He had not been as close to John as Liddy, but it had seemed to affect him more than her. He was utterly diminished, these last few months. Sir Edward Horner was out of fashion; it was years now since the Royal Academy had hired guards and put up cordons to control the crowds around his paintings. He was popular but had grown staid, producing patriotic works of Empire. He was not the same Ned Horner who had set the art world alight, nearly thirty years ago now. And this business with buying the painting back . . .
She knew he had grown to hate what The Garden of Lost and Found had come to mean, how it was mocked by so many now as a symbol of late-Victorian sentimentality. There had even been a Punch cartoon about it. ‘Edna! Edna! I insist you come away from that painting. We can’t afford to launder any more handkerchiefs, do you hear?’ It ate away at him. Not at Liddy. Liddy could not be hurt any more.
Now she put his head on her lap. He murmured something.
‘He’s gone now,’ he said. ‘It was right, wasn’t it?’
‘What?’
But his eyes were fixed, unseeing. I wish you’d tell me, she whispered in his ear. I love you. I will always love you. Don’t leave me alone here. Tell me why you did it.
But she was never to know. Ned never regained consciousness. He slipped away a week later, one of millions to die from the influenza which would ravage the country, the continent, the world. It killed more people than had died in the Great War. It killed ten in the village, dear Zipporah, Farmer Tolley, their neighbour at Walbrook Farm, Lady Coote and Lady Charlotte Coote, leaving old Lord Coote alone, his two sons having already fallen in the war. It killed Nurse Bryant, she was to discover, and so finally Liddy was free. But she was all alone.
The day after Ned died Liddy, her burnt hands wrapped tightly in gauze, had swept the stone floor of the Dovecote. The fire had left a dark grey-red stain upon the golden-grey flagstones. She did wonder whether to keep the ashes as some kind of memorial but instead she brushed them into a sheet and, standing on the steps that led down to the Wilderness she shook them out into the garden. They fell, showering the sloping tangle of colour far and wide, like black and grey snow in June, as Liddy stood and watched, turning the small brass plaque in her bandaged hand.
By some miracle the plaque had remained intact, all that survived of the most famous painting of the age. In the year after its first rapturous reception at the Summer Exhibition it had gone on tour: Paris, St Petersburg, Adelaide, Philadelphia. Millions around the world had queued up to see it, to stare hungrily at the sight of that beautiful English country garden in the late afternoon, the two children, one with those curious birds’ wings, crouched at the top of the lichen-and-daisy-speckled steps, peering into the house, watching their mother writing.
The children were long gone. The painter was gone and the painting. Only the sketch, and Lydia herself, remained – and Nightingale House, nestled in a fold of the ancient English wold, fringed by trees where birds sang all day and owls at night.
When she was a child, always afraid, she had dreamed of her own home, hidden away where no one could find her. Where she could be safe. Then Ned had brought her here and for a few years everything had been perfect. Utterly perfect. As summer soared into the garden and then faded away again, the silken light of golden September giving itself to the mist and damp of autumn and the darkness of winter, the question that had haunted Liddy kept coming back to her. Do you pay for happiness like that? Perhaps, yes, perhaps you do.
II
Ham, Richmond, June 1893
Dalbeattie – my dear fellow –
Will you come and see Nightingale House with me? I have found the perfect home for us – a rectory – built c. 1800 and lived in by Liddy’s mother as a child, there’s a thing – now sorely dilapidated, no stairs, no windows, no cupboards and doors, a shell – but it is a fine place with large rooms & full of light – in the garden there is a banqueting house, a relic of the old original manor built in Elizabeth’s time for the partaking of ices and sweetmeats after a stroll across the lawn (the lawn is now a wilderness) – such a curious thing, but I shall use it as my studio. Will you remodel the rest of the house as you wish, to make a home for us? For you understand what we need –
Somewhere I might work in peace without disturbance and the noise of town – the jabbers, the agents, the critics
A home for our child and children yet to come, a place with clean fresh air so little Liza’s cough vanishes
A place for my sister-in-law – sweet Mary must be cared for, for the situation in Paris has become intolerable and she cannot continue to live with Pertwee – Our old friend is lost to himself and others, the drink holds him utterly in its grip, my dear fellow – Mary must be welcome to live with us, for as long as she wants.
‘Build for yourself a house in Jerusalem and live there, and do not go out from there to any place’ –
My dear late father was as you know not a great one for the Good Book – but he liked an aphorism, as do you, and this is apt . . . for finally it must be a place my Liddy can be free – she must escape London, she must leave the ghosts behind! They continue to persecute her most cruelly. What those three children have suffered, at the hands of those who should have cared for them most of all! Daily I work to expunge the horror of what they did, though I begin to understand I shall never fully succeed. My poor darling bird. She loved her mother – to come here would do her so much good. Finally
– A home for our family that endures until the final nightingale is gone from the trees behind the house – oh it is a beautiful spot, most strange, mystical one might say – in the heart of forgotten countryside – I know not yet whether it is Oxfordshire or Gloucestershire or Worcestershire or another county entirely new! There is something in the air and the trees, something of seclusion, of magic – but I am running on. Do come soon Dalbeattie – we must see you, all of us – do build us the house, there’s a good fellow – let us begin a new story, a glorious one!
Yours in chestnuts and chicken –
Horner
III
Lost masterpiece rediscovered: sketch of ‘World’s Favourite Painting’ goes on sale
An extremely rare sketch of The Garden of Lost and Found, the masterpiece destroyed by its creator, the Edwardian painter Edward Horner, comes up for auction today. The painting is a preparatory work in oils of the artist’s two children, Eliza and John, in the garden of the family’s —shire home, peeking into the house where a mysterious figure – generally believed to be the artist’s wife Lydia Dysart Horner – sits writing at a table.
There are no other versions of the painting beyond a handful of contemporary photographs, all of poor quality. The Garden of Lost and Found has, therefore, acquired an almost mythic status due to the fate of the artist’s children and the painting itself. It was a sensation at the time of its unveiling, a work which the great art critic Thaddeus La Touche called ‘perhaps the most moving respresentation of childhood and lost innocence yet committed to canvas’. It toured the Commonwealth and Americas, at the end of which it was said that it had been viewed by up to eight million people.
It later fell out of favour when, along with his later more jingoistic works, such as The Lilac Hours and We Built Nineveh, the once seemingly infallible Horner was rejected by the critics and public. Horner himself famously grew to loathe his most famous picture and bought it back from the art dealer Galveston at 5000 guineas, thus bankrupting himself. He died shortly afterwards in the first wave of the Spanish Flu epidemic.
By the time the painting was destroyed by its creator days before his death, its reputation had been somewhat restored, and over the years the mystery of The Garden of Lost and Found has grown until it is regarded as one of the great lost works of art. The sketch for the painting is in oils, on commercially primed canvas, and shows signs of pen and ink underneath the paint. It has been rapidly executed, crammed with detail and notes to be used on the final canvas, and is dazzling in its assured technique and use of
Impressionism, as well as the language of classical structure for which Horner was so admired. One unexplained detail in the upper left hand corner is the addition of a gold streak, thought to be a shooting star, which is not shown in photographs of the original painting or the sketch. Experts cannot explain its presence, though Jan de Hooerts, ex-director of Tate Britain, has poured scorn upon the upcoming auction saying it had obviously been tampered with. ‘Horner did not “do” streaks of gold. This is not his addition. The sketch has been compromised, rendering the circumstances of the whole sale murky.’
The work, measuring only 32cm x 25cm, is being sold by an anonymous collector who acquired it from the artist’s late daughter, Stella Horner (born after her father’s death). It is estimated to fetch between £400,000 and £500,000 at auction today. Juliet Horner, great-granddaughter of the artist, who is also the Victorian and Edwardian Painting expert at Dawnay’s, said: ‘For years The Garden of Lost and Found was the most famous painting in the world. Millions queued up to see it wherever it was shown. Its loss is a tragedy and to this day we have no idea why Horner destroyed his greatest work. So to have discovered this astonishing preparatory sketch has been a lovely surprise for us all.’
The Guardian, 17 May 2014
Chapter One
May
May was Mum’s favourite time of year! Because she said it was when the garden wasn’t quite at full glory but had it all to come. The luxury of anticipated pleasure, she called it. She was wonderful like that. She died in May, Juliet, did you know? And on her gravestone I made them inscribe: May is the fairest month for it is when the nightingales sing. That is what she always told me. They fly to Africa for winter – do you remember me telling you all this? I went to Morocco once, before the war, and saw tens of them singing away on minarets and flat roofs. So incongruous to me, in February, there among the palm trees, golden desert shimmering in the distance. They are such plain birds, but for their song.
They come back to England in May. Only the male birds sing, though. The female chooses her mate based on the beauty of his song, did you know?
Early May is also when you should plant the final summer bulbs and the rhizomes. Plant dahlias, plant hundreds of ’em. The irises will be almost coming out now, please feed them. Prepare the soil. Pick out any dead things. When May comes, I am in the garden from early morning till dusk. My body aches and I can never quite get rid of the earth under my fingernails. But I am more alive then than at any other time.
One more thing, Juliet: this month the bluebells are in flower in the wood below the stream. Enjoy them, but never step into a circle of bluebells should you see one. It is bad luck. You will be visited by an evil fairy, who will curse you. That is what Mum said happened to the little one.
Remember: May is the fairest month.
London, May 2014
‘I don’t want muesli. I want toast.’
‘There isn’t any toast, Isla, darling. Have some muesli. Oh sh— blimey, it’s nearly eight! Hurry up, everyone.’
‘But, Mum, I hate muesli. The dried-up fruit! Muesli makes me feel like I will vomit. You can’t make me have it. I will vomit.’
‘OK, have Weetabix then. Sandy, darling, don’t do that. Don’t chuck it on the floor. Matt, can you stop him chucking it on the – oh.’
‘I hate Weetabix. Weetabix makes me—’
‘Then have a banana. Bea, can you eat something, please?’
‘Well, Mum, Miss Roberts says we shouldn’t have fruit first thing, she says it’s bad for our stomachs.’
‘Miss Roberts is wrong. Matt! Can you stop him chucking the cereal on the floor, please.’
‘Jesus, Juliet! I heard you. Don’t shout at me.’
Juliet realised her shoulders were somewhere around her jawline. She took a deep breath, and stepped away from the table. ‘I’m not shouting.’ Her foot landed on a small toy bus, but she sidestepped it before it acted as a roller-skate, swivelling neatly and using both hands to clutch on to the back of her eldest daughter’s chair. ‘Jesu— Goodness!’ she said. ‘Good save! Did you see that?!’
No one answered but Isla, her younger daughter, looked up at her plaintively, holding out her empty IKEA plastic bowl. ‘Please, mother, please I hate muesli and I hate Weetabix please don’t make me have them.’
‘Oh, give her some toast, for god’s sake,’ Matt said, irritably. He leaned back in his chair and flicked the radio over. ‘Let’s have some music. I hate Radio 4 in the mornings. Don’t we, kids? It’s like inviting awful old people with bad breath to sit right next to you and shout at you while you’re eating breakfast.’
The children giggled, even Bea. Juliet took a deep breath. ‘There isn’t any toast.’
Matt looked up from his phone. ‘Why not?’
‘We ran out.’
‘We should get some more today.’ He shook an empty carton at her. ‘And orange juice.’
‘My need juice,’ came Sandy’s small voice in the corner. ‘Juice, please. My need juice.’
We should book a summer holiday. We should organise a playdate with Olivia. We should call your mother in Rome. We shouldn’t sleep with other people. We should do all those things.
‘You could go to the shops, Matt. They actually sell food there, I’ve heard.’
‘I’ve told you about ten times I’ve got a team-building day. Thanks for remembering.’
‘Oh. I’ll go food shopping in my lunch hour, if there’s time after the auction . . .’ Juliet turned the radio station over again.
‘And now it’s time for “Thought for the Day” with the Reverend . . .’
Matt looked up at her and she saw anger shoot across his face. ‘Jesus, Juliet.’
She used to dread that look on his face, it had made her insides twist with anxious pain. Lately, she’d got used to it.
‘My need juice,’ Sandy said, slightly louder than before.
‘I just want to keep it on in case they do the bit on the auction. Henry said he’d be on before eight o’clock.’ Juliet leaned over him to stop Sandy throwing cereal at Bea, still slumped at the head of the table. ‘Bea, darling, eat some cereal.’
Bea raised her sleek head and stared at her mother. Shadows, like purple thumbprints, were imprinted under her dark eyes.
‘I’m not hungry, thanks,’ she said simply, and looked back down at her phone again, her thin fingers tapping on the screen, which glowed in the gloom of the kitchen.
Juliet hated that phone. She still remembered this same sleek-haired little person swinging her legs so that they banged against the chairs, chattering about the chicks they were hatching in class, what they’d done in Woodwork Club, the latest on Molly’s new puppy. ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning!’ she’d sing, every morning, every evening. ‘Oh! What a beautiful Mummy! I’ve got a beautiful Daddy! I’ve got a beautiful sister! Everything’s going my way!’
Once, she alone had owned the key that unlocked her eldest child’s mind, her heart, her mouth. Now, she wasn’t even sure if there was a key. You are only as happy as your unhappiest child. Bea was unhappy, and therefore so was Juliet.
‘Here, have a few bites, sweet girl.’ She stroked her daughter’s shining black hair, and felt her tense at her mother’s touch. ‘Just something to line your stomach, Bea. You’ve got PE today remember and—’ She glanced down. ‘Jesus. Who’s Fin? Why’s he texting you pictures of some girl in a bra?’
‘Oh shut up, Mum. Just leave me the hell alone.’ Bea got up suddenly, and pushed the chair away, knocking Juliet with the back of the wooden frame, and stalked out of the kitchen, glancing awkwardly at her mother, as if to make sure she hadn’t really hurt her. That look was the part that actually hurt Juliet.
Isla looked down at her bowl and began eating her muesli.
‘Well somebody’s rather grumpy,’ she said, sotto voce, but she kept looking sadly towards the door, the corners of her mouth comically turned down. Sandy, beside her, banged his cup on the table.
‘My need juic
e.’
‘You shouldn’t go on at her like that,’ said Matt, still looking at his phone.
‘But she’s – there’s something wrong.’
‘Boy trouble. It always is, with her.’ Matt sipped his cappuccino.
‘Oh,’ said Juliet, feeling even more inadequate. ‘Really?’
‘Someone called Fin. I’ve seen her texting him.’
‘When?’
He stood up. ‘I have to go. I’m late back tonight by the way—’ Juliet put her hand on his arm. ‘Listen. Don’t start that again. It’s the team-building thing, OK? I wish it –’
‘No. Sshhhh a second. This is it.’
‘Today in central London a sketch is being sold,’ John Humphrys began in his best avuncular, this-is-a-fun-item-now-and-beneath-me voice. ‘A sketch no more than the size of a laptop is up for auction at midday. And it is expected to fetch a quarter of a million pounds. Yes, you heard that right, a sketch.’
‘Stop saying “sketch”,’ Matt muttered, and Juliet put her finger to her lips, urgently. She stood stock still, one hand on her chest. She wished she knew why any talk of it made her feel like she was hurtling down a rollercoaster ride. It was silly.
‘This sketch isn’t any ordinary sketch though; it’s for a painting that was once probably the most famous in the world. I’m joined now by Henry Cudlip, of Dawnay’s auction house, who are handling the sale.’
‘Which is handling,’ Juliet muttered automatically.
‘Is that your boss? The posh boy?’ said Matt, momentarily interested. He swung Sandy out of his chair and gave him a kiss. ‘Hey, little man,’ he said, ruffling his fluffy golden hair, as the stentorian tones of Henry Cudlip boomed out, accompanied by a crackling static as though radio waves alone were not enough to contain him.
‘Juice!’ Sandy began to cry. ‘Juice, mama, juice, juice!’
‘. . . No one knows why he destroyed The Garden of Lost and Found. He wasn’t in his right mind, that’s all. He was ill. Funny fellow.’
The Garden of Lost and Found Page 2