And then her eyes left my face and travelled down my body, openly, making no attempt to hide their scrutiny. I could feel their focus on my shoulders, chest, loins, thighs. When she looked back into my face a few moments later she gave me once more her awful travesty of a smile and said:
‘Well, Mr. Rigsby, I’ve looked at you. Perhaps now you’d like to look at me.’
‘I beg your pardon . . . ?’
‘You won’t see anything like it for a long time,’ she said, ‘—if you ever see anything like it again. Did you ever see such a wreck? Sometimes I look at myself in the glass and wonder how can such a spirit be housed in such a terrible shell.’
I opened my mouth trying to think of some words to say, but she quickly went on:
‘It’s all right—you don’t have to search amongst your collection of tactful phrases.’ She was silent for a moment, then she said: ‘Mrs. Weldon was telling me something of your background—your work and your family. How many children do you have? I’ve forgotten.’
‘Four.’
‘Four. And do you provide them with a good life?’
‘I do my best.’
‘You are not poor, are you?’
‘No.—Though I have been.’
‘But not now. And hopefully you will never be so again.’
‘Not if I can help it.’
As I spoke I reached down and touched the leg of my chair. When I looked back at the old woman I saw her watching me with an amused smile.
‘You touch wood to be on the safe side,’ she said, ‘is that it? You think that with the right gesture at the right time you can guide Fate’s hand? Even if you believe in that lady you must think her awfully easily led if you think she can be swayed from her course by your touching wood—or crossing your fingers or carrying some rabbit’s foot.’ Here she gave a small, cackling laugh. ‘And how a rabbit’s foot can be regarded as lucky to its owner I can’t imagine. It certainly didn’t bring much luck when the poor rabbit owned it.’ She raised a hand and dabbed with a handkerchief at her wet, rheumy eyes. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, no, our destiny is up to us. It is in our hands.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’
‘Of course I’m right.’ She paused, eyed me intently for a moment, then asked, ‘Are you content?’
‘Content?’ I thought about it for a second or two. ‘In some things. Though I am—ambitious.’
‘For what? Fame? Glory?’
‘Perhaps. Certainly to do better.’
She gave a patronizing little smile. ‘How admirable.’
A maid came in then carrying a tray. She was a tall girl with dark hair and a heavy tread. As she set the tray down between us on a small table the old lady thanked her, looked across at me and said, ‘You’ll take some tea, Mr. Rigsby?’
‘Thank you . . .’
The maid departed and I watched then while the old lady’s gnarled, heavily veined hand lifted the silver cream jug and poured. When she put it down and took up the teapot I could see the muscles straining with the effort, bunching beneath the parchment-like skin. ‘Shall I help you?’ I said.
‘No,’ she said without looking at me. ‘I think I can manage.’ She carried on pouring. ‘I think I shall last out for the rest of teatime.’
When the tea was poured she asked me—between slurps at her cup—questions about my past. Following my answers she observed that my life—particularly as a young art student—appeared to have been singularly uneventful. ‘By what one reads in the newspapers,’ she said, ‘one would have expected you to have had a whole string of mistresses before you settled down. I thought artists were renowned for that—particularly artists in London. Isn’t that the way of it?’
While I tried to frame an answer she went on, ‘And what about your wife? Were you faithful to her during your marriage? Or did you get bored and start looking for something in other pastures?’
For a moment I pondered on how it was that great age allowed one to say things that a younger person wouldn’t dream of uttering; then, as she seemed to be waiting for an answer I told her no, I had never been unfaithful to my wife—nor had I ever felt the wish to be.
‘How unusual,’ she said, and then: ‘And since your wife’s death—have you had what they call relationships?’
I said no. I had no intention of telling her about my time with Ilona over the past year, or indeed of telling her anything more about my private life at all. All I wanted to do now was to finish my tea and leave. I had a while to go yet, though.
‘Having four children,’ she said, ‘you must be a great family man. Are you? Do you love your children?’
‘Oh, yes! Very much.’
‘Mmm . . .’ She appeared to think about this for a few moments, then she said, ‘I have never felt regret that I didn’t have a child. I don’t feel any the less fulfilled because of it. Have your children brought you a sense of fulfilment?’
‘Well . . . in a way, I suppose.’
‘I wonder sometimes,’ she said, ‘at parents’ motives for having children. Is it because they see their children’s lives as extensions of their own?—and, being failures themselves see their only possible chances of success through those extended lives—the lives of their children?’ Pulling down the corners of her mouth she slowly shook her head. ‘Oh, it seems to me a very uncertain means of prolonging one’s existence. But there, I suppose if one is aware of being such a failure in life then one must do whatever one can to remedy matters. Fortunately I never have regarded myself as a failure—so therefore I’ve never felt the need to take any such desperate measures. No, I very early on decided to leave all that—the child-bearing and things—to others less fortunate than I.’ She paused for a moment as if deep in thought, then said: ‘But enough of all that. Let us get to the purpose of your visit to our humble dwelling.’
Putting out her scrawny arm she tugged on the bell-pull. When the maid appeared a minute later she said to her:
‘Abbie, tell Miss Catherine that I wish to see her immediately.’
As the maid retreated the old lady turned back to me and said, ‘As you have no doubt learned, Catherine is my great-niece. The responsibility for her upbringing rested largely upon me, and I don’t mind saying that I am very glad to have been relieved of such an onerous task.’ At her words I searched her face for some trace of humour that might belie them. I could see nothing there.
I drank the last of my tea and put down the empty cup. She asked me whether I wanted more. I politely refused. That pervading smell of age and deterioration in the stifling room didn’t do anything for my appetite; and the one cup of tea I’d already drunk was one too many.
The knock at the door was very light, very gentle, and I looked at the old lady to see whether she had heard it. She had. Clearly, in spite of her longevity her hearing had remained acute. ‘Come in!’ she called in a loud, impatient tone and the next moment the door opened and a young woman appeared round the side of the screen. She wore a dress in what I took to be a shade of pale lemon. Her dark hair, looking curiously Victorian, was parted in the centre and twisted into heavy braids that were coiled into a thick circle around the crown of her head. She stood very still.
‘This,’ said Miss Stewart, ‘is Catherine, my great-niece. She’s twenty-seven years old.’ She turned to the girl. ‘Come closer, child.’
Raising her eyes slightly to the old woman’s rather disdainful expression the girl came to a halt a couple of feet from my chair.
‘This gentleman,’ went on Miss Stewart, ‘is Mr. Thomas Rigsby. He’s come to paint your portrait.’ She gave a sneering toss of her head. ‘Though why your father should want a representation of such an empty vessel I can’t imagine. One can only assume that he’s become affected by long exposure to the sun.’ In silence she regarded the girl for some seconds, then with a flapping movement of her hand she added sharply: ‘A
ll right, he’s seen you now. You can go.’
‘Yes, aunt.’ It was the first time the girl had spoken. Her voice was low, scarcely more than a murmur. She turned and moved across the room. I watched her go. When she reached the door she turned briefly and looked back and for that moment I held her gaze in mine. Then, with a nervous little movement of her head, she was gone.
‘Don’t waste too much sympathy on her, Mr. Rigsby.’ The old lady’s voice broke into my thoughts and I turned and saw the canny look in her eye. ‘Have I offended your sensitivity?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She held out a gnarled hand. ‘Come—help me up.’
Quickly I rose from my chair and moved towards her.
‘I must take some exercise,’ she said, ‘otherwise my old bones tend to seize up. Hathaway or Carl usually walk me but you’ll do since you’re here.’
Taking her arm I helped from the chaise; the manoeuvre was not the most graceful. As she moved I saw that her brocaded robe was unbuttoned almost down to the waist. It ballooned out with her effort and I caught a glimpse of her old, withered breasts. I averted my eyes at once but, glancing at her face, realized she was aware that I had seen. To my horror she gave me a coy little glance of reprimand.
When she was on her feet I thought she looked more than ever like some grotesque doll. Her lipstick had become even more smeared, and her wig was dislodged so that it hung lower over one side of her head, almost obscuring her right eye. She reached up, twitched at it, gave it a tug and settled it back into position. Then, pulling her robe more closely around her she reached out and closed her fingers over my wrist, grasping like the tenacious roots of some predatory tree.
‘Walk me.’ Leaning her meagre weight upon me she spoke with a trace of impatience. ‘Walk me. Walk me around the room. But not too fast!’
Slowly we set off, steadily making our way over the carpet. At my side she was bent almost double, the fringes of her scarves bouncing and swaying in time with her plodding steps. How on earth, I wondered, had I ever got myself into such a situation? I felt like an overgrown Pip doing the honours for a latter-day Miss Havisham.
Chapter Eight
As we traversed the room her breathing became more and more laboured and stertorous. Reaching at last the point where we had begun she dug her fingers into my arm and said breathlessly:
‘Enough, enough—I must rest.’
Carefully I helped her down onto the chaise. She lay there recovering her breath, an effort that seemed so monumental that I wondered why she’d insisted on such an exercise in the first place. At last, when her breathing was quieter, she said:
‘So when shall you start painting the portrait of my great-niece?’
‘I’d like to begin with a few preliminary sketches in the morning if possible—if Catherine has no other plans.’
‘She has no other plans. She’s entirely at your disposal.’ She paused. ‘Is that the way it’s done? Sketches first and then the painting?’
‘Generally. I like to make drawings of the subject in various poses, various lights. That enables me to choose the most suitable pose and the best composition before I actually commit myself to the canvas.’
‘That’s very interesting,’ she said in a bored tone, and then added, ‘I must sleep now. I’m very tired.’
Slowly she sank back against the cushions. I was about to say some word of farewell but saw that she was already turning her face and closing her eyes as if I were no longer in the room. I gazed at her in the dimness for a moment longer and then, very quietly, tiptoed out of the room.
Outside in the corridor I saw Mrs. Weldon coming towards me.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I was just coming to get you.’
‘Miss Stewart is resting.’
She nodded. ‘She tires easily these days, I’m afraid.’
As we entered the main part of the house I said I was curious to see the room I’d be using as a studio. She said she’d show it to me and led the way up the stairs to the first floor, across the landing and through a doorway on the right. I found myself in a large room with windows on two sides.
The furniture, I saw, had all been pushed well to one side and now in the centre my easel had been set, the three canvases I’d brought leaning against it. My palette, and the boxes holding my brushes, paints and other paraphernalia stood nearby on a table.
‘I do hope you’ll be able to manage all right here,’ Mrs. Weldon said. ‘Do you think you will?’
‘No question,’ I answered. ‘It’ll be perfect.’
* * *
Over dinner I had a better opportunity to get a look at Catherine, and seeing her now in a decent light I was very impressed by her subtle colouring and fine bone structure.
Facing me across the table she sat eating her game pie and salad; she seemed to show little interest in anything apart from her food, and that she ate only sparingly. I got the impression that she was very shy, for though I tried I couldn’t draw her into the conversation. About the only direct communication we had was when I put to her the suggestion that we start work on the painting the following morning and that we begin by selecting the dress she would wear. I would, I said, like to avoid painting any intricate pattern, preferring something of a simple cut and solid colour. ‘Do you know,’ I asked, ‘whether your father or great-aunt have any preference as to what you should wear for the painting?’
‘I don’t think they do,’ she said, to which Mrs. Weldon added:
‘You just go ahead and select whatever you think is best. I’m sure we shall all be happy with your choice.—And Catherine has quite an extensive wardrobe so I’m sure you’ll find something suitable.’
After dinner I went up to my room and read for a while. Then I got ready for bed, put on my dressing gown and turned on the television set.
I sat for a while watching as a Hollywood actress with unnaturally blonde hair and an unnaturally tiny nose dragged herself through a swamp and still kept her hair in place. I turned it off, got up and moved to the window that faced onto the courtyard. Idly I drew back the curtain. Everything below was all a shadow, all still, while before me the windows of the opposite wing showed only the occasional chink of light. I yawned, reached up to grasp the curtain again, and then stopped.
It was light that had attracted my attention—a light, suddenly there, in the window just below the one opposite my own. The curtains had been parted and the soft glow in the room showed me the silhouette of a girl. As I stood looking down the moon came from behind a cloud and I could see her clearly. She was all in white—her nightdress, I imagined—standing with one hand raised up to the top of the lower sash. She seemed to be looking out at the silvery-shadowy garden to her right. From my viewpoint the angle of her face was almost hidden by her long dark hair. I could see, though, that it was Catherine.
As I watched her she moved her hand from the sash frame and briefly rubbed her thigh, just below the groin. I saw the folds of her nightdress move rhythmically against the glass. Then her hand moved back and rested once more upon the window frame.
When she slowly turned her head and looked in the direction of my room I was stricken by a sudden sense of guilt as if I’d been caught spying. In the end I just stayed there, standing motionless and hoping that she hadn’t seen me. She had, though—there was no doubt of it, and for a few seconds the two of us stayed as we were, I looking down at her and she looking up at me. Then, as if she had been called by someone in the room behind her she turned her head, hesitated for a moment and then pulled the curtains closed.
When I lay in bed a minute or so later I could still see in my mind’s eye, and watch, all over again, that movement of her hand upon her thigh. It was very disturbing.
Chapter Nine
I was awakened the next morning by a light tap at the door followed by the entrance of Carl who bore a small tray holding coffee. Looking at my travelling-clock
I saw that it was eight-thirty. I’d slept through the alarm.
I sat up and took the coffee from Carl’s outstretched hand. He asked me what I would like for breakfast and at what time. Just toast, I told him, adding that I’d be down in half an hour or so.
When he was gone and I’d drunk the coffee I got up, showered, shaved, and put on my working clothes—old shirt, jeans and sandals. Then I made my way down to the dining room where Miss Harrison brought me fresh coffee and toast. There was no sign of Mrs. Weldon or Catherine. I didn’t stay long and after I’d eaten I went up to the studio where I busied myself setting out my painting materials. As I worked there came a knock at the door. I turned expecting to see Catherine but instead there entered a tall, lean man with dark thinning hair and hollow cheeks. He looked to be about my own age.
‘I come up to see whether you’ve got everything you need, sir . . .’ He spoke with a cockney accent. His name was Hathaway, he said, and I vaguely recalled having heard Miss Stewart mention him. He did the chauffeuring and various odd jobs about the place, he told me, adding, with a smile, ‘—So if there’s any odd job you want done, sir, just let me know.’
‘Perhaps you can help me now,’ I said, and told him that I needed some old newspapers and, if possible, some means of propping up the chair in which I had decided Catherine should sit for the painting. The chair, a beautifully carved Tudor model, would need to be elevated on some kind of makeshift dais so that her head would be more on a level with my own.
At my request Hathaway went out and returned a little later with a bundle of old newspapers, some old crates and two short planks of wood. The planks, placed across the crates, made an ideal dais. I thanked him for his help. ‘Don’t mention it, sir,’ he said, turning in the doorway. ‘Just ring if you should want anything else. Either me or Carl will be about.’
Catherine’s knock soon afterwards was so light that I barely heard it. Turning, I saw her standing in the open doorway.
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