Facing the Light (28 page)

She thought about her father while Peter poured the coffee. Being a widower hadn't suited him. He'd stopped painting altogether, and nothing Leonora said or did made any difference. She used to have to choose her moment carefully if she wanted to talk to him about this. If the timing was wrong, he was quite capable of flying into a black rage, which meant that he retired to his bedroom with the brandy bottle and everyone had to tiptoe round the house and pray that he wouldn't come out into the corridors to storm and rage at them.

When the sun came out: that was the best time for conversation. Walking in the Quiet Garden, sitting under the magnolia tree, Leonora would sometimes dare to ask gently, ‘Wouldn't this make a painting, Daddy? Isn't it beautiful?'

‘Sentimental nonsense, flowers,' he'd answer. ‘Not my sort of thing. Not now.'

‘But the waterlily pictures, Daddy! And the one with the roses on the table. You do paint flowers so beautifully. And everyone loves them. We could make a lot of money, you know, if you sold some of them.'

A mistake. It was always a mistake to mention selling the canvases. He father frowned, but on this occasion, all he said was, ‘Over my dead body. The pictures stay here, at Willow Court.' Suddenly, he leaned forward and stared into Leonora's eyes. ‘Promise me, Leonora,' he said. ‘Promise me they'll never be sold. Not even when I'm dead. Promise.'

And I did promise, Leonora thought. I had to. Daddy always got his way and here he was still getting it, more than four years after his death. She said to Peter, ‘I kept that man's card. The man from the gallery. He left it and I put it somewhere. I shall telephone him, and ask his advice. His name is Jeremy Bland. I'll ask him down to have a look and tell me what he thinks of the paintings. We can make money from them, don't you think? We might let the public into Willow Court to see them. If they're as good as all that, everyone will be longing to come, won't they?'

‘But would you want every Tom, Dick and Harry traipsing round the house? Think of the work! The mud they'll tread into the carpets. I don't know if I think it's such a good idea, darling. I don't really.'

‘Nonsense, Peter! We'd become famous. You'd like that, wouldn't you? We don't have to open the house every day, either. We can choose when we let people in.
Bunny's cousin knows someone who works for the
Tatler
. I'll telephone him and I'm sure he'll oblige. Imagine, there might be photographs of us in a magazine! Or an article perhaps. And I'll get in touch with the Women's Institute and offer Willow Court for their annual Garden Party. Maybe they'll let me give a talk or something about the paintings.'

‘Oh, well,' said Peter, ‘if it means that much to you, I won't object.'

‘You're a darling.' Leonora smiled at him. ‘I hadn't realized how much I've missed those pictures. Daddy would be pleased, wouldn't he? He'd have loved the idea of people walking round admiring his handiwork. I shall telephone Mr Bland once we've hung everything in a good place.'

*

After several hours of back-breaking labour, it was over. The paintings had been brought downstairs from the Studio to the dining room. Tyler and his two young assistants came in from the garden to help move things around. Gwen's playpen had been positioned in the hall and she was gazing round at everything with great interest. Peter was at the office, but Nanny Mouse was there to help matters along. The canvases were stacked against the wall.

‘Just till we can sort out what goes where,' Leonora said. ‘I've been trying to remember where things used to be. Nanny, you must remember, surely? There were pictures all along the corridor, upstairs, weren't there?'

‘Yes, yes there were. I expect I might recognize some of them if I see them again, though to tell you the truth, after a bit you don't notice things on walls, do you? I don't, I'm sure.'

Leonora shivered suddenly. For what was probably only a split second, something that might have been a dream she'd once had (when?) passed into her mind and
then out of it again before she'd had a chance to examine it. Herself running down the hall staircase, and the pictures looming above her, enormous, much larger than they were in real life. A portrait of someone she didn't recognize – someone with a hat on, shadowing their face. A landscape showing the drive as it was at this very moment, with every leaf on the scarlet oaks the colour of fresh blood, that was all she could remember clearly, but she was left with a sense of there being something else, something just out of sight that she might catch a glimpse of – but it was gone and all that was left was unease of some kind. Leonora shook her head to dispel such thoughts and said to Nanny Mouse, ‘I must have walked past all these pictures a thousand times. It's like seeing old friends again. Here's the blue teapot … I love that! Surely between us we can find the same places for most of them, can't we?'

‘I wouldn't trust my memory, after all this while,' said Nanny Mouse. ‘I think you should just put everything where you think best.'

*

‘It's a very interesting collection, Mrs Simmonds,' said Mr Bland, glancing over Leonora's shoulder at the painting on the wall behind her, a landscape recognizable as the view out of the window next to which she'd hung it. ‘And I admire the clever way you've placed some of these pictures so that whoever looks at them sees the original, as it were, beside it.'

Leonora smiled. ‘It'll only be a match for part of the year, of course, but I thought it might be amusing.'

‘Indeed.' Mr Bland, who had not asked her to call him by his first name, was not much older than she was, but his formal manner and mode of dress kept her at some distance. Today, he was visiting Willow Court to gather some biographical information for a brochure his gallery
was eager to produce. At first, Leonora couldn't understand why a dealership which was not strictly representing her father as an artist, not selling his pictures, should be so keen to do this, and she'd asked Mr Bland this question.

‘It's the reflected glory,' he'd answered. ‘We shall advertise our gallery in its pages of course. Also one never knows what the future may bring, does one? Perhaps things may change in relation to these pictures.'

‘It's most unlikely,' said Leonora. ‘The terms of my father's will are quite clear.'

They went into the small drawing room, where Mr Bland took out a notebook and began to question her as she poured tea from the blue pot that was the subject of what he had confessed was one of the Ethan Walsh paintings he loved best.

‘Your father was one of the generation of artists working just before and just after the First World War,' he said, and Leonora nodded.

‘He died four years ago, I believe?'

Leonora smiled. ‘Yes, and it was what they call an easy death, but of course death is never easy, is it? Certainly not for the people who are left behind.'

‘Please accept my condolences,' Mr Bland said quietly.

Leonora looked at him. ‘Thank you. My father's death was not only sad, it was also very inconvenient. It happened on the eve of my wedding.'

‘How very sad!' Mr Bland managed to take a bite from one of the scones Mrs Darting had provided, while balancing his notebook on his knees. ‘But I believe there's no work of his dated later than 1935. This means that for the last thirteen years of his life he did no painting at all. Is that correct?'

‘Quite correct, I'm afraid,' said Leonora. ‘My mother died in 1935 and he … well, he was never quite himself again, really.'

‘Nevertheless, it is a considerable body of work. There are fifty-four canvases, and several dozen sketches and watercolours. A great deal more than many artists have left us. And I'm quite sure that people will be fascinated to come and see them. An added attraction …' he smiled at Leonora ‘… will be your good self, of course,
in situ
as it were. Visitors will enjoy meeting the original of the youthful portraits.'

Leonora smiled. ‘I thought that I would look forward to that,' she said. ‘But I find that I'm a little nervous after all. Will I know what to say? Perhaps there's someone who might do it better than I could? Who'd know more?'

‘Probably,' Mr Bland agreed. ‘But if I may say so, you are Willow Court's greatest asset. Your presence would make a visit to see these pictures something very special indeed.'

Leonora said, ‘I expect I shall enjoy it really, but I do hope there won't be too many people to talk to at any one time. I don't think I'd be too happy coping with droves of visitors. Also, I have to consider my husband and daughter. This is their house too, of course.'

‘Of course it is. Then we must make sure that no droves come to trouble you or your family, dear lady!' said Mr Bland. For someone as staid as he was, Leonora thought, he was looking rather excited. ‘We will limit the numbers. It will make the whole thing more … exclusive. The general public will have to telephone our gallery in advance and make a booking for the days on which Willow Court is open. And in my opinion, there should not be too many of these. A certain difficulty, a certain rarity value will do nothing but good, I think.'

‘I agree,' said Leonora, much more relaxed now that she knew she wouldn't have to spend every single day pointing out the beauty of Ethan Walsh's works to masses and masses of people. Showing small groups
around the house at intervals throughout the year was a different matter altogether. ‘I shall enjoy it. I think.'

Mr Bland stood up. ‘It will be a pleasure to deal with the details for you, Mrs Simmonds.'

‘Oh, Leonora, please,' she said. ‘If we are to be such close associates.'

‘I'm honoured,' said Mr Bland. ‘And you must call me Jeremy.'

Later, she and Nanny Mouse would laugh as she described the blush that had risen from the stiff collar of Mr Bland's shirt and up into the roots of his greying hair.

‘I'm going to be a proper businesswoman, Nanny!' Leonora said. ‘Isn't that thrilling?'

‘Most exciting, dear,' said Nanny, busy stitching smocking on to the bodice of a pretty dress for Gwen. ‘Willow Court will be quite the centre of attention, won't it?'

Leonora and Mr Bland – Jeremy – had chosen Thursdays as Open Day at Willow Court. That would be throughout the year, and during the summer months, Tuesdays would be added as well. There might also be the occasional weekend but that was subject to what Jeremy called ‘your personal availability'.

‘He imagines we live a life of pleasure and idleness, Nanny,' she said. ‘You know, guests every weekend, or else gadding about to parties and what not. When we're such homebodies, really. He doesn't realize that we prefer our own company to anyone else's.'

Nanny Mouse said nothing but privately thought Mr Bland was a clever gentleman who knew Leonora rather better than she did herself. It was quite true that she and Mr Peter were devoted, but they were also forever entertaining and going about to other people's houses. A life of pleasure was exactly the right term for it, in her opinion.

*

‘Look! Look, Gwen, darling!' Leonora pointed at the tiny screen of the television where a grainy greyish picture of the coach (which she knew was golden in reality) carrying the new Queen back from Westminster Abbey was partly visible through what looked like a snowstorm. It wasn't really a snowstorm, just a rather unclear picture, but still, everyone had gathered in the drawing room to watch the royal progress.

‘Such a shame about the rainy weather!' Bunny said. Richard was on her lap. Gwen was on Leonora's lap, which meant that for the moment, she was safe from the little boy's clumsiness.

‘Ween!' Gwen called out, and everyone laughed.

‘She talks so well for her age, doesn't she?' Bunny looked less than pleased as she said this. Richard wasn't the most advanced of speakers, and Leonora thought this was probably because he used most of his available talent to go charging about putting people's ornaments in grave danger.

‘Yes, it's the new Queen, sweetiepie,' Leonora whispered into her baby's ear. Bunny's attention was fixed on the screen. ‘Can you see her crown?'

Gwen nodded gravely.

‘It's been quite a day,' said Peter, who had come in from the office specially to watch the ceremony on the television. Nigel was there, too, and the occasion had turned into a party of sorts. It wasn't every day that a monarch was crowned, after all. In the end, though, when the tea things had been cleared away, Bunny and Nigel and Richard went home, and before long, Nanny Mouse took Gwen upstairs to have her bath.

‘I know what you're going to say,' Leonora said to Peter, leaning back against the cushions of the sofa.

‘No, you don't.'

‘I do. You're going to say
peace at last
. Or something along those lines.'

‘A good guess, but not quite. I was actually going to say
alone at last!
'

‘You sound surprised. We're often alone.'

‘Not often enough for me.' He came over to the sofa and sat down next to Leonora and put his arms around her.

‘Oh, darling! We're an old married couple. We're certainly much too old to canoodle on a sofa. There's a proper place for such things, you know.'

She didn't mean a word of it. They would be undisturbed for a while, and they were both aware of that, and aware of the special festive atmosphere that had coloured the whole day. They'd had rather a lot of champagne at lunch (
we don't have a Coronation every day, do we
?) and Leonora's head was swimming a little.

All at once, everything was happening very quickly. Her skirt and the lace-trimmed silk slip she wore under it pushed up, and her knickers somehow (how?) on the carpet and Peter making love to her and kissing her hair and the delicious terror that maybe someone would overhear them or see them so that they had to be quick and it was easy to be quick because they couldn't stop, they could never stop, and all the sounds rising in their throats and being stifled, and then nothing but silence broken by panting as though they'd been running for a long time.