‘Yes.’
‘Wow…’
He drew closer to the image, both fascinated and revolted.
‘It’s The Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew. Vile, isn’t it?’
Kane nodded.
‘What you need to remember,’ she counselled, ‘is that Lochner and his contemporaries lived lives of great extremity, of violent contrast. Huizinga says how the outlines of all things were much more clearly marked back then, and that’s represented here, visually, in the very modern way in which the artist has outlined the silhouettes of Bartholomew’s torturers…’
Kane inspected the silhouettes, frowning. Then he shuddered.
‘It’s hard to really understand the dark, for example, if you always have ready access to light, or the cold if you have constant access to heat, or real distance if you never actually walk anywhere…’
‘Walk?’ Kane scoffed. ‘Did you ever try and do anything on foot in this town?’
‘In Ashford?’ she chuckled. ‘Are you kidding? It’s such an astonishing muddle, for one thing – such a puzzle. It’s like history in paradigm. At its centre beats this tiny, perfect, medieval heart, but that heart is surrounded – obfuscated – by all these conflicting layers; a chaos of buildings and roads from every conceivable time-frame. It’s pure, architectural mayhem. A completely non-homogeneous town, utterly half-cocked, deliriously ramshackle…And then, clumsily imposed on top – the icing on the cake – this whole crazy mish-mash of through-roads and round-roads and intersections and dead-ends – Business Parks, Superstores, train stations, train tracks – which slice blithely through all the other stuff, apparently aiding it on the one hand, yet completely disregarding it on the other…’ she paused, ruminatively. ‘You’re right: Ashford’s a fantastic contradiction; a city which professes to celebrate journeying while being basically almost unnavigable on foot.’
Kane continued to stare at The Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew while she spoke. He found the painting oddly mesmerising. In it he saw six men degrading a naked saint who lay on his belly (tied by two strands of rope, at his waist, to a table). The saint was fully conscious, and he didn’t look especially saintly, or – his halo aside, obviously – particularly or indefinably different to his torturers. He could’ve been any of them.
And he wasn’t just receiving the torture, passively, he was propping himself up, on to his elbow, and glancing over his shoulder (irate, almost) as one of his attackers – knife between his teeth – matter-of-factly prised back a huge, clean sheet of his skin.
Below the table, an old man casually and cheerfully sharpened the knives. Further along, a man dressed in white idly pushed a blade into the saint’s thigh.
‘What you see here is the spectacle of torture,’ she said. ‘Life back then was all about the spectacle: the noble majesty of princes, the pious grandeur of the Church, the extreme poverty of beggars, the righteous savagery of public executions. And the spectacle – in this instance – is rendered all the more awful by the casual demeanours of the men actually implementing it. In the Middle Ages they had no concept of leniency. They believed in the two extremes of cruel punishment or absolute mercy. Something was either right or wrong. There were no grey areas. No middle ground. A crime was an insult against society and God and it had to be punished – even celebrated – accordingly.’
‘Well thank God for the grey areas, huh?’ Kane murmured.
‘You think modern life’s all in neutrals?’ she wondered.
‘Isn’t that what you’ve just been arguing?’
‘I’d’ve thought you’d be hard pressed to find anything more black and white,’ she smiled, ‘than the British tabloid press. Or the deranged philosophies of Al Q’aeda, come to that…’
‘How much is it worth?’ Kane wondered, walking back over to the hot bench again (choosing not to engage with her any further on these points).
‘Although – somewhat ironically,’ she continued, undeterred, ‘in medieval times it was principally the Islamic faith which strove to expand the world’s intellectual boundaries – their Arabic translations of the early works of Aristotle, for example; and it was the advent of Caxton’s Printing Press which helped to solidify and proliferate the English Renaissance through the ready provision of cheap, topical reading matter…’
Kane was bending over the bench and closely scrutinising the canvas. ‘It seems so tiny,’ he said, fascinated. ‘I’d love to actually see it.’
‘I paid 200,000,’ she finally answered his earlier enquiry, ‘which I thought was a snip.’
He glanced up, impressed. ‘And how much will you sell it for?’
She shrugged. ‘That’s anyone’s guess. It all depends on whether I can establish any kind of provenance…’
‘You’ll restore it yourself?’
‘If I can. For the most part.’
‘Will it take long?’
‘Probably.’
‘So who did you buy it from?’
She turned as he spoke, registering the sudden clatter of heavy footsteps on the staircase below them.
‘An old German widow in Berlin. There’s extensive water damage,’ she murmured, strolling over to the door. ‘The warehouse where it was stored was heavily bombed during the war…’
As she spoke a woman hurried into the studio. It was the woman from the courtyard; the tiny, incomprehensible woman with her scraped-back hair, her heavy clogs and her plastic apron. The apron was now streaked in what Kane presumed to be goose gore. She held her two hands out in front of her, fastidiously (as if she’d been caught on the hop and hadn’t had the chance to scrub them clean). She was short of breath. She quickly patted a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the inside of her arm. A strand of hair had come loose from her tight bun.
‘What’s wrong, Ann?’ Peta asked, gently tucking the errant strand behind her ear.
‘Ya kiraysee jammun frund jast tooned ap, scratchud ta peases, raven lick a maddun,’ Ann said, indicating behind her, with some urgency, ‘a laft im inna kite-chen.’
Peta seemed surprised by this news. ‘Was that wise?’
Ann shrugged. ‘Well wat alse kad-ee du?’
‘Okay. Fine. Well just try and keep him calm. Don’t confront him, don’t scare him. I’ll come straight down.’
Ann nodded, turned and darted back off again.
Peta glanced over towards Kane. ‘Something’s come up,’ she said, holding out her outstretched palm. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you packing.’
‘Where’s she from?’ Kane wondered, walking over and instinctively grasping her fingers (like a child looking for a mother’s reassurance before crossing a busy intersection).
‘Who? Ann?’
He nodded.
‘The North East.’
‘No. I mean originally. Romania? Lithuania?’
‘The North East,’ she repeated, ‘near Sunderland.’
‘Oh.’
Kane was perplexed. He stared down at his hand, in her hand. He blinked. For a moment he could hardly tell which of them was hers, which was his. The big hand? The small?
‘You’re right, though,’ she conceded, ‘it’s an amazing accent…’ she led him out firmly on to the stairwell and gently released him ‘…the best piece in my collection, actually; so raw, so spare, so rare, so antique…’
She gestured for him to lead the way, then followed – smiling faintly at his confusion – as they commenced their descent.
PART FOUR
DUNGENESS
‘She’ll have to stay in the car,’ he told the boy, gruffly, ‘her wheels will get stuck in the shingle.’
‘But we can take the cart off, Papa,’ Fleet wheedled, his face creasing up as if he might cry, ‘and I can carry her.’
‘She’s too heavy,’ his father insisted, ‘she’ll just get in the way…’ He paused. ‘I told you this would happen, didn’t I? Perhaps now you’ll understand why I counselled against bringing her. She’s sick, see? Disabled. She’s much better of
f at home. She’s happy there…’
He peered down on to the back seat where Michelle currently sat on a large, black, plastic sheet. He was pleased to note that there’d been no unnecessary ‘mishaps’ so far.
Elen clambered out of the front passenger side, bent over and quickly swiped the creases from her skirt. She couldn’t face another argument. It felt like they’d been arguing for the best part of the journey.
‘Aren’t you excited about seeing the lifeboat, Fleet?’ she called over.
‘Michelle wants to see the lifeboat, too,’ the boy insisted.
‘Michelle doesn’t give a damn about the lifeboat,’ Isidore snapped.
The boy’s eyes filled with tears. He held both of his arms, stiffly, by his sides. His lower lip protruded and then started to wobble.
‘Please,’ Isidore’s voice was hoarse, almost desperate, ‘not another scene. I don’t think I could stand it.’
‘Mama?’ The boy turned to face his mother. He held out his arms to her. Elen hurriedly made her way around the car. She squatted down in front of him, gently trying to force his arms to his sides again, but they remained stiff and unwieldy, like a rented deckchair which wouldn’t fold properly.
‘Did you take a peek at the Channel yet, Fleet?’ she asked. ‘See? Over there…’ she pointed towards the flat, seemingly boundless grey splodge of water roaring hoarsely to the right of them. ‘And the lighthouse? Two lighthouses. You’re spoiled for choice here.’
‘But why can’t I bring Michelle?’ Fleet persisted. ‘Look…’ he pointed to an adjacent power line. ‘Daddy brought Phlégein…’
Isidore stiffened at his son’s casual use of this strange word –
Phlégein?
From the Ancient Greek?
To burn?
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he barked.
He slammed the driver’s door shut, quite furious.
‘But you did,’ Fleet squealed. ‘Why can’t I have Michelle if you have Phlégein?’
‘D’you think it’s going to rain?’ Isidore asked Elen, stiffly. ‘Should I unpack the waterproofs, just in case?’
‘Yes. The sky’s a little dark…Good idea,’ Elen murmured.
Isidore marched around to the back of the car and yanked open the boot.
Elen turned to Fleet.
‘Michelle has to stay in the car,’ she chided him softly. ‘It looks like rain. She’ll get all wet and catch a horrible cold. You wouldn’t like that now, would you?’
‘I’ll hold her under my jumper,’ Fleet said.
‘No,’ Elen struggled to keep her temper in check, ‘no you won’t. She’s going to stay in the car and that’s that. She’s happy in the car. She likes being in there. She’s guarding the car. That’s her job. Look…’ Elen indicated towards the window where Michelle’s nose was currently pressed, her poignant eyes mercifully obscured by a small patch of condensation on the pane.
‘Why doesn’t Phlégein stay in the car?’ Fleet whispered, conspiratorially. ‘I don’t like him, Mama. He’s horrible. Why does Papa always let Phlégein come along? It’s not fair.’
Elen drew a deep breath. ‘We spoke about this before,’ she said, ‘remember? Mummy doesn’t like it when you talk about Phlégein. It makes Daddy cross. Mummy doesn’t want you to talk about it any more.’
‘But why doesn’t Phlégein stay behind too?’ Fleet persisted.
Elen tried a different tack. ‘Would you like it if Phlégein stayed in the car with Michelle?’ she asked, her voice taking on a slightly ominous tone. ‘Just the two of them? All alone?’
The boy’s eyes widened.
‘Let’s not speak of this any more,’ she said, hating herself.
Isidore slammed the boot shut.
‘I can only find two mackintoshes,’ he said. ‘Yours and Fleet’s.’
‘Are you certain?’ Elen stood up. ‘I’m sure I packed yours with mine…’
‘Positive,’ Isidore insisted, throwing her mac over to her.
‘Should I take a quick look?’ she asked, catching it and shaking it out, just to make sure the two weren’t caught up together.
‘Fine,’ Isidore snapped, ‘if you think I’m incapable of hunting down a stray mac…’
‘No,’ Elen murmured. ‘Of course. You’re right…I’m just being…uh…’
She began to yank on the mac over her plain, black, knitted top.
‘I don’t like it here,’ Fleet muttered, turning into the wind and hugging himself against the cold. ‘It’s ugly and messy and all…all squashed.’
Isidore unrolled Fleet’s mac then reached out and grabbed hold of one of his arms.
‘I can put it on myself!’ Fleet screamed, snatching his arm back. ‘Stop that! Now!’
Elen spoke sharply, pulling her hair free from the neck of her mac and trying to wrestle it into a ponytail.
They both glanced up at her, as if uncertain which of the two of them she was actually chastising.
‘Fleet,’ she added, as an afterthought, ‘don’t be such a baby or we won’t go and see the boat after all.’
‘I don’t care about the boat,’ the boy griped, ‘I never cared about it.’
‘You like boats,’ Isidore growled.
‘I don’t care,’ Fleet repeated.
Elen took the boy’s coat from her husband and set about pulling it on. The boy sullenly complied to her brisk manhandling. Isidore scowled. He drew a deep breath and zipped his winter fleece right up to the throat. He locked the car and set the alarm –
Beep-beep
Fleet’s entire body jarred at this unexpected sound. But then, almost immediately: ‘Beep-beep,’ he echoed, blankly.
‘Well, I want to see the lifeboats,’ Elen said, straightening up, ‘and so does Daddy.’
The boy said nothing. He kicked out his foot and propelled a small pebble from the tarmac into the verge. The pebble made contact with the rattling brown skeleton of a dead plant.
‘That’s a Sea Holly,’ Elen said, pointing, ‘can you see the spiky seedpods like tiny pineapples on top? And that’s a Valerian…’ she pointed further along. ‘It used to grow wild in our old back garden – with the pretty cones of red flowers – remember? And that’s a Sea Kale…’ she pointed still further on. ‘Or what’s left of it. You can eat the leaves if you steam them. They taste like cabbage…’ she paused. ‘If we look hard we might find some interesting shells on the beach. Maybe even a fossil…’
‘Do you have the train time-table with you, Elen?’ Isidore interrupted her.
‘The train time-table?’
‘Yes. I handed it to you just as we were leaving.’
‘Did you? Oh…Right…’ Elen said, frowning.
‘I gave it to you just as we were leaving the house. In the hallway. I was carrying the dog. I’d dug it out specially from the box of papers in the study…’
Elen slowly felt around inside the pockets of her mac. ‘Well it’s not going to be in the pockets of your mac,’ Isidore snapped, ‘you’ve only just this second put that on.’
‘I don’t have any other pockets, Dory,’ Elen murmured.
‘Where’s your bag?’
‘I left it at home. I didn’t think I’d be needing it.’
‘So you shoved it into your bag and then left your bag behind, is that it?’
She shrugged.
‘Great.’
Isidore stalked off down the road, heading in the general direction of a large, solitary white shed positioned on a small ridge between the sea and the shingle.
Elen snatched a hold of Fleet’s hand and trotted along behind him.
‘I thought we were just visiting the lifeboat this time…’ she shouted.
‘I wasn’t certain if the lifeboat station would be open, so I dug out the train time-table, just in case,’ he yelled back. ‘Fleet’s never had the opportunity to ride on a miniature steam train before…’ ‘But it is open,’ she gesticulated, helplessly, with her free hand, ‘I mean it looks open, so w
e won’t…’
‘That’s hardly the point.’
Isidore strode on.
‘Ow!’
The boy suddenly ducked his head.
‘Now what?’ Elen glanced down, irritably.
‘Phlégein hit me,’ the boy grizzled, shoving the lower section of his face into the thick knit of his scarf, for protection.
‘Look at me,’ she instructed, still struggling to match her husband’s pace. ‘Where did he hit you?’
‘There…’
The boy indicated towards the side of his head, but still looked down – as if afraid to look up – his shoulders hunched.
‘I can’t see anything,’ she puffed. ‘Walk properly, Fleet. Don’t be silly. Lift your head up.’
‘He did hit me. I felt it…’
The boy tripped on a pot-hole and almost lost his balance. He kept a tight hold on his mother’s hand, exaggerating the trip and forcing her to take the best part of his body-weight. She winced, biting her lip, then righted him, with a grunt.
‘Well I can’t see anything,’ she panted. ‘Show me properly…’
‘No.’
Impasse
‘Well if I can’t see it,’ Elen reasoned, her nostrils flaring, ‘I can’t kiss it better, can I?’
‘I don’t care. I don’t want you to kiss it. I want to go home. I’m tired. I hate it here.’
‘Fine.’
She stuck out her chin. She pushed back her shoulders. She continued walking. The boy kept his head down. She looked around her, defiantly. The sea hissed and crackled interminably, like a stylus stuck inside the final groove of an old LP.
The road they were walking (there was no pavement, just the wide expanse of pebble beach beyond) slithered through the plain landscape like a contorted mamba searching for a private nook in which to shed its skin. But there were no gulleys for it to crouch in. The sky, like the sea, was grey and unrelenting. The wind howled.
She inspected the sparse assortment of tiny cottages dotting the shingle around them. For the most part: ramshackle, wooden huts, old train carriages or ancient, flimsy-looking prefabs, often ornamented quaintly with the spoils of the sea – pieces of driftwood, skeins of seaweed, the rotting hulls of old rowing-boats, abstract hunks of what looked like rusty farm machinery, lop-sided flagpoles, broken anchors…
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