by Ali Carter
Lianne split her legs and with one huge step she comically flung her arm over her head and placed her picture right next to Shane’s. Then drawing her legs together, she put a hand to her mouth and blew a kiss straight into the recording mobile.
Felicity and Jane carefully rested their pictures side by side and Shane, unbeknown to them, took a wide shot of their behinds.
‘You scoundrel,’ said Rupert, wafting his hand in front of the camera.
‘Keep going, mate, that’s excellent footage.’
Louis handed me his picture and I began a new row.
‘Minty, Giles,’ I called out, ‘we’re having a crit.’ They joined the group and both their paintings received compliments from the others.
‘Well done. Look at all this work.’
‘I like yours, Minty,’ said Felicity.
‘What is it you like about it?’
‘The froth is soooo believable.’
‘Minty, can you give us any tips on how you painted the froth?’
‘Sure. I went for a mixture of zinc white, yellow ochre and cobalt blue to blend it into the water. Froth is much darker than one thinks it is. I know because home’s on the Derwent.’
‘Lovely river,’ said Rupert. ‘And you’re right about the colour, but I never saw it like that.’
‘Yellow ochre?’ said Lianne. ‘You didn’t give us any of that, Susie.’
‘I didn’t want to introduce too many colours but maybe I should have. I’m sorry.’
‘Whose do you think’s best, Miss?’
‘What’s interesting is how you all see things. Jane has used a lot more green than the rest of you, Felicity’s grey rocks are well observed, and then if we look at Louis’, he’s heightened the colours.’
‘That’s cos he’s a photographer,’ said Lianne. ‘They’re always enhancing things.’
‘Artistic licence,’ said Giles.
‘But Miss,’ nagged Shane. ‘Whose do you think is the best?’
‘All these paintings have successful elements and taste is personal.’
‘Boring, you just don’t want to say.’
‘It’s jolly chilly, Susie,’ said Felicity.
‘Let’s pack up then.’
‘I could murder a cup of tea,’ said Rupert.
‘What would you murder it with?’ smirked Shane.
‘Don’t be so cheeky.’ Jane prodded her finger into his back.
‘Ow.’
‘Don’t worry, boy,’ said Rupert. ‘You’re quite right, what on earth would one murder a cup of tea with?’ He roared with laughter.
Louis and Minty had already packed up their bits and bobs and as they sat in the back of the minibus, out of the cold, they watched and waited for everyone else to do the same. Then as the group balanced wet paintings on shivering knees, Rupert navigated the bumpy track with confidence – I’m so glad he’s taken control of the bus. Up the front drive we went and into the yard in front of the house.
‘Rupert,’ called out Louis from the back, ‘I don’t think you should park this close to the steps.’
‘But it’s where it was when we got in.’
‘I know but it spoils the look of the house.’
‘He’s right,’ I said.
‘And he’s talking at last.’ Rupert released the brake and parked a little further away.
I stood in the yard looking up at the wonderfully self-confident house. This pile was not in the least bit subtle. The porticoed front door raised up above the ground gave it the grandest entrance I’ve ever seen – how nice it is the Muchtons regard their home as something to share. If Zoe’s enthusiasm for public courses continues, many lucky people will beat a path here.
My eyes travelled along the windows of the top floor. ‘Hey Louis,’ I said as he was the closest. ‘Why do you think the curtains of the locked wing are shut?’
‘Don’t know,’ he shrugged.
‘Do you think they’re hiding something?’
I was joking but he snapped back, ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘So, I’m right?’ I wasn’t going to let a Frenchman intimidate me. And anyway, he might have been here before so perhaps he knew.
‘People with big houses don’t like to heat it all…’
I finished his sentence, ‘So the curtains are closed to keep it insulated.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Here,’ I reached out an arm, ‘I’ll take your bag so you can carry the easel.’
‘Thank you.’ He gave me the sweetest smile and my tummy turned.
Oh crumbs, I must not crush on Monsieur Bouchon.
An absolutely essential part of a Scottish home, no matter how big or small, is the drying room, and if you’ve been into one you’ve seen them all. A seemingly windowless dark cavern, which has, dangling off-centre, a dim light bulb with a grubby shade. These uninhabited stuffy places have a universal cheesy-feet-cross-damp-wax-jacket smell. There’s always a crusty insole in sight and a lonely glove to be found. And although spiders, mice and moths inhabit every other nook and cranny of the house, you’ll never find any in here – it’s far too hot with very little air. Slatted wooden shelves run up the walls, each haphazardly stacked with endless bits of outdoor kit, and, as is always the case, an enormous insulated water tank takes up most of the space. No hot cupboard (as they’re also known) is complete without a ‘pulley’, a long wooden railed device attached to a cord. It’s lowered, loaded with wet items and raised up into warmer air, muddy drips drip-dripping onto the floor. If you’re lucky you’ll find an out-of-shape coat hanger lingering in a dark corner. Despite the unpleasant components of this poorly lit dingy space it is excellent at drying out absolutely anything with rapid effect.
So, here I am in Auchen Laggan Tosh’s drying room obeying Zoe’s instruction for a tidy house, taking off my coat and welly boots. One thing’s for sure, they’ll be warm and toasty when I come to put them on again. Right now, though, I’m feeling cold, so I’m going to skip tea and scamper upstairs for a hot bath.
Zoe caught me on the landing. ‘Susie,’ she said, rather sharply, ‘Fergus would like a word.’
‘Okay,’ wobbled out of my mouth.
I couldn’t work out if she was exhausted or agitated, but either way her voice had definitely lost its lightness of touch.
‘He’s in our room at the minute but if you wait in the snug I’ll give him a call.’
I turned back downstairs, my feelings retracing their steps. I’d felt nervous before this week, apprehensive when I arrived, gradually more settled, reached a state of ease this afternoon and now, curses, I was feeling on edge again. Why did Fergus want a word with me?
‘Ah Susie,’ he said, striding into the library and pushing the door closed. ‘Do sit down, this won’t take long.’
The corners of Fergus’s mouth were twitching as if he was trying his best to hold back an almighty smile. This was a turn-up for the books. Maybe he had good news for me.
‘Right,’ he said and then took what seemed like forever to perch his bottom on the arm of the sofa opposite. ‘I had a call this morning from an art dealer, renowned broker of fine arts in fact.’ Fergus’s smile was now huge. ‘There’s a Landseer exhibition coming up at the Scottish National Gallery.’
‘How exciting. Do they want you to loan some pictures?’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Zoe?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I just assumed it. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ Fergus could not stop smiling. ‘Zoe thinks it’s a bad idea but just this once I’m going against her.’ He giggled.
‘Fair enough. The oil sketches you have really are lovely, I’m not surprised the gallery wants them.’
‘No, no,’ Fergus wafted his hand and shook his head, ‘we have four marvellous pictures. Just you wait. I can’t tell you how exciting this is. My family have done their absolute best to keep hold of their collection. Never would a Muchton sell a painting.’
I smiled.
Ewen wouldn’t like hearing him say this. But, you know what, I feel just the same about my own limited collection.
‘Fergus, I really would love it if there’s any chance I might get to see the pictures?’
‘Yes, definitely. Zoe’s anxious about people knowing we own them. Silly really, as it is all out there on public record. But we’ve come to a compromise: they’ll be loaned for the exhibition but none of the students this week will be told. I kind of get her point, one does not want too many people knowing exactly where they are.’
‘It’s so kind of you to tell me.’
‘I had to push for that too.’ He gave a light chuckle. ‘But it seemed to me jolly unfair not to let a professional artist living under our roof see the pictures.’
‘I’m thrilled, thank you so much.’
‘They’re sending over an art valuer very early tomorrow morning to assess the pictures for insurance purposes, and in order not to rouse suspicion I thought you could join him in the south-east wing before breakfast?’
Ah ha, the valuable paintings are in the locked wing.
‘Yes please. That would be brilliant.’
Fergus rubbed his knees and stood up. ‘Marvellous. Now don’t say a word.’
He opened the library door and I skipped upstairs, grateful to find the bath free.
The peaty water consumed me as I rested my head back on the cast-iron lip. I’m so pleased to finally have time alone. A calm moment all by myself. It’s just what I need to reflect on one of my obsessions – piecing together close observations of people so far. I’ve always been interested in human beings and I think I’m pretty good at working people out. I’ve practised the skill all my life. As a little girl in London I’d sit for hours gazing out the window of our front room absorbing the mannerisms of passers-by. The backwards-facing palms of simple folk, the spring in the step of young love, the untucked clothes of characterful children, the trembling onset of Parkinson’s, and Trevor the tramp who always smiled. Trevor was a made-up name, I wasn’t allowed to talk to Trevor. But from a very young age the seed was sown: what fun it is sussing out others.
Being cooped up in a large house this week as part of an intimate group might have its frustrations, not being able to escape for one. But with a hobby like mine, indulging in people’s characters and how they behave, there could hardly be a better playing field. In fact, I’ve already worked out Jane’s lifestyle.
I became curious at dinner last night when she hinted to Fergus she was familiar with country pursuit sums. I assumed she was a Lady of some grand manor herself and started to wonder where she lived.
Her surname threw me at first – Atkinson doesn’t exactly smack of the gentry. But shooting estates these days aren’t solely owned by old families and Jane’s husband could have bought a country pile off his own back. Mr Atkinson might be a successful banker for all I knew, or actually, more likely, a barrister. They live in Gloucestershire don’t you know. Jane’s definitely not got a career under her belt, so unless inheritance bought them an estate, she’s played no part in owning the home. But then, when Felicity told me over lunch that Jane’s husband, Neville, is a farm management consultant, from that moment on I knew Jane had married outside of her class. She’d stepped down from the ranks of those who have assets (this is why she could identify with Fergus) to those who don’t. If her husband Neville had land of his own he’d be running it, not consulting for others.
I enjoy getting under people’s skin – it’s instinctive, not nasty or malicious. An inbuilt reaction to being an artist. I’m simply unable to turn off my antennae.
‘Knock, knock,’ came Lianne’s voice from the other side of the bathroom door. ‘There’s a queue building up out here.’
‘Give me a sec and I’ll be finished.’
‘Cheers, Susie.’
Lianne was bang smack in my face as I opened the door and I very nearly stepped on her flip-flopped feet. She was in little tight PJ shorts and an even tighter t-shirt with a huge heart stretched across her breasts.
‘What ya going to wear tonight?’ she said.
Insensitive to the fact she might genuinely be looking for advice on what to wear to dinner in a house like this, I replied, ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’
‘My mum said clean clothes for dinner might be a way of them telling us to be a bit dressy.’
The truth is, vanity influenced my packing and I came with a whole variety of evening gear. If the scene was trendy, I had stuff for that; smart, I could look sophisticated; party time and I could be sexy; plain clean clothes, I had them too.
‘Well, I’m going to keep my best dress for Wednesday night’s ceilidh, and tonight I’ll wear a wrap-around one.’ I looked down at my dressing gown. ‘Much like this really.’
Lianne laughed. ‘Thanks, that helps a lot.’
A great big deep gurgle came through my bedroom wall as the final glug of bathwater went down the plug. I lay down on the bed and sunk my head into the pillow. Lianne began to hum a tune. It sounded like something off a Pure relaxation CD. She clearly had a gift for melody. I’d better set an alarm in case I drift off.
I could hear my name. ‘Susie?’ It was being called down the children’s corridor. Thank goodness I’d kept an eye on the time. ‘Susie?’ My hair’s dry, my make-up’s applied and my dress is on. Whoever it is, I’m fit to be seen. ‘Susie?’ I opened the bedroom door.
‘Louis,’ I said, with a gulp.
‘I’ve found you,’ he said as he strode straight past me into the room.
‘Oi. Don’t feel the need to ask or anything.’
‘Do you have something to hide?’ He winked and sat down on the bed.
‘Sabbia Rosa. Ooh la la,’ came his best French accent as he read from a paper bag on the floor.
‘Do you shop there?’ I said, amused he knew the lingerie store.
‘Pfft, if they should be so lucky. What a generous boyfriend you must have?’
‘A girl can spend money on herself, you know.’
‘So you go to Paris then?’
‘I’ve been a few times, yes.’
‘I live there.’
‘Really?’ I didn’t believe him. Why would he be here if he did?
‘My father’s English but Maman’s from Paris and we’ve always had a flat there.’
‘So, you still live at home?’
‘Don’t be silly. I have a place of my own there now. Come on, it’s time to go downstairs, everyone’s missing you.’
I went to the window to shut my curtains. There was a blue van outside illuminated in the outdoor lights.
‘Oh no, Louis,’ I joked, ‘someone’s parked right by the front steps.’
‘Oh no indeed.’ He came to the window; our cheeks were now millimetres apart. ‘That’s Ewen’s,’ he said.
‘Wouldn’t he have walked?’ I was confused how Louis could be so sure, but then again not everyone drives around in a van, and Ewen is his friend.
‘Bit dark for that.’
‘Hey…’ I could see two men in the yard. It was Fergus, pointing his finger at Stuart. ‘They look cross, don’t you think?’
‘Bit nosey, aren’t you?’
I turned to pull a face and accidentally tripped over Louis’ foot.
‘Whoops.’
He caught me in his arms and gave me a quick squeeze.
‘Probably just some landlord/keeper disagreement.’
‘I knew he was the keeper.’
‘Course you did, nothing to do with his tweeds or anything like that.’
‘Ha ha. Anyway, how do you know Ewen?’
‘We met on a photography course.’
‘Recently?’ I said as I closed the curtains.
‘About seven years ago. But come on, it’s time to go downstairs.’ Louis linked my arm and marched me out of the room.
In the drawing room we found Zoe and Felicity huddled round the fire, Fergus now standing between them. Louis’ ‘everyone’s missing you’ was clearly an ex
cuse to invade my room.
‘Quick, quick, shut the door,’ said Zoe.
Haggis ran from her feet to mine and Fergus wobbled the bottle of white wine in his hand. ‘Drink, Susie?’
‘Yes please, that’d be lovely.’
A husky, ‘Hello,’ entered the room. I turned to see Fergus’s twin standing behind me.
‘Hi,’ I smiled, trying not to stare. They were identical. I find these genetics absolutely fascinating and almost haunting when two people still look alike when they’ve grown up.
‘This is my brother,’ said Fergus, handing me a glass.
‘The better half,’ said Ewen, closing the door.
‘Equally good,’ said Zoe. ‘Now, would you like a drink?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Louis?’
‘I have one, thanks.’
I sat down on the sofa and just as Ewen was offering me a bowl of nuts Louis pushed him out of the way and sat down beside me.
‘Darling?’ said Fergus, insinuating a drink.
Jane entered the room and caught the tail end of Zoe’s answer: ‘I think I’ll save my one glass for dinner.’
‘I know what that means,’ Jane said, with a sing-song.
Fergus beamed and Zoe confirmed, ‘Yes, there’s a baby on the way.’
‘Congratulations!’ said Felicity and I at the same time.
‘About time too is what my mother would say,’ chuckled Fergus.
‘She sure would,’ said Ewen, his fingers tightening around his glass as he raised it in celebration. ‘An heir,’ he said, under his breath.
‘People leave it much later these days,’ said Felicity. ‘Neither of my daughters are anywhere near motherhood, unlike when I was in my early twenties.’
Jane lowered her bottom onto the largest chair in the room and launched in with, ‘Young women who wear trousers only have themselves to blame.’ Hmm, was she talking literally or metaphorically? Well, there was no stopping her now. ‘My eldest daughter has always worn skirts or dresses and she was married at twenty-three. As for my youngest, I’m endlessly telling her to at least wear a frock for dinner but it falls on deaf ears, which is such a bore as I’m longing for grandchildren.’