Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  Annie, my mind whispered, sweet Annie.

  “I work near your office, Mr Hallward,” Annie said, picking up her handbag.

  “Do you?” Surprise etched Basil’s face.

  “Yes, we’ve met before, but I don’t think you will remember. You only came in a couple of times. Normally, it’s your secretary who comes to pick up your lunch when you’re working late. She’s lovely.”

  Basil’s features softened and he began to smile. “Oh, of course! Now I remember. I thought there was something familiar about you. You work in the café on the corner. It’s only when Jenny is on holiday that I pop in.”

  The waiter coughed and Basil turned to him. “Sorry about that. Please, could we have one Johnnie Walker Blue? No ice, thank you.”

  Jeannie pulled Annie aside and they moved away from our table. With their heads together they began whispering. Annie was the taller of the two, dressed in a long flowery bohemian skirt with a matching waistcoat. Jeannie carried a few more pounds than her friend but she wasn’t by any means overweight. She wore a plain green blazer and houndstooth patterned cream knee-length skirt. After a few words in Annie’s ear, Jeannie turned to her mother, but I was unable to hear what was said.

  Tamsin shook her head. “No, my dear, you cannot drive my car. You’ll have to call a taxi to take you to London.”

  “They can come with me, Tamsin, if that’s okay with you?” Basil glanced at his watch. “You must forgive me, but I need to be heading back to the office as I’m waiting on an international call.”

  “What a shame you have to go so soon, Basil,” said Mrs Loring, brushing her top lip with the tip of her tongue as she winked at me.

  I took a sip of my drink as the bile in my stomach rose. Over the lip of my glass, Mrs Loring seemed to transmute into Miss Dearborn, her red lips parted in a catlike smile. Without looking in Basil’s direction she finally answered his question. “Only if taking the girls is not an inconvenience to you, Basil?”

  “None at all, Tamsin. What man wouldn’t enjoy having the company of two lovely young ladies while travelling back to the city?” He slid his arm around Jeannie’s waist. She giggled and stepped away from him. Basil looked a little hurt by the subtle brush off as he pulled his keys out of his pocket.

  Tamsin finally broke eye contact with me and looked up at Basil, “Thank you. It’s a weight off my mind. At least I know they’ll be safe with you. Now behave yourselves, girls. Jeannie, don’t be too late home.”

  “Of course not, Mum. Jeannie bent and kissed her mother’s cheek. Then linked arms with Annie and they both moved away while waiting for Basil to finish talking to Mrs Loring. Annie brushed her hair back from her cheek as she altered the strap on her bag, making it more comfortable on her shoulder. She seemed to sense that I was watching her and nodded in my direction. “It’s been lovely to meet you, Mr Ravencroft,” she said.

  “And you too, Annie. The both of you.”

  “Come, lovely ladies, your carriage awaits,” my agent called. As they left, Basil stopped to speak to a group seated at another table. A man stood and shook his hand. Basil nodded and gestured in my direction before coming back over.

  “James, I expect to see the commission in the next few days. It looks as though I might have another one for you soon.” Basil nodded to the man who lifted his glass to me. I smiled at him and then answered Basil. “Of course, you’ll have it.”

  “Bye, Basil, bye girls,” Mrs Loring called, her eyes still on me.

  Basil caught up with the girls who stood talking to the young waiter. My mind was already reaching for a paintbrush as I sketched out an image of my next angel onto a primed canvas. Something cold suddenly caressed the back of my hand and the image dissolved. I looked down. On looking up I was met by Mrs Loring’s wolfish grin. Within her kohl-rimmed eyes excitement burnt under false lashes. As she spoke, my chest tightened.

  “Finally, James, I have you to myself.’ She lifted my hand into hers. “I’m sure Basil has told you, I’m a great admirer of your work. The reason I asked him to invite you was so I could discuss an undertaking with you. Before we start would you like another drink?”

  “No, thank you.” I held up my glass.

  She called the waiter over to refresh her drink. I wondered whether she’d had enough already. Once her glass was refilled, she began to explain. “I can see a successful future ahead of you, James.” She traced the lifeline on the palm of my hand with her long red talons. “I have a proposition I want to put to you.”

  I said nothing.

  She continued. “I want you to work on a personal home commission.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint, Mrs Loring.” I tried to take my hand back. “But I don’t paint portraits of houses.”

  She squeezed it tight and giggled. “Oh, you silly boy. Please call me, Tamsin. I don’t want you to paint a picture of my house but one of my daughter and me at home.” She brushed her bottom lip with her tongue. “You do home visits, don’t you?” She leaned forward while caressing my palm.

  I took a sip of my drink, trying to keep the loathing and humiliation from my face, but I need not have worried. Mrs Loring was too busy cooing about the paintings of mine that she already possessed. I scrutinised the symmetry of her face and wondered why women of a certain age hide their beauty under layers of powder and paint, while an artist uses the same material to capture such beauty on canvas. Finally I freed my hand from her grip and softened my tone, conscious that a woman like Mrs Loring did not take kindly to the word, No.

  “Mrs Loring, you must be aware, having my work in your collection…” I gave her hand a light squeeze. “My style of painting doesn’t lend itself well to portraiture. I would fail to capture the beauty of you both.”

  “James,” she clutched my hand again. “I’m giving you a magnificent opportunity. I believe in your wonderful talent and know I can help you establish your name internationally. I simply won’t take no for an answer. Please come to my home on—” She let go of my hand, reached into her handbag and pulled out her diary. She flicked a couple of pages. “Hmm, let me see—what about next Monday?’

  Under the table her foot moving up the inside of my leg and then gently pushing against my crotch, I returned her conspiratorial smile and she rewarded me with a wink and another nudge of her foot. I lifted my nearly empty glass to my lips, and whispered over its rim, “But Mrs Loring I don’t know where you live.”

  “Darling, its Tamsin. You’re making me feel so old.” She pulled a silver business card holder out of her bag and handed me one of its crisp, white cards.

  “Tamsin, a woman with your outstanding beauty shouldn’t worry about ageing.” I looked briefly at the card, then drained my glass and stood.

  “Oh, don’t go yet, James. We’re just getting to know each other.”

  “I’m sorry but I need to get back to work.” I held up her card. “What’s the best time to call on you?”

  “Anytime. I’m sure you will like what you see.” She leant forward exposing the curve of her over-tanned leathery breasts.

  I nodded. “I didn’t take you for an early riser, Tamsin.”

  She pursed her thin lips. “Let’s make it ten o’clock, James.” Something flittered across her unreadable expression and I wondered for a moment, whether it was fear of rejection.

  I smiled. “Ten on Monday it is then.”

  Her face brightened. “I look forward to seeing you again, James.”

  I left Mrs Loring to finish her drink as I didn’t want to stay in case I said something I regretted. Why do others think they have the right to arrange my life? I had no desire to paint her for any amount of money.

  I was just about to start the car when Tamsin emerged from the main building. I waited, before turning the key. Tamsin seemed to be staggering. At first I thought it was her high heels as she swayed to the middle of the car park. She looked around as though unsure of where she had left her car. On seeing it, she shook her head and plunged her hand into her h
andbag rocking and then catching her balance as she did so. After a few minutes, she finally pulled out her keys.

  I waited.

  Once I knew she was safely in her car, I drove out ahead of her, having made the decision to follow her. I turned in the direction of her home, hoping that was where she was going. I drove on to look for an ideal spot to park. On locating one, I reversed in to wait for her to pass. Within minutes she passed in a flash of red. I counted to ten and was about to put my foot down when a flash of British racing green zoomed past.

  Annoyed by the interloper I raced after them. Having a Morgan between Tamsin and my car did not help the situation as it meant its driver was now an unwanted witness. I caught up with the powerful Morgan, as it was unable to pass Tamsin. It revved its engine impatiently. I relaxed back in my seat, realising that maybe the gods had something in store for her after all. I just needed to wait and see what happened next.

  I wasn’t sure how long we had been driving when the Morgan, with an air of impatience, roared its engine and shot forward trying to overtake Tamsin. The little red sports car gathered speed. It snaked back and forth across the narrow road, forcing the Morgan to drop back. Its driver let rip with a blast of his horn, picking up speed to try again. For a moment I wondered if Tamsin was aware of the car behind her as she hogged the centre of the road.

  On our side of the road, a steep bank replaced the trees and hedgerows as they petered out. A tight bend loomed ahead. On my journey to the meeting it was at this point I had tried to overtake a slow-moving vehicle and nearly became squashed between the bank and a lorry. Ancient oak trees grew all along the top of the bank, their thick roots hanging down like tentacles onto the road’s edge. The behaviour of the Morgan’s driver led me to believe he was unfamiliar with the road as I had been. He raced forward, seeming to want to force her out the way.

  The road narrowed.

  I dropped back, praying for something to come in the opposite direction as there wasn’t anywhere for them to go. They raced on with me following at a safe distance. For a split second, Mrs Loring moved back onto the left side of the road. With another blast of its horn, the Morgan risked all. It shot forward, taking the corner at death-defying speed, cutting across in front of the red sports car, clipping it as it went, before disappearing round the bend. I braked hard.

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Mrs Loring’s car launched itself as it flipped onto its side. It clipped the roots of the trees as it bounced off the bank before careering out of control across the road. It missed several trees before ploughing through a large bush and vanishing from view. A loud bang filled the air, sending a cloud of cawing rooks and crows into the sky.

  I left my engine running and climbed out. No traffic came from either direction, I crossed the road. There was nothing to see but a few fragments of broken glass and two deep tread marks on a rough verge. With the side of my shoe, I swept the glass into the leaf litter and obliterated the tyre markings before dashing back to my car.

  I drove on until a nagging voice caused me to pull off the road and get out. The tranquillity of the woods returned surprisingly quick. Birdsong echoed around me as I walked on, heading towards the crash site, I hoped. I plunged deeper into the woods, moving rapidly not wanting to encounter anyone else investigating the loud bang. I paused and tried to get my bearings.

  If she was dead, my problem was resolved. I decided to leave Tamsin to whatever fate had dealt her, when I caught a whiff of petrol in the air. I followed the scent. A sudden burst of sunlight broke through the trees and reflected off something shiny. I cautiously followed the smell of petrol and found Mrs Loring’s car on its side wrapped around a large oak tree. The impact made it look less like a mode of transport and more like a work of art, especially as one of its chrome wheels spun slowly as though continuing on its journey to take her to the underworld. The cooling metal clicked as though sending out a message, maybe a warning as the air reeked of petrol. The lower branches of the trees had ripped the top off the car, and I couldn’t see any sign of Mrs Loring.

  Not wanting to disturb the crash site too much, in case I left something behind that might alert the police to the fact someone hadn’t reported it, I turned to go. It was then I noticed some droplets of blood spattered across some fallen leaves. Had she, by some miracle, survived the impact?

  I looked around, but still saw no sign of her. Then, out the corner of my eye, something fluttered for a brief moment. An image of her swaying in the car park flashed across my mind. On a broken branch a piece of navy-blue fabric, the same colour as Tamsin’s trousers. Without thinking, I reached for it, but stopped myself from plucking it off the branch. Beyond the damaged shrub, within a shallow dip, I could just make out a sprawling figure half-secluded by fallen leaves and debris.

  Carefully I picked my way around blood and oil-soaked leaves. Mrs Loring lay on her back. Her vacant eyes stared at me while her head, twisted at an odd angle, had bones protruding through a gaping hole where once her throat had been. Satisfied there was nothing more to worry about, I made my way around the debris. As I passed her car, I gave a brief nod of thanks in its direction, knowing I was free to focus on the more important paintings.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stone Angels. The Fourth

  1966

  Surprised to find my conscience was untroubled by the death of Mrs Loring, I stood naked by the French windows in mother’s room. Looking out across the balcony, I mulled over several different settings for my next angel painting.

  I guessed Mrs P, in her wisdom, had been right. She always said drinking and driving was not a good combination, especially not for women. She never aired her opinions on mother’s drinking in front of me. Though I once heard her say something to father. She never commented on mother’s driving, mainly because Jane Elspeth Maedere always relied on a chauffeur.

  The phone rang, just as my thoughts were formulating. I attempted to shut out the annoying din by escaping out onto the balcony knowing it would be Basil. A nip in the early morning air sharpened my senses as a chilling breeze caressed my body. It drained the tension that threatened to stifle my creative thought process. Once the ringing had stopped, the power of the muses beckoned me back inside with the promise of fresh paint and the weight of a brush in my hand.

  On closing the door the warmth of the room made my skin tingle. Blood rushed into my chilled muscles. I hunted for a large canvas among mother’s rack of unused ones, sending up clouds of dust. I located the one I wanted, just as the phone rang, demanding my attention again, but I ignored it. I knew that all too soon, I would have to answer it.

  I placed the canvas on the easel and then picked up a stick of charcoal, and began to sketch the image I had settled on. The incessant ringing penetrated my consciousness, robbing me of my artistic flow. I snatched it and shouted, “Keep it short. I’m busy!”

  ***

  On my return home from London late last night, I removed my precious cargo from the boot and took her straight up to my muse’s bedroom in the rooftop studio. Once I was sure she was comfortable and her breathing steady, I took a shower. With my hair still damp, I crept into mother’s bed, only to find I couldn’t sleep.

  Excitement tinged with annoyance buzzed through my head. Outside I watched the distant flickering lights as the strength of wind disturbed the trees on the far bank of the river. As the room filled with the chilling night air, I lay warm and secure under the thick blankets, analysing what had happened after I left Mrs Loring’s shattered remains.

  Still annoyed with Basil and his lack of progress in allowing me a solo exhibition, I hadn’t gone home as I had planned, but decided to confront him. Would the mere mention that I knew he was stealing from me be enough to embarrass him into giving me what I wanted?

  Before heading to Basil’s art gallery I parked my car in an inconspicuous place rather than his car park. Then using the crisscrossing alleyways that ran between the gallery and the high street, I took a little-used foot
path back to the gallery. I couldn’t have timed it any better as Basil’s office light was still on.

  I was about to cross the road when Basil’s secretary, Jenny, suddenly emerged from a side gate and hastily climbed into a waiting taxi. Once the taxi was gone I crossed over and went through the gate; Basil normally kept it locked to avoid any disgruntled artists, or to allow his more famous clientele privacy while visiting his gallery.

  Behind the gate were two access routes. One led on to the high street, from where I had come while the other led through an overgrown garden at the back of the property. This was where Basil kept his car out of sight in a garage at the bottom of the garden. There was also ample parking for four other cars. From there Basil had easy access onto the main thoroughfare to take him in any direction.

  I climbed the narrow-carpeted staircase as quietly as possible. On the landing I strained to hear what Basil was saying, but the only thing that was clear was his booming laughter through his closed office door. I slipped into Jenny’s small office opposite where I knew she had an intercom. The small space was brightly lit by a streetlight just outside the office window. Jenny’s tidy desk stood in front of a large metal cupboard where she stored the finished works of art, next to it was a freestanding filing cabinet, and some shelving. I made myself comfortable in Jenny’s seat and switched on her intercom after turning my end off.

  Basil’s voice was loud and clear, his excitement tangible as he chatted, singing praises for his latest prodigy.

  “Yes, I know the market is different in America, Chuck,” I heard him say. “I’m having such amazing results with Easter’s work here. I know it isn’t to everyone’s liking, but I can see him going far. You know as well as I do, it’s all about following the money. Here it’s the wealthy old-school types that are snapping up his work.” He laughed. “You’re always telling me most Americans love the English landscape, Chuck. Well, Easter delivers the goods every time.”