Judith lunched on biscuits and cups of tea, drying her eyes in between each mouthful and then taking a gigantic bite of a Rich Tea biscuit and spluttering crumbs everywhere as a racking sob came from somewhere in her chest and exploded in her throat and nose. Stubbornly she kept going until the biscuit supply ran out, then she pocketed her key and went to the bathroom and showered and washed her hair. When she emerged she crept around the corner of the corridor and listened at the big double doors of the Long Gallery. The noise of chatter was unmistakeable. She identified everyone except Stanley and Sybil, but he would doubtless be there even if he hated every minute of it, and Sybil would be totally absorbed. As she herself had been.
Tears threatened again, and she bustled back to her room and pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, thrust her sketchbook and pencils into a canvas shoulder bag, and locked her door before she left.
Irena was actually at the desk in the lobby and looked up.
‘Mrs Freeman! I knocked on your door just now. Are you all right? I can make you a sandwich or there are sausage rolls. Mrs Jessup and Mr Jones were worried about you.’
Judith smiled reassuringly. ‘I fell asleep, I’m afraid. I’m going to get some fresh air before joining the others.’
Irena smiled back. ‘It’s wonderful that you feel so relaxed here – just what Bart and I had in mind. Do your own thing – that’s how Bart puts it! Anyway, to be honest, once you’ve seen one Hausmann landscape you’ve seen them all, haven’t you?’ She came from behind the counter and walked over to open the door for Judith. ‘Take your time. That’s what it’s all about. I’m making tea and taking it upstairs in about an hour. Then I’m having an hour off myself – join me in the kitchen if you miss the upstairs show.’ Irena rolled her eyes on the last two words and Judith could have hit her. She went through the door and started on the enormous flight of steps which led down to the shingle beach, muttering under her breath. She was at one with the battered Hausmann: his sister-in-law was – as Jack had said once – ‘Straight from Crufts, a prize bitch.’
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 tempera. 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 tempera?’
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. Tempera 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 tempera. I’d better go and swill my hands … change into a skirt, perhaps …’
‘I have to tell you something—’
‘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.
After dinner they broke up quickly. Stanley and Jennifer disappeared, and Sven roped in Nathaniel and Martin Morris to make a foursome for bridge. Sybil asked whether they would mind if she watched the ten o’clock news later on, and Nathaniel plumped up the sofa cushions and moved a coffee table within reach. Judith would have liked to have gone to her room and looked at the sketches she had made, in case there was something she could work on back home; already she was doubting the value of those three hours she had spent trying to absorb the ancient coastline and those pathetically defensive cliff-heads.
Sybil said, ‘Come and sit. Let the afternoon drain away a little. Don’t feel you have to do the Lynmouth trip with me, but I really do recommend it. I was hoping to take my sketchbook and get down a few impressions.’
Judith hovered in the lobby. Irena was coming and going and might want to talk if she went towards the stairs. She smiled at Sybil. ‘I doubt whether I can stay awake for the news, but it would be good to … be with people for a while.’
Irena brought in coffee and a baize-topped card table. Martin Morris, who obviously knew the room’s layout well, opened a drawer in an ornate chiffonier and produced playing cards. The four of them settled themselves around the table. Bart came in with two boxes of dark chocolate peppermints; he went to the chiffonier and brought a large album to the sofa.
‘We found it here. Pictures of Castle Dove when it was built. It’s not that old, actually – there’s a steam-driven crane on one of the pages.’ He smiled and left them to it.
Judith ran her hand through her short hair and grinned. ‘I haven’t had any chocolate since last Christmas! And I shouldn’t now – but – shall we?’
Sybil said, ‘Why not?’ She opened the box and took out two of the small envelopes. ‘I find one is hopeless. It has to be closely followed by another one in order to be savoured – even tasted!’
‘Ye-e-es.’ Judith removed three envelopes. ‘You are right, of course. The second one is to be tasted. A third one, however, is necessary for the savouring.’
They smiled at each other; Judith felt herself melting with the chocolate. The calves of both legs were aching from those fifty-five stone steps, her head still throbbed from the total concentration of the afternoon. She said through her second chocolate, ‘I’m obviously out of condition – feel a wreck.’
Sybil said, ‘You don’t look it. Your hair just … sort of … goes. Is it naturally curly?’
‘Yes.’ She was surprised again; she had not expected salon talk from Sybil Jessup. ‘And you’re right, it does just go. I’ve had it styled so that it sweeps around my head, but within an hour of leaving the hairdresser, it’s back like this again. They can straighten hair now, I might try that.’
‘Please don’t!’ Sybil looked almost stricken. ‘You’ll regret it. You’ll end up with a blonde ponytail.’
‘I would do what you have done and pile it up with a comb – it looks distinguished.’
‘It falls about. It’s a bloody nuisance. Don’t even consider it.’
They smiled, each taking another chocolate. Sybil said, ‘Why is it that women always talk about hair?’
‘You started it.’ Judith pushed the box away. ‘Were you testing the water?’
‘Not really. I thought we should talk about ordinary things, and I couldn’t think of anything else!’ Sybil fastened the lid of the box and put it on the table, then picked up her coffee. ‘Apparently my reaction to Robert’s work this afternoon was the same as yours this morning. Luckily I was lurking in one of the alcoves, and Nathaniel was trying to tell Jennifer that Robert’s work has been likened to Constable’s … I apologized to him later and he told me that you had been similarly …’ She smiled ruefully, ‘… afflicted.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Don’t apologize. The more of us who can see what he is really doing, the more he will be appreciated. He is seen as a nostalgic artist. Yet he is painting contemporary ’scapes.’
‘You have followed his career?’
‘Always.’
There was a silence, during which Sybil ate another two mints and Judith wondered why Jack had never spoken of Hausmann’s work. And then continued to wonder why Jack had never gone further with his own work. And whether he had been an artist or a cartoonist or a political commentator or a newspaper journalist … she felt her head thump again and closed her eyes. She was nearly fifty. Was this the menopause? Never mind that, where was Jack?
Sybil’s voice was very quiet; Judith opened her eyes in an effort to listen.
‘Moss promised that when he was well again we would look him up. Go to galleries. Make enquiries. Start a Hausmann revival!’ She smiled. ‘Moss was a publicist, he could have done it. But then … he died.’ She looked at Judith’s face. ‘Moss Jessup was my husband. Have you heard of him?’
Judith swallowed. ‘Yes.’
Jack had lampooned Moss Jessup so many times: the square, jowled face had been easy to draw, and the eyebrows had been all that was necessary to identify the man.
Sybil gave an inverted grin. ‘I miss him,’ she said.
Judith swallowed again and her head thumped a warning.
‘Yes.’
‘I wondered whether I could do anything for Hausmann. But … he is his own worst enemy. The gallery owners I have contacted … they say he is too difficult.’
‘He can be difficult. Yes.’
Sven’s laugh filled a sudden gap. It seemed he and his partner had won. It was nearly ten; they moved armchairs around the television. Judith got up and made her excuses. She did not want to listen to the news; since Jack had left she had barely watched the television. Naomi would have said she was deliberately burying herself in grief; it was one of the reasons Judith had been glad of the anger that had swept over her occasionally when she had labelled Jack’s disappearance as desertion. It was different now. She climbed the stairs slowly, thankful that no one was manning the desk in the lobby. She had literally moved away from the grief and the anger; put herself into this strange Gothic place and rediscovered … what? Exactly what had she rediscovered in the thirty-six hours since leaving home? She fitted her precious key into the lock and went into her room, flicking on lights, moving to the window, where, below, the dark sea had surrounded the castle and was massaging its walls insidiously. She watched the water for a while, wondering how long it would take to fall away from the causeway and let Hausmann back in. Whatever her rediscovery was, Hausmann was part of it. Perhaps Sybil was, too.
Somehow she managed to undress and slide into her ridiculous nightie. She was wonderfully tired and the bed was wonderfully comfortable.
She woke at two o’clock. Ack emma again. The clock was highlighted by the table lamp next to the kettle; she had forgotten to switch it off.
She would have to go to the bathroom. She put on her dressing gown this time, and pocketed the key. The landing was very dark, no wonder she had been so disoriented last night. On the way back she switched on all the lights and hung over the banister looking down into the lobby; it was of course empty.
The kettle took ages to boil and then she couldn’t find her thermos; it was still in her bag on the luggage rack just inside the bedroom door. She rinsed it, dropped in some of the instant coffee, put it into a supermarket plastic bag with a tiny tub of milk and a long stick of sugar, and took it down the stairs. She stood it on the counter, then reached behind and took out the bowl and two of the tea towels and put them next to the thermos. Then she went back to bed.
She might have heard the heavy door open and close; she might have dreamed it. But it was full daylight when she woke up, and Irena was knocking on her door with fresh tea and two unpacketed digestive biscuits.
‘Another lovely day,’ she greeted Judith with professional cheerfulness. ‘I hope you slept well.’ She barely waited for Judith’s reply. ‘The tide is a little later today, so Mr Morris has suggested a departure time of ten thirty.’
‘Fine.’ Judith beamed at her; she was, after all, part of the rediscovery.
She said, ‘Your husband mentioned last night how supportive you are of his brother. It is so good of you. And so worthwhile. He is a genius.’
Irena was already on the landing, moving towards the lift doors. She stopped and looked round; her expression was one of complete astonishment.
‘Do you think so? I am – was – a great admirer of your husband’s work, Mrs Freeman. Your opinion means a great deal … Thank you.’
Judith closed the door, put down the tray and nibbled at one of the biscuits. She had never actually said she was widowed, had she? Surely Jack’s daily comic strip was still in the Magnet? He had always called it their bread and butter. If Irena was such an admirer, would she read it and know that he was still alive?
The papers had arrived pre-high-tide and she scooped the Magnet from the pile in the lobby and took it into the lounge. There it was, one of Jack’s less caustic comments on life in the twenty-first century: ‘Fish-Frobisher and Family’. She smiled slightly; it had always been her favourite, and she had not taken the Magnet since Jack had left her simply because the way he dealt with the Fish-Frobishers was … loving. And she wanted to hate him.
She stood there, looking at the familiar cartoons, wondering where he had been when he did this latest one, unable to stop that last terrible memory of his departure. She heard her own voice, breaking up, bewildered, incredulous … ‘Is there someone else?’ She had tried to laugh and mimic her own words. ‘I mean … another woman?’
She waited to hear him tell her not to be such an idiot. And he had said, ‘Yes, I suppose that’s what it was.’
She looked and looked at the Fish-Frobishers as if there might be an answer to all the questions she did not ask that day in a very hot July. Eight – no – nine weeks ago. It did not sound very long, but every day, every hour had been measured into a foretaste of the rest of her life.
She read the tiny byline and did not immediately take it in. ‘Reprinted from 1990.’ She read it again, frowned and thought it was a mistake. Then she moved along the six boxes of the cartoon story. Magnus Fish-Frobisher was grabbing his bowler hat and umbrella and making for the front door. Edith was telling him she was going to the hairdresser’s. He pecked her cheek and told her to have a lovely relaxing day. She was turning to the daughter and saying that he must think she was off to the beach, and did he not realize the sheer humiliation of sitting beneath a dryer? The daughter was saying how boring they both were, then Magnus was returning that night with a bunch of flowers, pretending he did not recognize the glamour puss who was his wife.
She remembered it because it was the very first of the series. Jack had called it totally bland, and guessed it would not run longer than a month or two at the most. But it had taken off. It was still going strong. A day-to-day diary of a strangely pretentious yet loving family.
Except that they were reprinting it. As if – as if – Jack was dead.
She pushed the paper into her canvas bag next to the sketchbook. Her heart was pounding. She knew he wasn’t dead, she knew it. If he was no longer on this earth she would know that, too. They were connected, they had been connected since that day at art college. Jack was alive.
Someone came into the sitting room; she stood as if looking at the sea. There was an explanation; she must not panic.
Hausmann’s unmistakeable voice said, ‘I want to thank you. The coffee was good and the sick bowl was not necessary.’
She did not turn. She managed one word. ‘Good.’
There was a pause, then he said, ‘You are not all right. Are you coming to the Long Gallery this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’
Through her terror she caught a nuance of something. Diffidence. It did not go with the little she knew of Hausmann.
He said, ‘I was hoping we could talk.’
‘Not now.’
From the dining room she heard Sybil’s voice and felt an enormous relief.
‘Sybil and I are going to Lynmouth this morning.’ She turned. ‘I have to get organized. Excuse me.’
She brushed past him, screwing up the paper and forcing it into her bag. This was how it must be for Sybil. All the time.