The Things You Do for Love

by Rachel Crowther

  Landon’s eyes rested on her, and she wondered if he detected the quiver of – no, she wouldn’t call it regret – that passed through her then.

  ‘Have you heard from your tenant?’ he asked now. ‘Or perhaps I should say your landlord?’

  Flora let a second pass, placing her reply on the right beat.

  ‘We’ve kept in touch,’ she said.

  If Landon noticed the trace of deception he said nothing.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come home,’ he said. ‘Come back here, I mean.’

  Flora’s first instinct was to resent this remark – none of his business, she wanted to think – but her indignation fizzled out before it gathered any force. She could allow him to care about what happened to her, she thought; she should let him have that satisfaction. And he was right that being at Orchards was important. The past had a way of circulating here, replaying itself with different inflections, by turns uncomfortable, pleasurable and mysterious. She liked the sense that the story wasn’t finished with: that there were still different ways of telling it.

  ‘The girls are pleased too,’ she said.

  ‘How are they?’ Landon asked.

  ‘Both well,’ said Flora. ‘Lou’s getting bigger and bigger.’ Perversity, she knew, not to mention Kitty first.

  ‘And Alice is back?’

  ‘Yes. Some weeks ago now.’ Flora looked up at his face, his familiar, noble face, and relented. ‘And Kitty is . . . Kitty.’ She stopped. ‘Funny how she doesn’t look like either of us.’

  ‘She looks like my mother,’ Landon said. He reached into his inside pocket and produced his wallet. On one side was Rosanna, young and beautiful, and on the other someone else: someone whom Flora was certain at first glance must be Kitty, dressed in the close-fitting bodice of the 1930s.

  ‘Good heavens.’ Flora took the wallet from him and stared at the photograph. She’d known this woman for years: how had she never seen the resemblance?

  ‘She was older when you knew her,’ Landon said. ‘People of her generation aged faster. It would be difficult to keep a photograph of Kitty in there, but you see . . .’

  ‘She’d like to know you better,’ Flora said. She’d said just the same to Kitty: no one could accuse her of not promoting the relationship.

  ‘There’s the concert,’ Landon said.

  ‘Julia Hoxton’s concert?’

  Landon cocked his head. ‘Henry’s concert, she’d call it. I’m singing Kitty’s songs. We’ll rehearse them together, I hope.’

  Suddenly, the business Landon had really come to talk about seemed less disagreeable than she’d thought, and Flora’s resolve stronger. She leaned across to pour the remains of the coffee into their empty cups.

  ‘We should talk about the Comyns,’ she said. ‘I know you’ve come to lobby me, but I’ve got a plan I think you’ll have to approve of.’

  Epilogue

  December 2014

  In the wide atrium of the concert hall guests glittered and twittered, gaggled and regrouped, circling with glasses rarely less than half full. Around them on the walls hung Nicholas Comyn’s pictures, numbered and annotated ready for the auction that would form part of the evening’s proceedings. Alice, who knew almost no one beyond the family, hovered at the edge of the crowd, keeping company with the paintings.

  It was odd to see them all together again. Both the people and the pictures, she meant: the living and the dead, if you wanted to be fanciful about it. The sale brochure had been nicely produced and Comyn’s work hung with care. Greville’s had made no bones about the importance of the collection, and everyone was keen, of course, to make the most of the sale for the benefit of the memorial fund. The variety of style and material was striking, Alice thought – portraits, landscapes, interiors – but so too was the familiarity of the pictures, even to her.

  ‘There are more of them than I thought,’ said a voice near her ear, and she turned to see Lou standing beside her.

  ‘More people or more paintings?’

  ‘Both.’

  The baby was due in a few weeks, and Lou didn’t move like an ordinary person anymore. She had turned out not to be one of those women who can carry a baby hitched casually to her like a rucksack: pregnancy had taken her over, rather than being accommodated within her. Alice’s eyes traced the deep curve of her back, a calligrapher’s flourish, and she felt something inside her twist itself into the same shape.

  They were standing beside one of the larger paintings, a still life that strayed as close as Nicholas Comyn ever went towards the abstract, the outlines of flowers and fruit (pomegranates, according to the notes) merging and blurring into stylised shapes.

  ‘ “This work,” ’ Lou read, from the catalogue in her hand, ‘ “represents a departure from the artist’s more familiar style. Some commentators have linked this phase of experimentation in the summer of 1986 to a period of personal turbulence.” We’re meant to know what that means, I suppose. Henry would have known.’

  ‘Tricky,’ Alice said. ‘Always tempting to make too much of the link between art and life.’

  ‘It’s our lives too,’ Lou said. ‘That’s the weird thing. They’ve always been there, around the house. We’re even in some of them.’

  ‘I know.’

  Alice took her hand. It was too late, of course, and it wasn’t for her to interfere – but she wished now that she’d said something. Once they’re sold, she should have warned Lou, part of your history will be gone, and with it your power to interpret it, or come to terms with it.

  ‘Henry would like the idea of them helping to fund scholarships in his name,’ Lou said, as though she knew what was on Alice’s mind. ‘Along with Kitty’s song cycle, and all this auld acquaintance.’ She gestured round the room, making the statement more theatrical than it needed to be. ‘He’d love the idea of having a stake in the future.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Alice said. ‘I just wonder . . .’

  She could see in Lou’s eyes a hint of the apprehension she still betrayed, sometimes, and which they both pretended not to notice.

  ‘It’s what Mum wants, too,’ Lou said, in a gentler voice than Alice expected. ‘And even . . .’ She had moved on, now, to stand in front of the sketch that had appeared, so mysteriously, a few days before. The sketch of a family: of Henry and Flora and Lou and Kitty, oddly faceless but unmistakable, all the same, to those who knew them. ‘Even Landon,’ she said. ‘In the end, even Landon.’

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Who else?’ Lou smiled. ‘It’s awfully touching that he had a picture of us all, all this time. Of Kitty, especially. And that he’s given it up, now. I wonder – do you think his reasons were the same as Flora’s?’

  Alice was pondering a reply when her attention was caught by Flora, separating from the hubbub to look at a picture hanging a little way away from them: the pastel portrait of Henry as a young man that had always hung in the hall at Orchards.

  ‘Look,’ she said.

  Lou turned. Flora hadn’t seen them, but from here they could see both Flora and the picture clearly.

  ‘Do you –’ Alice began – but then Flora turned abruptly, and they saw that someone had greeted her; that a man was coming towards her, smiling.

  ‘You made it,’ they heard Flora say. It was impossible to tell from her tone of voice, or the slight tilt of her head, whether she was overjoyed, or merely politely appreciative. ‘I wasn’t sure you were going to.’

  ‘I said I would,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, good,’ said Flora. ‘Come and say hello to Kitty. She’ll be pleased to see you.’

  As she disappeared back into the crowd, Lou and Alice stood side by side and watched her. And from a few yards away, Henry watched her too, the light of life bright in his eyes.

  Greville Auctioneers, Friday 12th December 2014

  Paintings and drawings by Nicholas Comyn, from the collection of the late Henry Jones

  Lot no. 7
: Portrait of Henry Jones, 1967

  This pastel is among the earliest of Comyn’s surviving works, having been completed when he and Jones were both nineteen – probably during the course of the summer after their first year at Oxford, when they travelled through Europe for several months with their mutual friend Landon Peverell. The setting of this portrait is not known, but the outlines of terracotta roofs in the background are suggestive of Tuscany.

  Although it is in a medium Comyn rarely used again, except for preliminary sketches, this work shows several characteristics of his mature work. The physiognomic accuracy with which Jones’ face is rendered, and the vivid sense of personality it reveals, are reminiscent of Comyn’s later portraits.

  This piece is of particular interest among Henry Jones’ collection of Comyn’s work. Although Jones remained a close friend of the artist until his death in 1995, and was his most important patron, Comyn never produced another portrait of him.

  Jones’ assertive posture, challenging the viewer’s gaze, and Comyn’s use of vibrant tones, both contribute to the sense of a strong and self-assured personality. However, there is an intimacy to this portrait – created partly by the medium and the relatively ‘unworked’ nature of the piece – which sets it apart. It reveals something of the public man Jones would become, but above all it speaks of the optimism and vigour of a young man at an early and carefree stage of his life.

  Acknowledgements

  I am always and profoundly grateful to my husband, Richard Pleming, for his support and encouragement, and for regarding it as a privilege to live with someone whose head is so often full of other things. Also to my parents and to my wonderful children for making life so interesting and rewarding, and to the various people who have helped to keep us afloat while this book was being written, especially Tracey Matulka. Among the many friends who have generously read various drafts Bryony Bethell deserves a special mention, and Wendy Osgerby’s expert assistance with the descriptions of Nicholas Comyn’s paintings was invaluable.

  I’ve been fortunate to have input from several wise editors, including Sarah Willans, Gillian Stern, Sophie Wilson – and especially Joel Richardson at Bonnier Zaffre, whose judgement and tact are unsurpassed. I’ve also been immensely lucky in my brilliant and dedicated agent, Patrick Walsh. No one could hope for a better advocate and advisor, nor such a good friend.

  Finally, I would like to thank all the people who have unknowingly helped to shape this story: the many impressive, ambitious women I have known and worked with, many of whom have juggled demanding careers with child-raising, creativity and much else, and whose inspiration and example infuse this book.

  About the Author

  Rachel Crowther is a doctor who worked for the NHS for 20 years, and the mother of five children. She dabbled in creative writing between babies and medical exams until an Arvon course prompted her to take it more seriously. She’s also a keen musician and cook. This is her second novel.

  Also by Rachel Crowther

  The Partridge and the Pelican

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Zaffre Publishing

  This ebook edition published in 2016 by

  Zaffre Publishing

  80-81 Wimpole St, London, W1G 9RE

  www.zaffrebooks.co.uk

  Copyright © Rachel Crowther, 2016

  The moral right of Rachel Crowther to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-7857-6185-0

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7857-6184-3

  This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd

  Zaffre Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre, a Bonnier Publishing company

  www.bonnierzaffre.co.uk

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