“Yes.” Eleanor feels nauseous. “I’m still here.”
“Excellent.” Bob’s consuming cheerfulness is unbelievable. “Well, I must fly. I’ve got tons of organising to do. Let’s meet again soon. I adored eating at The Bear.”
“I’ll give you the good news first.” Eleanor puts the tea-tray on the low table and looks at Anne. “I’ve sold the cottage and its furniture for a lot of money, so financially the trip was worth the effort.”
“What a relief! Clever girl.” Anne fills her plate with a mound of cucumber sandwiches. “Who’s buying it?”
Eleanor licks her lips to little effect. “Felix Mitchell.”
“What?” The colour drains from Anne’s face. “The man your father left his money to? So some of it will come to us after all?”
“I suppose it will. Though I had no idea who might buy the cottage until he—”
“Have you met this Mitchell fellow?” Anne stuffs food into her pretty face very fast so nobody else can get at it.
Desperate not to give anything away, Eleanor says flatly, “He came to see the cottage. We agreed the deal. We met with the agent, settled the formal details.”
“And the bad news?” Pink spots burn in Anne’s pale cheeks. “What’s that about?”
“It’s about the past, Mummy. About the life Daddy led before he met you.”
“At last!” Anne’s cup rattles in its saucer. “You’re going to tell me my dearest husband had three fat wives, six spotty children and a smelly Labrador… This will be better than any séance.” Her hands fly to her hair. “Go on, then, Eleanor. Spit it out.”
Eleanor tells Anne as little about Moira as she can get away with: that she’s Felix’s mother, and had been Walter’s lover, and that she vanished from St Ives a long time ago.
Anne’s eyes and mouth harden into a sulk. She pours herself the last of the brandy, staring into the empty bottle as if it’s the enemy on a battlefield.
“I wish I could say I don’t care,” she rasps when Eleanor’s story limps to its frustrating conclusion. “I suppose if the woman had come back, your father would have chased after her like a dog on heat.”
A piece of ginger cake sticks in Eleanor’s throat. “God, Mummy. That’s a shocking thing to say.”
“Oh, don’t be such a hypocrite.” Anne stands up, brushing crumbs from her black skirt. “Did I tell you Rosie Perkins paid me a visit while you were in Cornwall?”
Eleanor flushes with anger. “I gave her strict instructions to stay away.”
“I suppose you thought I knew nothing about her squalid affair with your father—”
“I’d no idea you knew.”
“Woodstock’s a small place. People gossip. There are many other ladies, like our darling Rosie, who’d have jumped at the chance of having Walter in their bed.”
Eleanor’s heart thumps, cold with shock. “Who told you about their affair?”
“Does it matter?” Anne shrugs. “You shouldn’t have given the hussy a single penny. She wanted another twenty-five guineas! The brazen cheek of the woman… Anyway, I sent her packing, and she won’t be coming back.” She strides towards the door. “I’m made of sterner stuff than you imagine, dear daughter of mine. I can stand up for myself, so don’t think you have to spend your life protecting me from all the silly little Rosies of Woodstock.”
Eleanor heaves her suitcase out of the Morris and trails it into the kitchen. At that particular moment she’d give anything to climb into the car and drive back to St Ives. Thinking about Felix, remembering their words of love, is beginning to consume her soul. What will she do without him? Mark off the days? Write him a love letter every morning? Walk in Blenheim, chanting his name with every step? Count the petals on spring flowers: he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…
Dusk has fallen. Trees stand miraculously heavy with leaf. Spring has deepened since her departure. The air smells of newly-cut grass – the first cut of the year. A blackbird on the dry-stone wall sings blithely for its mate.
She goes back to the Morris, unloads Walter’s paintings, carries them into his studio and leans them against a wall. The last painting she pulls out is by Felix, of him and Walter in the Driftwood attic. Eleanor hauls it up to her room, running her fingers over the intricate brushwork, desperate to be with her lover. Then, swiftly, she slides the painting underneath her bed.
Anne emerges from her bedroom wearing a turquoise skirt and a pale blue cardigan. She throws a bundle of black clothes over the banisters.
“You can dump those ghastly rags on the bonfire. My days of mourning are over.” She gives Eleanor an empty smile. “And there’ll be no more séances, either. Fat lot of use those were!”
“Don’t be bitter.” Eleanor swings her arms around her mother. “I’m sure Daddy loved you more than anyone.”
“Indeed? He loved me so much he couldn’t even tell me the truth about that Moira woman… I’m going back to Sylvia’s. She’ll be desperate to hear my news.”
May Day
Woodstock, 1936
May Day dawns bright and clear. Eleanor lies in bed, imagining Felix beside her, wondering if he’s awake, whether there’ll be a letter. In the bathroom, she turns on the taps full blast, knowing she must be sensible. Decide what to do with Moira’s letters and her father’s paintings. Go to see Robin and Michael. Deal with the paperwork. Tell Jonny about her trip. Open the shop. Pretend that nothing’s happened.
But when she walks across the street at nine o’clock and rings the bell of Giffen Antiques, there’s no answer. Alarmed, she peers in the window. The shop’s interior looks exactly the same, but at the first-floor windows the curtains are still drawn.
Worried, Eleanor races home and dials Jonny’s number. After fourteen rings, she’s almost given up. Then a voice answers. “Jonny Giffen here… Hello?” He sounds befuddled, as if he’s been dragged out of a drug-filled sleep.
“Jonny, this is Eleanor. I got home yesterday. I’m sorry I missed the funeral. I tried to open the shop just now, but… Are you all right?” Eleanor hears the sound of sobbing. “I’m coming over right now. Let me in.”
Jonny stands shivering in the doorway. Eleanor’s shocked by the sight of him. His face is pale and tear-stained, his hair hangs in tousled curls, his eyes are bloodshot, his feet bare. He clutches at a crumpled dressing-gown.
“Jonny Giffen! Look at the state of you!”
“I’m sorry, Eleanor… Good to see you. Thanks for sending me that telegram.” He runs a trembling hand through his hair. “I managed to hold things together until after the funeral.” He blinks back tears. “Then I came home and it hit me… I couldn’t stop crying. I’ll never see Mum again. I don’t know what to do without her.”
Eleanor takes his arm. “Have you had breakfast?”
“I couldn’t eat a thing—”
“Oh, yes, you could.” She pushes Jonny into the shop, leaving the sign saying CLOSED. “Go and have a bath and get dressed. I’ll make you scrambled eggs and coffee. We can talk. And then we’ll open the shop.”
Jonny traipses upstairs ahead of her. “I don’t want to open it ever again. I’ll probably sell it, lock, stock and barrel. My life is pointless—”
“Stuff and nonsense. You adore your little haven and every precious piece in it.”
Jonny emerges in fresh clothes, clean-shaven, his hair wet. He starts to talk: all through breakfast, which he swallows as if he hasn’t eaten for days; through the half an hour during which he and Eleanor wash and dry a week’s dishes; through the rest of the morning which they spend with the shop open; through the luncheon they eat at The Bear; and throughout the afternoon when they walk around Blenheim’s lake, its waters glittering under the May Day sun.
By five o’clock Eleanor’s exhausted. She has listened to the history of Jonny’s family, his life, his l
oves, his business, and every detail of his mother’s death – even though she has spent most of the time thinking about Felix, and longing for the sight and sound of him.
Finally they walk back through Woodstock and stop outside her door.
“Thanks for rescuing me, Eleanor… I was on the verge of giving up.”
“The only way to get over your mother’s death is to keep busy, every minute of the day. That’s how I dealt with losing Daddy. Time does heal.”
“You’re older than your years, Eleanor.” Jonny smiles at her, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling with approval. “Shall I see you on Monday? Can you manage full days until I find extra help? I’ll pay you three guineas a week for holding the fort.”
“Of course.” Eleanor hesitates. Soon she’ll have a substantial sum of money in the bank. She won’t need to work for Jonny. She can plan what she really wants to do. But now isn’t the time to discuss anything. Not once has Jonny asked her about Cornwall: his problems have blotted out everything. “But I think you should get away for a while. Drive to Aberystwyth. Take a few days off. Come home refreshed.”
“What a fantastic idea!” Relief floods Jonny’s face. “Can you manage?”
“I may have a long list of queries but I’ll be fine.”
“You’re such a wonderful girl… I’ll tell Darren you’re taking over.”
“Give me a set of keys on Monday morning, show me how to work the combination for the safe. Then forget about me.”
Jonny touches her shoulder. The Blenheim air has blown colour into his cheeks. “I could never forget you, Eleanor.” He hesitates, as if he wants to say more. But he bites back the words and turns away.
Walter’s Portraits
Woodstock, 1936
Eleanor waits until they’ve eaten Sunday luncheon before she faces Anne with her extraordinary idea. Her mother wears a pink cashmere twin-set and a long plum-red skirt. Yesterday afternoon, while Eleanor had patiently dealt with Jonny, Anne went to the Woodstock hairdresser. Her conker-brown hair now curls on her shoulders. She looks an attractive, stylish thirty.
Eleanor nurses a cup of coffee. “I want to talk to you about Daddy’s paintings.”
“Which ones? There aren’t many left in the studio, are there?”
“There are some finished landscapes, and one I bought in St Ives.” Eleanor bites her lip, remembering having Felix by her side, watching him carry the painting back to St Andrews Street. How long ago had it been?
“Oh?” Anne looks bored and offended. “Why don’t you chop them up and make a bonfire? I’ll dance around it, singing while they burn.”
“Because I now have lots of Daddy’s paintings I’d never seen before. They were hanging in the cottage, waiting for me.”
There’s an icy silence.
Eventually Anne says, “More of the same old stuff, I assume?”
“No, anything but. They’re portraits of different people. Wonderful, youthful work, strong and full of life.”
Anne frowns. “I never saw your father look at anything but skies and clouds—”
“The landscapes came later.” Eleanor keeps her eyes on Anne’s face. “Daddy was originally a portrait painter. It wasn’t until Moira vanished he decided he couldn’t paint people because every face he looked at reminded him of her.”
Anne flushes scarlet. “Did they indeed! How the hell do you know that?”
Silently, Eleanor curses herself. She’s almost given the game away. “Felix told me. We were discussing the paintings he wanted to buy.”
“Hmm.” Anne relapses into silent hostility.
“The point is,” Eleanor’s desperate to avoid any further mention of Moira or Felix, “I’ve had a brilliant idea about how we could sell them.”
“Take them to that St John’s Wood gallery. The one that was closed in January.”
“I lied to you.” Eleanor keeps her voice steady. “I did meet the owner, and very unpleasant it was, too. The Topaz Gallery hasn’t bought any of Daddy’s work for more than three years.”
“You never told me!”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Really, Eleanor, I’m not a child—”
“No, but that night you had your first séance with Sylvia… I just thought—”
“That I couldn’t cope with reality? I suppose I was in rather a state.” Anne wears a new expression, nearly apologetic. “Where are these portraits, anyway?”
“In the studio.”
Anne stands up, smoothing her skirt over her thighs. “Well, then, dutiful daughter of mine, you’d better let me see them.”
Eleanor says rapidly, before she loses her nerve, “I want us to have an exhibition, here in the house. We could have a two-day open-house, on a Friday and Saturday, as a memorial to Daddy.”
“Good heavens, girl! When did you dream up that idea!”
“Last night.” Eleanor seizes her mother’s pampered hands. “We could invite everyone we know, give them a glass of wine, label the paintings, put red dots on the frames when they’re sold, just like in a proper gallery.” She flushes with excitement. “What do you think?”
Anne looks taken aback. “And what if nobody buys them? The event might fall flat as a pancake. It’ll be too embarrassing for words. I’d never live it down.”
“Look at the paintings before you decide. I think they’ll sell like hot cakes.”
Eleanor had spent the morning in Walter’s studio. She’d left the door open so the mild spring air could flood it with warmth. Now, as she steps inside, she’s struck once again by the portraits’ youthful vigour, their use of colour, their subtle blend of sensitivity and confidence.
Anne looks straight at the self-portraits, catching her breath. “My God! Those are wonderful. Is the baby that Felix Mitchell fellow?”
“Yes.” Eleanor feels a giveaway blush staining her cheeks.
“They are good… All of them… I thought there’d be some of Moira.”
“There were three, but Felix wanted to keep them.”
“What a pity!” Anne’s voice rasps. “I’d have adored to see what she looked like.”
Eleanor ignores the bitterness. “So, what’s the verdict? Shall we hold an exhibition of Daddy’s work?”
Anne presses her lips together. Eleanor realises her mother’s holding back her tears. Then, “Why not?” Anne sounds calm and light. “Better to have money in our pockets than these portraits mouldering in this dump.” Her eyes glitter. “Anyway, now you’ve told me your father’s story, those murky shadows I’ve been doing battle with have given up their ghost. I’m in the mood to party.”
“I know you won’t be disappointed. Let’s set a date… Shall we say Friday the 22nd and Saturday the 23rd of May? I think we should get a decorator for the downstairs rooms. Give the portraits space to breathe. I’ll organise a printed list. I want it to be a successful, professional event.”
“You have thought it through, haven’t you?” Anne gives her an appraising stare. “Do you think you could afford to buy me a new frock for the occasion? So I can act the merry widow with a bit of style?”
Talking to Kathleen
Woodstock, 1936
The mild May weather breaks on Monday morning. Eleanor waves Jonny goodbye as drizzle darkens the Woodstock sky and hangs in the air like soapsuds. She remembers – was it only a week ago? – racing back to The Hideaway with Felix through stinging pellets of rain; finding him stretched out on the sofa; watching him sleep and wake…
She longs to turn back the clock.
She steps into Giffen Antiques. Although she enjoys working there, it’s not the challenge it once was. It’s time to move on.
There’s been no letter from Felix. Eleanor hadn’t really expected one, but she’s desperate to hear from him. She’s s
ure of only one thing: Felix will paint her portrait. He’d made a dozen sketches, saying he could hardly wait to start working in oils.
When the shop is empty of customers, Eleanor remembers their walks across the cliffs, watching the sun set over Porthmeor Beach, dancing in his arms. Talking to him about Walter, about Moira’s disappearance. Sharing his pain. Wanting to take it from him, to heal the gaping wound. Promising she’ll never leave him.
Memories of their night together shine like jewels in her mind.
Eleanor plans the exhibition carefully, giving each portrait a name and price. She includes the landscape she bought in St Ives, deciding not to give it to Jonny, and five other paintings from Walter’s studio.
The following Wednesday afternoon, she drives to a printer in Oxford with the list of paintings. She commissions a four-page leaflet, together with an invitation to the open-house event. They discuss a design and format; Eleanor arranges to see proofs the following week.
While Darren minds the shop, Eleanor meets with a delighted Michael to finalise the sale of The Hideaway, and with Robin to tell him the good news. His beady little eyes light up when Eleanor tells him the amount of money involved.
“If you’re careful, it’ll be enough to give you and your mother financial security for a good while yet. And Giffen Antiques can continue to be a useful, practical stepping-stone until you marry.”
Eleanor flushes. “I’ve no intention of doing either. Jonny Giffen’s taught me a lot about antiques, but I want to invest some money in my own venture.”
Robin squirms. “But not on your own,” he murmurs. “Not without the help of a husband to support you.”
“And what’s wrong with me supporting myself?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, Miss Drummond,” Robin blusters, his fingers twitching over his tie. “It’s an admirable ambition. It’s just most unusual. As your bank manager, I’d never advise you to take unnecessary financial risks.”
The Choice Page 24