THURSDAY, 3 OCTOBER 1924, LAING ART GALLERY, NEWCASTLE
The Indian summer in Newcastle was finally showing its heels. A pair of horses that were being led into the public stables adjoining the gallery clomped their way through a light carpet of oak leaves and acorns, and the lad who told them to “hey up” had a woollen scarf tucked into his collar. Poppy, wearing her best but flimsiest evening gown, pulled her coat collar up against the biting breeze. She was waiting on the steps of the gallery for the arrival of the press, watching a horse-drawn cart pull up to the nearby “lying-in hospital” for pregnant married women of limited means. She watched as one of the ladies in question was helped out of the cart and guided into the hospital. Only married women, she noted. She thought of the unmarried Agnes and her two miscarriages. Where did women like her go if they carried to full term? A sister ushered the woman in and closed the door.
Poppy turned her attention back to the gallery. She had arranged for Peter MacMahon from the Journal and Walter Foster from the Herald to get to the exhibition an hour earlier than the public to take photographs of the artwork, and to talk to Agnes about her idea for bursaries for female artists. She had had some difficulty yesterday convincing the reporters that they had nothing to gain by printing rumours about Agnes’ involvement in a decades-old death, but finally managed to persuade them that if they did they would lose all access to the artist and the inside track on the bursary fund. “This isn’t a rumour; it’s fact. But if you’d rather we gave the story to the Northern Echo…”
The men had reluctantly agreed. Poppy knew that everything depended on how well Agnes did in her interview with them today. She had spent some time earlier that morning coaching the artist in the best way to answer questions and hoped that she had taken at least some of it on board. Poppy was a little bit annoyed with how much time this “press liaison” role was taking up. Hadn’t she just agreed to go to Ashington? But now here she was at the gallery too. Perhaps she should take Agnes up on her offer of payment; she was supposed to be on holiday, after all. Yet somehow she felt she needed to see Agnes through this. She was surprised at how vulnerable the older woman seemed up here in the North. When Poppy had interviewed her in London she was the epitome of the confident, sophisticated artist. But here – well, here she was just the daughter of a coal miner whose community showed her scant respect. And, up until yesterday, her family had rejected her too.
There was something in that that pulled at Poppy’s heartstrings. Perhaps it was because she too had difficulties with her family. Neither of her parents were thrilled with her choice of career. And if her mother had her way, she would have no career at all. Granted, they had not turned their backs on her as Agnes’ family had done for many years, and they were not at all estranged, but there was still tension between them. Poppy’s mother feared her insistence on working would rule her out of the marriage stakes, and, Poppy had to admit, she might be right. After all, it was partly due to her job that she had declined Daniel’s offer to go with him to South Africa.
A brown-suited man turned the corner from New Bridge Street, near the lying-in hospital, into Higham Place. It was Walter Foster carrying a camera case and tripod. He waved to Poppy.
“Good evening, Mr Foster. No photographer?”
Foster shook his head. “No, just me. Budget cuts. Is MacMahon here yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Good-oh. Then perhaps I can see Miss Robson first.”
Poppy chuckled. “Don’t worry, Mr Foster, you can both have a turn. I’ve arranged for each of you to speak to her for fifteen minutes.”
“Only fifteen minutes?”
“I’m afraid so. Miss Robson has a lot to do this evening. But if you don’t get all you need tonight you can forward some written questions to me in the morning and I’ll see that Miss Robson answers them for you. Ah, here’s Mr MacMahon.”
A black cab pulled up and let Peter MacMahon and his photographer out. Poppy repeated the arrangements that she had just explained to Foster and MacMahon echoed the other journalist’s complaint.
“I’m sorry Peter; that’s all I can do for now. But there should be lots you can do at the exhibition opening tonight. Don’t forget there will be friends, family, and dignitaries you can speak to too.” Poppy was slightly perturbed that she had to tell the men how to do their jobs. If the shoe were on the other foot she would know exactly how to go about getting a story, even with the restrictions imposed on them.
Poppy ushered the men into the gallery and through the Marble Hall with its hanging baskets of evergreen plants. She checked in her coat at the ladies’ cloakroom while the reporters and cameraman did the same at the gentlemen’s facility. Poppy ducked into the powder room to check her outfit – the spaghetti-strapped, wine-red Lucien Lelong with train Aunt Dot had given her – then touched up her lipstick and checked that her marcelled waves were behaving themselves under the diamanté headband. Happy with the results, she emerged from the cloakroom to appreciative glances from the press posse.
“Golly, you look splendid, Miss Denby!”
“Thank you, Mr MacMahon,” said Poppy, quietly pleased with the response.
Lifting her train, she led the way up the granite staircase – past its distinctive arts and crafts stained-glass window – to the landing of the first floor. Around a rotunda, with a broad granite balustrade, caterers were setting up drinks and food tables, while in the corner between the entrances to galleries A and D, a string quartet were tuning up. Way above them, the last of the afternoon sun wept through the glass ceiling of the oculus. Poppy looked over the balustrade to see her aunt’s neighbour Mrs Sherman – without her two poodles – cross the hall of the atrium below. Poppy wondered for a moment what she was doing here, then remembered that she was the curator Dante Sherman’s mother. In fact, she was about to meet Mr Sherman now. Agnes had told her that he was insisting on accompanying the reporters around the exhibition to ensure that they “behaved”. Poppy sighed to herself; it always disappointed her what a poor reputation journalists had with the general public.
Memories and Mementoes: Agnes Robson, daughter of the North had been hung in Gallery A – on the far side of the rotunda. To the right of the double doors was the largest painting in the Laing: Holy Motherhood, a renaissance nouveau homage to fifteenth-century religious iconography, by contemporary artist Thomas Cooper Gotch. It had first been exhibited for the gallery’s opening in 1902. Frozen forever in a bronzed gilt frame, four women, playing instruments or reading books, flanked the “holy mother” who sat, indifferent to the naked infant lying on her lap. The painting had always disturbed Poppy as there wasn’t an ounce of maternal love in any of the characters. She remembered as a child contemplating the painting, feeling sorry for the poor, cold baby, who was supposed to grow up to be the saviour of the world.
Standing in front of the painting was the dandy figure of Dante Sherman, with a clipboard and pen. He wore a conventional tuxedo and tails, but peeking out of his jacket were flouncy Byronic cuffs, worthy of Oscar Wilde, and a velvet collar. Instead of a plain white bow tie, he wore an elaborate cravat of white silk with gold embroidery. As Poppy and the journalists approached, he allowed his gold-framed monocle to drop out of his eye socket and dangle down the front of his jacket.
“Ah, Miss Denby and the gentlemen from the press.” He checked his pocket watch. “You are five minutes late.”
“Our apologies, Mr Sherman. Agnes said you would be willing to show Mr MacMahon and Mr Foster the collection, is that correct?”
Sherman pursed his lips and checked his pocket watch again. “It is – briefly. So shall we get started? Miss Robson is waiting in Gallery B, which we are currently using as a green room. Follow me please.”
Sherman turned on his well-polished heel, pushed open the door to Gallery A, and led the journalists through it. He pointed to the door of Gallery B. “Miss Robson is in there. One of you can get started with her and I’ll take the other one around the exhibition. We will swap over in exactly fifteen minutes. Any questions?”
“Er yes,” said an amused-looking Peter MacMahon, winking at his photographer. “Who’s going first? Should we toss a coin, Foster?”
“I, well I –”
Sherman snapped his fingers in front of MacMahon’s face. “Decide. Now. Time is ticking.”
“Well,” said Poppy, annoyed by Sherman’s manner, but at the same time realizing time was not on their side. “Perhaps Mr Foster would like to go first with Agnes. He has come the farthest. Then we’ll swap over. Is that all right?” Her tone, and challenging stare at Peter MacMahon, brooked no disagreement.
“That’s fine and dandy,” said MacMahon, a Cheshire cat grin still on his face. “All right, Bob?” he asked his photographer.
“All right, Pete,” the man replied, and started unpacking his tripod.
Poppy smiled her thanks at the man, appreciating his no-fuss attitude – so like Daniel’s – and then gestured for Walter Foster to accompany her through the gallery to the makeshift green room. As Foster pushed open the door she heard Dante Sherman drawl, “So, here we have a fine example of Miss Robson’s work from her early years in Paris. You see the use of primary colour and the marked influence of Gauguin –”
The door swung shut behind her and Foster, and they stepped into a screened-off section of the long vaulted Gallery B. In front of her, lying on a Chippendale chaise longue, was Agnes. Her neck was resting on the arm of the furniture and her eyes were closed. One hand was resting on her forehead.
“Agnes? Are you all right?”
Agnes opened her eyes and turned her head towards Poppy; a tired smile gently emerged.
“Sorry Poppy – yes, I’m fine. I was just having a little rest before everyone arrives. And… oh, it’s the gentleman from the press; I had almost forgotten.”
She sat up and dropped her legs to the floor, smoothing down her green velvet gown. Poppy noted how beautiful she looked. Her hair – which she still wore unfashionably long – was pinned on one side with a diamond-encrusted comb and then swept down over the other shoulder in a cascade of ebony waves.
“Good evening, Miss Robson. If you don’t mind, would you stay just where you are? The light is just right. And I apologize, but I will have to ask you questions as I set up the camera, as I am on my own.”
Poppy, realizing Foster would not have time to do a proper interview in the allocated slot if he had to take snaps too, decided to offer her help. Daniel had taught her some basic camera technique and she had started taking photographs as a hobby since he left. In some ways, it kept his memory more alive.
Walter Foster looked relieved and settled down on a chair opposite Agnes as Poppy stepped into the photographer’s shoes. She took an old Kodak Brownie from Foster’s bag. She gave it a quick once-over, estimating that it was a mid-war variety, much like the one with which Daniel would originally have learned his craft.
“There’s film in the front pouch of the bag,” Walter Foster told her. “Do you mind if I just get on?”
“No, you go ahead. I know what I’m doing.”
Poppy kept one ear on the interview as she clicked open the back of the Brownie box and pulled out the film shuttle, loaded a roll of 120 film, then fed it around the box and inserted it back into the leather casing. Foster’s questions to Agnes seemed to be focused on how and when she had got the idea for the bursary. Poppy relaxed a little as Agnes gave him a full and informed answer. The more Agnes fed the reporter, the less chance he would be hungry for something that wasn’t on the menu.
Poppy wound the film until she saw a number “1” in the counter window. Then she checked through the viewfinder and adjusted the aperture. Agnes looked relaxed and was well lit from the skylight above. It was getting a little dim, however, so Poppy decided to use a flash. She dug around in Foster’s bag until she found what she was looking for, checked the bulb was intact, and then clicked it onto the Brownie.
The interview was going well and Poppy took a shot. Agnes, as a celebrity artist, was used to having her photograph taken and managed to pose and speak at the same time, and wasn’t in the least startled by the flash. Poppy advanced the film and, when the flash had cooled enough to replace the bulb, took another shot, then – eventually – two more. As there were only twelve exposures on the 120 film, she decided to leave it there, unsure how much film Foster would need to photograph some of the paintings. As she wrapped things up, she heard Foster say: “One final question…”
Good, perfect timing, thought Poppy.
“How much did your experience of losing your first teacher – Michael Brownley – influence your decision to help young girls from poorer backgrounds? And do you ever wonder how exactly he died?”
A stone dropped to the bottom of Poppy’s stomach.
“I, well I…” she heard Agnes start, before she stepped forward and tapped her wrist.
“I think our fifteen minutes are up here, Mr Foster; time to move into the gallery. Thank you so much for your time, Agnes. I think we’ve got all we need here.”
Foster glowered at her for a moment, but then with a tight smile, nodded briefly and said: “Of course, Miss Denby. And thank you Miss Robson, you’ve been very, how should I say, informative.”
Before Poppy could challenge him any further, the door flew open and the cheeky face of Peter MacMahon appeared. “Is it my turn yet?”
Relieved, Poppy fixed a smile on her face and said: “Yes, it is. Mr Foster has just finished.”
Agnes, still looking tired, waved Poppy over.
“Poppy, would you mind awfully keeping an eye open for my brother? He said he might be bringing my mam. If they do come I doubt they’ll feel comfortable in a place like this. It would be nice if they could see a friendly face first.”
Another job… thought Poppy with a sinking heart, but it would be churlish of her to refuse. And yes, she could imagine that the miner and his mother would feel uncomfortable in a place like this. She smiled at Agnes as Peter MacMahon took the seat Walter Foster had just vacated.
“Of course; I’ll see if I can find them. I also believe that that young lass – Edna – might be coming with her mother too. Wasn’t it part of her prize?”
“It was. But they should be with the art teacher. My family will be on their own.”
“Understood,” said Poppy and followed Foster out of the room. She quickly facilitated the handover of the journalist to the curator, Dante Sherman, who tapped his pocket watch and said: “You’re late. Now we’ve only got ten minutes. I hope you’re a fast study, Mr Foster…”
Poppy was tempted for a moment to offer to do his photography for him, but she stopped herself. No, Poppy, you are not responsible for him. It’s time to draw a line.