by Liz Fenwick
My last meeting with her had been less than pleasant. She had been dismissive of Alex’s family. They were merchants. She almost spat the word out. I just let her talk. Her plans for me were for next summer: the season. But I had no intention of being a debutante. I was too old. Nor was I intending to go along with her plans to marry me to a lord.
Alexander Carrow would be my husband and my miserable grandmother would just have to live with it.
And so, despite long-distance pleas from my father, I returned to Paris just two weeks before war was declared . . .
‘Jean, Paris will be OK, won’t it?’ I look up from my canvas.
‘The Nazis wouldn’t dare, or so the Parisians say and have been saying all summer.’ She walks around to look at my work. ‘My God, he’s well built.’
I hit her with my brush. I can’t get Alex out of my mind, nor do I want to.
‘I can tell what you were up to on your holiday.’
I giggle.
‘Are you in love?’ Jean takes up the paintbrush and dabs it in the cobalt. She dots it lightly at the knee joint. The painting is instantly balanced and I am in awe.
‘Yes – and how do you do that?’
She laughs her deep throaty laugh. ‘Simple. Step back from your work. Half close your eyes and all will become clear.’
I do this but nothing is obvious.
‘You are looking too hard and trying to hold it close. You must let it go.’
But Paris was fine, I thought. The French felt the Nazis wouldn’t dare. Jean had spent the whole summer in Paris working. She assured me that all was well. I don’t know why I believed her. Her mastery of the language was such that she had trouble ordering a meal, so how could I trust she would know anything? But I did. I stayed put and began to work very hard. I needed to make a name for myself. When the war was over, Alex would be a barrister and I a society portrait painter. That was our plan.
However, my summer of playing and very little painting showed up badly against Jean’s hard-working one. She had moved on in leaps and bounds while I was away. I helped her to send more paintings to the gallery in London. Something had altered her vision, and it was stunning.
We settled down to life again, both painting and working with Pierre. My work moved more and more into the abstract and hers remained realistic. Egging each other on, we painted from life and were challenged by the changing face of Paris. Her work became stronger while I was pulled towards portraits from my memory. In secret I kept sketching Alex, trying to keep him close. His ring hung above my heart and his letters became less frequent and told me nothing, which in a strange way told me everything.
After walking up the track to get enough signal to receive her emails, Gabe was quickly reminded by the influx that she had been neglecting her job. They needed the money, so she couldn’t let work slide or the commissions she relied on would dry up. Her piano was in the studio and that was where Fin was, and she couldn’t move it into the cabin, she knew that, but her keyboard would fit in her bedroom, just.
She brushed against the bay hedge and stopped to enjoy the aroma. Some places didn’t smell of anything much, but here at Bosworgy there were so many scents and the individual fragrances vied with each other to be the dominant one. The time of day and the heat of the sun seemed to aid some more than others and now, as she moved closer to the studio, the scent of pine erased the bay. A heron, startled by her footsteps, flew from its perch on the fallen branch below. Gabe started. Her nerves were on edge. As much as she didn’t want to think about it, she wasn’t happy to be around men any more, and she understood this was a natural response – the therapist had told her so. But it wasn’t convenient when half the population was male, and having one take up residence in the studio wasn’t good.
The door was slightly ajar. She found herself inwardly shouting, ‘Why are you here?’ But if she didn’t vocalise the question Fin could never answer it. She knocked.
‘Come in.’
Gabe walked in to find Fin putting on a shirt and looked quickly away from his bare torso.
‘I’ve just come to collect my keyboard.’
‘Do you want to work here?’ He did up his buttons.
Gabe watched the deft fingers at their task. ‘No, it’s OK. My computer is set up in the bedroom so I’ll just take this and get to work.’
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘No, thanks. I can manage.’ But Gabe fumbled when she unplugged the keyboard and collapsed the legs. Fin grabbed the console before it hit the ground and his arm brushed hers. She backed away.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. I’ll just carry it for you.’ And before she could refuse he was out of the door, leaving her to gather the cables and follow. A gull screamed just outside and Gabe wanted to do the same.
She made her way back to the cabin, expecting to find Fin in her room, but he had left the keyboard on her bed and was nowhere to be seen. He might be with Jaunty. Gabe frowned. She didn’t like the amount of time they were spending together.
The scent of Fin filled her bedroom and Gabe shut the door. It was no longer her space. After setting up the console she put on her headphones, blocking out the world. Before she looked at her brief, she took a deep breath, then regretted it: lemony aftershave.
Pulling her shoulders back, Gabe held the position and lowered them, opening her chest. She felt her spine click and brought her arms forward slowly before pulling them back again just a bit further. She felt better. Her fingers hovered above the keys. The pain in her left hand from the holly cut stilled her fingers. Gently she played some slow chords then tried a Chopin mazurka from memory. She missed a few notes by hitting the wrong keys but the scabs held. Still, it did mean that her reach was limited, and her playing would be as well until her hand had fully healed. She played ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, letting the childhood tune soothe her. Only then did she read the brief for a second-hand car salesroom outside of London that needed a chirpy tune for a radio advert. She sighed and went to work, playing with sounds until she hit what she felt would fit the remit. That done, she connected her computer to the keyboard and downloaded the tune. Once on the computer she added the other instruments to the composition and scratched her notes down on sheet music. This was never what she imagined her life would be like.
She pushed through the sheets of music beside the keyboard. A keyboard was fine, but right now only playing on the real piano was going to chase her demons away. She found her own work, something that she had begun a few weeks ago. It was not for a commercial, not for the public; it was a symphony, a symphony of loss, but as yet it was incomplete. Picking it up, she set off towards the studio, hoping Fin was still somewhere else.
In the sitting room she looked for Jaunty, but she wasn’t around. She popped her head into the bedroom and Jaunty wasn’t there either, but on the desk were sketches, sketches of people. Gabe wasn’t sure what she was more surprised about: that they were of people or that they were of a naked Fin and a portrait in charcoal that looked like Fin but not quite. It was of a younger man. Jaunty had captured Fin to perfection. Desire swelled up in Gabe and she looked around, hoping that no one could see her ogling the nudes. Her fingers ran down the outside of the sketch collecting the gritty remains of charcoal on it. She pulled back and swallowed. She had no place for desire in her life.
The dreams of the night drifted away as Jaunty watched Fin’s head disappear from view down the bank. She put her hand to her heart: Alex. She looked to the sky. Rain was moving in from the north. It was a changeable season, fruitful and frantic yet strangely peaceful on the river. At this time of year it was more like it had been in the past. Few boats cruised by the point and the sounds filling the air were of the birds and the cows.
Yes, each year as the autumn moves on to winter the Helford goes back in time. It is more how I remember it. It is only of late that the loud powe
rboats fill the creek at high tide and the reckless young power around in circles when they should take it slow.
When I came here the second time, I was a young mother, wet behind the ears. I had left the security of Mrs Bartholomew’s bed and breakfast. She had been a woman of few words, but she saw my fear, my loneliness and ineptitude. In the quiet time, before Philip was born, she taught me to cook, to wash and to clean. Gabriella, life here in this part of the world was not as you know it now. There was no electricity or running water.
The boom of an air cannon went off on a nearby field and scattered the river birds, setting them off low above the water until they rose on the air currents, complaining all the way. Jaunty listened to the increasing sound of a helicopter from RNAS Culdrose. She couldn’t see it yet, but before long it would be in view.
The war had begun but Paris thought the Nazis would never make it that far. My parents were in panic and when spring came my father began to pull strings because he was determined to get me out of Paris. He had left Mother in New York and come back to serve but I was reluctant to leave. I hadn’t heard from Alex. His last letter had told me to trust him and to pray. I did both. There was no point in heading back to London. Alex wasn’t there. But Father became insistent and even I realised I would need to leave when the Nazis were just outside the city.
Father made arrangements for me to depart on the Lancastria out of St Nazaire. I packed what few things I could, consigned my paintings to the concierge, and readied myself to go, but there was one problem: Jean. She had no connections to get her out. I told her to pack and come along. There was no way that they would leave a British citizen in occupied France, or so I thought.
Nothing had prepared me for the chaos of the port. The numbers of civilians and soldiers trying to return to England heightened the combustible atmosphere. I tried to get her name on the lists, but it didn’t work. I didn’t stop at the first attempt or the fourth.
‘Go.’ Jean pushes me into the crowd but I cling to her hand. We are moving along with the flow and she tries to free her hand but I won’t release it. Tears flow down her face and I feel her fear. My stomach is in knots. I can’t leave her.
The cold grasp of the water took Gabe’s breath away as she slipped into the creek. The river was strangely still and she set off across it. Again her dreams had been filled with thoughts of the competition and its aftermath. When she woke sweat poured from her as if she had run a marathon, and her limbs were bound with the twisted sheets. Now the deep thump of an engine reverberated in her ears. She paused to check for the boat. They wouldn’t see her in the low morning light. She kicked harder until she had reached the safety of the north shore. She panted as she looked back towards the cabin. It was almost invisible behind the trees. If she didn’t know it was there she wouldn’t find it. However, she did, and she could just make out Fin walking from the studio.
She began a more leisurely breaststroke for the first part of the swim, but the further she reached the more she thought of her nightmares. She changed to the butterfly to try and eliminate them from her mind. She almost lacked the strength to climb up to the cabin when she had reached the point but physical exertion always helped.
After showering, Gabe went into the sitting room. No sign of Jaunty. She peered into her grandmother’s bedroom and Jaunty was sitting at her desk at the end of the room. Her head was down and she clutched a pen in her hand. She didn’t look up. Gabe tensed, then crept up to her to make sure she was just sleeping. Looking around, Gabe wondered what she had been writing but saw no paper. Backing out of the room, she crashed into Fin. His hands grabbed her shoulders and Gabe sucked in a mouthful of air. She pulled herself together and walked past him to the kitchen. He followed.
‘Do you mind if I use the shower?’
‘You don’t have much choice as there isn’t one in the studio.’ She wished he’d just do it without asking. She didn’t want to think about him.
‘Thanks. I won’t be long.’
‘Is that you Gabriella?’ Mrs Bates called from outside.
‘Yes.’ Gabe walked to the door.
‘I was passing and just wanted to be sure you were settled in all right. I hear you have a strange man staying.’
Gabe pushed down her shoulders as the tension rose in her. ‘We’re fine, and yes, we have a man staying with us. The one whose boat was wrecked.’
‘The one that was with you in the shop? So good-looking.’ She wiggled her girth and stood straighter. ‘But you need to be careful of strangers. You know nothing about this man.’
Gabe nodded, agreeing with her, but at the same time feeling the urge to tell her to piss off. ‘Wise words, Mrs Bates. I’m sure he won’t be here for long.’
‘I hope he will be.’ Jaunty had come up behind Gabe without a sound.
‘You’re looking well, Jaunty. Having Gabriella here has lifted you I can see.’
‘Nonsense. I was fine on my own.’ Jaunty moved to the kitchen and placed a cup in the sink, and Fin walked into the room dressed only in a towel. Jaunty grinned and Gabe swallowed. ‘But it’s good to have a man about the place.’
Mrs Bates blushed and colour rose in Gabe’s face.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t expect anyone here.’ He nodded to all three women and eased out of the back door. ‘If you’ll excuse me . . .’
‘I say!’ Mrs Bates turned and watched him walk to the studio.
You would. Gabe was most interested in Jaunty’s reaction. Her eyes were smiling and less sadness pulled at her face. ‘Thank you for dropping by and checking on us, Mrs Bates. I’m afraid we can’t stop any longer as Jaunty has an appointment, so if you will excuse us?’
The woman left with no further questions.
‘I don’t have an appointment.’ Jaunty turned to Gabe.
‘You’re right, you don’t.’
‘You’ve changed.’ Jaunty turned on the tap to fill a glass.
‘Yes.’ Gabe walked into her room and shut the door. She needed to work and this was her only space. But she had forgotten that Fin had used her shower and the room smelled of him.
The journey to the studio took longer than Jaunty remembered. She had to stop frequently to fill her lungs, but while Gabriella was occupied she must act. She almost lost her nerve but moved forward to the door, as there was no time to waste. ‘I gather from the way you look at paintings that you know a thing or two about art.’ Jaunty leaned against the doorjamb to the studio. Fin was pulling a shirt over his head and again she was jolted back in time. It was here, where the studio now was, that she and Alex had first made love.
‘I’m an art dealer and historian.’ He looked at the paintings about the room. Some of them were her best and some her worst.
Jaunty swallowed. ‘I thought as much.’ Doubt filled her, but his profession might work in her favour.
He cocked his head to one side just the way Alex had. Alex had always questioned her assumptions. He was good for her. Dietrich had simply loved her.
‘You have been trained to look at a work, assessing each of the aspects, from brushwork to colour to perspective and so on, as if you were reading a text. Other people look at art, and my work in particular, and just feel something, but they are not sure quite how or why they do.’ Jaunty turned to him. ‘You read the painting first, then step back and, I hope, feel it.’
He laughed and a shiver ran over Jaunty’s skin. It was the caress of a memory. One so long buried that now, out of its hiding place, it made breathing difficult. A waft of pine scent blew through the door, the pleasure of her lover and the pain of the prickly needles against her skin all wrapped in the scent. How had she suppressed it for so long?
‘Who do you work for? What’s your area of speciality?’ Jaunty moved to her armchair. Her first instinct had been to go to the stool in front of the easel. But it and the easel had been moved. Instead she slipped into the overstu
ffed chair. It was still in her favourite position. If she turned her head to the right she could see the river and directly in front lay the mouth of the creek.
‘Who do I work for? Good question.’ He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Before the divorce I shared my business with my wife. Now she owns it all and I owe her nothing. I am free.’
‘Hence drifting around the Helford on a boat.’
‘Well, yes.’ He looked Jaunty directly in the eye. ‘You see, my grandmother died and left me Jezebel, some money and a few prized possessions of my great-uncle who died in the last World War – in fact, he drowned off the coast of Cornwall, not too far from here.’
Jaunty gave a dry laugh. She knew where this was leading even if Fin didn’t. ‘Who was your great-uncle?’
‘Alexander Carrow.’
Her heart stopped for a moment, hearing his name spoken. ‘So you came to discover more about the man who left you a legacy?’
‘Yes. The legacy included a beautiful painting of the mouth of Frenchman’s Creek and the cabin.’
Jaunty’s hand flew to her heart and he leapt to his feet.
‘Are you OK?’
She knew the watercolour. She had painted it just after that fateful visit and given it to him as a gift before they parted. It was a promise. ‘Do you still have this painting?’
‘Yes, I salvaged it from Jezebel.’
‘May I see it?’
He rifled through some things at the side of the bed and pulled out a framed watercolour. Jaunty’s chest tightened again. There was no doubt. He handed it to her and she could see her emerging style. But unlike the work that she was now known for, the landscape was obvious, whereas since the war the water was all. If there was land in the painting it was merged into the water to become part of it.
She had signed it with her first name only. It was odd to see it on the bottom of the paper. She looked up to find Fin watching her. He knew, but he didn’t know. She turned the painting over in her hands. It was in the frame she had put it in and the original tape was still on the back, damaged but there.
