Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  Jenny stepped back to get a better view of the ninth painting. Her gaze was unwavering, causing her brow to knit. “Quite a moving subject James, the way you’ve caught such sadness in her eyes, such desolation. It makes you want to cry for her. These are such very powerful pieces. They kind of remind me of the missing girls.”

  “In what way?’ I wanted to know more, but at the same time, I wanted Jenny to stop talking.

  “Oh, their families’ sadness. I guess that’s your inspiration. I suppose after reading about their disappearances in the paper.” Her eyes never left my face.

  I nodded.

  “My friend. Well, she’s more my mother’s friend. She has an amazing collection of photographs taken during her wild youth. She’s such an interesting person. Anyway, I knew I had heard the name of Tommy Blackbird before, but just couldn’t remember where. You know, he’s that missing artist from 1963. It wasn’t in the paper that the police were looking for him.”

  I said nothing, but continued to stare at Jenny’s lips as though lip reading because of the noise.

  “They have been to see Basil again.”

  “Have they?” I sipped another glass of wine.

  “Something to do with new information, I believe.”

  “What information?”

  “No idea. Nine go missing here, and they get new information from America. So I can’t tell you what.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Suddenly I’m in mother’s dressing room with my hands around something soft, desperate to stop the voices.

  “Can’t,” she said, with a hint of a smile. “I’m not privy to all Basil’s secrets. Sorry.”

  Jenny’s attention wandered back to the paintings. “You’re an amazing artist, James. A little too dark for my taste though. Did it really take you six months to paint all nine paintings?”

  There it was again. A coldness from my gut reached for my brain. The question threw me, especially coming from someone I thought I knew. I stuttered, “Are you… questioning… my ability, Jen?”

  “It’s just you had all the commissions to paint, too.” With a sweep of her hand, she gestured to the paintings. “A lot of thought has gone into these works. They’re so different from your ‘Of Land and Seascapes’ series. These are almost portraits in their execution. On the day we went to see Flossie to ask her to model for Basil, you spoke about needing a model too. It seemed strange to me at the time, that’s all,” Jenny said, with a smile, but this time there was no warmth.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh dear, Mr Hallward needs me. Must get back to work.”

  As Jenny walked away, I knew my time was limited.

  ***

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she said, her voice was barely a whisper, drowned out by the sound of the heavy traffic racing past us. I guided her to the alleyway. Her weight against my arm made it difficult for me to keep her upright. She kept slipping from my grip, her legs refusing to respond to her commands.

  Once clear of the main road, I picked her up and carried her back to my car.

  “You’re my number ten,” I told her, aware she could no longer hear me. I lowered her into the boot. It was a risk taking her so soon after my first exhibition, but there was no other choice. I saw the coldness in her eyes and nothing else mattered.

  Waiting in the shadows for her was so beautiful. The air buzzed with pure tension. Basil had shouted his goodbyes to his clients as they went their separate ways after the exhibition. Tina had followed soon after. I had made sure a large number of people had seen me leave.

  The endgame was insight as I lowered Tina into the boot and tucked the cushions around her. I brushed her hair away from her face, and checked her breathing, before lowering the boot lid with a satisfying click

  Once out in the flow of traffic leaving London, I felt the tension gone and my mind clear. All nine of my angels had left me and now I was returning to an empty studio. I glanced in my rear-view mirror and moved over into the fast lane. I hoped Tina Whiteoaks was strong enough like each of my other angels. Their hearts had beaten right up until the last brushstroke had completed their image.

  Rain and wind raced after us on the A12. By the time we arrived back at the rectory, it was too late to start work. I carried the sleeping Tina to the lift and took her straight to my guest bedroom. Once she was comfortable, I switched off the light, knowing the drug I had given her would help her to sleep until morning.

  I crawled into mother’s bed, dog-tired, but unable to sleep. Outside the wind grew in strength. It battered against the windows and moaned and groaned its way around the dead oak trees. On gathering its forces, it raced around the chimneypots. Sleep wasn’t going to come easily to me. I shifted uncomfortably in bed my mind not settling. I needed to be fresh in the morning if I was going to create my piece de resistance.

  Moments later, an almighty crash of thunder rolled across the sky, startling me out of my sleep as the house shook.

  I woke feeling as cold and grey as the early morning. By the time I arrived in my studio ready to start work my spirit still had not lifted. I opened the French windows and stepped out onto the roof. A chilling sight greeted me. The three dead trees that had inspired mother lay smashed and broken, felled by the overnight storm. I was glad she had not witnessed it. To her it would’ve been the ultimate sign to self-destruction. For me, it was the end of an era.

  Once my last angel was in place, I selected the right brush, picked up the palette, and closed my eyes. I drew in a deep breath; the smell of the paints and linseed oil began their magic. Mother stepped out of the shadows; her eyes bright with rage. I opened my eyes and selected the first colour. The brush caressed the paint before I lifted it to the canvas, and Tina and I became one.

  Chapter Thirty

  1972

  I pulled the collar of my denim jacket up against the cold as I stood leaning against the parapet. I was glad to be out in the fresh, crisp air after days of working long hours on the final painting. The shotgun-grey sky reflected my grief as I surveyed the garden below. The light falling snow was trying its best to cover the damage caused by the storm ten days ago. The skeletons of the old oak trees had suffered.

  All that remained were their splintered trunks which marked their place beside the river. Some of their shattered branches lay scattered across the lawn. The swirling, rushing of the black waters from the river when it broke its banks had swept the rest away. What broke my heart the most was to discover the shattered remains of the old statue laying among the broken gravestones. St Mary had finally toppled from her plinth.

  My latest creation rested on the easel. Its paint was still tacky, but I was pleased with the result. The last of ten was suspended above the inattentive city, floating crucified for all to see. Her head rested on her chest as she struggled to support the weight of her body. Nails held her hands outstretched. Her feet rested on a small block of wood as she bent her knees in an effort to lift her body up to free herself from the agony of her aching arms and damaged hands. Her face lined with anguish that radiated from her clenched mouth. Blood from her crown of thorns ran, along with tears, down her cheeks.

  The multi-coloured lights marked the beginning of the twelve days of Christmas shone from the rain-soaked streets below. While a frenzy of people hurried to complete their shopping before the big day oblivious to the crucifixion above their heads.

  The incessant ringing of the phone had disturbed my tranquillity, but I had not answered it during my marathon painting session. I had already dismissed Old Bill after receiving an unexpected visit from him.

  I found him wrapped against the cold in a mud-spattered army trench coat, wellington boots, a grey woollen hat pulled tight over his domed head, and with a scarf around his neck. He was pushing a wheelbarrow around the garden gathering up debris a day after the storm.

  “What are you doing here?” I confronted him as he came towards me.

  “Ah, Mr Ravencroft. T’was a bad storm last night.”

  “Please just go an
d enjoy your Christmas holiday, Bill.” I held my temper.

  “Thee can’t just leave it like this.” He gestured to the shattered branches, fallen trees, uprooted shrubs, and broken trellising.

  “Yes, you can. I’m asking you to. Please just go!”

  “Look, Mr Ravencroft. Ah sorry if ah’ve disturb thee. Ah can’ve the job done in no time at all, then Ah shall be gone.” He gathered up more broken branches and dropped them into the barrow.

  “No! I don’t need you anymore.” I snatched the wheelbarrow from his grasp. “Please go! And forget about coming back.”

  His jaw dropped as he gasped. He shook his head, unsure about what had just happened. Without another word, he turned on his heels and walked away. As I watched him go, shoulders hunched against the cold, I knew I had done the wrong thing. Lack of sleep and good food had taken its toll. For ten days, I had wanted nothing more than to finish the painting.

  Tina had amazed me with her endurance, but then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised. My fourth angel had been equally resilient. By the time I had completed the painting and lowered her to the floor, I thought she had left me, but to my astonishment, I found she had a pulse.

  I returned her to the cot bed and pushed it through to the antechamber. I made her as comfortable as possible. As I swept her hair away from her eyes, my fingertips brushed her skin. There was no warmth, just clammy to the touch. I pressed a moistened cloth to her cracked lips allowing some water to wet her mouth, but she showed no signs of being aware of me as her eyes remained shut.

  I turned her onto her side and covered her in a thick blanket though the room was warm. I placed a plastic beaker of water at her bedside within her reach, should she regain consciousness before I could check on her again.

  ***

  Once I had had a shower and had a bite to eat, I headed to mother’s studio to hunt among her rack of unused canvases, hoping to find a good-sized one to inspire me.

  After finding most of the canvases were either too small or slightly damaged, I pulled on the last one in the rack, but it would not budge. I grasped the canvas by its top and bent forward, looking down between the gaps to see what held it in place.

  Something brown and off-white held the canvas-frame in the rack. Using the handle of a paintbrush, I forced the brown object down as I pulled the canvas towards me. It sprung free. I reached in and plucked the crushed thing out. It was a tiny leather-bound notebook. The double-sided book had an address section on one side and a journal on the other. I flicked through the addresses, noting most were in America, though a few were galleries in London. I turned it over and read the notes. In the silence of her studio, mother’s voice echoed in my mind as I read the tiny, well-formed, neat writing. The date the journal began was only five months after my parents had married.

  October 1936, ‘I’m so excited. After receiving a telephone call late last night, today I’m travelling to London to meet Chuck. It has been such a long time since I last saw him, my darling American agent. To look into his blue, blue eyes again will feel like gazing into heaven and seeing only diamonds.’

  The name threw me for a moment. Then I realised, Basil once told me that Chuck Sparks was Mother’s American agent. He also implied that their relationship had been a brief business one when she had been exhibiting abroad

  I read the journal again, making sure I fully understood. According to Mother, their encounter in London had been much more than just talking about her next exhibition. I slumped against her desk allowing the details of both the letter, I had found earlier and the journal entry, to sink in.

  The phone rang. I reached for it without thinking, and said, “Hello?”

  “Oh, hello. Is that James Ravencroft?” asked an American voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “Hello, I’m Tom Quinn.”

  “Yes, what can I do for you, Mr Quinn?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll be willing to deal with me, rather than going through Hallward and Sparks Ltd.”

  “Sorry, who are you?”

  “Quinn, I’m a fine art dealer in New York. It’s a lot better when you miss out the middleman, do you not think, Mr Ravencroft?”

  “Sorry, were you at my exhibition the other day?”

  “No sir. I think we have crossed lines. You see, I’ve been led to believe you have a fine collection of Jane Elspeth Maedere for sale.”

  I slammed the phone down and tore it from the wall. After all, mother had suffered, and still Basil and her agent were out to make money from her. I pulled out ‘The Lost Moment’ painting, and for the first time, I understood what she had wanted.

  It wasn’t just about her art being rejected that pushed her over the precipice. All she had ever wanted was a simple family life, with her husband and child, but the pressure of fame had robbed her, stealing her love from me too.

  I yanked open the desk drawers and began to toss everything out. Then I crossed to the balcony and threw her sketchpads, drawings, and paintings over. They drifted down adding weight to the flurry of the falling snow. Once everything created by her was in the garden, I hurried downstairs.

  I dashed along the path to the back of Bill’s potting shed to fetch a wheelbarrow and a straw bale. I began to fill the wheelbarrow with mother’s artwork and carted it to the centre of the lawn where I had placed the bale. Using the bale as the heart of the bonfire, I added paper and the debris from the storm.

  As daylight faded and the temperature dropped, I slipped on father’s old trench coat.

  The rectory seemed to reflect what I was about to do. A blaze of burning lights in the house marked my desperation to hunt out every remaining piece of mother’s work. Even my studio lights shone into the night sky like a lighthouse guiding ships safely home.

  I took a match from its box and struck it. As it burst into life, I thought I saw a shadow move across mother’s balcony window. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the match onto the white-spirit soaked straw.

  Nothing happened.

  Then, with a whoosh the bonfire ignited. The flames grew steadily. Like hungry tongues they licked at the sheaves of papers until finally taking hold and reducing them to ash. As wisps of ash-filled smoke rose into the night sky mixing with the snow flurry, I added the paintings. At first I removed them from their frames, but as the heat grew, everything burnt more easily so I tossed on the lot. The racing flames heated the paint, making it bubble up and add fuel to the fire. As the paintings blistered and melted, I imagined hearing Basil’s outrage and disgust. “Your mother wouldn’t have wanted this!”

  How wrong was he! I was doing the right thing.

  November 1936. Agents are liars and cheats only interested in making money and a name for themselves. I wish I hadn’t made that trip to London to see Chuck. How could I have believed in him over Donald?

  My darling Donald is too kind, too gentle and far too trusting of me. I betrayed him, his love, and belief in me. All I’ve wanted, I’ve lost.

  Donald said ‘God can see within the hearts and souls of all men and know the truth, which resides there.’ This means Donald’s God knows what I have done. Donald says he forgives, but I cannot have a clear conscious, knowing that the God Donald loves so much, will always judge me.

  ***

  Too lost in what I was doing, I didn’t hear the faint sound of sirens. By the time I heard the sound of squealing tyres above the sounds of crackling wood and splintering glass, I thought some concerned neighbour a field over must have reported seeing a fire at the rectory.

  I tossed the last few paintings onto the hungry fire, satisfied that the fire brigade had a wasted journey.

  A shout echoed through the smoky haze as a figure came running towards me, arms flailing as their feet slipped on the icy grass. On catching their balance, they seemed to realise they could make better progress by moving slowly. Once the figure came within shouting distance, I recognised the voice.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Christ! No. Don’t!” Basil screamed a
nd rushed round to where I stood.

  He was too late.

  I released my grip on the last painting and stepped back. The canvas twisted and buckled under the white heat. ‘Eve was as perfect as the apple until her destruction,’ melted as the greedy flames incinerated her and her worm in seconds.

  “Jesus Christ, man! Why? Why the fuck? Why?” Basil sobbed as he scooped up a handful of snow and tossing it onto the flames. It hissed but the fire carried on burning.

  I strolled towards the house leaving Basil to his futile task. Halfway across the lawn, I halted. The garden seemed to erupt with running men. A man stood by the kitchen door yelling his orders.

  I recognised the voice. Not the fire brigade after all, but my good friends P.C. Plod and Co. The men divided into two groups. Four of them carrying torches headed in the direction of the outbuildings while the rest entered the house. As I entered the kitchen, I came face to face with Heythorp, and another bobby I had not seen before. Heythorp seemed just as surprised at seeing me as I did him.

  Dishevelled and unshaven, a muscle below Heythorp’s right eye twitched nervously. His mouth tightened before he spoke. “Where is she, Ravencroft?”

  “Ah, Heythorp. How lovely to see you,” I slipped off father’s coat and hung it in the coat cupboard. “You’ve certainly brought a party with you this time. But you’ve entered my house without consent.”

  “Forget about the niceties, Ravencroft.” Heythorp jabbed a finger in my direction. “This time we have a warrant, so we’re well within the law to search your house. But you’re within your rights to watch us and make certain everything is above board. Now answer my question. Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  Above our heads a door banged, followed by heavy footfalls on the stairs. I met Heythorp’s hard stare. “It sounds as though you’ve started without me.”

  “Where’s Tina Whiteoaks?” He demanded his voice even, but his face was taut with rage as his nostrils flared.