“Moira, I—”
“Don’t you dare,” she warns. “Don’t you dare say that you can’t or it’s too soon or any of that bollocks, Chloe. I’ve been really patient and I’ve respected your loss and left you alone like you asked me to, but it’s been well over two years. You can’t shut yourself away anymore. You’ve got a talent and wasting it…” She pauses for a minute and I can tell that she’s trying her hardest to rein herself in before she says something truly awful. “Wasting it is wrong. And I can’t believe it’s what Neil would have wanted you to do. If he was here now and knew you’d given up painting, he’d be seriously pissed off.”
I gasp. I can’t believe she’s said this to me.
“I’m sorry if it’s upsetting to hear this,” Moira continues, while I sit in the car with my mouth as wide open as something the local fishermen might land, “but it’s bloody well true. I didn’t know Neil for long, but from what I did know of your husband he wasn’t the type to sit around and stew. He grabbed life with both hands and he made the most of every opportunity. You and I both know that I only signed you because he was so persistent. His bombardment of emails and portfolios ground me down! Just as well you turned out to be good.”
In spite of her blunt words, I laugh. It was Neil who’d decided that I needed a good agent to look after my interests, and once he’d discovered that Moira Olsen was the best in the business he wouldn’t rest until I was on her books. Neil never gave up on anything. The only battle he ever lost was his final one with leukaemia.
“I liked him, Chloe,” Moira says quietly. “He was wonderful. Determined, pig-headed maybe, and certainly bloody hard to shake off when he had an idea in his head. I’ll never forget turning up at my office and finding him waiting for me with your work. He was charming but adamant he wouldn’t get off the doorstep until I saw it. I nearly called the police!”
“He never told me that,” I say. It’s classic Neil though. He never took no for an answer. Like getting married, for example. I was happy with things as they were. We’d been together for so long that my attitude was if it ain’t broke, why fix it? He wore me down though and we got engaged and then finally we were married. I ought to have known he’d manage to persuade me. I only went on a date with him in the first place because I was tired of being asked. So far as I was concerned, he was just the annoying boy in the year above who did wheelies on his bike and hung out with the cool kids rather than swots like me. One date and then he’d push off because he’d be bored with me, was what I’d thought, but I’d been totally wrong – as he’d known all along. Once I agreed to that first date we were never apart again. We might have looked like opposites but in reality we were mirror images, that was all.
“Well, it’s true. He was totally, one hundred percent on your side – and not many people ever have that. You were bloody lucky, woman.”
I bite my lip. My luck ran out. It feels as though I had the best of everything and used my quota of happiness up faster than most people. Maybe that’s how life works? Perhaps I just had all my joy at once.
“I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you to lose him and I’m so sorry, Chloe,” Moira says. “He was a wonderful man and he believed in you with all his heart.”
People don’t talk much to me about Neil. They avoid the topic. To have him brought to life so unexpectedly makes my eyes fill. I can picture him. Silent tears spill down my cheeks and splash onto my jeans. What would Neil think of me hiding away in Cornwall? I think he’d understand why.
But what would he think of my not painting? And giving up my job?
I think it’s running away, Neil says from the passenger seat. He looks sad. And it pisses me off too. How can you waste what you’ve been given? How can you throw away a single minute of your life? Would I have done that?
Of course he wouldn’t. Neil grieved and mourned and railed against everything thrown at him, but he never once gave up. Not even when he called for a razor and shaved his head or when he could hardly lift a spoon. He never gave in.
There’s silence on the other end of the phone. I lean forward, rest my forehead on the wheel and close my eyes. I’m at a crossroads; which way should I go?
Far away in Pimlico, Moira exhales wearily.
“Look, for what it’s worth, Chloe, I really think you should do this. You might even enjoy it. The brief is right up your street. Just check your emails, please? I sent the details days ago. The least you can do is take a look.”
She’s so insistent and unusually there’s a hint of desperation in her voice too. Instantly, I’m on red alert.
“You’ve already said I’ll do it, haven’t you?”
Her short pause tells me all I need to know. Oh God, she has. Moira’s committed me already. What am I going to do?
“I’m sorry, Chloe, but they were so keen and when I couldn’t get hold of you I knew I couldn’t stall them much longer. I didn’t want you to lose the work, because it could lead to amazing things for you – and yes, before you point it out, me too by default. It’s a prestigious job. I thought you’d be thrilled.”
Ordinarily, of course, I would be. Neil and I would have been turning cartwheels around our flat. Then he’d have got totally carried away, booting up Rightmove to scope out dream properties in the countryside and planning the rosy future that he was so convinced lay ahead for us. No wonder I just feel empty now. What’s the point of success if I can’t share it?
“I’ll have a look but—” I’m on the point of confessing that I haven’t painted a thing since Neil died when I realise my agent isn’t listening. As far as she’s concerned I’ve said “yes” and her work is over. Onwards and upwards to the next difficult client.
“Fantastic! You won’t regret it, I promise. Email some preliminary sketches over as soon as you’re ready and we’ll go from there. Anyway, got to go. There’s a call on the other line. Talk soon!”
Moira rings off before I can change my mind, leaving me sitting in the car staring at my phone in a state of mingled shock and panic.
This is the biggest commission I’ve ever had and I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to even start to tackle it.
One thing’s for certain though: somehow I’m going to have to start painting again.
Chapter 10
Chloe
I drive to Rosecraddick Manor in a daze. There’s a part of me that’s hugely proud that such a big client should actively seek me out. However, this feeling’s swiftly swamped by sadness that I can’t share the news with Neil. I’m also terrified I won’t be able to paint anymore and will let everyone down.
This is bad. What has Moira done? What am I going to do?
Panic hurtles around my nervous system. Breathe, I tell myself desperately as my head starts to spin. I recognise this feeling and I know I have to take control before it carries me to a very dark place. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
I need fresh air. I park up and let myself out of the car, leaning against the door and struggling to draw oxygen into my lungs. Hideous images spool before my eyes like a newsreel: I see soldiers frantically pulling on gas masks as clouds of mustard gas start to engulf them. Breathe, Chloe, breathe. You’re not there. This isn’t World War One. This is a panic attack, that’s all.
The Cornish sky is thick with mizzle that beads my coat and makes my curls spiral. I gulp the fresh, salty air greedily. I can deal with all this. I know I can.
I need a quiet space to think. Although it’s early morning there are already several cars tucked into the layby opposite the Manor where volunteers park, and Matt’s Land Rover is among them. This makes my heart lift because Matt’s knowledge and vision drive this project. Every conversation we have, however short, I feel I learn something new. I’ve read Kit’s poems, have worked my way through Wilfred Owen’s work and just recently discovered Isaac Rosenberg. My mind’s continually ringing with lines of verse and images of wire, trenches and mud.
My breathing’s calmer and my pulse slows. I haven
’t had a panic attack for months; I’d almost forgotten how stealthy this old enemy could be. Feeling shaken, I lock the car and walk up the drive. I’m not ready yet to go inside and make small talk with the others in the hall. Since Matt had the chimney swept and a tea urn set up, the entrance hall’s become the spot were volunteers gather to have a hot drink and spend a few moments thawing out by the fire. Usually I enjoy making a coffee and catching up with the people here, but today I need to collect my thoughts.
I skirt around the side of the house and cross the lawn to the walled garden. The wet grass carries the scent of rotting leaves, and when I step through the arched door, the weathered wood pimpled with iron studs, the garden beyond feels secretive and adrift from the real world. There’s no birdsong today and the only sound is the crunch of my footsteps on the path. Moisture runs along the rosemary boughs like tears, fungus is trodden underfoot and webs of cloud hang low in the sky as though about to shroud the world. Tangles of weeds and brambles might smother the original design, but here the past has clung on to survive into the present. Likewise, Kit’s verse might have grown obscure but at least he hasn’t left silence behind.
As I brush against the straggling rosemary, the air fills with heavy scent. Unbidden, memories sluice through the floodgates. Roast dinners. Laughter. Gallons of red wine. Replete and watching a movie, curled up and safe. An ease of mind and body that’s almost hard to equate with the person I’ve become. Loss slices me.
Rosemary for remembrance. Will I remember how to paint? And if I can, and my life moves on, does it mean my memories of Neil will start to fade? Can I live with that? It feels like the worst betrayal.
I’m planning to rest on the bench to gather my thoughts, but when I reach the centre of the garden I soon realise that somebody’s beaten me to this spot: a man’s already there. He’s slumped forward with his head in his hands but, hearing me approaching, he looks up.
It’s Matt.
“Oh, hi,” I say, feeling awkward because I know I’ve disturbed a private moment. The look on his face is of utter bleakness and I realise he’s also slipped away to stitch his ragged thoughts together.
Matt does his best to look pleased to see me, but his smile fails to light his eyes and his voice is weary. “Hey, Chloe. You’ve caught me lazing about when I should be cataloguing. Don’t tell Jill, for God’s sake.”
Jill’s the retired head teacher who seems to have replaced her erstwhile pupils with Rosecraddick’s volunteers. The other day I thought she was about to give me a detention for arriving after nine.
I laugh. “I won’t dob you in. Fancy a cigarette behind the bike shed at break time?”
“You’re on,” says Matt but rather listlessly. It’s disconcerting to see his usually merry face so sad.
“Sorry to disturb you. I’ll leave you in peace,” I say.
“No, honestly, you don’t need to do that. Have a seat and grab some quiet.” He pats the bench. “Don’t feel you have to go.”
“Thanks.”
I sit next to him and for the next five minutes or so we say nothing. The rain’s stopped but a sea fret’s drifting in; it mingles with the clouds that hang over the garden, creating the disorientating impression that we’re cut adrift from the world. There’s a strange peace in this and although I’m no closer to knowing what I’m going to do about Moira’s bombshell, I’m no longer feeling quite as terrified as I was. I’ll paint or I won’t. That’s all there is to it really.
“You look as though you’ve decided something? Has the garden worked its magic?” Matt turns to me and I see genuine interest in his expression.
“Do you know, I think it has,” I reply.
“Good. I’m glad.”
“How about you?” The words are out of my mouth before I can censor them, and I’m horrified. I hope he doesn’t think I’m prying. It’s just that there’s something about being in the misty garden which invites confidences.
“Actually, yes,” Matt says slowly. “Looking at Kit’s memorial always puts things into perspective for me. Things that seem unbearable soon settle into a different pattern when you remember how many young lives were rubbed out in conditions of unimaginable horror. What those young men went through puts other things into context, like feeling upset that I won’t have the kids for Christmas. At least I’ll have another Christmas to look forward to.”
I’d known that Matt’s divorced. He doesn’t talk about it much, but the other volunteers do. Over the weeks I’ve gleaned that his ex-wife can be difficult and that he misses the twins dreadfully. I’ve done my best not to listen and I never join in. I also now have a good idea how they must all gossip about me when I’m not present.
“That’s still hard,” I say quietly. “It’s a loss of a different kind, I think?”
“That’s it exactly. It’s the loss of a special day that will never be recaptured. They’re only young for such a fleeting moment in time and the magic soon vanishes. I love going to midnight Mass with them and seeing their faces on Christmas morning when Santa’s been.”
Christmas is a raw time for so many people. The last one I spent in bed with the curtains tightly closed and my eyes closed even tighter.
“I can imagine it’s not been fun for you either,” he says gently. “I’m sorry, Chloe. It must be hard.”
So he knows about Neil. I’m not surprised. I’ve been here over a month now and it wouldn’t have taken the villagers long to figure out my story. I glance down at my rings and sigh.
“It’s been well over two years but no, it isn’t great.”
Matt looks sympathetic. “Christmas makes everything harder.”
I nod. To be honest I’m dreading Christmas. My mother’s threatening to come and fetch me back to London for the festive season. I’ve told her I’m more than happy being here and just having a quiet day, but this very idea horrifies her. She says she wants to stuff me with turkey. The truth, though, is that she wants to make sure I don’t top myself. I can’t think of anything worse than going back to London, sleeping in my old single bed and staring at the same plastic tree my parents have had since the nineties. If anything’s going to drive me to the brink of despair, it’s that. Sue’s invited me to her place – apparently she and Tim always gather the local waifs and strays for Christmas dinner – but in all honesty I’d rather channel my inner Greta Garbo and work my way through the Baileys.
“Life has a nasty habit of throwing curveballs,” Matt remarks, gazing at Kit’s memorial with a small frown creasing his brow. “I guess it’s all about how we deal with them? When I’m feeling particularly sore it helps to throw myself into work, but you’ve probably already figured that out. Why else would I leave Oxford and dedicate myself to an underfunded project?”
“Because you care about Kit and his poetry,” I say, and he nods.
“Yes, of course, but not many people understand that. You do though.”
I feel the tug of mutual sympathy because I do get it. My thoughts are full of Kit and the nagging feeling that there’s far more to his story than we know.
“Life threw Kit a curveball, that’s for sure,” Matt continues. “A dreamer, a poet and by all accounts a thoughtful young man looking forward to Oxford, suddenly pitched into the horrors of the trenches. It must have been like falling into the mouth of hell, yet he stayed the course. Even after his last visit home, when we know from Far Away he was terrified of going back, he didn’t falter.” He shakes his head, droplets of water flying from the thick locks. “Sorry, I’m lecturing, aren’t I?”
“A little, but I do enjoy learning about all this. It helps to focus on Kit rather than on other stuff.” I decide to tell him what’s bothering me. Matt’s easy to talk to. “The thing is, I’ve been thrown a curveball today and I’m at a bit of a loss. That’s why I came here. I needed to figure it out.”
“Must be the day for it.”
“Must be. I’ve been offered a commission. A really big one, in fact. The sort of thing I’d have killed f
or a few years ago.”
“What they call an opportunity of a lifetime?”
I nod. “Pretty much. I’ve been commissioned by Regal Press to design book covers based on Wildeacre.”
Matt whistles. “Even I’ve seen that show! It’s huge. Isn’t that good news?”
Rising panic forms a lump in my throat. “Normally, yes, but I’m not so sure this time.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“I haven’t painted for more than two years, Matt. I don’t even know if I can draw anymore. Since I lost Neil I haven’t painted a thing. I haven’t even sketched.”
This is usually the point where the person I’m talking to tells me I’m wrong and insists an ability never goes away. My mother does exactly this, and Perky Pippa and my head teacher too. They have no idea that sadness can freeze more than just your joy and break more than your heart. When Neil became ill, my drawing felt frivolous. How could I waste hours absorbed in sketching when my husband’s life was counting down in weeks?
But Matt doesn’t argue.
“Poor you. That must be awful.”
“Yes.” I look down at my feet. The spotty city wellies are speckled with humus and mud. They’re working hard and I need to do the same. There’s only so long that my savings will last before I start nibbling into the small amount of equity from selling our flat. I need to think about what I do next to earn money. Practicalities are starting to elbow their way to the forefront of my attention.
“So what will you do?”
That’s the million-dollar question.
“I want to paint and sometimes I nearly start, but something holds me back each time. I can’t bring myself to do it in case I fail, if that makes sense? It’s a mess.”
“Could you just decline? I think these things maybe work to their own timescale.”
This reminds me of Sue’s words that night we ate pizza. “A bit like grief?”
He looks thoughtful. “Maybe? Pushing yourself might cause more harm than good.”
“The problem is, my agent’s already committed me. I don’t want to let her down.”
The Letter Page 10
