Читать книгу Another Life: Escape to Cornwall with this gripping, emotional, page-turning read - Sara MacDonald, Sara MacDonald - Страница 24

It was not until Gabby was on the train to London that she stopped to think about what she was doing. She had told herself that she could not do any more work on the figurehead until the paint samples she had sent up to London had been analysed. This was not quite true, for there were other things she could be doing, such as grouting out all the dead wood from the base of Isabella while she waited.

The sun bounced off the sea as she left Penzance. Nell had wanted to drive her to the station but Gabby had persuaded her it was much too early. Guilt and excitement gnawed at her stomach and she felt odd and jittery as if watching herself from a distance.

It was a long time since she had been on a train on her own. It felt wonderful. No man’s land. She looked out of the window; to her left the Hayle estuary lay full of waders and the sea beyond the sand dunes was rough, rolling in below the cliffs on a high tide.

As the train rattled inland she thought about a time before the railway was built and how once tin, copper and coal had to be transported by hundreds of mules and horses. There were many depressed little towns left by the mining industry and Cornwall constantly struggled to survive. It was going to take her five hours to reach Paddington, but in Isabella’s day London must have seemed as remote as New Zealand.

Gabby’s book lay unread on her knee. Whenever her mind came back to the end of her journey her stomach contracted and her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth. Nell had booked Gabby into her old-fashioned club which was conveniently near to Paddington.

She went slowly over her conversation with Mark. She had rung him excitedly when Nell had rushed in to her mid-morning, waving a catalogue.

‘Gabby! I knew there was something familiar about the face of your figurehead. Look, I’ve been rummaging through my files and found this. Don’t you think this face is similar? I cleaned and restored her in the sixties while I was at the Portrait Gallery.’

Gabby looked down at the photograph of a dark young woman in a rich ruby dress, looking pensive. It was quite hard to tell; after all, they only had a wooden face and blind eyes with which to compare her. Gabby went to her drawer and got out the photos she had taken of the figurehead and placed one of Isabella’s face next to the catalogue. Gabby and Nell peered down and both women shivered in excitement. The shape of both faces was the same. So were the placing of eyes and mouth, the expression in them almost identical.

Gabby looked at the description: Helena Viscaria. Believed to have been painted on her eighteenth birthday by her cousin, Bernardo Venichy, as a wedding present for her husband, Daniel Vyvyan, whom she married in 1844.

‘Definitely the same family, don’t you think?’ Nell asked, pleased with herself.

‘Yes. Oh yes!’ Gabby turned to Nell. ‘What on earth made you remember restoring this painting? It was so long ago.’

‘Quite extraordinary, the subconscious. The face on the figurehead seemed familiar and it niggled at me. Last night I kept dreaming of a red dress, and in the morning the face of the painting was clear in my mind so I went looking for her, not really believing I would find her in my chaos.’

Gabby laughed. ‘Nell, you pretend to be disorganized, but you aren’t really. If I moaned about you making me keep records before, I never will again!’

‘I think the other reason I remembered was because it was such a beautiful painting and was in really bad repair having been stored in a damp loft or cellar. A young member of the family had found it and of course Venichy was having a spectacular revival in the sixties when the painting was brought to the gallery. I’m not sure, but I believe the gallery eventually bought it from the Vyvyan family, or they have it on permanent loan somewhere.’

‘I wonder,’ Gabby said, ‘if this is what Mark Hannah was chasing. He said he had a lead about the family in Manchester and was going to try to visit the Portrait Gallery before he went home.’

‘Possibly,’ Nell said. ‘It might have been hanging in Manchester at some point. Why don’t you ring him? I’ll make some coffee.’

So she had, and he too had been excited. ‘Gabriella … your Nell is a wonder. This is such a bonus. I … I know this is a lot to ask, but could you possibly bring that catalogue up to London? It would make my job of finding out about the family much easier. Is that at all possible?’

Startled, Gabby had mumbled, ‘Um … well … could I ring you back on that one?’

Nell had come back into the study, and Gabby replaced the receiver with nervous hands. ‘He was chasing that painting and it did hang in Manchester. Nell, he wants me to rush up to London with the catalogue so that he can take it to the Portrait Gallery with him.’

‘Today?’ Nell asked, startled.

‘Not today, Nell. It’s far too late to catch a train today.’

‘What if we photocopied it and put it in the post tonight. He would, with luck, get it in the morning.’

They looked at each other doubtfully. ‘With luck is the word,’ Gabby said. ‘I told him I’d ring him back. I’ll have to think. It would be much better if you went, actually, Nell. You restored the picture.’

‘Gabby, I’m not haring up to London for a day. Chelsea Flower Show is my next trip. My dear girl, if you feel like a gallivant to the National Portrait Gallery with your Canadian, you go. It might be quite good for you. I can ring my club and book you in for the night, and you can catch the train home the following day.’

Gabby bit her lip, thinking of Charlie. Nell said quietly, ‘Gabby, if you’re worried about the expense or what Charlie will say, don’t. You’re earning your own money. I’ll pay for the night at the club. I’d love to, that’s what it’s for, to be used. If you think it would be fun and you can put up with five hours on a train, go.’

‘Nell … thanks.’

‘Ring him back. I must get to work. I’ll see you at lunchtime.’

‘Gabriella? Thanks for ringing back. I’ve delayed my flight a day and managed to get a meeting with a friend of a colleague at the National Portrait Gallery. If it is the same painting I’ve been trying to trace, it was loaned to the gallery by the Vyvyan family for one of their retrospective exhibitions in 1964.’

‘That’s right. Nell restored it in the early sixties. Just before that exhibition.’

‘She is a star! This is what I love about tracing history, the leads that suddenly appear when you are least expecting them … Gabriella, have you had time to think? Any possibility you could come up to London and go to the gallery with me? It would be so good to have you with me.’

Gabby felt almost angry that his voice could wreak such havoc with her stomach, but she said, ‘I’ll come up on the early train. What time is your appointment with the gallery?’

‘Two-thirty. Can you make it for then?’

‘On the early train I can.’

‘I’ll meet you at Paddington. Let me know the time. Then I’ll take you out to lunch, before we go …’

Gabby wobbled down the speeding train to get a coffee. It was following the sea wall at Teignmouth. In rough weather the waves came up over the sea wall, a great grey tower looming over the trains in a terrifying way before the line was closed.

She could see her reflection in the window and closed her eyes against herself. She could not relax, she felt poised, on the brink of something. She kept visualizing herself getting off the train, walking along the platform to the barrier, looking round for him … then, what? Smiling and waving? Shaking hands? Being businesslike?

How had they parted? What exactly had he said? Gabby tried to remember. People often said things they did not mean. Sometimes they pretended they had not said the things they did not mean.

The countryside raced past and still she could not concentrate on her book. The train followed a canal; rows and rows of bright barges were lined along the banks, bicycles and flowers and pushchairs up on their roofs. A family of ducks were settled on the riverbank, the gander’s bright green feathers glinted in the sun.

She felt rather as she had when she had smoked a joint with Josh, to see what it was like. Everything stood out, bright and separate. Stark and noticeable. Beautiful and highlighted, as if she was marking her trail to a foreign land and must take note in case she could not find her way back. Her limbs felt stiff with anticipation. She made herself breathe deeply, tried to think of nothing outside her direct vision.

Her mind moved to Isabella. What had excited Mark so much about the figurehead that he felt the need to accompany her thousands of miles?

In her imagination Gabby suddenly saw his wrist. The way the long dark fingers lay curled around the smooth face of a female figurehead on Tresco. The way the hairs on his wrist curled into his shirt cuff. She shivered as she remembered how badly she had wanted to touch that place between cuff and wrist, lay a finger there to feel the heat and pulse of him. The heat and pulse of him.

The train swayed and groaned as it gathered speed and she closed her eyes, half-asleep, voices rising and coming to her in small waves.

When they reached Reading, Gabby went to the loo and brushed her hair, put on her pale lipstick which never stayed on. Sprayed herself with something expensive Nell had given her for Christmas. She looked at herself critically. Her dark skin was tanned and devoid of make-up, which, except for lipstick, she never wore. Her eyes, framed by naturally dark lashes, seemed too intense, too blue and nervous. Like a horse about to bolt.

For heaven’s sake. You are just taking him a catalogue. You will have a pleasant lunch, an interesting afternoon, and then … She reached up for her overnight bag and pulled it to her. Then maybe an early drink or supper and he will put you in a taxi for Nell’s club, and you will have enjoyed the day with him and be glad you came.

She got out of her seat as the train slid into Paddington, letting the people in a hurry go in front of her. Then she walked slowly down the platform towards the barrier, holding her ticket. She saw him first because he was tall. He had on cream linen trousers and a crumpled jacket and still looked casually elegant. His eyes were scanning the people pouring towards him, rather anxiously.

Gabby stopped dead in her tracks and watched him. A powerful feeling of familiarity swept through her, so strong and strange was the sensation that she had done all this before. Slowly she moved on towards him and when he caught sight of her his face lit up. Once on the other side of the barrier he hugged her hard.

‘It is so, so good to see you. I guess I couldn’t really believe you would come.’

Gabby laughed. ‘I said I would.’

‘Sure you did. But things can go wrong. Something might have prevented you.’

‘Well, nothing did,’ she said softly.

‘Nothing did,’ he repeated, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. He hooked her holdall over his shoulder.

‘We’ll take a taxi. I found somewhere to eat near the gallery so we don’t have a panic about getting there.’

It was an Italian restaurant and looked expensive. Gabby was glad she had worn a newish pair of white trousers and a navy denim jacket that Josh loved her in.

Mark openly stared at her. ‘You look wonderful, Gabriella. Just give me a moment, then I will stop gazing at you and order wine.’

A waiter brought them huge menus and Mark ordered two glasses of white wine, remembering this is what she drank.

‘Could I also have some mineral water?’ Gabby asked the waiter.

She bent and got Nell’s catalogue out, and handed it to Mark with the photos that Nell had given her of the dates and times and process of the actual restoration. He was fascinated.

‘I guess I should have, but I never realized the amount of work in restoring paintings. This is a wonderful painting to see, even if it should prove a false lead.’ He stared at the face. ‘Very beautiful, and yes, so very like our figurehead.’

‘What did you find in Devon?’ Gabby asked.

‘Well, I told you about the Welland graves, didn’t I? Well, by chance I was talking to the curator of a gallery in Manchester at a university dinner they had arranged in Exeter for me. He was interested in my research and when I showed him some photos of Lady Isabella he mentioned how Italian she looked. I told him she had been carved in Cornwall by Tom Welland and he suddenly said, before I could tell him any more, “Maybe she is a Vyvyan. They are an old Cornish family who go back to Doomsday.”’

Gabby nodded. ‘It’s a very Cornish name. There are a few in the telephone book, all spelt differently. Some are still landowners.’

‘He told me what we already knew, that one of the Vyvyans married an Italian, but he also mentioned her portrait had been painted by Bernardo Venichy before her marriage. She was quite a beauty. It came to the Manchester Gallery in the late sixties when the exhibition moved there from London. But he has no idea where it is now.’

‘Perhaps we will discover this afternoon.’

‘Hopefully.’

‘But the gallery might only know about the painting, not about the family it belonged to.’

‘That’s very possible. But I have learnt, over the years, that one thing tends to lead to another. You can sometimes gather little scraps of information which don’t connect, then suddenly it all begins to make a whole and you are able to piece a life together. With lots of little gaps, of course.’

‘You must be very patient.’ Gabby smiled at him.

He held her eyes. ‘I am very patient when I want something.’

Mark’s contact at the gallery was a young woman called Lucinda Cage. Gabby liked her immediately. At first she seemed more interested in Nell’s restoration technique than in the painting they were there to discuss.

‘I used Nell Appleby as part of my thesis on medieval colours. She was a brilliant detective, you know. I reckon she knew nearly as much as an analyst. I went to a lecture she gave once. She was brilliant; utterly passionate about her work. My tutor used some of her restoration techniques as an example of how to conserve.’

Gabby glowed with pride. Dear, self-effacing Nell, who never blew her own trumpet.

‘I’ll tell her, she’ll be so surprised.’

Lucinda turned to Mark. ‘I’ve been looking up some files and asking colleagues about this painting of Helena Viscaria. As you know, it was found in the early sixties in a bad state. A great deal of the damage had occurred by storing or hanging on a damp outside wall. It was brought to us by a David Tredinnick in 1961 with a view to selling after renovation.

‘Nell Appleby undertook the restoration and when it was finished I gather there was some family problem with selling to us. Various members wanted to keep it in the family. After the Venichy retrospective it was loaned to us on a permanent basis. It travelled round the regional galleries for about eighteen months then returned here.’

She looked at Mark and Gabby. ‘I’m really sorry to tell you that it was bought by a private Italian art collector and taken back to Italy in 1989. We do not know whether he had any connection with her family or just wanted to acquire the painting.’

‘What was his name?’ Mark asked.

Lucinda glanced down at her file. ‘A Signor Alfredo Manesco.’

‘The opera singer?’ Mark seemed surprised.

Lucinda shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t a clue.’

Mark laughed. ‘Of course you haven’t. You would have still been in nappies.’

Lucinda blushed. ‘Not quite. If you come this way, I’ll make a cup of tea.’

Gabby suddenly saw that Lucinda found Mark attractive. Then immediately thought, Well he is, so most women will.

For some reason this dampened her spirits.

As they had tea, Lucinda asked Gabby if Nell still worked. ‘We could do with her up here. One of our restorers has just gone on maternity leave early because of health problems.’

‘Nell still restores, but in her own time. She’s sort of semi-retired …’ Gabby smiled. ‘I’m not sure you could lure her out of retirement.’

‘I was only joking, really.’

‘Gabby is restoring the figurehead of Lady Isabella,’ Mark said.

Lucinda stared at her. ‘Oh, sorry, I am thick. I never listen to names. I didn’t realize you were the same person.’

‘No reason why you should,’ Gabby said easily.

As they left, Lucinda asked, ‘Are you going all the way back to Cornwall tonight?’

‘No,’ Gabby said. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Have you got ten minutes?’

Puzzled, Gabby glanced at Mark. ‘Yes, of course.’

Lucinda led the way into the gallery and along some long corridors to a small back room. She pointed to a portrait of a young boy sitting with riding whip and a spaniel, with a river and trees behind him.

‘Tell me what you think?’

Gabby went closer. She was appalled. The painting had been brutally cleaned with little concession to its age or original paint. The boy’s face had been over-cleaned, so that it seemed to lack expression. The trees behind him, which should have been cleared of yellow varnish, had been left. This really should never have happened. It was a complete mess.

Lucinda was watching her face. ‘Thank you, Gabrielle. You do not need to say a thing. Is it irredeemable?’

‘Did it come to you like this?’ Gabby asked. ‘I can’t believe anyone here could be responsible. Lucinda, its value has possibly been reduced by this restoration. Surely no one untrained had a go, did they?’

‘It came to us from a private collector. He had it cleaned by a restorer who came to him recommended. The collector brought it to us in tears.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Gabby said. ‘He should not be allowed anywhere near a painting. No, it isn’t irredeemable. A good restorer could undo some of the damage, but not all, I’m afraid.’

‘Thank you for confirming what we’ve already been told. Would you mind not mentioning this to anybody? And Gabrielle, may I have your phone number?’

‘It’s all very cloak and dagger. Perhaps your little councillor’s brother struck again!’ Mark was trying not to laugh as Gabby scribbled down her number.

The afternoon was dark as they left the gallery and people were pouring to the tube station. Mark managed to hail a taxi. He turned to Gabby inside the cab.

‘Would you like to go to your club to shower and freshen up? Or could you bear to come and see this house of my aunt’s that I’m going to be renting all next year for my sabbatical. I’m dying to show someone, it’s bang on the river and I’m very much in love with it.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

‘Then, if you don’t feel I’m monopolizing you, I could bring you back to the club and wait around in the bar for you? You needn’t hurry, I’ll be quite happy. I have hundreds of daughters, I’m used to waiting. Then I can take you to supper.’

‘There is a great little French place within walking distance of the club,’ Gabby said. ‘Nell and I go there sometimes.’

‘Perfect. We’ve got the day sewn up then.’

‘I didn’t realize you were going to take a sabbatical over here.’

‘I’ve only just stopped dithering and, encouraged by my English publisher, made a definite decision.’

They smiled at one another, and then turned to look at London sliding by.