Unfinished Portrait (10 page)

‘Hello, Guy. You must be psychic – I've just walked through the door.'

‘From a library stint? Actually, that's why I'm ringing: is this coming Saturday a working or a free one?'

‘Free, why?'

‘I was wondering if you'd like to come here for the weekend.'

Avril's hand tightened on the phone. ‘Well, I . . .' She swallowed. ‘What about Sarah?'

‘She'll be with Clive – and all next week too, in fact, as it's half-term. Surely she told you?'

‘She hasn't yet.' Avril drew a deep breath. ‘In that case, I'd love to come.'

‘Excellent! I'll collect you tomorrow evening about seven.'

‘Oh, no need for that! I can easily drive over.'

‘As I said, you'll be collected, and safely returned on Sunday evening.' He paused. ‘Talking of Sarah, how's she been this week?'

‘I've hardly seen her, but when I did she was perfectly civil. Distant, but civil.'

Guy snorted. ‘She'll come round in time.'

‘I hope so,' Avril said.

Sarah did, in fact, belatedly advise Avril of her plans that evening, and Avril, hiding her prior knowledge, said brightly, ‘Well, enjoy yourselves! The weather forecast's good, at least for the weekend.'

Though when, she asked herself as Sarah went on up the stairs, did two people in love ever care about the weather? Which brought her, with a rush of nervousness, to her own weekend. Despite their growing closeness, Guy always treated her with what was now, sadly, regarded as old-fashioned respect, and had never suggested they spend the night together. So how was she supposed to regard this invitation? By accepting, had she tacitly agreed to go one step further, or would she decorously be shown to the guest room? And which alternative would she prefer?

It's not serious
, she had told her daughters. But over lunch last week, he'd hinted that it might be, and ever since her mind had been in a turmoil. She would just, she told herself with false calm, have to take things as they came.

A blue Renault was already parked at Elspeth's gate, and as they drew up behind it, Gwen Saunders emerged and came to greet them. She was a plain woman in her fifties, with prominent teeth and round glasses, and, though it was Rona's hand she shook first, Max obviously commanded most of her attention.

‘It's such an honour to meet you, Mr Allerdyce,' she gushed. ‘I've always thought Buckfordshire has been blessed indeed, to be home to two such eminent artists!'

Rona could see Max was embarrassed. ‘That's kind of you, Ms Saunders, but I'm hardly in the same class as your employer!'

She gave a brief smile and reverted to her role as guide. ‘I have the key to the side gate,' she said briskly, ‘so we don't need to go through the house.'

They waited while she released first the padlock and then the Yale, and followed her down a narrow path alongside the house to the back garden. A few more leaves had fallen since Rona's last visit; it seemed Bill Strong had not returned in the interval.

Once in the studio, Max moved round it like an acolyte in a temple, examining with interest the tubes of paint and selection of brushes, before being called into service to help Rona and Ms Saunders lift the canvases ranged along the wall and turn them to face the room. Only when all had been turned did the PA, with a flourish worthy of a conjuror, whip off the dust sheets, one after another, to reveal the paintings beneath.

For a full minute, the three of them stood in silence, studying the first canvas, before beginning to move, infinitely slowly, along the row. Rona would have liked Max to talk her through them as he did with his own paintings, but the presence of Gwen Saunders inhibited her from asking. She was, however, able to regard each one with a modicum of knowledge, noting its composition and the means used to draw the eye deeper into the picture. Several were the cloudscapes for which Elspeth was known – great washes of sky painted at varying times of the day, from dawn, through the heat of midday, to the flame and gold of sunset. But still life was also represented – polished tables bearing vibrantly coloured jugs of flowers – and a few portraits, one of an old woman who gazed out of the canvas with such a wealth of despair that Rona caught her breath.

Eventually, as they at last reached the end of the row, Gwen Saunders broke the silence. ‘As you can see, they're in various stages of completion. She'd get bored with one and start on another, going back and forth between them as the mood took her.'

Rona, who'd not realized they were unfinished, could only nod, but Max was saying, ‘I've done that myself.'

For a moment longer he stood gazing at the final canvas – a view of the house from the end of the garden, executed with the misty luminosity of Impressionism, before turning to Ms Saunders almost angrily.

‘Why in God's name didn't she finish them?' he demanded. ‘Most of these only require a few more touches, and they'd be great – far more accomplished than what she'd been doing latterly. It looks as though she'd turned the corner and was back on form.'

‘Oh, I wish she could hear you say that!' Gwen Saunders exclaimed. ‘She was so dispirited! You might like to study the ones on the wall – feel free to remove the covers – while I look out the brochures and so on for your wife.'

She went to a filing cabinet, unlocked it, and removed several files and folders.

‘We have here an almost complete record of Miss Wilding's career to date,' she said proudly. ‘A cuttings book with critical reviews, her awards and certificates, brochures of all her exhibitions, solo and group, and details of her foreign travel. And, as they're all in the public domain, there's no reason why you shouldn't make use of them.'

Naomi must have passed on her reservations about ‘intellectual property', Rona thought. ‘That's wonderful,' she said. ‘They'll be invaluable. Thank you.'

‘I shall, though, have to make an inventory of everything I pass to you, for my own records.'

‘Of course.'

She waited, glancing through the cuttings album, while Gwen went to the desk and began to type out her list. Max, having finished his scrutiny of the wall paintings, was working his way along the bookshelf, removing an occasional magazine or volume to leaf through.

Gwen finished her inventory and printed off two copies of it, which she and Rona both signed. Then she packed the folders and files into a cardboard box, and, the purpose of the visit completed, they made their way back to the car, where Gus, tail waving, greeted them with enthusiasm.

‘What a gorgeous dog!' exclaimed Gwen predictably, as Max released him from his pen and clipped on his lead. Playing as always to the gallery, Gus nuzzled and licked her hand.

‘Thank you so much for your help, Ms Saunders,' Rona said, slipping her copy of the inventory into her bag.

‘A pleasure. And please don't hesitate to call me if there's anything else I can help with.'

They waited while she climbed into the little Renault, and, with a wave of her hand, drove off.

‘You have a lifelong fan!' Rona remarked.

Max ignored the comment. ‘Right, once round the block with Gus, then a pub lunch before we start back. OK?'

‘OK. I could have done with your comments back there,' she added, ‘to get the full value out of the paintings. For instance, you realized straight away that they were unfinished, but they looked perfectly OK to me. When I come to writing up her paintings, I might well need your help.'

‘My charges are quite reasonable,' he said.

Richard Wildling looked up as his wife came into the room. ‘Naomi phoned while you were out. The biographer woman has made contact.'

‘Oh God!' Marcia Wilding took off her rain-hat, tossed it on the sofa, and ran her hands through her straight, shining hair. ‘Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time.'

‘At least she's refused point-blank to touch the letters and diaries. I told Naomi that would happen, but she couldn't believe anyone'd turn down the chance to get her hands on them.'

Marcia shrugged out of her raincoat. ‘At least she has scruples.'

‘More likely guarding her own back. I'm surprised she's prepared to go ahead, though, without Ellie's personal input. She's unlikely to do much better than the last poor bugger.'

‘Does Ellie know about it, do you think?'

Richard shrugged. ‘Presumably not, unless there's been an announcement of some sort in the press. “Biographer hopes to solve mystery of missing artist” or some such.'

‘But shouldn't she be . . . warned?'

‘And how do you suggest we do that, when she won't entrust us with either her address or phone number? We'll just have to wait, as always, until she contacts us, and that could be weeks.'

‘All this cloak and dagger stuff!' Marcia exclaimed irritably. ‘Who the hell
cares
where she is?'

‘I do, for one.'

‘And that's what's bugging you, isn't it? That she's not even confided in her beloved elder brother.'

Richard flushed as the barb struck home, unfurling his long frame from the chair. ‘Be warned, though,' he added, as Marcia, bending to retrieve her discarded rain-hat, moved towards the door, ‘this woman will want to interview us, and she has our contact number.'

‘You can tell her how you used to pull Ellie's pigtails,' Marcia returned flippantly, leaving the room.

The Furnesses were in the bar, and Charles came forward with hand outstretched.

‘So glad you could make it! Good to see you again.' He kissed Rona's cheek, and, as he greeted Max, she turned to his wife.

Monica Furness, tall and fair, was an ex-model whose radiant smile had, in its time, graced many a magazine cover. She was not smiling now, and her brown eyes were full of concern.

‘Rona – how are you?' she asked after a quick kiss, and it was no formality.

‘I'm fine,' Rona answered brightly, hoping to ward off reference to recent trauma, and Charles, taking orders for drinks, provided a welcome distraction. She feared, though, that it would be short-lived.

‘What have you done with your offspring?' Max asked, as they seated themselves. ‘Are we to have the pleasure of seeing them?'

‘Not this evening, no,' Charles replied. ‘At thirteen and fifteen, they can safely be despatched to the cinema and a burger bar.'

‘I doubt if I'd recognize them. We were reckoning it must be three years since we saw you.'

Monica nodded. ‘Though we've been over to stay with relatives in the interval.'

‘So how long are you here for this time?'

Charles sat back and crossed his legs. He was a thin, wiry man, an inch or two shorter than his wife, and his crinkly brown hair had receded in the years they'd known him, but his eyes, bright and alert, still gave the impression that they missed nothing.

‘Well, as you know, our main objective is to settle the business of the house. We went round it yesterday with a builder in tow, and are now awaiting his estimate. Frankly, we were appalled by the state it's in – no blame to the tenants, merely wear and tear over the years. The trick, of course, will be to modernize without destroying its original character, but I'm pretty sure we can achieve it.'

‘Does that mean you'll move in yourselves?'

‘I think so. It'd be foolish to spend all that money improving it for someone else's benefit, when we'll be wanting somewhere ourselves. Still, no hard and fast decisions at this stage. The only thing that's certain is that it can't be left in its present state.'

The barman brought their drinks over, and again Rona was glad of the interruption, but as soon as he'd gone, Charles, with a swift glance at her, began, ‘We would just like to apologize again for everything you went through. I appreciate you don't want to rake it up, and I shan't mention it again, but you knew them fairly well, I believe?'

Rona took a quick sip of her drink. ‘I'm not sure I'd agree with that. There was a great deal I
didn't
know, as I found to my cost.'

‘But you went to the house several times? From what I gather—'

‘Charles,' Monica leant forward and put a hand on his arm. ‘I really don't think Rona wants to talk about it.'

He looked momentarily nonplussed. ‘Oh – I'm sorry.'

Max said steadily, ‘Let's just say it's great from our viewpoint that it's being done over, and it'll be even better if you come and live there. Now, tell me what you'll do when your contract expires; will you be assigned another job in the UK?'

And as the two men settled back to discuss business, Monica said softly, ‘I'm sorry about that. He didn't mean to upset you.'

‘I know. I'm sorry too, it's just—'

‘You don't have to explain. The subject is now closed and won't be raised again. Ever.'

‘Thank you,' Rona said.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly, and over the excellent meal a variety of topics were discussed, including changes in the town over the last few years, the need to find schools for the Furness children, and Rona's career. To her relief, the name Elspeth Wilding seemed to mean little to the Furnesses, so there was no need to go into increasingly repetitive explanations.

‘Let us know what you decide,' Max said, as they made their farewells in the foyer.

‘Of course, and apologies in advance for the succession of workmen who'll be clogging the road for the foreseeable future.'

‘OK, sweetheart?' Max asked, slipping an arm round Rona as they walked to the car.