by Peter Watson
‘The English are not so much cold as solitary, suspicious and disdainful of groups. The reason there are so few people in English watercolours is that the English have no psychology, no collective psychology anyway. That’s why you can’t sum them – us – up as easily as other nations. That’s one reason why psychology as a medical discipline – psychiatry – has never caught on here as it has in other countries. We are not cold so much as unformed emotionally. We don’t need comfort as much as other nationalities.’
‘You can tell all this from watercolours?’
He grinned. ‘I’m exaggerating, of course. But watercolours are an odd, wonderful art form and they are peculiarly English. They need to be explained. Now, I’ve been talking too much.’
‘No, no, not at all. I can’t be truly English, though, because I am interested in people. Your family, for instance.’
‘I’ve an older sister who married a New Zealand eye specialist. I have two nieces, one of whom is my goddaughter. She says I’m her second favourite godparent. The younger sister, I told you about. My father died five years ago and my mother lives in Warwickshire now, just outside Stratford-on-Avon.’
‘And women?’
‘One. One serious woman, anyway, apart from the varnished vamps who seem to gravitate to the art world.’
‘Tell me about the “serious” one. How long did it last?’
‘Five years. Her name was Sylvie and she was half French. She was an archaeologist – but she was a scuba diver too so she specialised in underwater excavations. Sunken ships off Italy, Greece, Turkey mainly.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘A lunch party at Bodrum in Turkey. I was on holiday and she was working there. We were put together at the table because the hosts thought we would get on. Then we met by accident at the opening of an exhibition back in London. Three weeks later, Sylvie moved into Justice Walk.’
‘That was quick. Why did you split up?’
‘There wasn’t one reason. Is there ever? Just lots of little reasons. We did have a big disagreement, though. At the time I was working in the auction business, as I think I told you. There was a sale of antiquities which included some vases from southern Italy. Sylvie said they had been stolen and smuggled out of the country.’
‘How did she know?’
‘That was the point. Though she was certain, she couldn’t prove it. Apparently there’s a big catalogue published by an Oxford scholar which lists and illustrates all legitimately excavated vases. Thousands of them. By definition, if a vase is not in the catalogue, it must have been illegally excavated – and smuggled.
‘Sylvie thought the auction house should refuse to sell the vases. She wanted me to lead a campaign to stop it. She said an auction house couldn’t be seen to condone theft and I agreed. I even raised it in the office. But it wasn’t my department and I was overruled. Sylvie got very angry, with the auction house and with me. She thought I should have resigned, but I didn’t. Things were never the same between us after that. It was the beginning of the end. She moved out about a month later. She’s living in Greece now, so I hear.’
He looked at Isobel. ‘The funny thing is, I don’t really know why she went. I don’t think there was someone else. She never explained and we never discussed it. I never understood.’
‘Perhaps you never put yourself in her skin enough. Women like to be understood, Michael. They find it comforting. You say there’s no comfort. That may be true of art but it’s not true of relationships. Men too often think of control. If they give it up from time to time, they think they’re diminished, in the eyes of others as well as in their own. Maybe the vase auction was a test.’ Isobel leaned forward. ‘This is a wager I’ll make with you. I’ll bet that, if you had offered to resign, Sylvie would have told you to withdraw it. She just wanted you to feel your way into her skin for a moment, for as long as it took to show that you knew how to comfort her.’ Isobel sat back again and gripped the stem of her wineglass. ‘You’re like many men, Michael. You enjoy your job but I wonder if you actually like women. You probably think that you want equality from a woman when in fact what you want is compliance.’
‘You can tell all that from old vases?’
She smiled.
Michael was silent. What she had said hurt. Did that mean she had guessed right? He did think he treated women as equal, had always prided himself on it. He pulled heavily on his cigar and then breathed out long and hard, trying to relax himself. Relax? He hadn’t realised he was keyed up. Isobel had really got to him. He looked at her. She was smiling very faintly but her expression was really a quizzical one and that angle in her eyebrow was more sardonic than ever. She was wondering whether she had hit home. Michael wasn’t sure he enjoyed being understood so well. Then, with a jolt, he realised that was what equality was all about.
Whether or not Isobel could see his discomfort, she helped him out. ‘Do you miss not having a regular woman in your life?’
‘Sometimes. Being an art dealer carries with it, if you want, a heavy social life. It would be nice to share that. On the other hand, a spare man is always in demand.’
‘And children? Do you miss not having them?’
‘No. Not yet. I’m only thirty-three, you know. My “sell-by” date hasn’t expired just yet. You?’
‘I do miss them a bit, mmm. But with Tony . . . it’s been difficult.’
Later that night they played chess again. Though Isobel won for the second time, it wasn’t such an easy victory – Michael learned fast. There was a new easiness between them now. They sat up late, talking in between moves, laughing at each other’s mistakes on the chessboard, having an extra calvados. When they went upstairs, it was just after one. They said goodnight in the corridor and Michael leaned forward and kissed Isobel lightly on the cheek. She did not resist.
Chapter Eight
Next day they started slowly. A long breakfast was accompanied by all the newspapers. But then, around 10.30, Michael steered the hired car south, into Constable country.
They made for East Bergholt, and Dedham, and the Stour Valley, scene of so many Constable landscapes. They found Gun Hill and looked down to Flatford Mill and Judas Gap. The river looped its slow way east, black as liquorice. Next they headed west and slightly north, to Sudbury, where they visited Gainsborough’s house. After lunch they headed north to Norwich, to visit Cotman’s house and gallery in the castle, where scores of Norwich School paintings were on view. They returned by way of Lowestoft, where many of Turner’s coastal abstractions and cloud studies were produced. Today, however, there were no clouds. The sunny weather continued and the uninterrupted light, sweeping across the fens, brought with it a luminous magic that not even Michael had seen before. Every blade of grass, every stem of corn, every feather of every bird, seemed brighter than before, clearer, as if seen through some magical magnifying glass. Waves beat on the beaches in an explosion of sunlight. For the moment even Molyneux was forgotten.
On their way back, they crossed the River Waveney at Beccles Marshes. On either side, the Broads stretched away, shimmering black, glazed with honey.
‘Michael!’ Isobel cried out suddenly. ‘Why don’t we do that tomorrow? You’ve taught me such a lot today. It was marvellous. Why don’t we hire a boat for the day, and I’ll take you boating? As a thank you?’
‘Terrific – if it’s sunny. But if it’s raining, forget it.’
‘Done!’ she said, thrilled by the prospect.
That night they did not eat in the hotel but at a small fish restaurant by the harbour. The halibut, which they both chose, was very fresh and simply grilled with butter and parsley. Michael was delighted to find that the restaurant had an excellent cellar and chose a Pouilly-Fumé to go with the fish. Afterwards they decided to return to the hotel for more chess and calvados but not before they had strolled around the harbour and watched some of the fishing boats putting out to sea to catch the tide. Out along the jetty it was breezy and Michael took off his jacket and p
ut it around Isobel’s shoulders. He lit a last cigar. In the night air its smoke was quickly lost in the sea breeze. That night, when they parted, Michael kissed Isobel’s cheek once more.
*
Next morning, Isobel knocked on Michael’s door at eight o’clock.
‘It’s Sunday, for God’s sake!’
‘And it’s lovely!’ she shouted back. ‘The Broads – remember? Hurry up, slowbones. I’m going down to breakfast. I want to be on the water by ten. If you’re not ready, I shall go without you.’
Shaking the sleep from his head, Michael dragged himself out from under the sheets, shaved, showered, and was in the breakfast room by half past eight. ‘Banshee!’ he said, his face set in a mockserious frown. ‘I was having such a sexy dream.’
She ignored this. ‘I ordered for you. We had fish last night, so no kippers. And no eggs – we had an omelette on Friday. Bacon, sausage, tomatoes, that’s what you’re getting.’
‘What I need is some juice.’
‘Over there, on that table. Help yourself.’
He went to a sideboard where the jugs of juice were kept. He poured a glass, drained it and filled it again. He returned to their table. ‘I’m not used to being organised in this way,’ he said, enjoying every minute. ‘Is this a side to you I haven’t seen before, Field-bloodyMarshal Sadler?’
‘Probably. But if we are going on a boat there’s no point unless we make a reasonably early start. Boats move slowly, don’t forget, so if you want to see the countryside you need more time than in a car.’
She forced the pace throughout breakfast so that they were out of the hotel by five to nine. They reached Lowestoft before nine-thirty and soon found the basin where the boats for the Broads were berthed. Michael was only just beginning to wake up.
At the office there was already a small queue of people who had had the same idea and had beaten them to it. Michael was forced to admit that Isobel was right about one thing. By the time they reached the head of the queue, the line behind them was three times as long as when they had arrived.
Since there were only two of them, they didn’t need a large boat. ‘Still, we might as well get one with a cabin and a loo,’ said Isobel. ‘You can never tell with the English weather.’
Michael was amused by Isobel’s ferocious energy and her organising capacity. ‘I can now imagine what you’re like, down on the farm,’ he said, grinning as he clambered down into the boat. ‘Is this how you treat the animals?’
‘Only the goats and the donkeys. Now hold this,’ she said, handing him a rope. ‘When the engine has been started and I give you the word, unwrap it from that metal ring and just let go.’
In conjunction with the boatman, who was explaining everything to her, Isobel got the engine going and, with a skill that even the boatman admired, had the craft free of the jetty and the other boats in no time and with the minimum of fuss.
‘You’ll be all right, miss,’ called the boatman from the bank. ‘See you tonight.’
Isobel steered gently out of the basin, juggling her way cleverly in and out between other boats that were moving in the same general direction. Then came a section of river, a sort of canal, which ran through the less attractive parts of Lowestoft. It was narrow just here, with the backs of houses and small workshops or factories on either side. Since it was still relatively early, the canal was mostly in shade and cool.
Isobel shivered. ‘Can you look out the map? The man said there’s one in the main cabin.’
‘Going below,’ shouted Michael, laughing. Isobel’s bossiness was quite new but he liked it. He found the map and went back to where Isobel stood by the wheel. They were now coming out of the town and into open countryside. Sunshine flooded in on all sides.
‘Isn’t this relaxing?’ said Isobel, holding her face to the sun. ‘That sound of water slapping against the boat. Comforting, being the centre of all that attention.’
‘Any duty-free on this tub?’ Michael asked. ‘I’ve only got two cigars.’
‘No, but we can make for Havana, if you like.’
They examined the map and decided to sail in a big circle, following the River Waveney as far as Haddiscoe, then along the New Cut to Reedham, where there was a swing bridge and a pub where they might have lunch. After that, they would sail through Reedham Marshes and look at the windmills, as far as Burgh Castle, where Breydon Water started. Finally they would return past Waveney Forest and the remains of St Olave’s Priory.
By now the traffic was spreading out as some of the other boats turned down different reaches of water. Soon they had long stretches of the Broads to themselves.
‘It beats roads,’ said Isobel. ‘No traffic light, no cones, no jams, no police.’
‘No pubs yet, either.’
‘Philibloodystine.’ She laughed. ‘Like some coffee?’
‘What? This tub has Pullman service?’
‘You bet. It’s in my bag over there. I brought a thermos from the hotel.’
With the coffee Michael finally came round. Afterwards he lounged on the seat watching the flat countryside go by, listening to the ducks and moorhens, feeling the sun on his face and the backs of his hands. He watched Isobel steering and imagined her body moving under her shirt.
They chugged past an old construction which Michael saw from the map was known as Black Mill. Some words of Constable came to mind: ‘Old rotten banks, slimy posts, and brick works. I love such things.’
The golden morning passed slowly by. The soft breeze, carrying with it the smell of the sea, not so far off, kept the day from becoming too warm. Michael was given a turn at the wheel, during which time Isobel took off her shoes and hitched up her skirt again to give her legs some sun.
Shortly after twelve they sighted the swing bridge at Reedham. As they passed underneath it, Michael saw beyond, at the end of a bend, a ferry and a white-painted pub, The Ferryman. ‘Aha! Right on cue. Rum break.’
Isobel supervised the mooring. Then, when they were safely tied up, Michael jumped ashore and went to buy some drinks. He came out to find Isobel sitting on the bank, her legs again displayed to the sun.
‘I bought cider. It brought us good luck last time.’
‘Mmm.’ Isobel had her eyes closed. She opened them, took the glass, drank, then closed her eyes again and lay back. ‘Amazing how a day like this bleaches all your problems.’ She spoke to the air.
Michael lay alongside her. ‘Don’t get used to it. Monday tomorrow; back to Helen’s.’
She reached over to slap him. Michael caught her wrist and held it. For a moment they lay, with him holding her arm. Then, but not immediately, she disengaged herself.
They lay in the sun till Michael ordered lunch, sandwiches and cold chicken drumsticks. Isobel hadn’t moved when he came back. In fact, he thought she was asleep until she said, ‘God, I feel lazy.’
He knelt down by her and held a drumstick over her, just above her mouth. ‘Here you are.’
She opened her eyes, then parted her lips.
Michael lowered the drumstick till she could grip it with her teeth. For a moment she nibbled at it while he held it. Then, when the grease from the chicken began to settle around her lips, she lifted a hand and took the remains from him.
During the afternoon the sunshine continued and they wound their way sleepily past Berney Arms Mill, Churchfarm Marshes, Howard’s Common, Seven Mile House. They saw eel fishers at Somerleyton and a kingfisher in Oulton Dyke. They saw two huge, white carthorses drinking water. Near Wheatacre Marshes, Michael inspected the map. ‘You know, in about a mile we shall be very close to Aldeby, where Helen Sparrow’s studio is. I wonder how she’s getting on, whether she’s come up with anything yet.’
In reply, Isobel accelerated. ‘Let’s get past as quickly as possible. I don’t want to think about tomorrow until tomorrow.’
Around six, they found themselves in Oulton Broad and entering Lowestoft. Other boats were heading in too and they had to slow down. They were both sitting by
the wheel now.
When they reached the basin, the boatman saw them coming and moved forward to direct them where to berth the boat. ‘You can’t get next to the jetty,’ he shouted. ‘Pull alongside those boats there, then climb ashore over the other craft.’
Isobel brought the boat very neatly alongside, so slowly that Michael was easily able to clamber on to the other boats between them and the jetty. He handed the boatman the rope which Isobel had given him, then he went back to help her.
A bigger launch was now nosing into the basin but its helmsman had little of the skill Isobel had shown. Just as she was climbing from one boat to another, the launch nudged the outside deck of the boat she was leaving. Isobel was surprised – she had her back to the basin – and she missed her footing.
‘Watch out!’ Michael cried, seeing what was happening. He leaped forward to catch her. Just in time he managed to grab her as one of her legs slipped against the gunwhale of the middle boat of the three tied alongside each other. One arm grabbed Isobel’s elbow, the other he threw around her waist and pulled her to him. At that moment, and while he was still trying to keep his own balance, Michael was suddenly filled with an immense sexual longing, stronger than he could remember. The full impact of touching Isobel, feeling the muscles of her stomach under her shirt, the smell of her, released inside him a burst of sensual energy that only now he realised had been held in for so long. He wanted to ravish her.
Instead, now that the danger was over, he bent to examine her leg which had slipped on the gunwhale and scraped the skin. It was painful and unsightly but not serious.
‘You’ll live. What you need for that is more halibut, I’d say. Shall we go to the same restaurant tonight?’
