Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  “Err yes, the name’s Ravencroft. A table for two.”

  “Mr Ravencroft, please come this way.” With a swish of her long, orange and brown skirt the angel turned with elegant ease towards a small desk. As she leant forward to pick up a pencil, her low-cut peasant blouse revealed the milkiness of her skin around her neck. She ran her orange polished fingertips down the list of names. Halfway down, she crossed out my name with a single swipe of her pencil and picked up two menus. “My name’s Flossie. I’m your waitress for the night. Please follow me.”

  As Jenny passed me, she winked and then addressed our waitress. “You’re very busy in here tonight.”

  “Yes, it’s good. So many lovely customers are returning along with a growing number of new ones. I guess the word is spreading.”

  “It’s our first time,” Jenny said. “A friend of James’ recommended we try here.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. Will this table suit you?” she asked, stopping beside the fireplace.

  Jenny gave a nod. “Thank you.”

  Once seated, Flossie handed us the menus. “I’ll be back in a little while to take your orders.”

  As my angel moved away, Jenny touched my arm. “Gosh, I do hope she’s the one your friend was talking about, James?”

  “I think she is, going by the description. Do you think she’s what Basil is looking for?”

  “Basil will love her. She’s such an English Rose and those amazing green eyes. I’m so glad your friend suggested we come here, James. Let’s hope she likes the idea.”

  We both focused on the menu, but I struggled to keep my mind on the food.

  “I like the sound of toasted Israeli couscous with vegetables and fennel and celery slaw,” Jenny said, breaking into my thoughts. “Though I’m not too sure about the fennel, but I’ll give it a go. What about you, James?”

  “Well the only thing I recognise is the vegetarian shepherd’s pie. So that’s my choice. Shall we have a bottle of white with it?”

  “Please. Oh, here she comes.”

  Flossie took Jenny’s order first and then turned to me. I continued to study the menu, giving Jenny a chance to ask our question.

  “Flossie, may I ask you something?”

  “Of course.” Flossie’s pencil hovered over her notepad.

  “I work for an art gallery and we’re looking for a model.” Jenny offered a business card to the waitress.

  “A model? What like Jean Shrimpton and Twiggy?” Flossie took the business card. ‘

  Jenny lowered her voice. “Not fashion modelling. We’re looking for a model to help launch a new artist.”

  Flossie handed the card back. “I’m sorry but I don’t take my clothes off for anyone. Call it what you want—art, fashion, glamour— but nudity isn’t something I’m interested in doing. Thank you for asking. Are you ready to order now, sir?”

  Jenny looked at me, panic in her eyes. I gave a slight nod.

  “Flossie, you misunderstood me. I work at a fine art gallery and Mr Ravencroft is one of our artists. He doesn’t paint nudes but land and seascape. Mr Easter is another fine landscape painter, too.”

  “Like John Constable, you mean. I know his work. He’s one of my dad’s favourites. So what do you want a model for?” She took back the card.

  “Come to the art gallery next Tuesday, and have a chat with my boss, Mr Hallward. He’ll explain everything. I’ll be there. You can bring someone along with you too.”

  “Can’t you give me some idea now?”

  “It’s quite simple really. One of our artists is having a solo exhibition and we’re looking for someone to mix with the clientele and talk about the paintings on offer.”

  “That sounds interesting. I’m studying modern art at college. That’s why I work in the evening to pay my way.”

  “Then we’ve found just the person, Flossie. Mr Hallward is hoping to attract a younger generation into buying fine art.”

  “What time do you want me to call at—” she checked the name on the card, “Hallward Gallery?”

  “10.00 next Tuesday?”

  “That’s ideal. My class doesn’t start until an hour later. So Mr Ravencroft what can I interest you in?”

  “Vegetarian shepherd’s pie. Thank you, Flossie.” I closed the menu and handed it back to her. Already my mind was busy planning the next step.

  ***

  “Thank you for a successful evening, James,” Jenny said, as I pulled into a layby at the top of her street.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay walking from here?”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s only a short walk.”

  “It isn’t out of my way to drop you outside your house.”

  “After all that lovely food, it’ll do me good to walk.” She pushed the door open and picked up her bag. “The food was amazing.”

  “It was surprisingly good. And thank you for being such good company, too. We’ll have to see if we were successful for Basil,” I said, as she started to close the car door.

  Jenny paused. “I’m sure she’s just what Basil is looking for, James. I shall let you know if we are successful with our choice. Bye for now.”

  I watched Jenny hurry along the street as I pulled away from the kerb, pleased to be heading back to Suffolk and knowing I’d found my number six.

  ***

  The evening of Easter’s launch could not come quick enough for me. I was tired of sketching out ideas and just wanted to start work on the next angel painting. It had almost been a year since I completed the fifth one.

  The air in my studio was stifling. The glare from the freshly primed canvas standing on the easel was painful. It cried out for the arrival of my next muse so I could begin working. I opened the French windows and stepped out, hoping to catch a light breeze off the river.

  Since our meal together, Jenny hadn’t been in contact. I was impatient to know whether Flossie had taken up Basil’s offer. If she hadn’t then I wasn’t sure what I would do next. Oh, her prefect sad eyes.

  Father had told me how tiresome mother found men’s compliments on the colour of her eyes.

  “Why do they think they are being so original with their obsession? Why can’t they see past the colour and into my soul, like you, Donald?’

  “Green is a powerful colour. But in eyes it’s mysterious, exotic and magical.” He had told her. “What she had wanted from men,” father told me, “was for them to admire her work, but instead they were obsessive about her eyes.”

  With my angels, I saw beyond the green of their eyes to the sadness of their souls, wanting them to be revered for their everlasting beauty, as I had captured for all to see.

  Unable to wait any longer, I went down to the coolest part of the house the kitchen, to phone Jenny. “Hi, Jenny. Can you talk?”

  “Hello, James. Basil doesn’t have any commissions for you yet. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Not looking for work. I’ve plenty of my own to do. The reason I’ve called is to speak to you personally. I wanted to say thank you so much for such a lovely evening.”

  “James, that’s sweet of you. It was good.” Her tone softened. ‘I’ve been meaning to let you know we were successful in our choice.”

  “So the girl turned up then?”

  “Yes, about a week ago. She’s just what we needed. So well informed and best of all she’s familiar with Easter’s work and loves it.”

  “Why didn’t she mention that when we spoke to her?”

  “She was a little flustered and didn’t put his name to the work until she saw it.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m so pleased for you, Jenny.”

  “Anyway James, Basil is over the moon. I wanted to tell him that he might have met her sooner, if he hadn’t viewed vegetarianism as a silly phase and not real food.”

  “It’s going to be an interesting evening, Jenny.” Through the window the clouds lifted along with my spirit. In the garden, the stone angel seemed to shine in the bright light.

&
nbsp; “Hopefully an amazing one, too. There has been plenty of local interest. Thank goodness, I didn’t have to call in favours from friends and family. James may I ask a favour from you on the night of the launch?”

  “But of course.”

  “Would you be able to pick me up?”

  “Er yes…”

  “That’s great. About 7.30? I’ll need to be in early to make sure everything is ready. Having you there will be great. I won’t feel out of my depth. Gosh, Basil’s next client has arrived earlier than expected. Speak to you soon.”

  Chapter Twenty

  1968

  Yesterday, I found another one of mother’s oil sketches was missing. I had uncovered its disappearance by accident, or maybe mother was letting me know. While on the balcony outside her studio, I was taking in the view of the river and broken trees in hope of inspiration. Something caught my attention, a trick of the light, maybe. I spun around expecting to see mother. I scrutinised the reflection in the French window. The image filled my mind. A burning desire to capture it sent me to fetch one of mother’s old sketchpads from the drawer at the base of her drying rack. On pulling the drawer open I noticed a gap in the collection of her paintings still in the rack.

  I flicked through the pages of a small leather-bound notebook. Mother had recorded each of the rack’s numbers and details about the paintings within them. The book listed the title of the painting, where and when it was exhibited and if she had sold it and to whom. I located the details of the missing painting. How was it possible that Basil had taken it without me knowing?

  Basil had paid me an unexpected visit the day before yesterday. Busy at work in my rooftop studio, I was only alerted to the arrival of a vehicle, by the sound of a car door shutting. Normally, I heard the sound of tyres crunching on the gravel. I had just finished priming a new canvas and had stepped out onto the roof for some fresh air. From my eyrie, I looked down onto the top of someone’s head. They stood beside the boot of their car.

  Annoyed at finding someone on my property, I was about to shout down when something about their stance looked familiar. I grabbed a pair of binoculars and tried to see what they were doing when I realised it was Basil. The lid of the boot obscured my view. He disappeared from view. I lost sight of him as the chimneystack blocked my way. I thought about climbing onto the slates but decided against it. The sound of the side gate opening and closing told me he had gone around the side of the house.

  I was about ready to go and confront him when he reappeared. Once again, he briefly rummaged about in his boot before closing and locking it. I tore downstairs. By the time I reached the main staircase, the front doorbell was ringing. On opening the door, I found Basil standing with a fixed grin, but without any warmth in his eyes.

  “Hi James. You’re at home,” he said in a detached way, as though he regretted ringing the bell. “I wondered if you were at home. I didn't see any sign of your car. Hope I’m not disturbing you… if you have company.” He brushed his fringe back from his eyes and added a little warmth to his smile.

  “Yes, I’m here. Only just heard you ring.”

  “You weren’t in…”

  “In what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you want to come in?” I stepped back from the door. “Is it good news that’s brought you out this way?”

  Basil was casually dressed, instead of his normal suit and tie. He lingered in the hall instead of dashing to the drinks cabinet as per normal..

  “Come through and I’ll fix us both a drink.” I opened a new bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and poured him a large one as he looked as though he needed it. Dark rings around his eyes and slight stubble on his chin made me wonder if he was having problems sleeping at night.

  “Was I supposed to have a painting ready for you to pick up today?” I asked.

  “No. I was in the area.” Basil, lingering in the doorway, reached into his jacket pocket. “A cheque. I owe you.”

  “Thanks.” I handed him his drink, took the cheque, dropping it onto the table with the previous ones he had brought on other occasions.

  “Shouldn’t you bank them?” He nodded his disapproval at the pile of dust-covered cheques.

  “Hmm, I suppose I’ll get around to it sometime soon.” I sipped my drink and sat in my father’s chair as I waited for the whiskey to hit the spot. “Sit down,” I said.

  Basil moved over to the sofa and rested uneasily on the edge.

  “So, Basil, what took you so long? I heard a car quite a while before you rang the bell.”

  His head shot up. “I had to check the boot. Something moved after hitting a blasted pothole in the track to your house. Goodness knows why your parents chose a place so far out from civilisation.”

  “Isolation. Mother craved it.”

  “It’s certainly well hidden.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “I’ve been here before…” Puzzlement swamped Basil’s face as he tapped the side of his glass.

  “I meant what was rattling in your boot.”

  “In my boot? Oh yeah.” He gave me a tight-lipped smile and downed his drink in one. “Thanks for this.” He raised his glass toast-style before setting it down next to the cheques. “I’d better get back to town. I’ll see myself out, James.”

  I followed him out. He protested, apologising for disturbing my work, but I ignored him. As he opened the driver’s door I placed a hand on the boot. The colour drained from his face.

  “Are you all right?”

  “It’s the heat.” He stared up at the house and a furrow creased his brow. “It’s a big place for one person.”

  “It’s my home.”

  “I guess.” He gave a sharp nod, climbed into his car, and wound the window down. “I want to beat the traffic back into London.” He turned the key, and the car roared into life. “Bye James.” The car shot forward, sending up a spray of gravel.

  On returning to my studio I was unable to focus on what I had been doing. It was curious that Basil hadn’t mentioned Easter’s forthcoming exhibition, especially as he was keen that I came along. Was it my lack of enthusiasm for Easter’ work that had put him off discussing it with me, I wondered.

  What intrigued me the most was who had Basil visited in this area?

  As I flicked through the notebook, I deliberated on how he was getting in. It wasn’t as though I was leaving doors open. The police had found the place secure enough. The missing painting according to mother’s record was called, ‘Still Dreaming’, an oil sketch for a much larger piece of work, also done in oils. According to the notebook, the finished piece of art had been part of mother’s final exhibition, a major piece, exhibited in London before I was born.

  The sketch, ‘Still Dreaming,’ showed spiralling blocks of colour, mainly in gold, reds and blues that cascaded over and around a central figure of a full-length naked woman. She stood with her hands clasped under her swollen belly while covering her modesty. Long dark hair fell around her shoulders and over her breasts. She carried her pregnancy high to symbolise a boy-child. Small, framed cartouches surrounded her, depicting symbols of matrimonial harmony, a band of gold, a house, beautiful garden, happy children at play, and a baby in a cot.

  The notebook now showed me I was wrong in my belief that mother had painted it when she was expecting me. The date of the painting’s creation was long before my date of birth. One of the cartouches showed a couple getting married. As a child I had examined the original finished painting carefully and thought the groom looked nothing like my father. When I questioned Father about it, he had told me, that the painting only symbolised the references mother was making and wasn’t about her real life. I always believed mother wasn’t very good at painting portraits. I tossed the notebook back into the drawer and slammed it shut, not wanting to question the nagging doubts that had slipped unwelcomed into my thoughts.

  Jenny had spoken about Basil planning a trip to America shortly after Easter’s launch. I wondered if that was how
he got the paintings out of the country.

  “He must have a buyer already lined up as he can’t sell them on the open market,” I said to mother’s ghost. “But who was buying them? Whoever it is, is keeping quiet about their newly acquired works of art. Well, Basil your supply is about to dry up.”

  After hearing nothing from Basil, I pushed all thoughts of his theft aside, needing to focus on bringing my next angel home.

  ***

  On the evening of the launch I drove down a leafy avenue of well-kept houses and pulled up outside a large Georgian house. Jenny’s parents had done well for themselves I thought as I sat waiting. After a little while, I sounded the car’s horn.

  Jenny hurried down the path in the fading light. Something sparkled in her hair and off her arms. The car’s interior lit up as she opened the door and got in.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting James, especially after you were kind enough to pick me up this evening.” Jenny seemed a little flushed as she laid a silver jacket and bag over her legs that were cased in fine silver tights. “Doreen said you’re more than welcome to join us at her party after the launch.”

  “That’s very kind of her. Will she be at the launch?”

  “No, she’s a friend of my mother’s.”

  “Well, tell her thanks for the offer, but I need to get home. Jen, you do have a lift lined up to take you to Doreen’s?”

  “Yes, I do.” She leaned out to pull the door shut and stopped halfway. “Oh dear. I seem to be caught on something.”

  I turned. “It’s just your chain belt caught on the seat fabric.” I reached over and freed her.

  “Thank you.” She pulled the door shut.

  “You look stunning, Jen. Pale mauve and silver really suit you. It must have taken you ages to weave those pearls into your hair.”

  “That’s why I was late.”

  “It was worth it, Jen.”

  I put the car into gear and we moved off.

  Easter’s launch was taking place at the impressive Picton-Warlow Gallery. The gallery covered the ground floor of a large red and yellow-bricked Victorian detached house, with a gothic leaded-roof tower and arched windows. It stood on a corner of a busy road but set well back.