[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  She looked up into his blue eyes – yes, in the light of day she could finally see their colour – and felt a little stir in her belly. Golly, he is a charming man.

  Together they walked to the net to shake hands with their opponents.

  “Well done, MacMahon. You’ve got a strong forehand there.”

  “And your backhand’s not too bad, Hawkes.”

  The two men laughed and shook hands with begrudging respect.

  Delilah clapped her hands. “Good-oh! A truce! Shall we celebrate with drinks? I told Dot we might pop in for some sundowners.”

  “Dot?” asked Sandy.

  “My Aunt Dot. Miss Dorothy Denby. That’s who Delilah and I are staying with. Will you gentlemen join us?”

  “I would like that very much,” said Sandy.

  “And I,” agreed Peter.

  The four young people walked up the hill towards Jesmond Vale Terrace, but soon separated into two couples, as Delilah and Peter tarried behind.

  Poppy was strongly aware of Sandy’s physical presence beside her. His blazer was stuffed into his racquet bag and his light cotton shirt clung damply to his chest. She looked quickly away. “Thank you for putting up with me,” she said. “I hope you still had fun despite being saddled with the runt.”

  He chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to be saddled with anyone else, Poppy. Besides, I have the feeling that what you lack in tennis skills, you more than make up for with other talents. What is it you do in London? I have a suspicion that you may be one of those ladies who works in a profession.”

  “Would it bother you if I did?”

  “Not at all. We live in a modern age and I believe that women are capable of doing remarkable things. So, what do you do down in London?”

  Poppy caught her breath. Oh dear, he doesn’t like journalists… ah well, better get it over and done with. “I work for a newspaper.”

  “Oh really? Are you a secretary or a typesetter?”

  Poppy cleared her throat, taking a moment to suppress her irritation at the common misconception she’d heard so many times before. “No, actually – I’m a reporter. My official title is the arts and entertainment editor, but in reality I am the entire arts and entertainment department. I suppose I do the same type of thing as Peter MacMahon. I interview famous artists and cover exhibitions, theatre shows, films, and so on.”

  Sandy nodded. She couldn’t tell whether he approved or not.

  “Probably not entirely like MacMahon though,” he offered, after some thought. “He does the arts malarkey up here, but he also helps on the crime beat when the regular bloke’s got too much on his plate. That’s where I know him from. And let’s just say he should stick to theatre.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling offended on Peter’s behalf – perhaps a little more than she should have. “I don’t see why he should just stick to theatre. Sometimes people are good at more than one thing, you know. And besides, it may surprise you that I too sometimes write crime articles. So what do you think about that?”

  Sandy stopped and stared at her, a montage of emotions playing on his face. “Well, gosh, what can I say?” Then he grinned. “Well, I did say I suspected you were a woman of many talents. Just as well you don’t work here then. Or fireworks might fly!”

  Before Poppy could reply, Delilah and Peter caught up with them.

  “I could murder a glass of bubbly!” trilled Delilah, just as a taxi pulled up across the road, outside Aunt Dot’s house. The driver jumped out and opened the back door, helping an elegant woman in a full-length fur coat out of the vehicle.

  “Oh look, Poppy, it’s Agnes! Cooey Agnes! Over here!”

  Delilah ran across the road and pulled Agnes into a sweaty embrace, nearly flooring the taxi driver with her tennis racquet.

  Peter MacMahon let out a low whistle. “Is that Agnes Robson? The Agnes Robson?”

  “It is,” said Poppy. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  “But then I could scoop you.”

  Poppy smiled at him, and then at Sandy. “You go ahead and get the story. I’m on holiday.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Chin chin!” Agnes Robson clinked her champagne flute against that of a beaming Dot Denby.

  “Thanks again for putting me up, Dot, or I’d be drinking alone in a hotel.”

  “Perish the thought! What about Gerald? Where’s he staying?”

  “He’s ill. Down with gastroenteritis. So he won’t be coming with me this time.”

  “Is that much of a bother?”

  “It is, actually,” said Agnes. “I’ve never been very good with the public side of it all – unlike you – so I’ve always relied on him. He’s been my manager and publicist for ten years now.”

  “By Jove! That long?”

  “Yes, I took him on just as the war was starting. He was with the Bloomsbury Set, if you recall. That seems like a lifetime ago now…”

  Agnes’ voice drifted and she looked over as a peal of laughter emanated from the young people sitting in the alcove of the bay window, all of them still dressed in their tennis togs. The two men – the reporter who had tried, unsuccessfully, to interview her earlier, and the policeman – would most probably have fought in the war. But unlike so many, they had made it back safely. She smiled as she watched the mildly flirtatious behaviour of the two girls, Delilah and Poppy. Delilah looked so much like her mother, Gloria. Although she and Agnes had never been close friends, Agnes had been very saddened to hear of her death when Delilah had only been fourteen years old. And she had been as shocked as everyone else four years ago to learn the true circumstances behind the suffragette’s death. Agnes had never been comfortable with the militant methods of the Chelsea Six – including Dot Denby and Gloria Marconi – but she did not believe they deserved what they got. She turned to Dot, trying to remember what she was like before her legs were crushed by the police horse in 1910. Yes, these women had paid with their lives so people like her could have the vote. And for that she was grateful.

  Grace Wilson was standing quietly in the corner, her tall grey presence casting a shadow over the gay gathering. I must try to put things right with her, thought Agnes. She knew Grace suspected she had ratted on the sisters when they attacked the Lord’s Pavilion in 1913 – resulting in the incarceration of Gloria Marconi and her friend, Elizabeth Dorchester – but she hadn’t. Yes, she had publicly criticized the suffragettes’ methods – and had even written a letter to the Times – but she had most definitely not turned them in. In fact, that was one of the reasons she had accepted Dot’s invitation to stay with them while she was up in Newcastle: it was time to clear the air between them. Grace cast a cool glance in her direction. Agnes swallowed. But perhaps not tonight.

  Poppy Denby jumped up and offered around a plate of macaroons. Always looking after people, just like her mother, although she takes after her father in looks. Agnes remembered Alice Denby with mixed emotions. She would always be grateful to the minister’s wife for helping her during that terrible time after Michael Brownley died and rumours abounded about their affair, but it was a very painful time in her life that she did not wish to dwell on. Seeing Poppy reminded her of it and tonight she knew she would likely have dark dreams. However, it wasn’t all bad. After things had settled down, Mrs Denby had helped find her a position in service with a County Durham family called the Moultons. And if it hadn’t been for that, she would never have met Claude.

  Claude Moulton was the black sheep of his family. He was a Bohemian artist in his mid-thirties and, like Michael Brownley before him, was drawn to Agnes’ dark, almost gypsy, looks. He asked her to pose for him – fully clothed – and was charmed when he caught her on her day off doing some sketches of her own. The day before he was to leave he approached her as she was elbow-deep in laundry and asked if she would like to come with him to be his model in Paris. Agnes, now estranged from her family in Ashington, looked at the raw eczema on her hands and wrists, and agreed immediately. So the next morning, before the
Moulton family was up, she and Claude ran off. It was the summer of 1900.

  At the end of the long, love-soaked journey from Durham to London to Paris, they arrived at Claude’s apartment-cumstudio in the art sector of Montmartre. Ironically, it was in a converted laundry nicknamed Le Bateau Lavoir (The Wash House). Claude introduced her to his fellow artists, of whom Agnes had never heard at the time, but who were to become world-famous over the next two decades: Picasso, Matisse, Toulouse-Lautrec; they in turn had taken over the studios from Gauguin, Van Gogh, and Cezanne. It was an exciting life for a seventeen-year-old: posing for Claude when the light was good, and drinking and watching cabarets at the Moulin Rouge when the light was bad. Whenever she could she practised her own art, borrowing old canvases and watching the masters at work. Slowly but surely she developed into a fine artist in her own right – but no one, other than Claude, was yet aware of her talent.

  She lived with Claude for ten years – posing, cooking and cleaning for him, and, occasionally, avoiding his fists when he’d had too much to drink or been turned down, yet again, for one of Paris’ summer Salon exhibitions. During that time she had become pregnant and miscarried twice. In some ways though she was relieved: Montmartre was no place to raise a child. Claude, despite his protestations to the contrary, had no intention of marrying her, and she began to think she should leave him. Despite the free-love ethos of the Bohemians she was at heart a conservative young woman who yearned for respectability. By the spring of 1910, when she was twenty-six years old, she had managed to squirrel away enough money to pay for passage to London. All she needed was the courage to leave. But each time it stirred in her, Claude would confess his love, how much he needed her, how lucky she was to have him, and that perhaps this was the summer they might finally get married…

  Then one night Claude never came home. The next morning a gendarme arrived to tell her he had been killed in a bar fight in an argument about non-payment for a portrait. A few days after the funeral she was visited by Claude’s cousin from Durham. He told her he was the executor of the will and with barely veiled disgust announced that she was to inherit Claude’s share of the family trust fund. Agnes was amazed. In all the years she’d been with him they had lived hand to mouth from the sale of his paintings or her modelling for other artists. She had no idea that he was actually the beneficiary of £1,000 a year. And now, her feckless lover and mentor had left it all to her. Finally, what she had always yearned for – respectability – was in her grasp. She might be the daughter of a coal miner and an artist’s mistress, but with money like that she could start a new life in London as Agnes Robson, Post-Impressionist painter, fluent in French, and an independently wealthy woman.

  Poppy Denby approached her with a smile on her pretty face. “Macaroon, Agnes? They’re delicious!”

  Agnes smiled back. “Thank you, Poppy, I will.” She picked a sweet confection off the plate and then, on the spur of the moment, said: “Poppy, I’m going to Ashington tomorrow. There’s a community hall opening which I’ve donated money to and they’re putting up a plaque with my name on it. I believe the press will be there. Would you mind awfully coming with me and filling in for Gerald? He normally handles my publicity, but the poor fellow’s poorly and couldn’t come up.”

  The smile vanished from Poppy’s face and was replaced with a sympathetic but reluctant look. “I’m sorry Agnes, but I’m on holiday, I’d rather not…”

  “I can pay you.”

  “No, that doesn’t matter. It’s just I was hoping to have a bit of a rest.”

  “Please, Poppy. I’m in a panic about it. I haven’t been home in years and I’ll have enough to contend with managing my family. I need someone to shield me from the press.” Agnes paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “You see, there’s a bit of a story I’m worried might be dug up. And if it is, it could distract from the exhibition.”

  Poppy suddenly looked curious. “A story? What kind of story?”

  Agnes looked over at the reporter from the Newcastle Daily Journal then lowered her voice. “It happened many years ago. When I was barely more than a child. But someone died under mysterious circumstances, and to this day there are people in Ashington who believe I did it – that I am guilty of murder.”

  Poppy’s blue eyes were like saucers. “Good heavens, Agnes, really?”

  “Yes really. So will you help me? Please? I just need someone to field questions and keep the reporters focused on the opening of the hall and the exhibition. Can you do that?”

  Poppy nodded. “Yes, I can, but I need to know what the story is in order to know how to spot a question about it.”

  Agnes let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Poppy. Come to my room later and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Poppy waved goodbye to the charming Sandy Hawkes and Peter MacMahon who said they would escort Delilah to her rehearsal in town. Sandy had wondered whether Poppy might accompany them, suggesting perhaps they could have a spot of supper, but she declined. She had enjoyed the policeman’s company very much, but she had just spent the last four hours with him – and unlike Delilah, did not want to appear too eager. Besides, she was intrigued to hear what Agnes had to tell her. So after a light supper with Grace and Dot, she and Agnes left them to bicker over wallpaper swatches, and retired to Agnes’ room. She had been given the newly painted attic suite, and the bay window was open to let out the sharp smell of emulsion. Poppy mentioned the smell to Agnes, but the older woman laughed, saying she’d spent her life breathing in paint fumes and had barely noticed it.

  The two women positioned themselves on the window seat in the alcove and Agnes told Poppy her tale, stopping to pour them both a sherry when she finished the part about inheriting the money from Claude.

  Poppy looked at her with new-found respect. “My word, Agnes, I never knew you’d had such a struggle. But what good fortune to have received that money. Did things get much better for you when you came to London?”

  “It took a little while, but yes. Largely thanks to your aunt. I went to see a play one night at the theatre and I saw your aunt’s name on the programme. I had never known her when I was in Ashington, but I had heard talk that the Methodist minister’s sister was an actress, and I recognized her name. I introduced myself to her afterwards, and your aunt, being your aunt, immediately pulled me under her wing. She’d heard that I was an artist – fresh from Paris – and she introduced me to some friends of hers in the Bloomsbury Set. You’ve heard of the Bloomsbury Set, haven’t you?”

  Poppy nodded. She had interviewed a number of former and current Bloomsbury associates in her time as arts and entertainment editor at The Daily Globe, including the author Virginia Woolf and her sister the artist Vanessa Bell. She had also met the influential art critic Roger Fry who was known to make or break careers. “I assume that Roger Fry must have liked your work.”

  Agnes gave her a shrewd look. “Fortunately, yes. When your aunt introduced me to him he was just preparing to give the first of his famous Post-Impressionism exhibitions. Seeing I knew many of the French artists in person, he asked me to be his assistant. He said he couldn’t afford to pay me but instead said I could hang a few of my own pieces. And I did! So the London art world began to associate me with the big names. Let’s just say it didn’t do me any harm.”

  “Not half!” said Poppy, remembering that Agnes had exhibited in some of the world’s top galleries. And now, here she was in Newcastle as a “northern lass made good”. Poppy noted that Agnes had lost most of her regional accent in the twenty-five years she’d been away, but, just occasionally, the odd flattened vowel slipped through. She wondered how the people of Ashington would take to this coal miner’s daughter coming home. Would they warmly embrace her or think she was lording it over them?

  “So,” she said, “tell me about the event in Ashington. Who organized it and why do you think the question of the art teacher’s death will be raised? What was his name again? Brownley?”

  Agnes sipped h
er sherry and Poppy noticed a slight quiver to her hand. Poppy didn’t think Agnes was a particularly heavy drinker, so was the tremor an emotional one?

  “That’s right,” said Agnes. “Michael Brownley. He was a lecturer at what is now Armstrong College. He ran courses for the children of miners. The event tomorrow is connected to that. The college runs all sorts of community classes there now and has had a new hall built. Because that’s where I got my start all those years ago – and linked in I suppose to the exhibition at the Laing – they have decided to call the hall after me. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it’s more to do with them piggybacking on my fame and getting press coverage for it, than anything to do with being grateful for the money I gave them.”

  It was a cynical but accurate observation. Poppy acknowledged that that was probably the case and that the local press would not be as keen to cover the event without the “big name” association. “So, why do you think they will rake up Brownley’s death? It was twenty-five years ago.”

  “Twenty-seven, actually. October 1897. It was just something that your friend from the Journal said. Mr MacMahon. He said he’d be at the event tomorrow and that he’d been doing some research and came across a clipping about Brownley’s death years before. He wanted to know if I had any comment.”

  “And did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. I shut the interview down then. Quickly but politely. He was charming and let it go. I think he just wanted to get back to Delilah. But he did say he’d ask me again tomorrow.”

  Poppy nodded and took a sip of her own sherry. “Yes, he probably will. I certainly would if I were in his shoes.”

  “Do you think he’s the only one who will know about it?” Agnes asked.

  “You say he said he found the clipping during his research?”