by Peter Helton
‘Father Christmas,’ I said, swinging my shopping bag.
‘Enter, friend.’ Hufnagel gave a courtly bow and ushered me into the kitchen. Nothing had changed in here.
I indicated the hammer in his hand. ‘Building a glider?’
‘Some weird shit is going on, Chris. Why am I surprised, eh? Try and lead a normal, quiet life and turn your back on the madness out there? It can … not … be … done,’ he said, tapping the kitchen table with his hammer for emphasis. ‘Some bastard broke into the house last night. While I was asleep. Through the sash window in the living room. They cut a hole into a pane, reached through and released the catch.’
‘Did they take anything?’
‘No. I disturbed them, I think, when I got up to go to the loo. I heard a little noise below and shouted down the stairs. Not sure it’s what you’re supposed to do but it seemed to work. I heard someone clamber out, then I heard a car drive off.’
‘Sash windows are always vulnerable unless you have proper window locks,’ I said wisely.
‘I nailed the bastards shut,’ he said, holding up the hammer. ‘All of them. No more Mr Nice Guy. Not sure they came to nick anything, though. They’d gone through the entire place; I could tell where they’d been from stuff they moved about, drawers opened, cupboards. I mean I don’t have much to pinch anyway, look around. But they must have been here a long time to go through every room. It really gave me the creeps when I realized. But that’s not the worst of it. The worst is what they did outside.’
‘What?’
‘They put petrol in my car.’
‘You what?’
‘I tried to start it this morning, thought it might just manage to cough to the garage up the road, and found the tank was a quarter full.’
‘Could it have been your model? The petrol?’
‘Sophie? No, impossible. Trust me,’ he said when he saw doubt in my eyes, ‘she doesn’t even drive.’
‘Perhaps they wanted to pinch the car,’ I said and unpacked the shopping.
‘Have you seen my car? Anyway, they came by car; I heard them drive off. You brought bin liners, what are you, my mother? Oh, coffee, good thinking.’ He whipped the packet away.
‘I only came to tell you the date’s been set for the exhibition, three weeks on Monday. And John’s ashes are being scattered on Saturday – thought you might want to come.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’ he said, spooning coffee into a pot. ‘Why didn’t you bring instant? Now I’ll have to find a strainer.’
‘You’ll come because you’re so grateful to have been invited to the show?’
‘Oh, all right, I’ll think about it.’
‘Have you thought about what kind of painting you’ll contribute?’
‘It’ll be a studio interior.’
‘With Sophie in it?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘How much does she charge an hour?’
‘Ah, she won’t sit for anyone else. Will you look at that? A tea strainer, we’re in business.’
‘That’s not what I asked. How much are you paying her?’
Hufnagel squirmed a bit. ‘We have an arrangement. Look,’ he said, pouring murky coffee into two freshly dusted cups, ‘thanks for bringing coffee and that but don’t interrogate me, OK?’
Annis was busy shooing two black-faced sheep out of the studio door and back into the meadow. We borrow them from Rick at Ridge Farm to keep the grass down. ‘They must be the only two curious sheep on the planet. Shoo!’ The sheep scooted side by side downhill for a few yards then trundled resentfully on. ‘Two break-ins? Nothing taken from either of them?’
‘Worse. Hufnagel was out of petrol when I first went to see him. The burglar put petrol in his tank.’
Annis’s eyes took on a ten-mile stare. ‘Now that is creepy. Why would anyone do that?’
‘Who knows? It’s probably a faulty petrol gauge and he only imagined he was out of petrol.’ Annis stood in the door, her ten-mile stare directed at the house and outbuildings below. ‘What?’ I asked.
‘I was thinking of how safe we might be from that kind of thing.’
‘People putting petrol in our cars? Very, I should think. You mean burglars? We’ve never had any problems …’ I saw Annis go cross-eyed. ‘Well, apart from that one time, but that was different, they weren’t regular burglars, it was the forgeries thing.’
‘Hon, if we had a burglary at the house or the studio we could hardly describe it as a break-in, could we? It would be more of a walk-in.’
I had to agree. We never locked doors or windows, the outbuildings were falling down and the studio had a latch on a nail, strictly to keep it from blowing open. ‘But what could they possibly steal here unless they bring a truck and take away the Rayburn and the fridge? We don’t even have a telly. We haven’t got any money, your jewellery is worth tuppence—’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘And the shotgun’s in the gunlocker under the stairs. They’d need a gas axe to get in there.’
‘There’s a lot of expensive oil paint.’
‘True. OK, we’ll stick the cobalt violet under the pillow, it’s thirty-five quid a tube now. They could have kitted themselves out for life at Landacker’s studio if they were after oil paints. I’ve never seen so much art material outside a shop.’
‘The Norton!’ said Annis, electrified. ‘They could have that away easily. We’ll take it inside.’ She jumped off her painting stool and marched down the hill towards the sheds.
I’m only telling you this so you’ll know why I have a sixty-year-old motorcycle standing in my sitting room.
Now that all exhibitors had been informed, the date set for the opening and for the scattering of John’s ashes, I could sit back and start worrying. What was I going to paint for the Batcombe show and what was I going to dress up as on Saturday? I spent the evening sitting in an armchair surrounded by drawings and sketchbooks, planning my new painting while the room filled with the unmistakable aroma of petrol and of engine oil dripping occasionally on to a newspaper under the Norton. It was no good. After an hour of deliberation I announced that I was going to do the brave thing: I would start from scratch with fresh drawings and work up at the school so the students could see how I worked.
‘Of course it’ll be quite a job to get all my paints, oils, solvents and varnishes up there. My glass palette, can’t work without that, and I’d want to use my own easel; I wouldn’t feel comfortable using someone else’s. But it’s got to be done,’ I said, trying to sound upbeat.
Annis wasn’t fooled. ‘It’s completely mental.’
‘I know.’
‘You’ll regret it.’
‘Probably,’ I agreed. ‘And now I have to decide what to go as on Saturday. Got any ideas?’
EIGHT
Saturday morning and I experimentally opened one eye. Then I remembered: no teaching on Saturdays. It was safe to open the other one. No sign of Annis, which meant her painting was going well and she had got up early to get going again. In the kitchen I found a note propped against the empty cafetière: ‘You have an appointment for urgent Aqua business at eleven at Pizza Hut. Client’s name is Susan Byers.’
This couldn’t be happening. Just when I had thought it was safe to get up. And to be told bad news before breakfast. Hang on … Pizza Hut? But I had nothing to wear!
I shoved the kettle on the stove and looked for fortification in the shape of a hearty breakfast. There was leftover pancake batter in the fridge. I slid a knob of butter into a pan and set it on the stove. Once the butter had melted I ladled batter into the pan, swirled it around, then went to find some smoked mackerel. I flaked an indecent amount of it on to my rapidly setting pancake then flipped it over and went to make the coffee. I even managed to get the pancake out of the pan and on to my plate without savaging it. A huge dollop of horseradish sauce would go well and help wake me up. Did people really eat shredded wheat?
I hurried up the meadow to the
studio carrying coffee and complaints. ‘I really didn’t need this now,’ I told Annis, waving the note accusingly. ‘I’m busy.’
‘She sounded really worried.’
‘They’re always worried.’
‘She came up specially from Southampton.’
‘Why didn’t you tell her we were too busy?’
‘If you keep refusing jobs you’ll get a reputation for being unavailable as well as expensive and you can’t afford that. Your teaching job is only temporary, you never asked them how much you’d be paid and you can’t yet know if your new style of painting will sell.’
‘You’ve given it some thought then,’ I grumbled, recognizing a superior argument. ‘But I can’t possibly meet her in Pizza Hut, I’m a food snob. What if I like it?’
She grabbed me by the shoulders and squeezed them. ‘Be brave.’
I don’t keep an office in town and never meet clients at home. Usually I arrange a meeting in the Pump Rooms of the Roman Baths; it’s quite civilized and gives my prospective clients the appropriate foreboding of the kind of fees I expect. Pizza Hut was mysteriously crowded; the main attraction appeared to be bread covered in tomato paste and melted cheese eaten mostly without the aid of cutlery. Annis must have described me well because as soon as I entered, a woman waved at me from a table at the back; so did her eighteen-month-old daughter. The table was heavily fortified with shopping bags plus a pushchair. After some sorting a space was found for me. ‘This is my daughter, Mel,’ said the woman. ‘Say hello to Mr Honeysett,’ she coaxed. ‘Go on. She can, you know, if she’s in the mood.’ I was meant to be impressed by this.
Everything about Susan Byers was pink, from her outfit to her daughter. This was of course an illusion. But there was enough pink to give this impression: her eye shadow, lipstick, earrings and V-neck top were pink. Her handbag, carry-all and daughter’s dress were pink. So were the girl’s shoes and her drink. The Byers females were pale and blonde and pretty.
‘So how can I help?’ I always like to say this in a reasonable, reassuring tone, while my more realistic inner voice screams, ‘What is it now?!’
Susan Byers took her time. When she spoke I realized that she was choosing her words carefully because of the child. ‘It’s my better half. I have a suspicion that he is playing away.’
‘Away being here? In Bath?’
‘Yes, we live in Southampton. Don’t we, Mel?’ The kid ignored her. ‘He works for Mantis, it’s a computer company. They have offices in Southampton, Manchester and Bath. He started off in Southampton but for the past year and a half he’s had to spend more and more time in Bath. Most of the project he’s working on is being developed here for the MOD. He goes up to Manchester too but mainly it’s Bath.’
‘Bath,’ repeated Mel.
‘The company is paying for him to stay here while this goes on. First they paid for a hotel room – it must have cost a fortune – now they have rented him a tiny studio flat. This latest stint was only meant to last for a few months at first but it’s been dragging on. He can’t really refuse; it’s a very competitive market and he’s lucky to have a job. He comes home whenever he can, some weekends, sometimes for a whole week or so while he does some work in Southampton. But at the moment he is mainly here.’ She took a long draught from her glass of fizzy orange, then tried for the third time to stop her daughter from smashing everything on the table to bits with her empty drink bottle.
I had already decided not to take the job. Sitting outside people’s houses trying to catch them commit adultery is the most tedious kind of investigation work, unappreciated by either party and utterly predictable. The little girl had taken to hammering her bottle against the side of the table instead. ‘You think there is someone else. What makes you think so?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t look at me like that.’
I quickly shifted my face into neutral from wherever it had been. ‘Like what?’
‘Like I’m a silly little woman and you’re bored out of your brains listening to me. Stop that, Mel.’ The girl halted in mid-swing, then gave it one more experimental bang against the side of the table. Susan confiscated the bottle. The girl burbled something which her mother no doubt believed were words.
I decided I’d have to work on my professional facial expressions. ‘Did anything concrete happen to make you think he’s playing away?’
‘It’s just a feeling.’
‘Describe it to me.’
Susan tilted her head in thought, looking past me. Her daughter meanwhile had laid her head on the table and was murmuring to it, obviously gone insane from boredom. ‘He’s changing,’ Susan said. ‘Things are different. It … I don’t know. It smells different.’
I perked up. ‘Smells different how?’
‘Not literally. It’s an atmosphere I’m trying to describe. And he, he … does things differently. If you know what I mean.’
I said I thought I probably did, having enough experience in it myself. ‘How different?’
‘You know …’ She semaphored with her eyebrows and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
‘I don’t mean different how but different to what degree.’
‘Enough.’
‘For …?’
‘For it to make me think he’s also doing it with someone else.’
‘He’s a man alone, away from home. Could he be watching … stuff?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ She turned her empty glass around and around while she mulled it over. ‘No, I think it’s a woman.’ Mel made a gurgling sound. Her mother said: ‘No, darling, we’re going in a minute.’
‘Does your husband know you’re in Bath?’
‘Oh yes, we saw Dad earlier. Didn’t we, Mel?’
I wasn’t sure what kind of answer she expected from her daughter and Mel wisely ignored her. ‘Is this unusual?’ I asked. ‘Did you try and surprise him?’
‘We don’t come up often, but no. No, he knew we were coming but something went wrong at work and he had to go in even though he had taken the day off. They’re working through the weekend; there’s a deadline. It’s often like that.’
‘You went to his studio flat?’ She nodded. ‘Describe it for me,’ I said.
‘Well, it’s in Circus Mews, so it’s very central. It’s also very small. In Southampton we’d call it a bedsit. It’s got some of his stuff in it but it’s temporary so it’s quite impersonal, even after all this time. You know what men are like.’
‘I think I do. So no sign of the feminine touch. You didn’t find anything unusual there?’
She shook her head. The little girl slithered off her chair and began to whine so Susan picked her up and promised her they were leaving.
I decided to start wriggling myself. I began by warning her about my fees, which can be quite unreasonable if I feel like it, when she cut me off. ‘I need to know. I’m … having another one.’ She hugged her daughter to herself. ‘But certainly not if …’
‘Ah. You haven’t shared the good news yet?’
She shook her head. ‘And he might never find out.’ Her face hardened and she became quite businesslike. ‘I thought it would be cheaper to hire someone local rather than go to an agency back home.’
‘That’s almost certainly right. Still. Let me ask you a question. Have you considered asking him?’
‘I did. A couple of months ago. He denied it. He said I was being stupid. He was quite offended.’
‘You didn’t believe him?’
‘I did at first. But then he seemed too relieved. And he was too nice to me after that. Too attentive. I think he felt guilty. And so the feeling came back.’ Susan seemed to sense that I was less than keen to take up her cause. She stroked her daughter’s head. Mel craned her neck to look up at her mother. Susan knitted her brow and continued looking at me. Mel followed her gaze and also looked at me. Together they gave me some kind of ju-ju stare that made me say: ‘Fine, great, I’ll just need some details off you then.’ I scribbled them do
wn and hurried out of there. Pizza Hut and ju-ju was more than I could handle. I drove home quickly. I had an important appointment with some curling tongs.
‘Bloody Béla Bartók. My father tortured us with it when we were children, now he is dead and he’s still doing it.’ Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra was booming across the grass from the direction of Fiddler’s Pond where a sound system had been rigged up by running electric cable all the way from the nearest sculpture shed. Anne Birtwhistle was staring out from the French window of Studio One at the students that were sitting, walking, talking and, of course, drinking around the reed- and weed-fringed edge of the pond. She was dressed in her usual business suit in Prussian blue and a top in shimmering Payne’s grey. Knowing that she had to walk to the edge of the pond later, she had exchanged her heels for dark court shoes. Her only concession to the dressing-up rule which, according to Kroog, she was unable to dodge if she wanted to inherit her share, was a Dali moustache drawn on with black eyebrow pencil. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I feel like a complete idiot looking like this.’ The oblong container holding her father’s ashes stood plain and sombre on the floor by her feet.
Studio One had been cleared of easels to be available for exhibitors who wanted to work at Batcombe House for the benefit of the students. Whether the students agreed that one long-haired tutor’s ten brushstrokes a day was enough benefit to make up for having to find other places to paint in remained doubtful in my mind. So far I was the only exhibitor to paint in here, which made me feel quite guilty and put even more pressure on me: it had better be good. I checked my watch: it was eight o’clock, the sun had only just set. ‘The scattering isn’t for an hour yet. Why don’t you go out there and have a couple of drinks? It’ll make it a lot easier.’
‘You’re trying to get rid of me, I know.’ Anne had come into the studio unaware that I was still standing in it, still frowning at the beginnings of my painting while the celebrations had already begun.
‘Well, I’m going out there to have a drink or two in John’s honour,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Come out with me. You can leave your father’s ashes here and pick them up later when it’s time.’