The Snow Angel

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘Elizabeth,’ Cressie replied.

  Catherine laughed. ‘Mine too. How funny. Now.’ She knelt on the floor of the studio and unzipped the bag. ‘Let’s have a look.’ She began to pull out the clothes inside and lay them reverently on the floor. Cressie had put in a stiff cream jacquard evening dress with a square neckline that she’d worn to one of her very smartest deb parties, a black cocktail dress, a plain twinset in navy lambswool with a dark skirt, and a bright, patterned silk shirt.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what you’d think was best, or how much of me will be on show,’ Cressie said. ‘So I tried to put in formal and informal.’

  ‘They’re all beautiful,’ Catherine declared. ‘Such magnificent quality. I guessed you’d bring wonderfully stylish clothes, it’s exactly what I expected.’ She looked over at Ralph, who was watching proceedings. ‘What do you think?’

  He pointed at the evening dress. ‘Not that.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Catherine. ‘Not that.’ She smiled up at Cressie. ‘We don’t want this to look like it’s your state portrait.’

  ‘Whatever you think is best,’ she said. She looked at Ralph. He was frowning at the clothes on the floor.

  ‘I don’t think black,’ Catherine said to Ralph. ‘Unless you think . . . I mean, we want the potential for altering the background, don’t we? If she’s in black, we’ll be restricted.’

  ‘No . . . I like the black but . . .’ He glanced at Cressie. ‘With the colouring, her brown hair . . . I want it to glow.’

  Catherine touched the patterned shirt. ‘This?’

  Ralph shook his head. ‘No.’ He turned to Cressie and grinned. ‘I’m sure it’s the height of fashion but I can tell you now that the pattern would add an extra session or two to the painting time. Besides, it would be the focus of the painting. We want that to be you.’

  Catherine put her hand into the bag and pulled out a blue velvet case. ‘What’s this?’ She opened it to reveal a strand of pearls curled inside the satin interior. ‘Oh, aren’t they divine?’ She looked up at Cressie. ‘Do you want to wear these?’

  ‘If I can – they’re my mother’s. She wore them in her own portrait. I’d like to have them in mine too, if you think that would be all right.’ It was ridiculous to feel so tentative about saying what she wanted when her father was paying for the portrait. But it seemed important to have the approval of the artist. And Catherine’s approval too? she wondered. It was surprising but it seemed that Ralph’s wife had just as much influence over the portrait as he did.

  ‘Of course you must wear them,’ Catherine exclaimed. ‘They’ll look wonderful against your skin – so luminous. Don’t you think, Ralph?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. Then after a moment he said, ‘Catherine, get that shirt of yours. The white one.’

  Catherine stared at him then jumped up. ‘Of course. You’re absolutely right.’ She disappeared through the door of the studio.

  Ralph smiled at Cressie. ‘You’ll see in a moment. The vision is coming to me. I’m beginning to understand how it will come together.’

  Catherine returned a moment later holding a shirt. ‘Here.’ She handed it to Cressie. ‘I think it will fit you. We’re about the same size, I think. Go next door and you can put it on.’

  ‘Next door?’ Cressie echoed, taking the shirt.

  ‘Yes. It’s our bedroom. There isn’t anywhere else you can change, except the bathroom and it’s full of plants today.’

  ‘All right.’ Cressie took the shirt and went out of the studio and into the next room. It seemed almost impertinent to go into the bedroom of a married couple but she couldn’t help being curious. The room was dominated by a huge mahogany bed that she only glanced at, too shy to look at the place where the two of them slept. A large armoire stood against one wall. There were paintings hanging on the walls and one, she guessed, was Catherine, though it was little more than an oil sketch, the features of the sitter blurry. There was a dressing table, an armchair and a chest of drawers, all the furniture similar to that in the other room: good quality, but battered and well used. She took off her jumper and put on the white shirt. Catherine was right: they were the same size. It was a mannish, tailored shirt in thick, expensive cotton, with neat buttons and a blunt collar. She tucked it into her skirt top, examining her reflection in the mirror set in the armoire door. It was a style she never would have picked for herself, but it did look good, she had to admit that.

  ‘Oh yes!’ exclaimed Catherine, clapping her hands as Cressie came into the studio. ‘That’s just right. But wait . . .’ She came over and began to adjust the shirt, pulling it tighter, undoing another button at the chest and opening the collar wide. She rolled up the sleeves into thick neat cuffs that ended just below the elbow. ‘Now for the necklace,’ she said, and fastened the pearls around Cressie’s neck. They sat over her collarbone, a touch of femininity against the masculine quality of the shirt.

  Catherine stood back to admire her efforts. ‘I think that’s it. This shirt is one of my extravagances. I had it made by a tailor on Savile Row. I had to try a few before they’d consider making something for a woman, but one little man in a basement room took on the challenge. I think it looks rather dashing. I always feel like a pirate or a highwayman when I’m wearing it. Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cressie said, catching a glimpse of herself in the pocked mirror over the fireplace. ‘I love it, actually.’

  ‘It looks marvellous,’ Ralph said appreciatively. ‘Cat, can you do something with her hair? Brush out that stiffness.’

  Cressie coloured at the dismissive tone; she’d thought her hair looked nice. But she said nothing as Catherine played about with it, brushing it lightly and cleverly arranging it so that it looked fashionable and yet natural and timeless. Her hands were tender, almost loving, as she lifted strands into place.

  ‘I shall have to do this for you every time,’ Catherine murmured. ‘As though I’m your personal lady’s maid, your own coiffeuse.’

  ‘Oh,’ Cressie said awkwardly, not wanting there to be a hint of her social superiority over the other woman, but Catherine didn’t appear to feel it. She smiled almost conspiratorially.

  ‘That’s very good,’ Ralph said. ‘It shows off the neckline of the shirt. Good. That’s it. Now let’s begin.’

  She took her place in the chair and they settled on a pose that would be comfortable to hold and would look natural in the painting.

  ‘There won’t be much to see at first,’ Ralph warned her as he took up tubes of oil paint and squeezed them out onto a palette, little fat blobs of black, brown and tan. ‘Just relax, look out of the window and I’ll start the underdrawing. It won’t look like you but it’s a necessary part of the process.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, settling in to her pose.

  Catherine fluttered around her for a few minutes, adjusting the backcloth, putting a rug over her legs so that she wouldn’t get cold sitting still for so long, and tweaking the shirt collar. She and Ralph kept up a broken conversation that was difficult for Cressie to follow; they seemed to understand one another using only half the words that normal communication needed. Ralph loaded a thick brush with paint and went to the easel. Frowning first at her and then at the canvas, he began to put down broad strokes. She could see nothing of what he was painting, only his movements as he paced back and forth in front of the easel, regarding her and then taking his brush to the canvas, occasionally loading it with fresh paint. Catherine settled down on the sofa opposite, watching Cressie as she sat staring out of the window and observing the progress of the underdrawing.

  ‘We’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Ralph’s talked of nothing else,’ she said cosily. ‘He thinks you’re going to be his masterpiece.’

  ‘That would be . . . nice.’ Cressie stared out of the window, her gaze fixed on the spire of the church opposite.

  ‘It would be fun to show the portrait when it’s finished, wouldn’t it? I mean . . .’ Catherine laughed. ‘I know it’s b
arely started but I have complete faith in Ralph. You’ll love the picture. Perhaps an unveiling would be something to think about. A party.’ She shrugged, adding quickly, ‘It’s a long way off, of course. But you should think about it.’

  ‘I will,’ Cressie said. She wondered when Catherine was going to leave. Surely at this point the main relationship was between the painter and the sitter. Ralph said nothing, a frown of concentration on his face as he scrutinised Cressie, his head tilted to one side, and then returned to the canvas. Cressie had been anticipating silence in the studio; she’d even rather looked forward to it. But Catherine showed no sign of being about to depart. Instead, she kept up a steady stream of questions and chatter. She wanted to know all about the house in Kensington and about Cressie’s family. What did her father do? What a shame to hear that her mother was ill – they wished her all the very best for a speedy recovery. And her brothers – what were their names? What did they do? How often did she see them?

  She answered as well as she could while keeping the pose, flattered by Catherine’s curiosity. Nothing seemed too small to interest her. As the hour passed, she became stiff and cold, anxious that she was moving her head and losing the pose, but Ralph said nothing. Catherine talked on, idle inconsequential chatter interposed with piercing little questions about Cressie’s life. She answered honestly but without expanding her answers beyond what was asked. She wasn’t sure how much of herself she wanted to reveal, and it was strange, knowing that Ralph was listening all the time as well, saying nothing.

  At last he stood back from the painting. ‘Cat?’ he asked.

  ‘An excellent start,’ she said. ‘The pose is right.’ She smiled over at Cressie. ‘The shirt is chic, unusual. It works very well, I think you’ll agree.’

  Cressie stood up, stiff and chilled from her long stint. Catherine came over with concern and took her hand. ‘Are you all right?’ Her grey eyes were anxious. ‘You’re cold, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I’ve been very remiss. I’ll make sure I sort that for next time. This old place is so draughty, especially by the window.’

  Catherine’s own hand was hot, almost too hot on Cressie’s cold skin, and she pulled hers away lightly. ‘I’m fine. Really.’ She moved around the easel to look at the painting. Ralph stood back, regarding her as she took her first glimpse of it.

  He was right, there wasn’t much to see. There was little more than a sepia blob on the canvas, a crude outline of her shape, with straight lines across the top of her head, along her back and around the edge of her fingers to mark the extent of her body. Her hair was little more than an empty helmet and there were no features on the blank face.

  ‘You have to trust me,’ Ralph said quietly. ‘Little steps. A portrait is built up, layer by layer. We work from darkness to light. You’ll see.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful,’ she said. Her glance travelled to the portrait of Catherine hanging on the wall. It seemed a long journey from the bare bones on the canvas to that astonishing likeness, and the masterful portrayal of the stormy sky.

  ‘You must get dressed,’ Catherine urged. ‘And Ralph, you must rest too. You know how this exhausts you.’

  Ralph sighed, and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know.’ He looked at Cressida and smiled. ‘But I could go on all day.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Catherine said briskly. ‘I wouldn’t hear of such a thing. Now, you must change and rest. I’ll walk Cressida to the station.’

  ‘There’s no need, really,’ Cressie said, her circulation coming back into her stiff limbs. ‘I can manage perfectly well on my own.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll go with you. Ralph, you sit down and I’ll prepare everything when I’m back.’ Catherine picked up a shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. She looked more Edwardian than a modern young woman, with her thick hair pinned up, and wearing her plain, almost shapeless wool dress and the same thick stockings and sensible shoes as before.

  Cressida changed and gathered her things. On the walk to the station, Catherine was as merry as ever, full of enthusiasm for the portrait and what it meant to Ralph.

  ‘You can probably tell he’s a real artist, hardly a businessman at all,’ she said confidingly as they walked the broad pavements to the station. Piles of coppery leaves had gathered in the gutters but the weather was still warm. ‘I have to do all that for him.’

  ‘How did you meet?’ Cressida asked, curious.

  ‘Oh! Oh . . . it’s very dull. We grew up in the same place. Our parents were friends. We were always close, very close. And of course, from the first I saw and admired his talent. Ralph’s quite different from anyone else – you’ve probably sensed that yourself. There was no question that I would ever leave him, and I never have.’ Catherine smiled, the small cleft in her chin dimpling as she did, and wrapped her shawl closer to her. ‘We work together. He relies on me utterly. I intend to make sure he is the most successful painter of his generation.’

  Cressie was startled by the iron strength in her voice. She felt sure that if sheer will could achieve such a thing, then Catherine would do it. He has the talent. She has the drive. What an extraordinary partnership they must be.

  And she realised then, feeling shame at her own secret dreams, just how stupid it had been to think that she might ever come between them.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Catherine who?’ asked Tom, frowning.

  ‘Catherine Few.’ Emily pulled up the search results on her computer. They were in the kitchen, which was looking very tidy after the estate agent’s open day the previous afternoon. There was a period of quiet today while everyone went off to consider. Ollie had told her that he expected the first offers for the house in on Monday. At least it meant she could forget about it and enjoy a calm Sunday.

  ‘Few? That’s an odd name. It’s like breathing out, not a proper word at all. Let’s have a look. Who is she?’ He bent down over her shoulder to peer at the screen.

  ‘An artist, by the looks of her, but there’s hardly anything I can find out about her as a person. Just her dates. Look . . . it says she was born in London not long before the war started. And that she died in Cumbria this year. There’s a tiny Wikipedia entry, just saying she was a painter and listing some of her works and where they’re held. There are a few images of her paintings – landscapes.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tom, a touch of dismissal in his voice. ‘She’s just one of those lady artists, the kind you find in fishing villages, with a little gallery in their front room displaying their watercolours.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Emily scanned the painting she’d pulled up: a wild wintery scene of a harsh but beautiful landscape blanketed in snow, the spiky skeletons of trees against the horizon and a vast white sky. It had a depth and magnificence that spoke to her more than a gentle little sea view in watery blues.

  ‘But,’ Tom said in a puzzled tone, ‘why on earth has she included you in her will?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never heard of her. Never met her, as far as I know.’

  Tom sat down, his eyes bright suddenly. ‘Maybe she’s left you a fortune!’

  ‘I think if she were that rich, we might have heard of her,’ Emily said wryly.

  ‘She might have been one of those wealthy society dames, painting for fun because they have nothing else to do.’ He sighed. ‘Lucky things.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I can’t get too excited about it. It’s probably a mistake, don’t you think? I mean, how many people get left things by complete strangers? They said I should bring in my passport, birth certificate and marriage certificate, so they’ll probably work out in double-quick time that I’m the wrong Emily Conway. There are at least six others on Facebook.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Cumbria is she from?’

  Emily clicked on another link. ‘A little village about twenty miles from Carlisle.’

  ‘Is it near the Lake District? That’s jolly nice, I’ve been there.’

  ‘N
ot that far, but on the other side of Carlisle. North. Heading towards Northumberland and Scotland.’

  Tom shivered. ‘Bloody cold up there.’

  ‘Not all the time. I expect they have summer the same way we do.’

  ‘No wonder her paintings look full of bloody snow.’ Tom laughed. ‘Well, well. It’s a nice little mystery, isn’t it? I wonder what she’s left you.’

  ‘A painting, probably,’ Emily said with a laugh. ‘Maybe she picked strangers at random to leave her masterpieces to.’

  Tom laughed again. ‘Let’s hope it’s better than that.’

  ‘Well, I can’t think why a complete stranger should leave me anything.’

  ‘Maybe she was some kind of friend of Mum and Dad’s. Someone we never knew about. When’s your appointment with the solicitors?’

  ‘Tuesday morning, first thing. Can you take the children?’

  Tom made a face. ‘Er . . . not so easy, actually. I’m really up against my deadline. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take them with me,’ Emily said. ‘It’ll be nice to have an outing now that I’m not on crutches. And it’s only in Richmond, so not too far away at all.’

  ‘And all will be revealed . . .’ Tom said, lifting his eyebrows. ‘Can’t wait to find out.’

  It was harder than she’d expected to manage the children on her own. It had been so long since she’d had to cope and she’d grown rusty. Her old, competent self had vanished and she lacked the energy and strength she’d once taken for granted. It seemed to take forever to get both children into her car, with Joe screaming and Carrie moaning. She had to settle each of them into their car seats with packets of raisins and stow the bag of everything she might need in the boot, along with the buggy, before she could think of setting off. When she did, driving seemed unfamiliar and unexpectedly difficult. Luckily the car was an automatic so she didn’t need to use her weak leg much. But as she ventured out into the heavy London traffic, she remembered that they were due an insurance payment for Will’s car, which had been utterly destroyed. They were still investigating the accident. She ought to find out what was happening.