by Annie Murray
‘Well,’ Elizabeth said, turning away to look around. ‘We don’t have to saw people’s legs off every day you know. As a matter of fact, I trained at Barts – that’s St Bartholomew’s in London. One of the best teaching hospitals. So, any problems – haemorrhoids perhaps . . . ?’ She turned in time to catch Lewis Barker’s bewildered expression. ‘Piles, dear,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m the woman to go to.’
‘I think we’ll just look round,’ George said hastily, leaving a sour-looking Lewis to his fag end. ‘Masterful,’ he whispered to Elizabeth. ‘Absolutely masterful.’
She eyed him. ‘Mistress-ful, in fact.’
Lewis had the usual collection of dark and demoralized-looking furniture: chests of drawers piled one upside down on another, dressers, wardrobes, oak chests, all packed in so you almost had to scramble through tight spaces to see things. The roof, made of corrugated asbestos, had a few windows in it, all filthy, the light seeming strained through muslin.
George picked his way round, selecting a couple of items. He noticed that some of the goods already had labels attached to them with SOLD stamped on in red.
‘I see quite a few of these have gone already,’ he called to Lewis.
‘Ah, yes.’ Lewis, recovering his irritating buoyancy, came over to join them. ‘Had a dealer from America in this week, as a matter of fact. Very wealthy man – some sort of oil family, I think. Money to burn. Bought a whole load of stuff. I’m just waiting for the shipping company to collect it.’
They made their way to the back. Dust-thickened cobwebs sagged across the corners. A piece of furniture almost at the end caught George’s eye. It was pushed back against the wall and tied to the key in the upper keyhole was another of the SOLD labels. As he moved closer, the piece came into focus. A bureau bookcase, mahogany, rather odd feet on it. Looking more closely at it, it was familiar. Very familiar.
‘Lewis,’ he called, keeping his voice casual. ‘Nice piece, this – who sold it to you?’
‘The bureau bookcase?’ Lewis was standing quite a distance away. ‘Oh – I picked it up at auction. Caught my eye – Hepplewhite, of course. It’s a corker, isn’t it?’
‘Very nice,’ George agreed. ‘Mind if I take a look?’
‘Be my guest,’ Lewis said.
Elizabeth stood watching, with respect.
George opened the upper doors of Lady Byngh’s bureau, as if admiring the workmanship. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lewis Barker lumbering closer, along the narrow aisle.
‘Been nicely restored,’ he remarked. A nod to Clarence. George bent over, taking his time. He opened the bottom drawers one by one, poked and prodded, closed the last one then straightened up, regarding the bureau with a regretful air.
‘Very nice piece, Lewis – but what a shame. You do know it’s mated, don’t you?’
‘What the hell was all that about?’ Elizabeth seemed torn between irritation and infection by George’s hoots of laughter as they drove away. She gave in and chortled at the sight of him wiping his eyes at the thought of Lewis Barker’s face.
‘Stop – you’re going to crash the damn thing in a minute. Tell me.’
He pulled over, as soon as he could. The ‘Hepplewhite’ would soon be on a ship to some mansion in the USA. There was no more danger of it turning up round here.
‘That,’ he said, looking at Elizabeth, still full of mirth and leaning over to kiss her, ‘is what you might call a truly great climax to end the day.’
Or so he thought.
5.
‘That may not have been the most truthful way out,’ Elizabeth said as they drove home. He had related to her the saga of Lady Byngh and the intended wedding present that had just resurfaced. ‘But it was probably the kindest, in the end.’
George smiled, gratified. ‘I think it was,’ he said. ‘Sleeping dogs I think, in that case. And Lewis will get his money for it so he won’t be bothered.’ Lewis just didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t noticed.
He didn’t add his further observation that the bureau bookcase, which was on the point of being shipped out, would more normally be accessible near the door. But Lewis was keeping it squirrelled away at the back of the warehouse. He may not have known it wasn’t genuine, but Lewis clearly had some idea that he was handling stolen goods. Let’s hope the shipping company get there quick, George thought.
He looked at Elizabeth seated beside him and smiled at the sight. Her body, full in all the right places, eyes looking out with a gentle expression, strands of hair flying about in the air through the window, all filled him with a sense of wellbeing. It was Monday and just about closing time for the shop. Everyone would be going home. They could call in and drop off today’s new purchases without any complications from the workshop staff, or a pile of tasks from Vera. Then they could drive to Toke’s Farm, he would drag out the last load of junk from the barn while Elizabeth cooked a meal, they would open a bottle and eventually they would climb up to the bedroom, her hand in his . . . There would be lovemaking, and all the talk, the laughter . . . The evening stretched like a carpet of bliss before him. Everything he needed – such happiness!
They achieved the first part all right. Vera was just leaving as they arrived and exchanged a few words. They stowed away the things from out of the back of the van, lifted Monty aboard instead – in the open back as it was so warm – George dashed back inside for a nice bottle of Chianti he had ready and they hit the road again.
The evening air blowing into the cab smelt of late-summer leaves and, faintly, of smoke. He had never known it was possible to feel quite this happy. He shared this observation with Elizabeth, who smiled back, radiant herself. He saw the years unfurling ahead; this life, Elizabeth beside him. Which made him, out of a moment of unguarded fantasy touch her knee and say, ‘We shan’t have all this carting back and forth when you move in, shall we?’
‘Move in?’ Elizabeth sat bolt upright. He could feel the glare of her eyes even though he thought it prudent to keep facing forwards. ‘What in heaven’s name makes you think I’m going to move in with you? Good God – I’ve only known you for about ten days!’
‘But . . .’ he attempted.
‘Look – I’ve told you, or at least I thought I had . . .’
She had, but it seemed wrong to him. It wouldn’t settle in his mind in a way that he could accept. Wasn’t that what men and women did – live together, get married?
‘I’m not the sort to get married and settle down as a wifey. I’m a doctor, George. It’s taken me a great many years and an awful lot of work to get where I am and believe me – there’s a crying need for women doctors out there.’ She seemed very imposing suddenly, sitting there next to him, arms folded in defence across her chest and so crisply articulate. ‘Women desperately need someone to speak for them and understand their problems from the inside . . .’
‘But I didn’t mean . . .’ He was wretched, hurt by this attack.
‘I love you, George. I do . . .’
These words sank into him like a stone in mud. Did she? Oh thank God, thank God. But she was so cross. He was taken aback by her anger – as if she had to hold on very tight to something under attack. It wasn’t that he had meant to attack. Not in the least. All he wanted was to be with her, in any way possible. He almost felt like weeping. They were driving along the back road now, towards the farm track. He wanted to brake the van, for them to get out, for them to hold each other and for things to be all right again. They could go inside, open his bottle, talk and talk . . .
‘I seriously and absolutely do,’ she went on. ‘But don’t think I’m just going to roll over and spend my time . . . I don’t know, making jam. Not on your life.’
‘I really wasn’t saying that,’ he said, as mildly as possible, though he felt anguished and bruised. He didn’t want to row. He hated rowing. But they seemed to be doing it all the same, as if a chasm had – unbearably – cracked open between them. ‘Jam? No of course not! Please, Elizabeth – don’t .
. .’ He swung the van along the track. She had turned away and in a strained silence they crawled along the ruts until he could pull up in the yard. The spaniels came hurtling out of the barn, Monty leapt up roaring in the back.
In the midst of this mayhem Elizabeth touched his arm and said, not frostily exactly, but in a neutral tone which did not exude warmth, ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Why don’t you get started in the barn?’
6.
He paused in the doorway of the barn, looking along its dusty, cobwebby space, which was now almost empty. The dogs had cleared off somewhere and all was quiet now. At the far end were the remaining cartons of stuff belonging to Elizabeth’s mother. Pushed in beside them, in the far right-hand corner, was a tangle of rusty tools. Soon the job would be done and all of it gone.
George felt the swell of disconsolate feeling develop in him as he began on the boxes in the barn’s now crepuscular light. He felt truly wretched, hurt and angry, foolish and a tad self-righteous.
Why had he kidded himself into thinking he could have a relationship with a woman like Elizabeth? Other chaps often said educated women were trouble and here he was with this one – so independent and bolshie. And she certainly didn’t want the things for which he longed – a settled, affectionate married life. She didn’t even want to live with him at all, apparently. So what in hell’s name did the woman want with him?
He reached the closest box and landed a kick in the side of it. A soggy, unsatisfying kick. Pulling back one of the flaps he saw that it seemed to be full of seed catalogues, the top ones disfigured by grubs and damp. God in heaven, was there nothing that Mrs Hargreaves had not hoarded? Among the innumerable boxes they had found caches of letters, which Elizabeth had taken to put in drier storage for sorting out when she found the time. They were one of the few things they had not put to the flames.
Grumpily he gathered armfuls of the Suttons catalogues and chucked them into the wheelbarrow until it was full and he could push them round to the heap at the back where they would light the fire. He did this a number of times, glad of the physical activity, such was his pent-up hurt and disappointment. But all the while his unhappy mind was whirring.
Win. Oh Win, Win! During that half-hour he suffered an acute, nostalgic longing for her. He had not appreciated her. He had been a terrible man, a faithless man – a fool. Never, he thought, hurling more catalogues into the barrow with a mean sort of energy, had he given her enough credit for being the kindly, conventional and, yes, biddable woman that she had been. Win had never moaned about making jam. In fairness, he had to acknowledge that a compelling reason for this was that she had never actually made any jam and was quite happy with a jar of Robertson’s from the grocer’s. But all the same. Win wanted marriage, like a normal woman. She had wanted children, though that had not come about – but all she had desired was the quiet, married life, man plus woman, that most people expected.
Why had he been so discontented, he wondered now? There he had been, in a gentle, undemanding landscape with a predictable layout of fields, hedges, barns, villages . . . Now he felt as if he had strayed off the edge into the unknown, like in the old maps – the mysterious, foggy territory where ‘there be dragons’. Where you never quite knew where you were or what might be crouching there in the murk . . .
He shoved the barrow out through the barn door. No Elizabeth coming to apologize, he noted sourly, all at odds with himself. Perhaps her sort, the dragon sort, never did – they always thought they were right.
As he emptied the barrow onto the bonfire pile again, the niggling thought occurred – was Elizabeth waiting for him to apologize? But what did he have to apologize for? All he was asking was for something normal and straightforward . . .
On and on his mind went, jabbing and harrumphing. But he started to find that the boxes he was emptying were full of things related to antiques – magazines and catalogues – and a part of his attention began to be engaged. He had reached the seam of Mrs Hargreaves’ antiques phase. There were a few magazines about pottery that perhaps he should put aside for Kevin.
Yet at the same time he was thinking, Right, That’s It. I’ll do the decent thing and finish the job. I might as well eat supper with her now she’s cooked it. But I’ll tell her it’s all over. Clearly we’re not on the same wavelength. Wheeling the barrow, he started composing valedictory speeches, trying to achieve the right balance of assertion and fairness. He rehearsed various beginnings: ‘The thing is, Elizabeth . . .’; ‘It’s obvious by now that you and I don’t see eye to eye . . .’
Muttering, he went back to the barn, dumped the barrow and flung open one of the final boxes. More antique stuff. At least this was a bit more interesting.
‘My word,’ he said, impressed. ‘She certainly got about.’
He found himself sorting through a pile of auction catalogues, almost all dated sometime during the war. She must have made a habit of going to auctions to take her mind off things, he thought. There were catalogues for sales at the big London auction houses, Christie’s, Sotheby’s, as well as Philips, Hamble and Moorland, and other more local outfits. She must have gone for the pleasure of it more than to buy things, he thought. After all, when you came down to it there had not been all that much in the house.
Sitting back on his heels, he flipped through some of them, intrigued to see what had been on sale during the war. So absorbed was he that he only heard Elizabeth’s call, ‘Geor-orge?’ across the yard with a fragment of his attention. He opened a catalogue from Christie’s, yellowed at the edges, the sale in September 1943.
‘Geor-orge! The food’s ready.’
The word caught his eye on the second page, jumped out at him like a white brick in a black wall: Allodola. ‘Venus on horseback, bronze, C17th, Allodola, height 14" – considered to have been one of a pair . . .’
His pulse had speeded to a crazed thudding, any other thought long left behind. He kept staring at the page, willing it to divulge more information, for the alluring figure on the bronze horse to come galloping from the page and show herself to him, to prove that she was . . . Surely it was . . .
‘George . . . ?’ She was at the barn door as he leapt to his feet as if he had been stung, scattering the other catalogues.
‘Look!’ He charged at her, finger jabbing at the catalogue. ‘It’s her – it’s got to be. I’ve found her, Lizzie – found her – at long blooming last!’
‘What? Who?’ She was laughing at the sight of his face.
He grabbed her shoulders and swung her round, ‘hooraying’ and jigging with such exultation that all Elizabeth could do was join in with something much the same.
October
Seventeen
1.
Before he had opened his eyes that morning, his senses woke gradually to the warmth emanating from beside him in the bed, to the gentle sound of breathing. He moved his hand, reaching for her and met her long, firm back. Turning over, he pressed his cheek against her – his woman.
Joy, utter joy. It was the weekend, she was not on call and she was here, able simply to be with him. Two days stretched out before them, autumn days of whirling leaves and bonfire smoke, of walks on the downs and cosy afternoons, even perhaps putting a match to the fire. And her, here – this glorious, maddening, loveable woman beside him.
Elizabeth’s two-week stay at Toke’s Farm had been over for some time. She could not put the house and land up for sale yet because of the presence of Lottie and the donkeys, but the house now stood all but empty and she had to return to her surgery. George had once visited her Basingstoke flat and had been taken aback by its bleak functionality. Elizabeth had apologized.
‘I know you always need to make everything beautiful.’ She looked round the white walls of the flat almost as if seeing the place for the first time. ‘It’s just – well, I suppose I’m forever busy. And it’s never been somewhere I saw as being my home long term. More of a perch.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s one of the many things I love about you
– that you bring so much beauty into my life.’
She always came over to Greenbury when she had time off.
Last night she had managed to get away in good time and fell on the shepherd’s pie George had made with great enthusiasm, saying she had barely eaten all day. Even though they spoke almost every evening, there was always plenty to catch up on – his customers, her patients.
‘So,’ she had said as they sat digesting, sipping at good red wine. ‘Your Mr Howard’s very pleased to have heard from you, by the sound of things?’
‘Group Captain Howard, if you don’t mind,’ George admonished.
Elizabeth gave a mock-obedient nod. ‘I stand corrected.’
George had contacted Christie’s straight away after finding the catalogue with the Venus in it, asking about the 1943 sale. Christie’s promptly supplied an address in Trowbridge, Wiltshire.
‘Of course,’ he had said to Elizabeth as this progressed, ‘she could have been sold on several times by now. But at least we’re on to her.’
Elizabeth seemed to understand how the Allodola Venus had captivated him, that she was also tied up with the sadness of the place, the dead sons followed by the dead wife, such beauty in the face of a tragic family. That evening at the farm he had told her the bare bones of his visit to the Americas, about Paul Lester in Argentina, of coming face to face once again with Mars on Horseback, in Lester’s possession.
‘Are you absolutely sure it’s the same one?’ Elizabeth had asked. ‘They weren’t churning out replicas all over the place?’
George laughed. ‘No, no. The Allodola was a most refined Florentine workshop. Each of them is unique, with the little skylark in silhouette. And it’s a relatively unusual depiction from that period, having the gods on horseback – especially in the case of Venus. This was the thing, you see – Lester knew they were worth a mint if he could just get his hands on the other one.’
