The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

He felt a certain smugness knowing how he could con Jacques and his circle into believing that this idealized beauty in bronze was the spitting image of the woman herself. But they would be incapable of recognizing her in Abandon, or Eden, or Hunger, and all the related works that were already in embryo, propagating as rampantly as cells, in the mind of the sculptor.

  They would not recognize her. But Julius would see her, possess her again, from this day forth whenever he carved a breast, modelled a pair of lips, shaped a waist, defined a buttock, the run of a stomach, the intimacy of an ear lobe. It would be her. Unmistakably. No one else would know, though. For they would be too caught up in surface details. They did not know her inside out.

  This distortion, though slight, was enough to condition all those who saw the sculpture to reappraise the way they regarded and recalled Cosima. Her own face swiftly became that of the sculpted version to all who knew her. Thus, when Julius created his masterpiece, Abandon, no one recognized the female figure as Cosima though he had commanded all his power and dexterity as a sculptor to best describe the woman who had both liberated and destroyed him.

  For the rest of his life, alongside pot-boiling portrait busts and garden sculpture, Julius Fetherstone devoted maquette after maquette and volumes of sketch-pads to the theme of Cosima and Abandon. He cast four versions in bronze. There is one in New York, at the Museum of Modern Art, another in Paris at the Musée d’Orsay. A late version was bought by Getty and is on loan to the Art Institute of Chicago. The remaining bronze is at the Neue Pinakotek in Munich.

  Julius Fetherstone’s masterpiece, his magnum opus, the marble version of Abandon, exists now only in photographs. It has disappeared. Presumed stolen. It was at the artist’s studio around the time of his death in 1954 because it can be seen in the background of photographs chronicling the artist’s last weeks, bedridden in his studio surrounded by his work. There is scant documentation about Abandon, only Julius declaring to the great art historian Herbert Read that ‘within the rock, all my desires as a man and a sculptor were contained and released’.

  Of what value are grainy, monochrome, two-dimensional records of something that was conceived and created to be experienced in the round?

  A tease. Torture. A tragedy.

  NINE

  Love is essentially copulation, the rest is only detail, doubtless charming, but detail nevertheless.

  Auguste Rodin

  ‘Blimey mate,’ said the cloakroom attendant at the Tate gallery when James handed him the rucksack containing the Fetherstones, ‘what you got in there? Bleeding crown jewels?’

  ‘You never know,’ said James who then wished he hadn’t because the attendant promptly opened his bag for a suspicious look inside.

  The attendant smirked and raised his eyebrows at Adam and Eve enclasped in ecstasy. ‘Is that art, then?’ he asked James.

  ‘God no,’ said James, ‘pornography.’

  Matt and Otter both knew why Fen had refused sandwiches with them. They knew exactly what her prior arrangement was. And, though they knew that she obviously wanted to keep her lunch-time lecture secret, they couldn’t resist going.

  ‘We’ll keep out of sight,’ Otter reasoned.

  ‘We’ll be silently supporting her,’ Matt justified.

  ‘We’ll be fleshing out the audience,’ Otter continued.

  ‘We’ll sit at the back and sneak out before the lights come up,’ Matt concluded.

  Only Fen’s lecture was of course conducted not in an auditorium but in the sculpture hall, so Matt and Otter found pillars to hide behind.

  ‘My God!’ Otter exclaimed. Matt, though, was speechless.

  There was Fen, sitting on the lap of a large stone man whilst a stone woman pressed her back against his, her head thrown back, one arm extended down with her hand firm over her pubis, the other arm stretching above, her fingers enmeshed in the male’s hair. Fen sat very still, having positioned herself so that the male form seemed to be nuzzling her neck, his right hand masked from view by her body but apparently cupping his cock. Or wielding it. Or touching Fen’s bottom. Or delving right in. The sight was quite something. Quite the saucy threesome. Matt’s jaw dropped. Otter giggled involuntarily. James felt his trip to London was already proving well worthwhile though he had yet to visit Calthrop’s. Judith St John arrived late. She coughed when Fen was about to speak. Fen swiftly told herself that perhaps Judith simply had the beginnings of a cold. Judith St John had no interest in Julius Fetherstone, whom she considered a second-rate Rodin. But she was interested to hear just what this Fen McCabe had to say. Bloody double distinction from the Courtauld Institute. She herself might only have one distinction but she’d graduated five years prior to Fen McCabe. Hardly second-rate. Standards had been much higher then. And the true distinction was that she was deputy director of Trust Art. And look at Matt Holden, all mesmerized. Oh for God’s sake.

  ‘Julius Fetherstone,’ Fen started, assessing that Judith’s cough had subsided and that the audience of around twenty was all above the age of consent, before stretching her arm above her, stroking the male’s cheek before placing her hand over that of the female, ‘was obsessed with sex.’

  Fen slid from the lap of the sculpture and, with her hand on the male’s hand which, it transpired, was indeed lolling over his cock, she ran her fingertips up his arm while she continued. ‘Fetherstone seemed to delight in the paradox of capturing in stone, or bronze, and in a frozen moment, all the heat, the moisture, the movement and, most of all, the internal sensation of the sex act.’ She brushed the cheek of the man with the back of her hand and then rested her head gently on his shoulder, draping her arm down over his chest. The women in the audience wanted to be where Fen was, wanting to touch and clasp and grapple with the awesome sculpture. Many of the men in the audience, however, just wanted to touch Fen. Apart from Otter who was transfixed by the male sculpture. And by a rather athletic-looking tourist a few yards away.

  ‘This work is called Hunger,’ Fen said, standing back from it though it meant her all but pressing herself against two young women listening. She gazed at the stone and then faced her audience. She made eye contact with all of them, with Otter and Matt and James and Judith. But she did not glance away, or give a blink of discomfort or recognition. Fen McCabe, art historian, was rather different from Fen McCabe, archivist. Or was this merely the spell of Fetherstone’s works? ‘It’s called Hunger,’ she repeated, standing much closer to her audience than to the sculpture, ‘but the couple themselves seem quite sated, don’t you think?’ The audience bar James was staring at the sculpture. ‘Don’t you think?’ It was a question. James wanted to answer but could not establish eye contact and didn’t really want to raise his hand. Anyway, the lecturer was staring directly, almost at point-blank range, at the two young women near to her. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Definitely,’ one whispered. The other could only nod. They were both flushed. Not from humiliation or embarrassment. But from the effect the mass of copulatory stone had on them.

  ‘Fetherstone worked on the theme of sexual abandon from 1889. His great treatise – titled Abandon – now exists in four supreme bronzes. Though the whereabouts of the marble Abandon – staggering even in the few photos we have of it – remains a mystery. Just look at them,’ Fen implored, turning back to the sculpture, ‘just look at them.’ She gave her audience a tantalizing few seconds of silence. ‘Now, this portrait bust of Jacques Lemond,’ she said, moving to a plinth nearby, ‘is not just conventional in conception, it was staid and boring even for the time in which it was executed.’ Fen McCabe had cast the spell and then broken it. The audience had to follow her dutifully to another work, a rather uninspiring, if well executed, head and shoulders. But Fen was manipulating her audience. Her talk ended ten minutes later, having utilized a cross-reference with Maillol and a look at the two oil sketches by Fetherstone (which James was most pleased to deduce were inferior to his in execution and subject matter). She’d answered the obligatory questions
(having anticipated, by the look of her audience, what they were to be) and then she’d left the gallery. Briskly. Perhaps to have a sandwich or something. Buy an Evening Standard. Cosmo, maybe. She knew well what would be going on in the sculpture hall. Most of the audience would remain. She’d observed their reaction to her lecture, to Hunger, to sculpture, on several occasions. They’d potter about half glancing at other works. Some would linger at Rodin’s The Kiss. But all would gravitate back to Hunger, however long it took. To circumnavigate. For a deeper look. To feed their hunger.

  Judith had left noisily midway through the Q&A. Matt left the gallery unseen, leaving Otter to chat up the athletic young tourist. Matt’s semi hard-on disconcerted him.

  It’s not just the look of her. Not the sculptures, for Christ’s sake. I think it’s that she’s so damned passionate. I don’t know!

  James took a taxi to New Bond Street. There was a stirring in his trousers too. But he rationalized that he was turned on by the thought of the money his own Fetherstones might generate. Or by art, of course. Not by F. McCabe. No no no. He peered into his rucksack. Adam and Eve were still at it. Again. Leave them to it. Recall the content of the lecture so he was well armed to rebuff any bluff from the auctioneers. What did she say? That F. McCabe? She called him Julius. What does F stand for? Fiona? Frederika? Frederika probably. Freddie to her friends. Something like that. What had she spoken of? James couldn’t remember. He chastised his age as the culprit. But how come he could remember everything about her? Down to her having just the one dimple when she smiled which increased to two when she laughed.

  Whilst James sat on a rather hard but aesthetically fine mahogany bench outside the Nineteenth Century European department, he wondered if the higher up you were at Calthrop’s was directly proportionate to the number of hyphens in your surname. And whether the number of hyphens to the surname might equate with the number of noughts such an expert might achieve on the sale of works. And how long they were entitled to keep a visitor waiting. Ten minutes and counting. He concentrated hard on two seascapes and thought how he’d really much rather have the Fetherstone oil sketches on his wall than those. Why was he selling them then? Money? Yes. But not because he was greedy. Because he needed to.

  ‘Mr Caulfield? Margot Fitzpatrick-Montague-Laine – good afternoon,’ an immaculate woman with a warm smile and affably outstretched hand, who looked too ordinary to have hyphens in her name and too young to hold a job of such stature, greeted James and ushered him through to her office, her eyes wide and expectant at the sight of his rucksack. ‘I think it most honest that my colleagues in Nineteenth Century British passed you to me,’ she said. ‘I mean, Fetherstone was British by birth – but he is so quintessentially European.’ She looked at James earnestly. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Quintessentially,’ James responded, stressing a different part of the word to imply it was a conclusion he had himself made already, whilst racking his brains to recall anything F. McCabe had said along those lines in her lecture. He couldn’t remember if she had. She’d talked about moisture. And sex. And carnal delirium. And this Nineteenth Century European woman was very attractive and she was talking money and was thus all the more attractive because of it. And because she could enunciate words like ‘quintessentially’ in a most sonorous way.

  ‘So,’ she was saying with an eyebrow raised almost coquettishly, ‘what do you have for me?’

  ‘Adam and Eve having a fuck,’ said James without thinking, because he was thinking how much he’d like to have a fuck. With F. McCabe. Or Margot F-M-L. Whoever. It had been a while. He wondered whether to apologize. Or to bite his lip. Or make light of it. Or just ignore it. But seeing her eyes light up, he decided that to show her Adam and Eve having a fuck was a good start.

  ‘1892,’ he said, by way of introduction to the sculpture. He gave her a few moments to feast her gaze upon it and then brought out the sketch of Eve. ‘1894,’ he said, watching Ms F-M-L hone in on the painting. Then he brought out Adam. ‘1895,’ he said, titillated by seeing how excited Miss Margot was. He didn’t really care whether this was over their monetary or aesthetic value, or a mixture of both. She looked hungry. And it turned him on. ‘What am I bid?’ he jested. She stared at him.

  ‘We offer the paintings as a pair,’ she suggested in a most conspiratorial voice, as if hatching an illicit plan, leaning close to him with an almost clichéd amount of cleavage on view. ‘It would be a travesty to split them. We put the reserve at around thirty thousand.’ James worked hard not to gulp because he felt she was scrutinizing him to see if he would. Or to see whether he’d noticed her bust. He had. He didn’t gulp. He nodded sagely. ‘The bronze,’ she said, musing, ‘forty thousand is realistic.’ James was sure to tip his head to one side and look out of the window as if considering whether this was the most financially viable route for him to take. ‘I propose we offer them in the July sale. It’s a biggie. Lots of Americans. Fetherstone is growing in popularity over the pond.’

  ‘Would you care to have lunch with me?’ James asked.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Ms M. F-M-L said, licking her lips.

  She chose two starters. Asparagus. Predictably. And oysters. Ditto. James tried to tuck into a Caesar salad but anticipated it would all be gone in two mouthfuls. Actually, it was five. He was still hungry. Watching Margot do what she was doing to the asparagus, he didn’t know what he longed for more – her or one of Mrs Brakespeare’s substantial platters of ham and eggs.

  ‘Will you let me have them?’ she asked, leaning across the table and exhibiting her cleavage again to great effect.

  ‘No,’ said James.

  ‘Or, let me just keep them in the department for a while?’ she compromised, her pupils as dark as the espresso in front of her.

  ‘No,’ said James.

  ‘Oh go on,’ she purred, ‘just come back to my office – I’m sure I can persuade you somehow.’

  ‘Roger!’ she calls across the vestibule to a man who comes over. ‘This is James Caulfield. He’s brought in three delightful Fetherstones. They’re in my office. Do come and have a look.’ This offer she extends to two other men they encounter on the way back to her office. James watches her bottom, clad in a tight skirt, swaying seductively as she takes the stairs. He has to thrust his hand deep into his trouser pocket in a bid to conceal his erection. She opens the door to her office and a shaft of light streams in, soaking Adam and Eve who are still having sex. Right there, on her desk.

  ‘Let me see now,’ she says, ‘how am I going to persuade you to part with them?’ Closing the door with her back, all of a sudden she pulls James towards her and gorges herself on his mouth. She doesn’t sip him down as she did the oysters. She doesn’t tongue him tantalizingly like she did the asparagus. She doesn’t linger over him and take her time. She gobbles him, sucks him, chews and gulps at him. Her hands grab and squeeze and pull at him. Her body is bucking and writhing against his. His face is wet from her mouth. His lips are being bitten both accidentally and on purpose. His hair is being pulled, his shirt tugged, his belt yanked. He isn’t kissing her back – her mouth is in the way. And it’s all so sudden, he hasn’t had the chance to think about it, to object, to stop himself, to participate.

  Oh my God! She’s going to give me a blow-job! Oh my God! There’s someone knocking at the door.

  It is Roger from downstairs wanting to see the Fetherstones. Anyone there? James’s thudding heart is in his mouth. And Margot has her mouth full. Roger has gone away, thank God.

  Oh God, what is she doing?

  James raises his eyes to the heavens but they hit the ceiling where fat cherubs are cavorting with whimsical unicorns and baby centaurs. He closes his eyes.

  It’s been a while. Not since that girl in Hathersage.

  Margot has stopped sucking. Her knees crack as she stands up to face him. James doesn’t know what to say or where to look. He’s desperate not to take leave of his senses but his brain has now taken residence in his balls. Coming
is such a priority that it overwhelms any thoughts of intruders or condoms or impropriety or ramifications or repercussions. She hoicks up her skirt and guides him inside her. A few quick thrusts is all it takes.

  The relief.

  God. Now what? Where to look? What to say?

  ‘Definitely July,’ Margot is saying, rearranging her clothing, ‘the Americans will be here on a shopping spree.’

  ‘They’ll be sold to a private collector?’ James asks, zipping himself up, turning away from her and giving Adam and Eve an apologetic look.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ she confirms, walking over to her desk.

  ‘And they’ll leave the country?’ James asks, staring at his Fetherstones as if they’re children about to be committed to boarding-school overseas.

  ‘I would say so,’ she says, regarding him levelly.

  ‘Don’t you think that would be a shame?’

  ‘With the money they could generate?’ she retorts, astutely. ‘It’s not my job to make sure that works of art go to the right home, wherever that may be, just that they achieve the highest amount possible.’

  ‘Say it’s a bank vault in Los Angeles?’

  ‘Then it’s a bank vault in Los Angeles that forked out around £70,000 to make space for them.’

  James obviously doesn’t like the sound of this.

  ‘Look,’ she says, too sweetly so that it verges on patronizing, as if she’s lost interest with him, as if his soft side or conscience was not the reason for her having fucked him, ‘if you’re worried about where they’ll go, why not offer them to a national institution via the NACF or Trust Art? We can still be your advisors. You will forfeit the whole premise of an auction, of prices rising alongside salesroom hysteria.’

  ‘Phone the Tate?’ James asks.

  ‘Wherever,’ she says, ‘then the gallery will try to raise funds via a grant from, as I said, the NACF or Trust Art. You know who you should contact? Fen McCabe. She works at Trust Art now. She’s a Fetherstone fanatic. We offered her a job which she declined because she said she’d protest every time one was sold to a home of which she might not approve.’