“Good evening, Miss Robson. If you don’t mind, would you stay just where you are? The light is just right. And I apologize, but I will have to ask you questions as I set up the camera, as I am on my own.”
Poppy, realizing Foster would not have time to do a proper interview in the allocated slot if he had to take snaps too, decided to offer her help. Daniel had taught her some basic camera technique and she had started taking photographs as a hobby since he left. In some ways, it kept his memory more alive.
Walter Foster looked relieved and settled down on a chair opposite Agnes as Poppy stepped into the photographer’s shoes. She took an old Kodak Brownie from Foster’s bag. She gave it a quick once-over, estimating that it was a mid-war variety, much like the one with which Daniel would originally have learned his craft.
“There’s film in the front pouch of the bag,” Walter Foster told her. “Do you mind if I just get on?”
“No, you go ahead. I know what I’m doing.”
Poppy kept one ear on the interview as she clicked open the back of the Brownie box and pulled out the film shuttle, loaded a roll of 120 film, then fed it around the box and inserted it back into the leather casing. Foster’s questions to Agnes seemed to be focused on how and when she had got the idea for the bursary. Poppy relaxed a little as Agnes gave him a full and informed answer. The more Agnes fed the reporter, the less chance he would be hungry for something that wasn’t on the menu.
Poppy wound the film until she saw a number “1” in the counter window. Then she checked through the viewfinder and adjusted the aperture. Agnes looked relaxed and was well lit from the skylight above. It was getting a little dim, however, so Poppy decided to use a flash. She dug around in Foster’s bag until she found what she was looking for, checked the bulb was intact, and then clicked it onto the Brownie.
The interview was going well and Poppy took a shot. Agnes, as a celebrity artist, was used to having her photograph taken and managed to pose and speak at the same time, and wasn’t in the least startled by the flash. Poppy advanced the film and, when the flash had cooled enough to replace the bulb, took another shot, then – eventually – two more. As there were only twelve exposures on the 120 film, she decided to leave it there, unsure how much film Foster would need to photograph some of the paintings. As she wrapped things up, she heard Foster say: “One final question…”
Good, perfect timing, thought Poppy.
“How much did your experience of losing your first teacher – Michael Brownley – influence your decision to help young girls from poorer backgrounds? And do you ever wonder how exactly he died?”
A stone dropped to the bottom of Poppy’s stomach.
“I, well I…” she heard Agnes start, before she stepped forward and tapped her wrist.
“I think our fifteen minutes are up here, Mr Foster; time to move into the gallery. Thank you so much for your time, Agnes. I think we’ve got all we need here.”
Foster glowered at her for a moment, but then with a tight smile, nodded briefly and said: “Of course, Miss Denby. And thank you Miss Robson, you’ve been very, how should I say, informative.”
Before Poppy could challenge him any further, the door flew open and the cheeky face of Peter MacMahon appeared. “Is it my turn yet?”
Relieved, Poppy fixed a smile on her face and said: “Yes, it is. Mr Foster has just finished.”
Agnes, still looking tired, waved Poppy over.
“Poppy, would you mind awfully keeping an eye open for my brother? He said he might be bringing my mam. If they do come I doubt they’ll feel comfortable in a place like this. It would be nice if they could see a friendly face first.”
Another job… thought Poppy with a sinking heart, but it would be churlish of her to refuse. And yes, she could imagine that the miner and his mother would feel uncomfortable in a place like this. She smiled at Agnes as Peter MacMahon took the seat Walter Foster had just vacated.
“Of course; I’ll see if I can find them. I also believe that that young lass – Edna – might be coming with her mother too. Wasn’t it part of her prize?”
“It was. But they should be with the art teacher. My family will be on their own.”
“Understood,” said Poppy and followed Foster out of the room. She quickly facilitated the handover of the journalist to the curator, Dante Sherman, who tapped his pocket watch and said: “You’re late. Now we’ve only got ten minutes. I hope you’re a fast study, Mr Foster…”
Poppy was tempted for a moment to offer to do his photography for him, but she stopped herself. No, Poppy, you are not responsible for him. It’s time to draw a line.
CHAPTER 8
The landing on the second floor of the Laing Art Gallery was beginning to fill up around the rotunda, and through the aperture, Poppy could see more people arriving below. The string quartet had started playing and around a dozen ladies and gentlemen in evening gowns and tuxedoes milled around sipping glasses of complimentary wine or champagne. A quick perusal told her Agnes’ brother was not yet there. She had not met Mrs Robson, but she doubted she’d be there on her own. And – she thought, sympathetically – she doubted she would be wearing one of the very expensive gowns on display. However, there was someone she did recognize. She made a beeline across the landing and with immense relief greeted a large, pasty-faced man in his sixties and his young male companion. “Gerald! What are you doing here? Agnes said you were ill and couldn’t make it up.”
The large man’s face lit up with recognition. “Poppy Denby! I thought I might see you here. Rollo told me you were up this way. Yes, I wasn’t well – ghastly tummy bug – but Gus here convinced me to push through. We caught the train up this morning. We’re staying at the Grand. Have you met? This is Gus North, Miss Robson’s studio assistant. Gus, this is Poppy Denby from The Daily Globe, in London. She covered the exhibition at the Tate. I don’t think you were there that night…”
As Gerald spoke he turned to face the younger man directly, and articulated his words clearly, accompanied by some hand gestures.
Gus North nodded his understanding, smiled, and turned to Poppy. When he spoke, his softened consonants and flattened tone suggested someone who had been born deaf. And then, to confirm, he said, “I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Denby. I hope you don’t mind me staring at your face, I do not intend to be rude – although you are lovely to behold – however, I am deaf and need to read your lips.”
Poppy smiled in return. “Not at all, Mr North. Do tell me if I am speaking too quickly. I can slow down if you like.”
“No need for that,” said Gerald, “Gus is a dab hand at it. And as you can see, he has even taught me a little of the sign language the deaf folks use.”
Gus laughed, his dark brown eyes twinkling with mirth. “Although you have just signed ‘the singing the donkey legs use’.”
Poppy and Gerald joined in the laughter. Gerald grinned, showing donkey-like teeth above a stack of double chins. “Obviously I’ve still got some way to go then.”
Gus reached out his hand and squeezed Gerald’s forearm. “Just glad you’ve given it a go, old man.”
“It’s the least I can do, old sport.” Then Gerald looked around at the growing number of guests. “Have you seen Agnes, Poppy? She doesn’t seem to be here.”
“Oh, she’s through there,” said Poppy, pointing to the still-closed doors of Gallery B. “She’s speaking to a reporter from the Newcastle Daily Journal. Actually, I’m so glad you are finally here. She asked me to fill in for you, helping to liaise with the press, but I must admit I’m not enjoying switching from poacher to gamekeeper. Do you think you could take the job off my hands now?”
“Goodness, yes,” said Gerald. “And thank you for all your efforts. Is there anything I need to know?”
“Well, actually, there is. You see, there have been some questions about –”
But before Poppy could finish, the doors swung open to reveal Agnes, in her figure-hugging green velvet gown, accompanied by
Dante Sherman.
Her eyes swept the room. “Gerald! Gus!” cried the artist, rushing forward to greet her publicist and assistant.
As she did, Poppy spotted the tall, stooped frame of Agnes’ brother in the atrium below. He was accompanied by an older version of Agnes in a much more modest dress. She turned to tell Agnes that her family had arrived, but the woman had launched into an animated conversation with her two employees and the gallery curator, so Poppy decided to slip away and meet Jeremy Robson and his mother on her own.
She headed towards the stairs, where she was met by Maddie Sherman and Grace Wilson, directing two gentlemen who were clearly under strain as they carried Aunt Dot and her wheelchair up the stairs.
“Just put me down here, boys,” said Dot, “and then get yourself a drink. You deserve it.”
Poppy thanked the two sweating gentlemen, thinking to herself that they might have reconsidered their chivalrous offer after they discovered how heavy Aunt Dot really was. However, what was a lady in a wheelchair to do? Dot had installed stairlifts in her homes, but most public buildings, with fewer than four floors, didn’t have elevators. The Laing did have galleries on the ground floor, but most of its best work was held in the four interconnected galleries on the first floor.
Poppy greeted her aunt, Grace, and Mrs Sherman but then immediately excused herself, saying she needed to escort Agnes’ family upstairs.
“Her family are here?” asked Mrs Sherman.
“Yes, I just saw them through the rotunda.”
“How lovely for Agnes,” said Dot. “Don’t you think, Grace?”
Grace nodded, casting a glance across to the famous artist. “Yes, I’m pleased for her.”
Poppy noted that there was no sarcasm in her voice, and wondered if the women had finally managed to lay aside their differences. Agnes had broached the subject of the art bursaries with them last night at dinner and both Dot and Grace had instantly warmed to the idea.
Poppy left them as Dot directed Grace to get them all some drinks. “Are you having anything, Mrs Sherman?”
“Please, call me Maddie,” said the curator’s mother.
Poppy waved a brief goodbye to the three older ladies as she picked up her train and made her way down the stairs, just as the string quartet broke into Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring”. She hummed to herself as she stopped at the bottom and perused the Marble Hall and the arriving guests. Finally, behind a hanging basket, she spotted the tall figure of Jeremy Robson, looking stiff in his starched collar and smart suit. It was a day suit, not a tuxedo, and he stood with narrowed eyes, watching the other men, who looked like posh penguins, smoking and chatting with ease.
Poppy felt desperately sorry for him and hated the perceived snobbery that made men like him feel they didn’t belong in a place like this. But change was in the air. The country had its first socialist Labour government under Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald, voted for by men like Jeremy Robson – and, Poppy knew, her father Malcolm Denby. Poppy herself – at twenty-six – was still too young to vote, as only women over thirty who owned property were able to do so. Poppy and her suffragist friends all hoped that Mr MacDonald would change that and extend universal voting rights to all.
“Good evening Mr Robson. Mrs Robson.” Poppy smiled a warm welcome to the miner and his mother. Closer up, she looked even more like Agnes, but with sixty years of wear on her face. Her hair, originally as dark as her daughter’s, was now streaked with grey. But it was tastefully styled into a chignon and Poppy noticed a smart string of pearls at the open neck of a dated, but elegant, black coat. Poppy imagined that it would have been the same coat she wore to her husband’s funeral back in 1916. The coat was unbuttoned and it revealed a mauve silk dress, flatteringly, but not indecently, cut. If she were to look closer Poppy suspected she would see the telltale signs of a handmade garment.
Jeremy looked relieved to see a familiar face and doffed his fedora hat. “Miss Denby. I’m pleased to see you. This is my mother, Mrs Sadie Robson.”
Mrs Robson gave a tense but polite: “Evening Miss Denby. You look a bit like your father, you do. The reverend. Is he here?”
“He’s not, I’m afraid. Neither is my mother.” She gave a wry, conspiratorial smile. “Not their sort of thing, if you know what I mean. A few too many airs and graces, my mother would say.”
Mrs Robson gave a nervous laugh, but appeared to relax a little.
“My aunt is though. Dot Denby. Did you ever meet her? She’s originally from Newcastle but would sometimes visit us when I was growing up in Morpeth. And I think she may even have come to the chapel in Ashington once or twice.”
“I never attended chapel much,” said Mrs Robson with no note of apology in her voice. “I let the bairns go sometimes though. They had a Sunday School. Isn’t that right, Jemmy?”
“Aye, it is, Mam. Agnes sometimes would take us – me and the little ’uns. I send my lot now,” he said, “every week.” His eyes sought Poppy’s approval.
As someone who didn’t attend chapel very much herself anymore, she wasn’t in a position to judge. But nonetheless, just to make him feel more comfortable, and as her parents’ representative, she said: “That’s very good to hear. It certainly won’t do them any harm.”
“Aye, that’s what I believe too.”
Just then, young Edna Storey, with her flame-red hair tamed into two neat plaits, arrived with her mother – looking just as unimpressed as she had at the community hall – Professor Reid, and the young art teacher from Ashington. The two groups greeted one another. Edna could not contain her excitement.
“Are we late? Have we missed it?”
Poppy chuckled. “Not at all. Would you like to come upstairs? Miss Robson is there already and I think the event is about to start?”
“Oh yes!” said Edna and sped off towards the staircase.
“Hold your horses, missy!” called out her mother, shrill and authoritative. Edna stopped instantly. The adults caught up with her and headed up the stairs together.
Half an hour later, Agnes and Dante Sherman had finished their speeches and the doors to Gallery A were flung open for the guests to admire the art at their leisure. Poppy was just about to follow Mrs Robson and Jeremy into the room when she caught a glimpse of a young woman in a buttoned-up Victorian day dress, stepping onto the landing. She was short of breath and holding her skirt to reveal unflattering ankle boots.
“Good heavens, Delilah, what are you wearing?” asked Poppy, excusing herself from Agnes’ family for a moment to greet her friend.
Delilah looked rueful. “Not exactly the height of Paris fashion, is it? According to my director this is what Gwendolyn would have worn in The Importance of Being Earnest. Personally I think Gwendolyn would have had much better taste. Anyway, I’m not needed for the next hour while they work on some lighting issues – why are there always these ‘issues’ the night before opening? So I thought I’d stop by and support Agnes.”
She looked around at the near-empty landing. “Oh. Have I missed it?”
“No. Just the speeches. Everyone’s gone through to the gallery to look at the paintings now. Do you want to come?”
Delilah grinned. “Not before I’ve had a drink.” She headed over to the drinks table and asked for a glass of champers. “Would you like one, Poppy?”
Poppy, who would not have drunk anything if she’d been working, reminded herself that now that Gerald the publicist was here, she was off the hook.
“Oh go on then,” she said.
Delilah picked up two glasses and gave one to Poppy. “Chin chin, old bean.”
“Chin chin.”
Two small glasses of champers later (yes, Poppy had to admit Delilah was a bad influence), the two women joined the rest of the guests in the gallery.
“So where’s Agnes?” asked Delilah, who had already told Poppy that she needed to get back to the theatre shortly.
Poppy noticed that the doors to Gallery B were now open and the guests were
freely wandering between Agnes’ exhibition – past the cordoned-off area of the “green room” – and the permanent exhibition halls of Gallery B and the intersecting galleries C and D.
“Perhaps she’s through there,” said Poppy. But after a quick perusal of the long, galley-shaped vaulted exhibition halls, Poppy and Delilah could not find the artist. Nor was she in the small cordoned-off “green room”.
Poppy asked a few of the guests, including Aunt Dot, if they had seen Agnes. None of them had for the last while. Suddenly, Poppy noticed a door at the back of the green room section that was slightly ajar. She had seen it when she was taking photographs for Walter Foster and had wondered where it led to. She decided to check it out.
But just as she and Delilah headed towards it, the actress said: “Oh spiffing! There’s Peter. Do you mind if I just say hello? If you find Agnes, tell her I’ll be with her in a tick.” Then she flounced off, as coquettishly as she possibly could in her frumpy costume, to chat to the young journalist.
Poppy smiled at the enthusiasm of the two young lovers as she pushed open the door to see where it led. She soon realized she was “backstage” at the gallery. The polished wood floors and rich wallpapered walls were replaced with stark, cold concrete and stone, and a wrought-iron handrail – that looked like it needed a lick of paint – leading down into the bowels of the building and up towards the roof.
As the door to the gallery closed, the hubbub of the chattering guests and the distant sound of the string quartet were replaced by the snuffle and stomp of horses. Poppy looked down the stairs, sniffed, and realized they were just above the stables that she had earlier noticed, adjacent to the gallery entrance on Higham Place. Has Agnes gone down to the stables? But just as she was about to go down, preparing herself to call out the artist’s name, something on the steps above her caught her eye. It was Agnes’ bejewelled hair comb. Poppy scuttled up half a dozen steps to retrieve it, then noticed that a door at the top of the short flight of steps was open. A chill wind hit her and she shivered in her sleeveless evening gown. Has Agnes gone to get some fresh air?
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 8
