by June Gadsby
There were the usual thanks offered up to a variety of people who had given assistance in the writing of the book and its publication. Then, printed in Callum’s own bold, sweeping style, the simple dedication.
To M. Forgive me. Callum.
I wondered if Hilary, Callum’s wife had yet read the book. I wondered, also, with a little stab of pain in my heart if she would ever bring herself to forgive her husband of thirty years for broadcasting his indiscretions in such a manner.
I turned to the first page and started to read. The opening paragraph gripped me, the words searing through me like an electric shock. Not believing what Callum had written, I went back and re-read them.
I remember the day when I first laid eyes on Magda. I’m not even sure that I immediately registered her beauty or the impact it had on my subconscious, but from that moment on I could not get her out of my mind.
She was ridiculously young or seemed so to me at the time. Too young and innocent-looking to be married to that brute of a man who had introduced us. I was in a foul mood because the composition I was working on refused to come. It was supposed to be the star piece of the concert I was to give some weeks later. And the title piece for the album. The fact that I had to waste time posing like a ninny in front of an artist for hours did not exactly sweeten my temper. I’m sure she must have thought me a terrible ogre, but she was sweet enough to pretend not to notice my impatience…
Reading Callum’s story was no longer a necessity. I knew the rest of it without turning the first page and yet I had to read on. It was our story. His and mine. Almost as if the words in the book were emerging from my own head and being turned into still-fresh, living images, my memories of that time five years ago came flooding back.
Things had been somewhat better between Greg and me. It had followed a particularly bad period when I had almost walked out on him. That’s when he did that stupid trick with the bottle of sleeping pills. Anyway, he seemed to be trying his best to make it up to me and had even, against his own better judgement, found me a job. Having always maintained that he could not tolerate a wife who went out to work, he had agreed to compromise. I was to illustrate a book for a colleague and I was able to do it working from home.
It was the kind of work I had been trained to do. I was a graphics graduate with a talent for cartoons. The book was a children’s fairy-tale album and it gave me great pleasure to be able to work on it. I remember the day I put the finishing touches to the last drawing and sighed with contentment, pleased with myself for meeting the tight deadline. I was admiring my work with secret pride when Greg arrived home unexpectedly. He was on a high, having been assigned an exclusive interview with Callum Andrews, a more than popular musician, who had agreed to let Greg write his biography.
Chapter Five
Three years previously.
“What do you mean, it’s not my ‘kind of thing’?”
I was standing in the hall, black leather portfolio case in my hand. It was Saturday morning and I had waited until the last minute to tell Greg where I was going. He was not pleased, which was exactly what I expected.
“You’re a graphic artist. That’s not what they want for this book.”
“I do other things,” I insisted stubbornly. “Besides, what right have you to decide for me? You should at least have given me the opportunity to make up my own mind, one way or the other.”
He looked to the side, into that ‘I don’t want to discuss it’ space that was so familiar to me.
“There was some talk about Callum preferring to have a photograph,” he muttered. “The real thing rather than artistic impression. I didn’t want to get his back up by forcing my wife on him and making him feel obliged to accept something less than perfect.”
“Well, thank you for that!”
“That’s not what I meant. Megan, you’re a good artist…good at what you do, but it’s not what I envisaged for the book. And Andrews is perfectionist. You know what they’re like”
“I know what you are like, Greg Peters, which is why I’m going to keep this appointment, come hell or high water. I’m going to see Callum Andrews and if he doesn’t like what I have to offer he can say so without your interference.”
“Come off it, Megan! You’re not in his league. He’s Mister Big Fish. You’re little Miss Small Fry.” He looked at me, at my expression, and decided to qualify that somewhat. “I mean…Oh, hell, Megan, you know what I mean. I was going to take a few images and let him choose the best. He’s used to dealing with famous names.”
Did that mean that Greg considered himself to be up in the echelons of people like Litchfield and Armstrong-Jones? I always knew that Greg was a touch conceited when it came to his work, but this was portraying him as a full-blown egotist.
I heaved a sigh and looked at my watch. If I didn’t leave in the next two minutes I was going to be late. I hated being late for anything, and this appointment could turn out to be the most important in my career so far.
“Yes, Greg. I know exactly what you mean. You want to be the only contributor, other than Callum Andrews himself. We all know that you can take a good photograph when needed. The fact is, they don’t want a photograph. They want a portrait in pastel. The artistic touch. And, my dear husband, you are jealous. You don’t like the idea of your wife going out on an independent limb and earning money for herself. It may be the twenty-first century, but you’re still locked into the nineteenth, when wives were nothing more than possessions and, if one was lucky, something to be admired and envied. Well, I have news for you, buster. Women have been liberated. I have a life of my own and I’m damn well going to live it my way.”
I didn’t wait to see his reaction to my vitriolic explosion. As I swung out of the house and down the path towards my tiny Fiat 500, for once not blocked by Greg’s ‘batmobile’, I felt as light as air. It was only when I started driving that my uncharacteristic behaviour caught up with me. I had never been the kind of person, to cower in the face of adversity. However, my married life with Greg had taught me that there was a time to retire rather than retaliate, which was most of the time when he was in one of his dark moods. And that seemed to occur more often than I would like these days.
“Oh, dear” I breathed out nervously, then grinned broadly all around me, which got one or two curious stares in return from my fellow-motorists. “Bravo, Megan. Bravo.” I shouted the words out loud, feeling proud of myself. Now, I knew what a caged animal felt like when it escaped its prison. It was a good feeling.
There was hoarfrost that morning, at the beginning of April. But the sun shone out of a pure blue sky and there was a promise of spring in the air. Birds were singing. Daffodils were blooming. People seemed to be walking with a lighter tread after the long, dreary, ice-cold winter we had experienced. Despite the ugly scene with Greg, I felt uplifted. At last I was doing something important for myself.
I had no idea what I was heading for. It was possible that Callum Andrews would not like my work. He may turn me down and demand another artist. Or, he might do what Greg hoped and insist on a photographer instead. That was his prerogative and I would have to accept his decision with good grace. On the other hand, there was a chance that he might look upon my work favourably. Of one thing I was certain. Greg would never again stand in my way. I had a right to have my own career, whether he liked it or not.
Stephenson Road sounded very ordinary, so I was pleasantly surprised to find that it backed off the main road with a security barrier and was, in effect, a broad leafy lane with well-established oaks of great girth that had been there for at least the last hundred years. Number 1 was not only the first house on the road. It was the only house. Surrounded by a high stone wall, the three-story manor house nestled among a variety of conifers and groups of startlingly beautiful white birch trees planted in groups of three.
I parked the Fiat in a small parking bay and walked down to the imposing gates of the house. A swift glance at my watch told me that I was not late, b
ut a few minutes early. I hesitated minimally, then tugged the pull of the brass ship’s bell attached to one of the gate supports. It clanged with a deafening resonance and an excitable miniature poodle that shot down the drive and launched itself at the gate with yelps of neurotic bravado.
I watched with fascination as the beige-coloured woolly animal turned summersaults and forced its minute head through the bars to lick my proffered hand, having decided that I was no threat. In bending down to the dog, I peered through the gates and saw that there appeared to be several cars parked in the long, sweeping driveway. Most of them were more impressive than my small Fiat, but perhaps not so reliable.
I jangled the bell again and saw a lace curtain twitch and a face appeared, then a second face and a third, until the whole sweep of the wide bay window was full of faces. This confused me. I did not know that Callum Andrews had such a large family. There was no way that these ladies, for that’s what they were without exception, could be a welcoming committee for me, an unknown artist. Perhaps, I thought with a sinking feeling, I had mistaken the address, and this was not the musician’s home at all, but the meeting place for the local Women’s Institute. Even from that distance, I could see the ubiquitous twin-sets and strings of pearls.
I was wondering what to do next when the front door opened and out stepped a short, squat figure of portly dimensions. The woman trotted down the drive, all smiles and bouncing, low-slung bosom. I got ready to make my apologies for disturbing her morning, not to mention her dog, which was now racing madly around the garden in a state of exhaustive excitement.
“Champers! Stop that. Naughty girl.” The woman shouted after the canine bolt of lightning in an affectionate reprimand. “We call her Champers…after Champagne, you know…because she’s so bubbly. Oh, she does get excited. Do come in, dear.”
She had the gate open and was looking up at me expectantly, her bright, beady little eyes like polished currants in a plump, rosy face.
“I’m awfully sorry,” I apologised hesitantly. “I think I may have got the wrong address. I’m looking for Mr. Andrews. Mr. Callum Andrews?”
“Yes, yes, dear. This is it.” She stuck out a chubby, hand in my direction. “I’m Mrs. Andrews. You must be...?”
“Megan Peters. I have an appointment with your husband.”
“Ah, yes. The artist. He’s expecting you, but you’re a little early, dear, so would you mind joining me and my friends for a few minutes.”
All the while she was talking she was ushering me into the house, a busy bee of a woman with unfailing smile and eagerly nodding head.
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude, Mrs. Andrews.” I stuttered in my embarrassment as she manhandled me into a room full of chattering women who fell silent at sight of me. “I can just as easily wait in the car until…”
“No such thing. Come along. Have a glass of wine with us.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you, but…”
“Nonsense. It’s our coffee morning. We meet every Saturday at ten. It’s the village social committee. We organise the local events. The Christmas pantomime, the summer fete, that kind of thing. Our coffee mornings have become sacred, though we don’t always have anything to discuss. Still, it’s a good excuse for the ladies to get away from their husbands and relax. White or pink, dear?” She was indicating half a dozen wine bottles on a sideboard, sitting next to platters of brightly coloured cupcakes. There wasn’t a sign of coffee anywhere.
Thinking that it was useless to refuse, I plumped for dry white. A sparkling crystal glass was placed in my hand and I found myself being introduced around with many appreciative ooh’s and ah’s. I suspected I was in the midst of a bunch of latent groupies who attached themselves to Callum Andrews’ wife in order to get closer to the man himself.
“Are you doing this biography that Hilary’s been going on about then?” A willowy, artificial blonde with salt and pepper roots and too much make-up failing to mask the wrinkles, sidled up to me.
“Oh, no. I felt my cheeks burn as all eyes were turned on me. “That’s my husband, Greg Peters. He’s a journalist. I’m just going to do some sketches of Mr. Andrews and later, if he agrees, a portrait for the cover of the book.”
“Well, if I’d known,” said one woman with a face pinched in like a disconsolate Doberman, I would have offered my services. I have quite a way with the brush, as my tutor is always telling me in the art class I attend.”
There were rolled eyes and barely disguised groans. Someone closer to me muttered: “I’ve seen better work done at a chimpanzee’s tea-party, believe you me!”
“Hilary.” Another, more elderly woman came up and gripped me by the arm, scrutinising my face, then letting her eyes slide down to my toes. “Are you sure you should let Callum be alone with this young woman? Just look at those beautiful eyes of hers.
People had been remarking about the colour of my eyes since I was a small child. I no longer became embarrassed by their astonished observations. Just slightly irritated on occasion. The fact is, my eyes are a peculiar shade of blue-green and quite startlingly bright. When I was younger I was tempted to get contact lenses to tone down the brilliance of the shade, but I found that my eyes were too sensitive to accept the tiny discs of plastic the optician placed in them. So, I learned to live with my ‘turquoise’ eyes and wore sunglasses a lot of the time to disguise them.
Today, in my haste and my nervousness, I had forgotten to wear the glasses and the sunlight streaming into the Andrews’ lounge through the French windows must have been illuminating my great, peacock blue orbs like stained glass windows.
“Don’t be silly, Mildred. You know Callum. He never sees beyond his sheets of music. Anyway, if I can’t trust him now after twenty-five years, when can I trust him? Would you like more wine, dear?”
I looked down aghast at my empty glass and shook my head. The wine was already making itself felt. Two glasses before lunch would have rendered me incompetent and of no use to myself or anyone else. Just wait, I thought, till I get back home and tell Ros all about this. How the other half lived! It was all here. Coffee mornings that started with wine and, I eyed with a pang of hunger, the selection of calorific cakes.
“A nibble, dear, to keep you going until lunchtime,” Hilary Andrews was holding a silver platter an inch under my nose.
“Oh, no, really. It’s very kind of you, but…”
“Oh, do go on!”
There were murmurs of assent all around. Looking at them, it seemed that they all liked their food a little too much, except for the lean blonde who looked like she might be a Vegan. Or perhaps she had just lost her taste for most things in life. She certainly didn’t seem to be able to smile, the poor woman. I wished I could summon up enough courage to ask her to sit for me, it was such a face of tragedy she wore with its down-turned mouth and a spaghetti junction of deep wrinkles. Such an easy study for a portrait.
Just to please my hostess, I refused a cupcake but took a round of toast spread with cream cheese and a sliver of smoked salmon, topped with a tiny spear of asparagus. It was delicious, and the rotund little woman clearly enjoyed my praise.
“There, you see! Now, you’ll be better able to withstand the interview with Callum.” And before I could ask her to explain her remark, she went on, obviously used to forewarning people about her famous husband. “He’s a very private person, you know, my dear. Not given to meeting people from outside his own, tight little world. As a musician, he’s outstanding and very popular, as you must know. But as a man…well, he can be a little difficult if you catch him on his wrong side. He’s so dedicated to his music, you see. Artistic temperament. It’s very rare that he will agree to see anyone. Especially members of the press. However, he has been…shall we say…persuaded to give time to your charming husband. And now he’s agreed to pose for you, which I must say surprised me. The thought of him sitting there while someone draws him… Well, I just can’t imagine it. So, there, my dear Megan…it is Megan, isn’t it…I’ve
done my best to put you on your guard. He’s having a difficult time with his latest composition, so he may be a little tetchy. Just don’t be too hard on him, will you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I assured her, thinking that the boot was surely on the other foot. I was the one who would be quaking in the presence of such genius. The genius in question would no doubt proceed to wrap me around his little finger. Well, I wouldn’t be wrapped. Life was too short to deal with one more ‘tetchy’ man. If he proved to be difficult I would simply pack up and walk away from the assignment. That is, if he accepted me in the first place.
Chapter Six
Hilary Andrews continued to fuss over me like a fluffy mother hen. Part of me wished she would stop. Another part of me quite enjoyed her harmless, motherly attentions. It was a role that came to her as naturally as waking up each morning.
“Of course, we’ve already met your husband,” she told me as she ushered me through the group of committee ladies and led me to what I assumed was another wing situated at the back of the house. “I’m surprised he didn’t bring you with him the last time to introduce you.”
“He probably didn’t want to impose,” I murmured, for the lack of something to say.
“Such an intense young man, isn’t he? Callum was quite impressed. He doesn’t like wasting time or hanging around unnecessarily, especially when he’s composing. He is being extremely tolerant now, because, quite frankly, he hates being interviewed. I’m rather surprised that he didn’t cancel your appointment with him today. He’s quite frustrated because this last work just isn’t going well.”
I blew out my cheeks in a sigh behind her back, wondering how, in the light of what I had just heard about Callum Andrews, I was going to be received. After all, sitting before an artist could be much more difficult and time consuming than an interview with a journalist.