The Long Gallery was more like the prow of a ship than ever. Judith walked its length, pausing now and then as a lightning flash spotlit one of Hausmann’s paintings, randomly, theatrically. The rural landscapes became, for an instant, a reminder of summer: she tried to find a word that would encapsulate what Hausmann found so heartbreakingly ephemeral, and came up with ‘tranquillity’.
She held on to the back of one of the sofas and waited for the next flash. This time it lit one of the industrial landscapes. It was Avonmouth before legislation had abolished the smoke stacks. One tall funnel emitted a thin, dark red plume of pure poison. Somehow Hausmann had perceptually triggered something else with his paintbrush, and for an instant she thought she could smell the sulphur.
She shook her head and went on, unable to find a word for the anger in that painting.
At the end of the gallery the full-length windows looked straight down the Bristol Channel, Wales to the right, Devon and Cornwall to the left. The spray had mottled any real views, and at ten o’clock in the morning the light was filtered through heavy clouds. She pushed the final sofa round so that it faced out to sea, and tried to stop making pictures in her head of a tiny white blob in the middle of an enormous sea of slate-grey: Hausmann’s boat, Goalpost – doubtless as shambolic as its owner – fighting through the wind towards an invisible island somewhere in all that turbulence.
Lightning forked down again, and the doors behind her opened. Sybil backed in just as Hausmann had done that second morning. She was pulling one of Irena’s trolleys and carrying a bag on one shoulder. She swung the trolley round with difficulty and as the door closed behind her she was spotlit, like the paintings. She let go of the trolley, covered her face and screamed.
Judith hurried to her. ‘It’s OK, relax, the storm is moving away. Count the seconds before we hear the thunder.’ She paused and it rumbled over the castle.
Sybil let her hands fall and took a deep breath. ‘I keep seeing him in one of his own paintings. I bet his bloody boat leaks like a sieve. And what was Nattie thinking about, for goodness’ sake? He’s the one with common sense; why did he let it happen?’
‘They know more than we do. This friend they’ve rescued, he could have died if they hadn’t got him to a hospital.’
‘I should think his chances of survival were shortened by giving himself over to Robert!’ But she laughed as she spoke, and took the handle of the trolley again. ‘Come on, there’s coffee in the thermos and a whole packet of chocolate biscuits. And I’ve rummaged around Rob’s studio and got a selection of watercolours. That pastoral scene you were sketching from the top of the Lyn, it cries out for watercolours.’
In spite of her reservations about invading Hausmann’s quarters, Judith found herself thinking about those sketches: the tiny vulnerable inn pillowed in autumnal trees. Ochres and saffrons and deep, deep crimsons.
Sybil pulled another sofa at right angles to the first and poured coffee; the aroma filled the small area, the sofa backs made it theirs.
‘I believe in comfort, physical comfort.’ Sybil closed her eyes and immersed herself in steam from the jug. ‘When the three of us were kids I was always the one to make the den.’
Judith picked up her cup and imitated Sybil, blissfully inhaling the strident scent of the coffee. ‘I would have thought Nathaniel would have enjoyed playing house.’
‘He did, of course. But Robert disapproved strongly. And he loved Robert. As I did. As so many people did.’ She sounded sad. ‘It’s so difficult to explain, Jude.’ She was musing now, looking into her cup as if for answers. ‘Robert would hate me for saying this, but I can’t think of another way.’ She looked up suddenly and gave a small wry smile. ‘He suffers – actually suffers – for other people!’ The smile turned into a laugh. ‘He often gets toothache because he’s worrying about someone else – just ordinary but painful complaints. I know it’s hard to believe when you’ve seen him “drunk and disorderly”, and even when he’s sober and bullying everyone around him. It sounds absurd to talk about him as a supersensitive artist but – honestly – that’s what he is!’
Judith said, ‘I thought it was … his dark side. When he spoke of Auschwitz, not being able to paint any of that, oh God, I told him … I think I told him that he should paint it as therapy …’ She put down her coffee cup with a click. ‘He must have thought … how crass!’ She looked at Sybil. ‘I knew you understood him when you said that he was painting for the end of the world, so his ’scapes would stand as a reminder of how beautiful our world had been.’
Sybil gave another rueful laugh. ‘He’s not a saint by any means, Jude. Those ’scapes are what sell. He must be a very rich man.’
Judith nodded sadly. ‘He is financing Bart and Irena in this hotel venture.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘No. His brother blurted it out, to stop Irena from slagging him off. Just now, when they were both trying to serve breakfast.’
‘That’s interesting … much more constructive … I didn’t give him credit for being so practical.’
‘He did it basically for Bart and Irena,’ Judith reminded her.
‘Yes. I see that. He’s already got a place on Lundy. It’s a sort of hermitage he goes to when things are bad. I found that piece of information on the internet!’ She grinned. ‘I bet he doesn’t know it’s there … he’d be livid! It’s how he got his name for being a West Country artist. Apparently he lends it to people sometimes. I think that was why he wanted to take you to see it this morning, in case you could make use of it in the future. But someone was obviously already there, that’s what the rescue was all about.’ She finished her coffee and put her cup next to Judith’s. ‘Poor old Robert. At present there are too many of us needing his kind of first aid, and all at the same time! Thank God he didn’t kill Nat in his rescue attempt! I would never have forgiven him.’
Lightning lit up the far reaches of the gallery; then there was a full five-second interval before the thunder rolled in. Sybil did not flinch. Judith realized she had not even noticed it.
Sybil picked up a digestive biscuit and broke it in half absently. She said, ‘I think that’s what yesterday’s project was all about. To make me realize that I was in love with Nat. I think I always knew; he was so kind. Robert was not always kind. I wanted to be in love with Robert, actually – he was good-looking when he was young – I thought he looked like Heathcliff. And he was always taller than me; I fought against loving Nat because he’s shorter than I am!’ She laughed and looked round at Judith, half-ashamed. ‘Imagine being so small-minded … so vain, I suppose.’ She bit into one half of the biscuit and laughed again. ‘Robert is clever: he knows how people work. To confront Nat with me; it was such a shock. I saw his face and knew that he had loved me all the time, and I knew I had loved him, too.’ She swallowed her biscuit. ‘It seemed so natural, didn’t it? When he called me Esmée instead of Sybil? Almost innocent! Ha! Shock treatment! For Nat, of course, but for me too.’ She registered Judith’s expression and put out a hand. ‘It’s the way Robert works: always making you look at yourself to recognize the truth. Even when we were ten years old.’
Judith took the hand. ‘I think you’re right. That is exactly what he was doing yesterday.’
‘Your outburst … did it help, or make things worse?’
‘Both.’ She thought about it, and added with some difficulty, ‘I saw that my marriage has taken second place for some time. Yes, it helped.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘So did the scene in the orangery.’
Sybil shook Judith’s hand once and released it. She set aside the tray and began to pull out her sketchbooks. The drawings she had done from the top of the River Lyn were far more detailed than Judith’s. She set one of them aside. ‘Nat might like to print that one for a greetings card. But this one is just a series of outlines because I want to paint it.’ She produced tubes of powder paint: blue, yellow, red and black. She cleared the lower trays of the trolley and started to set out brushes and rags, saucers and a bottle of water.
Judith tidied the coffee things. She did not want to start on her own sketches from Saturday, it brought in a competitive element she shied away from. Eventually she left them in the bag and opened her sketchbook on a clean page. She sat still for a moment, then reached down again for a stick of charcoal and put it in the centre of the page, as she had watched Jack do so often.
She closed her eyes and sat very still, hardly breathing. She had told Sybil that Hausmann had forced her to face some unpalatable facts. Was that true? She recalled her outburst without embarrassment; what had happened afterwards during Hausmann’s ‘project’ had wiped away feelings of embarrassment. So it must have been … good. But she had not had time to explore it then; attention had been turned on Sybil, then Hausmann himself. Yet he had wanted Nathaniel Jones to be in the spotlight!
She opened her eyes, saw that Sybil was completely engrossed in her work, and smiled slightly. Hausmann’s plans for Nathaniel and Sybil appeared to be working, plus he had accomplished his rescue attempt, too. He would doubtless be insufferable. She looked down at her empty page; the charcoal was in exactly the same position. Hausmann had not worked any magic for her. She frowned, concentrating hard. He had forced her to admit to herself that she had not … what was the word she wanted? She had not nurtured her marriage; she had relied on Jack to keep it going without help from her. She closed her eyes again and saw Jennifer and Stanley Markham dancing by candlelight. She put the charcoal in her lap and tightened her hands into fists.
Had it been her mother? Had she given too much time to Eunice? She racked her memory; once, before her speech finally disappeared, Eunice had found some words and told Judith she must let her go to a nursing home. Judith had told Jack, and he had been genuinely astonished.
‘Darling, we can get help here. Mum is our family. She keeps us together.’
Judith had wept then. But he had been right. The togetherness had gradually seeped away after Eunice’s death. That was the time she should have nurtured it. Then, out of the blue, she found herself remembering last Christmas. The office party hosted by the Whortleys. Jack, grinning, ‘Get something new, Jude. Go on, spoil yourself.’
And her response. ‘Darling, I simply cannot face an office party. Listen, why don’t you take Naomi? She’s such a good friend to me but you only see her when she’s leaving here. It would allow you to get to know her better and I’m sure she’d just love it.’
‘Don’t worry, love. I don’t need to go either. It’s just … I thought we might start getting back to normal.’
‘We are back to normal, Jack. It’s just that I’m so tired, I can’t make that sort of effort. Oh dear, I feel rotten about it but … say you don’t mind!’
He had rolled his eyes and intoned, ‘I do not mind.’
And in the end, he had agreed to take Naomi.
Had he felt pushed away then? He said he wished he hadn’t gone. The awful thing was that Naomi had not enjoyed it either. ‘It was OK.’ She had shrugged. ‘I didn’t know anyone, of course.’
Judith took a deep breath and came back to the present. She should have gone to that office party. She had known it at the time but suppressed it; now she knew it again. Behind her closed eyes she visualized letters and made them into words. And the words all said the same thing, ‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry …’ They multiplied, and as they did she picked up the charcoal stick and started to draw. She recalled Jack saying, ‘I do my best stuff with my eyes closed.’
When her hand stopped moving, she opened her eyes and stared down at the page. A single hooked line made a nose, two lines level with the nose’s bridge became eyes, a lopsided slash beneath the nose made a mouth; finally a quiff of hair and, of course, protruding ears. More slowly, watching the charcoal as it moved, she circled the collection of features into a head.
‘My God, who is that?’ Sybil looked over her shoulder. ‘I had no idea you did caricatures too!’
‘I don’t. I never have. But this is Fish-Frobisher! I can’t believe it … he drew himself!’ She looked away from the page, eyes wide. ‘My God. It really is. Magnus Fish-Frobisher himself!’
‘Who on earth is Magnus Fish-Frobisher?’
‘You don’t know the Fish-Frobishers?’ Judith grinned suddenly. ‘You only looked at the Jack Freeman cartoon when he drew your husband! Free publicity, that’s what Jack called it. A week – maybe two – and that was that. But the Frobishers have been ongoing for years. They gave everyone a chance to see themselves, for better or worse. They really are awful. Snobs, unconscious racists, but underneath it all they can be kind.’ She puckered her mouth, considering. ‘A bit like Nat, I imagine.’
Sybil laughed and began to mix some paint. ‘Go on with it. Let me get to know them. Is there a wife?’
‘Certainly there’s a wife. Edith. And a daughter called Stargazer. Her school friends call her “Popeye”.’ Judith went on looking at ‘FF’, as Jack called him. ‘This is peculiar.’
‘No. No, it’s not. It’s true therapy. Representing the happy times?’
‘Probably. They were conceived when the twins were still at school and my mother was well. Twenty-three years ago, I suppose.’ She went on staring. The few lines in front of her which made up the face of Fish-Frobisher, were almost a facsimile of Jack’s popular creation. But they reminded her of someone else. The slicked-back hair, the long thin mouth, the considering eyes and – most of all – the protruding ears: they also belonged to Jack Freeman. Had he intended that?
Sybil leaned forward, applying paint from the very tip of a fine brush. ‘I’m doing the purples first, there were a lot of purples.’ She swung back and forth, looking then dabbing. ‘Moss made me promise to take my painting seriously after he died.’ She paused, brush poised high. ‘Oh my God, is that yet another reason I came to see Robert? To hang on to his coat-tails?’
‘You came to see Nathaniel Jones, remember?’
‘I didn’t think so. Not until later. Though when he was being so courteous in the coach coming here, I felt a real pang. He never understood Robert, nor me, but he was so loyal. He thought he was an outsider, but I see now he had a big role. He looked after us. Just as he went with Robert last night, to look after him.’ She leaned forward again and began on the beech trees, adding ochre to the crimson paint.
Judith turned a page and started to draw again. ‘It’s as if Jack has his hand over mine. This is Edith Fish-Frobisher. She was a good woman, actually.’ She gave her a perfect hairdo. ‘In between perms she did good works.’ She held the sketchbook away from her and looked hard. ‘Yes, that’s Edith. I must have watched Jack working – watched every line he made – it is exactly Edith Fish-Frobisher.’ And it was modelled on someone; someone real.
Judith stared in disbelief; it was her mother.
Sybil was talking, as if to herself. She was deep into mixing paints; the trolley had half-a-dozen saucers full of wonderful colours. Judith turned to tell her about Edith Fish-Frobisher, alias Eunice Denman, and was completely distracted by the colours. She pushed her pad away and watched Sybil as she applied paint here and there and brought the beech trees to life.
Sybil started to speak again, almost to herself. ‘I was sixteen. Robert had got a place at the Slade, and he looked me up. It was wonderful to see him. I realized I had been homesick for him. I told him I loved him and would always love him.’
She looked up and saw Judith’s eyes on her, and said, ‘You’ve got the clearest eyes I’ve ever seen. Be careful. He’s fallen for you – because of your eyes, I think – and he could hurt you.’
Judith shook her head slowly. ‘It’s not like that. Not at all.’
Sybil made a face. ‘My God. You’re falling for him, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t be silly! Jack’s been … gone … two months!’
‘Quite. But this is something different. Be honest, I’m right, am I not? He’s not only a wonderful painter. He’s a tortured soul. And more than that, too. He’s a pirate!’ She laughed without humour. ‘You’re doing exactly the same as I did. I did it at ten years old, sixteen years old, and again when I got the invitation to come here for his retrospective exhibition! Don’t be such a fool, Jude! My God, you’re better than this! You’re practical, imaginative, caring. How can you get a crush on Robert? You can see that wherever he goes he takes disaster with him.’
Judith said, ‘Not really. And of course he loves you. That’s why he wants you to be happy. I think he probably rigged this exhibition; all right, he knew it would help to get the castle started as a sort of cultural-weekend-away. But then he saw it could also bring you and Nathaniel Jones back together. You say you had an invitation. I didn’t, and I’m willing to bet neither did the Olsens nor the Markhams. What about Nathaniel?’
Sybil took a rag and cleaned her brush. ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. Yesterday out on that dratted moor, Nat did say something.’
‘There you are! Your husband had only been dead two months, and Hausmann knew you would be trying to make a new life. The Markhams live in Bristol or nearby; they were probably looking for something they could do with their Scandinavian friends! Hausmann is known as a West Country painter, and as far as I know the weekend was advertised in the local press only.’ She shrugged. ‘You live in Surrey, and Nathaniel lives in Wales. I doubt Martin Morris’s advertisement got that far. There were just seven of us, that’s all. I think it was arranged for your sake, Sybil. Surely that is love?’
Sybil’s frown disappeared. She laughed and shook her head. ‘I suppose so. Not the sort I wanted, or thought I wanted. But I still think you should be careful; he certainly is very interested in you!’
‘Not really. It’s because of Jack. He … he admires … admired … Jack.’
Sybil stopped laughing and dried the brush with studied care. ‘But … sorry, Jude … but their stuff is so different, and I’m afraid would have come between them. In Robert’s eyes, cartoonists are not painters, they are journalists. Sorry, but that’s Robert.’
‘I mean he admires Jack. The man. Not necessarily his work.’
‘He knew your husband. Personally?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you knew him, too: you came here to see him as well as his work?’
‘No. I didn’t know him, but I’ve seen a couple of his exhibitions and enjoyed them, and it seemed a good thing to do. I needed to do something, you see. I was gardening and cleaning and shopping for food I wasn’t going to eat, and it was all so pointless. Booking a weekend away was … was … meaningful.’
Sybil loaded the brush carefully with olive-green paint. She said, ‘Jude, if he engineered this weekend so that Nat and I would meet up again, don’t you think it is more than likely you were included in such cunning plans?’ She rolled her eyes and vowels on the last two words. But she was not smiling. ‘He kept his eye on the bookings. If you hadn’t booked a place I rather think you, too, would have received an invitation.’
‘I don’t think so.’ It was getting too difficult. She was going to have to admit that Jack was alive.
Sybil gave a little snort of derision. ‘Sorry, but I know Robert through and through.’
Suddenly Judith was annoyed. She hated this conversation; the assumption that she could possibly be looking for someone else was disgusting. Sybil obviously thought she was a flirtatious widow. Yes, it was all disgusting.
She said tersely, ‘You need not worry about Robert and me. You must know he is gay.’
Sybil’s reaction was slow. She held her brush in mid-air while she stared at Judith with astonishment. Then she exploded with genuine mirth, somehow or other replaced the brush in its saucer, and lifted her head to the ceiling. She looked so like Naomi with the long throat exposed that Judith wanted to weep. All the good that she had felt emanating from Castle Dove – and Robert Hausmann’s work – was swept away. She looked down at her sketches: the Frobishers, one like Jack, the other like her mother. Now Sybil was reminding her of Naomi Parsons. All of them lost.
Sybil spluttered, ‘Did he tell you that?’
She said, hopelessly, ‘Yes. In a manner of speaking.’ She would have to confess that Jack was alive, and that would finish any kind of friendship she might have had with Sybil.
But Sybil was only interested in Hausmann. She controlled her laughter, fished for a tissue and wiped her eyes.
‘Jude. He is not gay. I can vouch for that. What sort of game is he playing now, for God’s sake? My dear, be more on your guard than ever. He is most definitely up to something!’
Judith was surprised at her own relief; Sybil was not going to cast her off after all. In that moment she almost told her about Jack and the other woman in Australia. And then she didn’t. Instead, after a while she said, ‘Thank you, Sybil.’
They went back to their work. They had no more to say; Judith’s feeling of discomfort, of insecurity, of imminent loss, grew steadily stronger. Underneath it all was a basis of guilt. She was living some kind of peculiar lie that was absolutely unnecessary.
At one o’clock Sybil sat back, satisfied. ‘I’ve got to a point that I can leave until after lunch. What about you?’
It was obvious that Sybil had not picked up any of Judith’s discomfort. ‘I’m still working on the Fish-Frobisher strip; I can leave it at any time.’
Sybil said, ‘Let’s go, then. It’s been great, Jude. We’ve been so honest with each other. I didn’t offend you, did I?’
‘No. Of course not.’ Judith put away her things and stood up.
Sybil said, ‘I’ll leave our stuff on the trolley. We can push it out of sight and perhaps go on with this for an hour later.’
There was nothing of Judith’s on the trolley, and for a moment she wanted to say pettishly that it all belonged to Robert.
Instead she nodded. ‘Better put the sofas back, I suppose. The others might want to come and look at the paintings again.’
‘What? You must be joking. The Markhams are only interested in trying to make a baby, and the Olsens are thinking about a divorce.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Not really. It’s much easier not to be serious.’
‘Yes.’
Sybil took her arm as they walked the length of the gallery. ‘It would be good to keep in touch, Jude. I’ve got a lot of room at home. You could stay … we could go and see what’s on at the Hayward or Tate Modern … that sort of thing.’
Judith closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Thank you, Sybil,’ she said. It would not happen, of course. But for the moment she was grateful to have a friend again.
They separated at the lift doors. Judith went into her room, and immediately settled at the table and spread out the sketches she had done. She began to jot down possibilities that could make one of Jack’s episodes. The daughter – Stargazer – would have the punchline, as she so often did. She had never aged – none of them had – since the comic strip began. Her aim in life was to shower scorn on her parents. She was the stereotypical teenager. Judith nibbled her lower lip and considered. Jack would say, ‘Is that a pimple I see before me?’ and Eunice would say, ‘Omigod, and it’s the Dalrymples’ sherry party this very morn!’ and Stargazer would say, ‘You would do anything to be the centre of attention!’
Judith nodded to herself; it was so Fish-Frobisher – incredible – the whole thing could have been Jack’s. She read her notes and then read them again with one hand across her mouth. She had renamed Magnus and Edith. Stargazer was the only Fish-Frobisher there. She removed her hand and wrote the three parts again. And then she enveloped dialogue and sketches and stuck two first-class stamps on them and addressed the envelope to William Whortley at the Magnet offices.
The Olsens were in the sitting room drinking sherry and talking to Bart and Martin Morris. Bart immediately offered to post Judith’s envelope for her.
‘I’m off in the car to pick up Nat after lunch. Anything you need that Taunton might provide?’
‘You provide just about everything here. But thank you, anyway.’ Judith accepted a glass from Sven Olsen. ‘Aren’t you bringing your brother back home with you?’
‘No, not at this point. I don’t quite get the whole picture, but Robert will explain when I see him, I expect.’ He did not look particularly hopeful on that score. ‘The main thing is, the patient has double pneumonia. He is taking antibiotics intravenously and oxygen intermittently. He would probably have died if Robert hadn’t taken him off the island in the small hours of this morning. His companion is young and desperate. He won’t leave the bedside, and Robert has taken a room nearby and is hoping he will use it tonight.’
‘So the crisis has not been instantly resolved,’ Sven took up. He smiled. ‘I think Mr Mann will be receiving a great many phone calls this week! We will all need to know exactly what is happening!’
Margaret said sharply, ‘This is not a television serial, Sven! I hope Mr Mann will let us know the outcome of his brother’s courageous rescue attempt.’ She smiled at Bart. ‘Hopefully you will be back this evening, when we shall still be here.’
‘We shall be in the way, Margaret,’ Olsen said. ‘We did agree – or so I thought – that it would be better if we left the family in peace.’
Martin Morris stepped in. ‘If we could all wait until the morning I would be much happier. A mud slide has been reported just down the coast. The forecast for tomorrow is overcast but dry.’
Sybil arrived on the scene and was delighted to see Bart. She listened as the sparse news was told again.
‘Of course we will hang on, Mr Morris! Nat will be able to fill us in with the full details tonight, but I don’t imagine he will be in any state to take to the road! Hopefully a good night’s sleep will put him right. Tomorrow will be fine. Don’t you agree, Jude?’
‘Of course.’ Judith spoke heartily, but her heart was not in it. Her heart was not in anything; she could feel her sporadic good spirits falling rapidly.
Sybil turned to Sven with her wide smile. ‘We all appreciate your concern for Bart and Irena, dear Mr Olsen. But we can all pull our weight. Judith and I know our way around the kitchen here; if Irena is all right with serving our lunch, we promise to do the clearing up afterwards, and you can help us if you like.’
Sven blinked, dazzled by the unaccustomed smile. Margaret took his arm.
‘You see, darling? Everything is as it should be.’
Judith turned to Sybil and said in a low voice, ‘Did we leave our coffee stuff in the gallery?’
Sybil rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll go. How long does it take to drive to Taunton and back?’
‘Probably an hour to get there. Afterwards, I’m not sure how long to pick up Nathaniel and his stuff; but then another hour to get back here.’
‘So he should be here in good time for dinner.’ She smiled. ‘Lovely. I’m going to spend a long time in a scented bath.’
It was Judith’s turn to roll her eyes.
‘Not only that – have you got a spare nightie like the one you were wearing this morning?’
‘As it happens, yes.’
‘May I borrow it? And I’m going to scoot down to the orangery and pinch some of the candles.’
Irena came out of the kitchen wheeling the inevitable trolley.
‘Lunch is served!’ she called across the foyer.
‘Come on for now. I’ll see to the coffee things.’ Judith took Sybil’s arm and they walked over to Irena, who looked at them without pleasure and spoke tersely.
‘There is a trolley missing, Mrs Jessup. I shall need it for the evening meal.’
Sybil gave her the special smile. ‘I couldn’t find you to ask if we might borrow it. We’re using some of Robert’s paints, and it is making a very useful table for them; and for everything else!’
‘Perhaps you could return it as soon as possible.’
Judith said quickly, ‘We do apologize. Especially as – if you will accept our offer to clear away this afternoon – we shall need it down here ourselves. I’ll see to it right away!’
Irena softened immediately. ‘Oh, please, my dear! Have your lunch first. This is the first time you have been in for lunch. And I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to work in the kitchen. Your holiday has been ruined, and it’s down to my stupid brother-in-law!’ She cast a dark glance towards the others, who were filing into the dining room. ‘I suppose they are all thinking he is some kind of hero! If anything had gone wrong it would have been his fault entirely! He took his friend over to Lundy on Saturday; he must have shown symptoms of his illness! The weather forecast was already talking of westerly gales—’
Judith could feel Sybil by her side boiling with anger. She said as smoothly as she could, ‘Irena, you must not upset yourself like this, all is going to be well now, that is what matters.’
Irena calmed down immediately, even managing a smile. ‘I know you are right. You see through to what matters; like your husband, like your dear husband.’
Sybil peeled away from Judith and walked into the dining room.
‘What is the matter with Mrs Jessup now?’ Irena asked. ‘Bart has told me about her. What was the word he used? Unpredictable. That was it. Apparently her father blamed the boys for her odd behaviour, and moved to London. But she’s found them again, hasn’t she?’
She did not wait for an answer, but strode into the dining room, cutlery clattering on the trolley as it jerked over the threshold. Judith took her chance, and went upstairs and down the second landing to the Long Gallery. She pulled a newspaper out of her bag and spread it on the floor, smoothing its crumpled surface and revealing the Fish-Frobishers unable to find their car keys. She put the contents of the trolley on to the newspaper, and set the coffee things in their place. It meant she had to use the lift. She bent down to see the buttons and saw that the vinyl-tiled floor of the lift was damp and muddy. She had not seen any cleaners since she had arrived. Surely Irena didn’t do the cleaning as well as the cooking?
The lift arrived on ‘entry level’ and the doors slid open. She wheeled the trolley into the kitchen, unloaded the mugs into the dishwasher and found a tea towel. She rinsed it under a tap and wiped the trolley clean of all paint remnants.
Then she put the wet towel into the laundry bin and joined the others.
It was rather embarrassing when Irena brought in the puddings and was loud with praise of, ‘Judith’s excellent work in the kitchen.’
Sybil barely waited until she was out of earshot before she said, only half-jokingly, ‘You creep!’
Judith responded coolly. ‘I put the paints on some newspaper and brought the trolley down – at a gallop rather than a creep!’
‘So we can go back there after lunch; unless the Markhams need the Long Gallery for any unspecified reason?’
‘Oh, Sybil, don’t!’
‘Sorry. It’s difficult for me. Moss and I decided on no children right from the outset.’ She turned down her mouth at Judith’s expression and added, ‘But I do see how totally committed they are, and it was wonderful … magical … surreal—’
Sybil raised her brows. ‘I reckon we’re friends. You wouldn’t have told me to shut up yesterday. Probably not even this morning.’
‘It hasn’t worked, has it?’
Sybil grinned, misunderstanding. She pursed her mouth and drew a finger across her lips as if zipping them closed. Judith looked up and thanked Irena for the coffee that had appeared in front of her. Then she bent down to pick up her handkerchief, and for the first time she let herself picture Jack. He seemed to be reaching out to her. Then he was gone. She whispered, ‘Jack. Don’t leave me. Please do not leave me!’
Sybil said, ‘I didn’t hear what you said then.’
Judith looked up and smiled. Some part of her suddenly relaxed.
‘I didn’t say anything. But if it’s so hard to stay shut up, then please feel free to start a conversation!’
Sybil laughed. Judith laughed. It cleared the pain in her throat. And it was as if the laughter sealed a bargain.