moment I wondered whether I was in the right place. Through the large picture window Grafton Gallery was clearly seen nestled among the other businesses on the far side of the street, which meant I had to be in the right one. As I made my way towards the back of the building, the manager cut me off. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for—” A burst of raucous laughter filled the restaurant, making everyone, including the manager turn.

  “I’ve found my friends,” I said as he followed me to their table. The manager handed me a menu as I sat.

  “Did you get lost, James?” Basil said peering over the top of his menu.

  “No. Just saw something in the gallery window.”

  “Ah-ha, Max, my good man,” Charles said to the manager. “We’ll have three of your finest, please.”

  “Will that be with new potatoes and green beans, Sir?”

  “Yes, Max. I do hope you two don’t mind me ordering for you,” Charles addressed us. “They do such bloody good steaks here. You really must try them.”

  With a nod in Charles’ direction, I handed the waiter the menu. As Charles and Basil droned on about their shared past, my thoughts returned to deciding how best I could capture my next angel on canvas.