Learning to Dance (6 page)

By the time Judith had found a spot in the sun and out of the breeze coming off the sea it was past three o’clock. She wedged herself between two rocks and fixed her eyes on the cliffs while she fumbled her sketchbook and a pencil on to her knees. Still staring at that rank of small headlands thrusting towards the incoming tide, she made lines on the square of paper she could feel beneath her hand; perpendicular lines falling from the top of the page to the bottom; sky to sea, a small army defending a land. She paused and squinted as the sun silhouetted them blackly. They were not straight, they were concave. The grassy tops were thrust out aggressively, the base stood firm. The cliffs were rampant, just as on an heraldic device; they curved towards the enemy, snarling defiance. The pencil moved swiftly … one line better than two … look again and again. Rocks like fallen soldiers at the
base of the curves, seaweed dripping from scars beneath the maw of the clifftop, bleeding from a long-ago battle.

Time passed. She noticed that the light was changing and the sun disintegrating into exquisitely careless streaks. She made horizontal lines and told herself she must remember they offered some kind of reassurance for the aggression of those clifftops. But the cliffs themselves became tired as the sun left them; how much longer could the battle go on? She drew a deep breath. That was all out of her hands, and all she could do was to record what she saw.

When she thought she had enough to work with, she looked at her watch. It was just before six o’clock. She must go and change for dinner. The tide was already at the base of the castle’s rock. She pushed herself out of her friendly cleft, stiff now, put her sketchbook and pencil into the canvas bag, and trudged around to the steps. She was tired and the steps were endless and uneven. She wrestled with the big door just as Hausmann had done last night, and staggered in as he had, too. Irena was still at the counter, though common sense told Judith she must have moved from there at some point.

‘My dear! You have been working – we were getting a bit anxious, and then Mrs Jessup spotted you from the Long Gallery and told us you were all right, and poor Mr Jones thankfully stopped demanding that we should phone the coastguards …’ So Sybil had seen her, just as she had seen Sybil. There was a link somewhere, she was sure of it. Neither of them liked to be the centre of attention. Judith smiled wryly; Sybil was so much better than she had been at keeping out of the limelight.

But Irena was talking about the dinner menu now. There were copies of it in the lounge. Why didn’t Mrs Freeman sit
by the fire for half an hour, and Bart would bring her a tray of tea? Dinner would be at seven thirty. A little late, because they had all lingered in the Long Gallery far too long.

Judith discovered she could not face her bedroom just yet. She smiled and moved into the sitting room. Her sofa from last night was pulled close to the electric flames, and she sank into it gratefully, easing off her trainers and keeping a protective hand on the canvas of her bag. She thought of the sketchbook inside and the half-a-dozen pages of lines and squiggles she had made, and wondered whether the feeling of satisfaction would last until she could find an art shop and buy some basic watercolours. Or acrylics? She had worked once or twice with acrylics, and Jack had much preferred them. But Jack always went for the unconventional. And there was a subtlety to mixing watercolours that was missing with other media. Unless it was egg tempura. She liked the idea of that.

She held a menu in her hand but barely saw it. She was considering colours now: the soft orange of the September sun as it touched the mottled surface of the invading water and became another colour completely. The plain fact was that water held no colour that man could identify, and yet changed and amplified everything that shone through and into it. It was a mixture of two gases, yet was full of its own enormous and terrifying properties. Its weight as it had surged around the castle that morning – how on earth did anyone paint water’s weight?

She grinned slightly and glanced at her watch; time, which had dragged unbearably since Jack’s … departure – she could not continue to call it desertion – was now completely out of hand. It was seven o’clock. An hour since she had sat in this chair and picked up the menu. And anyway, someone
was coming in behind her and coughing politely. Probably Nathaniel Jones. Or Bart Mann with her tea.

She half-turned. It was Hausmann.

He coughed again. ‘Look. Tell me to sod off if you like. It’s just – are you all right? I thought I’d better not chase after you. You sort of exploded. I didn’t know what to do. Especially when you didn’t turn up with the others this afternoon.’

She stared at him. ‘Are you fishing for compliments or something?’

‘Don’t be stupid. I realize that the artwork triggered a memory that was unbearable—’

‘Not at all. If a work of art symbolizes a work of God, then it is probably God who has to take responsibility for my … my explosion, as you put it!’

He held on to the back of the sofa as if she had slapped him.

‘I don’t believe in God.’

‘You probably do. Otherwise you would have said that you did not believe in his existence. You mean your faith has taken a knock.’ She half-turned away, not wanting to hear about his background or enter into a discussion, then turned back suddenly.

‘Tell me, why have you used oil for some of your stuff, watercolour for others? And what do you think about acrylic? Have you ever used egg tempura?’

He still hung on to the back of the sofa. His heavily lidded eyes opened wider and then narrowed again, concentrating.

‘A hammer. You are like a hammer with your assumptions about my faith. And now you hammer questions at me.’ He walked around the sofa and sat down. ‘Yes, I have used egg whites and acrylics. And I have made colours from the earth.
Tempura clings, but is as delicate as watercolours. More easily controlled. Acrylic is not so subtle, but on occasion there is nothing like it. Bold. It can make statements. Some of my earth pigments are good, some not so good. Does that help?’

‘You are saying everyone has differing opinions?’

‘Am I?’ He opened his eyes, bewildered. ‘Yes. Perhaps. It is what I say to my students all the time. But you are not a student. And you are not young. Why haven’t you tried this stuff for yourself?’

She was taken aback. ‘I don’t know. I suppose … there were higher priorities. The boys. My mother. I’ve sketched at times. But I’ve never taken it further.’

‘Yes. Nat was telling me about your sons in Australia. I have to warn you he is very keen to accompany you there.’

‘Nat? Oh yes. Mr Jones. I had forgotten you were neighbours long ago.’

His heavy eyelids drooped gloomily. ‘The past is always with us.’

She smiled. ‘Surely that is why you paint your wonderful memories? So that after humankind has destroyed the world as we know it, your paintings will emerge from a lead-lined chamber and tell them what it was like.’ In spite of her ironic tone, she felt her eyes filling again, and blurted quickly, ‘What a beautiful place it was.’

He waited, and she mumbled ‘Sorry,’ and fished for a tissue.

He said, ‘Not many people see my stuff like that. Thank you.’

‘That’s all right. And I will experiment with tempura. I’d better go and swill my hands … change into a skirt, perhaps …’

‘I have to tell you something—’

‘Not now.’

‘Come to the Dove tonight with Nat—’

‘I don’t think so. The tide is all wrong.’

‘Oh bugger, so it is.’

She was at the door to the lobby. She looked back, suddenly grinning.

‘We’re all prisoners, Hausmann!’

He looked up. She thought afterwards that she had never seen such raw terror in a man’s face before. She ran for the lift.

When Judith came down again she realized they were all in the dining room, the conversation led by Sven Olsen but including Nathaniel, who was expounding on the ‘accessibility’ of ‘Bob’s stuff’.

‘A kid of seven could appreciate most of those landscapes. They have a feeling of Constable, every detail there, historical, factual …’

She veered sideways so that she could look into the sitting room and see how Hausmann was taking this opinion. He was not there. Bart was picking up a tea tray. He looked at her and made a face.

‘This was for you. I take it he drove you away.’

She shook her head. ‘Not at all. He answered a lot of questions. I’m glad he had the tea and cakes.’ She tried not to look defiant. ‘I like him.’

Bart looked genuinely surprised. ‘Do you? That’s good. His manner – he can often seem offensive.’ He bent to pick up a saucer from the floor; it had been used as an ashtray. He put it on the tray. ‘We are brothers, you know.’

‘Yes. He did mention it. You must be proud. His work is very special.’

Bart nodded. ‘Robert went back. To Germany. To see the camps. He tried to paint what he had seen, but because he knew … our great-uncle survived and spoke of it to him … it wasn’t what he saw, but what he knew … can you understand?’

She nodded; the tears were waiting just behind her eyes again.

‘He paints everything in this country. As if he is trying to block out the rest of the world.’

She nodded again, then squeezed her eyes tightly shut and opened them wide.

‘I am glad that
you
understand,’ she said.

‘There seems to be nothing anyone can do. We hoped – Irena and I – that he would take an interest in this place. Help us to get it together. But … well, he dashed off tonight – wanted to beat the tide to the causeway. It means he won’t be back till midnight.’ He shrugged.

Judith went on into the dining room and was confronted by a barrage of questions all about her painting.

‘We did not know that we had another painter in our midst!’ Sven beamed at her.

Nathaniel actually came forward, took her arm and led her to the table by the window where Sybil sat, smiling sympathetically. She said to Sven, ‘Actually, Judith did mention it when we were first introduced.’ She widened her smile as she turned to Judith. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘I think so.’ Judith settled herself. The questions from the other table had already died. ‘I think it was your example that gave me the idea. Actually I haven’t done anything for years and years.’ She thought of the spare bedroom that Jack had insisted on calling ‘Jude’s stude’ and added, ‘Not really.’

‘My example?’

‘I saw you down there. When I was exploring the castle this morning. I suppose that was what got me going.’ Judith remembered the agonizing poignancy of the Hausmann exhibition, the desperation to do something herself. A kind of therapy?

Sybil gave a rueful smile. ‘When I saw the exhibition this afternoon, I realized how absolutely pitiful my work is.’ The trolley was approaching, and Nathaniel, who had been talking to Sven, came back to their table. Sybil finished hurriedly, ‘I think I’ll stick to greetings cards. Makes me a living.’

Judith opened her eyes, surprised. Years ago Jack had asked her whether she intended to paint postcards. It had been a valid option in the commercial art world and he had done it himself on occasion. She wondered whether Sybil knew Jack. She shrank back as Irena offered her soup. She had almost imagined herself a respectable widow like Sybil. She had seen similarities that had somehow comforted her.

Irena said, ‘Did you enjoy your afternoon?’

There it was; not quite respect, but a darned sight better than the scorn Irena reserved for her brother-in-law. If she knew that Judith was not a widow …

‘I did. Thank you.’

Nathaniel tasted his soup cautiously, then smiled. ‘I did not think I would like fish soup. Never had it before.’ He savoured another spoonful. ‘I slightly preferred the watercress last night, but this is delicious in quite a different way.’ Both his companions murmured agreement. He turned to Judith. ‘So my old neighbour inspired you to try your hand at a seascape?’

Judith smiled widely. ‘I suppose he did.’

She would have chuckled if she had not been enjoying the soup so much. It really was that simple, after all. One of her
mother’s favourite adages had been ‘Never stew in your own juice’, closely followed by, ‘Keep those fingers busy, Jude!’ And she had been right, of course. Everything seemed to have stopped dead after that morning when Jack had told her he was leaving. For two long months her fingers had so often been idle, and she had stewed her own juice into a bitter brew. And now, this afternoon, she had tried her hand at a seascape. Her smile widened.

And then Sybil pushed her soup away and said quietly, ‘But Robert is painting for the end of the world. Surely that is what his work is about?’

Judith stopped smiling. This woman had seen exactly what she had seen. The agonizing poignancy of Hausmann’s work. Nothing was simple after all. She kept silent, head down, intent on her soup. Nathaniel laughed.

From the other table, Margaret Olsen called across, ‘We’re trying to agree on an outing tomorrow. Sven wants to stride across the moor – the sort of thing we do back home in Sweden. Jennifer and I want to go to Exeter and see the shops. Stanley –
of course
– will do what Jennifer does!’ She gave him an unbearably arch smile.

Nathaniel said, ‘I don’t mind. I have friends in Exeter. But I would like to see the moor. The weather forecast was good.’

Judith did not look up. She would drop out of any of the arrangements and go back to the Long Gallery. Unexpectedly Sybil spoke up.

‘I would like to be dropped at Lynton, whichever route you choose. I want to go down to Lynmouth on the rack railway and walk up the combe.’ She paused. ‘I am hoping Judith will come with me. The views are breathtaking.’

Judith lifted her head, almost shocked. This bond with
Sybil Jessup took a leap. She spoke without thinking, ‘Yes. I would like that.’ She held her breath. Now Nathaniel would offer his escort service and the whole thing would be ruined.

But he didn’t, and Sven asked him to give the deciding vote, and after a lot of laughter from the two women, he opted for a trip to the city. Jennifer kissed Stanley lightly. ‘There will be time to see the old orangery before we leave,’ she promised. Margaret caught Judith’s uncomprehending gaze and rolled her eyes.