by Kathy Shuker
‘No.’ He flicked her a glance. ‘It’s a glaze for the cheeks. If it needs more, I’ll put another layer on later. Building it up like that gives the picture more depth, makes the skin look more alive. We don’t want her looking like a common tart with make-up plastered on.’
He picked up a fine flat paintbrush and Terri watched him dip the brush into the glaze. ‘Was there something else?’ he remarked acidly, squeezing the excess from the brush.
‘Do you mind if I watch you put it on?’
He hesitated. ‘If you must.’ He leaned forward, carefully applying the oily mix. ‘The oil will make it slow to dry. But the lower levels have less oil in them so they dry more quickly. Otherwise the painting might crack.’
‘Fat on lean,’ recited Terri.
‘Exactly.’ Peter lifted the brush from the canvas and regarded his work critically. ‘So they teach you practical stuff like that in fancy art history degrees do they?’
‘Some do. But I already knew it from my father.’
Peter turned and rested mildly curious eyes on her. ‘Artist, was he?’
She shook her head. ‘A conservator. He used to complain that some galleries like their old paintings cleaned up too much. He said they ended up stripping off the top oily glazes till they were nothing like the artist intended. And he was right: I’ve seen some like that.’
Peter grunted. ‘I wonder what savagery people’ll do to my pictures in a couple of hundred years.’ He studied the painting again and waved an impatient arm at her. ‘For Christ’s sake, woman, just bugger off will you? You’re putting me off.’
Terri took her coffee back to her office. It was strangely comforting having Peter grumble at her in that way: normal and reassuring. She deleted the message from Sophie, keen to have its contents removed from her inbox, then made out a card for ‘The Boy with Olive Eyes’, placing it down on the year 1978 of her timeline. Her gaze slid back to 1974 and then was drawn inevitably towards the hidden canvas at the back of the room, the mysterious Tom.
*
Peter eased himself back into Celia’s armchair and watched his sister busy herself in the little kitchen at the back of the room. It was some time since he’d last visited the pigeonnier; he always dreaded that she would ask him to look at her paintings. He still remembered venturing to make a helpful suggestion – many years ago now – only to be told forcefully that he did not understand what she was trying to do. He hadn’t expressed an opinion since. He thought they were beyond help anyway.
Celia approached him with a glass of red wine in each hand and leaned over to put one down on the small table to his right. She sat in the chair facing him and raised her glass.
‘Santé,’ she said.
Peter picked up his glass. ‘Santé.’
‘Mm, good wine. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘So-o, you come bearing gifts.’ She raised her eyebrows, looking at him quizzically. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’
‘You say that as if I’d never done it before. We’ve often shared a bottle of wine.’
‘Indeed, though not recently. Does Angela know you’re here?’
‘She’s out. It’s her yoga class tonight, I believe.’
‘Yoga?’ Celia snorted. ‘It doesn’t seem to have done much for her inner calm.’
‘Please Celia.’
Celia grinned and sat back in the chair, taking another sip of wine. It was seven-thirty in the evening but still she wore her blue dungarees. There was cadmium red paint in her hair and the residue of a darker pigment under the nails of her right hand. Angela kept insisting that Celia was ‘losing it’ and that she would need more attention before long than could be provided at Le Chant. But Peter thought Angela was dramatizing the situation. Celia showed no sign of being unable to manage or even of being disorientated. She behaved oddly, certainly, and had done so for a number of years. He was personally convinced that she took great pleasure in it. With him, she could be impressively sensible at times; it was Angela who brought out the worst in her. The feud between them was childish and infuriating but he had long since abandoned any attempt to encourage them to patch it up.
‘How are you getting on with Terri then?’ she enquired. ‘Pretty little thing.’
Peter grunted. ‘For Pete’s sake, Celia, don’t patronise her. You make her sound like a bit of a girl. She’s a grown woman.’
‘So she’s good then?’
‘Well, she certainly knows one side of a picture from the other,’ he conceded. ‘Her father was a picture restorer, you know. Probably explains her interest.’
‘And her mother?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ He hesitated and sipped at his wine. ‘Why are you so interested in Terri anyway? Angela tells me you’ve been pestering her.’
‘I have not.’
Peter sighed. Why had he let Angela talk him into doing this? In some ways Celia was the only person he felt he could be himself with. Why could he not just have a quiet drink with her without always getting caught between them? He stared at his wine glass uncomfortably. ‘Angela said that you caused a scene at one of her parties and embarrassed Terri. Apparently Terri didn’t go to the party last Saturday. She said she had a headache but Angela is sure that it was because of you.’
‘Well I’m sorry if I embarrassed her,’ said Celia. ‘I didn’t mean to. Has Terri complained?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there you are then.’
Peter took another, larger, mouthful of wine, wondering if Terri would be likely to say anything to him if his sister had upset her. On the experience of the last few weeks, if it was something which affected her work, he thought she would complain promptly and loudly; if it was a personal issue, he rather suspected that she would let it go. ‘Celia gets fixated on people,’ Angela had said to him. ‘You know she does, Peter. It’s embarrassing sometimes and I imagine can even feel a bit threatening. And now she’s doing it with Terri. She turned up at the last party, uninvited, and hounded the girl. You should have a word with her. You’re the only one she listens to.’ But Peter did not want to get involved in this enduring squabble. In any case, he was sure that Terri was quite capable of looking after herself.
‘I see your hand’s moving better,’ Celia remarked, breaking into his thoughts.
Peter automatically flexed and straightened the fingers of his left hand, studying it with an intense expression. ‘Should be with all the work that bossy physio’s making me do,’ he muttered.
‘No pain, no gain,’ said Celia blithely. She paused. ‘And it was Terri who persuaded you to have some treatment, I think you said. A good thing too.’
Peter grunted a vague agreement, abandoning his exercises and drinking some wine.
‘I suppose you, of all people, must have noticed,’ Celia remarked casually and paused, an arch expression on her face.
‘If you have something to say, Celia, say it will you? I’m too old for tantalising conversations.’
‘Well, Terri...I mean it seems so obvious to me. She’s the absolute spit of Madeleine, God rest her soul.’
‘What? Oh don’t be absurd Celia. She’s nothing like.’
‘You mean you really don’t see it? Look at her eyes, Peter – so similar. And have you noticed the way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking about something? Do you remember?’
‘Remember? Of course I remember.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not listening. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.’ His chest felt tight as if he couldn’t breathe properly and his hand was shaking; he carefully steadied his glass on the arm of the chair. ‘You’ve said all this before, Celia. Remember that student I had and...and...and the bonne? When is it going to stop? If it’s some sort of game you’re playing, it’s in very poor taste.’ He unsteadily tipped the remaining wine into his mouth.
‘I’m sorry if it hurts, Peter. But of course it’s not a game. I meant it, truly I did. Of course I’ve made mistakes. But Terri’s different
, I promise you. She is really. I have no desire to upset you. Let me get you some more wine. It’s good, isn’t it?’ She stood up and crossed to where he sat but, instead of taking his glass she rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t keep blaming yourself, dear,’ she said softly. ‘You were upset...beside yourself. It’s time to let it go. It was long since.’ She raised her hand and patted him playfully just once. ‘Do you fancy some apple tart? I got it at the market on Saturday but there’s too much for one.’
Peter stared into mid-air while Celia wandered back to the kitchen. A flood of painful images vied for position in his mind’s eye. How could he let them go if she kept reminding him about them?
*
May was nearly over and the temperature had already risen to levels more common for the middle of summer in England. Yet still no-one used the pool. Terri was surprised. Once or twice she had seen Angela sunbathing by it, her face carefully shaded by a large-brimmed hat, her limbs anointed in oil, but she never saw her break the surface of the water. Sami checked it regularly - Terri had seen him staring into its depths – and he set a machine to clean it every morning, but it was as if the pool was there for show only: the obligatory accoutrement of a Provençal villa.
And Terri doubted if she should be disturbing it either. She had exaggerated to Sophie, keen, in the face of her friend’s happiness, to give the impression that she was having a good time. Only once had she been for a swim, on a beautiful day the previous week, and had been disconcerted to notice Sami pause in the pushing of his wheelbarrow on the pathway above to watch her for a couple of minutes before moving on. She wondered if Angela’s invitation to her to use the pool had been a polite perfunctory affair, proffered with no real expectation of it being taken up. Terri increasingly felt as if she were living on a film set, the house mostly composed of background scenery to occasional, carefully scripted conversations.
Even so, leaving the studio the following Wednesday, sticky and tired, she toyed with going for a swim again, and took the longer route round by way of the pool to see if anyone was in it already. She paused at the top of the olive grove, looking down to where the water glinted in the sunshine. Of course, there was no-one there. She hesitated, imagining the soothing sensation of the gently heated water against her skin. Did anyone really care what she did? Was it just her imagination that made her think people had begun to watch her? Her grandmother’s voice waltzed into her head. I saw you sneaking outside, young lady. What do you do out there? And don’t say ‘nothing’. I hate that. Why do you have to be so secretive? Terri no longer saw the swimming pool. She was back in the kitchen of her father’s crumbling house in Kent with his studio in the converted stables at the back and its rambling garden. Her grandmother had come to live with them permanently when Terri was twelve. Really, you’re just like your mother, she had said once or twice, always when she was cross. Why, what was she like? Terri remembered answering, a question she often wanted to ask her father but never did. Don’t be cheeky, was the immediate response.
‘Going for a dip?’
Terri started and looked round. Celia had come up behind her. She had a surprisingly quiet step. Terri watched her draw level with mixed feelings. ‘Maybe,’ she equivocated. ‘Are you?’
Celia offered a slow smile. ‘I generally prefer it when the mercury approaches tropical levels, but somebody should, don’t you think? It looks rather sad all abandoned like this.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Terri warily. What was it about Celia? She was the only person who appeared to talk unreservedly and yet clearly she always had a sub plot. So what was she up to now? ‘Going painting?’ Terri enquired, glancing at the pram Celia had brought with her as usual.
‘No, I’m on my way back. Nothing very successful today. Are you going to the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll walk with you then. I fancy a bit of toast and marmalade. Quite a craving. Now what’s that all about, I wonder? I can’t be pregnant. Anyway, Angela’s bound to have marmalade. Probably has it shipped in specially from England.’ Celia linked her free hand through Terri’s arm as they walked. ‘Do you like marmalade?’
‘No, not especially. I prefer jam.’
‘Ooh, what flavour?’
Terri couldn’t stop herself from smiling at the beguiling silliness of the conversation.
‘Blackberry,’ she said, after a moment’s pause. ‘Or black cherry.’
‘Excellent. I must make some scones and we can have them with jam and cream.’
Terri glanced sidelong at her companion who gave her a broad smile and squeezed her arm. They crossed the terrace, the pram trundling behind. Then Celia suddenly pulled Terri to a standstill near the fountain and looked up at the house.
‘Lovely old building isn’t it?’ she said. ‘The east wing was a later addition. Of course the west wing is too – Angela had that put on. The original farmhouse was a much simpler affair. But the east wing’s more interesting. It’s got an attic and I always think houses with attics are more exciting, don’t you?’ She barely paused before adding, ‘Madeleine wrote a history of the place, I think. Haven’t seen it for years. But it’s probably still in her studio – well it was more of a den really: her private place.’
Terri frowned, turning quickly to look at her companion. ‘Her studio?’
‘Yes...of course. ‘Raphael’.’
‘‘Raphael’? Where’s that?’
‘In-the-attic,’ Celia enunciated slowly, as if talking to an imbecile, and glanced up to the top of the east wing where two low, wide windows had been set high up in the wall facing them. ‘You know how the rooms have names? – well they do in the older part of the house anyway. Madeleine painted them. It’s locked up, of course – ‘Raphael’, that is. Peter won’t have anything in there touched.’ Celia leaned across and dropped her voice. ‘Touchy subject, you see.’ She straightened up and smiled. ‘Useful for research though I dare say.’
‘Celia?’ Terri hesitated, wondering at the wisdom of asking this strange woman anything.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Was Tom Madeleine’s son?’
Celia’s expression changed subtly; for once she seemed reluctant to talk. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I found a painting of a boy and his resemblance to Madeleine was striking. And Lindsey said that Madeleine had a son who died young.’
‘I see. And what did Peter say about it?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t mention it to him.’
‘Very wise.’ Celia started to walk again and glanced sideways at Terri who hurried to catch up. ‘So what made you think he was called Tom?’
‘Peter had written it in his notebook entry.’
‘That would be him then.’
Terri choked back her impatience. Celia was so hard to pin down; she talked in riddles. ‘So he was her son?’
‘Yes, dear. Very sad. Sweet boy.’
‘But he died?’
‘Yes dear,’ she repeated with a broad toothy smile. ‘We all do, you know.’ She paused and tilted her head sideways. ‘You know, I don’t think I want marmalade after all. The craving’s gone off. By the way, I belong to an art society and it’s our summer show soon. If you get a moment, I’d love your help in choosing what to submit. Come up and see me. Ciao, ciao.’
She suddenly changed direction and Terri watched her walk off across the front of the house and turn out of sight.
*
Angela clicked on the light in the en-suite to her bedroom making the extractor fan whirr smoothly into action. Her bathroom: clean, sweet-smelling, tidy. The pleasure of claiming it as her own had still not left her though it was some years since she and Peter had regularly shared a bedroom. He now slept in the room next door, though in reality he often stayed in the studio all night, sleeping on the day bed in his study when weariness finally dragged him from his easel. It was his erratic nocturnal behaviour which had finally prompted her to suggest they had separate rooms; she had become tired of the uncertainty of h
is return and the consequent disturbance. To judge from his reaction, or rather the lack of it, she suspected that he had felt as much relief at the new arrangement as she had. It had never been discussed since.
She put a brush through her hair, watching in the mirror as it repeatedly fell neatly back into place. She understood why cats groomed themselves so often; it had a soothing, mesmeric effect on the senses. She frequently did it as much for the balm to her spirit as the need to tidy herself up. But noticing the line of her roots, she leaned forward suddenly, laid down the brush and pressed a finger to her parting: she needed to get them done. And with her head tipped forward like this, the flesh on each side of her mouth sagged alarmingly, drooping, she thought, like the exaggerated pout of a melancholic clown. Quickly straightening, she pushed her index fingers up across her cheeks, stretching the skin, and saw her jawlines reaffirm themselves. For months she had been trying to pluck up the courage to get a little cosmetic work done but the thought of needles, foreign substances and surgical knives terrified her and she kept putting it off.
She turned away brusquely, flicked the light off and returned to the bedroom. It felt stuffy and she crossed to the open window in search of fresher air. Hers was a bright, first-floor room at the front of the west wing with a commanding view over the terrace and garden, over the cherry orchards and out down the valley towards the distant blue mountains. She considered this spectacular vista one of the highlights of the house. Even so, good view or not, Corinne should have closed the shutters that morning; in the summer the atmosphere in these sun-drenched rooms could quickly become oppressive.
The sound of voices rose from the terrace below and Angela looked down, raising a hand to shield her eyes against the light. Celia and Terri were standing by the fountain, talking, glancing occasionally towards the house. It wasn’t the first time she had seen them talking together like this and now it occurred to her that perhaps it was no coincidence so she watched them more closely. Celia leaned close to Terri, conspiratorially, said something, then straightened up in that smug way she had, as if she’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. Terri’s face wasn’t visible but she seemed to be asking a question. Frowning, Angela strained to hear what was being said but failed and a couple of minutes later saw the two women walk on again towards the front door.