Page 30 of The Christmas Invitation
Henry was to go off to boarding school a week later and we said goodbye on the bridge, both numbed and unbelieving at the way our world was tumbling around our ears. When the moment came to leave, our hands had to be prised apart.
It would be nearly ten years until we saw each other again.
12
The Bare Bones
I was awake earlier next morning and I’d slept surprisingly well, considering. Perhaps being able to share with Fliss my shock at coming face to face with Lex had somehow helped, though the frequent references by Clara at dinner the previous night to ‘Lex, the dear boy, is always so helpful with …’ or ‘… and when Lex is staying here after the Solstice …’ certainly hadn’t.
While I ate my breakfast, Tottie told me Den had taken Teddy to school and then she discoursed enthusiastically about bees, gardening and horses, which seemed to be the only topics her weather-beaten face registered any passion about, though she did also seem deeply attached to Teddy.
Henry and Clara were apparently very early risers and had already breakfasted together and gone to work in their separate studies. I hoped I wouldn’t disturb Clara too much when I set up my painting gear there shortly.
But after breakfast I found Den had returned and already moved my easel into position in Clara’s study.
‘I left the paints and stuff, though. Didn’t know what yer wanted, did I?’
‘Oh, thank you, Den,’ I said gratefully. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
I popped my head cautiously round the study door and saw that a rattan mat had been laid over the ancient and beautiful carpet to protect it and the smaller painting table from the studio placed nearby.
Clara was already dictating dark crime into her microphone and took no notice of me, so I closed the door gently and went to the studio, where Den was contemplating the clutter on the big table.
‘I dunno what else yer want.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, I can manage the rest, Den, and I’m sure you must have other things you want to get on with.’ I’d noticed the large spanner sticking out of the pocket of his brown linen overall.
‘Only a bit of a blockage in the downstairs cloakroom sink,’ he said. ‘Deal with that in a mo, when yer settled.’
He took the big wooden paintbox and a tiered plastic one full of things like pastels, Conté crayons, pencils, putty rubber … a small portable art shop, in fact, except that all the contents were battered and used.
I carried the canvas, the mahl stick and the jar of brushes and palette knives.
We tiptoed into the study with our burdens and then when Den left, closing the door silently behind him, Clara looked up absently, clicking off the microphone.
She blinked and said, ‘There you are, Meg. Let me know when you want me to pose for you.’ Then she clicked on the microphone again and resumed dictating, with no discernible pause for thought.
I’m sure she’d immediately forgotten I was there, but she’d already naturally fallen into the right pose, sometimes holdingthe stone paperweight and turning it over in her hands when she paused briefly between scenes.
I sketched her directly on to the canvas this time, in soft pencil, and then stood back and studied it.
Yes, I’d got it: the bones of the portrait were there, awaiting their fleshing out. I lightly erased the lines with the putty rubber until only the ghost of the drawing remained and then laid out my palette, before beginning to paint. I like to work using trowel-shaped palette knives at first, though later often dragging the paint together with a brush or even, sometimes, my fingers.
As always, as soon as I began, an electric energy seemed to take over my hand and make the sharp, sure movements that would create the flesh, the character and, I hoped, capture the inner essence of my sitter.
I was vaguely conscious of Clara’s melodious deep voice dictating on while I worked.
‘The crumpled golden mask, slippery with blood, fell from the murderer’s fingers and landed by some fluke askew over the terribly mutilated visage of Vernon Tate, spread-eagled like a sacrifice in the trench below … End of chapter eight,’ she finally intoned, then added, slightly plaintively, ‘May I move, now, Meg? I’ve carried on and written two chapters today instead of one, but I’m feeling a bit stiff and it must be lunchtime.’
‘I can hear Lass howling,’ I said absently, stepping back so that the smears and squiggles of paint magically resolved themselves into Clara’s face.
‘That was my stomach.’
I looked up then as the import of what she’d said dawned on me. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry! Yes, of course, do move! Just say whenever you need to stretch, or have had enough for the day.’
She got up, tall and sturdy, and stretched. Then she came round to have a peer at the picture.
‘Hmm, interesting the way you’ve put a patchwork veil of colour over the bones of my face.’
