Homes and Hearths in Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  Gordon gave Maxine a weak smile. ‘You’re still twenty-six to me. You’re still the beautiful young art teacher I fell in love with back then. You always will be.’

  ‘Except when Ella’s around.’

  Gordon was silent for a moment as he assimilated the truth of his wife’s accusation. ‘Possibly.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.’

  ‘Neither can I.’

  Gordon gave her a weak smile. ‘I just…’

  ‘No, don’t try and explain. It happened, no one died, you were led on, you were encouraged, you fell for it. You didn’t actually do anything very much although what you did do was pretty hurtful.’

  ‘I didn’t mean… I didn’t think.’

  ‘I know. And it’s my fault too.’

  Gordon looked baffled.

  ‘It is. I’ve been horrid to live with – even Judith said I’ve been a cow lately.’

  ‘Not really.’

  Maxine smiled wanly at her husband. ‘Not really? A nicer response might have been, no, you’ve been a sweetheart, kindness itself despite everything.’

  Gordon smiled back. ‘It’s been a bit tricky. But the worst must be over. It can’t be that long before Abi moves out and it’s unlikely Mum will be coming back.’

  ‘I’m sad about your mum, obviously, but I won’t deny it’s a relief.’

  ‘She didn’t make life easy.’

  ‘No. It was hell.’

  ‘It was.’

  Maxine reckoned that might have to do as an apology. ‘Maybe we’ve weathered the worst of the storm.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Maxine got up from her chair and went to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Gordon.

  ‘I thought I’d move my stuff back into our room. Let’s start afresh – after all I honestly don’t think anything else can go wrong, can it.’

  As she was ferrying her belongings from the spare room back to the master bedroom her mobile in her jeans’ pocket pinged. Miranda. What on earth did she want?

  Can Olivia and I see you tomorrow? Need to talk about your paintings x

  Something to do with the exhibition, she thought. Well, given that it was only a fortnight away there were probably a number of things that needed sorting out.

  Of course, she texted back. Coffee here? Ten?

  Xx was the reply.

  *

  When Maxine woke up the next morning, she realised how much she had missed sleeping next to her husband. She rolled over and spooned against him.

  ‘Morning,’ he yawned.

  Maxine kissed his shoulder. ‘Morning,’ she replied. ‘Tea?’

  ‘No, not just yet. Don’t spoil the moment.’

  She stayed snuggled next to him for a while more and heard his breathing deepen before a gentle snore whiffled over the duvet. Very gently she eased herself away and out from under the covers before she grabbed her dressing gown and padded down to the kitchen to put the kettle on. No more making tea in the altogether, she thought, or not for the foreseeable future, not with Abi and Marcus in the house. But that was going to pass and not a moment too soon. Oh, for the quiet life again when they could please themselves and their house had been their own. As she waited for the water to boil, she thought back to the day, back around Easter, when she’d been caught by Abi, drinking milk from the container and wearing diddly-squat. Four months in actual time but a lifetime in events.

  She made the tea and returned to the bedroom where Gordon was still sleeping. And why not? It was still early, but with her friends visiting for coffee and aware that she hadn’t managed to finish the housework the day before, Maxine felt she needed to get up and get on. Besides, with Abi and Marcus in the next bedroom there was no chance of any connubial relations to celebrate their reconciliation. She put Gordon’s mug on his bedside table and slipped into the en-suite to take a quick shower. On her return to the bedroom, wrapped in a towel he was sitting up in bed sipping his tea.

  ‘Why the urgency?’

  ‘Because I’ve got friends coming for coffee, I haven’t hoovered the carpets, I don’t think we’ve got any decent biscuits in the house so I need to pop out and get some and all this has to be done by ten.’

  ‘You still don’t want to visit Mum, then?’

  ‘Given how things were between your mother and I at our last encounter I don’t think my presence would be helpful.’

  ‘She—’ Gordon started to protest but Maxine cut across him.

  ‘It won’t be.’

  ‘Maybe. And there’s no point in both of us wasting a whole day. I’m really not convinced she’s got a clue that anyone’s there. I sit there because I feel I ought to – that the staff will think I don’t care about her if I don’t but I don’t think I’m achieving anything.’ Poor Gordon sounded sad and helpless. He sighed. ‘I suppose, if Mum is still out of it, having been seen to do my duty, I might come back at lunchtime. It’d be nice to go to the pub together.’

  Maxine raised an eyebrow. ‘A show of solidarity in front of Ella?’ she queried.

  Gordon went brick-red. ‘No… I just thought it’d be good to get back into the old routine. Anyway, it’s usually Belinda behind the bar on a Sunday.’

  ‘Which is true. Yes, I’d like that. I’ll meet you there – twelve thirty.’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  Going to the pub was a tiny glimpse of their old routine and it made Maxine feel quietly happy – like she did when she saw snowdrops or daffs in the spring. The first signs of things getting better after a long winter of gloom.

  32

  Two hours later, Maxine’s moment of quiet happiness was completely forgotten as she sat at the kitchen table and stared, open-mouthed at the images of her pictures on Miranda’s laptop.

  ‘So let me get this straight, you arranged for a professional art dealer to judge our exhibition with a sweetener that I might want him to represent me in selling my work.’

  Miranda nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to ask me first?’

  ‘Because we thought you’d say no,’ said Olivia.

  ‘With good reason, as it turns out,’ snapped Maxine pointing at her stolen pictures.

  ‘But you’re so good,’ insisted Miranda.

  ‘And completely under-rated,’ added Olivia.

  ‘Maybe I like it like that. It’s a hobby. I like doing it, quietly, on my own but now…’

  ‘We’re sorry,’ said Olivia.

  Maxine stared at her two friends. ‘I suppose you want me to forgive you. To say everything is fine, it doesn’t matter you pinched a couple of my sketchbooks, that this was all done behind my back, is that it?’

  ‘We were hoping that Dominic would value the stuff in the exhibition and put a realistic price on your work. That way it might make your family appreciate just how good you are but also raise even more money for the local charities.’

  Maxine shook her head. ‘And now this guy is flogging my pictures – pictures of my friends and family – to all and sundry and cleaning up at my expense.’ She expanded one of the pictures on the screen and peered at it. ‘And that’s my signature. How the hell…?’

  ‘He forged it. He must’ve done,’ said Miranda. ‘We think he copied it off the watercolour you gave Heather. We showed him it and he took a photograph to get an expert opinion from another art dealer.’

  ‘This gets worse and worse.’ She slumped back in her chair. ‘The only thing I’m grateful for right now is that my entire family is out and they needn’t know exactly what’s going on till I’ve got some sort of handle on it all.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,’ said Olivia. ‘This is our fault.’

  Maxine frowned deeply. ‘It may not be my fault, I may be the innocent party here but I’ve still got this horrid feeling that I’ve been…’ she paused, searching for the right word, ‘violated somehow.’

  ‘Oh, Max.’ Olivia was aghast. ‘We never meant…�
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  ‘I know. And it’s foolish. You’re right I should be chuffed to bits there are people out there prepared to pay silly money for my pictures but I feel guilty about that too. They’re being duped as well.’

  ‘Now you’re being silly,’ said Miranda. ‘If people are willing to pay that sort of money it’s because they really like your work. Trust me there’s a lot of choice out there, they don’t have to.’

  ‘Yeah, well…’ Maxine didn’t sound convinced. ‘On the other hand we can’t tell from this website if anyone has actually parted with any cash yet.’

  ‘There’s a police unit which deals with art crime,’ said Miranda.

  ‘They won’t be interested in small fry like me.’ Maxine’s phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. ‘It’s Gordon,’ she said as she accepted the call. She listened for a few seconds before she said, ‘Oh, dear God. I’m on my way.’ She put the phone down. ‘Anthea’s just died.’

  *

  Later Maxine didn’t have much memory of being frog-marched from her house to Miranda’s and shoved in her friend’s car. Considering she’d never liked her mother-in-law, Maxine was taken aback by the emotion that now swept through her. Maybe it was because she knew how dreadful Anthea’s death would make Gordon feel. Maybe it was guilt that her last words to her mother-in-law had been angry ones.

  ‘You ought to ring your daughter,’ said Miranda as she pulled out of her drive and onto the Cattebury road.

  ‘Yes, yes, I should.’ She fumbled around in the bag to find her mobile and then hit the buttons to get Abi. Tearfully she broke the news and listened to Abi’s sobbing response.

  ‘Marcus and I will meet you at the h-h-hospital. We’ll b-b-be as quick as we can.’

  ‘Poor Gordon,’ said Maxine after she’d blown her nose. ‘He’s going to be distraught. This wasn’t unexpected but it’s still a shock.’

  ‘Deaths always are,’ said Miranda. ‘It doesn’t matter how much time you’ve had to prepare – it’s the finality.’

  They drove in silence for a few miles.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so angry about my pictures,’ said Maxine.

  Miranda reached over the central consul and patted Maxine’s knee. ‘In retrospect you had every right to be. We got carried away with trying to make everyone else see what we could see – that you’re really good.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You see… there you go again, doing yourself down. You are. Honestly.’

  ‘But you know what they say – those who can, do; those who can’t, teach. And I’m a teacher. QED.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Miranda. ‘Rembrandt had dozens of students and nobody can accuse him of not being any good.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Maxine didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘I mean,’ said Miranda, ‘when Olivia and I dug out your work not even Gordon or Abi seemed to take the slightest interest in your portfolio. I’m sure you love them to bits and they you, but it was so telling they thought it was your little hobby and not worthy of any sort of attention.’

  Maxine shrugged. ‘But it is… my little hobby.’

  ‘Not if you can sell your stuff for real money.’

  Signs for the hospital began to appear at the roadside.

  ‘Nearly there,’ said Maxine with relief. ‘And we don’t need the money – real or otherwise.’

  ‘That’s not the point. I don’t suppose Hockney needs the cash but he still paints because his fans want to see new work and it’s what he does.’ Miranda turned into the hospital grounds.

  ‘Now you’re being fanciful. I don’t have fans.’

  ‘You might now.’ She slowed the car right down to a crawl as she was confronted by signs with so much information on them it was almost impossible to pick out what was relevant to her. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Take the next right. Drop me at reception – it’ll be perfect.’

  The indicator ticked and a few seconds later they were outside the front door.

  ‘Think about what I said,’ Miranda instructed as Maxine unbuckled her belt and jumped out. ‘And I hope Gordon’s not too devastated. His mum had a good and long life and a dignified death. I think that’s what we’d all like.’

  Maxine felt her eyes pricking as the reality of Anthea’s death reasserted itself. ‘Thanks for the lift and the pep-talk.’ She slammed the door and raised her hand in farewell as Miranda drove away.

  *

  Over the following ten days Maxine had no chance to have any thoughts about painting, Dominic Harcourt or the town’s inaugural art exhibition because, when she wasn’t comforting a bereft Gordon, the pair of them were racing around trying to organise a funeral and sort out Anthea’s affairs.

  In order to do the latter, they drove north some days after her death to evaluate what might need doing. It transpired the answer to that question was ‘a lot’. Maxine and Gordon had had no idea of the extent of the problem as, superficially, the house was neat and tidy; no hint of the chaos that lay beneath the polished mahogany and behind the doors of the closed up spare rooms. Once they had let themselves into the house and had started going through the various rooms, the scale of the job became apparent within the hour. Her filing system consisted of papers, bills or correspondence randomly stuffed into drawers, and the cupboards in the spare rooms and the attic seemed to be full of clothes that hadn’t probably seen the light of day for decades and on which moths must have been feasting for a similar length of time. In amongst everything were some good bits of furniture and some nice silver but, other than that, Gordon and Maxine reckoned most of Anthea’s possessions were fit only for the skip. There were moments of light relief as they found bizarre items that Anthea had squirrelled away: petrol coupons from the 1973 oil crisis; tins of soup with a forty-year-old ‘best before’ date; a suitcase containing old Tupperware boxes; a drawer full of liberty bodices. As each weird gem was unearthed, they found themselves laughing uproariously – their exaggerated mirth probably the release from the deep underlying sadness at having to do this job in the first place. They’d planned only to stay in the house overnight but as each hour passed the task seemed to get bigger rather than diminish.

  Dot, Anthea’s cleaner, and her gardener husband were stalwarts and helped out as much as they could with their local knowledge and contacts, organising the delivery of skips, getting in a local firm of house-clearance specialists, and sorting out a painter and decorator to freshen up the tired and dated decor. They also promised to be around to oversee the contractors when, Maxine and Gordon had to go back to Little Woodford to sort out final arrangements for the funeral on the Thursday and then get on with their own lives.

  They were driving back home when Maxine’s mobile pinged. She pulled it out of her handbag by her feet and stared at the screen. ‘Bugger,’ she muttered.

  ‘Something the matter?’ asked Gordon from the driving seat.

  ‘Not really. That was a text from Olivia asking me if I’m going to be around for the art exhibition. Of course… it’s this weekend. What with one thing and another I’d forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Art exhibition?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you about it?’

  ‘Apparently not. What’s it all about?’

  ‘It’s for the art club members.’

  ‘Oh, them.’ There were a couple of beats of silence. ‘Is this why Olivia wanted to look in your studio some time back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wondered if she’d told you. She and a mate of hers – someone called Miranda – wanted to look at your paintings. Only, they said I wasn’t to say anything about it.’

  ‘Yes, I know all about it – or, more accurately, I got to know about it finally.’

  Gordon stared at the motorway ahead. ‘They seemed quite excited about your stuff.’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I suppose I might as well tell you why I know about their visit, why you were sworn to secrecy and why they too
k some of my sketchbooks. They took them to a London art dealer.’

  That perked up Gordon. ‘No kidding.’ He sounded impressed.

  ‘No, I’m not. And the reason for the subterfuge was they didn’t want me to be disappointed if my work didn’t turn out to be quite as saleable as they thought it might be.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘And it turns out my pictures really are rather good and very saleable.’

  ‘But that’s great!’

  ‘But sadly, the dealer they took them to turns out to be a complete and utter shyster who has nicked a whole book of landscapes and portraits and he’s selling prints of my pictures fraudulently on the internet.’

  Gordon turned and stared at his wife unaware that the car was veering out of its lane. The blaring of a horn brought him back to his senses and he swerved back on course. ‘You what?’

  Maxine told him what she knew.

  ‘And he’s charging how much? For prints?’

  Maxine repeated the sums involved.

  ‘Fuck me,’ whispered Gordon. ‘For your paintings?’

  ‘You’re sounding surprised again.’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve just never thought of you as—’

  ‘A proper painter? Someone with any talent?’

  ‘No. No, of course not. But you’re an art teacher.’

  ‘Stop digging,’ said Maxine, more amused than disappointed.

  Gordon lapsed into an embarrassed silence for a few miles. ‘So,’ he said, ‘this art exhibition…?’

  ‘It’s at the town hall on Saturday and it’s so the art club members can exhibit some of their work and we’ll be selling the paintings with some of the proceeds going to local charities.’

  ‘Are you flogging your work?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’