Anneli the Art Hater

by Anne Fine

  ‘Clarissa,’ Mother whispered to me. ‘Run up and tell your brother to join us at once. These are our guests, and he must play his part in welcoming them!’

  But someone else had spotted Tom standing by the window. She was a cousin of Mother’s on a rare visit, wearing a hat drooping feathers as wide as fans. She lifted her long skirts a little at the front, and stepped in through the french windows. She made her way up the staircase and along the landing till she found the room where Tom was standing in front of his easel, gazing out at the gardens, all bright with midsummer blooms.

  ‘Tom! How tall you’ve grown! You’re taller than I am!’

  Startled, Tom swung round, knocking the table beside him. On it, an ink drawing lay drying. It was Tom’s copy of Mother’s most recent purchase.

  As the table tipped, the drawing slid off. It floated slowly through the air, and Aunt Germaine reached out and caught it.

  She turned it the right way up, and looked at it. Then she inspected it with more care. Then she looked up.

  ‘Why, Tom! This is a Larrien!’

  Tom grinned with pride.

  ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘Yours, Tom? You mean you own it? It’s not your father’s?’

  Tom laughed.

  ‘It certainly isn’t my father’s. It’s mine.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ she said, staring. ‘A Larrien all of your own!’

  Tom said: ‘How do you know that it’s a Larrien?’ He meant: ‘How can you be so sure it’s not just a copy of a Larrien?’; but Aunt Germaine would have none of that.

  ‘How do I know? I know something about Joseph Larrien, I can tell you. I’ve visited his studio in Paris. I’ve seen all his exhibitions in London. I know enough to know it’s definitely by Larrien and it’s quite exquisite. I love it. I want it. Indeed, I must have it, and I’ll give you this much for it right here and now, Tom!’

  And she emptied her little bead purse upside down on the table.

  ‘Can it be worth more than all that?’ she demanded.

  Tom stared.

  ‘No,’he said, very slowly. ‘It’s not worth more than all that. That’s for sure.’

  ‘Then it is mine now.’

  Tom tried. He did try. His voice was dry and choked, and the money lying on the table was twenty times what he had in his Running-Away Box after weeks of hard saving. But still he managed to say:

  ‘It’s not a Larrien. It’s just a copy.’

  Aunt Germaine swept the pile of money closer towards Tom with the flat of her hand, and snatched up the drawing.

  ‘Nonsense!’ she cried. ‘It’s quite as good a Larrien as ever I’ve seen. You’re only trying to back out of a deal. But it’s mine now, and thank you, my darling!’

  And, kissing him warmly on both cheeks, she swept out.

  ‘By the way,’ she called back. ‘Little sister Clarrie is lurking behind this door. She daren’t come in and tell you what she’s been sent all the way up here to say – that your mother wants you out in the garden, all party manners, at once.’

  And she was gone.

  Tom spread out his hands. They were dead white, and trembling. He stared at them. Then he lifted his head, and he whispered in horror:

  ‘Clarrie, I think I’ve just become an art forger.’

  10

  ‘A life of crime!’

  ‘A life of crime,’ breathed Anneli. ‘Started by accident!’

  Mrs Pears said:

  ‘It was quite terrible. It went from bad to worse. I was sworn to secrecy, but I suffered terribly from the guilt. Things were so different then, you know. Now, getting away with something like that is seen as rather clever, and people don’t sympathise with anyone who spends a fortune on a painting and doesn’t even know exactly who painted it. They laugh at them instead. But it was different in those days. All cheating was seen as terrible. Dishonourable. A total disgrace. And he was my brother. I lay awake at nights and sobbed and sobbed.’

  ‘Did no one notice?’

  ‘Notice? My dear, the Great War had begun. No one had time to notice a little girl sobbing herself to sleep, or a young lad painting as if there were no tomorrow.’

  ‘You couldn’t make him stop?’

  ‘It was as if the devil had got into him. You’ve no idea. He worked night and day, copying drawings and paintings. He practically went into business, persuading an uncle on leave from his regiment to pick up a block of very old French paper. He told him French paper was better, and old paper had dried out better;and Uncle had far too much on his mind, fighting a war, to guess Tom wanted it because it was the sort of paper Larrien would have used. And while the war dragged on and on, Tom sat in the old schoolroom churning out Larriens as if they were . . .’

  ‘Lavatory paper?’

  ‘Well, not quite that, perhaps. But one after another. He forged a letter from Father to his school, saying he’d be two days late back at school, and slid away to London. Nobody noticed. Everyone was far too worried about the bad news from the war to pay attention. There, Tom found someone who believed his story about his family selling their pictures to pay off their debts. And from then on, Tom sent a steady stream of forgeries to London.’

  ‘And all the money went into his Running-Away Box.’

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘It must have been a huge box.’

  ‘Not so big. Gold sovereigns are surprisingly small, you know. Not much larger than a ten pence piece.’

  ‘You could get plenty of those in a box.’

  ‘The box was rosewood, lined with purple velvet. It had a silver clasp, and set in the lid was a little silver shield, engraved with T. W. H. C-S.’

  Anneli looked blank.

  ‘Thomas William Hubert Carrington-Storrs.’

  ‘Hubert?’

  ‘Yes, Hubert. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ Anneli straightened her face. ‘Go on.’

  ‘So the months passed. News of the war got worse and worse and more and more men joined the army, even my father and uncles.’

  Mrs Pears picked at the folds of her skirt.

  ‘And then Aunt Germaine came to stay.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Trouble indeed. It wasn’t all her fault, mind you. For Tom was getting a little full of himself. Everyone said so. They’d no idea why but they could see it.’

  ‘You knew, though.’

  ‘Yes. I knew. It was the secret life, swelling his head. He loved the risk. It was a glamorous thing to do, you see, to produce work that was as good as a grown man’s, or seemed to be. Why, he’d even seen one of his own forgeries hanging in an art gallery for all to see! Imagine! Tom whispered to me that he felt quite shocked! And Father was no longer around to keep him firmly in place. So when Aunt Germaine arrived and talked about those brave, brave men at war –’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Oh, yes. My brother took it into his head to go for a soldier.’

  ‘But he was far too young! Surely they wouldn’t let him!’

  ‘But Tom was tall for his age and the need for soldiers was desperate. Nobody looked too closely or asked too many questions.’

  ‘Aunt Germaine must have felt terrible!’

  ‘Perhaps she did. Perhaps she didn’t. I’ve no idea. Neither of my parents ever spoke a word to her again.’

  The meaning of this took a moment or two to sink in. Old Mrs Pears sat quietly, picking at folds in her dress with her fingers. At last, Anneli broke the silence.

  ‘How long?’

  Eight months,’ said Mrs Pears. ‘We waited eight grey, endless, anxious months before the news came of Tom’s death in battle. Father was grieved, but proud. Mother was bereft. She wrote to Father that she couldn’t bear to pace the same rooms, weep in the same garden where she’d watched her dear Tom growing and playing. As soon as the war ended and Father came home, we sold up everything.’

  ‘They kept the paintings, though. They never guessed.’

  ‘That Tom had become a forger? No, they n
ever guessed. The paintings were locked up, out of sight, never looked at, and I never said a single word.’

  ‘And then . . .?’

  ‘And then, one day, months after, when the worst of the tears had dried and we could sometimes smile again, the last painting arrived.’

  ‘Tom’s last real painting?’

  ‘Tom’s last real painting. Entrusted to a fellow soldier who had been wounded so badly it took him months to recover enough to seek us out, and give it to me.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘It was for me. The note with it said so. It said: “For Clarrie. All I own. With all my love, your Tom”.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  Mrs Pears pointed up above the fireplace.

  From the moment she saw the painting, Anneli knew there was something mysterious about it.

  But what could be odd about a boring old painting of the view of Carrington Lodge from the gates, the same view Anneli saw every single school day: the top of the long sloping lawn and the seven great holly trees shading the high stone wall behind.

  Now what on earth could possibly be mysterious about that?

  11

  ‘Only six holly trees!’

  The next morning, Anneli left early for school. Something about the painting above the fireplace was bothering her. There was something wrong about it, Anneli was sure.

  What it was, she had no idea; but it was bothering her terribly.

  Usually, she was so late she had to dash straight past the gates to Carrington Lodge without time for so much as a glance between the iron bars. Today, she stopped and peered through, taking her time, wondering. The garden looked more vivid somehow, in the sharp morning light. The lawns gleamed with freshness. The row of holly trees stood tall, like sentries guarding the wall behind from attack. It was the same as ever, but something was wrong.

  Whatever it was, it haunted Anneli all day. The sheets of paper she was writing on kept blurring, and suddenly she’d see, as clearly as if it were there in front of her, Tom’s last real painting, then, almost at once, blur back to what she’d seen as she peered between the bars that morning.

  What was wrong? What was wrong? The holly trees were taller, of course. But that’s to be expected. Trees grow.

  Trees grow, to be sure. But only in height. Not in number!

  Six hollies. Seven. Which? Oh, which?

  Six holly trees in the garden. And seven in the painting. Surely the painting hanging over the fireplace had seven. Surely only six grew in the garden.

  No painter worth his salt made that sort of mistake. Certainly not Tom, with his great eye for detail and his skill at copying. So either Anneli herself must have made a mistake in the counting, or there was a mystery to be solved.

  And Anneli didn’t believe that she was mistaken. After all, hadn’t Mrs Pears called her ‘sharp enough to be an art historian!’

  As soon as the bell rang for the end of school, Anneli grabbed Henry’s arm and dragged him along with her, under the shadow of the walls of Carrington Lodge. They reached the gates and stood side by side, staring inside.

  ‘So?’ Henry demanded. ‘So?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Anneli cried. ‘Only six holly trees!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So Tom put seven in his painting.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So!’

  ‘Maybe he had forgotten how many there were.’

  Anneli’s lip curled scornfully.

  ‘Don’t be so silly. He grew up here.’

  Henry’s brow puckered. Anneli was right. No one could grow up in a garden and not know its trees.

  ‘We’ll have to get in and look, then.’

  The gates were easy to climb. It was one curly foothold after another, all the way up and all the way down on the other side.

  Anneli and Henry vanished into the shadow of the shrubbery. Carefully they picked their way through. Wet leaves slapped at their ankles. Gradually the thick green gloom was flecked with silver. Shafts of sunlight spilled between the last lilacs, and they reached the edge of the old cobbled stable yard.

  Here they stopped.

  ‘Well,’ Henry said. ‘What do you think?’

  Anneli stood and stared at the line of holly trees, thinking in silence.

  It was an art historian’s job to work things out from little clues. What possible reason could Tom have had for painting in an extra tree? Was he trying to hide something?

  But what?

  He sent a message with the painting. For Clarrie. All I Own. With all my love, your Tom. What could be clearer than that? It must be his sovereigns.

  But all there was in front of her was solid wall and great tall holly trees.

  Wait a minute! This painting was now so old. How much did hollies grow each year? And which tree was the extra one? And who says walls are always solid?

  Suddenly Anneli stepped forward into the sunlight. Henry reached out to pull her back, but she shook him off. She was filled with excitement. Making a huge effort to concentrate, she called Tom’s painting to mind.

  It formed obediently inside her head.

  ‘There!’ she said, pointing. ‘We should be looking at that part of the wall. That’s where he painted in the extra tree.’

  Henry stepped forward.

  ‘All right, then. Let’s find a ladder.’

  He led the way to the stables. In the dim light the two of them could see the old horse stalls overflowing with clutter: broken old wheelchairs, half a bicycle, rusty bedsprings and an ancient washing machine, a wheelbarrow, boxes and flower-pots and – right at the very end – a long wooden ladder.

  Together, they dragged it out into the stable yard.

  Henry laid his end on the cobbles. Anneli raised hers. Henry came over to add his strength. Together they heaved the ladder up against the wall.

  ‘Further along,’ Anneli told him. ‘It should be further along, between these two trees.’

  Henry scraped the ladder along the wall.

  ‘There!’ Anneli cried. ‘Stop there exactly.’

  Henry laid his foot on the first rung of the ladder.

  ‘No you don’t,’ Anneli told him. ‘This is my something precious.’

  She rushed up the ladder before he could argue. The holly trees on either side had grown so high and spread so wide that she was climbing up into a mass of leaves. It was dark. The fiendish prickles dug through her clothing and caught her hair. She spread her fingers out to feel the wall, and was reminded suddenly of when she first spread her fingers in just the same way to feel the little wooden door in the wall that led to Mrs Pears and all of this.

  The stone wall was rough and chilled, and slightly slimy.

  ‘Anything?’ called Henry.

  ‘Not yet,’ she shouted down. How tall had Tom painted the tree? That was a clue. A little bit taller, she was sure. She’d have to go higher.

  ‘I’m going up.’

  ‘I’m holding on.’

  Anneli went higher. She reached up as far as she could. The fingers of one hand suddenly slid over a little ledge.

  ‘I’m going one rung higher.’

  ‘Anything?’

  Anneli’s whole hand disappeared.

  ‘It’s a hole. There’s a hole in the wall. But it’s half blocked up. There’s something in it.’

  She reached in. Her fingers fell on something square and hard, wrapped up in oilcloth.

  ‘It’s a box.’

  Her heart turned over from excitement. She pulled. The little wrapped box slid easily towards her, stirring a dank smell of leaf-mould. She tugged it closer. Then, feeling her way back on to the lower rung where she felt safer, she drew the box out of the hole in the wall where it had rested undisturbed for so many years, and hugged it to her chest.

  ‘I’m coming down now.’

  She backed down through the mass of prickly leaves, clutching the box tightly, until she reached the ground. Henry was jumping from one fo
ot to another. He took the box from her, unwrapped the oilcloth and held it so that the clasp was facing Anneli.

  The clasp was stiff, and took a moment or two to lift. Henry stood by in silence. Then Anneli raised the lid. Inside there lay a thick purple velvet cloth, hiding whatever was beneath. Anneli began to unfold it.

  ‘Josh would love that,’ Henry observed. ‘He needs a new cloth. That one he’s got is practically threadbare.’

  ‘She’ll give it to him,’ Anneli said. ‘I’m sure she will.’

  The purple cloth lay folded back, revealing a pool of old sovereigns, inches deep. Anneli dipped in her finger and stirred. The coins shifted out of their long sleep uneasily, clinking with resentment.

  Anneli picked one out and bit it, hard.

  ‘He was a forger,’ she explained. ‘Just our luck if he was a counterfeiter, too.’

  ‘Solid?’

  ‘Quite solid.’

  ‘Unlike the wall.’ Henry looked up into the leafy mass of holly, a little puzzled. ‘It must have taken years and years for these trees to grow wide and high enough to hide that hole in the wall. I can’t understand why no one worked it out before. His sister had more clues than you, and it was her garden.’

  ‘She wasn’t thinking,’ Anneli said. ‘She had just lost her brother and she was – bereft.’

  They looked at one another over the box without speaking. Then Anneli gently closed the lid.

  ‘It’s not ours,’ she reminded Henry.

  ‘Pity,’ said Henry. ‘You deserve it. You were the one to notice the puzzle in the painting, and you were the one to solve it. I’ve never known you take such an interest in art, Anneli. In fact, I’ve always thought of you as an art hater.’

  ‘I am an art hater,’ said Anneli. ‘I’m just more choosy than I used to be about the bits of art I hate.’

  12

  Private and pleasant, and long ago

  Anneli carried the Running-Away Box up the garden path to Mrs Pears’ front door. She rang the bell. Mrs Pears seemed to take an age to answer;and by the time she did, Anneli’s plans to tell the news gently had dissolved entirely in her excitement.