ENGLAND, SEPTEMBER 2010
There’s solidarity among strangers when you are sharing stale air with them. Kathryn often eyed fellow aeroplane passengers closely and could tell when they were doing the same. Just over twenty-four hours ago, she had surveyed the queue at the check-in counter, examining their clothes and faces for any sign of who they were and what they might be carrying: she could be sharing her last moments with these people!
She had catalogued the amount of hand luggage they carried and judged them on it—selfish if they carried too much and lacking in personal hygiene if there wasn’t enough to sustain them through their long-haul flight. Forget the disposable toothbrushes and miniature tubes of moisturiser, real travellers brought their own. She should know, she had been doing the trip for long enough, but she was still just as relieved each time they lurched forward when the wheels touched down and the brakes locked in.
This wasn’t one of her usual trips, though, and back in the moment she took a deep breath as she guided her suitcase across the baggage hall, relieved to be through customs before the crowds from other international flights could swallow her up.
Earlier that week, she had stood in her lounge room looking at the silhouette of London’s skyline, the sunset a crimson smudge on the horizon that set the buildings in the centre eerily ablaze. Two tiny figures were on a rooftop, bold strokes of paint softening towards the edge of the painting, the blacks and greys of the buildings graduating into amber and yellow from the middle of the frame, the miniature initials ‘J.V.’ in the bottom right corner. The oil, The Crimson Sun, was small—only 10 x 13.5 inches—but the standard size for a Second World War painting of its kind. Kathryn had regarded the artwork silently until she felt her husband, Christopher, come to stand beside her.
‘So, tell me again what’s so special about this one,’ he said, handing her a mug.
‘Thank you,’ she said, glancing at the milky tea. She was trying not to focus on the negatives, but after more than a decade he should be able to make it the way she liked it. She looked back at the oil painting. ‘I don’t know,’ she told Chris. ‘I know it’s not one of his official war pictures, though. Anyway, I’m sure I’m going to find out…’
‘And this is why you’re abandoning us?’ he said, half-serious.
‘That’s right. There seems to be some rush to find the artist. Not sure why, but I’m sure Eleanor will tell me when she’s ready.’
At the kitchen table behind them, Oliver was chasing Pokédex on his Nintendo DS, the noise echoing through to them even though the volume was set typically low. Kathryn’s eyes were still fixed on the painting; while she had no idea how to play the video game—she left that for Chris’s bonding time with their ten-year-old son—there was little that she didn’t know about the effects of colour and form and composition, and how their combination could have an emotional effect on an individual. It was what she had learned as part of art therapy—and what using it with children like Oliver had shown her.
‘You know how selfish old people get,’ Chris said, unable to conceal the irritation in his voice.
She let the remark go. Her grandmother had always been very private—and she had always put others first. That’s why Kathryn had been so surprised by the phone call asking her to bring the painting home. She had been even more surprised by Eleanor’s tone; she had never heard her so insistent about anything before. I need your help, Kathryn; you have to find out what happened to Jack—and you must bring the painting with you.
‘She knows it’s term time,’ Kathryn said, ‘and I’ve told her that we’re under pressure with the appeal, so it must be important.’
‘Have you told her about us?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said, turning to meet his gaze. ‘I wanted to tell her in person.’
Kathryn had made her mother, Abigail, promise to keep their separation quiet for the time being, at least until they had worked out if it was going to be permanent—and she needed the time away to help figure out whether she wanted it to be.
They both stood silently, observing the picture. She had always admired it—felt an affinity with it—but now it made her feel sad, the two small figures seeming as remote now as Chris felt to her.
‘How can she even be sure that he’s still alive?’ Chris said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. ‘I mean, how many of these nonagenarians are there?’
‘She’s managed that much research, at least—the registry confirmed there’s no death certificate for Jack Valante.’
‘Maybe he died abroad. Or in the past week. It’s possible…’
‘Anything is possible, Chris, but she has never done anything like this before.’
It wasn’t what Eleanor had said, it was how she had said it: I’ve never asked you for anything before, dear, you know that, but now you must trust me.
‘Maybe I’m mistaken, though,’ she said, eyes lingering on the two figures. ‘I always thought it was his artwork that was special to her—but maybe it was him.’
This felt like an apology rather than an explanation.
The painting had hung on the wall of their home since they’d arrived in Melbourne. Eleanor gave it to her when they moved, and it had always felt like a connection to her, and the home Kathryn had left behind. It was a link to the country and people she yearned for. It was now displayed in the home Christopher had designed and built for them in South Yarra—and that they might soon need to sell.
Kathryn took a sip of her tea, thinking about the phone call and the two years since her last trip back to the UK.
‘Still, it’s a bit much to ask,’ Chris continued. ‘How can she expect you to just drop everything. Drop Oliver…’
‘I’m not dropping him! Stop being so dramatic. I’ll only be gone for a week, and Oli will be fine. Anyway, you’ll be busy practising for your piano concert, won’t you, darling?’ she said, glancing over at their son.
Oliver looked up from his game, grey eyes pronounced against his deep black lashes. ‘You go, Mummy, if Granny needs you. Daddy and I will be alright.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, smiling until she caught Chris’s eye.
‘If you insist,’ he said, ‘but you can let her know that I’m not very happy about it—’
‘I’ll do no such thing! What on earth could I hope to achieve by doing that?’
Kathryn held her breath, trying not to react, feeling the bitterness and insecurity that had begun to bloom like a mould in their relationship. Since he had reluctantly agreed to the separation, she knew he was worried that her trip would cement her concerns over their marital issues and her homesickness, and that the split would become permanent.
‘I’m sorry,’ Chris said, ‘It’s just…’ He looked at Oli and lowered his voice. ‘The terror attacks and the plane crash in Libya—I just don’t like thinking of you all the way over there.’
‘I’m not going to Libya,’ she whispered, ‘and it’s not as if you won’t know what’s happening. You can check 24/7, and we can Skype and talk.’
‘You’ve never been away from us before…’
‘I know,’ she said, softening.
Oliver had finished his Nintendo game. He measured out the precise half teaspoonful of fish flakes before sprinkling them into the tank, the three fish angling their mouths upwards to take big gulps. This meant that it was nearly time for dinner; her last one until she returned, and the thought of it brought a sense of ceremony to the occasion. Of course she was worried about travelling and the security risks too, but it was good timing for her to go away and think about the future.
And so here she was, safely landed at Heathrow and navigating her way through Terminal 3 with hundreds of conversations buzzing around her in dozens of languages, mobile phones connecting them in an invisible spider-web across the globe. Far from making her nervous or homesick, the energy around her was electrifying.
‘Darling, you’re here…’ Abigail trilled when Kathryn answered her mobile.
‘Yes, Mum. Remarkable, isn’t it? Only twenty-four hours and a winter wardrobe later, and it’s as if I’ve never been away.’
Switching on her Bluetooth so that she was hands-free and able to guide her luggage through the obstacle course of trolleys, Kathryn headed down the concourse towards the car rental kiosks. It wouldn’t be long before the rush hour started, and she wanted to get to her grandmother’s house before commuters choked the roads.
‘How was your journey?’ her mum asked.
‘Good. Qantas kept their promise, delivered on the Chardonnay and plenty of pretzels and mixed nuts—and I got some work done.’
‘Are you rested?’
Kathryn hesitated. Did she mean had-a-sleep-on-the-flight rested, or caught up on the days of sleep she had missed during Oliver’s recent bout of chicken pox and Christopher’s inability to cope? ‘I’ll have a nap when I get there, Mum.’
Her mother couldn’t always handle the truth, and so Kathryn had learned to filter what she told her. The long distance frustrated both of them—Abigail eager to help but practically unable to, and Kathryn needing the support that her mother was unable to give—so now it was just easier to pretend that everything was okay.
‘Well, I wouldn’t bank on that, darling,’ Abigail said with a proprietorial sniff. ‘Seems as if the old girl is going to put you straight to work.’
‘How is she?’
‘I’m not really sure. This whole business is rather perplexing—she’s got your father and me completely flummoxed. I mean, why wait nearly seventy years to tell us about this man, and then all the sudden urgency to find out what happened to him? It just doesn’t make any sense.’
‘But she’s okay?’
‘I suppose so…She’s vacillating between sleeping a lot and being quite anxious. Desperate to see you, though.’
Kathryn pictured Eleanor’s shrunken frame cocooned in her fluffy Marks & Spencer dressing-gown. It had been a shock when her mother called to say that her grandmother needed her home; she had been ill for so many years with one thing or another that Kathryn had thought her indestructible: angina, arthritis, chest infections, but nothing that would kill her. Or so she had thought. A creaking door never breaks, was what Eleanor always said to her, and she found it comforting to think like that: Eleanor would always be there, just a little creakier. Then Kathryn had discovered the reason for the request and her concern for her grandmother’s health had intensified—why the sudden urgency?
‘I’m hoping the journey won’t take too long. Google Maps doesn’t seem to think so, anyway. When are you back?’ Kathryn asked into her Bluetooth.
‘I’m not entirely sure, darling. We’ve got some important guests here until Friday afternoon so hopefully we’ll fly back at the weekend.’
It was always the same with her parents’ businesses: at first unpredictable, their hotel was now always booked out and its demands were relentless. It seemed as though Kathryn hardly ever got to see them.
‘That’s a shame,’ she said, disappointed that she would have to wait another four days, if she saw them at all. ‘Never mind, at least you’re coming down at Christmas, that’s not too long. Oliver is planning your days already—he can’t wait to see you.’
‘Yes, your father and I can’t wait either.’ Abigail sighed. ‘We really need a holiday, and it will be good to get some sunshine. How is the little pickle?’
‘Oh, you know…still a pickle.’
‘And Christopher—how are things? Is he being more supportive now?’
Kathryn hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I would use that expression. More accepting, maybe…’ She was nearing the front of the car rental queue and would need to hang up soon; and besides, she didn’t want to discuss her marital problems so publicly. ‘Anyway, there’s still nothing you can think of to help me with Gran? Nothing you ever heard about Jack?’
Kathryn placed her phone on top of the trolley and pulled on her worn leather biker jacket, tugging the arms down so they covered her fingers—she had forgotten the penetrating chill of these autumn mornings.
‘No, darling,’ said her mum, ‘I haven’t got a clue about any of it, and I’m not altogether sure it’s not another of her ruses to get your father and me running around after her.’
‘That’s not the impression she gave me. And didn’t you say she seems quite anxious?’
‘Yes, I know. Well, see what you can do, pumpkin. If anyone can sort this mess out, you can.’
The conversations around Kathryn had grown louder, more intrusive, and her vision was undulating a little. As she got to the front of the queue and reached the Avis counter, the last of her energy slipped away. Perhaps it was the jet lag kicking in, or maybe the thought of a world without Eleanor in it.
Kathryn was relieved to see Oliver’s pixelated face, even though the sound kept dropping out. She hunched over the wheel of the stationary Volkswagen Golf, straining to get Skype on the terminal’s free wi-fi. Kathryn wasn’t pleased about the dark circles beneath her son’s heavy eyes, despite the time difference and the fact that he was already in his Simpsons pyjamas.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Mummy. We had pizza!’ His voice sounded younger than his ten years, although maybe it always did and she just didn’t notice when she was with him all the time.
‘Lovely,’ she said, ‘don’t tell me—margherita…’
‘And I had an ice cream.’
‘How was Finn?’
‘I wasn’t with Finn. Look what I made.’ He held up a small, intricately built Lego car and then started driving it frantically around and around the computer screen.
‘Who were you with?’ Kathryn asked.
‘A man and lady from Daddy’s work.’
‘Oh, why didn’t you go with Bill and Amy?’
They spent most Friday nights with Bill and Amy—their son, Finn, was one of the few friends that Oliver still had.
‘Don’t know. Daddy picked me up and we went to his work. I think he was cross, though.’
‘Why do you say that?’
The Lego car was picking up speed, moving faster and faster as his arm rotated, swirling dozens of mini Bart Simpsons rapidly in front of her.
‘Oli, can you please stop that? Why did Daddy get cross?’
‘I don’t know,’ Oliver said as he banged the car on the desktop, some of the Lego bricks splitting apart.
‘But everything’s okay?’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘I won’t be long, sweetheart. I miss you.’
He was no longer looking at her, but pressing the pieces back in place. ‘When are you coming back?’
‘I told you, sometime next week. I’m doing something for Granny, remember—it’s a sort of treasure hunt.’
‘So you’ve hidden something and Granny has to go and look for it?’ he asked, dark shaggy hair suddenly filling the screen.
She had his attention again. ‘Yes, Oli, something like that. Only I’m the one doing the searching.’
‘And what are you going to find, Mummy?’
‘I’m not sure, but it’s very precious to Granny—that’s why I need to stay here. Until I’ve found it.’
‘That’s okay. I don’t mind.’
‘Thank you, Oli. Now, is Daddy there? Can I have a word?’
‘Yes, Mummy.’
‘Love you.’ She reached out to touch him but the blue and yellow cartoon collage was already spinning down the hallway.
The small video box at the side of the screen showed her reflection and the traces of black under her eyes. She used her fingertips to wipe away the smudged mascara but unfamiliar shadows remained; hopefully it was the car’s lighting, because surely she couldn’t have aged that much overnight. Brushing her long blonde fringe to one side, she tucked the stray strands behind her ears and sat up taller in the car seat.
She heard voices in the background and then footsteps on the floorboards moving towards their office. It was supposed to have been a bedroom for their second child but when the problems with Oliver started she’d wavered between wanting another child, to normalise their lives, and then feeling guilty because she felt that way. In the end she was too exhausted to try and too scared in case the baby developed autism too; not to mention that Christopher might respond in the same way as he had with Oliver, burying himself in work.
The strain showed on his face as soon as he sat down. She could see the remains of dinner on his shirt, red streaks on white as he placed his glass down.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘Great! Bloody marvellous, in fact!’
‘Oh, you’re joking.’
‘The whole bloody night was a joke.’
She tried to ignore the drumbeat of her heart and focus on all that was good about her husband. ‘What happened?’ she asked, fiddling with the tassels on her scarf.
‘It’s probably my fault,’ he said, pulling his fingers through his hair. ‘It was Jenny and Scott—I couldn’t reschedule so I thought we could just get an early dinner. It was a nightmare. This really is the worst time for you to be away, with the appeal…’
Kathryn understood his frustration. Nautilus was a sustainable housing development that had been his passion project for as long as she could remember, and it had been a mammoth task to get it this far. She had also invested excessive hours of her own time designing the interiors. Losing the appeal would cost them a fortune personally and put the practice back years—it had also been one of the pressures on their marriage.
‘Christopher, please,’ she said. ‘We’ve been through this.’ She knew her increased heart rate was in anticipation of this, the inevitable confrontation about her being away. She took a deep breath. ‘Just tell me what happened at dinner.’
‘Oli went nuts when the pizza came. They brought him a pepperoni one by mistake. He picked off every single piece and then scraped the topping off because it was too soggy. It went everywhere!’
‘But he’s okay?’
‘Yes, of course he’s okay. I made him some toast when we got home. We had to leave the restaurant, though—he caused such a scene.’ Chris took a large gulp of red wine. ‘I don’t think we’ve got a hope in hell of winning this appeal, I really don’t.’
Kathryn struggled to keep her cool. ‘He’s just out of his usual routine. Did he sleep last night?’
‘Yes, of course he did.’
‘Don’t say “of course”. There’s never any certainty with Oli, you know that. What about tomorrow, what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know, maybe we’ll spend the day at Luna Park and eat a shitload of lollies! What do you think?’ His sarcasm stopped being funny after the first couple of drinks.
‘Maybe call Amy,’ she said calmly. ‘Finn could come over for a few hours—’
‘Maybe.’ Christopher leaned back and the office chair creaked as he took another slurp of wine. ‘How’s everything with you? How was your journey?’
‘Fine. I’m heading to Gran’s now. In fact, I’d better get going before the M25 gets too clogged.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, anyway, I’m sure Oli would love you to read with him.’ She didn’t want to talk to Chris when he was like this. Besides, he did need to make sure Oliver was in bed: it was way past his bedtime, and he was already clearly struggling without his usual routine.
‘Okay,’ Chris said, ‘will you Skype when you get there…or tomorrow?’
‘I’ll try, but I might stay in London tomorrow night.’
‘Oh, who with?’
She ignored the implication. ‘You will read to him, won’t you? He’s really into the Percy Jackson books.’
Chris stiffened. ‘Yeah, sure. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.’
‘Okay. And I’ve nearly finished the Nautilus concept documents. I’ll email the draft when I get to Gran’s. If you look at it then, I can do any changes for you tomorrow morning.’
‘Thanks, Kat,’ he said, leaning forward, roguishly handsome face filling the screen. ‘And, Kat, I do still love you.’
‘I know.’ He looked so different when his features weren’t corrupted by stress and anger. ‘I’ve got to go. Let’s talk later.’
‘Okay—but, Kat…’
‘Yes?’
‘I do know how important this is to you.’ There was a loud noise from the other room, the TV bursting on, and he glanced over his shoulder. ‘But you will try and hurry back, won’t you?’
The motorway south was already heavily congested as she slipped into the merging lane behind a convoy of trucks. Even on the inside lane it was nerve-racking, and so she pulled into the middle only to become sandwiched between two towering vehicles, their trailers wobbling precariously as they ignored the speed limit and urged each other faster. Deciding to take her time and get there safely, Kathryn pulled back into the inside lane and continued on, part of a metallic serpent carving through the lush green countryside.
A light summer shower had just passed and the fields had a glossy sheen, making them even and contoured like a prestige golf course. It was this sight that welcomed her home—the scene she first saw from the plane and the one that she thought of whenever she felt the stirrings of homesickness. She had a collection of curated images: London’s historic buildings, stone Cotswold homes, the vast waterways of the Lake District, and the Camden home she had once lived in. They were pictures that could be in any tourist brochure but hers were real, memories still alive with sensations: the well-known footholds of rural walking tracks, the nutty cream bite of the local cheese, the smell of the canal from the London flat that she and Chris had shared, with its soundtrack from the nearby nightclubs.
It was another hour to her grandmother’s house in Kent, so she settled into the drive, flicking through the radio stations until she found Capital and acclimatised herself to the unfamiliar accents. The traffic report never seemed to change—the M25 with its gridlock at Junction 10 and congestion at the Dartford Tunnel tolls—and she wondered why the broadcasters didn’t save themselves some time and money by replaying it.
Driving this familiar route through Surrey shifted her thoughts back to when she and her brother, Tom, had travelled this way as children, when their excitement signalled the beginning of the school holidays and a week away at their grandparents’—or a lucky two weeks in the long summer break. Days when they could roam free, ride tractors, and help look after the animals, with no school, no rules, just Eleanor’s wonderful cottage pie and the best apple crumble in the world.
At last the land buckled and fell away to a plateau where the farms sat, and Kathryn noticed how changed the countryside was. The fringes of the towns bled into the green spaces, and new mock-villages amputated the fields and rivers on which farmers and their livestock had once thrived.
On the radio two political commentators were discussing the Greek debt crisis, and she turned up the volume. One was outlining the impact on the rest of the EU members, while the other was arguing how they wouldn’t suffer from the financial contagion, only benefit in the long term. It reminded her of her family’s concern for how her grandparents had coped over the years with each EU farming subsidy withdrawn or quota placed. Through their troubles, Edward and Eleanor had always seemed so happy together; they had been a strong team who had made it all appear like an adventure to her younger self—the two of them against the world.
The commentators’ voices crackled as the signal kept falling out, so she turned off the radio and drove the last few miles in silence, stopping to buy flowers at the service station. There was only a spindly bunch of pink chrysanthemums, but at least they were her grandmother’s favourite colour and the cellophane wasn’t too garish a shade of orange.
At last she was balancing her handbag and the packaged painting in one hand, the flowers and her luggage in the other, as she crossed the driveway to Eleanor’s home. Halfway across, the sight of the old stone farmhouse made her stop; as a child she had always loved it, and now she appreciated it even more after the arbitrary modern architecture of Melbourne’s CBD and the irregular homes of its suburbs. Because the farmhouse looked just the same, the imagined smell of the old place rushed to greet her—but she realised that the scent of cows and pigpens, the fragrant orchards and fields of cereal, was overpowered by the reek of fuel and exhaust from the motorway. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the stillness, despite the smell and the noise from the traffic, an irritating insect hum.
The front door was already open, and she made a mental note to remind her grandmother to make sure she kept it locked. Then Kathryn stood on the threshold and took a long look around. The dresser was in the same place, crowded with photo frames and wonky pots and glazed bowls proudly given to Eleanor by her pupils, alongside Kathryn’s own clay sculpture of the farm horse, which looked more like a mouse. The flagstones were covered with the same kilims collected on rare exotic holidays, and the oak hall table was piled with Eleanor’s specialist art magazines.
Paintings cluttered the walls, giving no clue to the colour that lay behind. Her grandmother’s handiwork was instantly recognisable, with the entire left wall dedicated to the watercolours that she had painted while living there, a homage to the seasons and lifecycle of the farm. The remaining walls were a montage of the works she had collected over the years from fossicking in shops in the local villages and towns as well as from art fairs, many of which Kathryn had been taken to. It was a shame that her grandmother had never been able to open a gallery as she’d always hoped to do, although Kathryn knew she had her own rewards from being an art teacher and a farmer’s wife.
Kathryn listened out for the sound of movement but it was still early and she guessed that Eleanor was asleep. Picking up the flowers and Jack’s bound painting, Kathryn gently pushed open the lounge-room door.
Since her last visit the bed and a dressing table had been moved in alongside the sofa and coffee table so that the room felt cluttered, shafts of light creating glitter in the dust-flecked air. Eleanor was dozing on top of the bed with her black-and-white cat, Mickey, curled up on the end. Kathryn propped the flowers on the table and opened the window. The cool air came rushing in, sucking out the stale and rustling the newspaper that lay on the writing bureau. It was surely here that Eleanor sat and scratched out those letters that Kathryn had to decipher as she read them to Oliver.
‘You might not feel the cold, but old people do!’
Kathryn glanced round. Eleanor’s eyes were wide open, a plume of fine blonde hair forming a golden crescent around her head.
‘Gran, you have got the worst bed head I’ve ever seen! Are you going to let me wash it for you?’
‘Certainly not, my nice young man is coming on Friday. I wouldn’t want to deprive him of the pleasure.’
Kathryn grinned. ‘So, you’ve still got a thing for him, have you?’
‘Yes—I don’t think it’s reciprocated, though. Even if I were twenty years younger! Anyway, aren’t you going to come over here and give your old grandmother a hug?’ she asked, arms outstretched.
‘I thought you would never ask.’ Kathryn bent down and squeezed her gently. Eleanor was the only one in the family who liked a cuddle, and Kathryn missed her even more because of it.
‘You look tired,’ Eleanor said when she released her. ‘Is everything alright?’
Her grandmother smelled of lots of familiar things: roses and malted milk biscuits and laundry, but she also felt uncharacteristically slight between Kathryn’s arms. Her frame was smaller than Kathryn remembered, her ribs obvious through her dressing-gown.
‘I just got off a twenty-four-hour flight and drove halfway across the country to see you; of course I look tired!’
‘You know what I mean—is everything alright at home?’
Kathryn was going to shrug it off but knew her gran would see right through her, so she sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You know how things are, Gran. You were married for fifty-five years.’
‘I know, Katie, but you’ve only been married for ten, and you know I don’t respond to platitudes, so come on—the truth?’
Eleanor was gazing at her, waiting for an answer, her face radiant even with delicate skin loosening across high cheekbones, strong wide brow above hazel eyes.
‘We’re not here to talk about me,’ said Kathryn. ‘Anyway, you know how hopeless men are—Chris just finds it hard to cope without me.’
She had thought about little else on the drive down except what life would be like for Oliver if the separation was permanent, but she didn’t want to go into those issues now; she would talk to her gran later, once they’d made some progress with Jack.
‘The break will do you both good, you’ll see,’ Eleanor said matter-of-factly.
‘Maybe,’ Kathryn replied. She hoped it would; she certainly needed the space and time to think. ‘Anyway, you look really well.’ She meant it—there was a slight change in her grandmother but she couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
‘I’m all the better for seeing you, dear. Thank you for coming all this way. I know how busy you are.’
‘It’s not a problem. I’m looking forward to spending the time with you. It will be a real treat.’
‘Have you spoken to your mother?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Yes, she called when I landed. Doesn’t think she’ll make it over until the weekend, though.’ Kathryn sighed. ‘I have a feeling I’m going to miss her this time.’
‘That’s a shame, but you know how busy she is too. Anyway, how rude of me, I haven’t even asked how your flight was.’
‘It was good. I slept a lot, which is unusual. Must have been tired.’
‘And have you got the painting?’ Eleanor asked, suddenly animated.
‘Yes, would you like to see it?’
‘Please, dear. If you don’t mind.’
The packaging came away easily. Kathryn moved to place the picture on the writing bureau and Eleanor stopped her.
‘No, dear, can you give it to me?’ she said, hands outstretched.
Eleanor rested it on her lap, frame clasped between her hands, eyes roaming across the small canvas. Kathryn watched as she studied the shadowed figures on London’s rooftops and the crimson smudge of the sunset on the horizon, her gaze at last falling to the initials at the bottom of the canvas.
‘Do you remember how I used to try and copy it when I was young?’ Kathryn reminded her grandmother. ‘It always was our favourite picture, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. Yes, it was…’
‘Why, Gran? Why is it so special?’
Eleanor didn’t answer her at first, thoughts probably still anchored in the London landscape of the past. ‘In a minute, dear,’ she said, at last meeting Kathryn’s gaze. ‘I know you have questions for me but I think we had better have some tea before we do anything else, don’t you?’
‘Alright, Gran, I’ll put the kettle on, and then you can fill me in.’
Kathryn had started towards the door when Eleanor spoke again. ‘Before you go, just tell me,’ she said, still clutching the picture, ‘have you found out anything about Jack?’
She sounded so hopeful—Kathryn hated to admit that she didn’t have much news. ‘Not yet. I’ve done an internet search but there’s surprisingly little about him, especially given he was as important an artist as you say he was.’
The search had only revealed a brief bio and a few images from Jack Valante’s post-war work as an artist and photographer. Kathryn had seen some beautiful photos of his oeuvre but little about the man himself.
‘I thought that might be the case,’ Eleanor mused.
‘Why?’
‘Because it confirms what I have always thought.’
Kathryn waited a few moments for her to say more and was met with silence. Eleanor usually enjoyed telling a story, but she clearly wasn’t in any hurry to share this one.
When Kathryn returned from the kitchen, she placed the tea tray down and retrieved the folder of research from her bag. ‘This is pretty much it,’ she said, opening the folder to reveal a thin stack of papers. ‘Like I said, there’s not much here.’
Eleanor turned the pages slowly, looking over the Wikipedia printouts and the few photocopies of paintings, until she came to a photograph of Jack.
‘He was an attractive man,’ Kathryn commented.
But if Eleanor felt anything at seeing Jack’s young face or his work, she certainly didn’t show it.
‘I thought they might try to conceal him,’ she said, closing the file and looking up at Kathryn, ‘but I didn’t realise they would go to such great lengths—or do such a good job.’
Kathryn’s eyes were twitching, tiredness gripping her in waves that threatened to pull her under. She loved her gran and wanted to help, but time was limited and she had issues of her own to resolve. She dropped onto the chair opposite. ‘Come on, Gran, what’s this all about?’
‘There’s a man that I need you to meet. Stephen Aldridge—he’s Jack’s nephew.’ She paused.
‘Why do you want me to meet him?’
‘Because he wants to buy The Crimson Sun. He says he needs it to complete his collection.’
‘That’s great.’ There was another pause as Kathryn read the look on her grandmother’s face. ‘Oh…you don’t want to sell it?’
‘No, I don’t, but I do want to know what happened to Jack.’
‘Why don’t you just ask Stephen then?’
‘I did. But he claims to be working through Jack’s lawyers and says that he doesn’t know where Jack is.’
‘And you don’t believe him?’
‘No, Katie, I don’t. And you know how my instincts are usually right.’
‘I know, Gran…but I’m not sure I understand. If you don’t want to sell it and he hasn’t been helpful, why do you want me to meet him?’
‘I need you to show the painting to him in person. Once he’s sure of its authenticity, then I’m sure he’ll be more willing to talk.’
Chris had been cynical about the whole affair and she had dismissed his concerns, but now she was beginning to question Eleanor too. ‘Are you sure about this, Gran? It sounds rather…well, rather far-fetched that Jack’s nephew would hide him from you.’
‘Really, Kathryn. That’s why I asked for your help, not Abigail’s. I knew your mother would just pooh-pooh the whole thing, but I thought you might understand—’
‘I’m sorry, Gran, but I don’t understand why Stephen wouldn’t tell you if he knew.’
‘Nor do I—unless he has something to hide…’
Kathryn’s head was clearing, her imagination firing again. ‘But do you have any reason to be suspicious? Why would he hide anything from you, especially Jack’s whereabouts? It’s been nearly seventy years since you last saw the man.’
‘I don’t know, dear. That’s what I need you to find out.’
Kathryn regarded her carefully. What had her grandmother got her involved with?
‘Well, why don’t you just tell me what you know?’ Kathryn said. ‘Start with when Stephen first contacted you—what was it, a phone call or a letter?’
Eleanor insisted Kathryn sit beside her as she took her through the sequence of events in a hushed tone. She described how she’d received the phone call a few months earlier asking if she was the Eleanor Roy, and then her surprise when Stephen Aldridge’s letter arrived and made a formal offer for the painting. Next she reached into the deep bedside drawer, bringing out an envelope and handing it to Kathryn.
She scanned the letter. ‘Gosh, Gran, that’s a lot of money.’
‘I know, subject to viewing.’
‘So all you want me to do is meet Stephen and show him the painting but not sell it to him?’
‘Yes, and I want you to find out what happened to Jack.’
‘Alright, so how do I then explain to Stephen that he can’t have the painting?’
‘Just don’t agree on the price—later you can blame it on me. Say I don’t want to part with it after all. The main thing is that Jack isn’t dead, Katie. I know that much, and since Stephen is family, he must have some idea where he is.’
Kathryn’s head was thudding now; jet lag and dehydration were affecting her ability to think. ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?’
‘Would you have come?’ Eleanor asked, her expression unreadable.
‘Probably not,’ Kathryn said lightly.
‘You can see now, though, can’t you, dear? Why you have to go to London for me.’
Kathryn nodded. Now that she was here, of course she would meet Stephen. ‘But is that all you’re able to tell me?’
Eleanor seemed thoughtful.
‘If Stephen hadn’t contacted you,’ Kathryn continued, ‘then you wouldn’t even be looking for Jack.’
‘Maybe, but he did—and perhaps it’s a sign. If only I had contacted him earlier. How many “if onlys” are there in someone’s lifetime, Katie? How many are we allowed?’
Kathryn knew what she meant. Her mind was full of ‘if onlys’. But she couldn’t allow herself to go down that path: no good could come of it, and it wouldn’t help her decide what to do about her marriage. She stood up and walked over to the window, looking out across the garden at where the sun had elongated the orchard’s shadows. She was certain of something—she had come halfway around the world to help her grandmother, and she deserved to know more.
‘So if you’re that bothered about this artist,’ she said, ‘then why didn’t you look for him years ago? Why now, Gran?’
Eleanor glanced away, avoiding eye contact. Then, as if thinking better of it, she looked up. ‘You’ll know why, Katie—when you meet Jack.’
‘And you really have no idea what happened to him?’
‘None whatsoever,’ Eleanor replied, shaking her head. ‘I am sorry if you don’t like playing detective, but I didn’t know who else to ask. Your mother is always so preoccupied with the hotel, and I need to know, Katie. I need to know what happened to him.’