‘Come in, please,’ I said, and avoiding my eyes she shyly entered the room. ‘—About the clothes I’m to wear,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a selection of things ready if you’d like to see them.’
In her room on the first floor at the end of the west wing I looked at the various garments she had laid out on the bed. There was everything there from jeans to full-length evening gowns. In the end, between the two of us, we settled on a very attractive day dress of white lawn with lace at the collar and cuffs. Leaving her then to get on with her changing I went back to the studio.
When she joined me there a few minutes later we began work, starting with the essential, though boring, business of setting up the right pose and composition. That done eventually to my satisfaction—by dint of moving the dais and the sitter around and making endless pencil sketches—I was ready to begin the real job—working on the canvas itself.
I had positioned her in the chair looking very relaxed with her hands held loosely in her lap. It was a good pose for her. Her dark hair, loose now, fell straight and heavy past her shoulders while against her fair skin her eyes looked almost black. I had drawn the curtains over the east-facing windows and in the soft light from the north she appeared very young and vulnerable. Innocent, too, in the simple white dress—though at the same time the thrust of her small breasts against the fabric gave a paradoxical hint of sensuality.
I began the painting in my usual meticulous, methodical way, carefully sketching in the pose; only then did I begin to add the thinnest washes of colour. I had urged her to feel free to talk if she wished, but she ventured little and the work progressed in comparative silence.
It was close on twelve-thirty when Carl knocked on the door and entered pulling a trolley bearing trays and dishes laden with food.
‘Your lunch, sir . . . Miss Catherine,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Weldon thought you’d be happier if you didn’t have to interrupt your work by coming downstairs to eat.’
As I put down my paintbrush and Catherine stepped down from the dais he wheeled the trolley to a side table and began to set out cold chicken and salad. When he’d finished he moved back towards the door.
‘Let me know if you need anything else, sir . . .’
‘Thank you.’
In the next-door bathroom I washed the smell of paint and turpentine from my hands and then, returning to the studio, joined Catherine at the table.
As we ate I tried further to draw her out. I had little success, though. She showed no inclination at all to talk about herself and when I put questions to her she turned them around so that I became the subject—my life, my children, my interests—and did most of the talking. Whether she was inhibited by the incident at the windows the night before I could only wonder.
When lunch was over she resumed her pose and we worked steadily—with short breaks for rests—until three-thirty when I put down my brush.
‘I think we’ll call it a day,’ I said.
As I helped her down from the dais her fingers were very soft and cool in mine.
‘Tomorrow?’ I asked as I released her. ‘Can we continue tomorrow?’
‘Whenever you like . . .’
‘Say ten o’clock tomorrow then . . .’
Left alone I stood back from the easel and studied the results of my first day’s work. I was pleased. It had gone well. When I had told Mrs. Weldon that the picture could take me up to ten days I had been playing safe. I had always worked quickly and I now saw that if I continued to make such good progress the picture would soon be finished.
Back in my room I relaxed with a cigarette while I sat at a window that faced south over the rear part of the grounds. I eyed the overgrown formal gardens, and the tangled mass of greenery that stretched away beyond and then reached for my pencils and sketchbook. The day and the scenery were too attractive for me to stay indoors.
I saw no one on my way downstairs. On the ground floor I found a door at the rear of the house and let myself out into the courtyard. Beyond that I turned left and, following a narrow way that led between wide lawns and a yew shrubbery, moved in a southerly direction towards a line of silver birches.
The path on which I walked was of old flags where encroaching weeds had forced the stones apart. The sun was very hot and already I could feel the sweat breaking out on my brow. Beyond the birches I found myself in a wilderness where indigenous trees and shrubs fought for possession of the available space with more exotic-looking varieties of plant. I walked on, the greenery becoming increasingly dense so that at times I almost had to force a way through. I passed a dovecote, quite empty, and a small arbour where a few near-stifled English roses struggled futilely to hang on to survival.
Turning around I looked back the way I had come. The house was much further off than I’d expected and only a part of the roof and some of the angled chimneys were now visible above the trees that rose up between. I walked on again.
A sudden break in the choking thickness of the greenery came with a wide stream with high banks that crossed my path. It was spanned by a narrow bridge of two old and rotting planks. Beneath in the slow-moving water long weeds trailed, gently undulating in the current.
As I looked across at the opposite bank I thought of Mrs. Weldon’s gentle caution—that I should keep to this side of the stream. Even so I did hesitate before I eventually turned and, rather reluctantly, made my way back the way I had come.
* * *
There was a new face at dinner that evening.
I arrived in the dining room to find there Mrs. Weldon, Catherine, and a man who was introduced to me as Dr. Alfred McIntosh. He was in his mid-fifties, balding, short and thickset, and wore a sober grey suit of somewhat old-fashioned cut. Smiling warmly at me over his bifocals he said he hoped the painting was going well and that I was enjoying my stay at Woolvercombe House. Over dinner he proved to be interesting and amusing company—relating several fascinating anecdotes from his experience in the medical world. The time passed quickly.
Catherine stayed for the most part silent through all the jokes and the easy chat until, in the course of the conversation, I brought up the name of the village, Whitefell. ‘I always thought “fell” was a northern word,’ I remarked, to which the doctor replied that it was, adding that in all probability the village had been settled by northerners. It was at this point that Mrs. Weldon chipped in to ask Wasn’t there a famous book about a Whitefell Hall . . . ?
For a split second Catherine’s eyes flashed scorn at the question, then she said quietly, ‘Wildfell Hall—The Tenant of Wildfell Hall—Anne Brontë.’
Mrs. Weldon coloured slightly and gave a little laugh. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I love their books—the Brontë sisters.’ She pronounced it Brontay—at which Catherine’s glance flicked up to meet mine and quickly fell away again.
‘Obviously you know it,’ I said to Catherine, ‘—The Tenant . . . ?’
‘I love it.’
‘Do you,’ Dr. McIntosh asked her, ‘think Anne was a genius like her sisters?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do,’ then turning to me she asked ‘—Have you read it?’
‘Oh, years ago.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘Very much. I think she’s remarkable for the—the realism she achieves; her observation of people.’
She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes—oh, and that beautiful part at the end when Gilbert gives back to her—Helen—her gift of the Christmas rose—when she says to him—’
She came to an abrupt halt, as if embarrassed to find herself the centre of attention. I said, trying to encourage her to continue, ‘—I’ve forgotten that,’ but she just gave a slight shake of her head and looked down at her plate. In the light of the candles that lit the space between us I found her beauty quite wonderful.
She didn’t stay for coffee when dinner was over. Shyly she
wished us a goodnight and, adding that she’d see me in the morning, left the room. Dr. McIntosh, who said he’d been travelling all day and was consequently rather tired, departed soon afterwards.
I followed Mrs. Weldon into the drawing room where the maid Abbie brought us coffee. After Mrs. Weldon had handed me a cup she poured two tiny glasses of a pale green liqueur which, she said, was made from the myrtle berry. The taste of it was sweet, but it had an accompanying freshness that gave it a delicious edge.
Sitting on the sofa opposite she asked me how I was getting on with the portrait. I told her that although it was early to say I was so far pleased with my progress. I expected, I added, to have it finished sooner than I’d anticipated. She looked surprised at this and said I mustn’t feel I was under pressure to get it done too quickly. ‘You must take whatever time you need,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’m not hurrying with it,’ I said. ‘It’s the picture that dictates the time one spends on it—and so far, as I say, it’s gone very well.’
A little later when my coffee cup and liqueur glass were empty I got up, wished her goodnight and went up to my room. There I switched on the television, watched the tail-end of a documentary on drug abuse and switched it off again. Lying in bed I settled down to relax with one of the books I’d brought with me—Muriel Spark’s The Abbess of Crewe. Three quarters of an hour later it was finished and I placed it on the bedside table and turned off the lamp.
I couldn’t sleep, though. Several times I changed my position and each time I did so I knew that I was only pushing sleep further away. Mercurially my thoughts skipped from one subject to another—the painting of Catherine, Catherine herself, Miss Stewart . . . I thought of the children, all—hopefully—enjoying themselves on their various trips. I thought, too, of Ilona . . .
Growing increasingly restless my mind went back to the last time we’d made love together. Ages ago now, it seemed. I realized that I had been a very long time without any sexual gratification—and thought how welcome it would be now, at this moment . . . I pictured Ilona’s slim, smooth body, recalling the feeling of having her pressed against me—as on those occasions when she had given herself to me. The memory now was no comfort at all . . .
Suddenly I froze in the darkness, listening. Someone, a woman, had cried out—a sound half-way between a shout and a scream. Not too close but not too far away, either. It had come from the direction of the opposite wing.
I remained very still for some minutes. There came no other sound, though. Perhaps I’d imagined it, I thought, or perhaps it had come from something else—perhaps from some unfortunate rabbit in the garden, victim of a stoat . . .
I laid my head on the pillow again and closed my eyes.
Eventually I slept.
* * *
Catherine was ready and waiting for me when I went into the studio the next morning.
The painting continued to go well and I worked almost feverishly, almost resenting the intervals when she relaxed to take a much-needed rest. During those times I would sit and study the canvas, my fingers itching to get back to it.
As on the previous day lunch was brought up and as we ate we discussed again the merits of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. This in turn led on to Agnes Grey and the works of the other Brontës. Catherine was becoming more and more relaxed in my company, I felt; the situation was improving.
Now, too, for the first time, she seemed not unwilling to talk about herself to a degree, and in answer to my questions told me that she was a trained nurse and that up till recently had been living and working in Birmingham.
‘And is that all over now?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I gave it up—my job—and my flat—and came down here.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, as a child I always stayed with Aunt Margaret—when I was on holiday from school and times like that. My father was never around.—So here I am—back again. Habit, I suppose.’ She gave a little smile. ‘Oh, I always hated being an only child.’
‘Having so many brothers and sisters of my own I can’t imagine what that would be like,’ I said. ‘Though I don’t think I’d have cared for it. I think I liked being part of a large family.’
‘How many of you were there?’
‘Nine.’
‘Nine!’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, I think that would be too many. No, I think four—as you’ve got—that would be the right number.’
After a moment I said: ‘I did have three other sons.’
She looked at me, questioning and silent.
‘Clive, Harry and Robert,’ I said. ‘After Robert’s birth we—Elizabeth and I—didn’t plan on having any more . . .’
‘But—something happened . . . ?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘Oh, it was a long time ago now. Fourteen years or so . . . Robert was just a baby—only a few months old. There was an accident. We were in the car—travelling back from a day in the country. It was the first time we’d managed to get out as a complete family since he was born . . .’ I came to a halt while the memory flooded back. Although it had happened so long ago the pictures in my mind were still sharp and clear. After a moment I went on:
‘Elizabeth was beside me in the front, and Clive and Harry in the seat behind. Robert was asleep in his carrycot behind the back seat.—It’s funny, but you can be as careful as you like and never put a foot wrong, but if there’s some idiot who doesn’t know what he’s doing then it can all go for nothing.’
‘. . . What happened?’
‘Some car from Italy . . . I watched it pull out of a garage forecourt ahead and—obviously by habit—start off on the wrong side of the road. It just came straight for us. I tried to swerve out of the way but—it slammed into us—behind the front seat. Elizabeth and I were barely hurt—mostly just bruised and shocked. But the boys . . . Harry and the baby were killed instantly. Clive died two days later in hospital.—He would have been eighteen now.’
There was a little silence, then she said:
‘So that’s how you came to have your other children—your second family.’
‘Yes. It’s strange but neither Elizabeth nor I ever spoke of the subject—of starting a new family. It was as if we—we both knew that it was the only thing to do—what we wanted.’ I smiled. ‘The twins were born a year and a half later.’
As she looked at me, her expression very sad, she gave a little shake of her head. ‘I can’t imagine how anybody would get over something like that,’ she said. ‘How do you?’
‘You don’t. Not completely—ever. Oh, in some ways I suppose you do—you go on with your work, the business of living. But things are never quite the same. How can they be? You just don’t think about it, that’s all. And one thing I try not to do is indulge in self-pity. I learned long ago that it only—cheapens the memory of those that are gone. And what have I got to pity myself for? Nothing. I have four really terrific children.’ I smiled. ‘I’m very very lucky.’
* * *
At dinner Mrs. Weldon asked me again how the painting had gone and as before I was able to report that I’d made considerable progress.
‘Don’t risk spoiling it,’ she said, and once more urged me to take my time. ‘I always thought,’ she added, ‘that the longer one worked on a painting the better it was.’
I had no idea how to answer, inwardly reflecting that such a belief was on a par with the common one that if a portrait’s eyes followed you around the room it was a sign of a good portrait. I was saved from replying, though, for she immediately added that of course she knew nothing about it . . .
Over dessert the talk got on to the recent Wimbledon tennis tournament and although Mrs. Weldon showed no interest in the happenings there Catherine joined in the conversation and for the next ten minutes she, Dr. McIntosh and I discussed the relative performances of Borg, McEnroe and Connors.
Later, when Catherine and the doctor had gone to their rooms Mrs. Weldon
said to me with a nod of satisfaction:
‘Catherine relaxes with you. I’m so glad. She’s naturally a rather shy girl—but she can be surprisingly forthcoming with someone she likes and trusts.’
I decided to forget coffee that night; perhaps, I thought, I’d get to sleep better without it. As I rose from the table I mentioned that I’d be needing some more cigarettes and she said she’d have Sam Hathaway get them for me. I thanked her and went upstairs.
Again sleep eluded me for some time. And when I did eventually drift off it was not into any deep unconsciousness but only into some fitful state not far beneath the surface . . .
* * *
The room was not completely dark. I had left the curtains of the courtyard window a little withdrawn. Moonlight, pale, filtered into the room. I sat up in bed.
What was it that had awakened me? In my brain, repeating over and over, I could hear the echo of a scream; muffled, faint, but still, surely, a scream. It was so clear in my mind that I could listen to its repeated echo and almost examine it. I hadn’t been dreaming.
Fully awake, I sat listening for any further sound. Apart from the ticking of the clock, though, and the occasional hoot of an owl out in the grounds, everything was silent. I found that I was holding my breath. Letting it out again I lowered myself back onto the pillows. Perhaps, after all, it had been only a part of my inadequate sleep, a fragment of a dream.
And then all at once I was sitting up in bed again listening to the sound of light footsteps that came pattering along the corridor towards my room. The sound came to a halt. There was silence. Only for a few seconds, though, and then came other footsteps, heavier ones . . .
Suddenly, after a moment of absolute stillness, there came to my ears the noise of a scuffle. It seemed to be taking place right outside my door. I heard quick, heavy breathing, harsh-whispered, unintelligible words and one or two little squeals: pain?—fear? It was Catherine who was out there, I was certain. Scrambling from the bed I reached for my dressing gown. And even as I did so I heard the sounds receding, moving away towards the main part of the house. When I got to the door and opened it the corridor was empty.
The Reaping Page 7