by Iris Gower
To my surprise, Tom was waiting for me at Swansea Station. He smiled, and I felt a sharp tug at my heart. I smiled back at him, and he took my hand and led me to the staff car, equipped with a driver.
‘Congratulations!’ he said as he helped me into the car.
‘How did you know I sold a painting?’ I settled myself against the warm leather with a sigh of content. Tom sat close to me as the car pulled away along High Street.
‘What makes you think I’m talking about a painting?’ He was teasing.
‘Come on, tell me.’
‘I’ve bought it,’ he said softly. ‘A piece of you.’
I didn’t know what to say. I studied his face, wondering exactly what he meant. He was such a handsome man, a lovely man. Did he like me, desire me, what? I didn’t dare ask. In his flying jacket and thick boots, he seemed very official.
I was very aware of his arm close to mine. ‘How could you afford to buy my painting? It was very expensive, judging by the money I received from the gallery owner.’
‘As an officer in the United States Army Air Forces, I’m well paid. I have no wife, no family to keep, and I wanted the picture.’ He touched my hair briefly. ‘I saw your painting before it went away to be sold, remember?’
I looked down at my hands, aware of the intimacy of the car. We were close together, and for the first time in my life I felt desire for a man, real desire that burned in me. What was wrong with me? I hardly knew Tom, he was from America, and soon he would return home and I would be alone again. Best not to become too involved. In any case, I had Aberglasney to think about and, of course, the ghosts.
‘Thank you for buying my painting,’ I said primly and moved slightly away from him. ‘The money will be a great help.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asked. ‘Didn’t you want me to have the painting?’
He seemed to look right into my head. I shrugged.
‘I know the gallery wants more of them,’ he said. ‘I spoke to the owner. I’d like more myself, but the one I already have is wonderful.’
‘I’m flattered you like it, but I didn’t know you had any interest in the mansion except as a stopover while you did your service in the forces.’
‘Some of my folks are from this area.’ Tom’s voice was cool. ‘I’m interested in finding out about them, but if I’m presuming too much, intruding into your life, I can only apologize.’
‘No, no.’ I sounded weak. I shut up and sank back into the seat. It seemed I was presuming too much; Tom wasn’t interested in me, just in his Welsh heritage. He only wanted the painting because it was a bit of background for him. I’d been flattering myself that he liked me.
‘What’s wrong, honey?’ His gentle voice penetrated my thoughts. ‘You’ve gone away from me. Now you’re somewhere I can’t reach.’
‘It’s nothing. I was just wondering where your family were from.’
‘Around here somewhere,’ he said. ‘I asked to be posted here when I knew I was coming abroad on service.’ He sighed. ‘I love this old house. It seems familiar to me now, as if I’ve always known it.’ I could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again. ‘We officers were billeted here before you bought the house.’
‘And Beatrice, was she here too?’
‘Beatrice? No one was here – except the ghosts, of course.’
‘You believe in ghosts?’ I was surprised and it showed.
‘Oh yes, I believe in ghosts . . . if it’s only the ghosts from our past. Ghosts of people we’ve loved, lived with or never known. A bit of our past is always with us in the colour of our hair, the way we walk, or the turn of the head or the way we talk. Oh yes, the past lives on in all of us, so yes, we live with the ghosts of memory every day.’
‘I didn’t quite mean anything so profound by my painting, so why did I paint those figures in when I didn’t actually see them?’
‘I suppose they call that creativity.’ His voice was smooth, golden, and I knew I would miss the sound of his voice when he went away.
‘When will you be leaving here?’ My question was blunt, but suddenly the answer was very important to me.
‘Are you that anxious to get rid of me?’ His voice was teasing.
I smiled. ‘Not at all. I’ll miss you when you go, that’s all.’ I turned to look at him, and then his lips were on mine, briefly but so sweetly. I hid my surprise very well, but I was warm and full of emotion. I was acting like a girl, a girl kissed for the very first time, and that’s exactly how I felt.
The car pulled up outside the mansion and Tom hurried round to open the car door for me.
‘Tom, would you like to come up this evening for a drink and perhaps look at some of my other paintings?’ It sounded like an old line from a film actress, come up and see me sometime. I waved my hand. ‘I’m sure you’re far too busy.’
‘I am, I’m sorry. An air force briefing, that sort of thing.’
I felt silly, then, and inept; too anxious for his company. ‘Of course. Another time then.’ I hurried indoors and closed myself inside the hall. My face was burning.
‘My dear, what on earth is wrong?’ Beatrice was coming towards me. Her clothes, as usual, were immaculately pressed and starched. How on earth did she manage it?
‘Nothing, I’ve just made an ass of myself.’
‘My dear, what an inelegant expression. I suppose you are talking about making a fool of yourself over a man?’
‘I just offered an invitation, and I was turned down.’
‘Come and tell me all about it, Riana.’ Beatrice floated up the stairs, and I followed her, knowing she was only comfortable in her own room. She settled into her chair, as dainty as a butterfly landing on a flower. ‘Now, talk to Beatrice,’ she coaxed. ‘Perhaps I can be of some help.’
‘It’s the American officer Tom. I clumsily invited him in, and he said he was busy. I’ve really shown myself to be too eager, haven’t I?’
‘Tom,’ Beatrice said softly. ‘Tom. I’ve seen him around, haven’t I? He helped clear the area round the cloisters.’
‘That’s right, but I thought you were away then.’
‘I’m never far from Aberglasney, my dear. Look, this Tom, he’s a colonial, not of our race, dear. You’ll meet some fine gentleman who will be a worthy master of Aberglasney, I’m sure of it.’
I swallowed my anger. I didn’t want a ‘master’. I was ‘mistress’ of the mansion, it was mine, and I didn’t want to share it with any man. Except, perhaps, Tom, a little voice said inside my head. I brushed the thought away.
‘I’ve decided,’ I said abruptly, ‘that I’ll take some paintings up to London tomorrow. Just one or two small ones I can carry on the train, and if the gallery is interested they can send someone down to see the bigger pieces.’
‘But, my dear, why rely on that sort of difficult venture? You are a clever, modern educated lady. Think of some sound business venture that will raise money. I know you can do it, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you have the house.’
I nodded thoughtfully. Beatrice was right. Painting was slow and chancy work. It did bring in good money when a work sold, but it wasn’t a solid income. I would have to think of something else.
‘I’ll go away and think,’ I said. ‘I had imagined making it into a superior country hotel.’ At the door, I turned to look at the tiny lady sitting calmly in her chair.
‘What about ghost weekends?’ She smiled wickedly. ‘I’m sure I could persuade some ghosts to show themselves.’
‘That’s a very good idea, Beatrice. Or perhaps I could teach painting and drawing,’ I said, ‘but that’s not really art, is it?’
‘Children are too messy, and there are all sorts of rules and regulations regarding housing children, aren’t there?’
‘I suppose so. I’ll think about it, the ghost idea, Beatrice. It would be good to have adult company, more amusing and more stimulating. I would have to make the bedrooms liveable in first though.’
I went downstairs to th
e kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. I could really do with a cup of tea, I thought, and a chance to sit down and work out some figures. Perhaps I could do up some of the bedrooms with the money from my paintings? So far I’d only concentrated on the downstairs rooms.
I drunk the hot tea gratefully and sat at the scrubbed wooden table to make some notes. People were short of money in these difficult times, food was still rationed and Beatrice was right; her ghost idea was beginning to grow on me. I dipped my pen into the ink and began to write.
SIX
London was bustling as usual, with rag and bone carts mingled with army vehicles and the latest sleek modern cars. There was money about, I decided, but how to attract the well-off to Aberglasney was the problem.
The gallery was busy, and I stood awkwardly with my canvases waiting for Mr Readings to come to speak to me. At last, he did. He smiled and took my painting with an apology for the delay. He placed my paintings on an easel and stood back, his fingers stroking his chin.
Meanwhile, I spotted all the faults I should have seen before: the angle of the roof, the colour of the grass.
Mr Readings spoke. ‘Not bad, dear Miss Evans, but I think there’s something lacking. Ah –!’ he clicked his fingers – ‘the ghostliness is missing, the mysterious figures wrapped in mist. That was what made your other painting special.’
‘But a friend bought my other painting. He knew Aberglasney, knew about the ghosts, knew about everything.’
‘Ghosts! We must have them, dear. Come back to me with ghosts and we’ll talk.’ He turned away to another customer.
Disappointed, I took my paintings back on the train with me. It had been a fruitless journey. I’d just wasted money going to London, and now I had nothing to help my plans along: no ideas, no money and two useless paintings.
At home, I lit the fire in the little sitting room and sat there alone, trying to think. After a while, my thoughts became jumbled. I realized I was hungry and made some tea and toast, which made me feel a little less lethargic.
Later, I wandered into my studio – an airy room, half walls and half glass – and stared at my pictures helplessly. I had no idea how to change them.
There was a knock on the front door, and my heart began to beat faster. It surely must be Tom. No one else knew or cared that I now lived in Aberglasney. To my disappointment, the caller was one of Tom’s men. He was very handsome, with dark skin and curly hair, and had the same soft American accent as Tom. Though the weather was mild, he wore a stout pilot’s jacket of leather and fur.
He handed me a bottle covered in dust. ‘My senior officer sent this for you, Miss Evans.’ He bowed politely.
I took the bottle and saw it was a fifty-year-old brandy. ‘Thank you, and please thank . . . your officer.’ I realized I didn’t know Tom’s surname. ‘Is he calling on me tonight?’
The pilot raised his cap. ‘That I don’t know, ma’am. Goodnight to you.’
I felt embarrassed as I closed the door. How cheap I must seem, hopeful, almost desperate. I decided I’d go to bed early and take a tot of the brandy with me.
It was cosy in bed with the oil light flickering and the thick quilt pulled up to my shoulders. I sipped the brandy, sweetened with honey, and consoled myself with the knowledge that Tom had at least thought of me.
Eventually, I put out the lamp and settled down to sleep, feeling light-headed and warmed by the liquor, but much as I wrestled with the problems of money and the paintings during the night, I didn’t come up with any answers. And all night the ghosts plagued me.
The sounds from the blue room were abominable: strangled cries, bangs, thumps, and the opening and shutting of doors. In the end, I jumped out of bed and went to the bedroom. There was no sign of Beatrice; goodness knows where she’d gone.
‘Will you shut up and be quiet!’ I shouted in exasperation. ‘If you don’t keep quiet, I’ll call in an exorcist!’
The noise subsided.
‘That’s it!’ I said out loud, excitement bubbling inside me. ‘That’s it, Beatrice was right! I’ll organize ghost hunts. Put people up for the night and charge them exorbitant fees.’ I smiled round the room. ‘Thanks, girls.’
I thought I heard a giggle as I closed the door and went to my studio. My poor old imagination had gone into overdrive.
I squeezed out some oils and began to paint in the shadowy figures: five girls in simple cotton nightgowns, with floating hair. I brushed in a mist behind them that blotted out part of the house, but the haze of greyish fog surrounding them was somehow effective.
At last, without bothering to clear up, I went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of the farms I could visit to buy eggs and butter and chickens and potatoes, and perhaps I could name the whole thing a ‘ghost-hunting’ or even a ‘ghost-haunting’ weekend. I was jubilant, and I didn’t fall asleep until dawn was poking rosy fingers through the curtains.
The painting sold the next day. Mr Readings of the London gallery was greatly impressed.
‘My dear Miss Evans, this is your signature. Your ghostly paintings give you an individuality other artists do not have.’ He paused, examining the painting in the light from the window. ‘Your strength is the spirit world, my dear. Did you know that?’
I didn’t mention that the ‘spirit world’ had kept me awake all night – or was it the brandy?
I smiled. ‘I’m so glad you like the work. Shall I paint some more?’
‘Larger, my dear, you must have a larger canvas. Go inside the house. Paint the landings, flickering lights, that sort of thing. Be more . . . what shall we say? Misty, that’s the word! Chilling. You are the artist; use your wonderful imagination.’
He came with me to the door.
‘I shall expect another canvas in a week or two, Miss Evans.’
With money in my hand, quite a large sum of money, I went to a coffee house. I was lucky to find one that wasn’t flattened to the ground by the war, and I sat alone with thoughts racing through my head. A few more paintings and I could refurbish some of the bedrooms, put in another bathroom on the second landing. Soon, very soon, I could begin to really work at my plans.
I would have to advertise my weekends in the local newspapers at first and then further afield – Cardiff, Bristol, even London. I drank my coffee; there was no sugar and the milk was slightly tangy, but it tasted like nectar to me as I played happily with my ideas.
After coffee, I walked back along the street, past the gallery, and to my surprise my painting was already in the window. The price made me gasp; it was about time I negotiated a better payment from Mr Readings for my work.
I went home on the train, and when I arrived at Swansea I felt disappointed that Tom wasn’t there to meet me. But why should he be? He didn’t even know I’d been to London.
All at once my elation vanished. Tom was keeping away from me and it hurt.
SEVEN
I tried all week to paint the blue room, but somehow the essence of it escaped me. Beatrice fluttered around the landings like a ghost herself, scarcely making any noise but grumping as she looked at my futile attempts at painting.
At last I put down my brush in exasperation. ‘What on earth is it, Beatrice? You sound like one of the bulls in the farmer’s field! What are you hanging around me for?’
‘You’re not doing it right,’ she said, her hands on her tiny hips, her chin lifted and her ballooning sleeves making patterns against the light from the windows.
Seized by a sudden inspiration I began to paint Beatrice. Her outline against the light was hazy, her lifted chin a proud silhouette. I etched her face like a cameo, the only distinct feature in the painting. Behind her I painted in a misty, indistinct room with blue walls and the outline of five beds with wraithlike figures sitting, standing and reclining on them.
I don’t know how long I stood painting, but at last, with the daylight fading, I dropped my brush. ‘Oh, dear lord Beatrice, have you put a spell on me?’
‘You
’ve forgotten the pot-bellied stove,’ she said, her voice weak, and I realized she, too, must be very tired.
‘Stove?’ I looked into the blue room, trying to imagine how it must have been years ago. I picked up my brush and dipped it into the paint and picked up grey, white and deep blue oils. I drew a faint outline of a stove in the corner of the room. I stood back then. ‘You’re a genius, Beatrice! It’s just what the painting needed.’
But Beatrice was at the door of the blue room, and I could see it as it really was: refurbished, bright but still blue, with only one bed in the room now, and old but smart Regency striped curtains and covers. The door to the blue room closed, and I carefully carried my canvas to the studio and set it against the wall to dry.
That night when I walked in the garden I smiled. Tom and his men had made a good job of clearing the long grass and bushes under the cloisters.
In the shadow of one of the cloister arches I found a bench smelling of newly carved pine and guessed that one of Tom’s men had made it for me. I sat down, and then I saw his familiar figure walking towards me, illuminated now by a bright moon. My pulse quickened.
Tom sat beside me, and it was thrilling and comforting to have his arm next to mine.
‘Evening, Tom.’ My voice was low, throaty.
‘Tired, honey? Been working hard?’
‘I finished work about an hour ago.’
‘Just as well my men made you a seat then.’
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, feeling the warmth of him next to me and revelling in it. Tom had such a lovely voice, a golden syrup sort of voice, smooth and devastating.
‘This work you spoke of. Does it involve painting?’ He sat beside me, still and quiet, his voice lowered, blending in with the subdued sounds of the night.
‘It does, as it happens,’ I said equally softly.
‘What is it about?’