by Amy Myers
Georgia thought Matthew might point out that Janie wasn’t in a position to know; she wasn’t even born then. But he didn’t. All he replied was, ‘In her way, she was happy.’
‘You’re her son, you would say that.’
‘Matthew might be right, Janie,’ Clemence contributed to this sibling clash. ‘Elfie lived in her own work and her garden. You know how many of her illustrations stemmed from the garden at Shaw Cottage. Did you know she planted it for Alwyn, Georgia? Birdie was no gardener. And before you ask, Elfie began it before Alwyn died. Although she wasn’t living there, she’d come to tend the garden and no doubt while away some hours in his company.’
Georgia felt a shiver. Elfie’s garden. The love-in-a-mist. No wonder that after Alwyn died Elfie couldn’t bear to leave it.
‘It’s so neglected now,’ Georgia said. ‘That’s sad. Who owns the cottage now?’
‘Birdie,’ Clemence replied promptly. ‘She’s kept it although she’s living permanently in the home.’
‘It would upset Birdie too much to see it sold,’ Matthew explained. ‘It’s her last link with Alwyn and Elfie. We promised that whatever happened we wouldn’t sell it to pay her fees or anything ghastly like that. We all help out with those.’
‘We?’ This seemed an exceptionally generous thought – especially for the leader of the pack.
‘The Fernbourne Trust. It’s left to us in her will.’
So that explained it. ‘Because she never married?’
Matthew looked surprised. ‘But she did. Didn’t I include that in the book? Perhaps not. I was concentrating on the Five, and Birdie wasn’t one of them. She married the local vicar in the early fifties, the Reverend Timothy Atkin. She moved into the vicarage and Elfie stayed on at Shaw Cottage. The idea was that the vicar and Birdie could retire there, but he died before that point. Birdie moved back there after his death and her son Christopher is on the board of the trust.’
Birdie seemed an ambivalent figure, Georgia thought. Very much not one of the Five in one way, and yet firmly attached to them financially. She wondered why Christopher didn’t live in Shaw Cottage now. Presumably because it would only be a temporary home until the trust took it over. Didn’t he mind his heritage being directed elsewhere?
‘The trust’s plans are to convert this house to an arts centre, not just a memorial to the Five,’ Clemence explained. ‘An active one, of course, with art classes, craft-making sessions, and creative writing courses as well as its being a permanent place to display the Five’s work. I’ve moved into the coach house, where I have my studio, so that the manor can be entirely devoted to the Five. Janie lives here as chief custodian.’
‘And chief cook and bottle-washer.’ Janie laughed dismissively, although clearly pleased at her mother’s acknowledgement.
‘In honour of Elfie,’ Clemence continued. ‘Children and their artistic needs will be given special attention. You see, we plan the manor to be far more than just a testament to what the Five achieved in the past. We were the starting point. The manor will continue that work. That’s what the trust is all about.’
‘With all five of the group’s work represented?’ Peter asked innocently. ‘Including Alwyn’s?’
A slight pause. ‘Of course,’ said Matthew.
‘But what about the plagiarism charge against him?’
If Peter had thought to shake him, he failed. Matthew laughed. ‘Oh dear, that old chestnut. Let me explain.’
‘I know it didn’t reach court. I wondered what the real story was.’
‘One can rarely know the real story about anything,’ Matthew informed them. ‘In this case, however, one can. There was no juicy scandal, I’m afraid. It was a pure mistake. Roy was living at Shaw Cottage for a year or two and asked Alwyn to contribute one or two already published poems of his own work to The Flight of the Soul. It was wartime, and so some of Roy’s poems dealt with that as he was on active service in the RAF. He therefore wanted Alwyn to provide another viewpoint, which he could provide as he had been rejected for military service. The publishers somehow managed to attribute the whole collection to Alwyn however, and as by this time Roy was dead and Alwyn teaching at a school in Wales, it went through by mistake. Its instant success resulted in the entire edition selling out, the publishers folded and the book remained out of print. Roy’s parents had no idea that he was intending to publish such a collection, but the story leaked out a year or so after the war and they naturally raised a hullabaloo. Alwyn had been appalled when he first saw the mistake on his return to Kent, but by that time the book was printed. There was nothing he could do, except not reprint it. By such mistakes the course of history can be turned.’
Georgia thought about Damien’s comments about Roy, and the story still seemed unsatisfactory to her, but perhaps wartime conditions didn’t allow for formal apologies, reprints and so on, particularly if the publishers no longer existed. Matthew was going no further on the subject. His body language made that quite clear. ‘What was Roy like?’ she asked, curious to see if his description fitted Damien’s.
She saw a glance pass between Clemence and Matthew, but it was the latter who answered – of course. ‘Roy was … well, take a dash of Richard Hillary, with a pint or two of Rupert Brooke, add a spoonful of Alexander the Great plus a good dose of his unique personality and there you have Roy.’ He laughed at his own wit, but Peter didn’t. Matthew was beginning to get on his wick, Georgia realized. Urbane gentlemen always did. Strip off the polish and you find the stain, he remarked from time to time, regardless of its technical inaccuracy.
Fortunately, Clemence stepped in. ‘Would you like to see my portrait of him? There’s a reproduction of it in Matthew’s book but the oil original reveals more of the personality.’
‘I’d like that,’ Peter answered.
‘It’s in the room across the hall. Most of my work is in the coach house where I live, but we have just created what we call the Fernbourne Five Room, for fairly obvious reasons, as you’ll see.’
‘Can you manage, Mum?’ Janie asked solicitously, as Clemence struggled to her feet.
‘Of course, Janie,’ Clemence replied with dignity. ‘The trouble with getting old,’ she commented ruefully, ‘is that the essential you gradually takes on a new dimension. The original identity begins to acquire an old person’s patina little by little and as the years go by the latter smothers the former in everyone’s mind – except one’s own, alas. In my deep soul, believe me, Peter, I’m eighteen years old and a new member of the Fernbourne Five. I remember my first day with them – in fact, I can show you. I painted the scene.’
She led the way – with Janie’s help despite Clemence’s protestations – across the hall, and with Peter and Georgia behind her and Matthew quickly sliding to the front of the group, Clemence indicated the large oil painting facing them on the opposite wall.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘My first day, although painted I admit from memory some years later.’
Nevertheless, Georgia was impressed. Clemence had caught the atmosphere, or at least an atmosphere, stored in her memory of that first day. It was set in this very room judging by the windows and view outside. A man of about thirty was portrayed at one end of the long window seat – Gavin Hunt presumably, since in the painting the focus was on him. Elfie sat on the floor at his feet, hugging her knees, and two youths in their twenties lounged casually in armchairs. One, with legs stretched out before him, was fair-haired, and with a weak face – no, Georgia decided that she was wrong. It wasn’t weak but neutral, almost closed off. He reminded her of the film star who played Ashley in Gone with the Wind, Leslie Howard. That must be Alwyn. The other chair’s occupant was presumably Roy Sandford. No lounging for this one. He might be sitting casually, but he was tensed up, as if ready to shoot off at any moment. He was darker, better-looking and supremely confident. And there, reflected in the large mirror over the mantelpiece in the painting, was surely Clemence herself, standing at the doorway, watching.
/> Did this group painting add up to more than the sum of the individual portraits hung around the room? Perhaps it did, for these looked five distinct personalities, and that impression was surely given because only Clemence herself had her eyes on the rest of the group. The other four were intent on their own thoughts, avoiding her or any other’s eyes.
As for the other portraits, the half-length study of Gavin in his library reaching out for a book suggested the academic rather than the outdoor man his son had portrayed in The Freedom Seekers. The portrait of Elfie reminded Georgia of Watts’ painting of his wife, the young Ellen Terry, caught at a moment of fleeting joy. Clemence had depicted her in a garden – Shaw Cottage? It wasn’t over prettified, and captured her character, so far as Clemence saw it at any rate. There was a sense that Elfie might choose to wander deeper into that mysterious garden at any moment, although these portraits were all drawn before the war, so Clemence told them.
Georgia remembered what Peter had once said to her: the past is merely the present in different clothes. Looking at the faces illustrated, she could believe this, as if at a moment’s notice they could spring from their portraits and relive all their conflicts, traumas and hidden lives.
Alwyn’s portrait hung next to Elfie’s, almost a companion piece, for that too was in a garden. But his was different. His gentle face stared out starkly at the viewer, as though he had little connection with the garden – or world – that he was standing in. Again, it wasn’t weak, but it wasn’t one to cope with life’s problems. Roy was the opposite. Clemence had chosen to paint him on the tennis court with racket in hand, clearly victorious, with his defeated partner – unidentifiable – a solitary figure in the background. Roy was laughing at life, and inviting the world to share his joke. Or was it just his confidence that Clemence portrayed? Had war changed that? Had it changed them all?
‘You’re known for your use of symbolism, aren’t you, Mrs Hunt?’ Peter said. ‘Were you using it in these portraits?’
Clemence looked disconcerted. ‘What a viewer considers symbolism could merely be the painter’s need for shape or colour.’
‘Is that so in these paintings?’ Peter persevered.
Clemence didn’t answer directly. ‘I don’t believe I know the answer to that. It depends on what you mean by symbolism. Do you know the work of Lavinia Fontana?’ she asked.
The name meant nothing to Georgia, but Peter nodded.
‘Judged to be the first professional woman artist,’ Clemence continued. ‘She worked in Bologna in Renaissance Italy, in the late sixteenth century. A hero of mine. She had a mastery of subtle symbolism. Everyone knows that pet dogs equal faithfulness, or a book on the table signifies literary interests, but I don’t mean that kind of symbolism. Fontana uses such devices, but also goes further. Her self-portrait in 1577 was a masterpiece of subtle symbolism as well, more than a mere reproduction of what she saw in the mirror. It explained her own character, her determination to be her own person rather than a commodity at the disposal of husband or father.’
‘Are we looking for any such approach in these paintings?’
Clemence looked amused. ‘Decide for yourself.’
‘Not now regrettably,’ Matthew interjected smoothly. ‘It’s time for the meeting, Clemence. Janie’s just gone to let them in.’ He turned to Peter and Georgia. ‘You must forgive us. Our trustees’ meeting is today, and it’s an important one. We’re in the thick of fund-raising and applications for grants and so forth. As we want to open next June, it’s rather urgent.’
‘This is when the dull work gets done,’ Clemence said ruefully. ‘Would you care to meet our fellow trustees before you leave?’
‘I would,’ said Peter promptly, and Georgia agreed, although she noticed that Matthew did not look pleased.
Clemence led them back across the hall to the room they had left earlier, which now held two newcomers besides Janie. One was a smart, rather cross-looking woman in her forties who looked as if she’d be more at home in the Savoy, and the other was a tall, large-boned stocky man.
‘Molly,’ Clemence addressed the new arrival, ‘let me introduce Georgia Marsh and her father Peter. They’re interested in our project and the Fernbourne Five. Molly Sandford.’
The cross look disappeared into one of interest. ‘True-crime books? Frost and Co?’
‘You’re well informed,’ Peter said, obviously highly impressed.
‘I’m a Londoner, but I’m in the trade. I’m a literary agent. Roy Sandford was my great-uncle and I handle his work.’
Despite Molly’s rapid change of mood, Georgia decided she wouldn’t like to be in a book auction bidding against her.
‘And, Georgia, this is Christopher Atkin, Birdie Field’s son,’ Clemence said. ‘Meet Georgia and Peter Marsh, Christopher.’
Their hands were shaken by the stocky man, surprisingly rather weakly. Looking at him more closely, Georgia decided his benign face didn’t fit with the tough image his appearance at first suggested. ‘I’m here on my mother’s behalf,’ he explained almost apologetically.
There was another ring at the bell and Janie dutifully disappeared, returning with a familiar face, which took Georgia aback through its sheer unexpectedness in this context.
‘Oh, there you are, Ted,’ Matthew said jokingly. ‘We wondered where you were.’
‘Least far to come, last to arrive,’ Ted Laycock said flatly, staring at Georgia as though he’d never seen her before.
Ted Laycock. Mr Non-Cooperation himself, on the board? Curiouser and curiouser, she thought, considering he was the one who didn’t want to talk about the Fernbourne Five. She was conscious that they were all still standing and quickly picked up the signal that it was time for the Marshes to depart.
‘A remarkable show of unity, don’t you think?’ Peter remarked as they reached the car.
‘Shall we go to the pub to recover?’
‘Excellent idea. Especially now we know the Laycocks are part and parcel of the trust.’
‘So what’s remarkable about their unity?’ she asked, having found a quiet corner and fetched drinks, and still reeling from the fact that stonewaller Ted was part and parcel of a group ostensibly dedicated to furthering study of the Five.
‘They were too unified.’
‘Over what?’ Georgia asked cautiously.
‘Alwyn Field, Elfie and the love affair. The love-story-of-the-century line.’
‘Just because it’s dramatic, we don’t need to doubt it,’ she said fairly. ‘Or even doubt Alwyn’s suicide.’ Even as she said it, she felt disloyal to Damien’s memory. He had questions over the Fernbourne Five, which suggested there were indeed some that needed answering.
‘It doesn’t fit our usual pattern,’ Peter admitted crossly. ‘Marsh and Daughter cases usually involve unfinished business, but surely suicide involves a decision taken. And so why the fingerprints at that stream?’
Georgia considered this. ‘If the reasons behind the suicide were unjust, then isn’t that the same thing? They could still leave traces behind.’
‘Would the village have cared about Alwyn Field pinching poems? It certainly cares about something.’
‘The Elfie Lane story?’
‘Perhaps.’ A pause, and then inevitably came the words Georgia had been dreading. ‘Suppose Field’s death wasn’t suicide?’
Three
To hear her own misgivings voiced was giving them an unwelcome push forward although an invisible notice-board was clearly marked ‘Don’t go there’.
‘Do we have one scrap of evidence for that?’ Georgia asked matter-of-factly. ‘It’s not like you to theorize on no solid facts at all.’ She wondered if Peter was casting round for some peg to justify looking into this case further. Did he too feel something was owed to Damien Trent? ‘What’s set you on that track?’
He continued to fiddle with his half pint of shandy, and when eventually he answered, the reply was the last thing she had expected. ‘Your mother,’ he replied simp
ly.
The shock jolted her into silence for a moment, but then she managed to ask, ‘How does Elena come into this?’ She was uncomfortably aware that her mother had been in her mind several times in the last few days, but she hadn’t made the connection.
‘You really want to know?’
‘I must.’ She couldn’t remember the last time Peter had openly spoken of his ex-wife. It was a bad sign.
‘That painting of Elfie,’ he explained awkwardly. ‘It reminded me of her. Didn’t you think so?’ He looked at her in appeal.
Handle this with kid gloves, she told herself. Very soft kid gloves. Both she and Peter needed care where the subject of Elena was concerned. ‘There was a slight physical resemblance,’ she conceded as casually as she could. ‘Elfie was slender, blonde and seems to have had that faraway look that Elena has at her dottier moments. But basically Elena is practical and Elfie hardly looked that.’ Practical was a good word for what more truthfully could be described as a hard core of selfishness. Charming she might be, but in the end Elena would get what Elena wanted, no matter the devastation she left in her wake. Georgia always had to monitor her judgements on Elena, to divorce her objective opinion of her mother from the emotional resentment caused by her leaving them at the time when she was most needed. Elena couldn’t cope, so Elena hadn’t tried, but had blithely left them to sort it out themselves.
Georgia had been in her mid-twenties at that time, and had struggled hard to see Elena’s point of view. Her son had disappeared, her husband was in a wheelchair, and her daughter newly divorced after a disastrous marriage to a con man. It must have seemed to her that there was no way out but flight. Nevertheless Georgia always came back to the same point. They had all faced the same problem as to how to struggle back to everyday life. Had Elena looked hard enough for the path forward or was she really too fragile to cope? The answers always came back in the negative. That was what tore Georgia in two whenever she thought of it now.
