by Ali Carter
On Ewen would have gone, the leader of the two, ‘When we’re in the ballroom you must photograph our next project, Early Morning Stags on the Moor.’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Louis, beaming with excitement. Result: the photograph of heather on Louis’ camera wasn’t actually from real life. It was a detail by Landseer. No surprise I’d been shut down when I suggested putting it on Zoe’s website.
If Ewen was in a bit of a fuss on the way home, heart beating rapidly with suppressed guilt, he could have easily accidentally hit a deer down the back drive. Then dragged it into the wood in a hopeless attempt to cover it up.
The huge file I saw downloading on Ewen’s computer, when Rupert and I paid him a surprise visit, were Louis’ photographs, details of Early Morning Stags on the Moor – they’d used up most of the bandwidth allowance.
Mention of an art valuer visiting had given Zoe the heebie-jeebies – she’d kicked up a fuss about the Landseers going on loan but she’d underestimated her husband’s persistence. He was mad keen they should be shown.
Urgh. I feel so embarassed remembering how smug I felt when I heard Ewen had gone away. I really believed he’d taken my advice and gone to start his own life. But no, he must have fled, maybe before or maybe at the same time as the woman driving the silver van. The very one Davy bumped into. Odd at the time, but now, I think, she must have been transporting an original painting. Davy had said she was all alone…So where is Ewen?
I rang the doorbell on the old-fashioned chain of Downs View, Berwick. Thirty seconds later and no answer, I let myself in. There was chattering in the room to my left but as I’ve caught a view of the dining room I’m going to put my box of chocolates in there. It gives me an excuse to count up the places.
Ten people are coming to dinner and as I creak open the small door to the sitting room it appears everyone has arrived.
‘You must be Susie, how marvellous to meet you.’ Lavender’s eyeshadow matched her purple lipstick and the baubles of her necklace and the studs in her ears. She gasped towards me across the small room and the lightness of the pomegranate print chiffon dress over her plump figure shimmered.
‘You look just like your mother,’ she said as she embraced me in her bosom.
Up until now I’ve always been told I’m the spitting image of my father’s mother, not my mother. But this kind of thing is what people say to make you feel like you belong. Lavender was welcoming my looks as an old friend and I told her how pleased I was to finally have been able to come.
‘I nearly gave up asking you.’ She rolled her eyes for comic effect. ‘I said to myself, well, we’ll give her one more try. Damned lucky I did, eh?’
I nodded and smiled, giving off all the right impressions despite the truth – I’d so much rather be at home in bed. Even Mum, when I’d rung to say I’d made it home, thought me going out for dinner would be an ordeal. ‘They’ll all be strangers double your age, poppet. No nice young men to keep you awake. You really should have said no.’
My parents will never tire of telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. They just love to be the ones in charge, respecting my decisions if they’re in accordance with theirs and kicking up a fuss if I go my own way. They’ve got it in their heads family mistakes are genetic. They’re convinced I, their only child, will get a double dosage of theirs and their relations’. They’re constantly trying to save me tripping up; the problem is, they leap in with opinions before I’ve even taken a step. But I’m soldiering on, living alone, being an artist and no doubt proving them wrong.
‘Would you like some wine, Susie?’ said Lavender. ‘Or something stronger? Your mother was always fond of a tipple.’
‘A glass of white wine would be lovely, thank you.’ I grinned; Mum would not like me being told this.
‘I’ll do it, Lav,’ came the dulcet tone of a dapper man next to the drinks cupboard.
‘Do take your coat off, Suz, and when you’re done just lay it on the sofa.’
As soon as I turned around, Lavender thrust a glass into my hand and introduced me to ‘Georgina Foss’.
Rubbish, I’d meant to Google her.
‘Hello, I’m Susie Mahl.’
Lavender left us.
‘Do call me George, it’s so much easier when one is amongst friends.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m told you’re an artist. Are you a painter, a writer, a sculptor, a dancer…?’
‘I’m a painter. Or at least trying to be.’ I gave a self-depreciating giggle.
‘You must stick at it. I’d love to hear more about your work. That’s if you don’t mind?’
I went hot at the thought and moved a step away from the fire. ‘I paint in oil, still lifes and landscapes mostly.’
‘From life?’
‘Yes, to begin with at least.’
‘Good girl. I can’t stand pictures from photographs. You can always tell. What’s your style?’
‘Well, hmmm, my paintings are, well, hmmm, always figurative but if you looked at a corner of one you might think it was abstract. I love colour.’
‘They sound wacky.’
I’d failed, they’re not. George had the wrong end of the stick.
‘Not exactly. I’m too unrelaxed to be wacky.’
She laughed as if trying to put me at ease. ‘Boy, I’d love to see some one day.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, returning her smile. ‘It is kind of Lavender to have told you what I do.’
‘It’s only because she knows I can be such a bore about art. I guess she wanted to palm me off on you. Bad luck.’
‘You won’t bore me, I could talk about it forever.’ Slight exaggeration but I was throwing myself in. If I want to leave early I must make an impression.
‘What do you do?’ I asked.
‘I used to work for an antique dealer.’
‘And now?’
‘Now…’ It was as if I should recognise her by name. ‘Now I’m a presenter.’
‘Sorry, I should have known.’
‘Not at all. You will know. It isn’t out yet.’
‘When is it?’ I said, implying I had a TV.
(A documentary on antiques – it’s not as if I’d be missing much.)
‘11th May, BBC Two, 9pm. Not the first time I’ve said that. It’s been in a very long broadcast queue. Made it a year ago but apparently that’s how these things go. I suppose the editing takes a bit of time and then there’s the consents. Just so many rules these days.’ She huffed.
‘Is that for the owners?’
‘What?’
‘Is it consent from the people who own the antiques?’
George flung her head back and as her hand shook with amusement she miraculously managed not to spill any wine out of her glass.
‘How hilarious you are. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with antiques.’
I giggled as if it was the right thing to do.
‘I’m the face of a documentary on art fraud.’
‘Wow,’ I was startled. I couldn’t bring myself to say any more.
‘Had me down as an Antiques Roadshow go-er, did you?’
‘No, not at all.’ My cheeks were burning.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to today?’
‘Come on, you two,’ came Lavender’s order, ‘break it up a bit.’
She nestled her ample behind between us and offered up a plate of cold cheese vol-au-vents.
‘You mustn’t keep talking to each other.’ She shunted George’s shoulder. ‘Have you met James Crow?’
‘Hello,’ he said.
James Crow was very tidy, his accent hard to distinguish and the distance between his legs suggested he’d spent today playing golf. But before I could decide on any more, a sharp ‘Hello, I’m Jessica Jones’ came into my left ear.
This short thin woman in a stiff linen sack was clearly well practised in working a room. ‘You’re the only person I haven’t met yet,’ she beamed.
‘Susie Mahl.’ I smiled, thinking it unnecessary to shake hands.
Nevertheless hers sprung out and as our palms clasped she said, ‘Mahl, that’s unusual. Is it your married name or your maiden name?’
‘Maiden name.’
‘Ah, so you’re a professional like me. How nice.’
I looked a little confused and she explained, ‘When I met my husband I’d already established my career so I couldn’t possibly have taken his name. Rather a bold move in my day.’
‘What do you do?’ I asked, assuming she must be a high-flier.
‘I’m a part-time literary translator. French and Portuguese. And you?’
‘I’m a painter.’
‘You mean an artist?’
Amusingly, I think, Jessica is trying to confirm I’m not a painter-decorator without having to ask.
‘Yes, an artist who paints.’
‘And how do you know Lavender? She’s so good at mixing the ages.’
‘Tonight is the first time I’ve met her, but she knew my mother when they were young.’
‘What a lovely connection.’
I gave a light smile and asked the same question back.
‘Philip, my husband over there,’ she pointed at a man whose podgy hand rose as his fingers gave a little flutter towards us, ‘is her daughter’s godfather.’
‘So you’re good friends?’
‘Yes, I suppose I could have put it like that.’
‘But you’d rather give him a role.’ This popped out my mouth completely unintentionally. Oh crumbs, my thoughts are turning themselves into words, a sure sign I’m far too tired for this. I compensated with a huge smile confirming – for her – I completely agreed with how she’d put it.
‘Dinner,’ announced Lavender and I dived out the sitting room into the kitchen.
‘Suz, be a star and put one of these on each plate, please.’
I looked down at ten sandy potatoes glued to a baking tray and when I stretched for the oven gloves I was told, ‘Don’t worry with those. Everything’s been out of the oven a little while.’
For dinner we were having gammon steaks, baked potatoes and skin-on-the-top white sauce. The full plates were being fed through a hatch by which Philip stood helpfully laying them round the table. Names had been scrawled on pieces of notepaper and, once seen, people began to sit down.
‘Oh no, Suz,’ said Lavender, ‘I forgot this. Do be a saint and take it round.’
She handed me a packet of pre-chopped parsley, curly – urgh – and motioned for me to take a saucer off the Welsh dresser. I followed her instruction and left the kitchen. Little pinches of two fingers and a thumb sprinkled it on top of the thick white sauce.
‘Here you go,’ said Philip, swapping the herb in my hand for a full plate in his. ‘That’s us all done.’
I sat down next to the dapper drinks server and the stump of the table. That’s the end of the table with no one there. If it was my supper party I’d have had uneven sides, and a person at each end. Saving those like me from one-sided company and a high possibility of the conversation going dead. But come to think of it there’s something wonderfully relaxed about Lavender’s lack of pre-planning – or chaotic planning if you look at it like this. Doorbell – no answer; laid table – cold food; name places – uneven numbers. I’m all of a sudden rather amused by how this evening’s going to pan out. A far cry from the Auchen Laggan Tosh timetable.
Opposite me was Paul, an unprepossessing man with no hair and enormous nostrils. I’d introduced myself briefly before dinner and was, to be quite honest, keen to avoid him. He had a whiff of I-haven’t-washed-for-a-while about him but, now, sitting opposite, I thought I must be polite.
I tried to catch his attention as he looked up and down the table but our eyes failed to meet – he clearly didn’t rate me much either. I watched as he punched his breast bone and drew a groggy lump up his throat. Poor Jessica beside him. Here’s hoping the bearded man on her right has better manners.
‘Hello,’ said my neighbour who wanted to shake hands, ‘I’m the son-in-law Stephen.’
‘Hello, I’m Susie. Is Lavender’s daughter here?’ I was surprised. Why hadn’t we been introduced?
Stephen laughed. A composed laugh but a laugh nonetheless and I realised what a ridiculous mistake I’d made. ‘I’m sorry.’ I laughed too. ‘It’s only Jessica mentioned a daughter. I haven’t ever met Lavender before.’
Jessica looked up.
‘It’s okay,’ Stephen nudged my knee. ‘That’s Chris there.’
Chris, the man with the beard, raised his mono-brow and nodded a ‘Hello’.
‘He’s not feeling well,’ whispered Stephen.
‘Poor guy.’
‘It’s his mother’s food. I think you’ll agree.’
‘I haven’t tried it yet,’ I smiled and he watched as I attempted to cut up my gammon steak.
All I can say is I’m extremely glad it was in a thick white sauce. So thick it didn’t even wobble, let alone splatter, and as I literally sawed the piece of meat in half, I felt myself brewing uncontrollable giggles. Church giggles. Those ones I just cannot stop.
But Stephen’s words set me straight. ‘Be careful,’ he said as I wiped a tear from my eye, ‘you can tease Lavender about a lot of things but never her food.’
I swallowed hard and pulled myself together.
It turns out both Stephen and I shared a love of cooking and we passed the time sharing tips. When everyone had, eventually, managed to finish their plates, we both got up and cleared the table.
Chris joined us in the kitchen.
‘Hi, Susie, it’s nice to meet you. Mum’s been longing to get you over.’
‘She’s so kind. Thank goodness I’ve finally been able to come.’
‘Have you lived down here long?’
‘Nearly three years. What about you?’
‘We’re in London. But often visit. Don’t we?’ He turned to Stephen.
‘Yes, Lavender adores company. When we’re not around she’s on her own.’
‘On her own?’ Chris joked. He looked pale. ‘Mum’s got more friends than the three of us put together.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Stephen asked him.
‘Pretty dreadful.’
‘You must go back to bed then. Come, I’ll look after you.’
Chris turned to me. ‘I am sorry to do this.’
I was just about to say don’t worry, it’s okay, when Lavender entered the kitchen. ‘You youngsters chatting away in here,’ she tut-tutted. ‘Isn’t it nice to meet Suz? Looks just like her mother when I first knew her. But, hang on, you’re much older. What fresh looks you have.’ She stroked my face. ‘If I were you, I’d keep a hold of them.’
‘Mum.’
‘Yes, love.’
‘I feel so ill. I’m going to have to go to bed.’
Stephen put his arm around his husband’s shoulders.
‘Poor pops. Thank you for trying to stay up. Off you go then. Night, night.’
They both left the room and Lavender sighed, ‘Chris’s father and I weren’t a good example, nor was his step-father, but those two, you can’t separate them. It’s almost worse, don’t you think?’
I shrugged.
‘Single? Are you?’
‘Yup.’
‘Clever girl. Best way to be.’ She opened the fridge. ‘I’ve been on my own forty-six years. Here,’ she handed me a tray of chocolate pots, ‘help me take the lids off these.’
‘Did you make them?’
‘Me?’ she frowned. I’d been trying to flatter her. ‘No, no one makes dessert these days. Do they?’
I thought best go with the flow and replied, ‘I doubt it.’
The lids were all off and as Lavender turned to the fridge for cream she said, ‘Would you be kind and carry the tray? I get terribly unsteady with a drink in me.’
‘Of course.’
‘Potts & Co.,’ announced Jessica seeing the tray; she’d ob
viously had this pudding before.
Lavender came through with a large jug of cream, then, noticing me out on a limb, she bellowed, ‘George, move up a place so’s you’re next to Suz. Chris’s ill. He and Stephen have gone to bed.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ said George as she shuffled towards me, swapping over her glass and reaching for the bottle. ‘Now you can tell me all about what you were up to today.’ Her eyes were wide open, full of anticipation.
I don’t believe in fate but I do believe in grasping opportunities when they present themselves, and here I was with a stranger who’d been the face of an art fraud documentary. I had so many questions up my sleeve. I did not want to waste time discussing my day.
‘It’s difficult to know where to begin today. There’s not much to tell.’
‘Just launch straight in. I don’t need to know what you ate for breakfast.’ George found herself slightly more amusing than I did. Not that I didn’t laugh, just that I wasn’t the one swinging back on my chair with my mouth wide open.
‘I spent a lot of today in my car. It was dull. I’d so much rather talk about art fraud.’
‘Great. Let’s do that then. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Not a lot but I’ve always wanted to know more.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I was only the presenter but fire away with your questions and you never know, I might have the answers.’
This is great. George’s indifference to where my interest came from allowed me the freedom to ask whatever I wanted. And so I began, ‘I’ve often wondered how easy it would be to copy a nineteenth-century masterpiece and sell the original without anyone ever knowing.’
‘It’s not something generally kept secret. Many people have copies made of paintings before they sell them. You can go and see the process in pretty much any auction house. I can set up a visit for you if you want?’
‘That’s so kind of you but no, it’s okay. I really meant, if a painting is copied by someone, not the owner, and that person replaces the original with the copy and sells the original, is it an easy thing to keep quiet?’
‘Are you planning something?’
George was alarmed at my surprise. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’m only joking. In truth it’s not an easy thing to keep quiet but it does happen and the less well-known the artist the more chance of getting away with it. Just you wait for my documentary, you’re going to love it.’
