Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  Once the meal was finished, I wanted to leave, but politeness made me remain. After all, I wasn’t paying. My head buzzed with excitement as I planned the evening ahead.

  “You were right about the steaks, Charles. The best I’ve had in a long time.” I held my hand out as I stood up and made my excuses.

  “You’ll be coming back tonight, James?” Charles asked as he took it.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Good.” Charles freed his hand and topped up his glass from the second bottle of wine. Basil dismissed me with a wave of his hand. Their chortling followed me out onto the street as they tried to outdo each other with the reminiscences of their college day pranks.

  Once back at Basil’s gallery, I collected my car. Not wanting to waste time, I set out to familiarise myself with the narrow backstreets around Grafton Gallery. Earlier in the day I had spotted an entrance to an alleyway. I turned off the main road and onto a lane with red-bricked yards backing onto it. The cobbled road didn’t allow much room for parking among the discarded rubbish. Panic set in.

  I drove slowly in hope of finding somewhere to conceal my vehicle among the back-to-back terrace houses with their small yards. As the car rattled over the cobbles it led onto an open area where the occupiers were able to park. Here the large Victorian houses rubbed shoulders with their Edwardian counterpart. A few of these were bomb-damaged or stood empty. The crumbling walls of their gardens had allowed the overgrown shrubs and plants to spill out onto the road. One of these looked suitable, so I parked up and went to check that the house was unoccupied before reversing into the overgrown garden. I set off on foot to see where the alleyway I had spotted earlier took me.

  After fifteen minutes I came to a dead end and had to retrace my steps. As I slowed to catch my breath, I noticed overgrown ivy partially covering an archway between two of the terraced houses. On pushing the ivy aside, I found it was obscuring a cobbled footpath. The path took me onto another alleyway. The increasing sound of traffic reassured me I was heading in the right direction. Soon business premises with their frontage onto the high street replaced the cramped Victorian housing. Painted on the gates at the back of the businesses were the names of the shops I recognised as the ones nearest the gallery. The shop owners used the area outside their yards to dump broken furniture and other rubbish, but the alleyway was still wide enough to get a vehicle down.

  I hid behind a discarded wardrobe and looked up at the rear of the gallery while trying to decide what to do next. Apart from asking Emily where she lived, or even if she had a car parked nearby, there wasn’t anything I could do but wait until after the exhibition and then follow her. I had just decided to search for the entrance to the alleyway to bring my car around when I heard voices.

  In the fading afternoon light, from where I hid, I saw Emily, cigarette in hand, chatting to a tall, slender woman.

  “I’ll be back before nine, Kat.” Emily dropped her cigarette and crushed it under her heel. “I’ll need to wash my hair to look my best. I mustn’t forget to feed Millais.” She picked up her bag and set off in my direction.

  I stepped into the garden behind me and waited. Once her friend disappeared from view, I followed. Two alleyways later, Emily stopped beside a broken gate. She was just about to push it open when a large black and white cat appeared. She scooped it up and elbowed the gate aside. For a moment she disappeared from view in an overgrown backyard. Then I caught sight of her again running up some stone steps. She unlocked a door on the second floor. The cat ran in after her. I stepped back into the shadows.

  Night settled in and the streetlights came on. The only light that shone in the alleyway was an oddly placed streetlamp a few feet away for where I stood. I leant against a wall and checked my watch. Emily had fifteen minutes left if she was going to make it back to the gallery on time.

  Moments later a shaft of white light cut through the night as the door to what I guessed was her apartment opened briefly then banged shut. I pushed away from the wall ready to follow her when the dustbin lids next to me suddenly clattered. I caught my breath and relaxed at the sight of Emily’s cat with a dead rat hanging from its mouth. On checking my watch again, I saw my muse was going to be late.

  The door of Emily’s flat burst open and then slammed shut. She flew down the steps and bustled past me, disappearing into the gloom of the alleyway. I followed at a safe distance.

  ***

  I returned to my car and moved it closer to her flat, hiding it in a dilapidated garage at the end of an overgrown garden. With nothing else to do but wait, I decided to use the time to plan my next painting, so I headed to a pub directly opposite the gallery.

  A wall of smells hit me as I pushed the pub door open - nicotine, damp clothes, cheap perfume and stale sweat clawed the back of my throat and made my eyes sting. In the far corner a group of men played a noisy game of dominoes as the drinkers battled to hear each other over the laughter and shouting. The regulars jostled me aside at the bar as the barman served them first.

  I moved further along and tried again, pushing between two people seated at the bar.

  “What would you like, sir?” A young barmaid asked.

  While waiting for my drink, I saw I could keep an eye on the gallery over the heads of the regulars. Through the pub window, a queue was already beginning to form outside it.

  Basil would be impressed with the growing hordes of art lovers waiting to go in, but it wasn’t as busy as the exhibitions that included my work, nor was it full of celebs like Hockney’s back in’63. But still it was impressive to see.

  “Hey, isn’t it about time you were across the road, Joe?” a voice rang out.

  A tall, impressive black guy dressed in a purple velvet jacket and black leather trousers headed towards me.

  “Let them wait!” shouted a man slumped on a barstool next to me.

  “Hey Man,” the black guy said. “You’ve worked your arse off to get your paintings into that place. You should be over there revelling in it.”

  “Yeah, I know, Morris,” the artist snapped back before taking a sip of his drink. “It won’t hurt them if I keep them waiting, will it?” The man lifted his glass to the barman for a refill. “Anyway, I’ve finally got myself an agent sniffing around, so maybe big bucks will be calling me soon. Won’t that be dandy? At least then I’ll be able to invite my real friends instead of a bunch of wankers who know nothing about real sweat and hardship.”

  “That’s cool, man.” Morris patted the artist’s back, “We know and understand, but still you should go and shine in your glory. We’ll still be here when you get back.”

  The artist rose unsteadily to his feet. I was surprised to see he hadn’t dressed up for his debut exhibition but wore a paint-spattered khaki jacket and trousers. It made me wonder how long he had been sitting there drinking. I wasn’t the only one. Morris, with a concerned look, grabbed his arm, but his friend shook him off. He reached for his glass and, in a sweeping gesture, he held it aloft. “For my sweet Candela, wherever you are.” He downed his drink in one go.

  “Sweet Jesus…” I muttered as his dark eyes locked mine. I turned and headed for the door, leaving my hard-earned drink untouched.

  Two years had certainly changed Joe. His unkempt look shocked me. Gone was his neat-cropped hair, goatee, and pencil thin moustache. His full beard was matted, and his shoulder-length hair sported rat tails. Without his toast to Candela, I wouldn’t have given him a second look.

  I hurried across the road, past the queuing art lovers and ducked down the alleyway that ran between the gallery and a bookshop.

  Chapter Nine

  Death of the Ghost Swift Moth

  1951

  I returned to my hiding place at the back of the Grafton gallery, among the dustbins and wind-swept rubbish. A quick glance at my watch reminded me that I could’ve wasted another hour and a half in the pub, but at least the fresh air kept me alert. The tedium of watching what I guessed was a bathroom light go
ing off and on brought back memories for me of being an outsider once again. In the summer of 1951, I found myself sitting shivering in the hot sun beside a lake. At the age of fourteen I learnt my first and most crucial lesson thanks to Miss Dearborn, my art teacher. I learnt the importance of timing.

  ***

  Five years after losing my mother, father sent me away to finish my education at a boarding school. In two short years a devastating illness changed him from a strong upright man to a weak and crippled creature in a wheelchair.

  During my first term at Priory Cross School in the heart of Hertfordshire, I had noticed a marked difference between my physical development and that of my classmates in our dreaded physical education classes. Being stronger, leaner and taller marked me out straightway as being different. My father loved fitness, and his belief that we should look after the body, soul and mind as a single entity had me out cross-country running in all weathers, while he followed behind on a pushbike with a stopwatch. These workouts built up my strength and endurance.

  I enjoyed my lessons at school and got on well with the teachers, but I found it harder to relate to the other boys. In the eyes of the adults my mother was a famous artist, but to my classmates I was known as the kid with a dead mother. Even if my appearance and the death of my mother hadn’t marked me out as being different, my holiday arrangements certainly did. I was devastated at not being able to return home but understood that Mrs P’s hands were full while caring for my ailing father.

  During the first few days of the holiday I aimlessly wandered around the grounds and buildings of the old priory. Without the normal dash to lessons I was able to absorb the atmosphere and began to imagine what the place looked like through the eyes of the monks who had lived there in the 1300s.

  Of course I wasn’t the only one not returning home. The housemaster, Roger Elliott and his wife lived on site so cared for anyone unable to go home. They would gather any remaining staff members, along with the boarders into a smaller communal dining room to share breakfast, lunch, and tea as though we were all part of an extended family.

  Between meals I spent most of my free time exploring the extensive woodlands and open countryside that surrounded the school. After two days of hunting for the right location, I found the ideal spot to create my painting of the school. The idea behind the image I wanted to create was to show the medieval priory situated on a rise, overlooking two large lakes. I hoped the painting would give the impression that the priory was rising out of the water like King Arthur’s Camelot.

  On the morning I began work I skipped the cooked breakfast and took some fruit, keen to get started as the light was just right. Once settled among the trees I was hidden from view to anyone following the footpath. At the edge of the lake, and with a clear view towards the priory, I sat cross-legged with my sketchpad resting on my knees and began to pencil the outline before working with watercolours.

  After three hours my shirt clung to my back and arms as the sun climbed in the clear blue sky. On standing to stretch my legs and to remove my shirt I heard the sound of laughter. On the far side of the lake I thought I saw movement in the water at the base of the reeds. Excitement made me reach for my binoculars. I hoped it was an otter. Zooming in, I focused on the ripples. My excitement turned to shock as a naked man clambered onto the bank. He turned his pale body towards the woods and shielded his eyes from the sun. I dropped out of sight, even though I knew he couldn’t see me as the reeds on my side blocked his view.

  A burst of familiar laughter had me crawling on my belly to the water’s edge. Through the binoculars I saw Miss Dearborn emerge naked from the lake like one of her goddesses that she was fond of showing us boys. After a few minutes of watching them I felt sick and lowered my glasses. Hastily gathering up my belongings I stumbled along the footpath that led back to the school.

  I slept badly that night. The images of the man pulling her to him as his hand kneading her bare breasts flashed through my mind. The sound of Miss Dearborn’s laughter ringing in my head every time I closed my eyes. My hand seemed to have a life of its own as it slid over my belly and between my legs. My cheeks burnt at the thought of pleasuring myself with images of their fornication. An old familiar stinging sensation crept up my legs as I rolled on to my side in my disgust for my actions, I wept for my mother.

  The next morning, as I ate my breakfast, I thought about Miss Dearborn’s appearance at the lake. It puzzled me as she had told the class how excited she was about spending her holidays in Wales, with her family. After swallowing down the last of my bacon I began to gather up my art things from beside my chair.

  “Ah Ravencroft, I’m glad I’ve caught you,” the housemaster said, entering the room. “Please don’t be late for lunch today.” He pointed to my painting propped against the leg of the table. “Once it’s finished it’ll be a mighty fine painting of the priory.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I felt the warmth radiate from my neck to my cheeks.

  “Nevertheless, the priory will still be standing this afternoon, Ravencroft. After all, it’s been here for six hundred years.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “I know, sir. But the light changes so rapidly.”

  He smiled. “I do understand your dedication, Ravencroft. But it is unfair to expect others to provide a fresh meal for you after everyone else has eaten.” He patted my shoulder, “You do understand, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  ***

  The banging of a car door followed by a shout snapped me out of the past. I peered down the alleyway that lead away from the rear of the gallery and saw the silhouette of two figures moving towards me. I held my breath, pressing myself against the wall, and hoped they wouldn’t see me as they passed by. After a moment I realised they had stopped before a gateway into one of the yards further down. I heard a man’s impatient voice whispering, “For Christ’s sake, woman. I ain’t got all fucking night. Me missus will be expecting me home soon. What have I said to you before, luv, about leaving your knickers off when we go out?”

  “But Tony, it’s too cold. Can’t we just not for once?” a young girl whimpered.

  “I ’ope you’re not telling me no,” the man interrupted “after me spending good money on you, luv.”

  In a pool of dull light I could see the profile of a man pushing a short woman up against the wall. I let my breath out slowly and moved further back into the darkness, unable to shut out the sounds of the man’s grunting and her soft moans. It sickened me, and I wondered how the woman could demean herself so when he thought so little of her.

  “Tony, will I see you next week?” her child-like voice begged.

  The man lit a cigarette and drew hard on it, while zipping his flies. “Of course, luv. But no hanging around me place of work. Otherwise, a word will get back to me missus and I won’t be able to see you again. That’ll break me heart.” His contemptuous laughter echoed around the alleyway.

  “You love me then?” She grabbed the morsel of affection he tossed her.

  “You know how much, luv.” He kissed her briefly and then let out a stream of smoke into her face. He slapped her arse and walked off, calling back over his shoulder. “Remember, no knickers next time.”

  “Shh, Tony. Me dad,” she whispered into the darkness, before allowing the yard door to bang shut.

  “Why no respect for oneself.” I wanted to ask the girl. I recalled having to struggle to stay true to myself because of Miss Dearborn on that hot summer so long ago.

  ***

  After my chat with the housemaster, I returned to my hidden spot in the woods. I focused on finishing my painting to stop me from thinking about Miss Dearborn and her unknown man. Though the light was not as clear as it had been, the sun occasionally burst through the clouds. It shone off the windows, stonework, and red tiled roof of the priory and bathed it in a golden glow. I set my easel up and began to pick out the priory’s finer details. My imagination conjured up knights riding alongside exhausted pilgrims as they ar
rived at the priory looking for rest. While out in the fields and orchards, the monks laboured.

  I bent to add a drop of water to my palette, when a fly buzzed around my ear. I flicked it away and looked back at my subject before dipping the tip of my brush into a speck of white. I blended it into a dark brown creating a lighter tone. Once I had the right shade, I began to paint again. No sooner than I started the irritating insect returned, brushing against my ear and cheek. I shook my head, trying to scare it off, but it returned destroying my concentration.

  “Damn!” On stepping back from the easel my foot caught it. A movement out the corner of my eye made me turn sharply. The easel toppled backwards spilling the clean and muddy-coloured water over the surface of the painting; washing out the details I had just meticulously added.

  “Oh—so sorry, James,” said the honey-sweet voice of Miss Dearborn. She stood mirroring my damaged painting as rivulets of water ran from her thick black hair over the contours of her naked body. She held up a reed stem. Its fine seed head fluttered in a light breeze.

  “What does a girl have to do to get your attention, James?” She giggled and then flicked the seed head to demonstrate her cleverness at imitating an annoying insect.

  I turned away from Miss Dearborn and studied the damaged painting, wondering whether it was possible to salvage it. A twig snapped and something brushed my cheek again.

  “James, my sweet boy. Look at me.”

  “Go away, please.” I dropped to my knees, picked up the two water jars, and began to dab at the painting with a dry cloth.

  “Oh don’t be afraid, James. I won’t hurt you. I’ve seen the way you boys look at me.” She wrapped her fingers around my wrist, pulled me to my feet and snatched the cloth from my hand.

  “Don’t!” my voice cracked as I twisted my wrist out of her grasp.