Midnight is a Lonely Place. Barbara Erskine
Читать онлайн книгу.
is a brilliant painter. He dropped out of university about six years ago, halfway through getting a Fine Art degree, came home here and more or less squatted. That was before Roger had to give up work – I don’t know if you realise, but he’s got cancer.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Anyway, the Lindseys indulged Greg disgracefully, there is no other word for it, and I think Roger gave him some sort of allowance, but when he had to stop work himself there were a few heavy hints that Greg might get off his backside and get a job to help the family coffers. He was impervious to them all, I gather. He has lofty views on the sacredness of talent and the fact that the rest of the world owes him a living so he can indulge that talent. Poor Diana, I don’t know how she’s coped until now. The idea of renting the cottage did not go down well with old Leonardo, as you can imagine. I gather he was dragged out kicking and screaming. So, don’t take his animosity personally. But don’t expect him to come calling with bunches of flowers either.’
Kate frowned. ‘You might have told me all this before, Bill.’
‘Why? Would you have changed your mind about coming?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but it explains a lot.’ She paused. ‘I found some paintings in the bedroom. He must have forgotten them.’
‘I doubt it. If he left them there, he left them there for a reason. Which means he wanted you to see them.’ Bill glanced at her. ‘His paintings are pretty grim, to my mind.’
She nodded. ‘I didn’t like them. There was one which showed the cottage under the sea. It was –’ she hesitated, trying to find the right word ‘– morbid – threatening.’
‘Take no notice. We’ll ask Diana to take them away.’
‘It seems wimpish to make a fuss.’
‘Not at all. You’re as much of an artist as he is, remember. A better one, because you are disciplined. And you are entitled to feel as sensitive and touchy as he is.’ He grinned. ‘Are you feeling sensitive and touchy?’
‘Not in the least. Hungry covers it rather better.’
‘Good. In that case, let’s find your car and go eat.’
The farmhouse was empty. After a cursory glance through the windows to convince themselves that there really was no one at home they turned their attention to the barn. Kate’s Peugeot was there, neatly parked next to an old Volvo estate.
‘Diana’s,’ Bill said. ‘They can’t have gone far if they are all packed into that fiendish Land Rover, not if they value their teeth.’
By the time they had reached the end of the track and gained the metalled road, Kate was beginning to think he was right – and that perhaps when her next royalty cheque came she should sacrifice a few teeth in the interest of her car’s springs and buy an ancient four-wheel drive of her own for the duration of her stay.
They ordered curry at The Black Swan, a delightful long, low, pink-painted pub a mile or two from the lane, and sat down pleasantly near to a huge inglenook fireplace with a gentle smouldering log which filled the room with the scent of spicy apple. Save for the smiling pink-cheeked girl behind the bar they were the only people there. ‘So. Are you going to like it at Redall?’ Bill sat down on the high backed settle, and sticking his legs out towards the fire he gave a great sigh of contentment. He raised his pint glass and drank deeply and appreciatively.
Kate nodded. ‘It’s the perfect place to work.’
‘The loneliness doesn’t worry you?’
She shook her head. ‘I must say it was a bit quiet last night. Just the sea. But I’ll get used to it. It will be wonderful for writing.’ Picking up her own glass – she had opted for a Scotch and water – she looked at Bill for a moment. In a thick brown cable-knit sweater and open-necked shirt he reminded her faintly of a rumpled sheepdog. ‘Did you speak to Jon at all before he left, Bill?’
He glanced at her over the rim of his glass. ‘Only once. He rang to ask me if I knew where you were going.’
‘Did you tell him?’ She looked away, not wanting him to see how much she wanted him to say yes.
‘No.’ There was a thoughtful pause as he sipped his lager. ‘We had a few words on various themes related to male chauvinism – his – and misplaced chivalry – mine – and professional jealousy – all of us – and at that point I told him to bugger off to America and let you get on with your life. Did I do wrong?’
‘No.’ She didn’t sound very certain.
She was thinking of their last meeting. Jon had been about to leave for the airport. The taxi was at the door, his cases stacked nearby and she, not wanting to say goodbye, not wanting to see him again before he went in case her resolution wavered, had arrived back at the flat thinking he had already gone. For a moment she had been tempted to turn and run – but he had seen her and they were after all both grownups. For a moment they had looked at each other, then she had smiled and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Take care. Have a wonderful time. I hope it’s all a great success.’ For a moment she had thought he would turn away without a word. Then he had smiled at her awkwardly. ‘You take care too, Kate, my love. Don’t get too wrapped up in old George. And remember to look after yourself.’ They were both hurting; miserable; stiff-necked. And that was it. Picking up his cases he had walked out to the cab and climbed in without a word or a backward glance. There was no way that she could know that there were tears in his eyes.
‘I had an Irish grandmother, Kate,’ Bill said after a moment’s sympathetic silence. ‘She was always full of useful aphorisms. One of her favourites was: “if it is meant to be it will be.” I think it just about fits the case.’
Kate laughed. ‘You’re right. We need a break from each other at the moment.’ She glanced up as a waitress appeared with their knives and forks, wrapped in sugar-pink napkins, a huge bowl of mango chutney and large pepper and salt sellers contrived to look like a pair of old boots. ‘But if he phones again, perhaps you might tell him where I am this time.’ She caught Bill’s eye and they both smiled comfortably.
‘Is there a woman in your life, Bill?’ She hadn’t meant it to come out quite so baldly as she sought for a change of subject, but he didn’t seem put out.
‘Only Aunty Beeb at the moment – the goddess I work for. There was one once, but she buggered off too.’ He paused reflectively, taking another deep drink from his glass. ‘You are not offering, I take it. Flattered and tempted though I would be by such a possibility, I think it would be bad for both of us.’
‘I’m not offering. But I need a friend. Someone who will walk through the woods now and then and drag me to a pub for a curry.’
‘Done. But not alas for a while after today. I’ve got a tight schedule until Christmas.’
She was astonished at how devastated she felt at his words. She had known he was going back to London and yet somehow she had counted on him being there again next weekend.
‘Want another Scotch?’ He had been watching her face closely and saw something of the loneliness which had shown in her eyes for a moment.
She nodded and held out her glass. ‘Then we can drink to Lord Byron. By the time I see you again, he will be, with a lot of luck, several chapters long.’
After dropping Bill at Colchester station she took the opportunity to drive on into the town, curious about the place which would be her nearest large centre for the next few months. Pevsner, in the edition of the book she had briefly consulted in the London Library, had waxed lyrical about it, but nineteen-sixties red-brick shopping centres now seemed to vie with nineteen-eighties glass and concrete where much of what he had described must have been. Saddened, she turned her attention at last to the castle museum.
The huge squat building was shadowed already from the late afternoon sun as she made her way across the bridge and inside the great door to buy her ticket. The place was strangely empty. In the distance she could hear the disembodied, dramatic voice of a video