Unfinished Portrait (12 page)

She opened a desk drawer and retrieved the page of contacts she'd printed from Miss Saunders' email. Where to start? Perhaps, she thought, with Naomi Harris, whom she already knew. It was lunchtime; with luck, she'd be at home.

She was. ‘Mrs Harris? It's Rona Parish.'

‘Oh, Rona, hello!' There was a pause, then an embarrassed little laugh. ‘I hope I may call you that, since we'll be seeing a fair bit of each other? And I, as you know, am Naomi.'

‘Rona's fine, thanks. I've been going through some papers, but so far I've not been able to get any handle on Elspeth herself. I wondered if I could come up and speak to you about her?'

‘Yes, of course. Her childhood, do you mean?'

‘To start with, yes; but if things occur to you out of context, fine. I can sort everything out later. When would be convenient?'

‘I suppose you'd like it to be as soon as possible?'

‘Ideally, yes.'

Naomi hesitated. ‘Is it likely to be a long interview?'

How long is a piece of string? Rona thought. ‘It depends really; I'll have a list of questions to start you off, and with luck, you'll be able to enlarge on the answers. I'll bring my recorder, if that's OK, to save having to write notes all the time.'

‘Of course. How about tomorrow, then?'

‘That would be great. Thanks.'

‘Sunningdene's marginally nearer than Buckford, but you'll still have quite a drive. Suppose you come about eleven, and we can break for lunch?'

‘Oh, please don't go to any trouble,' Rona protested.

‘No trouble – it'll be something light. Now, do you know where we are?'

‘I'll find you. I have your address, and Sunningdene's not very large, is it?'

‘That's true. Very well, eleven o'clock tomorrow, then.'

Rona put down the phone and drew a breath of relief. That should start the ball rolling.

She set off the next morning just after nine, Gus curled up on the back seat. She'd be out most of the day – too long to leave him – and she could stop to exercise him on both the outward and return journeys.

It was a glorious day, mellow sunshine burnishing the remaining leaves to flame, and Rona was tempted to take the scenic route, meandering past Nettleton and Woodbourne and getting the full benefit of the autumn foliage. However, the Buckford road would be quicker; perhaps, time permitting, they could come home the other way.

After a gap of over a year, this was the third time in eight days she'd driven this way. Future interviews, though, should entail shorter journeys; according to the emailed information, Elspeth's parents had moved to Chilswood, and her brother and his wife lived in London.

Sunningdene was a small market town cradled in a valley, and it was in the countryside surrounding it that Rona stopped to let Gus have a run. Over to her right, rooks cawed and flapped over a small wood, while fields stretched away on either side, farm buildings clustered on the horizon, and ahead of her, in a gentle dip, lay the roofs of Sunningdene.

A distant clock chiming the three-quarters recalled her to the present, and, bundling Gus back into the car, she drove down the hill into town. As she entered the High Street, she saw to her surprise that the shops were confined to the left-hand side, the right being given over to parkland, whose trees and grass gave the impression it was still part of the countryside. Ahead, the road forked on either side of an area set out as a market place, where a cluster of stalls appeared to be doing a brisk trade.

Memorizing the map, Rona took the left fork, and almost immediately turned left again, following the road for a mile or so till the shops ended and it widened into an estate of executive-type houses and bungalows. She then threaded her way through maze-like streets for another five minutes, before finding that matching the Harrises' address.

Gus briefly raised his head as she left the car, then settled back resignedly, closing his eyes.

Rona was a little disconcerted when a tall, grey-haired man opened the door to her, but his smile reassured her that she had the right house.

‘Rona Parish? How do you do? I'm Leonard Harris. My wife's expecting you.'

And Naomi appeared behind him, smiling a welcome.

‘You found us all right, then?'

‘No problem till I reached the estate.'

‘I know, it is a bit samey. Come through, there's some coffee waiting. Leonard's working from home today,' she added, leading the way through a pleasant-looking sitting room to the conservatory beyond. ‘He'll be joining us for lunch, though I doubt if he can add much to your research on Elspeth.'

The conservatory, warm after the cool autumn air, looked over a back garden that, to Rona's mind, had the manicured air of professional landscaping. Mentally, and a little disparagingly, she ticked off its components: decking, water feature, gazebo, barbecue stand – while admitting that the overall effect was pleasing to the eye. Then, ashamed of herself, she turned to her hostess with a smile.

‘Have you always lived in a bungalow?'

Naomi, engaged in pouring the coffee, shook her head. ‘We moved here five years ago. At the time, it looked as though Leonard might be made redundant, and it seemed wise to move to a smaller house. Also, he has a wonky knee, so doing away with stairs was a bonus.'

‘It must seem odd, not going up to bed!' Rona said.

Naomi laughed, handing her a coffee cup. ‘It took a while to get used to.'

She waved Rona to a chintz-covered sofa, and sat down opposite her. ‘You said on the phone that you couldn't “get a handle” on Elspeth. What exactly did you mean?'

Rona took out her recorder and set it up on the glass-topped table. ‘I know I've barely started, but . . . nothing is coming through, no hint of her personality.'

‘I can't say I'm surprised,' Naomi rejoined, and the contentious subject of the diaries hung in the air between them.

Rona waited for her to go on, and when she didn't, prompted, ‘Could you tell me, then, what you remember of her as a child.'

Naomi sat back, staring into her coffee cup. ‘I was five when she was born, and I can remember very clearly my first sight of her, scarlet face screwed up in fury, and tiny fists clenched. Though we didn't know it at the time, she was starting as she meant to go on. I've never
known
such a child for tantrums. If she didn't get her own way, she'd scream and scratch, tug at my hair, kick out at Richard. And she was a nightmare when Mother took her shopping. If she wasn't allowed a lollipop or whatever, she'd lie down in the middle of the street or supermarket, drumming her heels and screaming blue murder.'

Naomi broke off with a laugh. ‘I assumed all children behaved like that, and was quite apprehensive when Gillian was born. But she turned out as docile as a lamb, bless her!'

‘How long did these tantrums last?' Rona asked.

‘Way past the terrible twos – almost until she started school. Then she went from one extreme to another, and for the first few weeks refused to speak at all. My parents panicked and took her to a child psychologist, who assured them it was quite normal. They were advised to keep chatting to her and ignore her silence, and gradually she started talking again. But after that, we'd never much idea what she was thinking.'

‘I know you said she'd no friends when she was older, but had she at school?'

Naomi thought back. ‘I don't remember her going to parties, but she had one or two, and was very possessive of them. Anyway, she continued to be difficult until she was about five, when she was given a paintbox for Christmas.' She shook her head wonderingly. ‘It was though someone had waved a wand – she was a different child. She spent all her time painting – nothing out of the ordinary, mind you, just like any five-year-old, but it became a passion, and she was certainly much more amenable.

‘The psychologist said the tantrums had been a sign of frustration, because she'd difficulty expressing herself in words. Once she found a medium she was more comfortable with, she was happier. It sounded like gobbledegook to me, and frankly still does.'

‘It says on the Internet that she was a child prodigy, and had a painting exhibited at the age of thirteen.'

‘That's true. Once she started at secondary school, the art teacher saw she'd real talent and gave her extra coaching. I know it sounds silly, but it was as if someone had opened her cage. The results were instant and . . . spectacular.'

‘How did she react in herself? Was she more approachable?'

Naomi shrugged. ‘She'd met Chloë Pyne by then, so if she confided in anyone, it would have been her. It seems ridiculous when she's my sister, but I've never really felt I know her.'

‘Has anyone else in the family shown artistic leanings?'

‘Not really, unless you count my grandfather. He taught art at secondary school level and dabbled a bit himself, but in a strictly amateur way. My parents have a couple of his watercolours.'

‘Was he still alive when Elspeth started painting?'

‘Sadly, no, he died before she was born. I suppose she
might
have inherited his talent, but if so, she far surpassed it.'

She'd look into that later, Rona thought. ‘You said Chloë was also an artist?'

‘Yes; as children, they'd shut themselves away and paint for hours on end. They weren't interested in anything else. Later, as I told you, they went on to uni and then the RCA together. Elspeth was much the better artist, but Chloë never showed signs of jealousy. It would have been different, I can tell you, if it had been the other way round.'

‘Elspeth was competitive?'

‘Extremely. And there were no half-measures with her: she either loved you or hated you, often swinging from one to the other and back again in the course of a day. It was very wearing.'

‘Surely this didn't continue after she grew up?'

‘She still has mood swings, though not so intense.' Naomi reached down beside her chair and produced a photograph album. ‘You might be interested in this, though obviously there's nothing recent. Elspeth always hated having her photo taken, and from the age of fifteen, downright refused to. Her publicity people had a terrible time with her.'

Rona moved across, watching as Naomi turned the album pages to reveal yellowing snaps of long-ago summers. In virtually all of them, while the youthful Naomi and Richard smiled obligingly for the camera, Elspeth either pulled a face, covered it with her hands, or turned her back. Only when she'd been caught unawares could Rona catch a glimpse of the attractive-looking child she had been.

As Naomi came to the end, a loose sheet of paper slid out, a page torn from a glossy magazine. She picked it up with an exclamation.

‘I'd forgotten about this. It's the last photo we have of her, taken only a month or two before she went. As you see, she's still managing to avoid the camera.'

She passed the sheet to Rona. It was headed
Famous faces at the opening of the Newbolt Gallery
, and showed groups of men and women in evening dress, glasses in hand, standing about chatting. They might be famous in the art world, Rona thought, but she didn't recognize any of them, apart from the slight figure with her head down and her hair falling across her face.

‘She didn't want to go,' Naomi said. ‘Her dealer had practically to force her.'

Rona, about to read the list of those present, looked up. ‘Her dealer?'

‘Someone else whose name and address you'll need, though not, presumably, for a while yet.'

‘Sorry to interrupt,' a voice said, ‘but lunch is ready.'

They looked up to see Leonard Harris smiling at them from the doorway to the sitting room.

‘Goodness, is it that time already?' Naomi exclaimed. ‘I'm sorry, Rona, I'd meant to offer you a sherry before we went through.'

‘Thanks, but I'd rather not, with the drive ahead of me.'

‘You'll have wine with the meal, though?'

‘Just a glass would be lovely.'

The small dining room also gave on to the back garden, and Rona assumed the bedrooms must be at the front of the house. Naomi and Leonard between them brought through a golden-topped quiche and a bowl of salad.

‘I can't claim any credit,' Leonard said, in response to Rona's appreciative comment. ‘My wife made the quiche last night. All I had to do was put it in the oven at the right time, and dress the ready-prepared salad.'

‘Team work!' said Naomi with a smile. ‘Rona's trying to gauge Elspeth's character, darling,' she continued. ‘Any contribution to make?'

‘That's a tough one,' Leonard replied, pouring the wine. ‘Off the top of my head, I'd say she's intense, passionate about what interests her, dismissive of what doesn't. And she can be both thoughtless and very generous, depending on mood. How's that for a summary?'

‘Pretty accurate, I'd say.'

He glanced at Rona. ‘I wish to God you could find her,' he said in a low voice.

Rona felt her colour rise. ‘That's not my remit, Mr Harris.'

‘I'm sorry – of course I know that. It's just that this prolonged absence is putting such a strain on everyone.'

‘That's what you meant about her thoughtlessness?'

‘I suppose so, yes. Perhaps self-centred would have been a better description. She doesn't stop to consider how her actions might affect others.'

The rest of the meal passed without further reference to Elspeth, but when Rona and Naomi were back in the conservatory, Naomi said hesitantly, ‘You know you said it didn't matter if I remembered something out of context?'