“Will you come with me now? Show me the way?”
“How do we get there?”
“The car’s outside. I drove down from London last night.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“No, I’ve had a sleep.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the hotel. Can you come? Now?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll need a coat.”
Emma smiled at him. “If you can spare thirty seconds, I’ll get one.”
When she had gone, her footsteps clattering away down an uncarpeted passage, Robert lit a cigarette and stood, looking about him, intrigued not only by the oddly-shaped little house, but also because it represented the unfamiliar, domestic side of Ben Litton’s stormy personality.
The blue front door had led them straight into the living-room, low ceilinged and darkly beamed. There was a huge window with a view of the sea, its deep sill crowded with indoor plants—geraniums and ivy and a Victorian jug full of pink roses. The floor was flagged with slate and scattered with bright rugs, and there were books and magazines everywhere, and a great deal of blue and white Spanish pottery. In a granite hearth, flush with the floor, a log fire smouldered, flanked by baskets of weathered driftwood, and over this hung the only picture in the room.
His professional eye had noticed this as soon as he came into the house, but now Robert went over to inspect it more closely. It was a large oil of a child on a donkey. She wore a red dress, carried a bunch of white daisies, wore a garland of them on her dark head. The donkey stood knee-deep in the lush grass of summer, and, far beyond, the sea and the sky were suffused by a haze of fine weather. The child’s dangling feet were bare, her eyes pale in the brown bloom of her face.
Emma Litton, by her father. Robert wondered when it had been painted.
The wind rose, with a sudden witch’s shriek, and flung a torrent of rain at the window. It was an eerie sound and he realised that this could be a lonely place to live, and wondered what Emma found to do on such a day. When she came back, carrying her coat and a pair of gum boots, which she proceeded to pull on, he asked her about this.
“Oh, I clean the house, and I cook things and I go and shop. It all takes quite a long time.”
“And this afternoon? What were you doing this afternoon when I knocked on the door?”
Emma tugged at the gumboot. “I was ironing.”
“And what about evenings? What do you do in the evenings?”
“I usually go out. I go for walks and things. I watch the gulls and the cormorants. I look at the sunset, pick up driftwood for the fire.”
“Alone? Haven’t you got any friends?”
“Oh, yes, but the children who lived here when I was little have all grown up and gone away.”
It sounded bleak. On an impulse, Robert said, “You could come back to London with me. Helen would love to have you.”
“Yes, I know she would, but it’s hardly worth it, is it? After all, Ben’ll be back any day now. It’s only a matter of days.”
She began to pull on her coat. It was navy blue and, with her black stockings and gum boots, made her look like a schoolgirl.
“Have you had any word from Ben?” Robert asked.
“From Ben? You must be joking.”
“I’m beginning to wish we’d never suggested he went back to America.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t seem fair on you.”
“Oh, heavens, I’m all right.” She smiled. “Shall we go?”
The Stevens’ farm lay in a grey stretch of moor that swept down to the cliffs. Grey, lichened, sunk like a boulder into the land, it might have been simply another larger outcrop of granite. The lane which led down from the road wound deep between tall stone hedges, crowned with hawthorn and brambles. The car bumped and jolted down the track, crossed a small bridge, came to the first cottages, a flock of white geese, and finally the farmyard, shrill with the voice of a screaming cockerel.
Robert stopped the car and switched off the engine. The wind was dying, the rain seemed to have congealed into a sea-mist, thick as smoke. There were various farm sounds; cows lowing, hens clucking, the distant churning of a tractor.
“Now,” said Robert, “how do I find this man?”
“He lives in the loft of that barn … you go up the stone steps to his door.”
The stone steps were already occupied by a number of wet hens, pecking for scraps of grain, and a bored-looking tabby cat. Below them, in the mud of the yard, a huge sow was rootling about. There was a strong smell of manure. Robert sighed. “The things I am expected to do, and all in the name of Art.” He opened the door of the car and began to get out. “Do you want to come?”
“I think I’d be more use out of the way.”
“I’ll try not to be too long.”
She watched him pick his way across the sodden farm yard, toe the pig aside, cautiously climb the steps. He knocked on the door, and then, when there was no reply, opened it and stepped inside. The door shut behind him. Almost at once another door opened, in the farmhouse this time, and the farmer’s wife emerged, in boots and a raincoat to her ankles, and a black sou’wester. She carried a stout stick and came down the garden path, peering through the rain to see who was in the big green car.
Emma rolled down the window. “Hello, Mrs. Stevens. It’s me.”
“Who?”
“Emma Litton.”
Mrs. Stevens broke into a cackle of delighted astonishment, slapped her side, put her hand over her heart. “Emma! Well, what a surprise you gave me. I haven’t seen you since goodness knows how long. What are you doing here?”
“I came out with a man who wants to see Pat Farnaby. He’s up there now.”
“Is your father home yet?”
“No, he’s still in America.”
“On your own, are you?”
“That’s right. How’s Ernie?” Ernie was Mr. Stevens.
“He’s lovely, but had to go into town today to see the dentist about his plate. Agony, it gives him, he can scarcely bear to keep it in his mouth. That’s why I’m getting the cows in for him…”
On an impulse Emma said, “I’ll come with you…”
“Too wet for you.”
“I’ve got boots … besides, I’d like the walk.” She liked Mrs. Stevens, too, a woman who remained unquenchably cheerful under all circumstances. They climbed a stile and started out over the sodden fields. “You’ve been abroad, haven’t you?” said Mrs. Stevens. “Yes, I thought you had. I never knew you were home. Pity your Daddy had to go off like this. Still, can’t be helped, I suppose, him being the sort of man he is…”
* * *
The interview with Pat Farnaby was a difficult one, to say the least of it. He was an intense young man, very pale and undernourished, with a shock of carrotty hair and a beard to match. His eyes were green and suspicious as a hungry cat’s, and he appeared to be very dirty. His abode was also dirty, but this Robert had expected and, accordingly, ignored.
What he had not expected, though, was such antagonism. Pat Farnaby did not like strangers walking in, uninvited and unannounced, when he was working. Robert apologised and explained that he had come on business, whereupon the young man simply asked Robert what he was trying to sell.
Beating down his irritation, Robert tried another tack. With some ceremony, he produced Marcus Bernstein’s card. “Mr. Bernstein asked me to come and see you, perhaps to look at your work, find out what your plans are…”
“I haven’t any plans,” said the artist. “I never make plans.” He treated the card as though it were contaminated and must not be touched, so that Robert was forced to put it down on the corner of a littered table.
“I saw your picture at the gallery in Porthkerris, but it is only one picture.”
“So what?”
Robert cleared his throat. Marcus was infinitely better at dealing with this sort of thing, and Marcus never lost his temper. It took time t
o cultivate such patience, Robert knew. His own was slipping away, like greasy rope between his fingers. He took a firm grip of it.
“I’d like to see some more of your work.”
Pat Farnaby’s pale eyes narrowed. “How did you find me?” he asked, sounding like a cornered criminal.
“They gave me your address at the gallery. Emma Litton came with me to show me the way. Perhaps you know Emma.”
“I’ve seen her around.”
They seemed to be getting nowhere. In the silence that followed Robert let his his eyes travel over the unsavoury studio. There were only the most sordid signs of human habitation; a bed like a disintegrating nest, a dirty frying pan, some nasty socks soaking in a bucket, an opened tin of beans, the jagged edge of the lid sticking up. But there were also many canvasses, stacked, scattered, propped on chairs, against walls. A potential treasure trove. Anxious beyond belief to inspect them, he dragged his eyes back to meet the cold unwinking stare of the artist.
He said at last, gently, “Mr. Farnaby, I haven’t all the time in the world.”
Put to the test, Pat Farnaby’s resistance cracked. He seemed, all at once, unsure of himself. Arrogance and rudeness were his only defences against the whims of a more sophisticated world. He scratched his head, frowned, made a face of resignation, and at last went to lift a random canvas and turn it to face the light.
“There’s this,” he said uncertainly, and backed away from it to stand by Robert. As he did so, Robert took a new packet of cigarettes from his pocket and handed them across to the young man. In the silence that followed, Pat Farnaby cautiously slit the cellophane wrapper, took out a cigarette and lit it, and then, with the stealthy movements of a man who does not wish to be observed, slid the packet into his own trouser pocket.
* * *
An hour later Robert returned to the car. Emma, waiting for him, saw him come down the steps of the barn, pick his way across the farmyard. She leaned across to open the door for him, and as he got in beside her, asked, “How did you get on?”
“I think all right.” He sounded cautious, but excited.
“Did he show you his work?”
“Most of it.”
“And it’s good?”
“I think so. We may be on the verge of something enormously important, but it’s all in such an appalling mess that it’s hard to be sure. Nothing’s framed, there’s no sequence or order…”
“I was right, wasn’t I? He’s a real oddball?”
“Crazy,” said Robert. He grinned at her. “But a genius.”
He turned the car in the yard and headed back up the lane towards the road. He was whistling tunelessly through his teeth and Emma sensed, beneath his excitement, the satisfaction of a job well done.
She said, “You’ll want to speak to Marcus now.”
“I said I’d telephone right away.” He eased his cuff from the face of his watch, checked on the time. “A quarter past six. He said he’d wait in the Gallery till seven and then go home.”
“If you like, you can drop me at the crossroads and I’ll walk home.”
“Now, why should I do that?”
“I haven’t got a telephone, and you’ll want to hurry back to the hotel.”
He smiled. “It’s not as urgent as all that. And if it hadn’t been for you, I’d probably still be looking for Pat Farnaby. The least I can do is to take you home.”
They were on the moor now, high above the sea. The wind had eased off considerably, veering round to the west, and ahead the sky seemed to be opening and breaking up, and there were unexpected scraps of blue, growing larger every moment, and watery fingers of sunlight. Emma said, “It’s going to be a lovely evening,” and as she spoke was conscious that she did not want Robert to go back to the hotel and leave her to spend it on her own. He had blown, unexpectedly, into the gloomy day, given it shape and purpose, filled with companionship of a shared venture, and now she did not want it to end.
She said, “When are you going back to London?”
“To-morrow morning. Sunday. Back in the Gallery Monday morning. It’s been a full weekend.”
So there was only this evening. She imagined him telephoning Marcus from the phone by his bed. Then he would have a bath, perhaps a drink, go down for dinner. On Saturday evenings the Castle Hotel held little dinner dances; there was a band in white mess jackets and a patch of floor cleared for dancing. Deeply influenced by Ben, Emma had been brought up to regard such functions as unbearably genteel and boring, but to-night she felt that it would be fun to let Ben’s rigid opinions go to the devil. She yearned for the starched white table cloths, the last year’s hit tunes, the ritual of the wine list, the souped-up glamour of pink-shaded lights.
Beside her Robert spoke unexpectedly, interrupting her train of thought.
“When did your father paint the picture of you on the donkey?”
“Why did you suddenly ask that?”
“I was thinking about it. It’s enchanting. You look so solemn and important.”
“That’s the way I felt, solemn and important. I was six, and it was the only painting he ever did of me. The donkey was called Mokey. He used to carry us up and down to the beach along with all the picnic baskets and things.”
“Have you always lived in the cottage?”
“Not always. Just since Ben married Hester. Before that we used to stay anywhere—in boarding-houses, or with friends. Sometimes we just camped in the Studio. It was rather fun. But Hester said she had no intention of living like a gipsy, so she bought the cottages and converted them.”
“She did a good job.”
“Yes, she was clever. But Ben has never thought of that house as home. His home is his Studio and when he’s in Porthkerris, he spends as little time as possible in the cottage. I think its associations with Hester slightly get him down. He’s always expecting her to walk in and tell him that he’s late for something, or that he’s tracking mud on to the floor, or he’s putting paint on the sofa cushions…”
“The creative instinct seems to thrive in disorder.”
Emma laughed. “Do you suppose, that when you and Marcus have made Pat Farnaby rich and famous, he will still want to roost with Mrs. Stevens’ chickens?”
“That remains to be seen. But if he does come to London, there’s no doubt that somebody will have to scrub him down and comb the dust of ages out of that scrofulous beard. Still…” He stretched luxuriously, arching his back against the leather seat. “It’ll be worth it.”
They had crested the hill and were now running down the long road that led to Porthkerris. The sea, in the calm evening light, had turned the translucent blue of butterfly wings; the tide was out, and the great bay an arc of newly-washed sand. The rain had left everything sparkling and fresh, and as the moors and the fields fell behind them, and they drove down through the narrow streets, Emma saw windows flung open to the fresh evening air, and caught, from tiny stamp-sized gardens, the heady smells of roses and lilac.
And there were other smells, too. Saturday evening smells, of fish frying and cheap scent. And there were people strolling the pavements in their best clothes, a smattering of early summer visitors, and boys and girls, hand in hand, headed for the cinema and the little cafés that lined the harbour road.
Stopped at the cross roads by the point-duty policeman, Robert observed them.
“What does young love do in Porthkerris on Saturday night, Emma?”
“It depends on the weather.”
The policeman waved them on.
“What are we going to do?” asked Robert.
“We?”
“Yes. You and I. Do you want to be taken out for dinner?”
For a mad moment Emma wondered if she had been yearning aloud. “Well … I … you don’t have to feel you have to…”
“I don’t feel I have to. I want to. I’d like to. Where shall we go? My hotel? Or would you hate that?”
“No … of course … I wouldn’t hate it…”
“Perhaps you’ve got some amusing little Italian place you like better.”
“There aren’t any amusing little Italian places in Porthkerris.”
“No, I was afraid there wouldn’t be. So it’ll have to be the palm court and the central heating.”
“There’s a band too,” said Emma, feeling she should warn him. “On Saturday nights. And people dance.”
“You make it sound indecent.”
“I thought perhaps you disliked that sort of thing. Ben does.”
“I don’t dislike it at all. Like most things, it can be quite fun if you do it with the right person.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
Robert laughed and looked again at his watch. “Half past six. I’ll take you home, then go back to the hotel and change, and speak to Marcus, and then come back for you. Would half past seven be time enough?”
“I’ll give you a drink,” said Emma. “There’s a bottle of Uncle Remus’ Genuine Ole Rye Whisky that Ben was given ten years ago, and it’s still not been opened. I’ve always longed to see what was inside.”
But Robert was unenthusiastic. “Perhaps I’d better just make a Martini.”
* * *
At the hotel he collected his key, and three messages with it.
“When did these come?”
“The times are noted, sir. Three forty-five, five o’clock, half-past-five. A Mr. Bernstein, telephoning from London. He says to call him the moment you come in.”
“I was going to do that anyway; but thanks.”
Frowning a little, for such impatience was foreign to Marcus, Robert went upstairs to his room. The copious telephone calls were disturbing. He wondered if Marcus had heard rumors that some other Gallery was after the young artist. Or perhaps he had had second thoughts about Farnaby’s work, and wanted to cancel the whole thing.
In his room, the curtains had been drawn, the bed turned down, the fire turned on. He sat on the bed, and picked up the receiver and gave the number of the Gallery. He took the three telephone messages out of his pocket and put them in a neat row on top of the beside table. Mr. Bernstein would like you to call him. Mr. Bernstein called, will ring later. Mr. Bernstein …
“Kent 3778. Bernstein Galleries.”