Homes and Hearths in Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

‘How much for?’

  ‘Given what that git Dominic thinks a mere print is worth I did think of asking rather more for an original.’

  Gordon whistled.

  ‘But then, this is Little Woodford so I thought I’d be more realistic.’

  ‘How realistic.’

  ‘Two hundred – each.’

  ‘Still a tidy sum. Fancy your paintings being worth real money.’

  ‘You’ve started digging again.’

  33

  The funeral was a low key affair at the local crem attended by the immediate family, Dot and her husband and Pearl. Anthea’s remaining friends in her village were too old and frail themselves to travel and almost everyone else in her ancient address book had died or had gone ga-ga. It was sad that there were so few people to celebrate her life but they were comforted by the fact that, as Miranda had pointed out to Maxine, she’d had a ‘good death’.

  The mourners returned to the house for a buffet lunch and the seven of them sat around Maxine’s big kitchen eating sandwiches, drinking wine or soft drinks depending on who had to drive, and reminiscing about Anthea until Pearl left to go back to work – ‘They could only give me a couple of hours off’ – and Dot and her husband hit the motorway hoping to get the worst of the journey over before the rush hour struck. Abi helped her mother put clingfilm over the remaining food and to stack the dishwasher.

  ‘There,’ said Abi, as she put in a tablet and slammed shut the door. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No,’ said Maxine looking around her and instantly spotting a plate that had been missed. She put it in the sink to wait for the next dishwasher program. ‘How’s your house?’

  Instantly Abi was wary. ‘Are you going to have a go at me about moving out?’

  Maxine glanced at a half full bottle of red wine on the counter and was tempted to pour herself a glass. Did everything have to be so confrontational? ‘I’m asking because I’m interested.’

  ‘Really? Your interest usually stops short at how soon we can move out.’

  ‘Yes, that’s partly true but surely you want to move out too?’

  ‘Too right we do.’

  She glanced again at the bottle. No, don’t. ‘Has Steven given you any indication of when that will be?’

  ‘September.’

  ‘Next month.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘That’s great news.’

  ‘If there aren’t any more hitches.’

  ‘I think,’ said Maxine, ‘Steven would have found anything else by now.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Are you going to go over this weekend?’

  ‘No point really. We did a lot to the garden the last time and we can’t do anything to the inside while the plaster is still wet.’

  ‘Plaster – that sounds like a big step forward.’

  Abi nodded.

  ‘So, if you’re at a loose end this weekend—’

  ‘God, what do you want us to do now?’

  ‘Nothing. But there’s an art exhibition in town and some of my pictures are going to be in it.’

  ‘Yours?’

  Like father like daughter, thought Maxine. ‘Yes, mine. I thought you might like to come along and have a look.’ Abi looked sceptical. ‘There’s no entrance fee.’

  ‘Oh, well… Maybe.’ Then, ‘Did Dad say something about you getting ripped off by some con artist?’

  ‘I’ve not been ripped off like I’ve had my bank account hacked but…’ and Maxine told her daughter about Dominic.

  ‘And you’ve let him get away with it?’

  ‘Not really, but Granny died just as I found out about it and Daddy and I had a lot to deal with.’

  ‘Best you get back on it.’

  ‘And how do you suggest I do that? It’s not as if he’s selling my pictures from a physical shop. I can hardly go and knock on the door of an internet site and demand reparation.’

  ‘There must be a way.’

  ‘If you’re so clever, you do it.’

  ‘God, Mum! As if I haven’t got enough on my plate what with work and the house and everything. The thing that amazes me is that he thought your pictures were worth nicking.’ And with that Abi went upstairs to her bedroom leaving Maxine reaching for a glass.

  *

  The summer weather broke the day of the art exhibition and the glorious sunshine they’d experienced for weeks gave way to drizzle. Gordon was glad because his garden had been suffering in the drought but Maxine reckoned that the chances of the townsfolk turning out in numbers in the rain to look at some pictures had been drastically reduced.

  Never mind, she told herself as she walked across the soggy nature reserve. People hadn’t bothered to look at her pictures in the past; it wouldn’t make much difference to her if they didn’t now. Except Miranda and Olivia had put a lot of effort into organising this exhibition and it would be a shame if their endeavours went unnoticed and unrecognised. She felt a twinge of guilt as she walked; she should have done more to help, and she would have done if she hadn’t been wrapped up in Anthea’s death. She hadn’t even been over to the town hall to help them hang the pictures. She’d make it up now by giving all her proceeds to charity and by helping with the clearing up. It was the least she could do.

  She got to the town hall an hour before the exhibition was due to start and was surprised to see a number of trucks parked in the market square. That won’t be popular with people coming into the town to shop later on, she thought, as she pushed open the front door. As she went in she could hear movement in the main chamber and made her way up the stairs.

  ‘Cooee,’ she called, her voice echoing on the bare stone treads. ‘Miranda? Olivia?’

  She pushed open the door to the council chamber and found a young man with a massive reel of cabling busy plugging in some seriously large lights that were spaced in between the big display boards where the pictures were hung. The uniform frames made the exhibition look incredibly professional – Maxine was impressed.

  ‘Gosh,’ she said before she turned her attention to the young man. ‘And you are?’

  The lad put down his cable and stuck out a hand. ‘Josh. Josh Barratt – I’m from Upper Circle.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The arts programme.’

  Maxine was none the wiser. ‘What?’

  ‘Upper Circle – it’s on TV. We cover the arts, everything; film, theatre, literature, exhibitions, the lot.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we’re doing a programme about undiscovered talent.’

  ‘But… why?’

  ‘I dunno. I’m just the lighting man. Me? I obey orders, go where I’m told and fix the lights. You’ll need to ask the producer. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  As he turned away Maxine could hear several more sets of footsteps on the stairs and then a group of half a dozen people entered the chamber, including Miranda. Apart from Miranda, who was dressed in her customary white jeans and black top, the others seemed to be trying to emulate butterflies with jewel colours, brilliant scarves, and oversized jewellery.

  ‘Maxine, you’re early,’ exclaimed Miranda.

  ‘I thought I ought to help as I’ve done nothing so far.’

  ‘You’ve had other things to think about,’ said Miranda.

  ‘And what’s going on? Who are all these people?’

  ‘A TV crew.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘They’re going to do a programme about the art club.’

  ‘But… why?’ Maxine was completely dumbfounded.

  ‘Because your art club is representative of art clubs up and down the country and is a perfect example of amateurs being a huge source of unrecognised talent. Think MasterChef with paints rather than food.’

  ‘But why our art club.’

  ‘Because I asked them to come.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Because I let you down. Because it was my fault your paintings were stolen, because the police weren’t interested—’


  ‘I told you they wouldn’t care about an amateur.’

  ‘And because I have contacts in the trade.’

  ‘Really?’

  Miranda nodded. ‘The first rule of anything has always been it’s who you know, not what you know. And I know all sorts of useful people.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh… one just does. But, in this particular instance, via a chap called Emanuel Holland who owns a real pukka gallery. Sadly, I knew he wouldn’t want your watercolours as he doesn’t take contemporary works or I’d have offered your portfolio to him. But, he has a huge circle of friends and acquaintances especially in the media so – Bob’s your uncle.’ Miranda grinned. ‘The thing about the arts is that most success is predicated on talent and luck – with luck being the most important and most elusive aspect. You need that lucky break to get you from standing in the wings to being in the spotlight. And today,’ and Miranda gestured to some of the huge free-standing lighting rigs in the town hall, ‘I have every intention of putting your work in the spotlight. Well, and the rest of the art club’s stuff too, of course, but as you are the stand-out star of the show I think the focus will be on your pictures.’

  ‘But… but I’m … I don’t… No!’

  ‘Why not?’ Miranda was baffled.

  ‘Because… because…’

  ‘Because you feel you’re not worthy? Because you’re not good enough?’ Miranda stared at Maxine. ‘Balderdash!’

  Miranda’s vehemence silenced Maxine.

  ‘Now then,’ continued Miranda, ‘I need to introduce you to some folk and in particular to Isadora, the producer and she’s also their main interviewer.’ She took Maxine’s arm and led her to one of the bright butterflies who were gathered in the corner of the chamber, pouring over some paperwork.

  ‘Isadora, this is Maxine.’

  The woman, a thirty-something stick insect with purple and turquoise eye make-up which matched her purple and turquoise hair highlights and contrasted with her vermilion and yellow kaftan turned and beamed at Maxine.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she trilled. ‘So delightful to meet you. Miranda has been telling me all about you and your club. Such talent.’

  ‘They’re a great bunch,’ said Maxine with enthusiasm.

  ‘I was talking about you.’

  Maxine could feel herself blushing. ‘No…’

  ‘No false modesty, please.’

  Maxine wanted to tell her there was nothing false about her modesty but decided that there was no point.

  ‘Now then, we’re going to need to interview you – just a few words about why you set up the art club, where you meet, how often you exhibit your work, general stuff about it and the members. And we need you to sign a release form allowing us to broadcast the material we film.’

  ‘I suppose. I don’t know about the members all being happy about their work being included.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that; that’s all been taken care of.’

  ‘They all know about this?’

  Isadora blinked slowly. ‘Of course. You can’t think this is all spur of the moment.’

  Maxine had assumed it was. Surely an arts magazine programme had to be prepared to respond to events as and when they happened?

  ‘Miranda proposed this to us almost a couple of weeks ago, didn’t you, Miranda.’

  While she’d been up at Anthea’s house Miranda had been organising this. And hadn’t shared a word of it to her although, clearly, the rest of the art club had been in on it. Why?

  Maxine turned to Miranda. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because you’d have said no. Honestly, Maxine, sometimes you’re your own worst enemy. I reckoned that if I produced a fait accompli you’d have no choice.’ She gestured to the hall, the lights, the crew that were setting everything up. ‘Et voila.’

  She was right.

  ‘Now then,’ said Isadora, ‘I think we need to give you a quick once-over with some powder and lippy.’ She clicked her fingers and a young kid with a toolbag of make-up brushes hung around her waist appeared. ‘Darling, work your magic on Maxine, here.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But nothing,’ said Isadora. ‘TV lights are very unforgiving. Giselle will make sure you don’t look too hagg— Giselle will make sure you look your best.’

  Maxine allowed herself to be led away into a quiet corner where Giselle sat her down and began to work. It was going to be rather more than lippy and powder, Maxine realised, but it was rather nice to have someone gussie her up.

  After the calm of being made up, which took a good quarter of an hour, it all got rather hectic. First Maxine was interviewed and each question seemed to involve several takes, then they did some cut-away shots so it looked as if they had more than one camera, then Maxine was asked to talk about some of the paintings in the exhibition and halfway through all of this the public was allowed in. First it was a trickle, mostly friends and relatives of the art club members but then, as word spread around the town that a TV company was filming, it was as if someone opened the sluice gates and a flood poured in.

  Finally, Isadora finished with her and Maxine was free to grab a cuppa from the WI table in the corner.

  ‘Isn’t this a triumph?’ enthused Heather as she handed over a large mug of tea to Maxine.

  ‘It’s all a bit bonkers if you ask me.’

  ‘Miranda says loads of the paintings have been sold. The local charities are going to really benefit from this. You must be thrilled.’

  Maxine wasn’t sure she was. It was all ridiculously surreal. She finished her tea and went to look at the pictures that the club members had chosen to exhibit. Framed, mounted and beautifully lit, some of them were really rather good. Maxine felt a bubble of pride that her little group had come so far in a few months. Just think what they might achieve in a few years. And, gratifyingly many of the pictures had little red dots on the frames indicating they’d been sold. She looked at the price tags pinned discreetly to the side of the exhibits. Mostly they seemed to have been valued at between twenty to fifty pounds – although the frames had to be worth at least a tenner of that, thought Maxine. She drifted along the display stands and saw her work at the end. All three pictures had dots. Coo. She felt even more chuffed and somewhat relieved. It would have been rather embarrassing if no one had wanted to buy her work. And then she realised almost simultaneously that she’d not discussed with Miranda or Olivia what price tag she’d decided on. She peered at the little paper label of the nearest one and her jaw dropped. Five hundred pounds! And someone had paid it?! Hell’s teeth. She looked at the other two price tags and read the same.

  ‘They were almost the first to go,’ said Miranda behind her.

  Maxine spun round. ‘But that’s a ridiculous amount of money.’

  ‘It isn’t for pictures of that quality,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Come off it.’ But Maxine couldn’t deny that someone – or even several people – had been prepared to shell out for her work.

  ‘Well done, darling,’ said Gordon, joining them. He had Abi and Marcus in tow. ‘We’d have congratulated you earlier but you were busy being interviewed.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Maxine still felt quite dazed.

  ‘Darling!’ Judith bowled up, arms outstretched. ‘What a clever, clever big sister I’ve got. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you. And look,’ she tapped one of the price tags with her ruby-red fingernail. ‘Look at the prices you’ve commanded.’

  ‘I know. It’s mad, isn’t it?’ But Maxine couldn’t help grinning broadly. She looked around at her smiling family. They weren’t such a bad lot and it was lovely to be appreciated. It made up for all those times of not being appreciated.

  ‘And it must make up for that con artist nicking your other stuff?’ said Gordon.

  ‘Yea, it rather does. Although I’m still livid he did, and there seems to be no redress but worse things happen to people.’

  ‘Well done, Mum,’ said Abi. ‘I’ve got to admit I’m a b
it surprised at how good people think you are but hey, they do. No accounting for taste. And talking of taste and people who rate your work… have you got anywhere with that slimeball who nicked your stuff?’

  Maxine sighed. ‘I haven’t a clue where to start. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because you should. He’s making money out of you and it’s not right.’

  ‘No, it’s not, but what’s done is done.’

  ‘Which means you’ve not done anything.’

  ‘No.’

  Abi sighed. ‘Mum, you’re hopeless. Thank God you can knock out some more pictures to recoup your losses.’

  Maxine didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  34

  Abi and Marcus left the exhibition and trudged back across the nature reserve to the house. The rain had stopped but the sky was overcast and a sharp breeze harried the lowering clouds swiftly across it while the tall, tawny grasses that fringed the paths dripped into the puddles. Abi thrust her hands into her jacket pockets.

  ‘Mum is hopeless,’ she told Marcus.

  ‘That’s being unfair. Her paintings were lovely. I thought you said she wasn’t any good.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t talking about her art stuff. I mean about going after the bloke that nicked her other pictures.’

  ‘But she’s right – what can she do?’

  ‘If he’s selling them on-line there has to be a way of getting in touch with him. She hasn’t even looked at that option.’

  ‘Look, if your mother wants to let it go, I don’t think it’s for you to interfere.’

  ‘No? Well, from what Olivia told me, this bloke could be making thousands out of Mum. Our family should have that money, not him.’

  Marcus noticed that Abi hadn’t said my Mum should have that money. ‘If you’re so keen, you do it.’

  ‘Mum said that. Like I’ve got the time.’

  ‘It’s only an internet search.’

  ‘I don’t even know his name.’

  ‘Then find out – those two mates of your ma’s, Olivia and the other one, they’ll know.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘It’d be a way of thanking your ma for putting us up all this time.’

  Abi snorted. ‘Huh, she should be thanking us for everything we did when Granny was in hospital.’