Page 12 of The Blue Hour

A couple of years later, when she went into a hospice to die, she took only two possessions with her: a framed photograph of the two of us together, and that little painting. A year or two after that, when finally I found myself strong enough to look through the bag of belongings – her pyjamas, her washbag – that had been returned to me after her death, I found that the photograph was there, but the painting was not.

I began to search for it. I was thirteen by this time, lonely and angry and completely clueless about art, but fortunately my grandmother remembered that the artist’s last name was Chapman. This was in the pre-Google 1990s, but I was lucky enough to find in our local library a microfiched copy of an interview Vanessa had given to ARTNOW after exhibiting at the London Art Fair in 1995. Being a teenage boy, I was struck by how beautiful she was, but more than that, I was struck by what she said when she was asked what painting meant to her. I can quote her for you here, because I read these lines so many times I know them by heart:

‘Art is legacy, it is solace. It soothes, consoles, arouses. It’s work. It’s what you do all day. It’s how you work things out, how you understand the world. It’s the opportunity to startover, to shed your skin, to take revenge, to fall in love. To be good. To live long.’

I found the little painting (Hedgerow, 1993) at an auction years later; I bought it with my first pay cheque from Christie’s auction house. My mother would have been astounded by what it was worth. Or perhaps she wouldn’t! Perhaps she always suspected the world would one day value Vanessa’s work the way she did. Either way, I think she’d be very happy to see that piece hanging on the wall beside my bed now.

I hope this goes some way to explaining why it would mean so much to me if we could talk again.

Yours,

James Becker

In the small hours of the morning, just before the tide turns, Becker’s phone buzzes. He jerks awake, heart thumping, thinkingHelena. But when he looks at the screen, he sees an email notification.

Dear Mr Becker,

Thank you for your email. If you are still in Eris, you may come to the island today. Low tide is at eight.

Please understand that I will speak to you only on the condition that you ask your employers to stop pestering me.

If you are prepared to do so, then we can talk further.

Yours,

Grace Haswell

10

Becker wonders, as he climbs the steps up to Vanessa’s house, whether Grace will show him the studio. God, what he’d give to see it! What he’d give to go up to the top of the rock, to look at the view.

‘You could go up,’ Grace says, when he asks her about it. She is pouring coffee into his mug: she’s not beenwelcoming, exactly, but civil enough. There’s been no sign of yesterday’s anger. ‘But I wouldn’t recommend it.’ She juts her chin towards the window, indicating the fog. ‘The last chap to go up there in a haar didn’t come back down. Well, he did, but via the express route.’ She looks at him with raised eyebrows, a low whistle on her lips. ‘He washed up on the beach a week later.’

Becker almost chokes on his coffee.

‘It was in the papers,’ she says coolly. She sits down opposite him, blowing gently on to the surface of her own drink. ‘A couple of years ago … maybe three? I lose track. Pre-pandemic, in any case.’

‘Good God. Who was he?’

Grace shrugs. ‘A walker. A tourist. Canadian, I think. Some poor soul far from home. I never actually saw him. His hire carwas parked down on the track for a couple of days, that’s how I knew something was up.’

They sip their coffee. Becker shakes his head. ‘I had no idea it was so treacherous … the rock was one of Vanessa’s favourite painting spots – wasn’t it?’

Grace nods vigorously. ‘Oh yes, she was up there all the time. And in all weathers, too. The more you see a place, the more you can extract from it. That’s what she said. She used to haul all her kit up, paints and canvases, the whole caboodle, on the quad bike as far as it went. And then on foot.’ Her brows rise towards her hairline again, a quiet smile on her face. ‘She lost more than one canvas to the wind. It used to put the fear of God into me, but nothing would stop Vanessa.’ She purses her lips. ‘Almost nothing.’

There’s no question: Grace is different today. There’s more eye contact, she’s less defensive, more effusive. The letter did the trick.

‘Sheknewthis place, you see,’ Grace says. ‘She knew every inch of this island, every rock and every root, every crevice, she knew where the ground was unstable, where the wind might catch you …’ She shakes her head. ‘Not today; you’d be a fool to go up today. And I’m afraid I can’t show you the studio yet either. It’s not ready.’ Their eyes meet, and Grace sits up very straight in her chair. ‘I’mnot ready. In any case, I need some assurances from you. I want to know how you plan to proceed from here on in.’

Becker inclines his head, taking another sip of his coffee. Sensing that charm is unlikely to work, he opts instead for deference. ‘What I was hoping,’ he says carefully, ‘if you have time, of course, if you’re willing, is that we – you and I, I mean – might be able to read through some of Vanessa’s papers together …’ He doesn’t look up, just keeps his eye on the table and his voice even. ‘In that way we might come up with a solution acceptable to bothsides.’ Now he does look up, his gaze meeting hers. ‘I need your help,’ he says.

Grace presses her lips together, a faint flush spreading over her cheekbones … She is pleased. She is flattered. ‘That would be … I think that would be fine,’ she says, and Becker curls his hands into victorious fists under the table.

They come to an agreement. Grace will give him a sample of papers – a few notebooks, a couple of letters perhaps – to take back to Fairburn. He will speak to Sebastian and ask – no, tell! – him to call off the dogs. From now on, Grace will deal directly with Becker, and only with Becker. There will be no more threats of legal action. Becker makes a solemn promise, crossing his ankles beneath his chair like a child.

‘I’ll fetch you some notebooks to look at, then,’ Grace says, getting up from the table. Becker waits until he hears the front door open and close again and then he seizes his chance. He slips out of the kitchen and into the darkness of the cluttered living room. Windowless and airless, it has the feel of a space rarely used. A faded screen in hospital-green linen rests against one wall, a small blue sofa vies for space with two ratty armchairs and an ancient television sits on a metal catering trolley.

On the floor are piled books, yellowing newspapers, ancient copies ofThe Doctormagazine. On every other horizontal surface – on every shelf and coffee table, on the mantelpiece above the gaping maw of the fireplace – are found objects: driftwood the colour of milky coffee, orbs of pure white quartz, bright green glass worn smooth and shapely by the sea. Becker selects a stone, white with a line of rose running through it like a vein, and rolls it around in his hand, returns it to its place on the mantelpiece.

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