On Monday morning Gabby returned to the upstairs room of the museum and continued to fix the loose paint on Isabella, concentrating on the main damage around the neck and chest region. The gesso or ground layer beneath the paint was brittle and thick as it was chalk or gypsum based. She decided to use a weak solution of gelatine so that it would penetrate through all the layers. She had kept an eye on the temperature in the room and the humidity was stable so there was little danger of fungal activity.
Gabby had brought the small CD-player Nell had given her last Christmas and she put Beethoven on low. The day was heavy and overcast, the sun, trapped behind cloud and sea mist, pressed down making her head ache.
She had been tense all weekend. She had walked and gardened and fidgeted, guilt and astonishment at herself making her jumpy. Now, in the silence, away from the farm and Nell and Charlie, Gabby felt her limbs begin to loosen as she concentrated. A form of peace flowed through her and into her fingers, making them sure and steady.
She stopped working for a moment and went to switch her mobile on. Just in case. Her stomach lurched as the memory of Mark’s hands reaching for her played, as it had all weekend, through her head. She had thought Charlie must notice the difference in her and had fought to seem normal as she discussed with him whether or not she should take work in London.
‘It doesn’t make sense, by the time you’ve paid your train fare and accommodation, you’ll be no better off, Gabby. Just exhausted,’ Charlie had said.
‘My accommodation is free, for this job anyway, and I’ll get paid far more than I get down here.’
Nell had said quietly, trying not to interfere and failing, as she poured Charlie a beer, ‘I would discount money, keep it out of the equation. You’ve been offered a job by a prestigious gallery, Gabby. Are you excited by the work? Is it interesting? Do you believe you can do a good job? Might it lead to more work? If the answer is yes to all these things, what do you have to lose? The only consideration you have is the figurehead. It must be in a condition to be exhibited at the end of June. That is your first responsibility. I would have thought you could manage both.’
‘Yes, I could. I’m sure I could. The NPG already know I am committed to work on her for another two weeks.’
‘I am not against you taking the job, Gabby,’ Charlie had said. ‘But you know what the summer is like. I’m out all daylight hours and I rely on you being here for whatever crops up. If you’re away, all your jobs fall on Nell …’
‘Charlie, for heaven’s sake, we’re talking about three weeks at the most. This is Gabby’s future. You can’t have it all ways. You are permanently trying to devise ways of bringing more money into the farm and restoring is how Gabby and I contribute.’
There was no answer to this and Charlie had been silent. Eventually, draining his beer, he got to his feet.
‘Well, it’s your decision, Gab. It’s money, I guess, and as you say, it is probably a one-off. I suppose we can manage without you.’ He had grinned at her.
‘I’ll be finished long before harvest,’ Gabby had smiled back, feeling treacherous.
‘OK. Go for it! I’m going to the office to catch up on paperwork. I’ll shut the hens in for you.’
‘Thanks, Charlie.’
‘This girl from the gallery is ringing you again tomorrow?’ Nell had asked.
Gabby had suddenly felt exhausted. ‘Yes.’
‘Go to bed, Gabby. I’ll stick these in the dishwasher.’
‘Sure?’
‘Positive.’ Nell had paused, carrying plates to the sink. ‘I really don’t think Charlie was trying to be obstructive, Gabby. He’s just so used to having you around. Men are odd, you know, they rely on women far more than they’d ever admit.’
Gabby had stared at Nell, surprised. ‘I didn’t think he was being at all obstructive, Nell. I thought he was being very reasonable. He was only pointing out that if I swan off it makes more work for you, which is true. But it’s doubtful this is going to happen too often, and apart from the figurehead I do usually work from home.’
Nell had thought later, Does Gabby ever think about what she actually does for Charlie? Things that he could very well organize for himself, or a housekeeper or extra cleaner could do. Roles, she thought, form such a comfortable habit that we stop questioning them and they become hard to break, like a comfort zone.
In the museum the phone bleeped. Text message. Gabby ignored it and went on working. After an interval that she judged businesslike, she went over to the phone. It was Josh, not Mark. Anxiously she scanned the message:
MET FANTASTIC GIRL LUV JOSH.
Gabby smiled. Must be fantastic to text your mother during the day. So Josh was, at last, smitten. She went back to Isabella and looked down on the face that gave nothing away. What do you know about love, Lady Isabella? Then, out of nowhere, the thought came; Were you married off to an old squire and the young men could only paint or carve your likeness?
Gabby gazed down on her, feeling sure she was right. She started to prepare a fine chalk-based filler, texturing it to match the chest and neck damage. She found herself murmuring to Isabella as she worked, almost believing Isabella was listening.
In the silent room, with Beethoven playing softly, the figurehead seemed tangibly real. Flesh and blood, like a second person in the room. A patient lying flat, while the doctor bent working over her, stitching her deftly together, healing her wounds, mending the ravages of the past.
When Gabby left the museum at the end of the day the heat haze which had never lifted had swallowed the sea, locking the village into the landscape, muffling and distorting the disembodied voices coming eerily above the throb of the engines of the returning fishing fleet. The evening seemed diluted, like a child’s watery painting, the colours running into each other, blurring all edges.
Gabby drove slowly, unwilling to return home. She stopped to do some food shopping and as she climbed back into the car, the phone rang.
‘Hello?’ she said breathlessly.
‘Gabriella! Tell me if it’s a bad time.’
‘No … It’s fine, really.’
‘I just wanted to say “Hi”, and to hear your voice.’
Gabby closed her eyes, said inanely, ‘You got home safely?’
‘Sure. I got in last night. How are you doing?’
‘I’m driving home after a day with your Lady Isabella.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Very well, but it’s looking doubtful whether we’ll discover any more original paint. I’m just waiting for the last of the tests I sent to be analysed.’
‘Looks as though Valerie Mischell was right, then?’
‘’Fraid so. Mark, you know the girl, Lucinda Cage, at the National Portrait Gallery? She rang and asked me if I would try to undo some of the damage to that painting she showed us, before their exhibition in July.’
‘Hey, that’s wonderful. Congratulations! I hope you jumped at it?’
‘Yes,’ Gabby said smiling, ‘I did.’
‘When are you going?’
‘When I’ve completed restoring the first phase of Isabella. In about two weeks.’
Silence at the end of the phone and then Mark said, ‘I’m still going to be over here. Oh, what bad timing, Gabriella.’
‘Yes …’ Gabby said. She had been hoping, perhaps …
‘Is there any chance of you getting more work with them?’
‘Well, maybe, if I’m lucky. And if they’re happy with my work.’
‘If I could get back earlier I would, but …’
‘I know.’
‘I have to go … I miss you,’ he said softly.
‘Me, too.’
‘We’ll speak soon. Take care, Gabriella.’
‘Mark, thank you for ringing me.’
‘The pleasure’s mine!’ She could see him vividly, head slightly on one side, his eyes laughing.
The sea fret began to lift to reveal a pearl grey sea like a millpond. Her headache had miraculously flown. She realized that in accepting Lucinda’s offer in London and waiting all day for that one telephone call she had made a definite declaration of intent. A deliberately placed foot forward.