Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  He took a couple of steps forward and, for a split second, I thought he could see me or the light shining off Flossie’s bejewelled head. He began to move towards the parked cars and my open boot. Flossie felt heavy on my shoulder and I desperately needed to shift my balance.

  “Dan, where are you? You’re wanted!” A voice rang out.

  “All right, I’ll be there,” The smoker shouted over his shoulder. After a quick drag on his cigarette, he tossed it aside and strolled off in the direction of the patio. Then I heard the French window closing behind him.

  I wrenched hard on Flossie’s skirt.. It gave with a satisfying rip. With my free hand I gathered up the trailing material, lifted her into the boot and rolled her onto her side. She moaned as I leant in and tucked the cushions around her. I pressed my fingertips against the side of her neck to check her pulse before closing the boot. I emptied the bottle and placed it with the glasses in the glove box.

  Once I was satisfied, I returned to the party and mingled with the remaining guests, taking care not to be too chatty, but showing an interest in Easter’s pictures. On the wall above one of Easter’s largest paintings was a beautiful teak sunburst clock. When the photographer started snapping shots of the guests in front of the painting, I placed myself centre stage, smiling broadly, glass in hand next to Easter.

  Soon the guests started to disperse, some collecting their belongings while others topped up their glasses before saying their goodbyes.

  “I know you,” a self-assured voice said behind me.

  I spun around and came face to face with a rather elegant, elderly woman dressed in a lime green trouser suit. She stuck out a liver-spotted hand.

  “Really?” I said, with a curt nod as I took her hand.

  “Yes. My friend, Mabel, and I have a couple of your pictures. James Ravencroft isn’t it?” She had a surprisingly firm handshake, her large, flashy gold rings digging into my flesh.

  “Yes, indeed I am.”

  “I thought so. Now James—I can call you James?”

  “Please do,” I said, glancing towards the stairs, hoping to catch sight of Jenny.

  “Can you tell me why Basil hasn’t exhibited your fine work?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Madam…” I said while trying to disengage my hand.

  “Well, he jolly-well should, you know. I’m sure there are others like us who would enjoy seeing more of your splendid land and seascapes in the one room.”

  “Thank you for saying so… Mrs Err?”

  “Judy Norris. Of course, I knew your father, Donald.” Her red lipstick had bled into the fine lines around her mouth giving her a vampish look as she chattered on.

  Thoughts racing through my mind drowned out what she was saying as questions flooded in. How did she know my father? Had she known my mother too? Oh God, had she mentioned who my mother was to anyone else here. In my confusion by a sudden rush of vulnerability that made me focus on her red lips.

  “Such a nice man. Mabel and I were only speaking about him the other day. We loved his services. So full of passion. Some even moved us to tears.”

  “My father’s what?” I’d never seen nor heard of Mrs Norris or her friend Mabel before. As far as I knew, they had never been to the house. We never had visitors, apart from the gardener, his lad, Kelly and Mrs P. The only other people who came were the gallery staff to collect mother’s paintings.

  “His services. Mabel and I loved them. Your father was a brilliant speaker.” She spoke slowly as though talking to a confused child.’

  “Oh, so you were part of his congregation.” I wondered just how much more she and her friend knew about my family and checked to see if anyone else was within earshot.

  “Of course, it was dreadful for him losing your mother so early in their marriage. Mabel and I believed he never fully recovered from that loss.” She reached out and patted my arm. Her touch sent a chill through me. I jerked my arm away, praying she would not speak ill of the dead.

  “I guess you never did either. It must be a blessing having your mother’s wonderful talent. Mabel and I always said it must bring you closer to her, sharing such a gift. It’s a shame Basil doesn’t make more of the fact.”

  “And what fact is that, Mrs Norris?”

  “Your mother’s wonderful talent.”

  “I’m not my mother,” I said a little too sharply.

  Mrs Norris blinked rapidly; her hand went to her throat. “Please forgive me. Me and my big mouth. I hope I haven’t upset you talking about your parents”

  “No.” I smiled, not because I wanted to show her no harm was done, but more to relax myself. “It’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone who knew my family. As you know, I was very young when I lost my mother. Do you come from Suffolk?”

  “Yes, many moons ago. Mabel and I were at school with Pauline Page. Well she wasn’t Page then as she wasn’t married.”

  “You went to school with Mrs P?”

  “Yes, I know. Seems like a lifetime ago.” She tilted her head to one side and cupping her white bouffant hair at the back of her neck. Her hair didn’t seem to move, solid from too much hairspray, I guessed.

  “Anyway, James, it’s about time Mr Hallward let you exhibit your wonderful pictures. Is he about?” She glanced around the room. Not seeing him, she took hold of my arm. “I could demand on your behalf.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs Norris, but—”

  “Jenny, my dear, where’s Basil?” Mrs Norris yelled.

  Jenny appeared from behind one of the screens, carrying a tray of dirty glasses.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure.” She set the tray down. “Have you checked upstairs, Mrs Norris? Oh, try asking Flossie. She was chatting to him a little while ago.” Jenny picked up the tray and carried on with what she had been doing.

  “Who’s Flossie?” Mrs Norris squeezed my arm.

  “The tall, young lady who was talking about the paintings when you first arrived and was dressed in green like you, but with jewels in her hair.”

  “Oh yes, a stunning woman I thought. We had quite a chat. Sometimes these launches can be so dull, but she was such a delight, very enthusiastic about the artist’s work. You felt as though you were going on a journey of discovery with her. Do you know most people at these functions are here for all the wrong reasons?”

  I shook my head.

  “Art to them is about money, an investment. That’s what destroyed your mother. What I see is a thing of beauty. I say get it out, put it on your wall and enjoy it. Life’s too short.” She squeezed my arm again. ‘If it makes you a bit of cash at the end of your life, fine, but if it doesn’t, you’ve still had the enjoyment of a stunning piece of art. May I ask you a question about your mother?”

  I tensed, wanting to brush her hand off my arm, but instead I nodded.

  “I know you were only young when she died, but what happened to all of her unsold paintings?”

  “What makes you think there was any?”

  “Pauline used to speak about your mother. How busy she was, always painting. A studio full of amazing pieces.”

  My stomach tightened. So much for not gossiping, Mrs P. “Really.”

  “Well, Mabel and I could not afford to buy her work back then, so I was wondering if any were available to buy— a kind of memento of your mother and Pauline.”

  I removed her hand from my arm and stepped back. “It’s been a pleasure speaking to you, Mrs Norris.”

  She gave a slight nod. “Your mother’s paintings…’ She was about to repeat the question.

  “Sorry. None of mother’s work survives. My father destroyed them in his grief.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth as tears formed in her eyes. “No, he never did—! How awful! All those valuable works of art destroyed…”

  “His grief overwhelmed him. As you say, he never fully recovered.”

  “Mrs Norris, are you all right?” Jenny said, coming to join us. “Your husband has just arrived. He’s waiting for you in the
front car park. James, have you seen Flossie? I can’t find her anywhere, and her friends are looking for her.”

  “No, sorry I haven’t.” I set my empty glass down.

  “Okay. Maybe Easter knows. I’ll ask him when he comes down from talking with Mr Picton-Warlow.”

  I joined the last stragglers as they left.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stone Angels

  The Seventh Painting

  1969

  I decided to take a break and scramble a couple of eggs after my stomach had reminded me that I had not eaten in a while. I laid my brushes down and stepped back from my seventh painting, pleased with my initial layout.

  In the kitchen I made a mental note to check whether the sixth painting was dry enough to varnish. It was well over five months since I had finished it. I switched on the radio while I scrambled the eggs and hummed along with the music. The radio presenter’s voice interrupted the song while I was eating. “We have some amazing breaking news this morning. I can confirm the first man has stepped onto the moon. A huge leap forward for humanity.”

  I poured a mug of tea and went out into Mrs P’s herb garden. The early morning sun was doing its best to warm the courtyard where I sat. I caught glimpses of the fading moon when the low cloud occasionally broke. I’m not sure what I was expecting to see but thought there would be something to mark the occasion of humanity’s first step on the moon’s surface.

  “Everything inside is made of stone.” Dylan’s words played in my head as I tipped the dregs of my tea onto the rosemary bush and placed the cup on the wall before strolling across the lawn toward the statue of St Mary. My parents’ grave looked lovely as an array of small blue and white flowers tumbled over the rockery around the base of the statue. I walked on, following the path to the oldest part of the garden.

  Here fragments of stone from the old church edged the lawns, flowerbeds and pathways. Nothing else grew out of the bare ground beneath the shady rhododendrons apart from a few remaining tombstones in what was once the old graveyard. One of these was the table top grave where Flossie and my other fallen angels now rested.

  Back in my studio, I pulled the sixth angel painting from the drying rack and rested it on an easel. I gently tapped the rough surface where the paint was the thickest with my fingertips, checking to see if the paint was fully dry. My fingertips came away clean.

  The backdrop for this particular painting showed a hazy sky, while in the far distance a band of white split the horizon. Fog drifted over the grey slate roofs of the houses and wound itself around towering spires, lead-covered steeples and chimney stacks with their swirling charcoal smoke. My angel stood in the foreground with her head lowered and her arms across her chest. Her gown hung in soft folds across her waist and emphasised her broad hips, as well as revealing a pair of shapely legs. Pleased with how I had depicted Flossie, I placed the painting back in the rack with the other five, satisfied it was dry enough to vanish.

  My work in progress stood on a large studio easel. The seventh in my series. It captured the self-assurance that my goal was within reach. Every brushstroke echoed the sadness I saw around me.

  On the canvas, among the towering chimney stacks, an angel stood in profile with her chin slightly raised, her eyes closed, and her lips parted. Tall and elegant, she was dressed in a grey shroud that covered the top of her head. It fell in soft folds over her shoulders and down the front of her body to pool at her feet. Her arms were outstretched, her hands resting one on top of the other as the shroud billowed out behind her, showing off the curves of her breasts, hips, thighs, and legs. On the backs of her hands, an owl rested, its feathers ruffled, and its wings lifted as though ready to take flight. The moon cast its silvery light over my abstract roofscape, causing the shadow of the angel and owl to take on the form of a raven in flight. I had hoped by adding another dimension to my painting, it would give the art connoisseurs something to theorise over while they discussed its true meaning.

  Four months ago, by accident, I found my seventh angel. In truth, Basil had brought us together. After a phone call from Jenny, I had to deliver an urgent commission to his office to meet a client’s deadline. On arriving at Hallward’s Gallery, Jenny handed me an envelope. The note explained that Basil wanted me to meet him at the local library.

  After parking the car near a bombed-out house, I walked the short distance via one of the many alleyways. On entering the dark wooden panelled library, I wondered if crossing the threshold into the underworld would’ve been much brighter. By the dimly lit front desk, I scanned the two rows of sloping desks with their high stools and individual reading lamps for Basil. There wasn’t any sign of him among the people hunched over the free daily newspapers.

  On the other side of the library, beyond the rows of bookcases, I saw a sign that read ‘Archive’ and headed in that direction. Low wooden cabinets lined either side of a study area. At its centre was a row of microfiche readers. Basil sat facing a screen, while at his side a slim honey-blonde leant over the desk, her straight grey skirt strained across her slender hips as she pointed at something on the screen.

  “Hello Basil.” I came up behind them. The blonde straightened, and tugged the front of her tight-fitted jacket down.

  “Great, James. You found us okay. I’ve something to show you.” Excitement edged Basil’s voice.

  “Please, keep your voice down, sir,” the woman said. “You’re in a library. People are studying.”

  “Sorry…” Basil lowered his voice. “You must call me Basil, Jane. I’m sure we’re going to see more of each other.”

  “Yes, sir.” She gave a curt nod. “Do you need any more help, err… Basil?”

  “No, I’ll be fine for now. Before you go, let me introduce my friend, James Ravencroft. You know— the artist.”

  There was no flicker of recognition that she knew my name, or even cared.

  “If you need me, or any further microfiches, I will be over at my desk, though I’m finishing early today as I need to catch a train. The other librarian can help you if need be.”

  “Going anywhere special?’ Basil asked, though his interest remained fixed on the screen before him.

  “I’m spending a few days with my mother. I haven’t been home for a while, and it’s her birthday. The family have ar…” Jane paused.

  From between the bookcases, a large dowdy woman hobbled towards us. She leant against a cabinet and caught her breath. “Err… Miss,” she puffed. “Could I have some assistance, please?” she asked, brusquely.

  “Of course, madam.”

  “I’ll see you later. Thank you for your help,” Basil said as Jane and the woman walked away.

  Something in the way Jane moved caught my attention. Her shoulders and head were erect, and her hair shone even in the harsh artificial light.

  “It suddenly came to me last night.” Basil said, tearing my thoughts away from Jane.

  “Sorry, who came to you?”

  He looked up. “Not who but what! I should’ve checked the papers to find out what the police wouldn’t tell me. Do sit down, James.”

  I sat in the chair Jane had vacated, feeling her warmth.

  “The press might be a pain in the butt,” Basil said. “But you can always rely on the fact they love a good story, especially if it’s a mystery. Every pressman’s wet dream is a tale of kidnapped girls.”

  I twisted in my seat as the girl made her way back to her desk beside the main library door. Her stance was becoming so familiar to me along with the tilt of her head.

  “For goodness’ sake, James. Take your eyes off that girl and focus on what I’m saying.”

  “Right. Yes, of course. Great idea.”

  “Glad, you think so.” Basil was looking at the screen again. “I’ve wasted too much time waiting for the police to sort this problem out. So instead of feeling so bloody helpless, I’m doing something constructive.”

  “Helpless?”

  “For Christ’s sake, James!” Basil
oblivious to the reaction he had caused as all heads turned in our direction. He pointed to the screen. “I should’ve done this sooner, James.”

  “Done what?” I was impatient to get out of there.

  “Is everything okay here?” Jane materialised beside us.

  “Yes, everything’s fine, thank you, Jane.” Basil patted her hand as it rested on the desk next to him. She snatched her hand away.

  “Please, could you keep your voices down?” She said moving back to help the dowdy woman, who was now waving impatiently.

  “Are you talking about those missing girls?” I asked, once Jane was out of earshot.

  Basil lowered his voice. “Yes, James. It occurred to me if I could put together some sort of timeline that mapped their disappearances then maybe I could… I could…Oh, this is going to sound crazy.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I need to know, why me? Why it’s happening to me.”

  “Now you want to play at being the detective?”

  “I might as well as P.C. Plod and Co have no idea of the sort of hell I’m going through. I can’t sit around waiting for my world to implode because of their inadequacies. I thought I might as well help myself.”

  “Good thinking.” I was still watching Jane. She stood chatting to a colleague, but every now and then, she checked her watch. I knew she would be leaving soon. “What have you discovered so far?” I asked.

  “Have I got your full attention, James?”

  “Always.” I shifted the chair around and leant my elbow on the desk to give myself a clearer view, not just the screen, but the entrance of the library.

  Basil picked up his notebook and thumbed through some pages. “I’ve started looking at all the daily papers from the beginning of 1963, making notes on any girls who had gone missing.” He turned a couple of pages. “The first girl reported missing was Candela Waterbrook aged 20 in 1964, but she had disappeared in 1963. The newspapers first reported her missing a year after the event.”

  “And?”

  “I couldn’t understand why the newspaper had waited a whole year before reporting her disappearance. If Candela had disappeared in 1964, a year after the art exhibition and when I first met you, I couldn’t have been the last person to see her alive, but unfortunately 1964 was when the press released the story.”