The Sisters Mortland

by Sally Beauman

  Sending all my love to my dear son. Let me know if your going to be able to get down here but dont fret as I know how busy they keep you. Best be off to bed now I will post this in the morning.

  Your ever loving Dad

  May 30, 1990. Letter from Jonathan Aske, the Royal Academy, London, to Daniel Nunn, Highbury Fields, London N5.

  Dear Daniel,

  A parcel was delivered to me yesterday, and—to my utter surprise—I found it contained Lucas’s 1967 triptych drawing of you at Trinity. There was no covering letter—perhaps you misplaced it—but I assume it came from you. May I also assume that means we have your permission to hang it in the retrospective? It would be marvellous if that were so, but I do need formal written consent. I know you hate red tape, so to make things easier, I’m enclosing the necessary forms. I’ll need you to return them as soon as possible. The exhibition is still some months away, but we have to work so far in advance—the penalties of bureaucracy, alas!

  I do hope you’ll give your permission: it’s one of Lucas’s best early drawings and an intriguing companion piece to the Mortland sisters’ works. It’s fascinating to see how he’s captured different aspects of your personality, and, of course, he is a consummate draughtsman. For me, it brought back 1960s Cambridge with a startling immediacy. What a handsome firebrand you were—the iconoclast of the ADC and the Film Society! Those anti–Vietnam War demonstrations you organized—what a heady time that was!

  But 1967 was also a tragic year for you, as I appreciate. Without wishing in any way to pry, it would help to know more about the circumstances at the Abbey that summer—I think I mentioned this when I first wrote. I’m now finalizing my biographical and critical introduction for the exhibition catalogue, and I’m only too aware of the gaps. Lucas has never given interviews, or discussed his work, as you’ll know. His past is a closed book—and of course I fully respect that. He has not barred me from further investigation and interviews, however, and I have managed to obtain a good deal of new, and, I feel, illuminating information relating to the post-1970 period. Two of his exwives—somewhat to my surprise—gave me invaluable help regarding their portraits.

  But when it comes to background information relating to The Sisters Mortland, I continue to draw a blank. This is deeply frustrating. The painting is of key importance: it was Lucas’s breakthrough work and has exercised an extraordinary hold on people’s imaginations ever since first exhibited. As you may know, it’s been the subject of intense academic scrutiny. It has been interpreted in many different ways—none of which, I believe, explains the painting’s peculiar power or its unsettling effect. It has also attracted speculation of the most vulgar sort. Given the circumstances, gossipy speculation was perhaps inevitable. Needless to say, I will not be pandering to such curiosity and will ignore such trivia in anything I write.

  I have approached the other people who were living or staying at the Abbey that summer (with Lucas’s knowledge, I must stress). The grandfather is no longer with us—a pity, as he sounds a delightful old buffer, if not the sharpest of intellects. Stella Mortland would have liked to assist me but feels the events are too painful to discuss. I did meet her briefly and found her difficult to pin down, a strange, nebulous, haunted person—she has suffered a blow from which she will never recover, I suspect. It was somewhat irritating to drive all the way to Cornwall (she’s now living with some painter near St Ives) to be gently rebuffed. She could have made the situation clear on the telephone, and I certainly feel she might have spared me her inamorata’s truly hideous daubs, but never mind that. She seemed touchingly anxious to display them and I fear thought I might be able “to do something for him.” As you may imagine, I fled.

  I’ve also approached Nicholas Marlow. As a doctor, his professional take on that summer’s events would have been invaluable to me. He feels the episode is best left closed, however, and unfortunately, due to his pressure of work, I’ve been unable to see him. Julia Mortland (what a force de nature that woman is!) has been of help, though I’m not entirely sure how reliable Julia is. Her sister—well, let’s just say her sister has not been cooperative.

  That leaves you. You were in a unique position. You’d known all three sisters since childhood. You were close to Lucas. At the Abbey, you were both an insider and an outsider, involved, yet able to be objective. So I have always felt that your recollections would be of greater assistance than anyone else’s. If we could discuss this—perhaps you would let me take you to lunch or dinner?—I know it would be of help. And you could rest assured that I would disclose nothing of a sensitive nature. I’d be guided by you as to what information should be revealed—or concealed. My one concern is to provide a background that may illuminate these extraordinary drawings and The Sisters Mortland—which I believe to be one of Lucas’s greatest paintings, a seminal work.

  I have no wish to resurrect the arguments as to whether the fall was accidental or suicidal. I certainly do not wish to raise the spectre of love affairs. There’s been quite enough speculation of that sort. Obviously, in view of what transpired, people have an unholy fascination with the relationship between Lucas and the sisters: to which I say—It is none of your business. (Though I must confess, I can’t help being intrigued—they are extraordinary creatures, are they not?)

  No, what I need are your impressions—of the Abbey, of Lucas’s working practices, of the Mortland family, and so on. If you could give me an insight into what I like to call the “interpersonal dynamics,” it would be hugely valuable. Finally, a clearer sense of the chronology of that summer’s events would help. As I understand it, Lucas began on the drawings of the sisters and the portrait in mid-June, when you first arrived with him at the Abbey. He completed the drawings in July and then left on the 21st to spend a few days in Cambridge. On his return, he concentrated entirely on the portrait. He finished it at the beginning of August and showed it to the family, one week before the tragedy.

  That timing has given ammunition to critics of the feminist persuasion: frankly, these women are pests. There have been accusations that the portrait acted as a catalyst, provoking the sad events of that summer—these allegations emanating, needless to say, from the wilder fringes of the sisterhood. I have no patience with such foolish, irresponsible arguments. In my view, phrases such as the “male gaze” are so much cant. Nevertheless, this exhibition may revive such controversy, so I’d welcome the opportunity to refute such suggestions once and for all. A clearer understanding of the sequence of events that summer would help me do that.

  Lucas, when pressed as to exact dates, is evasive—as is his wont. So any confirmation or elucidation you might provide would be invaluable. I wonder, did you by any chance keep a diary? Did anyone keep a diary, that you know of?

  Forgive all these questions. I’ll take up no more of your time. But the arrival of Lucas’s drawing of you has excited me and made me more determined than ever to pursue answers to these puzzles.

  Do get in touch. It’s now ten months since I last heard from you, and it’s proving singularly difficult to track you down. I trust you are well,

  Kind regards,

  Jonathan

  December 3, 1990. Letter from Nicholas Marlow, Duncan Terrace, London N1, to Daniel Nunn, 29, the Street, Wykenfield, Suffolk.

  Dear Dan,

  I’ve just heard the news of your father’s death—it was a great shock and it’s left me deeply saddened. He was the kindest, gentlest of men, a pillar of my childhood—I always felt the deepest respect and affection for him. I didn’t even know he was ill. I heard from him last Christmas—we always sent cards—and I went to see him the last time I was in Suffolk, but that was years ago. I find it hard to go back there—too many memories. Now I wish I had. He was so proud of you, Dan, such a link with our past, such a fine, good man. I can’t imagine Wykenfield without him.

  This is how I heard: my parents sold the Old Rectory when my father retired, do you remember? They’re still living in that house they bought
in Ireland, but my mother stays in touch with some of the old friends in Wykenfield (many of whom have died or left—I hear the village is greatly changed). She heard of your father’s death from Angus McIver’s widow, Flora, and called me at once. She said you’d been in Wykenfield since last May and that for the past six months you’ve been caring for your father.

  Dan, I wish you had let me know—why didn’t you? Lucas and I, all your friends in London, have been concerned for a year now. One minute you were in Tokyo, the next you just disappeared off the face of the earth. Now I find that you weren’t abroad, as everyone believed: you were in Wykenfield—the last place I’d have expected.

  I know how hard these last months must have been. Flora McIver said it was cancer, apparently—I know no more than that. Why didn’t you contact me, Dan? You know that’s my field—even if the disease had gone beyond treatment, I could have helped—and I would have done, at once, surely you can’t have doubted that? I would have wanted to be at the funeral, too. I regret not being there more than I can say—and so does Finn. She happened to call today, so I told her. I thought she’d know—I was sure you’d have contacted her, but I suppose she is difficult to reach, always travelling. She was very upset and sends her love. Like me, she was devoted to Joe and hates to think of you going through all this alone and unaided.

  Dan, something is very wrong, isn’t it? And has been for some time—from before the onset of your father’s illness? I hear various rumours—Julia brings them back from the TV studios. People say there’s been some kind of putsch at the agency. People say you’ve been ill or had some kind of breakdown. They talk a lot of nonsense—and I ignore it. You are my oldest and closest friend. I want you to tell me what’s happened, and tell me how I can help, if help is needed.

  Lucas claims the trouble began when the issue of this damned retrospective came up. He thinks it brought back memories of that summer at the Abbey, he thinks you still blame yourself for what happened to Maisie. I don’t know how you can possibly feel that. You weren’t to blame in any way: none of us was—except that we were blind to distress.

  Well, I don’t intend to be blind to it a second time. You have three days to answer this letter. If you don’t reply, I shall come to Wykenfield in search of you.

  One final thought—I must catch the post. The last time I saw you, you were taking pills to wake you up and pills to make you sleep. I warned you about them then. If you’re still using them—get rid of them. And anything else you may be supplementing them with.

  If you can’t do it, I’ll help you.

  Nick

  December 5, 1990. Letter from Daniel Nunn, 29, the Street, Wykenfield, to Nicholas Marlow, London N1.

  That was a good letter, Nick, and I shall cherish it. I used to despise that word “cherish”—sounds like a brand of fabric conditioner, yes? But I’ve been discovering what it means in recent months. Now I cherish everything—and it’s too fucking late. I used to ring my father up every Sunday night, from wherever I was in the world. I’d ask him how he was, and he’d always say: “Can’t complain.” He never did complain, not about anything, not about losing my mother, or looking after Bella for five years of Alzheimer’s, or working day and night for a pittance, or living all his life in a shitty dump of a tied cottage he didn’t even own after paying rent on it for fifty years. He didn’t complain about a son who was ashamed of him and couldn’t wait to get the hell out. And he didn’t complain about dying.

  He just got on with it. That really breaks me up. Everything breaks me up. I can’t stop crying at peculiar moments. I didn’t shed a tear at the funeral, but wept over cornflake packets in a Deepden supermarket next day—why is that? It’s difficult to analyse, but I’m weeping for Joe. I’m weeping for my mistakes. And—yes, you’re right—I’m mourning Maisie as well. I don’t even know why—it’s just one long fucking awful retrospective. All futile, I know—but I’m not good company at present, so I’m going to ask you not to come and see me just yet.

  I need to be alone for a while. Please allow me that. The McIvers—Flora and her eldest son, Hector, you’ll remember him—were very good to Dad, and they’ve been extraordinarily kind to me. They say I don’t need to sort the place out yet, and I can stay on here for a bit if I choose. At the moment, I can’t face going through all Dad’s stuff and all Bella’s stuff. I tried and tried to get him to move—I wanted to buy a cottage in the village for him, and one came up for sale a couple of years ago—but he wouldn’t hear of it. So nothing’s altered here, everything is still as you’ll remember it: the pictures of Ocean, the Tarot cards, Joe’s ploughing certificates—there are still nine crystal balls in the kitchen cupboards. I look at them, and I don’t know whether to laugh or weep. Much good so-called clairvoyance ever did me: I’ve been fucking blind for most of my life. And it’s hard being here with all this stuff: it’s just bits and bobs, bric-a-brac, without meaning or value—except to me, of course.

  So I may stay here and tackle it, or come back to London for a while and then return to sort things out—I haven’t decided. Meanwhile, as per your instructions, I’ve chucked all the mother’s little helpers. I give you my word—I’ve just done it, tipped the whole lot down the sink—and it wasn’t hard, not really, because I’d been weaning myself off them for months.

  I’ll come to see you soon. I’ll get in touch. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you before, but there was nothing you could have done. There was nothing anyone could do—it was too far advanced. It was mainly a question of pain management—you’ll be familiar with that term, but I was not.

  It would be good to see you, Nick. And good to talk the way we once did. I’d like to talk about Dad—I’d like to talk about Maisie, how it happened, why she did what she did. I’d like to talk about the summer it all went wrong. I feel there’s a truth there somewhere, something we’ve all missed. And you might help me find it, perhaps.

  Do you remember the day we made ourselves blood brothers? I was about six, and you must have been eight or nine, and we’d been fishing in the lake at the Abbey. You were after perch—there were plenty of perch. I was hoping to catch a shark. Plus ça change… I sometimes think.

  Give Finn my love if she calls again, will you? Greetings to your family, to Fanny, who must be quite grown up now, and to little Tom—does he still remember me? I often think of them, and you.

  Blood-brotherly love to you, Nick, and true gratitude,

  Dan

  part v

  The Hanged Man

  This week Hotline puts top creative Dan Nunn in the hot seat. He’s just off Concorde & could do with a shave, but that’s life in the ad-world fast track.

  HL: So what’s the secret of sublime copywriting, Dan?

  DN: Brevity. 10 words max. Oh, & artwork that features tits.

  HL: Hey, no satire! How d’you connect with your target audience?

  DN: Think biblical. Invoke lust, gluttony, envy, or fear. Always works.

  HL: Heav-y! What gives you the biggest satisfaction in your work?

  DN: You can’t qualify satisfaction. Either you’re satisfied—or not.

  HL: Tch, tch, pedantic—lighten up! What’s the bottom line, Dan?

  DN: Capitalism. However clever the ad, if you don’t increase sales, forget it.

  HL: Classic. Future plans?

  DN: Sleep. I haven’t slept in four days. So yeah, some sleep would be good.

  —Hotline, “Media Today,” Metro Radio, May 1988

  News in that creative supremo and sixties trailblazer Dan Nunn has parted company with Nunn Loewe Ridley Fletcher Wally, the agency he set up in 1986. Rumours of boardroom spats have been circulating for months. Nunn, winner of a record number of D&AD awards, is the stellar creative behind such industry highpoints as the Nicey-Spicey TV campaign that boosted sales 250 percent in six months and swung the massive GFT £80m integrated account. He penned the notorious “That Way/This Way” ads and the lacerating “Handful of Dust” TV/Cinema/Poster onslaught that won hi
m the D&AD President’s Award in 1988. No comment from Nunn, said to be in Tokyo finalizing the £10.5m TAA campaign. “This parting is amicable,” claims anon. at Loewe Ridley Fletcher Wally. Watch this space!

  —Campaign, “Inside Track,” May 1, 1990

  DEATHS:

  On 19th November 1990, JOSEPH JOHN NUNN, of Wykenfield, Suffolk. At home, after a long illness stoically borne. Funeral: St Etheldreda’s, Wykenfield, 23rd November at 11 a.m. Flowers care of Messrs Paternoster & Gladhall, Undertakers, 5, the Street, Deepden. Donations to Cancer Research.

  —West Suffolk Clarion, November 20, 1990

  [ ten ]

  Trinity Daniel

  It’s Friday—or Frightday, as Julia used to say. What’s worse, it’s Frightday the 13th.

  Gran could have told me, and would have told me, that on such days of ill omen it’s wiser to stay at home. But I’m back in London, and I, Daniel Nunn, have turned over, yes, a new leaf, I’m keeping a record of my days, and so far this week, it reads:

  monday : Nothing happened.

  tuesday : Don’t think anything happened: spent most of it asleep.

  wednesday : Galvanic activity. Phoned fifteen people.

  thursday : Fourteen people didn’t call back. The bank did.

  I feel I can improve on this. So, with a little chemical assistance (apologies, Nick, but I regressed, so I didn’t tip all those mother’s little helpers down the sink), out I ventured. And where did I come, this Frightday? I came to the worst possible place. To a corner office on the twenty-fifth floor of a glinting glass building. It’s the office of a man I detest, as I’ve just remembered—and it’s too late to escape. This office has a biblical view; it gives you dominion over London. I can see spires, domes, congestion, and a curious haze. The haze may be something to do with the vision problems I’ve been experiencing lately or the chemical assistance; on the whole, I blame traffic fumes.