Change of Season
Page 17
‘Why have you brought those?’ he demanded, pointing to the embroideries. ‘You know I hate the damned things.’
‘Since you weren’t here, I decided to please myself. I happen to like having them around.’
He had already unhooked one. She took it from his hand and put it back on the wall. ‘Leave it, Paul.’
‘There were already pictures up, a matching pair, which went well with the décor of this room, so there was no need for this. How did you get them out here so quickly? What did that cost, eh?’
‘I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss about this if they’re so unimportant.’
Their eyes met, held, then a look of scorn came over his face. ‘What do you think people will say if we have those old-fashioned things displayed on the wall? I thought you had a bit more sense than that, Ros, I really did. What you do in your own time is one thing, but what you show the world is quite another ball game.’
‘Apparently I haven’t any sense at all, because I love to have my pictures hanging where I can see them and I don’t care what other people think. I’m the one who lives here, after all.’
‘Well, they’re coming down when people visit. They’re too amateurish.’
Jenny appeared in the doorway. ‘They’re not amateurish at all, Dad. They’re beautiful.’
He turned to glare at her. ‘You can keep out of this, young lady.’
‘I don’t see why. I like looking at them, too, and those prints were trashy. Besides, I don’t think Mum will tell you, but one of her embroideries fetched six hundred and fifty pounds at a charity auction two days ago. There was intense bidding from several people, but a fine art dealer bought it – to sell in his gallery.’
‘You’re making this up.’
‘Why on earth should I?’ Jenny went to put her arm round her mother’s shoulders, feeling the tension there, angry that he’d been so unkind within minutes of arriving. ‘I’m very proud of Mum. And everyone here has admired her embroideries. People did at home, too. There’s only you who doesn’t like them, actually.’
The silence was heavy with menace. ‘Well, I definitely don’t. And I have to live here, too.’
Rosalind intervened. ‘How long are you staying this time, then, Paul? One day? Two? I think you can put up with them for that long.’
‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’ He saw the scorn on her face and snapped, ‘I have to report in, don’t I? I’ve brought our younger daughter down for you to keep an eye on, so I did put family first, contrary to what you accused me of last time. But now I have to go up to London to make a full report to the chairman about Hong Kong.’
Rosalind’s voice was without inflection. ‘Yes. Of course.’
‘But I’ll be spending the weekends down here from now on, so I should have some say in what I have to look at.’
Did he never give up? she thought wearily, wondering if this was worth it. There was a knock on the front door before she could answer him.
‘I’ll get it.’ Jenny was worried about the anger on her father’s face. Why was he being so brutal about her mother’s embroideries? ‘Oh, Mrs Larcombe! How lovely to see you! Won’t you come in? Mum and Dad are in the living room. You haven’t met Dad yet, have you?’
Harry marched forward with her usual aura of energy and purpose to plonk two kisses in the air above her friend’s cheeks. ‘Rosalind! How are you today?’
After the introductions, they sat down to chat while Jenny went to make some coffee.
‘Nice girl, that,’ Harry said. ‘Big help on the skittles.’ She turned to Paul. ‘You must be very proud of your wife.’
‘Must I? Why?’
‘Why, because of those.’ Harry waved one hand towards the wall. ‘Damned fine work. A much smaller one fetched six hundred and fifty pounds at the fête.’
His smile had quite vanished. ‘Amazing. But some folk will buy anything to support a charity.’
Harry stared at him incredulously, then turned to Rosalind as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I popped round because George Didburin wants to come and see you about your work. He’s interested in representing you. All right if I give him your phone number and address? You do have other pieces for sale, don’t you?’
Happiness surged through Rosalind. ‘Yes. And I’d love to talk to him.’
‘You don’t need to huckster your work around,’ Paul snapped. ‘You’ll have enough on with—’
Harry was not to be deflected. She held up one hand. ‘Just a minute!’ she said, before turning to Rosalind again. ‘Did you mean it about repairing Araminta’s embroidery for us?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘Who’s Araminta?’ demanded Paul. ‘And why can’t she repair her own embroidery? My wife’s not a damned sewing woman!’
Harry guffawed. ‘Araminta’s one of my ancestors, seventeenth century, and your wife offered to repair an embroidery she did then. It’s rather valuable.’ She’d taken an instant dislike to this man, who reminded her of her stockbroker – good at his job, she’d guess, but would tread on anyone to get a profit.
It was with relief that Rosalind showed Harry to the door ten minutes later, because Harry gave as good as she got, was impervious to subtle insults and was quite prepared to be downright rude to Paul.
On the doorstep Harry leant close to Rosalind and whispered, ‘Don’t let that husband of yours put you down!’ Then she winked and raised her voice. ‘George wants to make your embroideries the centrepiece of his next needlework exhibition. So don’t give away any of them from now on – except one to me for next year’s fête, of course.’
Rosalind stood by the door watching her friend stride down the drive, then took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and went back inside the house.
I don’t even want to see Paul, she thought. Guilt shot through her at the memory of Jonathon kissing her, congratulating her, being glad for her. She stopped moving for a moment till it faded. He didn’t bark orders at her and disparage her embroideries.
Paul appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. ‘Ros? For heaven’s sake, are you going to stand out there all day?’
She sighed and went in to continue the battle.
By afternoon Rosalind was near screaming point. Paul was in his office, fiddling with something on his laptop. ‘I – um, think I’ll go out for a walk,’ she told her daughters. ‘Anyone else want to come?’
Louise shook her head. ‘Dad’ll want me to go jogging soon. That’s enough exercise for one day.’
‘You – jogging?’
‘Yes. It’s his idea of rehabilitation.’ Louise started fiddling with the handle of her mug. ‘And I have lost some flabbiness, even in the short time since we started. He hired this personal trainer for me while we were in Hong Kong. I thought she was just – you know, a minder for the naughty girl. But she really was a personal trainer and she taught me all sorts of things. So I might keep the exercising up. See how I go.’
‘You look all right to me, love. You’ve definitely lost weight, however you did it.’
‘Oh, Mum, I’m just thin. I don’t have any tone. And,’ she blushed, ‘I lost the weight because I wasn’t eating. I was – you know, taking these amphetamine pills. They were wonderful. You didn’t feel at all hungry and you were simply bursting with energy – but I wasn’t seriously into drugs, whatever Dad says! I was just – you know, trying things out. Pot isn’t a hard drug. Everyone smokes it. It ought to be legalised. It’s no worse than alcohol.’
‘So they say. I’m not so sure. They wouldn’t ban it for nothing.’ Sadness gripped Rosalind suddenly. ‘Tim used to smoke it, too, didn’t he? Then he went on to worse things.’
‘I suppose so.’ There was silence, then Louise looked over her shoulder and asked in a low voice, ‘You haven’t heard from him, have you? I mean, I know he wouldn’t contact Dad, but I hoped he might have at least written you a card. Just to let you know he’s OK and all that.’
‘I haven’t heard a thing since that last postcard,
which you saw.’
‘Are you worried about him?’
‘Very. I worry about you all. But Tim – well, he could be dead and I,’ her voice broke, ‘I wouldn’t even know it.’
Louise was near tears. ‘He isn’t! He can’t be!’
There was silence, then Rosalind said, ‘I must get out while I can.’ She went to find Jenny, who was reading a book in the conservatory. ‘Do you want to come for a walk, love?’
‘Not just now, thanks. Ned said he might ring.’ Jenny didn’t want to get heavy with anyone, but it’d be nice to have a date or two.
‘I’ll go on my own, then.’
Paul came in. ‘Go where?’
‘Out for a walk. And to pick up a couple of things at the shops.’
‘It’s going to rain. Take the car.’
She was always surprised at how little he used his own feet. Oh, he trained in the gym. And jogged. Religiously. But he rarely walked anywhere for the pleasure of it. She didn’t take the car but picked up her umbrella instead. And when the rain got heavy she went to sit in the little café in the village.
Jonathon came in and saw her gazing sightlessly through the rain-streaked window. It seemed like the answer to a prayer to him. He’d been wondering how to contact her.
She saw him and her sad expression lightened as she gestured to the seat next to her.
Beaming, he hurried across. ‘On your own?’
‘Yes. I’m the only real walker in the family. When it started to rain, I took shelter here.’
‘Mind if I join you for a cuppa?’
‘I’d love it.’ She realised her voice had been too warm and looked down at the table, saying more temperately, ‘Please do.’
When his pot of tea and chocolate cupcakes had arrived they sat in silence, then he said, ‘I miss you dreadfully, Rosalind.’ He didn’t look at her, just stirred his tea round and round.
She couldn’t be less than honest with him. ‘I miss you, too.’
Another silence. ‘Harry says you’re going to repair Araminta’s picture for us.’
‘Yes. I’d really like to do that. Perhaps you could bring it round to the house sometime?’
‘Or you could come and get it?’
‘You must be sick of people invading your house. Harry said the horse charabanc was full every trip on the day of the fête.’
‘I enjoy having people round, actually. It can get very lonely with the boys away. And I left showing folk round to Mrs Durden-Jones, who runs the local historical society. She knows nearly as much about the place as we Destans do, but she puts it across better and handles the groups better, too.’ He leant forward and said conspiratorially, ‘I’m a failure at handling crowds, actually. I’m too soft with them.’
She sighed. ‘I’ve been too soft with everyone, I think.’
‘How’s it going? Now your husband’s home, I mean. How’s it really going?’
A shrug was the only answer and seeing the distress on her face he started talking about the fête instead, telling her how pleased Harry was about the takings, which looked like creating a record.
As they were parting Rosalind said, ‘I miss you so much, Jonathon dear.’ Then, as if terrified by what she had said, she turned and rushed off.
He wished he had the right to follow her.
Chapter Thirteen
Paul answered the front door. ‘Yes?’
‘George Didburin.’ The man on the doorstep was plump and bald, but held himself with casual confidence. He was dressed immaculately and spoke with a drawling, educated accent, very English. He proffered a business card and waved one hand towards his companion. ‘My son and partner, Ned. We’re looking for Rosalind Stevenson. She’s expecting us.’
Paul took the card and examined it cursorily, not at all impressed by the accent or appearance of his visitor. ‘Ros! It’s that art fellow for you.’ He was annoyed at all this fuss over his wife’s hobby, felt betrayed by it. Who’d ever have thought people would get excited about bloody embroideries?
Still, if there was money to be made from them, he’d better make sure no one cheated her. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to push for the best bargain. He held the door wider. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
George stepped into the hall, taking in far more than was immediately apparent. Good-looking chap, Stevenson, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He wondered what the wife was like. He hadn’t had a chance to meet her after the fête. Ned said she was pleasant but with no sparkle.
Well, sparkle or not, George hoped she had some more pieces like the one of those children. Very touching scene, that. Brilliant needlework, too, with some unusual uses of materials. But it was the artistic style that made it valuable, the eye for a composition. He hoped the other pieces were of the same quality. It had been a while since he’d discovered a new talent.
Rosalind hurried down the stairs, wishing the art dealer had come after Paul had left. She advanced across the hall, with her right hand outstretched. ‘Mr Didburin? I’m so pleased to meet you.’
Why doesn’t she tell him how humbly grateful she is for his interest while she’s at it? Paul thought, watching her closely. Honestly, she was such a fool. Look at her body language. Even a blind man could read it. She was putting all the cards into her opponent’s hand before the game even began.
George presented Rosalind with a business card – you had to be careful nowadays when dealing with a husband and wife, treat them equally and all that, and anyway he was here to see her, not that cold fish beside her. He clasped her hand in both of his, holding on to it for a minute as he studied her. Well, at least her smile reached her eyes but what the hell was she nervous of? People didn’t usually find him intimidating. Then he saw her glance flicker uncertainly towards her husband and back again. Ah.
‘Shall we go and sit down, Ros?’ Paul prompted, his voice impatient.
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Do come this way, Mr Didburin.’ She led the way into the sitting room and indicated a chair.
George didn’t even see her gesture because he’d noticed the pictures on the wall. ‘Do you mind?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but walked across to examine them. ‘Aaah!’ He wasn’t aware he’d made an approving noise, wasn’t aware of anything except the pieces. They were exquisite. Oh, yes! Abso-bloody-lutely exquisite.
Excitement filled him, rushing along his veins and bringing a slight flush to his fair complexion. There was nothing to beat the thrill of discovering a new talent, nothing. And such an unusual talent, too. Her pictures weren’t just pretty, they had guts. That was the only way he could phrase that indefinable something that meant an artist had captured some essence of life, some wonderful essence that would bring people of discernment flocking to buy their work.
‘What do you think?’ Paul asked as the silence dragged on and the guest made no attempt to take a seat.
George continued to ignore him. He stabbed a finger towards an Elizabethan lady in full costume with a miniature ruff, wondering how Mrs Stevenson had managed to do that so accurately on such a small scale. ‘This one is pretty and will sell, but this other,’ he stabbed a finger at an old lady sitting on a park bench, looking suspiciously at the world as she watched some children play, ‘is masterly. You should stay away from the pretty scenes and capture Life – with a capital L. It’ll sell better.’
Rosalind flushed. ‘Oh, well, I—’
‘Could you tell us a bit about yourself, Mr Didburin?’ Paul cut in smoothly. ‘We’re happy that you like the embroideries, of course, but what are your credentials for handling my wife’s work? Or for passing judgement on them?’
Rosalind stared at him in horror.
There was the sound of a phone ringing, footsteps, then Louise called, ‘Dad! It’s for you. The chairman.’
Paul froze in instant response to that magic word, murmured something which might have been an excuse and left swiftly, pausing to hiss at his wife, ‘Leave any negotiations about prices to me.’
‘I’m afraid I prefer to deal directly with the artist,’ George said mildly to Rosalind, feeling sorry for the poor downtrodden woman. ‘I like to develop a personal relationship with my clients. No intermediaries.’
She felt overwhelmed with embarrassment at Paul’s all-too-obvious assumption that she couldn’t handle things herself. ‘I’ll explain that to my husband, because I’d prefer to deal directly with you, as well. If you’re going to buy more of my work, that is.’
‘I hope I am. Do you have much completed?’
‘About fifty pieces. But most of them are back in Australia.’
He nodded, smiling gently, exhilaration still coursing through him. Fifty! Oh, yes! He had definitely made a find. ‘If they’re as good as this lot, I won’t guarantee to make you rich, but I will guarantee you recognition of your talent. And a fairly steady income.’
‘Oh.’ She went pink with pleasure. ‘Are you sure I’m – well, good enough?’
He looked at her incredulously. She really meant it. She was that uncertain of herself. ‘Yes, very sure. I’m a bit of an expert on embroideries, actually. And these are first-rate.’ It was about time for a revival of interest in this particular form of needlework.
‘Dad’s the top expert in Britain on raised stumpwork pieces, actually,’ Ned put in. ‘In Europe, even.’
George smiled deprecatingly at Rosalind. ‘Bit of a passion of mine, embroidery. And in my judgement, Mrs Stevenson, you have considerable talent.’ He paused, unable to think of a tactful phrase. ‘Do you really want your husband to negotiate prices in advance for you?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean by that.’
‘Well, let me try to explain how I usually work before you decide. Prices are a delicate point until I’ve got you established as an artist. I’d much rather take a few of your embroideries – about twenty or so would give me enough for a good display – pay you a retainer and then arrange an exhibition. In the meantime I’ll show your pieces round and gauge reactions, though I’m pretty sure your stuff will take.’ He patted his chest. ‘I get a feeling here when I discover a new talent. I’ve got it now. Strongly.’