‘I think it’s very realistic,’ Louise continued. ‘Think of the anguish Mary suffered as the mother of Christ. It was there from the very beginning. The fire symbolises the pain. Yet it’s a symbol of the Holy Spirit too. When the Spirit descended on the waiting disciples on the first Pentecost, tongues of fire settled on each one.’
‘And her arms are crossed over Jesus too, maybe representing the crucifixion,’ Julia observed. ‘But what about the dagger?’
‘Ah. The dagger. Do you remember the account of the infant Jesus being presented in the temple in Jerusalem?’
‘No. I’m afraid not.’
‘It was a rite of purification fulfilling the law of Moses. According to Luke’s gospel, a righteous man named Simeon was spared death until he had seen the Messiah. When his parents brought Jesus into the temple, Simeon took him and spoke a blessing over him. The words are preserved in the Nunc Dimittis, if you know that.’
‘ “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace?”’ Childhood memories of attending Evening Prayer on various occasions with her parents before Leonard’s death flickered into Julia’s mind. She recalled that Simeon’s words were included in the liturgy.
‘That’s the one. Then Simeon blessed the family, warning Mary “a sword will pierce your own soul.” That’s the reason for the dagger.’
‘I see.’ Julia looked down again at the painting. ‘So it’s more realistic than the traditional Madonna and child art, as you say. But still very unsettling. Where did you find it?’
‘In a gallery near Walsingham, where the Shrine of Our Lady is. I spent a weekend there recently. Apparently it was painted by a local artist.’
Julia’s heart thudded. The painting transported her back to Linda’s art exhibition. What was it the man in the green Barbour jacket had said about some of her early paintings? ‘Those the critics described as a feminist revolt against traditional Madonna and child images.’ And his wife had replied, ‘Full of blood and suffering, Jesus ripped from Mary’s womb. And weren’t there some with them in flames? Very controversial.’
‘Julia? Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Julia opened her eyes, searching the base of the painting for the artist’s signature. There it was in the bottom right-hand corner, pale grey against the deeper grey and black swirls of smoke. Linda Thurston. ‘I went to the artist’s exhibition recently, that’s all. In the gallery on Steep Hill.’
‘I’m sorry to have missed it. Now I apologise for rushing you, Julia, but I have another appointment in twenty minutes, so if you don’t mind…’
‘Of course not.’ Julia glanced at her delicate gold wristwatch, a twenty-first birthday present from her mother. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve taken too long.’
‘Not at all,’ said Louise briskly. ‘You needed the time today.’
‘Thank you so much.’ Julia reached for her bag to extract her payment.
Louise waved the notes aside as she hauled her bulk out of her chair. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘Put it towards a few days away.’ She paused. ‘You’ve been through a great deal, Julia. Your split with your partner, the loss of your mother, some difficulties with your half-brother. Now there is a new grief, the grief of childlessness. It will take time to heal. I know how difficult it has been for you to speak of these things here, but when you look back, you will see it as the time your healing began. And when you’ve taken the time out that you need, you’ll find you resume counselling with a greater understanding and empathy for the troubled souls you encounter.’
Julia gave a wan smile. ‘Troubled souls’ was such an archaic expression, but for the first time in her life she recognised herself among them. Her mind was clearer than it had been for months. By the door she turned to give her supervisor a hug. ‘You’ve helped me so much, Louise,’ she said.
The other woman smiled and said nothing.
Julia crossed the drive to her Mondeo with a lighter step. She would follow Louise’s advice and go away. She would go to Norfolk, to Walsingham. The place of pilgrimage, a place people went hoping for healing. Even if she had no faith herself, it could do no harm. She felt she needed all the help she could get at the moment. And if Linda were from the area, perhaps she would find out more about the family connection – hadn’t Edith said Emily had gone to visit family in Norfolk in 1943?
For all her reservations about uncovering the family secret Linda had alluded to, Julia did want to know more about her newly-discovered artist relative.
– CHAPTER 19 –
Sleep was more elusive than ever during Julia’s first night in the sixteenth-century inn close to the Shrine of Our Lady in Walsingham. The lumpy mattress in the narrow single bed didn’t help. But it was thoughts of Linda which kept her awake. She’d been more upset than she would have expected when a nurse rang from the hospital just before she left home with the news that Aunt Ada had died in the early hours. Driving south that afternoon, she’d mused how the rain-swept fens seemed to reflect her inner emptiness. Loneliness, even. She’d never thought of herself as lonely. But with her fiftieth birthday just six weeks away, Greg and her mother gone, the current state of hostility with James, life was bleak. The realisation that she was now the oldest surviving member of the family added to her dread of the milestone.
Clare had a point: it was hard not to blame Linda for Ada’s death. Her confrontation with the old woman had literally frightened her to death. The more Julia thought about it, the more she was convinced that Linda’s animosity towards Ada was connected to the secret Emily had referred to in her diary. The secret which William Prescott had known and divulged to Leonard after Emily rejected his advances. A secret which had shocked Leonard so much that his fragile health had crumbled. No wonder her mother had described Prescott as that ‘odious man’! The thoughts whirled round Julia’s mind throughout the night, like laundry endlessly spinning in a washing machine.
Giving up the struggle for sleep when the old pipes rattled into life at 6 a.m., Julia reminded herself that she had decided to come to Norfolk to find out more about Linda and the family mystery. With Ada gone, the artist was the only person who could shed light on it. Even as she asked herself again, ‘Do I really want to know?’ shivering under the shower as the low water pressure reduced the flow to a trickle, she sensed she would not rest until she knew the truth.
After a fortifying full English breakfast, Julia went across to the Shrine of Our Lady. She was surprised by the number of visitors on the wet February day. Looking on as people of all ages and backgrounds queued at the ‘Holy Water,’ she wished she were less of an agnostic. Pete, she was sure, would relish this place. Pete… Would he still consider sharing premises with her after she had rejected his mis-timed kiss? Even if his motives hadn’t been entirely business related, he had genuinely been trying to help. Watching the pilgrims at the shrine, it occurred to her that if she didn’t believe in divine help, she shouldn’t be so quick to reject human assistance.
Back at the pub, already busy with lunchtime trade even though it was barely noon, she ate a bowl of carrot and coriander soup with more appetite than she’d had in weeks. Up in her room she steeled herself to call James and Clare to discuss arrangements for Aunt Ada’s funeral. James had agreed to contact the undertakers the previous day. She rang their landline, hoping to get Clare.
The possibility that James might be the father of Grace’s baby had exacerbated the conflict with her half-brother – the fact that she knew about Grace’s pregnancy and couldn’t tell him about it because of client confidentiality put her in a very difficult position. The more she thought about it, the more she worried about the effect on Clare if she discovered that the woman with whom James had had an affair was pregnant. She still felt embarrassed by her outburst to Clare in the café, but she had appreciated the effort her sister-in-law had made to phone her after the altercation. Clare at least would understand something of the pain she was experiencing as she confronted her own childlessness.
Thankfully it was Clare who picked up. James was out at the university. The funeral had been set for Tuesday week at Scampton Parish Church, the church where Ada had been a lifelong member, and where her father had been vicar. James had made an appointment with the vicar to go through the arrangements the following Monday. Julia confirmed that she was happy for him to see the vicar alone, if she weren’t back from Norfolk.
‘So you’ve not decided when you’re coming back? It’s not like you not to know exactly what you’re doing.’ Clare sounded concerned.
‘No.’ Julia looked down from her bedroom window to the street below, busy with pilgrims coming and going from the shine. Many of them were hidden away under umbrellas, their colours brightening the wet day. ‘I’m just giving myself some time.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘How are things with you and James?’
‘Not great.’ Clare paused. ‘You know, Julia, with your mother and Ada dying so close together it’s made me think about how precious life is. I know they were old, that they’d had their time, but it’s made me realise you’ve really got to get on with what you want, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Julia wasn’t sure where Clare was going with this. For some reason she thought of Pete, the pleasant pressure of his hand massage that evening, how she had wanted to respond to his kiss but pulled away a week last Saturday, her mind telling her she wasn’t ready for a new relationship. She bit her lip, wondering if she could call him on the pretext of discussing business premises.
‘So I think this might be it for me and James,’ her sister-in-law continued. ‘His affair isn’t the only reason. I’ve been asking myself why I’m staying with him when I so desperately want a child and he’s not so bothered. And of course our fertility problems lie with him anyway.’
Julia froze. ‘They do?’
‘Yes. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that, he doesn’t like people to know. But without the treatment, the chances of him fathering a child are zero.’
‘Ah.’ So James wasn’t the father of Grace’s child. Julia exhaled.
‘You won’t tell him you know, will you?’ Clare asked anxiously.
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Thanks. So I’m thinking, and I hope this doesn’t sound selfish, that I might leave James after all, give myself the chance of meeting someone else before it’s too late.’ She paused. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be insensitive.’
Her sister-in-law rolled a pen along the beech table by the window, registering an inner pang. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said after a moment. ‘For the record, Clare, not that you need my blessing or anything, but I don’t think you’re being selfish at all.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clare quietly. ‘That means a lot, you know. Like I said the other day, whatever happens between me and James, I hope we can stay friends.’
‘Of course we can.’
‘I’d better be going. I’ve got to be back at the office at two. You take care, Julia.’
‘I will. Bye.’
The call ended, Julia went out into the rain. Picking up her car from the pub car park, she drove out of Little Walsingham along a meandering country lane with no destination in mind. For once it wasn’t raining, and although the sky was still overcast, Julia’s mood lightened. Louise was right, a few days away would help. She felt too that a burden had been lifted with the discovery that James wasn’t the father of Grace’s child.
Thinking of her supervisor brought Linda’s disturbing Madonna and child painting to mind. Louise had said she’d found it in a gallery in the area. On cue she saw a sign for the Great Walsingham Gallery and turned into the courtyard. If this wasn’t the place where Louise had found Linda’s painting, someone in the gallery might know something about the artist. And even if she had reservations about whether she wanted to uncover the family secret, she would like to find out more about her mysterious relative.
There was only one other customer in the gallery, a white-haired man in a black suit. He was speaking quietly with a woman knitting behind a trestle table in a corner, his back to Julia. The measured tones of a Bach violin concerto on Classic FM filtered through the large airy space. Julia looked around the exhibition of vibrant oil paintings of coastal landscapes. No work by Linda Thurston there.
‘Can I help you?’
Julia turned towards the desk. The elderly man was making his way to the door. She saw a flash of white at his throat: a priest. Walsingham was crawling with them.
‘I wondered if you had any paintings by an artist who I believe might be local? Linda Thurston?’
She jumped at a crash across the room. A picture lay on the floor, knocked off a shelf by the priest who was stooping to pick it up. Instinctively Julia moved across to help.
‘Are you all right, Father?’ The woman laid down her knitting with a clatter.
‘Yes. Thank you. Very clumsy of me – I almost lost my footing. I don’t think there is any damage to the picture.’ He inspected the seascape carefully, then turned his attention to Julia.
Julia was trying to place his nasal accent. North American, probably Canadian. Close up, she realised he was older than his upright carriage suggested. Deep lines were etched into his forehead and the corners of his eyes and mouth. His Adam’s apple was prominent in the wrinkled skin of his neck. But his piercing blue eyes, scanning her face with a strange intensity, were those of a much younger man.
‘You’re quite sure? Do you want to sit down for a moment? Maybe I could get you a cup of tea?’ Reaching them, the plump woman placed a small freckled hand on the priest’s arm, darting a nervous glance at the painting. Her rather moony face cleared when she saw it was unharmed. She took it from the priest and replaced it carefully.
‘No. Thank you. I must be on my way.’ But he made no move, seeming rooted to the spot. The shock, thought Julia.
‘It’s that join in the floor.’ The woman pointed down at the wooden floor with a stubby forefinger. ‘I’ve nearly tripped over that myself before now. Someone’s going to have a nasty accident there one day. Lucky it wasn’t you, Father.’
‘I might say providential,’ said the priest, still staring at Julia. She found herself looking away from his penetrating gaze.
‘Of course,’ said the woman. She giggled like a nervous schoolgirl. ‘You would say that. I must tell them again, though. It’s time they did something about it, levelled it off.’
‘I’m quite all right.’ The priest finally tore his eyes from Julia and walked slowly towards the glass door, which was spattered with fresh rain drops. There he turned and looked back at them. ‘I’ll see you again, I expect.’
‘See you soon, Father,’ answered the woman, even though his eyes were fixed on Julia. He raised his hand in acknowledgement before disappearing into the drizzle.
‘Remarkable man,’ said the woman, moving back towards her desk. ‘Travelling all that way from Canada at his age. I find London enough these days.’ She patted her grey curls complacently and settled back into her chair. She picked up her knitting, a bright creation of red, orange and yellow. Colours of fire thought Julia.
She shuddered. She seemed to be seeing fire everywhere at the moment, ever since that nightmare on the evening of her mother’s funeral, and the strange coincidence of Grace telling her how her mother had set fire to the house when she was a baby. Then there was Linda’s painting of the Madonna and child engulfed in flames…
‘So you’re interested in Linda Thurston’s work?’ The woman deftly joined a new ball of flame-coloured wool into her garment.
‘Yes.’ Julia paused. For some reason she didn’t want to acknowledge her relationship with Linda. Whatever that relationship was. ‘Someone I know bought one of her paintings nearby recently. It could have been from this gallery.’
‘I remember, just a couple of weeks ago.’ She glanced at Julia over the rim of her bronze-framed glasses. ‘A rather large lady, not that I’ve got room to talk.’ She patted her stomach beneath a
shapeless pink sweatshirt and smiled, revealing small even teeth. ‘Can’t resist cake, that’s my problem. Yes, your friend bought one of the Madonna and child pictures.’
‘That’s right. I wondered if you had any more?’
‘Just one left, I think.’ The woman laid down her knitting again. She pulled out a large box from under the desk and hefted it on to the table. Puffing with the effort, she rooted through it until she found a print. She handed it to Julia. ‘Not to the taste of some of the Walsingham pilgrims.’
‘No. I’ve heard they are controversial.’ Julia studied the picture.
This time Mary was dressed in traditional blue, her right hand supporting the infant Jesus whose head rested on his mother’s shoulder. Smoke and flames billowed around them, but both Mother and child gazed out serenely, apparently oblivious to the lethal danger. Julia caught her breath.
‘They certainly were.’ The woman resumed her seat and her knitting. ‘Of course, the artist was ill at the time she painted them, poor thing. Mentally, that is.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. It was a terrible tragedy for the family.’ The woman bent her head to check her pattern. Julia started as the quiet strains of Bach were replaced by Mozart’s violent ‘Dies Irae.’
Julia waited for her to start the next row before asking, ‘What happened?’ Her mouth was dry.
The woman glanced up again. ‘I don’t really like to gossip. But I suppose if you asked any older residents, they’d remember, so I might as well tell you.’ The gleam in her eyes made Julia doubt her discretion, as did her stage whisper as she leaned forward. ‘She set fire to the house when she was at home alone with her baby.’
After the Funeral Page 18
