‘Well, I wouldn’t weaken now. Filthy habit,’ he grinned.
Despite his occasional thoughtlessness, Tom was good company, thought Stella affectionately. He seemed able to read her mood, making jokes and singing along to the radio to make her forget her problems, but keeping quiet when he could see a troubled, thoughtful expression on her face.
‘You know I’m going to be an emotional wreck by the end of the day,’ smiled Stella looking at Tom’s profile. ‘I just want to say thanks for putting up with me.’
‘Your dad’s wife has run off with someone and your boyfriend, my friend, has proved himself to be a complete arsehole. I think that’s more than a decent excuse if things get a little watery-eyed.’
‘Of course I’m upset about Johnny, but I don’t know why I feel so upset and responsible about my father,’ said Stella tracing her finger along the car window. ‘It’s not as if we’re close.’
‘But he’s still your father,’ said Tom turning his head to look at her. ‘My dad moved to South Africa about twenty years ago and yet I still hope he’ll turn up for my birthday, or Christmas, or phone me when he hears something good has happened in my life, rare though that may be. I used to get the occasional card with a twenty quid note but even those have stopped. Even though I expect nothing from him, I still get disappointed.’
‘Does Cassandra?’ asked Stella, although it was hard to imagine Tom’s ball-busting sister having a vulnerable side.
‘Nah,’ he smiled. ‘That’s the thing about rejection. It either fucks you up or toughens you up.’
It was dark by the time they approached Trencarrow and that only added to the drama of the setting. The house stood on a grassy headland a few miles outside St Ives, only a hundred metres away from the cliff edge. Seagulls wheeled around overhead; the steely grey sea glinted in the distance. Tom slowed the car down. Gradually the road had been getting more and more narrow, until it was just a bumpy farm track and he could hear thick mud churning under the wheels. They turned the corner to see Trencarrow silhouetted against the sky; only one leaded window glowing orange.
‘Let’s get in quickly,’ said Stella as she stepped out of the car and buttoned up her coat. ‘It’s starting to rain.’
They knocked at the front door, flipping up their collars and hunching against the wind which had suddenly whipped up. The door creaked open to reveal Christopher Chase in a tartan dressing-gown and a pair of Aran socks, looking every one of his seventy-three years. There was a scratch of white hair on his chin as if he hadn’t shaved in days and Stella was sure he was even more bowed since the last time she had seen him in June. For someone who had always looked so vibrant and stylish, even in his advancing years, it was a shock.
‘Stella!’ he said. ‘Well, this is a surprise.’
She put out her arms to embrace him. ‘I told you I’d come.’
‘I didn’t think you would,’ he replied.
She introduced him quickly to Tom.
‘Ah, little Tommy,’ said Christopher with a sad smile. ‘Oh, I remember you as a wee mite on your mother’s knee. Do come in, both of you.’
Christopher led the way into the dark living room, which was only lit by a single lamp. Stella sat down on a leather Chesterfield, glad when Tom came to sit beside her. Her eyes darted around the room while Christopher fixed them a glass of whisky each from a bottle that was three-quarters empty. Trencarrow was far more expensively furnished than she remembered – like a country boutique hotel. There were at least half a dozen photographs of Chessie dotted around the room. Idly, she wondered what had happened to the childhood photos of herself, Andrew and Nancy, her half-brother and – sister from Christopher’s first marriage. At one time, they had filled the stone mantelpiece.
‘Do you know where she is?’ asked Stella when her father had settled into his wing-back chair.
‘Chessie? In London somewhere,’ he replied with the wave of a hand. ‘That’s where she met him.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Stella cautiously.
‘Her bloody new boyfriend, of course! I gather he’s got one of those fancy townhouses in Connaught Square near our flat.’
‘It’s not Tony Blair is it?’ piped up Tom suddenly. ‘He’s got a gaff around there.’
Stella shot him a look and the impish grin fell from his face.
‘He’s called Graham,’ said Christopher, staring at the rain on the dark window. ‘Apparently they’ve been carrying on together for the best part of a year. She says she was going to end it with him when we got pregnant, but it turns out she loves him,’ he said, spitting out the words.
‘And are you sure it’s your baby?’
Stella regretted saying it as soon as the words came out of her mouth but Christopher looked too defeated to be angry.
‘She says it is, although that might be just so she can get the farmhouse. But even so, I want to believe it’s our child.’
He fell silent. Stella looked to Tom for support, then turned back when she heard the sound of gentle sobbing.
‘I’m going to have to get rid of the farmhouse, you know,’ said Christopher through the tears, covering his mouth with one gnarled hand. ‘I’m going to lose Trencarrow on top of everything else.’
Stella moved over to him, feeling a fierce wave of anger towards Chessie, and sat on the arm of his chair putting an arm across his shoulder. It was funny how concentrating on her father’s problems was making her forget her own.
‘I devoted myself to that woman,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘I didn’t go to Saul’s funeral because she was getting breast implants, did you know that? I missed my best friend’s funeral just to be with her.’
Stella felt a sudden impulse to laugh at the image of Chessie thrusting her silicone breasts in front of Christopher and banning him from going to Chilcot. But she was quite sure her father wouldn’t see the funny side of anything at that moment.
‘Surely you don’t have to sell the farm,’ said Tom, frowning. ‘After all, she left you.’
‘I’m not sure that’s how the lawyers will see it,’ sighed Christopher. ‘We’ve been married eight years and she’s carrying our child. She’ll want something, probably everything. But the truth is I’ve got nothing to give her. Nothing except the house.’
Stella didn’t need to see his bank statements to know he was telling the truth. The expensive refurbishment of Trencarrow, the swish Bayswater apartment and Chessie had the best car and clothes and an expensive London social life. She really had bled him dry.
‘What about selling some of your work?’
‘I haven’t worked in years,’ he said quietly. Stella noticed he was now directing his conversation at Tom, as if it was easier to talk to a relative stranger.
‘Well, can’t we sell some of your old stuff?’
‘Have a look around,’ he replied sweeping an arm around the room. ‘There’s not much left. I must have sold about fifty pieces over the last ten years. High-maintenance wives can be expensive you know,’ he said with a small smile.
It was something that had been nagging at Stella since they had arrived: how few of Christopher’s sculptures were dotted round the house. In many ways her father had been a victim of his own success. Twenty, thirty years earlier, his Mayfair art dealer Bartholomew Davies would sell his sculptures as fast as Christopher could produce work, but now the famous bronze curves had gone and so too had the income.
‘I’m an old fool, Thomas,’ said Christopher. ‘A fool for love. I’ve lost count of the pieces I gave away – seduction tools as it were,’ he smiled. ‘And the rest have gone on divorce settlements and holidays. The only thing still left is Byzance.’
Stella’s heart fluttered. Byzance was her favourite piece. A six-foot bronze in the shape of a sail that took pride of place in the garden behind the house, sheltered from the sea and the rain. There was no way she was going to let him sell that.
‘Tell me, Thomas, do you like art?’ asked Christopher. Tom walked over to two brightly
-coloured paintings by the door. They were vaguely nautical. Tom thought he could make out a boat and a lighthouse.
‘These are great,’ he said.
Christopher nodded.
‘A great friend of mine and Saul’s did those, Ben Palmer. You won’t have heard of him. Poor sod didn’t have two brass farthings to rub together, couldn’t even afford materials. He used to hang around the Porthmeor Studios, using paint left over from other artists’ sessions. That painting on the left is done on a piece of chipboard that was put over a broken window.’
‘What are the Porthmeor Studios?’ asked Tom, genuinely interested. This was a part of his Uncle Saul’s life that he’d never heard about.
‘Oh, the studios are a piece of Cornish history,’ he replied. ‘Everyone worked out of there at some point. Sandra Blow, Patrick Heron, even Francis Bacon for a few months.’ Christopher shrugged. ‘Sadly Benjamin didn’t quite take off in the way they did. I’d sell those pictures if I thought they’d raise anything. But I’m quite happy to look at them every day though.’
Stella felt tears welling up. She had grown up listening to her father’s stories of the St Ives art movement and she knew how much her father treasured Ben’s paintings. It broke her heart to see that he was prepared to get rid of them so readily.
‘It’s late,’ said Christopher grabbing onto the arms of the chair to pull himself up. ‘Do you mind if I turn in?’
‘It’s not that late,’ replied Stella, wanting to stay up and talk despite feeling emotionally exhausted herself.
‘It is for me, darling,’ he said, rising with difficulty, gently squeezing her arm.
‘Don’t blame Chessie,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s a young woman like you. What does she want with an old man who goes to bed at seven o’clock?’
Tom and Stella watched him leave the room.
‘Can you believe he’s making excuses for her?’ asked Stella when he had gone.
Tom shrugged. ‘When a relationship ends, sometimes it’s easier to believe it was your fault.’
Stella suddenly thought of Johnny and her heart felt raw. The tears began to come again. She leant into Tom and he put a fraternal arm round her shoulders.
‘It will get better you know,’ he said, giving her a gentle squeeze.
She nodded her head sadly. ‘I had a narrow escape with Johnny, I’m sure of it. Yes, it hurts like hell, but I’m sure it’s more painful after marriage and kids.’
She stood up and started pacing around the room to stop herself dwelling on her own problems.
‘Tom, I can’t let him sell Trencarrow.’
‘Maybe those paintings are worth something,’ said Tom, pointing to the Ben Palmer oils.
‘It’s worth asking your mother,’ said Stella.
Tom had walked over to the big bay window and was staring out into the darkness, wondering vaguely how much Trencarrow was worth and how much Chessie would get her claws on.
‘What’s that big building out by the cliffs?’
‘The barn? It’s dad’s studio.’
‘Can I have a look?’
‘There’s not a lot to see. As he told you, he’s given up. There’s probably just a load of rusty chisels and dust in there now. I’m sure he’ll walk you down after breakfast tomorrow.’
‘Come on,’ he said with a grin. ‘It looks spooky … It’s a fine old night to be scared.’ He made a weak attempt at a werewolf’s howl and started pulling on his coat. Stella started laughing.
‘Tom, it’s pitch black out there! And it’s pissing down.’
‘You must have a torch, come on! It won’t seem quite as romantic in the morning.’
‘Romantic?’ said Stella, feeling a little awkward.
‘Not like that,’ he grinned.
‘If I fall flat on my face in the mud you’re paying for the dry cleaning.’
‘You’ll be lucky, love. I’m a penniless fool,’ he said spreading his hands to the sky.
She laughed but she was already reaching for her coat. She found a torch by the door and then reached into a ceramic jug to pull out a set of keys.
‘Creature of habit. Still keeps them in there after all these years.’ The back door creaked as it opened and a gust of chilly air rushed into the house. As Stella pulled up the collar on her coat, she could hear the low swoosh of the sea unseen below. Outside, the sky was mottled in a thousand shades of black and as she felt Tom’s protective hand on the small of her back, she suddenly felt excited by this little adventure, even when the reassuring amber spilling from Trencarrow’s windows grew faint and the barn loomed ominously in front of them. Stella handed Tom the key and whispered, ‘You go first.’
‘Wimp,’ he hissed, fumbling the key in the lock and opening the heavy wooden door. He flashed the torch up the wall, flicked a switch and flooded the barn with light. Stella gasped. She had been expecting to see an empty, desolate space, forgotten and forlorn, but the barn was full of sculptures, some small and exquisite, some five feet high. Although some looked rough and unfinished, many were polished and complete. Stella felt the familiar rush of excitement when she saw good art – no, great art, she thought. Right in the centre of the room was a large stone sculpture, obviously recently worked on. There were some tools on a table next to it: chisels, hammers and a smaller clay model of the larger work. It was amazing.
‘Shit …’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Tom, walking slowly around the room, gazing at the sculptures. Stella walked over to the large stone and ran her hand across its surface.
‘Nothing’s wrong, far from it. It’s just a surprise that Dad’s still working on stuff,’ she said quietly.
‘I thought he said he wasn’t.’
‘He was lying,’ she said, looking at him sadly.
Behind them the door swung open sending droplets of rain sweeping into the barn. Christopher was standing at the barn door, still in his dressing-gown, his shoulders wet.
‘What are you doing in here?’ he said. His voice was stern, a mixture of anger and alarm.
‘Tom wanted to see the studio,’ said Stella nervously, recognizing the disapproving expression on his face.
‘You told me you’d stopped working,’ she said, walking slowly towards him as if approaching a cornered animal.
‘I have,’ he said, looking away from her.
‘Well, what’s this?’ she said, pointing to the large sculpture in the middle of the room.
‘It’s rubbish,’ he said stiffly.
‘Dad. This is not rubbish, it’s amazing, I’ve never seen …’
‘I said it’s rubbish!’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you understand plain English?’
He strode over to the table and swept his arm across it, sending his tools and the model flying to the floor.
‘Dad! What the hell are you doing?’ cried Stella, lunging for the sculpture, picking it up, the knees of her jeans covered with dust.
‘Get out of here! OUT!’ roared Christopher, striding through the open door out into the night. Her head whirling, Stella dropped the small sculpture and ran to follow him. It was raining hard outside. She caught up with her father and pulled at his arm, turning him so she could see the rain splashing on his face, hard and cold.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she shouted above the wind.
‘Tell you what?’ he snapped, pulling his arm away. ‘The work in there is nothing to boast about.’
‘Dad, they are! They’re wonderful!’ said Stella fiercely.
She could see rivulets of water running down her father’s face and wasn’t sure if it was rain or tears.
‘You don’t know what it’s like to have a talent that the whole world looks up to you for, a talent that people will befriend you for, even marry you for. A talent that gives you fame and money and self-worth. And then to lose it all!’
He met his daughter’s gaze directly.
‘What nature gives you, it can take away,’ he said, holding up his twisted hands. ‘I still have a head full
of ideas but I can barely hold a chisel. I don’t want anyone to see my work now. I can hardly look at it. I don’t want people to pity me and think “Oh what a shame! He used to be so good, but now this is all the old man can do.” I want people to remember my work as it was.’
‘Art isn’t for museums, Dad!’ shouted Stella. ‘You told me that yourself once. It’s a living thing, it keeps moving forward. So maybe it’s not your best work, but even your worst stuff is still touched by genius. People still want to see it, touch it, pay good money for it. Don’t be a victim, Dad! Find a dealer, put on a show!’
‘Don’t be stupid, girl!’ he yelled back. ‘That’s all in the past, let it go.’
Stella suddenly felt a surge of anger and she grabbed his arm again.
‘I’ll tell you what stupid is: sitting in your farmhouse wallowing in self-pity with the bailiffs knocking on the door. Because that in there,’ she said pointing into the barn, ‘is your way of keeping Trencarrow.’
He looked at her, his eyes dead.
‘You’d better go back to your friend,’ he said, his voice noticeably hoarse. ‘Is he your new boyfriend?’
Stella shook her head absently as she took her coat off and put it over his sodden dressing-gown shoulder.
‘Get inside, Dad.’
He looked out in the distance where the black melted into the sea and sky.
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too, Dad.’
She stood in the dark watching him go inside. She heard Tom approach behind her. He’d found an old golf umbrella in the barn and held it over both of them.
Stella started sobbing uncontrollably.
‘I can’t help him, Tom,’ she said thickly, as Tom pulled her close with his free arm. She buried her head in his jumper which smelt of smoke and cologne. Tom gently led her back towards the house.
‘We can help him,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘Let me speak to my mother; she knows every top gallery owner and collector in London. There’s more than enough for a small show here. He’d sell out.’
‘But what if he’s right?’ asked Stella. ‘What if it’s not as good as his old stuff?’
Guilty Pleasures Page 42
