by Janet Pywell
The smell of fresh coffee still lingers in the kitchen and with the large diamond ring on her finger that catches the light she indicates an empty chair where I sit and gaze out at the garden. It was once a sanctuary for birds but now the feeders are empty and a flat football, small bicycle and plastic truck lay abandoned on the worn, muddy grass.
Her armchair now filled with a pile of unfolded washing has been moved away from the window, and an assortment of jackets and coats hang on the back of the kitchen door. Toy cars and plastic people are strewn across the floor so I gather them up and place them in a basket under the table.
‘I had to pack up most of my own things. Max was hiding them everywhere – things went missing. But Roy has put them in boxes for me and he’s put them in the attic. He says I can get them down any time I like. He says there’s no problem,’ she says this as if repeating her son’s reassuring words.
What’s he done with the painting?
She fills the kettle. Beside her Max’s drawings are stuck haphazardly on the fridge door: a scribbled yellow sun, a tree with matchstick figures and a white owl.
Is it still in her bedroom?
‘Annie and Max have popped down to enrol at the local library. Max loves to read. He likes the sound of animals. He roars like a lion and barks like a dog. They’re his favourites.’ She rinses hot water into the teapot before throwing it down the sink then she adds fresh tea leaves then more hot water. It’s a ritual and she places in on the table between us leaving it to brew and she sits opposite me.
Where is it?
Her papery-thin hands move briskly pouring milk. ‘I don’t understand these modern marriages. Roy travels all the time. I hardly see him. Annie is kind although sometimes, I shouldn’t really say it but she is impatient. She can be quite stern. Max is only young and she’s very strict. I would hate to cross her or get on the wrong side of her.’
‘Really?’
‘She tells me some strange stories and she has a peculiar sense of humour – it’s almost as if she wants to scare me – stories of old people in homes and places...’ She bites into a biscuit and it snaps spreading crumbs over her lap. She pokes a piece into the corner of her mouth and sipping her tea noisily she continues:
‘Roy was born in Germany. My Albert was stationed over there after the war. He was in the army and we lived there for twelve years…’ She reminisces about her husband Albert and what a fine man he was and although he didn’t fight in the war there were a lot of operational tasks that he was involved in after it ended.
She speaks about Roy as a child and I imagine him running around just as I have seen Max do with his arms spread wide as if he is an aeroplane.
‘At least you’re friends again with your son. It must be lovely to have him back in your life,’ I say.
How can I get upstairs?
‘I will admit that it was difficult. I had to make my stand at the time and say what I thought. It was a matter of principle. He spent money that wasn’t his and I had to bail him out on several occasions but he was young then. Now I’ve put the past behind and we have both move on. He is the only family I have.’
‘You need family around you and people who you can trust.’
‘That’s what I say.’
‘Have you kept the painting–’
‘Did you phone your family at Christmas?’ she asks.
‘My father lives in Malaga.’ I don’t tell her that we haven’t spoken since I left University.
‘That’s where Picasso was born,’ she replies.
‘I worked in the Picasso museum for about a year taking photographs for their brochure and website and all their exhibition materials. The family donated hundreds of paintings and they all had to be photographed and catalogued.’
‘How interesting, Mikky. I do like Picasso but he’s not my favourite artist.’
‘Nor mine.’ I lean forward. ‘Who do you like?’
‘There is only one artist for me – Vermeer.’
‘Vermeer is very special probably because he painted so few. Do you still have yours?’
‘One of the best forgeries,’ she says with satisfaction, nodding and reaching for another biscuit.
‘Did you ever get it… valued?’
‘No dear, it isn’t worth much although I did pay quite a lot for it at the time. I suppose at the back of your mind you hope it maybe the original although you know it isn’t.’
‘If it is, the Isabella Stewart Museum would want it back,’ I chuckle.
‘Well, they can’t have it,’ she says. ‘It’s mine and I paid good money for it. Anyway I don’t want to get it looked at or valued by anyone. That’s what Roy keeps going on about but what good would it do? Money is no good to me when I’m dead. It’s family that’s important. Besides I have an agreement with the art dealer that he can have it back when I die.’
‘Why have you agreed that?’ I probe.
‘Because he was a friend of Albert’s and it is the right thing to do.’ She sips her tea and gazes out of the window not meeting my gaze.
‘Won’t Roy mind?’
‘Roy won’t find out until I’m gone.’
A robin hops onto the fence and chirps.
‘He’s pretty,’ I say.
Mrs Green leans forward trying hard to see the bird. He regards us momentarily before flying off but she still peers outside not realising he has flown away and in the silence I listen to the ticking grandfather clock, formulating an idea.
‘You’re right, Mrs Green. Say nothing. Just enjoy the painting. There are very few people that appreciate something for its beauty rather than wondering about the cost all the time.’
‘Oh dear, well Roy has been nagging at me to get it looked at. He wants me to take it to Sotheby’s or somewhere but I don’t want all that fuss…beside I promised…I don’t want to go to all that trouble. I trust my friend – the art dealer. He and Albert knew each other for years and if my Albert were alive he wouldn’t let Roy anywhere near my things and they certainly wouldn’t have ended up in the attic.’ She continues to stare out of the window.
The painting will be no good to her when she is dead. She said it herself. So in effect it is Roy that I am steal the painting from or the art dealer.
‘You do still have it, don’t you?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’
‘It is a shame to keep it hidden away.’
‘It’s in my bedroom. I keep it up there because I like to look at it and it makes me happy. It’s the one thing I wouldn’t let him take away from me and put in the attic.’
‘Good for you, Mrs Green.’ I stand up. ‘You keep it safe in there – where no one can get to it – and enjoy it!’
‘I will. No one is getting their hands on it,’ she adds.
At the front door I lean down and peck her cheek. The irony of Judas planting a kiss on Jesus’ cheek doesn’t escape me but we are both distracted by tiny footsteps running up the pathway.
‘I got you a book, Granny.’ Max gathers Mrs Green’s skirt around her legs in a big hug and she laughs and places her gnarled old hand on his young head.
The introductions are over in seconds, Annie’s grip is firm and she watches me with the skill and grace of a predatory owl.
‘Annie’s looking for some work. I think she’s bored at home with me every day. She used to have her own business. Didn’t you, dear?’
‘I’m an interior decorator. I may put a card in the window of the corner shop. I can’t go far because Max is at the nursery,’ she explains.
‘Really? I’m thinking about getting my apartment painted,’ I say.
Her eyes light up and I return her smile.
Know thy enemy.
A few days later I arrive home from a meeting with Sandra Jupiter. It is mid-afternoon and I am unpacking my camera bag when I see a note in Javier’s handwriting on the counter.
Mrs Green wanted to speak to you. I made her tea and we had a chat. Javier X
I need to download the l
ast images of Caravaggio’s Boy Bitten by a Lizard. It is one of two versions that normally hangs in the National Gallery, the second one hangs in Fondazione Roberto Longhi in Florence, and I am eager to look at the images. This painting of a young boy recoiling as a lizard, hidden among fruit, bites his finger is enthralling and captivating. It’s a painting in motion – the equivalent of a sixteenth century snapshot.
The thrill of being with the original all day has filled me with excitement and I still have the smell of the oil and canvas inside my nostrils. Now I need to be alone to remember the memory and absorb the intricate details of a canvas painted by a man who was also accused of murder.
I am setting up my laptop when the doorbell rings.
‘Sorry to bother you but I really need your help. My mother-in-law, you know – Mrs Green, isn’t feeling very well.’ Annie waves a finger in the direction of the house next door. ‘And I have to go to the nursery to pick up Max and I’m already late. I wonder if you could stay with her for a few minutes. Just until I get back. I won’t be long.’ She casts an imploring look. ‘It was Gran who said that you wouldn’t mind. Would you? I really must go or Max will be upset...’
‘Yes, of course.’ I follow Annie down the path ‘Take as long as you like,’ I call.
‘I won’t be long – promise.’ Her footsteps splash in the puddles as she hurries out of the gate.
‘Mrs Green?’ I call out. I venture inside and glance up the staircase before heading for the kitchen. She is propped up in her chair with soft cushions beside the window. Her diamond ring glistens in the light and she waves for me to sit beside her.
‘Thank you, Mikky.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Annie does panic. I’m sure that she thinks I’ll be pushing up the daisies soon but there’s life in the old girl yet,’ she laughs. ‘She’s a good girl is Annie. She means well but she does get things wrong sometimes. She does talk a lot. She’s full of stories and she can be very gloomy but she’s given up a lot to look after me. I often wonder if Roy deserves a woman like that. Is that a dreadful thing to say?’
‘No.’ I pull out a chair and sit beside her.
We sit watching a pair of goldfinches eating Niger seed from the birdfeeders and I wonder who refilled them.
‘You popped in this morning and spoke to Javier?’ I say.
‘I wanted to know, do you still need your flat painting?’ she asks.
‘I do. I’m going to have a very important guest but you must not tell anyone… It’s Josephine Lavelle.’ When I see her face ignite with interest I go on to explain about her imminent visit to London.
‘My dear, how exciting – Javier did tell me about the portrait and your trip to Dresden. She was always one of my favourite opera singers. I saw her once, years ago, in Covent Garden. She was simply wonderful. Albert loved her…’
‘So I think it might be a good idea to get the flat painted.’ I don’t add that it will also help me know what is going on in her house and give me the opportunity to switch the paintings.
‘I do like the mural Javier painted. He’s such a good boy and so handsome. He insisted on making me coffee and he gave me a biscuit. We talked about art and paintings and I wouldn’t have mentioned it but he’s so knowledgeable and so I told him about the Vermeer, you know, the one upstairs.’
What?
‘And he has given me such good advice–’
The front door bangs.
Advice?
Running feet pound along the hallway and Max hangs on the door handle eying us both silently. I am lost for words.
I stand up.
‘You’re so kind,’ she says. ‘Imagine… Josephine Lavelle…next door.’
‘I’ll make sure that you meet her.’
‘That would be so exciting. How kind you are, Mikky.’ She grips my fingers and tries to stand but I place my hand firmly on her shoulder and insist she sits back.
I ruffle Max’s hair. ‘Bye, bye, terror!’
He eyes me with concern and I leave him clambering onto his Grandma’s knee and Annie walks with me to the front door.
‘I may finally get some peace and quiet,’ she says. ‘With them both asleep in the afternoon I often get an hour to myself. Not that I have much to do but it’s nice not to be at someone’s beck and call the whole time. Thanks for coming in and sitting with Gran, I mean Mrs Green. Roy was in Germany last week – this week it’s Poland so it’s nice to have a proper adult to speak to for a change...’ her voice trails off.
‘It can’t be easy coping with them both.’
‘Conversation with a three-year-old and a ninety-year-old isn’t always the most stimulating,’ she lowers her voice. ‘I know I shouldn’t say it and I love them both very much but it is not always… satisfying.’ She leans forward and speaks earnestly. ‘You see, I need to do something for me. I need fulfilment. Does that sound very selfish?’
‘No.’
‘I suppose it does and you’re probably too polite to say anything,’ Annie’s laugh is a deep, friendly chuckle. ‘I told Roy I was going to look for work. I can’t stand doing nothing.’
My hand rests on the front door. ‘Perhaps you could paint my flat. Like I said, I am thinking of decorating the place.’
‘That sounds great. Can I call in and we can discuss it?’ she asks.
Two days later I’m spending the afternoon working from home and my quiet time absorbed in Caravaggio’s painting has been ruined with nagging doubts that Javier knows about the painting and has spoken to Mrs Green.
What advice did he give her?
I’m still lost in thought when the doorbell rings.
‘I hope I’m not too late? I’ve dropped Max off at a friend’s house and Gran’s all settled with the re-runs of Antiques Roadshow.’ Annie shakes rain from a quilted maroon jacket and places it over the arm of the blue sofa. ‘Goodness – this is so different from next door. These houses are fabulous inside when they’re modernised. Look at that charcoal mural and these paintings – are they all originals? What a wonderful fireplace…’
‘It’s black marble. It was popular six years ago but I’m not sure about it now.’
‘It’s not exactly unattractive though, is it?’ Annie runs her hand over the mantelpiece. ‘I do like the floor. Oak is so warm looking and much more practical than a carpet – more hygienic – but we just need to do something about these walls. Certainly not wallpaper but maybe some rag rolling in rustic shades – get rid of the green in the kitchen which is quite bright, don’t you think?’
I follow her eyes to where she looks over my shoulder. ‘Whatever you think.’
‘And the mural?’
‘Javier painted that for Oscar. It’s symbolic of where they met.’
‘It must go.’
‘Javier would never forgive me.’
She stands back and gazes at it analytically as if gaining perspective. Her hands are poised on her hips as she moves backwards and forwards.
‘Would you like coffee?’
As I busy myself in the kitchen she is examining, touching and appraising the room. She strokes picture frames, scan-reads book covers and flicks through art magazines then settles her gaze on me.
‘The existing bold colours will go. I’ll replace them with tranquil tones; sage green for the lounge which will be comforting and relaxing, and I think beige and rust for the kitchen.’
I wonder if Annie’s combination of pale skin and streaky blond hair comes from a distant Scandinavian descent. Her slim straight back and narrow shoulders give her an aura of vulnerability and I can’t imagine her climbing a stepladder. Only thin laughter lines around her mouth betray her youthful body and I think she is slightly older than me, and at least fifteen years younger than her husband.
She slides her thin arms into the bulky jacket. ‘I hope you’ll trust me to do a good job? We’ll think about the mural. Are you sure that you don’t want me to paint over it?
‘Definitely.’
‘Can I say something to you?’ Her eyes turn serious. ‘I know that we don’t know each other well but Gran speaks very highly of you. You even saved her life. But I am worried. You know he came over to see Gran last night.’
‘Who?’
‘Javier.’
‘Really?’ I can only shake my head.
‘I worry because of the painting. She has it in her bedroom. I know it isn’t the original Vermeer but he does seem very interested in it.’
Javier has been working late in the studio and I’m still formulating what I will say to him. My plan is going to unravel and it will be because of him. I’m in a hurry to make my swap but the painting, hidden in my bedroom, is still not dry.
On Saturday night I am asleep on the sofa when the doorbell rings. I rise groggily and flick off the television assuming he has forgotten his key but the door is pulled from my grasp. Roy pushes me, sending me reeling against the wall and I bang my head. He stands over me and the sweet alcohol coming from his breath makes me nauseous.
‘Home alone?’ he spits.
‘What do you want?’
‘This.’ He waves a bottle of wine wrapped in gold mesh. ‘Is a present for you.’
‘I don’t want it.’ I try to block his way into my home by keeping my hand on the open door handle and a chill wind whisks around my ankles.
‘Let’s not play games. You know who I am and I know who you are.’ He is a taller than me. He looks older close up and there are ingrained lines at the corner of his mouth and furrows on his forehead – he’s mid-fifties. His arms are muscled and I try to push him away.
‘Nice flat.’ He whistles. ‘It doesn’t look like it needs decorating to me. It looks perfectly all right. I mean the paintings are a bit…weird…nudist crap but then again, everyone can’t have the same taste can they?’ He waves the bottle in my face. ‘Don’t even need a corkscrew. Get some glasses.’ He moves further into the room.
‘I want you to leave.’ I block his path but he’s light on his feet and he dodges, thrusting the bottle into my chest and with his free hand he slams the front door shut. ‘You’re letting all the heat out,’ he hisses.