Page 74 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
“Oh, ah.” His pale eyes twinkled with mischief. “A bit more ’n a friend, I reckon.”
Vicky gazed at the portrait, with its rabbit-ears signature. John... Molly’s lover, who had painted her portrait and written that poem.
“So he lived here in Sturcombe?”
“I told you — he lived with Molly. They met up in Spain or some place and came to live here. Must have been maybe ten or fifteen years they lived here. Then he upped and got ill and died.”
“Oh...” So that was what had happened to Aunt Molly’s poet. Vicky brushed a tear from the corner of her eye — it was so sad. “When was that?”
He grunted. “A while ago.”
“Do you remember when he died?”
“O’ course I do.” He glared at her. “It was not long after that test match when that young Botham chap scored a century and took ten wickets. India, that was. Great performance — never been bettered, before nor since.”
“Cricket?”
“Well, it wasn’t table tennis.”
Vicky laughed. “You’re an old devil. Do you mind if I take a photograph of the picture?”
“No — you go ahead, dearie. It’s a pretty good likeness, though it does look a bit wonky, like. And that funny thing he’s done with her hair — my Betty never had hair like that. Still, I suppose he done his best.”
“Yes . . . I suppose so.”
* * *
“There was a portrait of his wife on the wall.” Vicky pulled her phone from her pocket and opened the image to show Debbie. “There’s one like it of Molly at the cottage, though that’s an oil painting, not a charcoal sketch like this one. But it’s by the same artist. He signs his work with what looks like a pair of rabbit’s ears.”
Debbie peered closely at the image, her eyes widening. “We’ve got one like that! It’s of Granny.” She beckoned to her mother. “Mum — come and look at this.”
Kate put down the cloth she had been using to wipe some empty tables and came over to peer at the image on Vicky’s phone.
“Oh, yes — that’s just like my mother’s picture. A little bit weird, I always thought, with the hair like that. But Mum was fond of it.”
“Did she tell you anything about the man who drew it?” Vicky asked.
Kate thought for a moment, shaking her head. “Not really. She said that he was Spanish, and very handsome. But that’s all.”
“Arthur said he was foreign — he called him John, but he said that wasn’t his real name. He lived here with Molly. He wrote her the most beautiful poem — I found it in a book when I was clearing out the bookshelves.”
“Well I never!” Kate laughed. “She really was a one, wasn’t she?”
“She certainly seems to have been a free spirit,” Debbie remarked. “Living with a man without being married would still have been a bit of a scandal in those days, especially down here. We’re about fifty years behind the times.”
“I wonder why they didn’t get married?” Vicky mused.
“Maybe he was already married.”
Kate nodded. “If he was Spanish he was probably Catholic. He might not have been able to get a divorce back then.”
“I’d really love to find out a bit more about him. Arthur said he died just after Ian Botham got ten wickets in a test match.”
Kate laughed. “Trust Arthur to date things by cricket!”
“We could look that up. It’s a good place to start, anyway. Wait — I’ll go and get my laptop — it’ll be easier to search on that.” Debbie hurried away upstairs, while her mother went to serve some customers who had just come in.
Debbie was back in a moment, and set up the laptop at Vicky’s table. “There. I just need to go and empty the dishwasher while you start searching.”
