Stone Angels
Paula R. C. Readman
Copyright © 2020 by Paula R. C. Readman
Artwork: Adobe Stock © zwiebackesser
Design: soqoqo
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books/darkstroke except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Dark edition, darkstroke, Crooked Cat Books. 2020
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To my dear friend and mentor, Ivy Lord (aka author Maggie Ford) forevermore my guardian angel, without wings of course.
Acknowledgements
A big ‘thank you’ to Darkstroke for all their encouragement, words of wisdom and for the opportunity to see my novel Stone Angels published. Huge thanks to Laurence for helping me to knock my book into shape.
A big thank you to Debz Brown, Kim Martin, Nicola Slade, Sally Zigmond, Gill James and the members of the Ivy League writing group, Derek Corbett, Linda Gruchy, Linda Payne, Mark Readman, Maxine Churchman and Carol Simmons whose words of encouragement kept me writing. Thank you to my husband, Russell, for all his support and belief in me even when I failed to believe in myself. My darling son, Stewart and daughter-in-law Kathryn and not forgetting Dave, Joan and Ana, thank you for being there.
And, for everyone else who has briefly touched upon my life. Good or bad, you’ve created the writer I’ve become.
About the Author
Paula R C Readman grew up at Moulsham Mill in Chelmsford where her father worked as a master miller. She now lives in a village in Essex with her husband and two cats. After leaving school at 16 with no qualifications, she spent her working life mainly in low paying jobs. In 1998, with no understanding of English grammar, she decided to beat her dyslexia, by setting herself a challenge to become a published author.
She taught herself ‘How to Write’ from books which her husband purchased from eBay. After 250 purchases, he finally told her ‘just to get on with the writing’.
In 2010, she had her first taste of success with fiction when English Heritage published her short story in their anthology, Whitby Abbey-Pure Inspiration. In 2011, Paula took the opportunity redundancy offered her to take up writing full-time and started concentrating on writing short stories for publication in anthologies and for competitions while mastering the skills needed to write novels. Paula has had over fifty-nine short stories published, one collection of short stories, Days Pass Like a Shadow, published by Bridge House publishing, and a crime novella. The Funeral Birds, published by Demain Publishing.
Also in 2011, she had her first overall win in the World Book Day short story competition run by Austin and Macauley Publishers, and then 2012 the Writing Magazine and Harrogate Crime Writing Festival short story competition, when the crime writer Mark Billingham selected her dark crime story Roofscapes as the overall winning entry.
In 2014, Paula decided to take the main character James Ravencroft’s point of view from Roofscapes short story and turned it into the Stone Angels novel.
Stone Angels
Chapter One
The First of Nine
1971
The first painting in my urban Roofscapes series now stands on a mahogany easel in my drawing room. Heavy faded velvet curtains surround a stone-arched window through which pale sunlight floods, giving the room a shrine-like appearance. My agent Basil has been studying the painting for some time. He leans forward slightly with his broad back to me. I recline on a threadbare velvet sofa, swirling whisky around in a crystal glass.
I’m an artist. And, like all artists, I was born to create. Creativity flows through my blood and is in everything I see and do. The world is a series of lines that I must draw, and then reproduce in paint on raw hessian.
When I begin a painting, I place a new canvas on the paint-spattered easel and breathe in the smell of the paints, turps, and linseed oil. On closing my eyes I allow my mind to clear and fall into a sickness.
It’s like misery, all consuming. The darkness envelops me, I feed on its strength and it empowers me. I lift a paint-filled brush and mark the canvas. She appears. Her beauty wraps itself around me. Her smiling face haunts me almost as much as my father’s steely stares. Then, just as quickly, she leaves. Passion spent, my desire gone, my heart stills. Weak, I am unable to hold my brush. It falls onto my palette.
I awaken.
The virgin whiteness of the canvas is gone. In its place is a work of art in shades of grey, dull green, blue, and inky black – my trademark.
I’m jolted out of my thoughts by a comment from Basil.
“I do believe this painting is one of your finest so far, James,” he says as he straightens and offers his empty glass.
“Help yourself to another, old boy.” I wonder what’s different this time. He normally helps himself to my whisky.
“Thanks. And less of the old boy,” Basil protests as he crosses to the drinks cabinet. In midstride he pauses to study a small collection of my mother’s watercolours. “Dear God, I do so love this room. I cannot make up my mind whether it’s the clash of styles, or its sense of history. To think, I didn’t know who you were when we first met. And here we are, surrounded by all this fame and fortune.” He holds out the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.
I shake my head, holding up the half-filled glass. He nods and fills his glass to the brim before dropping into father’s old chair next to the fireplace. I take a sip, allowing the layers of richness to separate, and close my eyes. I roll the smoky liquid around my mouth, pushing it through the small gap in my front teeth before swallowing the sandalwood taste. As I do so, my thoughts settle on how we met eight years ago.
***
In the summer of 1963 I bumped into Basil at the opening of a new art gallery in London. I was squatting with a bunch of beatnik artists in all that remained of a once handsome Edwardian four-storey terraced house. It had survived Hitler’s bombs enough for its spacious rooms to become studios. With no real income between the artists, they spent most of their days spattering paint over large canvases in the style of Jackson Pollock as they dreamt of fame and fortune while smoking themselves into oblivion. I steered clear of the drugs, busy rebranding myself, into a poor artist called Tommy Blackbird. I knew how dangerous fame was after witnessing the damage it had done to my mother. Though living with them had its rewards.
Joe, who ran the squat, believed we were the reincarnation of Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood by all agreeing to help each other. While they were happy to share everything from beds to food, paints and clothes, and even their girlfriends with me, I was being far more self-centred. Only one girl sparked my interest, the unobtainable girlfriend of Joe. I certainly appreciated Candela’s shapely form, a willowy blonde with dark green eyes.
Candela and her friends, Trudy and Dor, worked as picture hangers in the major galleries around the city. Most evenings they would supply us with a meal while keeping us in the loop with the latest art news, information on art competitions, or galleries that were on the hunt for new and up and coming artists from across the city, and sometimes from New York.
One evening over supper, Candela told us about a new gallery that was to have a celebrity launch party. As we sat feasting, we made plans to gate-crash.
A few days later we arrived at the gallery to find the party in full swing. Posters covering the fron
t windows proclaimed that the exhibition was for the art critic, Lawrence Alloway’s ‘Pop Art’ artist, David Hockney. I stood in awe of the large white space with its pale grey carpet and loft-style gallery. The fluorescent lighting seemed to bring the modern abstract paintings alive. Transfixed, I wanted nothing more than to grab a paintbrush and start work.
My conspirators seemed more focused on the gathering masses. Candela tugged on my arm. “Oh my God. Tommy just look who else is here!”
Over my shoulder I saw Joe moving towards a group of new arrivals. Among them was a young up and coming singer, Mick Jagger, with his latest flame clinging to his arm, as well as celebrities from film and TV, all milling about, chatting with artists and agents. They stood before the large canvases, holding up their wine glasses, smiling into the cameras, pleased to have their pictures snapped in the trendiest, newest hotspot.
As the others wandered off to mingle with the famous, my attention returned to the paintings. Soon I was looking for a quiet corner so I could sketch down a few ideas. As I made a few notes on colours and positions of figures, I became aware of a couple talking.
“I can’t believe it. He’s here!” an excited woman said.
“You’re having me on. Where?” a pretty boy replied. “I’ve been here since it opened. He wasn’t here then. I went over the whole place and didn’t see him.”
“He’s upstairs in the main gallery. You know, where it says private.”
“Oh well, that’s no good for the likes of us, dearie.”
I slipped the notebook into my jacket pocket as their excited laughter faded. Unable to locate Joe or Candela, I headed for the stairs to see if I could catch a glimpse of Hockney.
Of course, I wasn’t the only one. The place swarmed with his admirers. Well, who wouldn’t want to be around him? The guy had the Midas touch. That’s the trouble with fame. You become the property of the masses. Everyone wants a piece of the action.
While barging through the milling crowd on the stairs, I somehow locked arms with a tall guy dressed in a striped boating blazer with cream trousers. He deposited his red wine down the front of my white shirt.
“Jesus bloody Christ. I’m so sorry mate!” he yelled over the din.
“Hey, it’s all right. I thought I was blending in too well with the walls anyway.” I laughed.
For a moment I thought he was on something as he stared blankly at me. Then his grey eyes widened, and he began to laugh.
“I’m Basil Hallward.” He offered me his hand.
As I took it, I became aware of his tightening grip, and he pulled me away from the steady conveyor belt of people that were pushing to get past and guided me to the corner where I had taken refuge earlier. I’m not sure at what point he mentioned he was an agent, or whether I told him I was an artist looking for representation. The next thing I remember clearly about that night was leaving the party early, after Basil and I exchanged contact details and he had made an appointment with me to view some of my work in his London office a week later.
As for Hockney, I never did meet him.
I left the launch party and made my way back to the squat. I decided it was the right time to leave Tommy Blackbird in London, and head home to Halghetree Rectory.
At the squat I took the stairs two at a time, wanting to be gone before anyone else arrived back. I paused on the landing below mine when I became aware of someone crying. Joe’s studio door stood slightly ajar. I placed an eye to the gap. Suddenly transported back to my childhood, within the paint-splattered studio, I saw my mother amidst spilt paints and torn canvases. I shook my head in an effort to clear the awful image from my mind. I struck the door, causing it to swing open. Mother turned with a bloodied knife in her hand.
I froze.
“Christ, Tommy! I thought it was Joe!” Candela shrieked, and mother vanished.
I tried to make sense of the torn paintings strewn across the room. It wasn’t blood covering them, but paint.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.
“What the fuck do you think?” she said, tossing the knife into the disarray. “I can’t take any more of his lies, so I’m leaving him a farewell surprise.”
She picked up a couple of bags and pushed past me.
“Where are you going?” I called after her.
She paused, her hand resting lightly on the banister and looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. “As far away as possible,” she said, with a shrug of her thin shoulders before continuing down the stairs.
“How are you getting there?” I ran after her.
“Train, bus, I don’t care. I just want to be gone before he gets back.”
“Wait! Give me a moment and I can take you. I have a car. I can drop you off anywhere you want or… Come with me. It’s up to you.”
As her green eyes locked with mine, I recognised the bitterness that burnt within them. I inhaled deeply. The smell of paint, spilt turps and linseed oil caused something inside me to snap. I knew whatever happened next; Candela had to come with me.
***
The squeaking springs in my father’s chair brought me back to the present. I open my eyes, my breath catching in my throat. It still shocks me to find someone sitting in it beside the fire. I try to squash the displeasure on seeing Basil relax as he surveys the room, glass in hand. I let my breath out slowly and wait for him to comment on my painting. It’s the only reason I have allowed him into my inner sanctum.
After doing a series of land and seascapes in my own unique style, Basil suggested I should try something urban. It amazes me that he should have suggested such a subject matter. The idea was not new to me. What I’m showing him was actually painted eight years ago. It’s why I’m more than a little intrigued to know his thoughts on my interpretation.
Within the painting, a semi-naked, grisaille-style woman posed in shades of grey, dull green, blue, and inky black in a bleak cityscape. Her arms were tied behind her as she leaned forward like a figurehead on a sailing ship, among the saintly statues and gargoyles on the side of a Gothic building. The rain plastered her hair to her head while four small metal clips held her eyelids open, causing blood to trickle down her cheeks.
Oh how I recall the power of the muse as she played with my emotions. Within every sweep of the brush I built the paint up, layer upon layer to convey the symbolism and eroticism in the way the halter strap of the model’s body harness emphasised her breasts. I wanted the art connoisseurs to search for answers within each stroke as they do when discussing other great works of art.
Basil clears his throat, and I’m jarred out of my thoughts. I took another gulp of my drink and try to clear my mind of Candela.
“Hmm,” he utters before taking another sip of his drink. “There’s something quite dark about your painting, James. Something unspoken.”
I smile, satisfy that he’s hooked. There’s a sparkle of delight in his grey eyes, though. It could be just his bank balance sparkling. You never can tell with Basil.
“James, my dear man, finally you’ve found your voice. Your last series of paintings was brilliant. And I must say they’ve made us a small fortune, but… this is outstanding!”
He crosses to the painting again and studies it. I can see the muscles in his back twitching as he scans the painting. I’m sure he’s calculating just how much each brushstroke is worth.
He takes more than his fair share in extra commission on each sale he makes on my behalf. It doesn’t bother me. If he has his hand in the cookie jar, I hope for his sake he’s lined his nest well. One day soon the axe will fall, and he won’t know what has hit him.
With fame, I know if you have a big enough fortune, it allows you to get away with things ordinary folk cannot. Basil constantly reminds me he’s a friend, someone I can confide in.
Now that’s not something I find easy to do. We all have things we like to keep to ourselves. I know his, but he doesn’t know about mine yet.
Tommy Blackbird was too kind and didn’t know how to paint.
James enjoys playing among the shadows while painting in his unique style.
Basil reaches for the bottle again. “They say behind every great piece of art is a story. So, what’s yours? What’s your inspiration, James?”
I shrug. “I paint what I see.”
A puzzled look crosses his face. “Has it a title? Is it painted from real life, or just your imagination?”
“It’s an idea I’ve been toying with for some time. I’ve called it ‘Roofscapes,’ but it is really ‘a work in progress’.”
“Oh, so it’s an on-going. Part of a series like Of Land and Sea?’”
“You could say that. I’m already working on the next one.”
“That’s great. I can’t wait to see it.”
I drain my glass, not telling him that I’ve already finished nine.
Chapter Two
Something Urban
The First Painting
1963
Still buzzing with excitement at Basil’s astonishing reaction to the first of my nine ‘Roofscapes’ paintings, I recalled how it all started in 1963. Once my patronage was large enough, I wanted the freedom to paint whatever I chose. After my initial meeting with Basil at his London office, a month later I received a phone call from him.
“Hi James Ravencroft? It’s Basil Hallward.”
“Yes — I’m James.” The telephone receiver betrayed my nerves as it shook in my hand.
“Good. I’ve phoned with some wonderful news. I’ve sold your painting and secured a further five commissions for your Of Land and Sea series.”
“That’s marvellous, Mr Hallward.”
“Do call me Basil. So you better get painting, James. I can see us having a long partnership. I will get my secretary to draw up a contract and send you a copy. We can sort out the payment next time you are in town.”
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