An Artistic Way to Go

by Roderic Jeffries

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  To Ursula Graham

  CHAPTER 1

  Cooper dropped the copy of The Times on to his lap and stared into unfocused distance. Until seeing the date on the paper – which was yesterday’s – he had forgotten that this was the second anniversary of Davina’s death. If there were an afterlife which provided a window on to earth, she must be in danger of drowning in her own bile; not only on account of Rachael, but because she had been naive enough to believe that good was always rewarded, evil, punished.

  He heard the sitting-room French windows click and turned to see Rachael. She was wearing a dress full of chic which underlined without overstating. Even a eunuch would be attracted to her, he thought with possessive satisfaction.

  She came up to where he sat, only partially in the shade of the sun umbrella. ‘You’re going to get burned, Bunnikins.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘But the sun’s a furnace today. And only yesterday there was that programme warning about the harm of too much sun. It would be so terrible if…’

  He normally argued as a means of self-assertion, but now he stood, moved the chair fully under the shade.

  ‘I know I worry too much about you, but…’ Leave a man to fill in the missing words and he would always choose those that most flattered him. ‘Muriel’s just been on the phone. She’s asked me to go and have tea with her.’

  ‘More like a double brandy. Why’s she always wanting you to go round to her place?’

  ‘I suppose it’s because I seem to be able to cheer her up.’

  ‘What’s she miserable about this time?’

  ‘She’s run up an overdraft and the bank’s pressing for immediate repayment as they’re not supposed to let her overdraw. She’s phoned her husband and asked for a little extra this month, but he won’t play. Can you imagine a man in his position refusing to let her have just a couple of hundred pounds?’

  ‘What can she expect when she left him and a couple of kids to go off with an Italian gigolo?’

  ‘I thought he was a count?’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘Why don’t you like Italians?’

  ‘They’re the most crooked art dealers in the world.’

  ‘But I’ll bet they never managed to take you for a ride?’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ he said complacently.

  She rested a hand on his shoulder, stroked the side of his neck with her thumb. ‘You’re so smart that someone would have to be a genius to put anything over you.’

  He agreed.

  She removed her hand. ‘You don’t really mind if I go along and see Muriel, do you?’

  ‘Are you forgetting we’re having dinner with the Passmores?’

  ‘I’ll be back in plenty of time; promise.’

  ‘You can wear that dress I bought you.’

  She giggled. ‘That’ll upset Edith! The last time we saw her, she moaned that I was always wearing something new.’

  ‘She’s bitching because they’ve lost a packet on Lloyd’s and can’t get used to having to watch the pennies.’

  ‘Poor dears.’

  ‘Fools not to have foreseen the danger.’

  She bent down and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank goodness you could never do anything so silly, Bunnikins.’

  He watched her return into the house. Memory took him back to their first meeting. The day had started with Davina even more morose and argumentative than usual. The traffic had been so bad that a fifteen-minute drive had taken twenty-five; a fax had arrived during the night to announce that an American sale was off despite its having looked so certain; Mrs Something-or-other had phoned to say that he’d be very sorry to hear her daughter, due to start work with him that morning, had suffered a road accident and the extent of her injuries was not yet known and so she could not be certain when … At which point the woman had started snivelling. He’d phoned an agency and asked for a temporary personal assistant/secretary. Rachael had arrived at the gallery that afternoon …

  His championing of Poperen had proved he was a man who could discern value where others failed to see it. She had been dressed and made up like a tart; had spoken with a Mancunian accent; her manners had betrayed her back-street origins, being in turn gauche, ingratiating, and antagonistic … Yet he had identified the gold beneath the dross. One week later, he’d offered her a permanent job.

  Maturity offered one big advantage over youth, it enabled a man to move carefully. The selling of art had taught him the truth in the old saying, softlee, softlee, catchee monkee, so for a while he had behaved with complete decorum. Then, knowing from the subtle signs which a man of experience learned to identify that she was attracted to him, he had begun to move. His initial lovemaking was gentle, but it still left her perturbed by the rush of emotion it aroused in her breast … Irritatingly, though, not sufficiently aroused. Despite the gifts, the expensive restaurants, and a technique that was second to none, she’d denied him the final prize. One night, when frustration had overwhelmed him, he’d lost his temper. Tearfully, she’d tried to explain. Because she’d been brought up by very old-fashioned parents, she had ingested very old-fashioned principles. When he touched her breasts (she confessed he was the first man ever to caress her bare breasts) he set fire to her body and she yearned to discover the pleasures in full, but her parents had taught her that adultery was a sin even greater than fornication and so her mind forbade what her body hungered for.

  The knowledge that the prize had never been won by anyone else sharpened his already sharp desire, but she had met even his most determined assaults with the same tearful yet steely resolve. Until she was married, she could not allow herself to be taken …

  Davina had fallen downstairs and died four days later in hospital. The police had been aggressively suspicious, especially when they’d uncovered his friendship with Rachael, but lacking any proof that he’d been near the house at the time, they’d had to accept his innocence.

  He’d married Rachael as soon as decency permitted. He’d undertaken her education, teaching her how to behave. His own Eliza. She’d proved to be an adept pupil. By the time he’d sold the gallery and they’d moved to the island, no one, with the possible exception of Muriel, had the slightest suspicion that Rachael’s background was even more humble than his had been. And the only reason he thought Muriel might have guessed was that one evening, when she’d drunk even more than usual and had become exceptionally obnoxious, she’d said something that had made him wonder if she were laughing at him …

  He heard the French windows open a second time and turned to see Rosa step out on to the patio. A fortnight ago, slightly drunk, Bill had confided that if he were Pooh, she was one honey pot he’d be after exploring. It was not the crudeness which had offended, but the thought of lowering oneself to pursue a servant.

  She came to a stop a metre from his chair, the harsh sunshine adding to her ripe, e
arthy attraction, rather than subtracting from it. ‘Coffee, señor?’ She spoke English with difficulty and much eccentricity. ‘And sponge strawberry?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He had not tried to learn Castilian, let alone Mallorquin. The natives spoke English readily enough when they wanted his money.

  ‘Grand. Small?’ She moved her hands to illustrate different sizes.

  Clara, who did the cooking, made a sponge cake so light it almost had to be tethered. ‘A big slice.’

  She nodded, returned into the house.

  Her novio was slim and raffish and rode a large Yamaha at ferocious speeds. Rosa said his father owned a couple of hotels in Playa Neuva and possessed many, many pesetas. To learn how rich some of the locals were was to understand that the world had become turned upside down.

  The cordless phone, lying on the undershelf of the table, rang. He reached down and picked it up, raised the short aerial. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Charles. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything?’

  ‘You’re bound to be interrupting something, aren’t you?’ he said with heavy humour.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He had only contempt for people who were forever apologizing.

  ‘I’ve been wondering if you’ve heard any more?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The latest painting.’

  ‘Not a word. I told you, I’ll be in touch if there’s anything to be in touch about.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but … Well, it is rather a long time now.’

  ‘Surely you learned long ago that in the art world, money is time? My contact is one of the best in the business and he does have a potential buyer in his sights, but the man never makes up his mind in a hurry and it can prove fatal to try to rush him. However, if you want, I’ll tell my contact to try to put on a touch of pressure; but then be prepared for the buyer to fade.’

  ‘Obviously, it’s best not to take the risk.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I’ll just keep my fingers crossed.’

  ‘And your legs, if that doesn’t get too painful. Now you’re on the phone, you do remember we’re leaving a week today, don’t you? You’ll keep an eye on things as usual?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘The gardener’s growing even lazier than usual and will probably try not to hoover the pool every other day, so be prepared to kick him hard. And if the MacMillans say they’re sure we wouldn’t mind them using the pool whilst we’re away, you can tell them I’ve said we’d mind very much. If they want to swim in a pool, they can build their own.’

  ‘I’ll remember … There is one more thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m well into my latest painting and I’m sure I’ve managed to put an extra something into it. One can see the pain as well as the pleasure.’

  ‘Stick to pleasure. People only buy pain when the painter’s history.’

  ‘Still, I would be very grateful if you’d have a look at it and give me your opinion.’

  ‘I’ve much too much on my plate at the moment. I’ll let you know when to bring it along.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘My middle name’s Santa.’ Cooper cut the call, replaced the phone on the shelf under the table. Despite a working life in art, he was still surprised that a man could be so devoid of artistic judgement as Field was where his own work was concerned.

  CHAPTER 2

  As Field replaced the receiver, he thought how ironic it was that he should be optimistic when pessimism was warranted. He knew how slowly and tortuously the art world moved, yet before the call he’d inexplicably convinced himself that he was going to hear good news. Still, he hadn’t received actual bad news. The potential buyer was still there. It wasn’t the financial success he longed for, it was the artistic success that would prove Mary’s faith in his work had been justified.

  He turned and as he did so his gaze was caught by the photograph of Mary in the elaborate silver frame that had been a wedding present. It had been taken some ten years after their marriage and she was smiling, apparently happy and contented. Impossible to guess that a month before she had been told by the specialist that there was no point in continuing with the fertility treatment. She had longed for children, yet learned she could not have any with quiet acceptance, determined to get the best out of life.

  He’d once read that there was a limit to pleasure, but not to pain. That was true. No pleasure could ever be as intense as the degree of mental agony he had suffered when he’d stared down at her in the hospital bed, unable to ease her suffering, willing her death so that she could find peace, dreading her death because that would be the final parting …

  He crossed the small room of the caseta and stepped through the open doorway. He stared at the fig trees, the stone wall which bounded the field, the small orange grove, and the mountains. He heard sheep bells clanging, dogs barking, and a man singing, his voice carrying a Moorish intonation. After Mary’s death, Cooper had persuaded him that he needed to make a clean break in life and should move out to the island. To his surprise, it had proved to be good advice. Away from the tourist beaches and concrete jungles, the island offered a sense of peace and a link between past, present and future, that allowed a man to regain a reason for living.

  He checked the time, turned, shut and locked the front door. Some things had changed even when one was away from the coast. Calvo had told him many times that fifty years before no one had ever bothered to lock up – indeed, the key had been left in view so that others should know one was not at home; now, to leave a door unlocked was to invite theft. Calvo blamed the foreigners for the change, refusing to admit, as was the case, that some of the thieves were Mallorquins, looking for the money to buy drugs. But then, but for the influence of the foreigners perhaps young Mallorquins would have grown up with the same strict standards as their parents had honoured.

  He had been no gardener in England – Mary had been the enthusiast – but here he had created a small garden that was colourful throughout the year, helped by advice from Calvo, despite the other’s declared belief that the growing of flowers rather than vegetables was a stupid waste of time, effort, and water. He passed several rose bushes, with very few blooms because this was the time of the greatest heat, petunias, hibiscus and plumbago bushes, and stopped briefly in front of a couple of lantanas to watch several hummingbird hawk moths working the flower clusters, their wings a blur of motion and creating a low humming.

  The dirt track met a road and he turned on to this and continued along it for a quarter of a kilometre to a narrow lane that had been needlessly tarmacked in the last few weeks, thanks to the grateful, wasteful generosity of the EU.

  In the first of Calvo’s fields, Marta, dressed in shapeless, faded clothes and wearing a very wide-brimmed straw hat, looked up and shouted a greeting, then continued to irrigate the lines of sweet peppers. He wound his way between tomatoes and aubergines to reach her.

  ‘It’s hot enough to make the devil sweat,’ she complained.

  He still understood far more Mallorquin than he spoke, but the fact that he spoke any was unusual. Most English residents thought it unnecessary, perhaps even demeaning, to learn any more Castilian than was necessary to order red or white wine and they consigned Mallorquin to the natives. But arriving on the island with no inbuilt assumption of superiority and possessed of the unusual belief that a man whose way of life was simple compared to his own was not necessarily stupid, he had decided that having come to live in someone else’s country, he should try to master the language. It had proved to be a hard task. Age might enlarge one’s wisdom, but it diminished one’s ability to learn. But he had persevered, his determination strengthened by the obvious gratification his efforts gave the Mallorquins.

  She used the mattock to lift out a sod of earth and allow water to flow from the main irrigation channel into a dry side channel, dropped the earth to plug the filled one. ‘He’s with the sheep in the olive field.’

/>   ‘I’ll go up there.’

  ‘And when you return, you’ll have a drink.’

  ‘Please don’t bother…’

  ‘You visit without having a drink? You think we are Galicians?’ She straightened up and stared at him, then had hurriedly to return to her work as the water overflowed the side channel.

  He left her and walked towards the house. Time and again, he’d heard the foreigners, and particularly the English, refer to the Mallorquins as crude, money-grubbing liars. Not one of those critics had ever realized how ignorant of the local life this criticism showed him to be. The Mallorquin manners suited their simplified style of life and were not intended for drawing-rooms with Sheraton chairs and Baluchi rugs; their undoubted love of money arose from the fact that it was not so very long since they had had none; they did not lie, unless they were lawyers, they merely told their listeners what those listeners obviously wished to hear because there was no greater kindness one could offer a man than to make him happy. Great would be the surprise of the critics to learn that Mallorquins considered some of their habits extremely bad mannered …

  Built out of rock, Mallorquin cement, and Roman roof tiles, the oblong house could not have been of simpler construction yet more adapted to its task, which was no more than to house both humans and animals. Foreigners who bought old farmhouses and reformed them so often destroyed their character by failing to see any merit or beauty in simplicity.

  He followed the path round the west side of the house and through a field that had been stubble for weeks and would grow nothing until the winter because it could not be irrigated. Beyond the wide gateway in the stone wall was rising, rough land that became increasingly strewn with boulders, between which grew only weed grasses, brambles, and wild cistus.

  At the end of the path was an almost flat area of two hectares on which grew rows of olive trees, the trunks of many so twisted that a fanciful mind could believe they had been frozen in a moment of torment. Beneath the trees, Mallorquin sheep – the lambs were coloured chestnut-brown – grazed the grass which grew thanks to a spring which defied all logic and flowed in the summer to disappear in the winter.