‘I’m sorry about . . . how she was. It was so kind of you to come. What was it you had been keeping for her?’
Bill picked a printed card off the desk and handed it over. It was a notice advertising an art exhibition in Brighton.
‘I was sent some of these. Thought we might take a trip together, make a day of it. I didn’t realise she was as bad as she is, you see. I’d ring and she didn’t sound like herself. I was getting so worried . . . that was when I decided to knock on her door.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
‘Obviously she can’t go now. But she might like it anyway for the picture on the front. I think she will.’
‘Thanks.’
The clouds darkened outside, weighted by rain.
‘She didn’t react to anything I took her yesterday,’ said Melissa.
Bill went over to one of the bookshelves. Many of the books, she saw now, were volumes of art history; serious publications on photography, large slabs of printed pages. He pulled out one: it was a huge tome titled Art of the 20th Century. It had an index which took up almost a quarter of its pages. He dragged a slightly tremulous finger down a column and began flipping pages.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s the picture. Do you know it?’
She drew close enough to see where he was pointing.
An abstract picture of the sea was captioned with the artist’s name and dated 1967.
‘No,’ said Melissa.
Bill picked up the gallery invitation. She looked at the card more carefully this time. The painting on the front was very similar to the picture in the book. And there, in small print below, was the name along with two other artists for whom the gallery was putting on a joint retrospective.
‘Grace Heald,’ said Bill, with satisfaction.
The picture was loose and sensuous, a swirl of deep blues. ‘I don’t think I know her. This is good, though.’
Bill was puzzled by her reaction. A frown pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘You knew Elizabeth was interested in Grace Heald’s work, the paintings as well as the photography?’
‘Not really, to be honest. She had so many interests. It was hard to keep up with her!’
‘Oh.’ He hesitated. ‘Well, that’s how we met in the first place. We got talking one day in the shop and she asked if I could find some books for her.’
‘Books about Grace Heald?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of her,’ said Melissa.
‘She is quite well known, in a rather small and specialised market.’
Melissa studied the pictures. Their bold style showed certain similarities with Elizabeth’s own paintings. ‘Do you think my mother was influenced by her?’
‘I don’t know – maybe. Although this would have been long after Elizabeth gave up painting, so I’m not sure that was relevant . . . unless, of course, she was thinking of starting again.’
‘She never said why she wanted the books?’
Bill rubbed his chin, and considered. ‘I can’t say that she did,’ he said. ‘Only that she wanted me to find anything I could about Grace Heald for her.’
The exhibition had only a few more days left to run.
Brighton was sullen under damp skies. No wind ruffled the cold so that the grey sea barely breathed as it reached the pebbles on the beach. Away from the promenade, the monochrome hardly lifted, apart from a struggling kind of jauntiness in the out-of-season shop windows.
The art gallery was a brisk walk from the multi-storey car park. Holding a map printed out from the Internet, Melissa threaded a way past cafés and funky shops, past the tawdry daytime faces of the bars and clubs that came alive at night, tatty purple paint peeled away here and bodged drain pipes there.
A world away from the town which held happy memories with Richard: the sunny weekends down from London, the funfair at the end of the pier, the antiquarian bookshops, the antique-hunting, the tipsy lunches, the glitter of diamonds in the jewellers’ windows of the Lanes.
East Street was a row of Victorian shops and cafés on one side, and an industrial building divided into trendy units on the other, one of which was the Chafford Gallery. A wall of glass was set in the chocolate bricks of the old warehouse or factory, through which she could see bright canvasses mounted on dazzling white walls. An expanse of polished wooden floor stretched away, muddily reflecting the reds and yellows and blues of the paintings. Against the far wall was a desk, where a young woman in black sat reading.
Melissa went in.
All along one wall, she looked for the name. Some of the work was terrible, some magnificent. The girl at the desk smiled and asked if she could help.
‘I’m just looking, thank you.’
‘If you need any help . . .’
There was one: signed GH. It was a huge landscape, with beautiful iridescence – blues and greens.
‘Stunning, isn’t it.’
It was. ‘Does it have a title?’
‘She gave them numbers, not names. That one is 1970.’
‘That must be a year, surely?’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
A red sold sticker.
‘Oh, well. I’m not surprised it’s sold. It’s gorgeous.’
‘There are some more over there.’
She indicated a large abstract that dominated the rear section of the gallery. From ten feet away Melissa realised it was a snow-covered hillside, and shivered involuntarily. Her head had begun to hurt.
‘I liked the other better,’ she said at last. ‘Do you have any information about Grace Heald?’
The assistant’s eyes flickered over her. Maybe she was trying to assess the likelihood that Melissa was a buyer. ‘We kept some photocopies of information we acquired with the pictures. Details of past exhibitions, that kind of thing. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘No. She died some time ago, I think.’
The assistant disappeared into a back room. Melissa looked around for a while longer, admiring some smaller canvasses, the generous brushstrokes and singing colours.
‘This is all I can find.’
The girl held out a photocopy of a brief résumé of Grace Heald’s career. One sentence sprang off the page and made Melissa’s head swim: ‘Married to the writer and traveller Julian Adie, 1935–1942.’
V
ON THE DAY before the christening, the train to London was crowded. In a clammy corner of the carriage, Melissa felt the damp rising from thick coats as too much hot air pumped from shin-level heaters. Grey rain streaked the windows outside, condensation inside. As the dull mud of the countryside gave way to tightly packed suburban wastes, her nerves began to tighten. The concourse at Charing Cross was a hard expanse of noise and slipperiness and people. Beyond it, the rude fierce wetness churned up by traffic glittered orange in the city lights.
By the time she had walked up from St James’s Park tube station, and turned left off Victoria Street into Morpeth Terrace, her feet were soaked and she wished she had worn boots. If I really had to come and do this.
She had to.
Outside the entrance to the mansion block, she hesitated. Should she ring the doorbell? It was late on a Saturday afternoon. Richard might well be there. What if Sarah was with him? Her hand shook as she pushed the key into the lock before she could argue herself to a standstill. The door clicked and she was striding towards the lift. In the two months since she’d been here, the building had become subtly unfamiliar: the green of the carpet was more garish, the curve of the staircase around the lift shaft more cramped.
Perhaps she should have warned Richard she was coming. But no. She had made the decision. It was better to arrive unannounced to see for herself how he was living, whether he was alone. If he was there, she told herself, she would face him calmly, whatever the circumstances.
The lift rose to the second floor.
Out of the lift, she turned right and listened. There was no light visible
behind the front door keyhole. After another hesitation, she let herself in, closed the door and flicked on the hall light.
A surge of unhappiness kicked in as she worked her way quietly along the corridor. Not a sound indicated anyone else was there. Still cautious, she peered into the dark kitchen, and then the sitting room. It was odd to see all her books again, the pictures and CDs. The furniture they had bought together.
The television’s red eye glowed. But that meant nothing. Richard always left it on standby. A mug and two dirty plates lay on the floor by the sofa, its cushions mangled and flecked with crumbs. She resisted the urge to sigh and start clearing up.
Across to the main bedroom. Her heart was pounding.
Still not a sound.
She pushed the door open, tensing herself for what she might see. But no one was there. The bed was unoccupied, unmade as Richard always left it. Only now did she switch the light on. His worn shirts were draped over an overflowing laundry basket. Books, newspapers and crumpled tissues, jeans littered the floor. It certainly did not look as if he was keeping the place in a state with which to impress anyone.
Relief was short-lived. All that meant was that they spent their time at Sarah’s place.
She could not look at the bed, neither to remember herself there, nor to overlay those memories with thoughts of him and Sarah.
Feeling shaky, she opened her wardrobe. It did not look as if it had been touched. She reached in and pulled out a smart jacket and dress for the christening, folding them over her arm as she looked around, sure she had missed something.
So where was Richard? Perhaps the answers were all here, printed on crumpled pieces of paper: notes, telephone numbers, visa bills, receipts. This is my chance, she thought. I should take the chance to put myself in a position of strength for once.
She hooked the hanger over the wardrobe door, and made for the bedside table. She began to sift through the mess. I’m an intruder in my own home. Then she stopped. A tiny sound, something jangled. How many times had she heard that noise – or was she imagining it? She strained to hear.
Out in the passage, she listened again. From the kitchen the fridge gave a watery whine and gurgle.
Then the front door slammed. Footsteps padded down the corridor, along with a soft rustle.
She took a deep breath and prayed he was alone.
He turned into the kitchen. There was a thud on the worktop.
Idiotically, she contemplated making a run for it, past the kitchen, down the corridor and out the front door. Instead, she took a deep breath and went over to the kitchen doorway. Richard was grimly unpacking a lone bag of supermarket shopping.
‘Hello, Richard,’ she said.
Her voice made him jump.
He was weekend scruffy in frayed jeans and a blue sailing sweater with holes in the arms. He needed a haircut and had not bothered to shave that morning.
He looked stricken.
‘Melissa!’
Neither of them knew where to start.
‘Why didn’t you—?’
‘I needed to collect—’
Dark shadows ringed his eyes. He looked as though he had lost weight. It could mean he had been miserable. Equally, it might indicate he’s been having a raucous time with me gone, she thought.
‘How are you?’ he asked at last.
‘OK.’ A pause. ‘You?’
A shrug. ‘Not so good.’
She said nothing.
‘Are you coming back – I mean has anything happened to –?’
‘No.’
‘So are you—?’
‘That’s no to both questions,’ Melissa said firmly.
He leaned against the worktop, arms folded. It seemed an effort for him to look her in the eye. ‘How is your mum?’
‘She’s gone into a nursing home.’
‘Is she . . . improving?’ He was as awkward as she was.
‘She’s not going to get better, Richard.’
‘No . . . right.’
He picked up the kettle and filled it, as if he was trying to fill the space between them. ‘Tea?’
She shook her head. He flicked it on to boil anyway. Standing there in the kitchen with him, it could have been any cosy Saturday afternoon. Gone was the aggressive self-defensive shield, on both sides. He seemed gentle and sad. A large part of her wished suddenly that she could wipe out everything bad that had led up to this point, forget about the betrayal and the hurt. She wanted to put her head on his shoulder and cling on, feel his hand stroking her hair and telling her it would all be all right again.
The kettle, overfilled, gave a snort and wobbled, bubbling from the spout.
She felt the waste of it all, the desolation.
He did look at her directly then. ‘I am so, so sorry, Melissa.’
She stared back defiantly, holding tears in check.
‘I’ve been so stupid! It was over with Sarah as soon as you left. Please believe me! I know I don’t deserve it, but if you could give me another chance, I will never – ever – do anything to hurt you.’
He was so sincere, so abject. She could feel herself softening. After all the long weeks when she had tried to rationalise her own emotions, keep herself from going under, this was the hardest part.
‘Why did you do it then?’
‘Because . . . because I’m an idiot! I’ve been a bastard, a stupid bastard.’ He held both arms out, half in supplication, half in honesty.
There was a moment when she could so easily have closed the distance between them and reached out too. She longed to feel his arms around her, the softness of his lips. Seconds elapsed and she stayed where she was.
Her mobile rang.
She answered it, listened and hardly spoke. When the conversation was over, Richard came closer.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
VI
ELIZABETH DIED SUDDENLY of pneumonia in the nursing home on 5 October.
The following afternoon, Melissa stood on the bridge where the two rivers met not far from her mother’s house. A turquoise kingfisher darted like a bullet down the river. A few flashy seconds and it was gone, leaving only a stab of remembered brilliance.
Julian Adie: A Biography
Stephen R. Mason
[New Century, 1993]
Julian Adie could hardly believe his luck when he met Grace Heald at a party in Soho, still less when she swiftly became his partner. She was tall and languid, angular and with jutting cheekbones, considered a beauty. Ever ambitious, sexually as much as socially, he set out to win her and succeeded in less than four hours. He was twenty to her twenty-two.
What was Adie’s appeal to Grace? Like him, she was trying to kick against convention, though she was gentle where he could be bombastic. She was surprisingly shy for all the attention she received. Perhaps she admired his self-confidence, the way he stood up so straight in company and held forth in such torrents of wit and amusing stories that his small stature was irrelevant.
They were an unlikely couple. She towered over him by almost a foot when she wore heels. But they shared the same passions and bohemian ideals. Both were rebelling against solidly middle-class backgrounds in a social circle where creative ambition burned. Grace was an aspiring painter, who had studied at the Slade.
Soon they had set up home together: a bedsit in a house off the King’s Road in Chelsea that was owned by one of her wealthy old school friends, the actress Jill Mayhew. Through Jill they socialised with the rich, and occasionally the talented, of their generation, like the then aspiring playwright Brian Gibbs, and actor Henderson Spinks.
But Adie was making little money. He supplemented his small private income by the tutoring he attempted in the late afternoons when he would rather have been at his typewriter, or preparing for a stint at the piano in one of the jazz clubs. He had also started to write seriously: mainly poetry and a novel. He made intensive studies of the Elizabethans, in particular Marlowe and Bacon. There was always a disciplined side to A
die. During the days when he was not working, he would spend up to ten hours at the British Library, reading and making notes. He felt keenly his lack of a formal university education and was determined to make up the shortfall. It was around this time that he forged what was to be a lifelong friendship with Peter Commin, then an assistant at the prestigious bookshop Sandwood’s in Chelsea, later to be his bibliographer.
In January 1935, Adie and Grace moved to the country, to the rural hamlet of Poundsbridge near Tunbridge Wells in Kent where he imagined they would both be able to work in peace. Despite the glorious walks to nearby Penshurst with all its Elizabethan resonances and associations with Ben Jonson and Philip Sidney, even here, the young couple felt constrained, constantly suffering from colds, surrounded by the damp claustrophobia of their cottage walls. The experiment was not a success.
A friend had gone to Corfu, an island so far off the north-west coast of Greece that part of it faced Albania. Edward Lear had lived and worked in the light and heat there in the mid-1800s. ‘Come,’ urged the letters. So they did.
They took a packet boat from Tilbury, ploughing across the Bay of Biscay in the first week of March 1935. Grace’s parents were horrified at how far their beautiful and clever daughter had thrown in her lot with the louche and prospect-less Adie. The situation was barely improved by the news that this was a respectable passage: the Adies had been pronounced man and wife on 28 February by the registrar at Bournemouth, where his family had set up home. They had not been invited to the ceremony. It was not so much a secret wedding, as a fuss-free occasion, in the same manner as the passports had been arranged and tickets purchased with the last of that month’s allowance from their respective families.
In Italy, there was a delay. A letter to the family back in Wimborne Road, Bournemouth reads, ‘We are stuck on the docks with nothing but pennies for cigarettes and wine, waiting for some mischief-makers in Brindisi to settle their differences with the ship owner before we can board for the final push across the Ionian . . . we are short-tempered but managing to ration our arguments along with any unrealistic hopes. Our first marital test – G. wants either a bed for the night or an immediate divorce. I told her this is a Catholic country and she has Burned Her Bridges!!’
Songs of Blue and Gold Page 4
