Catching herself cooing over a receptive lily, she laughed. Her joy echoing down the hall. Tipping the last of the water into the soil of a long deceased orchid, she left the jug at the bottom of the stairs. Enough of this foolishness she had work to do. But at the top of the stairs, something caught her eye. A shadow? No, just a draught. She remembered she’d promised herself coffee upstairs in the turret room, which would have to wait till later. If the rest of her team were arriving soon she’d need to get on. Mooning over a view she could never afford would not help her career goals. But thinking of the view made her eager for a quick look outside. There were clouds the colour of burnt toast on the horizon. They’d be bringing nothing but rain, or snow, so this might be her only chance to have a look outside.
Using an old-fashioned iron to prop open the heavy front door, Anita could smell the metal tang of rain in the air, just a short walk then. She zipped up her jacket and stepping down onto the gravel drive she chose a direction at random, following a path round to the right. Barren flower beds waited under the windows. The woody remnants of lavender bushes a faint echo of what was once there. The path petered out at the corner of the house where nature had taken over — long grass sprinkled with vegetation running riot without the razor sharp blades of the lawnmower to tame it. Skeletal immature trees pushed their way through paving stones. Blackberry vines threatened to snag anyone foolish enough to try harvesting the berries hanging tantalisingly close to the overgrown pathway. She salivated at the thought of the juicy tartness of the blackberries but stopped when she realised they were well past their edible prime. They had withered on their thorny vines, ignored, even by the blackbirds.
The lawns gave way to gardens now an ode to nature, overgrown hedging spreading like wildfire, where it looked like the gardener had upended a mixed bag of seeds, leaving them to take root wherever they fell, regardless of position or suitability.
Further back, Anita spied a roof, a gardener’s cottage or the housekeeper’s cottage? This path seemed more worn so Anita felt confident following it. She imagined an older couple keeping the place for the elderly owner, the three of them becoming less and less capable. The garden taking over; the large house and grounds getting away from them all.
Pushing past a lush weeping maple whose branches fell like a veil, she reached the building she’d glimpsed through the foliage. It wasn’t a house. Her romantic notions trampled into the pebble-dash pavers once she realised it was the roof of a small mausoleum.
Anita would have turned on her heels and hightailed it back to the house if at that moment the heavy clouds above hadn’t opened. Torrential rain raced across the land. Pummelling tree tops and flattening the daisy heads decorating the edges of the fallow fields beyond the overgrown gardens.
Anita dashed pellmell under the portico of the mausoleum where there was space to shelter from the worst of the stinging rain. She pressed herself into the doorway as the wind whipped the rain into an angrier assault.
Crash
The wooden door disintegrated, plunging Anita backwards into the stone mausoleum, landing on the tiled floor in a cloud of dust. For a moment she sat motionless, before leaping up, aghast at the damage she’d caused and mortified at her location inside a tomb. Stumbling over an assortment of old fashioned gardening tools stored in the crypt she fled into the rain. A little rain hurt no one, but sheltering inside with dead people was all kinds of wrong.
She tripped, falling flat on the sodden dirt, her shin flaring in pain. Yowling, she sat up grabbing her leg which wasn’t bleeding but would soon go a spectacular shade of purple. Pushing her hair from her eyes she tried to figure out what she’d tripped on, there, a concrete slab… a gravestone. Not everyone made it into the mausoleum then. There were a dozen or more gravestones dotted around, well weathered, hidden in the forest which sprouted from the forgotten earth.
This one leaned drunkenly to the side, pushed over by the roots of the maple tree. Scuttling closer to see the inscription, she couldn’t help feeling sad reading the names and ages of three children who’d passed away on the same day. Who had ‘Died tragically’. An appalling thing to happen to any family. The gravestone didn’t elaborate what tragedy had befallen them but there was nothing worse than losing a child. Not that she had any to worry about.
Pushing thoughts of grief from her mind she stood up, testing her leg. Not broken, bruised. Her ego more so than her shin. Thankful there'd been no witnesses to her tumble, although she’d have to tell the lawyer about the door of the mausoleum, it was tempting to say she'd found it like that and lay the blame at the feet of an itinerant traveler.
Limping back to the house, drenched through, she put aside a dreadful sense of unease pummelling her like the rain from the sky.
Cleaned up and dried off, warmed through by a hot bath and an even hotter coffee, she focused on her work. It hadn’t taken long to pick a workroom, the dining room well suited to her task. A mahogany table dominated the space, large enough to accommodate the most fertile of families. Two dozen chairs stood ready to seat their guests. A quilted drop-cloth covering the table, disguising its true charm, would protect it as she worked on its expansive surface. If only every job had workbenches this size her life would be so much easier.
Retrieving her laptop, she searched for a power point. Although charged, she knew from experience that losing a days worth of work, for want of power was a mistake she didn’t want to repeat. The walls were unmarred by electrical outlets of any sort, the bakelite switch the only nod to electricity. Flicking the switch the room lit up with refracted light from a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. That would have to be catalogued unless it was being sold as a fixture of the house, but usually chandeliers were sold separately. Then the future owners of the estate invariably went round purchasing back the original fixtures and fittings, the very ones they could have paid for in the beginning. A merry-go-round of antiquities lining the pockets of everyone involved.
Opening the curtains showed the inhospitable coast outside, worthy of its own oil painting. Gulls launched themselves from rocky outcrops, oblivious to the wind whipping the breakers far below. Their cries carried above the sounds of the waves pummelling an unseen shore and seeped into the house through sash windows which had never sealed properly, bringing a briny scent into a room overpopulated with heavy woods and an enviable collection of religious portraiture. But still no power point.
If she was going to base herself in this room, then she’d start here, followed by the unnerving children in her bedroom. She could no more stand their staring, than she could the pious eyes from the subjects in the dining room.
Powering up her laptop, she counselled herself to keep an eye on the battery icon at the top of the screen and then allowed her mind to consider the family who’d eaten at this table. Were their images the ones on the walls? What on earth had possessed them to hang these devout prophet-like devotionals in a room she presumed was for joyous occasions; Christmas feasts, birthday celebrations, marriages even. She doubted she could have sat through a meal here without falling on her knees and confessing her sins. From what she’d seen in the gardens, there had been little joy here, not after losing three children.
Ever practical she thrust those thoughts away and turned on her camera. She worked her way around shooting photographs of the paintings. Point, shoot, check, take again, or move on. Point, shoot, check. The settings on the camera could be silent, but the old fashioned sound when she pressed the button was innately satisfying. The solid click signified achievement, job done. She lost track of how many photographs she took. She had to drag one of the chairs with her, kicking off her shoes to step on the worn leather seat, to shoot the smaller pictures hanging above the larger pieces. Every available space utilised.
Being higher than normal gave a unique perspective. The legs of the sideboard matched those of the table. Reflections from the lustres of the chandelier bounced off the age-foxed mirrors of the ornate overmantel. The ceiling ros
e a tangled wreath of ivy with no beginning nor end. Once covered with paint, faint touches of green now peeped through, giving the plasterwork a touch of verdigris.
The memory card full, Anita tried calculating how many pieces she’d photographed. Giving that up, she counted instead the number left, seventeen. Scrolling through the images she’d taken, she deleted the double ups, the blurred shots. She should do one of those adult learning courses at the local high school in the evenings to get the best out of the camera, she hadn’t even uploaded any of them onto her computer and the day was half done.
The quick passing of time came as a surprise. Outside gulls were still stalking imaginary prey, trying to emulate their cousin the hawk. The sky filled with bulging grey swirls threatening the possibility of snow to follow the rain which had tapered off. Unseen waves continued their relentless onslaught on the rocky cliffs, punishing them for standing in the way. Only seventeen more photos, then she could have a break.
Snapping off sixteen photos, she paused before taking the last shot. This portrait was different. Gone was the formulaic religious iconography, applied to each painting like a paint-by-numbers effort foisted upon art students at college. This one a study of a man in quiet prayer or contemplation. Face in profile, head bowed, posed on a chair his hands clasped in front of him, a third of the picture in shadow. Had the painter run out of time to complete it or had he meant for the man to appear in supplication to the darkness surrounding him? Would taking a photograph disturb him?
Don’t be daft she told herself, raising the camera to her eye, ignoring the sensation of being watched by the man. An elegant man with fearful eyes seated beside an ornate overmantel, the edge of a doorway just visible in the far corner. Peering through her lens and adjusting the focus, finger poised to take the picture, when her breath caught. She lowered the camera, recognising the familiarity of the angle of the overmantel to the doorframe. They were the same. This had been painted here, he'd been in this room.
She made every effort to ignore the unease creeping up her spine. It made sense for a man who collected portraits to have some painted inside in his own home. He could’ve hosted artist retreats as a source of income, standard fare for owners of ancient buildings. An accepted means to pay for roof repairs and old electrics.
Click
The last photo taken, she let the camera swing idle around her neck, freeing her hands to lift the painting off the wall. Awkwardly she stepped off the chair, cradling the heavy frame.
Laying it on the end of table closest to the window, the weak light cast no further clues on what the artist had intended. It only plunged parts of the portrait further into darkness. A trick of the layers of paint applied with the precision of a master craftsman. Unnoticed by Anita, the recumbent man tracked her with his eyes as she searched for the artist’s signature.
Inserting the camera’s memory card into the external drive, she waited for the program to start transferring the photographs. After another glance outside she stood up, hunger nibbling at her, coffee long gone. Leaving everything on the table she wandered off to the kitchen, oblivious to the fresh shoots from the derelict plants she’d watered hours earlier. Once brown fronds now exhibiting delicate new growth.
She didn’t have the energy to wrestle the ancient stove into life so settled for slices of salami on thick slabs of bread, the sort she hadn’t eaten since her mother had stopped making her lunch once she had left primary school. A large glass of milk completed the meal.
Ivy snaked around the kitchen window, whipping against the panes as a gust of wind tore round the corner of the house. Anita jumped in fright, mistaking the tapping for human knocking. The electric scent of rain forced its way under the door. No point in trying to go for a walk, not until the weather cleared. Struck by lightning an hour from any paved road wasn’t her idea of fun. If only she could reignite the same level of motivation she’d had straight after breakfast. That’s it, coffee was the answer. A quiet coffee in the turret room to assuage her curiosity, with the added entertainment of watching a mammoth storm over a churning ocean.
Decision made, she coaxed the gas into life, putting the kettle on the stovetop. Wrapping her arms around herself she waited for the water to boil. The temperature had dropped even further and although used to winter snow at home; she didn’t know if it snowed this close to the ocean. She watched the leafless trees bow low in the wind’s embrace. Trees shaped like hunched old ladies, resigned to the onslaught, their growth deformed by decades of strong winds. The kettle whistled its merry tune, a sound so reminiscent of her grandmother’s house Anita turned to speak to her long dead grandmother, before she caught herself and hurried to turn the gas off, worried that the piercing whistle might crack the windows already straining under the dual attack of wind and the ivy flinging itself against the window.
The aroma of fragrant coffee permeated the kitchen and the stirring of a teaspoon restored an air of normality. Pouring creamy milk into the tiny whirlpool, the ever-decreasing swirls mesmerising, she took a sip and felt the caffeine hitting her bloodstream and then the delicious punch as it hit her brain. The impact instantaneous.
Hands cupped around the mug, she walked upstairs and down the hall. Concentrating on her drink, she reached the open door to the turret stairs and pulled up short. The memory of shutting it behind her last night sharp. The wind? Yes, of course, it made old houses do curious things. She pushed it all the way open. With the inherent trepidation women the world over have, she placed a foot on the bottom step and, heart in her mouth, she climbed the circular staircase to the turret.
Chapter 6
Daylight in a coastal storm is mottled, more a half light as if it can’t decide whether it wants to be darkness or sunlight, good or evil. The light-flecked rain flung itself at the windows encircling the turret and redundant drapes billowed at the edges allowing glimpses of the most magnificent views.
Unfettered ocean for miles, unobstructed and unmarred by man, roiling as far as she could see. You couldn’t fail being drawn in by the magnetising power of the waves. It was sacrilegious to turn away, but the other windows provided their own vistas, a different majesty. Undulating fields left fallow now, trees naked in their defiance of the weather thrown at them. A pond with a summerhouse in the middle. Picturesque, but too far away for her to be sure if it was even part of the estate.
Cushioned bench seats encircled the turret room, and an unfinished painting sat on a wooden easel, with an artist’s palette on a paint smattered stool. A set of brushes lay ready for the artist’s return. Anita stood in front of the canvas, assessing the work. The rough outline of a girl done before the artist had abandoned the piece or before he died? No signature. At least she didn’t need to do any cataloguing in here.
Anita wondered what it would be like to live surrounded by art and nature, unbothered by commute times or clock watching. She imagined herself standing in front of the easel, staring out at the ocean, then painting one stroke at a time - the only limitations on her the abundance of daylight.
Ripping herself from the views, she traipsed downstairs pulling the door shut behind her. The thud as the latch fell into its cavity as satisfying as the coffee. There was work to do. Given the realisation the house’s ancient lighting wasn’t up to specialist evaluation, daylight hours were all she had.
With the photos uploaded, she set about creating an entry for each of the paintings. She gave them each a unique identifier, followed by a title, the artist and description. Often the title was missing, not all art has a convenient gold plaque, bottom centre, naming a piece in perpetuity. As for the artist’s name, she expected more gaps than completed entries. The phrase Artist Unknown fills auction catalogues and rarely did those pieces make money. The stock-in-trade of high street bric-à-brac shops catering to prop buyers and ladies playing at interior designer. They are the least exciting articles an auctioneer sells. Old dental implements far more exciting than unsigned art. This was her job, it paid the bills and grew
her client base, one middle class housewife at a time.
Starting with the piece on the table was a mistake, it was unsigned. Turning it over to check for any distinguishing marks, she found the name Abraham, written in red ink on the bottom left-hand corner. Not an easily searchable moniker, she made a notation identifying the piece as Abraham. Lifting it off the table, she leaned it against the wall. She didn’t want to look at his eyes, he looked scared, pleading almost.
The rest of the art took another hour. She'd found signatures on four of them, although they required more investigation. One had its name notated on its reverse and the balance had no identity other than what she assigned them - Boy With Halo; Woman On Knees; Woman In Red Dress Praying. Another portrait, an older man, sat posed with the city of Jerusalem behind him. His gnarled hands holding a pine cone in his lap. An unusual composition, he was dressed in a green jacket and appeared disinterested, his eyes looking past the artist. She labelled him Man With Pine Cone. As the least religious piece in the room, she chatted to him as she propped him up against the others.
“I wish I knew what you were thinking. How did you come to be here?”
As night crept upon her, Anita felt as if she wasn’t alone. Surrounded by portraits, it’s natural to feel watched by the souls depicted in pigment. Isn’t it? She’d appraised dozens of pictures, which she’d stacked in a corner of the dining room, and with the light fading and her stomach rumbling, Anita powered off her laptop and returned to the kitchen. At lunchtime she’d spied a pie on the bottom shelf of the fridge she’d missed the night before. Cutting a large chunk, she heated it through. The oven was an ancient piece of equipment and it was an exercise in patience waiting for it to warm up giving her ample time to explore the cupboards in the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of wine from a bottle she’d found in the pantry, whether it was for her or not, she wasn’t sure, but given how the lawyer had treated her she didn’t care.
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