The farmhouse was in darkness by the time Kathryn arrived, and she felt like a teenager as she crept along the cold stone hallway and into the kitchen. Mickey, Eleanor’s ill-tempered black-and-white cat, shot through her legs as soon as she opened the door. He stood by his bowl, meowing loudly.
‘Shush,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll wake the mistress of the house.’
He answered by meowing even louder and so she went in search of food, finding a pyramid of tins in the cupboard next to the fridge. She selected chicken, hoping it would have the least unpleasant smell.
‘You’re a funny one, aren’t you?’ she said to Mickey, tipping the food into his bowl. ‘I thought cats were supposed to stay out at night. Isn’t that when all the action happens?’
He didn’t wait for her to finish, the fork scraping inside the tin as his face brushed her hand and he started eating noisily.
The housekeeper, Mrs Halls, was supposed to feed him in the mornings, so Kathryn guessed that she hadn’t come today. It had been a relief when Eleanor relented and agreed to get help—the house certainly needed it. The William Morris wallpaper and floral fabrics had gathered a few layers of dust. They had also regained a vintage appeal, and Kathryn wondered if her gran knew what an accidental style icon she’d become.
Kathryn moved over to the AGA, palms outstretched as if she could feel its warmth even though the oven wasn’t turned on. She might have been alone in the kitchen but there were ghosts everywhere: the never-ending trail of farmhands, her grandmother reminding them to scrape their boots at the door, the clatter of feet across the stone, and the scraping of wooden chairs as visitors sat and rose again. She could even hear her grandfather’s booming voice over the clinking teapot that was never empty.
After remembering that she needed to email Chris, Kathryn plugged in her laptop. The council had given them lots of hoops to jump through, more than the residential code required, so she had worked on her laptop all the way home on the train to respond to their objections; at least Chris could read it and send her any changes before morning. She wanted to hear Oli’s voice but the kitchen wall clock showed that it was ten-fifty—seven-fifty at home—so they would have already left for school. There hadn’t been any contact all day, not even the usual text message with the day’s highlights; it felt like they were orbiting the same planet but never touching, like opposing moons.
She waited for the kettle to boil, casting glances at her inbox. She was also eager to sit and re-read the diary pages.
Leaving her computer charging, she wandered over to the old oak dresser. It had seemed as big as a skyscraper to her once and was now home to several cards propped against Eleanor’s prized Blue Willow crockery. There were Mallorca sunsets from the beginning of her parents’ love affair with the place, before they had lost all their money; an assortment of cards from her brother, Tom, in Singapore; and handmade birthday and Christmas cards from his daughter and son. She picked one up that had a grinning oversized head atop a matchstick body—Kitty would have only been eight at the time—and surprisingly neat handwriting inside: Happy Grandmother’s Day! You are the best one ever! Lots of love, Kitty. Crosses and noughts filled the rest of the page, representing the hugs and kisses the family saved for each other.
Kathryn smiled as she thought of the young woman Kitty had grown into. Several months ago, her niece had stayed with her and the boys in Melbourne as part of a gap year before starting university—Gen Y seemed to be making gap years an art form, and were taking gap years after university too. Perhaps that was what Kathryn should do: have a gap year to give her the clarity she needed. As she made the tea, she thought about what a novelty it would be to have space to think and not to be rushing all the time: rushing to work, rushing for pick-up, and shepherding Oliver from one extracurricular activity or specialist’s appointment to the next.
There was still nothing in her inbox from Chris, so she cradled the mug between her hands and looked out eastwards to where the lawn disappeared into the orchards below. It was pitch-black with only a tiny necklace of lights flickering over the hillside, cars travelling on the village bypass. It made her think of the overgrown gardens at Stephen Aldridge’s house and his equally improbable home, unkempt and so unlike his appearance. What an ambiguous character he was, at first so keen to help and desperate for the painting, and then so elusive. It all seemed quite unfathomable now, but then perhaps she just needed to get some sleep; maybe wait for Eleanor to see the diaries in the morning and shed some light.
Owls hooted in the woods and then came a high-pitched shrieking, the distressed call of foxes fighting. The wind was picking up, the house so exposed that the slightest gust banged shutters and rattled loose fittings. An outside door slammed. Kathryn pulled down the blind, suddenly feeling vulnerable, disconcerted at the thought of being watched. It was surprising that Eleanor was still comfortable living here on her own; it was so remote, too far from neighbours if she ever needed help.
Mickey was finishing his meal, the steady tick-tock of the clock synchronising with his contented purr. She remembered how Oliver had pestered her for a long time about having a pet before she finally bought goldfish for his birthday.
She realised she hadn’t been thinking about Oliver as much as usual, and this caught her off guard. It also reminded her of how she needed to keep life in perspective and not make Oli’s autism any bigger than it needed to be, or their lives any more complicated as a result. He just had a different way of looking at the world, and now so did they.
After another glance at her inbox, Kathryn settled down to read the rest of the diary entries. They were just as absorbing as the earlier ones. They also made her curious about the 1942 diary, and how she could get it from the Imperial War Museum. She logged onto the museum’s website, its navy and orange logo illuminating the dark kitchen as she browsed the catalogue.
Bingo—the diary was in the catalogue but listed as a reference material, together with hundreds of other items relating to war artists. She was interested to see that Jack’s lost 1943 and 1945 diaries were mentioned too under the category ‘private papers,’ although they were listed as unavailable. A notice said that she’d need to request all documents and make an appointment at the research room. She registered, and moments later a chime announced that she had new mail: confirmation that she would hear back with notification of her appointment time.
It was nearly midnight, but she supposed that the time zone and the caffeine were making her feel unexpectedly awake. Another shriek came from the foxes in the woods. Although she knew she should go to bed, she opened a new tab and googled Jack, using information on places and dates from the diary entries. There was still so little information to be found. What was it that Stephen had said bitterly? ‘Jack just didn’t get the same recognition as the others.’ What exactly had he meant by that?
The next morning Eleanor wanted Kathryn to recount her meeting with Stephen Aldridge again, including how Kathryn had surprised even herself with her negotiating skills. Then they looked through the diary entries on Kathryn’s computer at the kitchen table. Her grandmother already knew that she wasn’t directly mentioned, but she grew quieter as they reached the end. Kathryn interpreted this as disappointment, and she felt the same way—she had hoped some recollection or cryptic clue might spark something in Eleanor’s memory.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Jack’s success as a painter when you first gave me The Crimson Sun?’ Kathryn asked while she tried to start the AGA.
Eleanor, still in her dressing-gown, was sitting on a wooden carver, her elbows resting on its sturdy ash arms. Mickey purred contentedly in her lap. ‘It wasn’t really like that…we didn’t celebrate artists like they do now. They were just doing their job. It’s ridiculous, really—now anyone can be famous, and for doing absolutely nothing worthwhile, as far as I can see.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Kathryn replied, thinking of the awful Kardashians. ‘But if Jack was so renowned, why isn’t there more about him in the archives?’
‘I don’t know, Katie, but can you see now why I needed your help?’
‘Yes, Gran, but I need you to be totally honest with me. It could take days, weeks even, for me to find anything useful in all the archived documents…and I think you probably know things that would be just as valuable.’
Even after going to bed so late, Kathryn had lain awake for a while thinking about this, staring up at the pink blossoms and green tendrils of the William Morris wallpaper. Surely it wasn’t that her grandmother was deliberately keeping anything from her—Eleanor probably just didn’t understand what might be important. Kathryn was almost certain that helpful memories were locked away, but she wasn’t sure how she could unlock them, or prompt her gran to remember.
Mickey stretched onto his back, ears twitching and eyes half-closed as Eleanor rubbed his tummy, and Kathryn came to sit at the kitchen bench next to them. ‘Do you see how telling me everything you know will help?’ she asked insistently.
Her grandmother gazed at her and sighed, and then faced out across the lawn to where the wood lay half-hidden in morning mist, concealing nature’s atrocities from the night before. It seemed as if Eleanor was also hiding her real thoughts, but when she turned back she was more alert, her full attention on her granddaughter. ‘Yes, dear, you’re right. What is it that you want to know?’
‘Just start at the beginning. Tell me again, everything that you knew about him.’
‘Alright. I knew that he had trained as an artist, but he had worked as an illustrator before the war. You could see it in his technique, the fine detail of each stroke.’
Kathryn pictured the meticulous pen-and-ink depictions in his diary, the tiny monograms of war. ‘What kind of books did he illustrate, do you know?’
‘Oh, yes. There were the botanical books, and also anatomical ones were popular at the time, and then, of course, there were the textbooks.’
‘Did he ever give you any?’
Eleanor had relaxed back into the chair, elbows resting on the arms, the tips of her forefingers and thumbs rubbing together in her comforting habitual way. ‘No, most people didn’t have much then, not in the way that people do now. Possessions, I mean.’
‘Not even books?’
‘No, people couldn’t afford them. He had a very reputable publisher, though. He was very proud of them—if only I could remember their name,’ she said as she glanced up at the ceiling. ‘A lot of people lost their jobs when the war started and they stopped printing books.’
Kathryn felt encouraged. This information about the publisher could give her a lead—an old industry contact to revisit.
‘So you don’t have any of the books now?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘Only the drawings he did for me. You can fetch them later—they’re in the attic. I would have brought them down before you came, but I can’t get up that ladder now.’ A short-lived chuckle turned into a dry cough.
Kathryn’s interest spiked, along with a great deal of frustration at why her gran hadn’t mentioned this before. Was it really the forgetfulness of old age? She had already confided her belief that Jack’s importance as a war artist had somehow been concealed, and that her instinct told her that Stephen Aldridge knew where Jack was, but she hadn’t offered an explanation why he would lie. Whatever it was, and her reason for wanting to know what happened to Jack, it was enough to turn down a considerable sum for his painting.
‘What drawings?’ she asked, trying not to let her annoyance show.
‘Just small drawings that Jack gave me. Tiny pictures, they were; just thumbnails, as in the diary.’ Her fingers measured out something the size of half a playing card. ‘I would find them hidden…It’s funny, I had almost forgotten about them.’ The memory rekindled, Eleanor stared dreamily into space.
‘It sounds romantic,’ Kathryn said after a moment.
‘Yes, it was, rather. They would turn up in the most unexpected places—under my pillow or in the bathroom cabinet, sometimes even in the cutlery drawer, or my handbag.’
‘So, are you ever going to tell me how long the two of you were involved?’ Kathryn asked, frustration finally creeping into her tone.
‘Haven’t I mentioned that? It was only a few months, but we saw a lot of each other. Walks after work, galleries, the occasional dance…’
Kathryn tried to reconcile an image of the young Eleanor in the capital with the image of a man other than her grandfather, and she found it difficult. It was also difficult to imagine dating someone during wartime. ‘But where did you go? What did you do?’
‘We went everywhere! In London, that is. We didn’t have time to go further afield—we were so busy working, and there was volunteering and Civil Defence work, which everyone had to do. And, of course, we were both painting too.’
Kathryn’s annoyance faded, replaced by admiration. ‘I can’t imagine how you would have fitted it all in. It makes me feel guilty for complaining about my life.’
‘It’s not the same, dear,’ Eleanor said, patting her hand. ‘You have different pressures now. I’m sure I wouldn’t want to cope with all the problems you have nowadays. Anyway, I want to hear more about Oliver. Will you show me those pictures and videos again?’
‘Yes, I will, but don’t you think it might be an idea if I go to the attic now, and then we can look through the pictures while we finish talking about Jack?’
‘I suppose so, dear, but you be careful.’
It was clear that no one had been into the attic for years, since the wooden door had swollen and wouldn’t move. After a good shove, it creaked open to reveal a sparse room with dramatically fewer cobwebs and spiders than expected. Instead of boxes scattered everywhere and baskets of costumes and toys—the remnants of their childhood spilling out—it was disappointingly rather well organised. Only a small scooter, shaped like a ladybird, signposted that children had once lived in the house. An antique desk was pushed against one wall, chairs stacked alongside, while rows of cardboard boxes were piled high against the other wall.
Helpfully, her grandmother had noted the contents and dates on some of the boxes, the faded writing still legible, so it wasn’t long before she found the one she was looking for. After some rearranging, she shuffled the box into the centre of the space, where the casement gave her extra light. She was curious to see the drawings Eleanor had described; how wonderfully romantic they sounded, and such a contrast to the scribbled yellow Post-it notes that Chris left her or the hurriedly sent texts with their benign emojis.
Inside the box was a small vintage suitcase in a dark grey fabric with a beige leather strip down the centre. It was in good condition and still elegant enough to use, and she wondered if her grandmother had ever used it to go away with Jack. Her fingers hovered over the locks as she hesitated, considering whether she should take it down for Eleanor to open first. But her inquisitiveness got the better of her, and she quickly clicked the locks and lifted the lid before she had the chance to change her mind.
There were old envelopes full of photographs, newspaper cuttings, and letters; some she recognised as being in Eleanor’s handwriting while others were unfamiliar. It would easily take them the rest of the day to look through these properly, but she was keen to see if any were from Jack, so she flicked through them. At first glance there didn’t appear to be any small drawings.
The doorbell interrupted Kathryn and she stopped, listening to voices from two floors below. It had to be Mrs Halls, and Kathryn returned to the papers knowing that this visit would keep her grandmother occupied for a little longer.
Now she searched more thoroughly, looking deep inside each envelope, the thin paper crackling between her fingers. Towards the back of the pile was an old book, an edition of Mr Glugg but in an unusual format, pocket sized: specially printed for soldiers to fit in their uniform pockets, she had discovered from a visit to the Australian War Museum. On the inside cover was an inscription in pale black ink: TO KEEP YOU SAFE AND YOUR MIND FOCUSED. She didn’t recognise the handwriting but guessed it could be from her grandmother to Jack.
Then, among the papers, she spotted an old piece of canvas that looked of little importance, but when she opened it out, part of a faded painting came into view. It was a baroque image: vague figures leaned forward, but not winged cherubs with harps—soldiers in uniform aiming their weapons. It looked and felt so fragile that she carefully laid it out on the floor beside her, eager to ask Eleanor about it.
At the back of the trunk was a larger envelope containing a clump of papers tied with a thin blue ribbon. Among them were several small pictures—caricatures of Eleanor and Jack—along with a faded black-and-white photograph.
The couple were standing inside a pagoda in a park. It must have been summer because Jack wore short sleeves and Eleanor was in a light floral dress. Kathryn wasn’t as surprised as she’d expected to be at seeing her grandmother with a man other than Edward. In her mind, she had built an image of Jack from Eleanor’s descriptions and grainy shots on the internet, and it was uncannily close to the face she was looking at now: angular, with unruly dark hair and a full, thick brow. No, what surprised Kathryn was how excitedly happy the two of them appeared to be.