Page 26 of The Blue Hour

I felt frightened. I started to imagine Grace had come back, that she was here somewhere, on the island, in the wood, watching me. It seems utterly stupid now but after M left I actually phoned the surgery in Carlisle and asked to speak toher. They said she was with a patient, that she couldn’t come to the phone. I felt so ashamed. How could I be afraid of her? What has become of me? Of us?

Becker closes the notebook. He feels bewildered – he has no idea who Marguerite is, or why Grace is not on the island – but his overwhelming sensation is simple relief. Vanessa found the bone in the wood, she found the bone and picked it up, just like she’d pick up a pebble from the beach, there’s nothing more to it than that. There will be no fundamental reassessment of who Vanessa Chapman was, there will be no disgrace – not for her and not for James Becker, her cheerleader-in-chief.

Vanessa Chapman’s diary

I borrowed a shotgun from Mr McAndrew, the farmer I get eggs from.

I don’t think you’re supposed to borrow guns?

Well, anyway, the quad broke down, and the man who came to fix it was surly and strange. When he came to the studio to get his money, he stood blocking the doorway, and when I tried to get past him he moved into my way, and smiled the most terrible smile. I gave him his money and he left. I could hear him laughing as he walked down to his van. He wanted to frighten me.

I felt vulnerable as I never have here before.

I told Mr McAndrew about it, and he gave me the gun.

19

It is eight o’clock in the morning, and Becker is standing in the Great Hall in Fairburn House. It is barely light. He has turned on a spotlight to illuminate a single painting: a large canvas, four feet by three, painted in blacks and greys. Somewhere in this wash of darkness is an archway, a doorway, perhaps, and within it, a figure, a person with a face like a mask, disturbed only by the suggestion of movement around its mouth, the red and white of a smile.

In Becker’s right hand, resting against his hip, is one of Vanessa’s notebooks. He holds it up and turns to a page he bookmarked very early that morning.

I painted him. The man in the doorway, I painted his smile.

There is no mention ofBlackII, and yet Becker is sure it is the painting Vanessa is referring to: a man in a doorway, smiling. An innocuous enough description and yet the painting is anything but. Through deft application of paint and sparing use of colour, treading that fine line she walked between abstraction and representation, Vanessa has articulated her terror in a painting so vivid you can almost smell the fear.

It’s not Julian, it’s not Douglas. It’s just a man who came to fixsomething, a man who frightened her. Some people might find this revelation disappointing, or anticlimactic, but Becker ishooked. With every line he reads, he gets to know her better, to understand what compelled her. Now he knows this: Vanessa painted what she loved, she painted her freedom, she painted the sea. She painted what she feared.

Ifhe is right. He can’t really see how he couldn’t be right – shemustbe referring toBlackII, surely? The only person who would be able to confirm that is Grace.

An hour or so later, he finds Sebastian sitting at the breakfast table in the back kitchen, a pot of coffee at his elbow, dripping raspberry jam on to whatever it is he is reading. He hears Becker approaching; he looks up and grins. Becker returns the smile, though it falls from his face as he realizes, watching Sebastian wipe a page with a napkin, that what he is reading is one of Vanessa’s notebooks.

Sebastian catches his expression. ‘It’s a tiny bit ofconfiture, Beck. Chill.’

Thegall, Becker fumes, the casual disregard for what is precious.Chill?He could punch the entitled arsehole. ‘Where did you get that?’

Sebastian smiles at him – charming, infuriating. ‘I swiped it yesterday, when I went to fetch Hels. Don’t look at me like that. It’s my property.’

‘What is?’ Becker snarls. ‘The book or Helena?’

Sebastian pushes his chair back, dusting crumbs from his lap. ‘That’s beneath you,’ he says mildly as he gets to his feet, and he is right, it is, and Becker hates himself for showing himself up, showing himself to be the lesser man again.

‘The book is notyour property,’ Becker says, sticking his chin out, arms folded over his chest. ‘It belongs to the foundation.’

‘God, you’re so possessive over her, aren’t you, Beck?’ Sebastian says, taking a step closer to him, so close they would be nose to nose, were Becker an inch taller. ‘Over Vanessa, I mean, not your wife.’ Becker takes a step back and Sebastian thrusts the notebook towards him. ‘Have you read this one yet?’ Becker glances at it, shakes his head. ‘Well, take a look at the back page. Go on, take a look – there’s a list of the works that were due to be shown in the exhibition at my father’s gallery.’

Becker takes the book, turning it over in his hands, inspecting it for further damage. Sebastian exhales loudly. Becker turns to the back page as instructed.

Glasgow Modern Sep 2002

Ceramics:

Sea series 1–9, Eris series 1–12, Flourish 1–3, Breathe 4, 7, 8, 9 & 12

Possibly a few other smaller works?? Flare-lip vases?

Paintings:

To Me She is a Wolf

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