Born of Woman (81 page)

‘Snow and ice seem equally odd to me. I've seen pictures of British Christmases, of course, but they always looked so cosy—roaring fires and choirboys, and the sort of fancy stick-on snow that's just a background for a stage-coach. I wasn't quite prepared for … well—the harshness of the country.' Edward peered around him, imagining the wilderness which the igloo of the car shut out. It was bad enough inside. He had cramp in his right leg now, a pain across his shoulders made worse by his damp clothes. He tried to ease his body, but it was impossible to do more than shift a fraction.

Lyn was fidgeting beside him. ‘This isn't really typical. Remember, we're very far north up here. You probably don't realise, but there's a good-sized chunk of Scotland further south than we are.'

‘Is that so? I'd never have guessed, except for the cold, of course. I'm still completely numb, aren't you? Mind you, I'd liked to have seen Scotland—and the Lake District—toured the whole country, in fact. But it wasn't really possible. I was more or less tied to London by my lawyers. They advised me to stay put, so I'd be available if they needed me or in case of new developments or … Not that it did me any good. I seem to have got absolutely nowhere.'

Lyn tensed. So they were back to the lawsuit again—had the rest of the night to go in and out of all its complications. He could hardly run away, wedged thigh to thigh with the plaintiff in the back seat of a very minor Morris, with a snow-storm raging round them. Whilst they were singing, he had felt elation, even warmth, now only cold, trapped and hopeless.

Edward had huddled forward again, hugging himself with his arms. ‘I mean, now they tell me Matthew's gone away.'

‘Gone away?'

‘Surely you knew?'

Lyn shook his head irritably, wondered how long it was till light. ‘Matthew's never away at Christmas. In fact, we usually spend it with him. It's quite a thing with him—you know, proper family Christmas—presents round the tree and …' He felt a sudden sense of loss. He had always grumbled about Christmases at Putney, yet they were like a sacred ritual and he hated rituals broken. ‘Where's he gone, for heaven's sake?'

‘I wish I knew. I was simply informed that Matthew's solicitor had lost contact with his client, whatever that's suposed to mean. Apparently, he's not answering his phone at home and no one at the office seems to have any idea where he's got to. I suppose it may be just a holiday, but …'

‘Why didn't you tell me before?' Lyn jabbed his foot against the seat in front. It sounded wrong, alarming. Matthew never went on holiday without piling his subordinates with memos and instructions, emergency addresses.

‘I assumed you knew, of course. In fact, if you'll forgive me, I … er … thought it was all part of some … arrangement between you both, to fob me off or gain more time or …'

‘Of course not. I haven't laid eyes on Matthew now for weeks.'

‘You surprise me.'

‘You needn't sound sarcastic. It happens to be true. Matthew and I lost … touch for a while. There were … problems.'

‘More problems? That's a pity. I was hoping you could help me in his absence. My lawyers are still waiting for all those facts and figures. Matthew's handed nothing over at all, yet.'

‘Well, it's no good asking me. I know very little about his business affairs.'

‘But you work for him. You …'

‘Not any more, I don't. And even when I did, I was very much a junior.'

‘But I understood you were the chief artist on the book and …'

‘I wouldn't even
use
the word artist. I was a commercial hack churning out designs with the sole purpose of jacking up the sales. That's not my idea of art.' Lyn felt disloyal even while he was saying it. He had a sudden vision of Matthew on Christmas Day, doing his best to be jovial and fatherly. He had even once dressed up as Father Christmas, a rigid and embarrassed Father Christmas who handed out the Ten Commandments with the toys.

‘Mind you, I suppose I was lucky to get a job at all. Most of my painter friends landed up starving in their non-existent studios, or permanently on the dole. It's never easy to sell a painting, especially ones like mine. You'd hate my stuff. It's …'

‘I've … er … seen it, actually. Or some of it, at least.'

Lyn stared at him. ‘You can't have done. I've thrown a hell of a lot away and all the rest is hidden or locked up. I never show my work to anyone. I used to, when I was younger, and people said fatuous things like ‘‘the sky isn't purple'' or …'

‘Actually, I liked your use of colour.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Look, I … hope you don't think I was … prying, but while you were out on that walk this afternoon, it got very dark and cold, and I was searching round for something to re-light the fire. I came across this great roll of … papers stuffed away right at the back of a cupboard. At first, I didn't realise what it was and was just about to burn it, but when I unrolled the sheets, I found there were ten or twelve paintings, all covered with dust and cobwebs. I'd no idea they were yours, of course, but then I found a … letter tucked inside the roll. It was written to you, from Matthew, years and years ago. I suppose I shouldn't have read it, but I must admit, by then I was rather intrigued. Matthew wrote that he was sending back your work and that …'

Lyn jerked forward so quickly, the coat fell on the floor. ‘God! I remember now. They're donkey's years old, those paintings. I sent a batch of them to Matthew when I was seventeen or so. He was always interested in my work and …' Lyn broke off. Matthew had encouraged his art—the only one who had—acted as his counsellor and priest. Maybe he had trained him in the wrong religion, but at least he had kept his skills and gift alight. He had returned those paintings minus one, begged to keep that for himself. He had had it framed (expensively) and hung it on his study wall, just above his desk. Funny how you could forget the things that mattered. ‘Yes, Matthew seemed to … er … like my stuff. I don't know why.'

‘
I
liked it.' Edward was kneading his thighs and shoulders to try and restore the feeling to them. ‘I have to admit I'm a duffer when it comes to art, but I felt you'd really caught the feeling of this countryside. I know they're not realistic, or naturalistic, or whatever you painters call it, but I recognised those hills immediately. That's exactly how you see them—sort of springing out at you as you come along that road, and then taking over everything, until they fill the whole horizon.'

Lyn nodded, too surprised to speak. He was stunned that Edward had understood—had seen that wild relentless grandeur of the Cheviots, dwarfing man to pygmy, their purple throats gagging on the clouds, the sky pushed back to give them room enough. He remembered doing those paintings as a gawky lad, still in fear of Hester, fighting cold and squall to get them right. Everything was too huge and overpowering—the wind uprooting trunks like twigs, the bare and rugged ridges unfolding back and back and back. Those hills had shaped his art.

Edward sneezed, fumbled for his handkerchief. ‘Why don't you go on painting? Make it your career? You've obviously got talent, if you were that good as a lad.'

Lyn gave a bitter laugh. ‘You need money to paint—almost a private income. It's more or less a luxury to turn out what you want instead of what the market wants or the gallery owners decide is chic or fashionable.' What did Edward know about truth or compromise, integrity or sell-out? Even Matthew had linked art to livelihood, put blinkers on his brush. ‘No patron's going to back you if you don't make a profit for them somewhere along the line. The art world's every bit as commercial as Matthew's publishing world.'

There was silence, suddenly. Lyn reached across for his own coat, damp and soggy still, laid it over his feet. Every subject seemed to have reached deadlock—his art cut off in its youth, the lawyers thwarted, Matthew vanished. He was worried about Matthew. Where had he gone and why? He should never have lost touch with him—lost touch with everyone. Wives or brothers could die and he wouldn't know.

He slumped back in his corner. Hours and hours to go yet, and a thousand questions unsettled, even unbroached. The snow was still whirling around them, Edward's watch ticking too slowly on to morning. ‘Talent' Matthew had written in his letters ‘Undeniable gift'. He had bundled those praises away, let them get as dusty as the drawings.

Edward shifted on the seat, cleared his throat. ‘Look Lyn, there's … er … something I want to ask you.'

‘What?' Lyn refused to even look up. If Edward wanted figures, contracts, documents, he wouldn't and couldn't supply them. Wouldn't betray Matthew.

‘I'm in a bit of a … dilemma. I've been left a house in England—
your
house, Hester's house—and yet I can't stay on here and look after it. It's just not practical. It was only a spur-of-the-moment decision to come to this country at all, and I only intended to stay for two or three weeks at the most. I realise nothing's settled as yet, but my lawyers will have to carry on alone now, consult me at a distance. Otherwise I'll be here till
next
Christmas, the way things are dragging on. I'm glad I've met you, Lyn—very glad—but I've got to get back home soon, and I use that word deliberately. England can't be home for me. Not now. It's too … late. I'd be like a fish out of water here. All my friends are back in Warkworth. I belong there—despite the gossip. I thought I could run away from it, but it's followed me even here. Maybe
worse
over here, because it's public in the newspapers instead of private in people's sitting-rooms, and I haven't got my friends to counter it. I've decided to return as soon as …'

Lyn cut in, almost rudely. ‘So you're trying to tell me you've got to sell Hernhope, are you? I've told you, that house isn't just a pile of stones, or another piddling property like … It's Hester's heritage, her gift to you. She left you everything she had, and now you turn round and …'

‘But I've got a home—already—which is just as much a heritage as Hernhope. My foster-parents bequeathed it to me, to cherish, and it was their parents' home before that. I've lived there all my life, Lyn—which means almost twice as long as you've lived here.'

Lyn said nothing. So Edward was turning tail again, had decided that the malicious buzz and mud-slinging in Warkworth were less threatening than what he had run away to. England had disappointed him—that was obvious from his earlier remarks. The enchanted garden of the fairy-tale had turned into a cold unfriendly metropolis, full of vulgar pouncing journalists, and even Hester's Magic Castle had proved only a grim fortress in a wasteland.
Many
people shied away from Hernhope, feared its harshness, its seclusion. He had warmed to Jennifer because she had fallen instantly in love with it. He heard her voice again, saw her sitting motionless and marvelling, her hand reaching across for his.

He sat on the hand, frowned into the darkness. ‘Anyway, it won't be an easy house to sell. Not many people fancy living somewhere so remote. There was another house for sale on that same stretch of hill, about ten years ago. Not a single person came to view it. It's a ruin now, full of nettles and sheep shit.'

Edward rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, that's … er … all part of the problem. Actually, I heard rumours back in New Zealand that Hernhope was abandoned and already becoming derelict, and I must admit it made me very angry. That's one of the reasons I decided to come over. But now I've seen the place, I understand the difficulties. The whole area's so inaccessible and …'

‘Well, you'd better talk it over with your lawyers. That's what they're there for, aren't they?' Lyn turned away. He refused to play solicitor himself, spend Christmas night chewing over Edward's problems as householder and heir.

‘Of course, there is
one
solution.' Edward was almost talking to himself.

‘What?'

‘Well, I … What I'm trying to say is … I could get someone to look after the house for me—pay them, of course, for keeping it in good shape and administering it on my behalf—seeing to repairs and so on. Then maybe I could visit here sometimes—make it my base for just a month or two in your summer, when the weather's milder and travelling much easier—a sort of holiday home or … The fares would be steep, so I couldn't come too often, but, after all, I've worked hard all my life and had very little time for holidays, so far, and my parents left me money, so … The only problem is … I'd need someone who knows the area and wouldn't mind the loneliness. What I'm trying to say is, if … if
you
, Lyn … No—you'd probably be offended, but …'

Lyn stared at him. ‘You mean …?'

‘Well, after all, it
is
your house—not legally, but in every other way You've lived there most of your life and your father's family before you. All your memories are there, your past. Quite honestly, I'd feel a bit of a … brute turning you out, in any case. I may have been pressing for my rights, but not at the cost of depriving you of a roof over your head. So why not stay and sort of … hold the place on my behalf? It would solve several problems at once. After all, you're going to need a home and …'

Lyn could hardly find his voice. ‘You mean, you … you'd
pay
me, just for … living there and …?'

‘Well, I'll have to pay someone, so why not the man who's lived there thirty years and knows the problems?'

Problems. Lyn tensed. The old boyhood fears were flooding back again—fears of ties, responsibilities—
new
fears now of being beholden to someone else. Expectations. Obligations.

Edward was speaking more confidently now, as if he were warming to his own idea. ‘
I
‘d keep control, of course. I'd like certain improvements put in hand—decent heating and lighting, for example. I'd pay you a proper annual salary to supervise all that, act as my … deputy, agent, manager—call it what you like. We can keep in touch by post and …'