Encounters (40 page)

She looked round. I don’t know what reception she expected for her story but certainly not the stunned incredulity which showed on every face in the room.

My father stood up and reached uncertainly for a cigarette. ‘When did you say this happened, Flavia?’

‘1685 dear, after Sedgemoor. Why? What’s the matter with you all?’

‘This young man, Marcus. What did he look like?’

‘I don’t know. How could I possibly? There’s probably a portrait of him in the house somewhere. Why?’ She suddenly sat up, looking from face to face. ‘You’ve seen him, haven’t you?’ She went pale.

I had suddenly begun to feel terribly cold. I moved nearer the fire and catching my mother’s eye I saw she had begun to shiver too. The fine pale hairs on her forearms were standing straight up on end suddenly. I watched fascinated.

Father told Flavia the story from beginning to end and she listened, nodding slowly from time to time. When he had finished she looked up and gave a faint smile. ‘Obviously this poor girl Cathie was the catalyst. She must be a descendant of one of the murderers – even of James himself – you said that her name is Steuart? What an awful thing.’

‘I can’t believe it.’ Father relit his cigarette which had gone out while he was talking. ‘I can’t believe that that was an – apparition. I saw it. Duncan here saw it, it wasn’t only Cathie.’

‘But it disappeared, Dad.’ Duncan spoke at last from the dim corner on the window seat. ‘It disappeared without trace, without blood.’

‘And it’s still there.’ Mother’s voice was strangely flat. ‘That’s why Suki and the other horses still won’t enter the stable, after all this time.’ I hadn’t plucked up the courage to either.

‘The police dog knew,’ Sandy added suddenly. ‘Its hackles were all over the place and it growled and growled in that loose box and yet there was absolutely no scent for it to follow.’

‘Are you going to tell Cathie this story?’ Father suddenly turned towards Duncan.

‘You must tell her,’ Flavia said. ‘She has the right to know. And the poor girl can’t exactly have forgotten an incident like that. I don’t know if it will help to put her mind at rest at all, knowing that, but she should know; she’s part of the destiny of Camber.’

I wondered if anyone besides myself noticed the violent blush which coloured Duncan’s cheeks as she said those words.

‘Does it mean she won’t be able to come back here without it happening again?’ I asked quietly. She never had come back to Camber, although we had all been to visit her in London and gone to her parents’ house in Bedfordshire.

Duncan frowned. ‘Surely not?’ He looked at Flavia, but she shrugged.

‘What about an exorcism?’ Sandy said suddenly. ‘You know, bell, book and candle, the lot!’

‘No.’ Flavia rose slowly to her feet. ‘No. Whatever happened here that night, has not, as far as we know, happened in 300 years before. It may not happen again for as long. It may be that the thunderstorm and the fire had something to do with it; generating psychic energy or something. Leave it alone. That’s my advice; leave it alone.’

‘And the police?’ Father stubbed out his cigarette and went to stand with his back to the fire. ‘What do I tell the police? That the murder I reported witnessing happened 300 years ago and they’d better close the case?’

Flavia frowned. ‘No, dear. Don’t say anything to the police. They’ll think you were drunk or something. It will have to go down on their files as unsolved. Leave it at that.’

And leave it at that we did. Except for one incident.

There was a portrait of Marcus Nicholls in the house. We found it hanging in a dark corner on the top landing where it had hardly been noticed before. It showed a tall, slim youth in riding breeches, one hand on the neck of a bony bay mare. He was a bit like Duncan to look at, I thought; the same nose and gently humorous mouth, but he had my eyes. Sandy pointed it out first. ‘I say, look at that. We all wanted to know where Vicky got her big green eyes and dark hair. Well, there’s your answer.’

I went back later to look at the portrait by myself. They were right. He did have my eyes. He looked friendly and kind and I could swear that he was watching me.

Everyone was busy in the garden that afternoon, gathering holly and ivy and mistletoe to decorate the house, so no one noticed when I slipped away.

The stable was deserted; the stalls swept and empty. Hardly anyone went in there any more as far as I knew. I took a deep breath, screwing up my courage and stepped inside. There was the age old smell of sweet hay and horses and dust and still a suspicion of the tang of burning.

Cautiously I made my way down the line of stalls watching the sunbeams slipping in through the high windows in the wall. I nearly didn’t go as far as the loose box. My courage was ebbing fast.

Then I stood there, by the repaired partition which Suki had splintered. The door was still off, leaning against the wall. I looked in. The box was quite empty and absolutely quiet. A little patch of sunshine lit up the stone floor under the old blackened beam. Was it my imagination, or was there a brooding atmosphere about the place?

I swallowed. Then I went in. I produced from behind my back the small bunch of winter jasmine and frosted rose buds which I had cut in the bright cold of the garden and I knelt and laid them on the stone. Then I looked up. ‘Please don’t hate any more,’ I said out loud. Was it just because we shared the same green eyes that I knew Marcus would listen to me? ‘Please forgive. Go in peace and let Cathie come back to Camber. Please.’

I waited for a minute and then, feeling a little foolish, I scrambled to my feet and dusted the knees of my jeans. But somehow I felt better. I knew I wouldn’t be afraid to come in there again.

The strength of the winter sun had woken a butterfly, which was trapped against the dusty window in the passage. I could hear it fluttering against the glass as I turned to go. Reaching up I pushed open the window and watched it soar up into the ice blue sky, then I walked out of the stable and made my way back towards the house.

S
ylvia would insist on coming to the door and peering in as he worked. He didn’t turn, but he could feel her eyes boring into the canvas, analysing the brush strokes, quartering the painting for new details. The sureness of his touch would falter and slow until he laid the brush down and waited, teeth clenched, for her to go away.

‘Coffee, Sammy?’ She was aware instantly that he knew her to be there.

‘Thanks.’ He bit the end of his palette knife and grimaced at the bitter stickiness of the paint on it.

‘It’s nearly finished, isn’t it?’ Her voice was breezy, encouraging, even patronizing.

‘That’s right.’ Grudgingly he admitted it, stepping back to survey it himself.

‘It’s the best you’ve ever done.’

She always said that, silly bitch. If his paintings were so bloody good, why didn’t they sell?

He’d asked her that once and she had looked at the ground and waved her hands apologetically, her cigarette shedding ash over the spare room floor. There was no carpet; a carpet would have been a concession to its spare-roomness; boards confirmed its status as his studio.

‘They’ll sell one day,’ she had affirmed and he had snorted.

‘When I’m discovered, I suppose,’ he commented sarcastically.

She brought him the coffee and he laid down his palette and sipped it. It was real. Sylvia refused to use instant and that irritated him too; real coffee upset his stomach. Mercifully she went away then and he heard the ting as the phone receiver was raised from the cradle. He relaxed. He had often wished there was a lock on the spare room door. Then he could have ensured his privacy. To put one on now at this late stage would be too hurtful for Sylvia, but if he had established a precedent for painting behind locked doors from the start it would have been all right. And it would have been so much better.

The painting was good; he gazed at it, critically, just bathing himself in his achievement. The brush strokes were sure; the composition controlled and interesting, the colour and subject … He smiled. The subject was exquisite. He closed one eye to get a better look at it and his joy survived even that test.

Later he went out. Only for a half. It wouldn’t take long and, after all, it was Saturday.

When he returned Sylvia was in the studio and with her were two strangers, a man and a woman. All three were standing before the painting talking in hushed voices.

Sammy stopped abruptly, suspicious. He had never suspected her of bringing in her friends to gloat. He felt a suppressed fury that the woman should be so disloyal and took a deep breath, summoning up a scathing remark which would without being overtly rude, send them chastised on their way. But Sylvia forestalled him.

‘Here is my husband,’ she exclaimed turning as if she hadn’t realized that he was there.

The two with her turned in unison and smiled uncertainly, almost guiltily, at him.

‘These are Paul and Joy,’ Sylvia gushed. That was unusual for her. It meant she was unsure of her ground. They run the new art gallery in Chichampton.’

Inwardly Sammy stiffened. Outwardly he bit back his remark and smiled instead, holding out his hand.

‘Your wife kindly asked us over to look at your work, Mr Korner. Joy was obviously the spokesperson. She was tiny and slim, in apple-green jeans with a muted blue shirt knotted below a token bust line. ‘And I’m so glad we came. They’re fantastic’ Her expansive gesture taking in the whole room, including the windows he noted, nearly knocked her colleague on the nose. Paul dodged expertly, then he nodded long sufferingly, presumably seconding her opinion.

‘We’d certainly like to take two or three for the gallery, wouldn’t we, Paul? She rushed on.

Again he nodded.

‘This one on the easel; it’s powerful. We must have it. Do you have a framer?’ In the fascination of watching her bobbed hair flopping enthusiastically in time with her speech, Sammy missed the question. Then he noticed Sylvia looking worried. It was an unusual sight and he pulled himself together rapidly to find out why.

‘I’m sorry,’ he smiled, he hoped with all his charm. ‘I missed that question.’

‘Your framer, dear,’ Sylvia hissed. ‘She was asking about your framer.’

‘I haven’t got a framer,’ Sammy commented candidly, still distracted by the hair. ‘I’ve never sold any of the paintings and for ourselves we’ve always made do by just hanging them up as they are.’

He saw from Sylvia’s black look that he had said the wrong thing. Of course he should have implied that he sold lots of paintings and that he had a tame framer. They could always have found one later. But it was too late.

Joy did not seem worried by his naivety. On the contrary, she seemed even more delighted. ‘It is so exciting to make a
discovery
!’ she pronounced earnestly. ‘Our very own discovery. I am glad you came in and asked us, Mrs Korner. We might never have seen your husband’s work otherwise.’

Sylvia looked contrite. As well she might, thought Sammy. But he couldn’t help being pleased with her. So she really had had faith in him. She hadn’t just been flannelling all this time.

He listened in a daze while Joy named dates and discussed, apparently with herself, the technicalities of mounting and presenting the paintings she wanted. She wrote down the name of a framer for him – strange, he thought, she had close-bitten nails like a little girl – and then she and Paul had gone.

He and Sylvia stood looking at each other in the hall.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Sammy.’ Sylvia sounded rather scared. ‘I knew they’d be interested. It seemed so silly not to try to sell some of your paintings. We could do with the money.’

Sammy winced at the last remark but on the whole he was prepared to forgive her even that. After all she was the one who had dared. Half shyly he put his arm round her and planted a hesitant kiss on her cheek. She giggled and after a second moved away.

He went back up to the studio later, clicked on the light and drew the cheap cotton curtains. The painting on the easel stared at him reproachfully. Was it really finished? Under normal circumstances he might have pottered around adding the odd touch of paint here and there for days, but now … ‘Don’t touch it, Mr Korner; I forbid you to touch it; it’s
perfect
.’ The sound of Joy’s high-pitched voice echoed for a moment in his head. Don’t touch it! His own painting! He wandered restlessly round the room looking at other pictures; thinking, staring. Unconsciously he picked up the afternoon’s palette and dabbed at a still life leaning against the wall. As the paint made contact he jumped back guiltily. After all it was going to be framed. It couldn’t go with wet patches on it. He put down the brush miserably.

Then with resolution he went to the easel and lifted down the painting. It was finished and that was that. The time had come to prepare another new, virgin canvas.

Half an hour later he sloped downstairs and sat down on the sofa next to Sylvia. She was concentrating on the television and didn’t look round, but after a moment or two her hand, crawling hesitantly across the cushion, sought his and held on. Her eyes remained glued to the screen where unbelievably a large coffee jar appeared.

‘That’s it; that’s what I wish you’d buy.’ Sammy was momentarily stirred to enthusiasm. ‘Look, look!’ He tugged at her hand.

‘I am looking!’ She sounded cross and Sammy scanned her profile anxiously.

‘I do like real coffee, love.’ He hated the apologetic note in his voice. Why couldn’t he just tell her? ‘It’s just that it doesn’t like me.’ He shrugged helplessly and impassively she watched the screen which was now promoting with equal vigour the nutritional properties of a well-known chocolate bar.

He sighed.

When he wandered into the kitchen to boil the kettle she didn’t seem to notice. He left a cup of tea, a peace offering, on the table beside her and crept back up the stairs.

Ten minutes later the painting was back on the easel, a corner wiped clean and a new idea under way. What the hell did Joy know about it anyway? A painting was a living, breathing, changing thing until it was actually sealed under varnish and left to hang in the dust.

His tongue protruding a little between his teeth he worked hard. Occasionally he hummed a little. His tea grew cold; the top filmed over unnoticed.

At closedown Sylvia looked in and watched in her accustomed manner over his shoulder for a while; but she was gone, yawning, before his arm had a chance to falter this time. He was relieved. If she had spotted what he had done she might have come right in and given an opinion. That would not have been welcome; not at the moment.

He worked hard, concentrating on every brush stroke. By two o’clock the painting was perfect; Joy would never have recognized it.

Sammy stood back as he cleaned his brushes and smiled. He was a satisfied man.

By half past two he was in despair. The realization had just dawned on him that he could never part with it; no, nor any of the other paintings which had suffered those rummaging critical hands. They were part of him; a very sensitive part of him. Supposing someone bought one and then became so used to it they never even saw it any more? Sammy groaned out loud.

He crept into the bedroom and fumbled for the light switch beside his bed. Sylvia always awoke in a fury when he crashed around in the dark, trying to be quiet. With the light on she merely awoke indignant.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ he whispered automatically as she stirred. ‘I’ll only be a jiffy.’ There was paint on his shirt cuff. Guiltily he rolled it up, sleeve innermost and pushed it under a chair.

‘I’ll bet you altered that painting.’ Her voice was sleepy, but her eyes peering over the duvet at him were intense.

‘I had to, Syl.’ He sat on the bed to take his socks off. The balance was all wrong. I’ve got it right now, though.’

‘I’ll bet you something else too.’ She pulled herself up on one elbow.

‘Oh?’ He felt foolish sitting there with one sock on, one off.

‘You won’t let her have it in the end. Nor any of them, will you?’

To his surprise she was grinning. ‘I never said that, Syl.’

‘You didn’t have to.’ She leaned across and put her arm round him affectionately. ‘It’s written all over your face, you poor booby.’ She kissed him and then lay back on the pillows watching as he removed his other sock.

‘I’m going to tell you something, lover.’ She never called him that except when she had overspent the housekeeping money or broken one of his mother’s best crystal glasses.

He wished he’d got his pyjama trousers on. He felt too vulnerable sitting there in his pants.

‘What?’ he asked cautiously.

‘You never noticed that one or two of your paintings – well, six actually – were missing, did you?’

He sat up straight, frowning. ‘Missing?’

She nodded. ‘I sold them. Oh, I kept the money for you. I just never dared tell you, somehow.’ She looked miserably hard at her finger nails and took an absent-minded bite at one of them.

‘You what?’ He had grown cold.

‘Sold them. I’ve watched you, Sammy. You look at them and fiddle with them and alter them and talk to them even. Then, wham! They’re leaning against the wall. You look at them twice then they’re turned face in and you forget them. It’s criminal. They’re forgotten. And they’re begging to be hung up somewhere to be looked at.’

To his astonishment a great tear welled up in one of her eyes. It teetered on the rim for a moment and then overbalanced, splashing down onto her cheek.

Sammy swallowed hard. ‘I never noticed,’ he whispered. It was the most terrible treachery. ‘I never even saw that they had gone.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I remember every painting I ever painted.’

‘Of course you do.’ She sat up again. ‘But Sammy love, they’re four or five deep round the walls, some of them. Oh Sammy. They deserve better. They deserve to be seen.’

‘You sold them through Joy?’ His voice was still hesitant.

She shook her head. ‘I only met Joy this morning; well, yesterday morning now.’ She corrected herself. ‘The others I took to a gallery in London.’ She took another bite at her nail and Sammy winced.

‘How much did you get?’ He couldn’t help asking.

‘Fifty each for the two little ones. Seventy-five for three others and £150 for the
Forest Fire
.’ She looked at him sideways to see how he was taking it.

‘I was fond of the
Forest Fire
.’ He was mournful.

‘It’s nearly five hundred pounds, Sammy.’

‘I always thought I’d change it so that the trees were silhouetted against the sky more.’

‘Well four seventy-five anyway.’

‘I suppose you sold the
Marionette
? I was looking for her the other day. I thought the strings ought to be tangled.’

‘She fetched seventy-five pounds, Sam.’

‘She’d have been so much better if I’d had a chance to work on her some more.’ He got up at last and found his pyjamas. ‘I suppose you want commission for handling the sales?’ He turned round suddenly and appeared to be quite serious.

Sylvia smothered a giggle. ‘I wouldn’t say no, lover.’

She waited while he disappeared into the bathroom. When he was sitting next to her she turned to him. ‘I do care about the paintings, Sam. I’m sure they went to good homes, you know.’