by Téa Cooper
‘This is difficult because not only does it affect me, but also Michael, his memory.’
She expected her words to cause some sort of a reaction, some spark of interest, instead the man sat there, arms folded, waiting.
‘I am not who I seem.’
Still he didn’t react. For heaven’s sake, was she signing her own admission certificate? She clamped her lips tight and turned to the window.
The touch of his fingers on the back of her hand made her jump. ‘Elizabeth, Michael told me.’
The air whooshed out of her lungs in an embarrassing display of relief. ‘So you won’t think that these turns are an indication of my doolally status?’
‘No, Elizabeth, no I don’t. Mind you, I have never thought that you were doolally, simply overwrought and suffering as many women of your age do. Nostalgia is a real complaint.’
‘Since Michael told me, I am firmly convinced that my …’ She paused, ‘dilemma is related to something in my past, something that occurred before I met Michael, before I can remember.’
He gave her hand another pat. ‘In that case, I think we should make a date to revisit these occurrences, speak in depth about them, but not, however, until you have had the opportunity to mourn Michael. No matter whether he was your biological brother or not, he was your closest family. You need time to grieve and allow yourself to recover.’
‘I have to admit that my fear is selfish. The entire town knows me as Elizabeth Quinn, Michael’s sister. The thought of the ensuing gossip when they realise that I have been living with a man who wasn’t my brother, wasn’t in any way related to me, terrifies me. Everyone will think the worst. What of Jane? Her reputation will be ruined. She’ll have no hope of marriage, having lived under our roof.’ She ran her hand over the counterpane. She might be cowardly but the thought of the rumours, the sly behind-hand remarks, made her sick at heart. She contemplated her drumming fingers and stifled a moan.
‘There is no need for anyone to know anything you don’t wish to tell them. I can assure you, they won’t be hearing it from me.’ He handed her the small glass. ‘Drink this. It will help you sleep, and when you feel more yourself we will discuss it further. In the meantime, I shall continue to peruse Mr Freud’s writings.’ He rubbed his hands together as though he relished the opportunity.
Perhaps she should have taken notice of Jane when she mentioned this Mr Freud, perhaps it wasn’t the modernistic claptrap she had first thought. She brought the glass to her lips and swallowed. The drug offered its release almost before Lethbridge closed the door.
Twenty-Nine
Jane had only intended to spend a few minutes sitting quietly outside on her favourite cane chair before she went and put an end to the interminable round of tea and sandwiches, and whiskey. Where had Langdon-Penter got the whiskey? How dare he help himself? He must have been into Michael’s study.
‘I wanted to offer my condolences.’
She looked up into Timothy’s eyes, full of sympathy and caring, unlike his odious father, and offered a wan smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Mr Quinn was a fine man, I’m so very sorry.’
Yes, he was a fine man, but how would Timothy know, or his father, for that matter? Perhaps he was being polite, offering platitudes. At least he wasn’t asking about inheritances.
‘How did your father meet Michael?’
‘Father knew him. He’d told Mother and me about him.’ He scratched his head. ‘I’m not sure if they’d met in person before the exhibition at the national gallery.’
‘Has your father ever been to Australia before?’
This was most peculiar. Jane could remember Michael introducing himself after his dreadful faux pas about the painting, but now she thought about it, she had the distinct impression Langdon-Penter had known who Michael was.
‘No, this is our first visit, Father’s first visit.’
‘I didn’t realise Michael was so well known. He made a name with his work for the Labor party, and workers’ rights, but I didn’t realise it extended beyond Australia.’
Timothy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Does it matter? It all turned out for the best. The exhibition at the auction house has come up well, Mother is thrilled.’ He gazed at her, strange eyes, like his father’s, but muted, a softer grey that darkened with concern. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being thoughtless. With Mr Quinn’s passing we will postpone the exhibition, a gesture of respect.’
She hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. Was that what one did? Would the auction house stay closed? What would happen to everyone who worked there? There were no auctions scheduled for the next couple of weeks because of the exhibition, but John would expect to be paid, as would Mrs Cohen, and there would be goods coming in and the deliverymen would need to be paid.
‘No. We’ll stay open.’ Michael wouldn’t want the people who worked for him to be short, whole families depended on their income. ‘We’ll make a few adjustments in memory of Michael.’ Take his portrait from the dining room and set it down at the auction house, maybe drape some of Bessie’s black material around the frame.
‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?’
‘The invitations to the opening have gone out, advertisements to Newcastle and Singleton, and in the Maitland Mercury. The weekend will be your busiest time. No, we will stay open and the exhibition will go ahead.’
There. She’d made her first independent decision. Elizabeth was in no frame of mind to do it. Besides, Jane wanted the opportunity to ask Mr Langdon-Penter some more questions. Something didn’t sit right.
The following morning, Jane left well before breakfast. The scent of Michael’s whiskey still hung in the air and the heavy melancholy permeating the house was more than she could bear. There was little point in waiting for Bessie to make breakfast. They’d been up until all hours cleaning after everyone left and even then, Jane hadn’t been able to sleep. Her notebook was minus most of its pages and the floor of her room covered in tattered pieces of paper.
She didn’t understand Michael’s sudden revelation about Elizabeth’s background. Why now, and not in any of the preceding years? Too late for him to answer any questions. She was going to have to solve the puzzle. It would be her tribute to Michael. A way of thanking him for all he had done for her. She would sort out this mess.
Except that she couldn’t. She had all these inconsequential facts scattered through her mind and nothing added up. Elizabeth’s strange behaviour over the scrap of gold paper had frightened her. Who set light to a condolence letter? Well, it was hardly a condolence letter, simply a piece of paper covered with Chinese symbols. Chinese writing. Chinese gold. And what had a display of taxidermied birds and Mrs Penter’s paintings have in common? Nothing, except Elizabeth’s reaction and that strange wail. G’woam. G’woam.
She wheeled her bicycle around to the back of the auction house and propped it against the wall. The door was unlocked. She’d like to meet Mrs Penter; she hadn’t seen her at the wake.
Standing in the middle of the room, she turned slowly. The exhibition looked magnificent; there was nothing the Penters could complain about, and the opening would give Mrs Witherspoon and her band of gossipmongers something different to occupy their empty heads.
It wasn’t until she’d completed two full turns of the room that Jane spotted a tall, spare woman in a plain navy dress, in the corner of the room adjusting one of the paintings. There was something familiar in her bearing.
When she turned, Jane realised her mistake. She’d never seen her before.
The woman smiled and held out her hand. ‘Marigold Penter.’
Nothing like she’d imagined. She would stand head and shoulders above her husband and she had an almost regal bearing.
Jane took her hand. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t had time to introduce myself. I’m Jane Piper.’
‘Not at all. I understand. It’s such a difficult time. We lost my mother not long ago. I feel in some way responsible. I do hope Miss Quinn’s reaction
to my paintings didn’t cause Mr Quinn to …’ Her words petered out.
‘Michael had been suffering from congestive heart disease for some time. Dr Lethbridge said it could have happened at any time.’
She hadn’t thought about Michael’s death in terms of Elizabeth’s turns. She thrust her hand into her pocket searching for her notebook, it came out empty. Was that part of the equation?
‘Timothy tells me you’re happy for my exhibition to go ahead. It’s kind of you, but if you and Miss Quinn feel it would be disrespectful, I understand.’
‘No. The exhibition must go ahead.’ Hopefully she spoke for Elizabeth too.
‘Is that your decision to make?’
A streak of anger flashed through her and she drew herself up to her full height. ‘Indeed it is. I have been running the auction house since Mr Quinn began campaigning for the Labor party. The decision rests with me.’
Not the truth—she’d always asked Michael’s opinion in the past, but he wasn’t here now, and Elizabeth wasn’t in a fit state to consider the matter.
Mrs Penter’s face broke into a conciliatory smile. ‘I beg your pardon. I constantly complain about my husband interfering in my business affairs and here I am doing the same. Thank you.’
Jane shrugged her words aside. ‘Mrs Penter, could I ask you a few questions about your paintings?’
‘Please, call me Marigold, and yes, of course. I’d be delighted.’
Jane made a quick circuit of the room and came to rest in front of the picture of the church. ‘This is the painting that was displayed at the technical college.’
‘Yes, Timothy thought it would be better here with my other work. It’s called The Village Church. The national gallery have made an offer.’
‘Can you tell me about it?’
‘As the title says, it’s the view of the village church from the hillside. St Mary the Virgin. The church dates back to the thirteenth century but it was rebuilt in the sixteenth.’
‘I noticed there’s always a girl somewhere in each of your paintings, sometimes hardly visible, indistinct, yet always there.’
‘The paintings do tell a story. My story.’
Marigold’s gentle tone made Jane feel as though she was about to be led down a secret pathway.
‘So the girl is you?’
She gave no response, simply moved to the next picture—a figure sitting in the window staring out at a tree covered in blossom.
‘She looks so very, very lonely.’
‘She was never alone, although she felt lonely.’
Marigold’s words intrigued her. She wanted to be told more. She could almost hear Elizabeth tutting in her ear, telling her not to ask questions, not to be so invasive. To hell with it, her curiosity was aroused. ‘It took me a while to find the other girl in this one. She’s here behind the tree, as though she’s hiding.’
‘Very perceptive.’ Marigold’s lips formed a tight line as though Jane had hit a nerve.
‘Why is she hiding?’
Marigold sat down on the bench with a sigh. ‘She’s watching from afar.’
Sweat prickled the nape of her neck. ‘It looks too idyllic for anything sinister to happen.’
‘One never knows. I wanted to portray a sense of curiosity coupled with the fear of the unknown.’
When Jane turned from the painting, Marigold’s eyes had filled with tears. She’d done it. Asked too many questions. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Marigold dashed a tear away and smiled. ‘Excuse me. I painted this picture after my mother died.’ She pointed to another picture that Jane hadn’t paid much attention to before. An older woman sitting in a chair under the same apple tree, in her lap a piece of embroidery, but where was the girl, the girl that was always in the painting?
Jane moved closer. ‘I can’t see the girl in this one.’
‘You’re observant, my dear. Most people take each picture as they find it, they don’t see the pattern in them. There is no girl in this painting. She’s gone.’
‘And the old woman accepts that she’s gone.’
‘Gave up hope.’ Marigold shot to her feet. ‘Please excuse me.’ She rushed out into the street, head down, almost running.
Jane let out a sigh. She desperately wanted to ask more questions but she could hardly chase Marigold down the street.
Once she’d made a final round of the exhibition, checking each painting for the girl, making notes on a scrap of paper she’d found in John’s office, she ran upstairs and put on the kettle. She needed to think, needed a bigger piece of paper. Something nagged at the back of her mind, something she couldn’t place.
Thank God for the new kettle. It heated the water so much faster. As she sipped the black tea, her tummy let out a huge rumble. Breakfast. Of course, she’d forgotten she’d had no breakfast. She burrowed into the cupboard under the sink and came out with a half-eaten packet of soggy VoVos. She dunked one into the tea, watched the little bits of coconut twist and swirl, and pulled out her pencil and a clean sheet of paper.
What was it? The elusive thought she couldn’t trap?
‘Here you are! I thought you meant to go home.’
Everything stilled and the hairs on her arms raised as Jane lifted her head. Timothy stood silhouetted in the doorstep. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I thought you meant to g’woam.’
‘Say it more slowly.’
He ambled through the door, half a frown marring his forehead and a bit of a grin tipping the corner of his mouth. ‘G’woam …’
He bunged on his accent, a rolling sound that usually made her feel warm and comfortable. Now she was icy cold.
All the hairs on her arms leapt to attention. ‘G’woam?’
‘Go home.’ He enunciated every sound, his accent more like his father’s than ever before.
‘That’s not what you said. You said G’woam.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. It’s hard to hear the accent you grew up with.’
She snatched a breath, eased the words between her lips. ‘Where was that?’
‘Surely you know the answer.’ He swept his hand behind him, indicating the exhibition downstairs. ‘The West Country. A little village nestling below Ham Hill, deep in the Somerset countryside where it’s been for the last … God only knows how many centuries. Since the beginning of time. Norton-sub-Hamdon. Five miles shy of Yeovil, a million miles from civilisation.’
That was it. Not native, not Chinese, not any other language. English, a Somerset accent. Elizabeth’s mangled cry had come from Somerset.
Jane scooped up the pieces of paper, then shot down the stairs and belted along the road on her bicycle, her legs pumping the pedals so hard her thighs burnt. She needed a map, a detailed map of England. She’d left poor Timothy standing in the middle of the room with no explanation. She couldn’t tell him without revealing Elizabeth’s dilemma, and she’d promised Michael she wouldn’t talk about it. Besides, she needed some time to process the information. She skidded to a halt outside the School of Arts, threw her bicycle down on the footpath and ran up the steps.
‘Slow down, miss.’ Mrs Peabody slammed her pudgy finger against her mouth and hissed. ‘I’ve got the fossil books you requested here, no need to go and disturb everyone.’
‘I need to look something up.’
Walking as fast as she could, she slipped around the corner into the reference section. 910—Geography and Travel. Thank the Lord for Melvil Dewey. Numbers always held the answer.
She ran her fingers along the spines of the books until she reached 912: Graphic representations of earth, atlases. She let out a small whoop, pulled down the Times Atlas and sank onto the floor.
She flicked through the pages until she came to ‘England, towns, railways and settlements’. Perfect, except she’d need a magnifying glass, more light. She heaved the book up onto the table and angled the page to catch the light.
Where was Somerset? The West Country?
/> Somerset! The word jumped out at her. Bath, Bridgewater. That sounded like the dreadful novels Elizabeth liked to read. Oh! And Michael’s planned trip. How could she have forgotten that? He’d intended to take Elizabeth to England.
‘Got it!’
Loud rumblings and Mrs Busybody’s sibilant hiss greeted her shriek.
‘Yeovil,’ she whispered. Five miles shy of Yeovil, Timothy had said. She ran her finger down the marked road and there it was. Norton-sub-Hamdon!
She rocked back in the chair.
‘Stop swinging, you’ll break the chair legs.’
Jane lurched upright. ‘I’d like to borrow this.’
‘Under no circumstances.’ Mrs Peabody glared over the top of her rounded spectacles. ‘Reference books are not available for loan and if you continue to disrupt other readers I shall be forced to ask you to leave.’
Jane ran her index finger over the map. Liverpool wasn’t hard to find, tucked about halfway up, above Wales, and Ireland across the water.
‘I hope your hands aren’t grubby.’
Interfering woman, peering over her shoulder.
‘What’s so interesting about the south-west of England, may I ask?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’
Jane clamped her lips tightly together and ran her finger up the left-hand side of England. Gloucester, Monmouth, Hereford, Shropshire—the names sounded like an English history lesson; she’d loathed history almost as much as geography.
If Mrs Busybody got wind of what she was doing it would be around the town faster than a dust storm, and twice as dirty.
‘Curiosity, Mrs Peabody, nothing more. The scale of maps, very important. Numbers don’t lie.’
‘You and your numbers.’ Mrs Busybody’s surfeit of chins wobbled as she let out a disgruntled huff and wandered away.
The ripping sound as Jane pulled a page from her notebook had Mrs Busybody throwing more filthy looks in her direction, so she made a great show of waving it in the air and replacing it in her pocket. She drew a bit of a mud map on a clean page and wrote down the distances and the towns along the way.
