Learning to Dance, page 13
Judith watched her as she walked towards the lift. She wondered whether she knew that Hausmann was gay. She moved with a natural grace, thoughtlessly, self-confidently. Since yesterday when she had reacquainted herself with both men, she had changed again.
Judith sighed and started to clear their table on to a trolley. Bart said, ‘Let me, Judith. Believe it or not, you are on holiday!’
She laughed and used one of her mother’s truisms to put him at ease. ‘A change is as good as a rest. Certainly true in my case. I was going quietly crazy at home.’
She trundled the trolley to the kitchen. ‘Are you older or younger than your brother? Did you play hopscotch with him?’
‘I’m seven years older than Rob. Quite a big difference when it came to the games we played. I was more interested in Welsh rugby at that time. But I knew immediately that Sybil Jessup was Esmée Gould!’
She smiled as she left him and went up the stairs. Sometimes it all sounded so completely normal. But then again, as her mother might well have said, ‘It depends what you call normal.’
She went into her room and picked up her canvas bag. She felt around for her phone and tapped in the familiar home number. The answering machine clicked in. She left her room and went along the landing to the double doors which led directly into the Long Gallery.
Ten
The Long Gallery was more like the prow of a ship than ever. Judith walked its length, pausing now and then as a lightning flash spotlit one of Hausmann’s paintings, randomly, theatrically. The rural landscapes became, for an instant, a reminder of summer: she tried to find a word that would encapsulate what Hausmann found so heartbreakingly ephemeral, and came up with ‘tranquillity’.
She held on to the back of one of the sofas and waited for the next flash. This time it lit one of the industrial landscapes. It was Avonmouth before legislation had abolished the smoke stacks. One tall funnel emitted a thin, dark red plume of pure poison. Somehow Hausmann had perceptually triggered something else with his paintbrush, and for an instant she thought she could smell the sulphur.
She shook her head and went on, unable to find a word for the anger in that painting.
At the end of the gallery the full-length windows looked straight down the Bristol Channel, Wales to the right, Devon and Cornwall to the left. The spray had mottled any real views, and at ten o’clock in the morning the light was filtered through heavy clouds. She pushed the final sofa round so that it faced out to sea, and tried to stop making pictures in her head of a tiny white blob in the middle of an enormous sea of slate-grey: Hausmann’s boat, Goalpost – doubtless as shambolic as its owner – fighting through the wind towards an invisible island somewhere in all that turbulence.
Lightning forked down again, and the doors behind her opened. Sybil backed in just as Hausmann had done that second morning. She was pulling one of Irena’s trolleys and carrying a bag on one shoulder. She swung the trolley round with difficulty and as the door closed behind her she was spotlit, like the paintings. She let go of the trolley, covered her face and screamed.
Judith hurried to her. ‘It’s OK, relax, the storm is moving away. Count the seconds before we hear the thunder.’ She paused and it rumbled over the castle.
Sybil let her hands fall and took a deep breath. ‘I keep seeing him in one of his own paintings. I bet his bloody boat leaks like a sieve. And what was Nattie thinking about, for goodness’ sake? He’s the one with common sense; why did he let it happen?’
‘They know more than we do. This friend they’ve rescued, he could have died if they hadn’t got him to a hospital.’
‘I should think his chances of survival were shortened by giving himself over to Robert!’ But she laughed as she spoke, and took the handle of the trolley again. ‘Come on, there’s coffee in the thermos and a whole packet of chocolate biscuits. And I’ve rummaged around Rob’s studio and got a selection of watercolours. That pastoral scene you were sketching from the top of the Lyn, it cries out for watercolours.’
In spite of her reservations about invading Hausmann’s quarters, Judith found herself thinking about those sketches: the tiny vulnerable inn pillowed in autumnal trees. Ochres and saffrons and deep, deep crimsons.
Sybil pulled another sofa at right angles to the first and poured coffee; the aroma filled the small area, the sofa backs made it theirs.
‘I believe in comfort, physical comfort.’ Sybil closed her eyes and immersed herself in steam from the jug. ‘When the three of us were kids I was always the one to make the den.’
Judith picked up her cup and imitated Sybil, blissfully inhaling the strident scent of the coffee. ‘I would have thought Nathaniel would have enjoyed playing house.’
‘He did, of course. But Robert disapproved strongly. And he loved Robert. As I did. As so many people did.’ She sounded sad. ‘It’s so difficult to explain, Jude.’ She was musing now, looking into her cup as if for answers. ‘Robert would hate me for saying this, but I can’t think of another way.’ She looked up suddenly and gave a small wry smile. ‘He suffers – actually suffers – for other people!’ The smile turned into a laugh. ‘He often gets toothache because he’s worrying about someone else – just ordinary but painful complaints. I know it’s hard to believe when you’ve seen him “drunk and disorderly”, and even when he’s sober and bullying everyone around him. It sounds absurd to talk about him as a supersensitive artist but – honestly – that’s what he is!’
Judith said, ‘I thought it was … his dark side. When he spoke of Auschwitz, not being able to paint any of that, oh God, I told him … I think I told him that he should paint it as therapy …’ She put down her coffee cup with a click. ‘He must have thought … how crass!’ She looked at Sybil. ‘I knew you understood him when you said that he was painting for the end of the world, so his ’scapes would stand as a reminder of how beautiful our world had been.’
Sybil gave another rueful laugh. ‘He’s not a saint by any means, Jude. Those ’scapes are what sell. He must be a very rich man.’
Judith nodded sadly. ‘He is financing Bart and Irena in this hotel venture.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘No. His brother blurted it out, to stop Irena from slagging him off. Just now, when they were both trying to serve breakfast.’
‘That’s interesting … much more constructive … I didn’t give him credit for being so practical.’
‘He did it basically for Bart and Irena,’ Judith reminded her.
‘Yes. I see that. He’s already got a place on Lundy. It’s a sort of hermitage he goes to when things are bad. I found that piece of information on the internet!’ She grinned. ‘I bet he doesn’t know it’s there … he’d be livid! It’s how he got his name for being a West Country artist. Apparently he lends it to people sometimes. I think that was why he wanted to take you to see it this morning, in case you could make use of it in the future. But someone was obviously already there, that’s what the rescue was all about.’ She finished her coffee and put her cup next to Judith’s. ‘Poor old Robert. At present there are too many of us needing his kind of first aid, and all at the same time! Thank God he didn’t kill Nat in his rescue attempt! I would never have forgiven him.’
Lightning lit up the far reaches of the gallery; then there was a full five-second interval before the thunder rolled in. Sybil did not flinch. Judith realized she had not even noticed it.
Sybil picked up a digestive biscuit and broke it in half absently. She said, ‘I think that’s what yesterday’s project was all about. To make me realize that I was in love with Nat. I think I always knew; he was so kind. Robert was not always kind. I wanted to be in love with Robert, actually – he was good-looking when he was young – I thought he looked like Heathcliff. And he was always taller than me; I fought against loving Nat because he’s shorter than I am!’ She laughed and looked round at Judith, half-ashamed. ‘Imagine being so small-minded … so vain, I suppose.’ She bit into one half of the biscuit and laughed again. ‘Robert is clever: he knows how people work. To confront Nat with me; it was such a shock. I saw his face and knew that he had loved me all the time, and I knew I had loved him, too.’ She swallowed her biscuit. ‘It seemed so natural, didn’t it? When he called me Esmée instead of Sybil? Almost innocent! Ha! Shock treatment! For Nat, of course, but for me too.’ She registered Judith’s expression and put out a hand. ‘It’s the way Robert works: always making you look at yourself to recognize the truth. Even when we were ten years old.’
Judith took the hand. ‘I think you’re right. That is exactly what he was doing yesterday.’
‘Your outburst … did it help, or make things worse?’
‘Both.’ She thought about it, and added with some difficulty, ‘I saw that my marriage has taken second place for some time. Yes, it helped.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘So did the scene in the orangery.’
Sybil shook Judith’s hand once and released it. She set aside the tray and began to pull out her sketchbooks. The drawings she had done from the top of the River Lyn were far more detailed than Judith’s. She set one of them aside. ‘Nat might like to print that one for a greetings card. But this one is just a series of outlines because I want to paint it.’ She produced tubes of powder paint: blue, yellow, red and black. She cleared the lower trays of the trolley and started to set out brushes and rags, saucers and a bottle of water.
Judith tidied the coffee things. She did not want to start on her own sketches from Saturday, it brought in a competitive element she shied away from. Eventually she left them in the bag and opened her sketchbook on a clean page. She sat still for a moment, then reached down again for a stick of charcoal and put it in the centre of the page, as she had watched Jack do so often.
She closed her eyes and sat very still, hardly breathing. She had told Sybil that Hausmann had forced her to face some unpalatable facts. Was that true? She recalled her outburst without embarrassment; what had happened afterwards during Hausmann’s ‘project’ had wiped away feelings of embarrassment. So it must have been … good. But she had not had time to explore it then; attention had been turned on Sybil, then Hausmann himself. Yet he had wanted Nathaniel Jones to be in the spotlight!
She opened her eyes, saw that Sybil was completely engrossed in her work, and smiled slightly. Hausmann’s plans for Nathaniel and Sybil appeared to be working, plus he had accomplished his rescue attempt, too. He would doubtless be insufferable. She looked down at her empty page; the charcoal was in exactly the same position. Hausmann had not worked any magic for her. She frowned, concentrating hard. He had forced her to admit to herself that she had not … what was the word she wanted? She had not nurtured her marriage; she had relied on Jack to keep it going without help from her. She closed her eyes again and saw Jennifer and Stanley Markham dancing by candlelight. She put the charcoal in her lap and tightened her hands into fists.
Had it been her mother? Had she given too much time to Eunice? She racked her memory; once, before her speech finally disappeared, Eunice had found some words and told Judith she must let her go to a nursing home. Judith had told Jack, and he had been genuinely astonished.
‘Darling, we can get help here. Mum is our family. She keeps us together.’
Judith had wept then. But he had been right. The togetherness had gradually seeped away after Eunice’s death. That was the time she should have nurtured it. Then, out of the blue, she found herself remembering last Christmas. The office party hosted by the Whortleys. Jack, grinning, ‘Get something new, Jude. Go on, spoil yourself.’
And her response. ‘Darling, I simply cannot face an office party. Listen, why don’t you take Naomi? She’s such a good friend to me but you only see her when she’s leaving here. It would allow you to get to know her better and I’m sure she’d just love it.’
‘Don’t worry, love. I don’t need to go either. It’s just … I thought we might start getting back to normal.’
‘We are back to normal, Jack. It’s just that I’m so tired, I can’t make that sort of effort. Oh dear, I feel rotten about it but … say you don’t mind!’
He had rolled his eyes and intoned, ‘I do not mind.’
And in the end, he had agreed to take Naomi.
Had he felt pushed away then? He said he wished he hadn’t gone. The awful thing was that Naomi had not enjoyed it either. ‘It was OK.’ She had shrugged. ‘I didn’t know anyone, of course.’
Judith took a deep breath and came back to the present. She should have gone to that office party. She had known it at the time but suppressed it; now she knew it again. Behind her closed eyes she visualized letters and made them into words. And the words all said the same thing, ‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry …’ They multiplied, and as they did she picked up the charcoal stick and started to draw. She recalled Jack saying, ‘I do my best stuff with my eyes closed.’
When her hand stopped moving, she opened her eyes and stared down at the page. A single hooked line made a nose, two lines level with the nose’s bridge became eyes, a lopsided slash beneath the nose made a mouth; finally a quiff of hair and, of course, protruding ears. More slowly, watching the charcoal as it moved, she circled the collection of features into a head.
‘My God, who is that?’ Sybil looked over her shoulder. ‘I had no idea you did caricatures too!’
‘I don’t. I never have. But this is Fish-Frobisher! I can’t believe it … he drew himself!’ She looked away from the page, eyes wide. ‘My God. It really is. Magnus Fish-Frobisher himself!’
‘Who on earth is Magnus Fish-Frobisher?’
‘You don’t know the Fish-Frobishers?’ Judith grinned suddenly. ‘You only looked at the Jack Freeman cartoon when he drew your husband! Free publicity, that’s what Jack called it. A week – maybe two – and that was that. But the Frobishers have been ongoing for years. They gave everyone a chance to see themselves, for better or worse. They really are awful. Snobs, unconscious racists, but underneath it all they can be kind.’ She puckered her mouth, considering. ‘A bit like Nat, I imagine.’
Sybil laughed and began to mix some paint. ‘Go on with it. Let me get to know them. Is there a wife?’
‘Certainly there’s a wife. Edith. And a daughter called Stargazer. Her school friends call her “Popeye”.’ Judith went on looking at ‘FF’, as Jack called him. ‘This is peculiar.’
‘No. No, it’s not. It’s true therapy. Representing the happy times?’
‘Probably. They were conceived when the twins were still at school and my mother was well. Twenty-three years ago, I suppose.’ She went on staring. The few lines in front of her which made up the face of Fish-Frobisher, were almost a facsimile of Jack’s popular creation. But they reminded her of someone else. The slicked-back hair, the long thin mouth, the considering eyes and – most of all – the protruding ears: they also belonged to Jack Freeman. Had he intended that?
Sybil leaned forward, applying paint from the very tip of a fine brush. ‘I’m doing the purples first, there were a lot of purples.’ She swung back and forth, looking then dabbing. ‘Moss made me promise to take my painting seriously after he died.’ She paused, brush poised high. ‘Oh my God, is that yet another reason I came to see Robert? To hang on to his coat-tails?’
‘You came to see Nathaniel Jones, remember?’
‘I didn’t think so. Not until later. Though when he was being so courteous in the coach coming here, I felt a real pang. He never understood Robert, nor me, but he was so loyal. He thought he was an outsider, but I see now he had a big role. He looked after us. Just as he went with Robert last night, to look after him.’ She leaned forward again and began on the beech trees, adding ochre to the crimson paint.
Judith turned a page and started to draw again. ‘It’s as if Jack has his hand over mine. This is Edith Fish-Frobisher. She was a good woman, actually.’ She gave her a perfect hairdo. ‘In between perms she did good works.’ She held the sketchbook away from her and looked hard. ‘Yes, that’s Edith. I must have watched Jack working – watched every line he made – it is exactly Edith Fish-Frobisher.’ And it was modelled on someone; someone real.
Judith stared in disbelief; it was her mother.
Sybil was talking, as if to herself. She was deep into mixing paints; the trolley had half-a-dozen saucers full of wonderful colours. Judith turned to tell her about Edith Fish-Frobisher, alias Eunice Denman, and was completely distracted by the colours. She pushed her pad away and watched Sybil as she applied paint here and there and brought the beech trees to life.
Sybil started to speak again, almost to herself. ‘I was sixteen. Robert had got a place at the Slade, and he looked me up. It was wonderful to see him. I realized I had been homesick for him. I told him I loved him and would always love him.’
She looked up and saw Judith’s eyes on her, and said, ‘You’ve got the clearest eyes I’ve ever seen. Be careful. He’s fallen for you – because of your eyes, I think – and he could hurt you.’
Judith shook her head slowly. ‘It’s not like that. Not at all.’
Sybil made a face. ‘My God. You’re falling for him, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t be silly! Jack’s been … gone … two months!’
‘Quite. But this is something different. Be honest, I’m right, am I not? He’s not only a wonderful painter. He’s a tortured soul. And more than that, too. He’s a pirate!’ She laughed without humour. ‘You’re doing exactly the same as I did. I did it at ten years old, sixteen years old, and again when I got the invitation to come here for his retrospective exhibition! Don’t be such a fool, Jude! My God, you’re better than this! You’re practical, imaginative, caring. How can you get a crush on Robert? You can see that wherever he goes he takes disaster with him.’
Judith said, ‘Not really. And of course he loves you. That’s why he wants you to be happy. I think he probably rigged this exhibition; all right, he knew it would help to get the castle started as a sort of cultural-weekend-away. But then he saw it could also bring you and Nathaniel Jones back together. You say you had an invitation. I didn’t, and I’m willing to bet neither did the Olsens nor the Markhams. What about Nathaniel?’
