Page 20 of The Christmas Invitation
‘Yes, I’ll just have it as it is too,’ I agreed, and spread mine with butter and some of Tottie’s own honey.
I suddenly remembered Clara saying that Tottie was an enthusiastic bottler, jammer and pickler, and I thought my hamper of curds and chutney upstairs would seem to be a bit redundant. I bet they hadn’t already got any chilli chutney capable of blowing their socks off, though.
‘Henry likes to work early, but now he’s in the morning room, doing his t’ai chi,’ she said. ‘Lass is watching him. She thinks it must be some kind of game, but she doesn’t know how to join in.’
I took a bite of bread and honey and chewed thoughtfully. This was not like any household I’d ever stayed in before whilst painting a commission, though it wasn’t any odder than being brought up in a commune full of eccentrics. In fact, I already felt quite at home … or I would have done but for the Lex-sized fly in the ointment.
Clara soon retired to her study, in order, she said, to dictate the next chapter of her current crime novel, which she estimated would take approximately one hour, after which she’d show me the rest of the downstairs rooms and we could discuss when the first sitting would be and where I wanted to paint her.
She also added that she had work to do later, so I wasn’t sure what she called the novel writing! Perhaps it was a hobby?
I took my second cup of coffee through to the studio and found there was quite a good light in there, especially considering it was December. Through the skylight I could see an expanse of icy blue, with ragged clouds scurrying across it, but the wind had stopped howling and instead just emitted the occasional disgruntled and perfunctory moan.
It still looked bitterly cold out there, though, so I put on my down anorak before going to search for the van, which I discovered parked round the back of the house in a gravelledsweep sheltered by the double garage and stable block and a stand of slightly battered conifers.
I ferried in my painting gear using the back door to the garden hall, resisting the lure of the conservatory that led off it, with its mass of greenery crowding up to press long, palm-shaped fingers against the steamy glass.
I expect that was Tottie’s pigeon too, like the garden, and I’d be interested to see what she was growing in it.
I wasn’t sure yet where I’d set up my easel, but meanwhile the ancient studio one was there, ready, and after carefully relocating the original owner’s painting gear to one of the empty bookshelves, I set out my own.
There was something soothing to the soul about laying out the materials of my trade: the soft black pencils and putty rubber, a huge wooden box of oil paints, a palette and the mahl stick – a cane with loads of masking tape wrapped round the end to form a ball, which I used to keep my arm and hand off the wet surface of the canvas while I worked.
When I brought in the two large canvases intended for Henry and Clara’s portraits, the breeze tried to carry me away, using them as sails.
The last load included a couple of good lights on tripods, the sort photographers use, which I’d found invaluable in the past. I tried moving the chair on the dais about and angling the lamps at it, but I still wasn’t sure if I would paint Clara there, or Henry, or in their respective studies, which presumably would be full of items of meaning to them and imprinted with their equally strong, but very different personalities.
In daylight, the studio was rather nice, the walls painted a soft dove grey and furnished with a couple of battered but comfortable easy chairs, as well as the velvet-seated carved one on the dais. The dais itself was partly draped in a rug of fadedsplendour, which was surely too valuable to be thrown so carelessly about in an artist’s studio.
The lino floor had a smell of its own, pleasing but indescribable, and evoked a recollection of making linocuts at art college during the foundation year, when we tried our hands at all kinds of art forms, from etching to pottery, before deciding what we wanted to specialize in.
In my case, I’d already decided: I wanted to study Fine Art, particularly portraits.
There was a knock on the door and Den appeared with a mug of coffee and two wrapped Italian biscotti, which he set down on one of the smaller painting tables.
‘There you are, and the missus says she’s nearly finished murdering some pore innocent and yer to go along to ’er study in ten minutes.’
That sounded a bit headmistressy, but although I did have something on my conscience, it was going to stay there.
9
Treasured Possessions
Clara’s study was large and light, despite being lined with crammed bookshelves and several tall, glass-fronted cabinets containing what looked like bits of pottery, clay tablets, stone and wood.
There was a big U-shaped desk in the centre of the room, with various computers and screens on it.
Clara was seated before a small monitor, talking into one of those old-fashioned ball-on-a-stick microphones.
‘The blood ran richly red over the incised letters of the broken tablet and congealed slowly through the night, so that by morning the message appeared to have been filled with dark crimson sealing wax,’ she intoned deeply into the microphone and then stopped, clicked it off and turned with a smile that exposed her large and healthy teeth.
‘There we are: one chapter a day and it all comes together in no time. This one is calledWritten in Blood.’
From the bit I’d heard, that seemed very appropriate.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t read any of your crime novels yet,’ I confessed.
‘Why should you? I only started writing them for fun and I certainly don’t expect everyone to want to read them. But ifyou do fancy trying one, they’re all over there on the shelf, so help yourself.’
