The class hardly dared to breathe. They stopped their squirming and shivering and sat like statues, silently begging Miss Seeton to put them out of their misery and get on with the lesson. But nobody was foolhardy enough to voice the wish aloud: everyone knew, after all, that Miss Seeton was, well, strange. Her lessons were always good fun, and so long’s you didn’t go upsetting her, she’d be fine—but everybody knew . . .
“I want you all to leave your seats and come up to the edge of the platform,” instructed Miss Seeton, “but you are not to climb on the platform itself. The smallest children must stand at the front, with the tallest at the back looking over their heads. Quietly, now.”
And while they were arranging themselves, with a lack of pushing and mischief that the strictest of teachers would have envied, Miss Seeton withdrew from the top drawer of her desk a box of matches and a candle—that same candle from whose flame she had tried to win the yogic benefits of pratyahara. Waste not, want not: Miss Seeton was of a generation to remember the War, and remember it clearly. She was delighted to have found some practical use for her purchase.
Miss Seeton set the candle carefully in its holder and struck a match briskly along the side of the box. She set the match to the wick and observed one hundred little flames gleaming in the bright and fascinated eyes watching her every move.
Miss Seeton picked up a sheet of strong white paper from the desk and held it taut and flat above the candle. With a slow and steady hand, she lowered the paper until it was in the smoky part of the flame, left it there just long enough to become smudged, then raised it again. Again she lowered it, again raised it—and again—and again . . .
“Remember, children, that on no account are you to try this by yourselves,” Miss Seeton warned as she gradually formed a random pattern of soft smoky ovals on the underside of the paper. “For your lesson,” she explained, “I have already prepared some starting sheets for you, but before I hand them out, I will show you how we stop the charcoal from smudging away—watch me carefully, now.”
She blew out the candle, moved it to one side, and rose from her seat. “There is no need to follow me, children, if you turn carefully to watch what I do next,” she said, and, picking up the sheet of delicate grey-on-white patterns, moved to the rear of the platform, where she had already set a small easel. She pinned the sheet to the easel, picked up the small aerosol can which stood on a nearby shelf, and sprayed the sheet with a fine, colourless varnish.
“Fixative,” explained Miss Seeton. “So that the pattern will not become rubbed off the paper. Now we must wait for it to dry—that is, normally we must wait. But, as I told you, there is no need for you to wait at all before you all may begin to draw what you see in the patterns.”
“Miss,” enquired one hardy youngster, who’d been dared to do it by his friends and stood to corner the playground market in gobstoppers if he accepted the dare, “what are we going to see in the patterns?”
“I really couldn’t say,” said Miss Seeton, beginning to hand out the prepared sheets to her charges. “It’s not for me to tell you what you see, but for you to learn to see for yourselves. See if the shapes remind you of anything, I mean—and then you might like to draw round the outlines in pencil, or add other shapes with coloured crayon, to bring out what you see clearly enough for everyone else to see, and to share. Which is the purpose of art, after all. Not to be selfish with our imaginations, that is to say.”
She turned to the nearest small girl. “Would you mind letting me borrow your paper for a moment, Genefer?”
“Go on, Jen, give it to Miss . . . Share it like she said, Jen,” came the giggling encouragement of her friends as Genefer looked slightly uncertain about having been singled out in this way. Miss Seeton smiled at such evidence of artistic enthusiasm.
“Don’t you think,” she suggested after a moment’s study of young Genefer’s paper, “that these patterns might look rather like the tops of trees in a forest?”
“Waving in the wind,” agreed Genefer after a moment, “only it’s more a storm, with the leaves all blurred because they’re moving so fast. Yes, I see, Miss. I see!”
“Those aren’t trees,” objected the gobstopper boy. “Trees have got trunks. Those smudges haven’t any trunks. So they can’t be trees, not really.”
“Shut up, Marcus.” Genefer rounded on the budding art critic at once. “You’ve got to see them, like Miss said, so if you can’t, I’ve got to put them in so’s you can. That’s right, isn’t it, Miss?”
“Absolutely right,” Miss Seeton told her with a smile. “And the rest of you must see your own pictures in the smoke—everyone will see something different—and we’ll all try to guess afterwards what the pictures are.”
There was a general scuffling as the children, clutching their papers eagerly, hurried back to their desks and began to concentrate. “Mine,” announced Marcus, “is a dinosaur, a triceratops, and I’m going to draw a tyrannosaurus coming to have a fight with it.”
“Ssh,” hissed his friends. “We’re meant to guess . . .”
Miss Seeton beamed as she watched the class settle down to work with every evidence of enjoyment. She would herself be working with them, on the sample pattern she had just produced; she wondered what the Surrealists would have felt about their technique being taught to a class of primary school children, and thought they would be pleased to know that their methods of generating new ideas and images had lasted so long.
Having retrieved her most recent Accidental Drawing from the easel, she sat at her desk to study it. What could she see in the random arrangement of smoke? Not trees, not even one large tree; nor flowers; nor storm clouds, although such hot weather meant, mused Miss Seeton, that there was always the chance of thunder, especially in the afternoon, and rain would certainly be welcome before too long. So many of the lawns in Plummergen were looking most dreadfully brown and scorched with heat, although her own, though it was at the back of the house and faced almost due south, luckily did not. Which must either be due to the excellent care Stan Bloomer lavished on the garden at Sweetbriars, or else the high brick wall, such a mellow, comfortable red, provided a welcome shadow . . .
A face, thought Miss Seeton, coming back to her pattern of smoke with a start. At least—no, now she came to focus clearly, it wasn’t a face any longer. Which was probably as well, as it might have been somewhat impolite to draw the face of a stranger with whom one had done no more than pass the time of day earlier that morning . . . a bird, that’s what the pattern reminded her of, as she looked at it. A large, wide-eyed bird with soft feathers . . .
But even as Miss Seeton found herself sketching in the sharp claws and hooked beak of a barn owl, she couldn’t help seeing, in the back of her mind’s eye, the hook-nosed face of the tall, thin woman who had been talking to her in The Street when she’d been on her way to school.
chapter
~9~
SIR GEORGE COLVEDEN’S clubland evening with his good friend, the photographer Cedric Benbow, had definitely been worth the next morning’s headache and the smiles of his family. On hearing of the major-general’s intention to resume his hobby—and taking a mischievous delight in the thought of fostering a village feud—Cedric had not only brought with him a selection of his cameras, from which he hinted that Sir George would be offered whichever seemed most suited to his purpose, but produced, at the cigars-and-brandy stage, a massive scrap book, bound in watered silk and filled with newspaper cuttings.
“Not about me, though,” he explained, displaying it with some pride. “This is how I’ve been keeping an eye on the opposition over the years—mine are all”—and he stressed the word, smiling—“covered in velvet. Scarlet first, so scandalously sinful, and the next was a heavenly, vibrant orange—California sunlight, you know—my third is like English woodland simply crammed with primroses—”
“No need to put on a performance for my benefit, m’dear fellow,” Sir George reminded him cheerfully, puffing a cloud of rich
smoke in his friend’s direction. Cedric had the grace to flush and chuckle.
“Sorry, I forgot—after so many years, one slips into the spiel automatically, I’m afraid. Marvellous publicity, you understand.”
Sir George nodded, grinning, then said: “Going to be a bit awkward when you reach the end of the rainbow, so to speak. Stripes, perhaps?”
“Certainly, the time isn’t so far off, now. I’ve been wondering about going through the whole spectrum again in satin, or maybe suede—but never mind my nonsense. Let’s see what we can do to put Plummergen really on the map this summer, shall we?”
There followed what was a virtual monologue on Cedric’s part, with Sir George interpolating the occasional remark when his friend permitted. “Of course, it takes years for anyone to reach this sort of standard all the time, but you aren’t that bothered about pretty pictures, are you? From what you told me, that is. Get this Competition of yours out of the way first, and then you can begin on the fancier stuff when you’ve time to take it slowly, and learn as you go along. But if you’re in a hurry . . .”
Cedric clattered his selection of cameras (“My second-best, dear boy, like Anne Hathaway’s bed,”) on the table in front of them, and launched into a long discussion of their various merits. Sir George listened and began to think his old box Brownie hadn’t been such a bad thing after all. Or was it the third glass of brandy they’d each had which made old Benbow so chatty, and himself so confused?
“But this,” concluded Cedric, who’d been carried away by the chance of demonstrating his specialist knowledge, “this is the one for you, in my opinion—and I want you to look on it as a permanent loan until you’ve, as it were, grown out of it. If you do. Single-lens reflex, and really an easy camera to use—just point and click, dear boy.”
“All there is to it, you say?” said Sir George, studying the camera doubtfully. “Idiot-proof, you mean? Sounds just the job, but of course I couldn’t borrow it. Expensive piece of equipment like that—write the name down, and I’ll pop off to Harrops tomorrow and buy—”
“Nothing of the sort!” interposed Cedric swiftly. “Look on it as my contribution to Plummergen’s entry in the Competition—we all had such fun, didn’t we? You, and me, and Wonky Tump, and Ferencz Szabo—haven’t seen so much excitement in years. Plummergen’s such an interesting place, and of course there’s that adorable Miss Seeton of yours, too—I’d like your snaps to be as good as you can make them for her sake as well as yours, you know. If she’s to draw these After sketches properly . . .”
Sir George was weakening, Cedric could tell, though he still looked anxious. “My insurance policies,” pointed out the photographer, in a tempter’s voice, “are absolutely up-to-date, you know, so you needn’t worry for an instant about that side of things. So that’s settled, is it? Let’s have another brandy to clinch the deal.”
Following her husband’s instructions, Lady Colveden had borrowed from Brettenden public library a selection of books on the art of photography, and once he’d recovered from what Nigel insisted on calling his evening’s debauch, Sir George could be seen studying them with close attention. Time spent on reconnaissance, as the major-general knew well, was never wasted. Accordingly, over the next few days he bought various speeds of film from Mr. Stillman and wandered about his estate armed with the camera, a tape measure, and a notebook. Not until he felt confident of producing a decent set of pictures would he venture forth to the wider spaces of Plummergen: the village, he knew, was depending on him—on him, and on Miss Seeton.
“Good morning, Sir George.” Miss Seeton was on her way to school when she encountered him just outside the bakery. “Is that the camera Clive, I mean Mr. Benbow, so kindly lent you? Will you be starting on”—Miss Seeton blushed delicately—“our, um, project today?”
“D-Day today, certainly. Been casting my eye over this telephone box before I begin—could do with a touch of spit and polish, don’t you think? Paintwork is acceptable enough, I suppose, but best have a word with the GPO about putting a new pane of glass in—post office property, after all. Not the thing to go interfering without permission. And none of this nonsense about carpets, and vases of flowers, either, don’t want to exaggerate—just make the most of what we’ve got, that’s the way.”
Miss Seeton approved this sentiment, then with her umbrella poked at the fringe of drying grass and weeds which sprouted in a halfhearted way around the foundations of the telephone box. “It would be in order, surely,” she said, “to tidy up this without asking—I can’t believe the post office wants plants to grow inside telephone boxes, which of course in such hot weather they don’t—grow, I mean, either in or out. Have you noticed, Sir George, how very brown so many of the lawns in Plummergen have become? It is so fortunate that Stan takes care of my garden for me.”
“Odd, that. Turning brown, I mean—some sort of virus, I suppose. Have to take care not to show it in the snaps.” Sir George patted his borrowed camera and looked modest. “Thought I’d start with Sweetbriars, if you don’t mind—need a focal point to begin with, like your cottage right at the end of The Street. Working my way north this morning, out of the sun, and the other way this afternoon.”
He was pardonably pleased with the efficient air of technical knowhow he had managed to display, and Miss Seeton was duly impressed. She knew as well as his wife and son that Sir George was no shirker. If he thought himself able to carry out a task, then carried out, and properly, that task would be. He had sense enough to know when anything might be beyond him, and when expert help was required.
“This camera,” said Sir George, waving it proudly under Miss Seeton’s nose, “foolproof, so Cedric Benbow tells me—no reason to doubt him, after the results in my album—come to dinner one night and take a look. Meg will ring you.”
Miss Seeton thanked him. It was always a pleasure to dine with the Colvedens, and Rytham Hall, such a splendid old building. Sir George must have enjoyed photographing his own property, whether or not it had been for practice. “And I so look forward,” she added, “to seeing your picture of the George and Dragon, though I cannot really think of many ways in which Mr. Mountfitchet could improve the front of his property, can you? The delightful creeper, so green over the front wall, and the overall balance of chimneys and windows, most pleasing.”
Thus having modestly drawn attention away from her own little cottage, Miss Seeton studied the old inn on the other side of the road. The front door, a dark rectangle between two white, square pillars, was open; and on the threshold, just emerging, was the figure of a woman.
Miss Ursula Hawke had quickly gained in Plummergen the reputation of “a queer customer,” both metaphorically and literally. Though she was staying at the George and Dragon, she rarely ate her meals there, included in the price though they were: she asked for sandwiches to be prepared at odd hours of the day and night, and vanished for lengthy periods without telling anyone where she was going or what she was doing. Apart from barked requests to the hotel staff, she seldom spoke to anyone else; and even Mel Forby’s best journalistic efforts had been slow to penetrate the mystery.
As usual, Plummergen could not agree on its attitude towards the newcomer. Some believed her to be either a friend or a foe of the unseen woman in Mrs. Venning’s house, and up to no good in either case; others (very much the minority) thought her simply a holidaymaker; many more suspected that she was someone important (importance as yet unspecified) in the later stages of recuperation from a nervous breakdown.
“You see if I’m not right, Eric,” said Mrs. Blaine. “She has the look of suffering in her eyes—the way she stares, too haunted by her past, I can tell. I’m so sensitive to these things. Some family tragedy, the last of a noble line—her inheritance lost, and coming here to regain her mental and physical health before facing the world again.”
“Glares,” Miss Nuttel corrected her. Mrs. Blaine blinked at her friend. “Not stares,” explained Eric. “Very scornful—almost snooty, I’d c
all it.”
“That’s just what I was trying to say, only you do tend to catch one up too quickly sometimes, Eric. But that’s her aristocratic blood, too blue, so much interbreeding—you know how these old families are. Maybe,” gloated Mrs. Blaine in a thrilled whisper, “she’s one of those White Russians we used to hear so much about, in hiding, and that’s why nobody ever sees her.”
But Miss Hawke was certainly not in hiding this morning. She hesitated on the threshold of the George and Dragon, as if delayed by her leather shoulder bag; then saw the interested gaze of Miss Seeton upon her, observed how Sir George fiddled with his camera, and crossed the road towards them.
“Morning,” she remarked. Miss Seeton smiled politely and murmured something; Sir George, who was not wearing a hat, bowed courteously to this stranger who was eyeing his, well, Cedric Benbow’s camera with such interest. Even the Colvedens had not been able to avoid the various rumours as to the woman’s identity and purpose for being in Plummergen. Quickly he reassured her of the innocence of his actions.
“Best Kept Village Competition,” he explained, holding the camera out for her inspection. “Before and After, snaps and sketches, with the help of Miss Seeton here.” He bowed again; Miss Seeton’s smile reappeared. “Miss Emily Seeton—and my name’s Colveden.”
“Sir George,” interpolated Miss Seeton as the stranger seemed to hesitate once more, “takes a great interest in the affairs of our village, and of course we all try to—do our best, that is, and my small efforts in sketching according to the ideas of the Committee will play their part also, I hope. In the Competition, I mean.”
“Not a bad camera,” said Miss Hawke, after a quick, and would-be knowing, glance. “For amateurs, that is.”
Sir George was not one to indulge in name-dropping, but when the reputation of his friends was at stake would not hold back. “Cedric Benbow,” he said, with some pride, “lent me this. One of his favourites, he told me. Very kind of him to make the loan. Greatly appreciated.”
Miss Seeton Paints the Town (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 10) Page 7
