Twenties Girl

TWENTY-THREE

OK. This is the very, very last place I’m looking. This is her last chance. And I hope she appreciates the effort I’ve made.

It took me an hour from St. Pancras to St. Albans and another twenty minutes in a taxi to Archbury. And now here I am, standing in a little village square, with a pub and a bus stop and a weird modern-looking church. I suppose it would be quite picturesque if lorries didn’t keep rumbling by at a million miles an hour and three teenage boys weren’t having a brawl under the bus shelter. I thought it was supposed to be quiet in the country.

I edge away before one of the boys pulls out a gun or something and head over to the green. There’s a board with a map of the village, and I quickly locate Archbury Close. That’s what they turned Archbury House into after it burned down. If Sadie really has gone home, that’s where she’ll be.

After a few minutes’ walk, I can see the gates ahead: wrought iron with Archbury Close written in swirly iron writing. There are six little red-brick houses, each with a tiny drive and garage. It’s hard to imagine that once upon a time there was just one big beautiful house sitting in its own gardens.

Feeling conspicuous, I enter through a small side gate and start to wander around, peering in through the windows, crunching on the little patches of gravel, and murmuring, “Sadie?”

I should have asked Sadie more about her home life. Maybe she had a favorite tree or something. Or some favorite corner of the garden, which is now someone’s utility room.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, so after a bit I raise my voice a little. “Sadie? Are you here? Sa-die?”

“Excuse me!” I jump in shock as someone pokes me in the back. I turn to see a gray-haired woman in a flowered shirt, tan slacks, and rubbery-looking shoes peering at me suspiciously.

“I’m Sadie. What do you want?”

“Er…”

“Are you here about the drainage?” she adds.

“Um… no.” I find my voice. “I was after a different Sadie.”

“Which Sadie?” Her eyes narrow. “I’m the only Sadie in this close. Sadie Williams. Number four.”

“Right. The Sadie I want is… actually… a dog,” I improvise. “She ran away and I was looking for her. But I expect she’s run off somewhere else. Sorry to bother you…”

I start to walk off, but Sadie Williams grabs my shoulder with surprisingly strong fingers.

“You let a dog loose in the close? What did you want to do that for? We have a dog-free policy here, you know.”

“Well… sorry. I didn’t know. Anyway, I’m sure she’s run off somewhere else-” I try to wriggle free.

“She’s probably prowling around in the bushes, waiting to strike!” Sadie Williams is glowering furiously at me. “Dogs are dangerous beasts, you know. We’ve got kiddies living here. You people are irresponsible!”

“I’m not irresponsible!” I retort indignantly before I can stop myself. “She’s a perfectly friendly dog. I wouldn’t let a dangerous dog loose!”

“All dogs are savage.”

“No, they’re not!”

Lara, stop it. You’re talking about an imaginary dog.

“And, anyway.” I finally wrench myself free from the woman’s grasp. “I’m sure she’s not here, because she would have come when I called. She’s very obedient. In fact… she’s a prizewinner at Crufts,” I add for good measure. “So I’d better go and find her.”

Before Sadie Williams can grab me again, I start walking swiftly toward the gates. There’s no way Sadie’s here. She would have come out to watch the entertainment.

“What breed is she, then?” calls Sadie Williams tetchily. “What are we looking for?”

Oh God. I just can’t help myself.

“Pit bull,” I call back over my shoulder. “But, like I say, she’s very friendly.”

Without looking back, I hurry out of the gates, back along the road, and toward the village square. So much for that bright idea. What a waste of time.

I head to the bench on the green and sink down and take out a Twix, my gaze fixed ahead. Coming here was stupid. I’ll eat this, then call a taxi and head back to London. I’m not even going to think about Sadie anymore. Let alone look for her. I’ve used up enough of my life already. I mean, why should I think about her? I bet she isn’t thinking about me.

I finish my Twix and tell myself to dial the taxi number. It’s time to go. It’s time to put all this out of my mind and start on a new, sane, ghost-free life.

Except…

Oh God. I keep having flashes back to Sadie’s stricken face on Waterloo Bridge. I keep hearing her voice. You don’t care about me… No one cares.

If I give up after only three days, am I proving her right?

I feel a sudden surge of frustration-at her, at myself, at the whole situation. Crossly, I scrunch up my Twix wrapper and chuck it into a bin. I mean, what am I supposed to do? I’ve looked and looked and looked. If she would just come when I called her… if she would just listen and not be so stubborn…

Hang on. A new thought strikes me, out of the blue. I’m psychic, aren’t I? Maybe I should use my psychic powers. I should summon her from the underworld. Or Harrods. Or wherever she is.

OK. This is my last try. I really, really mean it.

I stand up and approach the little pond on the green. I’m sure ponds are spiritual places. More spiritual than benches, anyway. There’s a mossy stone fountain in the middle, and I can just picture Sadie dancing in it, splashing and shrieking, all those years and years ago, with some policeman trying to drag her out.

“Spirits.” I extend my arms cautiously. There’s a rippling in the water, but that could just be the wind.

I have no idea how to do this. I’ll make it up as I go along.

“It is I, Lara,” I intone in a low sepulchral voice. “Friend to the spirits. Or, at least, one spirit,” I amend quickly.

I don’t want Henry the Eighth appearing.

“I seek… Sadie Lancaster,” I say momentously.

There’s silence, except for a duck quacking on the pond. Maybe seek isn’t powerful enough.

“I hereby summon Sadie Lancaster,” I intone, more commandingly. “From the depths of the spirit world, I call her. I, Lara Lington, the psychic one. Hear my voice. Hear my summons. Spirits, I entreat thee.” I start to wave my arms around impressively. “If thou knowest Sadie, send her to me. Send her to me now.”

Nothing. Not a voice, not a glimpse, not a shadow.

“Fine!” I say, dropping my arms down. “Don’t be summoned.” I aim my words into the air, in case she’s listening. “I don’t care. I’ve got better things to do all day than stand here talking to the spirit world. So there.”

I stump back to the bench, pick up my bag and grab my mobile phone. I dial the taxi firm that brought me here and ask for a taxi straightaway.

Enough is enough. I’m out of here.

The taxi guy tells me the cab driver will meet me in front of the church in ten minutes, so I head over to it, wondering if they might have a coffee machine in the lobby or anything. The whole place is locked up, though. I head back out and am just reaching for my phone again to check my texts, when something catches my eye. It’s a sign on a gate: The Old Vicarage.

The Old Vicarage. I suppose that would have been where the vicar lived in the old days. Which means… it would have been where Stephen Nettleton lived. He was the son of the vicar, wasn’t he?

Curiously, I peer over the wooden gate. It’s a big old gray house with a gravel drive and some cars parked at the side. There are some people going in the front door, a group of about six. The family living here must be at home.

The garden’s overgrown, with rhododendrons and trees and a path leading round the side of the house. I can just glimpse an old shed in the distance and wonder if that’s where Stephen did his painting. I can just imagine Sadie creeping along that path, her shoes in one hand, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

It’s quite an atmospheric place, with its old stone wall and long grass and shady patches in the garden. Nothing modern seems to have been introduced. It’s still got the feel of history to it. I wonder-

No. Stop it. I’m giving up. I’m not looking anymore.

But maybe-

No. She wouldn’t be here. No way. She’s got too much dignity. She said it herself-she’d never be a trailer. Never in a million years would she hang around an old boyfriend’s house. Especially the old boyfriend who broke her heart and never even wrote to her. It’s a stupid idea-

Already my hand is unlatching the gate.

This is the very, very, very last place I’m looking.

I crunch over the gravel, trying to think of an excuse to be here. Not a lost dog. Maybe I’m studying old vicarages? Maybe I’m an architecture student. Yes. I’m doing a thesis on “religious buildings and the families who live in them.” At Birkbeck.

No. Harvard.

I approach the entrance and am raising my hand to ring the old bell when I notice the front door is unlatched. Maybe I can sidle in without anyone noticing. I cautiously push the door open and find myself in a hall with paneled walls and old parquet. To my surprise, a woman with a mousy bob and a Fair Isle jumper is standing behind a table covered with books and leaflets.

“Hello.” She smiles as though she’s not at all surprised to see me. “Are you here for the tour?”

The tour?

Even better! I can wander around and I don’t even have to invent a story. I had no idea vicarages were charging for tours these days, but I suppose it makes sense.

“Er… yes, please. How much?”

“That’ll be five pounds.”

Five whole pounds? Just to see a vicarage? Bloody hell.

“Here’s a guide.” She hands me a leaflet, but I don’t look at it. I’m not exactly interested in the house. I walk swiftly away from the woman, into a sitting room filled with old-fashioned sofas and rugs, and look all around.

“Sadie?” I hiss. “Sadie, are you here?”

“This would have been where Malory spent his evenings.” The woman’s voice makes me jump. I didn’t realize she’d followed me.

“Oh, right.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Lovely. I’ll just go through here…” I head into an adjacent dining room, which looks like a stage set for a period drama. “Sadie?”

“This was the family dining room, of course…”

For God’s sake. People should be able to take tours of vicarages without being followed. I head over to the window and look out at the garden, where the family I saw before is wandering around. There’s not a whisper of Sadie.

This was a stupid idea. She’s not here. Why would she hang around the house of the guy who broke her heart, anyway? I turn around to leave and almost bump into the woman, standing behind me.

“I take it you’re an admirer of his work?” She smiles.

Work? Whose work?

“Er… yes,” I say hastily. “Of course. A great admirer. Very great.” For the first time I glance down at the leaflet in my hand. The title reads: Welcome to the House of Cecil Malory, and underneath is a landscape painting of some cliffs.

Cecil Malory. He’s a famous artist, isn’t he? I mean, not like Picasso, but I’ve definitely heard of him. For the first time I feel a spark of interest.

“So is this where Cecil Malory once lived or something?” I ask.

“Of course.” She looks taken aback by the question. “That’s the reason for the house being restored as a museum. He lived here ’til 1927.”

Until 1927? Now I’m genuinely interested. If he was living here in 1927, Sadie would have known him, surely. They would have hung out together.

“Was he a friend of the vicar’s son? A guy called Stephen Nettleton?”

“Dear…” The woman eyes me, apparently perplexed at the question. “Surely you know that Stephen Nettleton was Cecil Malory. He never used his family name for his work.”

Stephen was Cecil Malory?

Stephen… is Cecil Malory?

I’m too gobsmacked to speak.

“He later changed his name by deed poll,” she continues. “As a protest against his parents, it’s thought. After his move to France…”

I’m only half listening. My mind is in turmoil. Stephen became a famous painter. This makes no sense. Sadie never told me he was a famous painter. She would have boasted unbearably about it. Didn’t she know?

“… and never reconciled before his tragically young death.” The woman ends on a solemn note, then smiles. “Perhaps you would like to see the bedrooms?”

“No. I mean… Sorry.” I rub my forehead. “I’m a bit… confused. Steph-I mean Cecil Malory-was a friend of my great-aunt, you see. She lived in this village. She knew him. But I don’t think she ever realized he became famous.”

“Ah.” The woman nods knowledgeably. “Well, of course, he wasn’t during his lifetime. It wasn’t until long after his death that interest began in his paintings, first in France and then in his homeland. Since he died so young, there is of course a limited body of work, which is why his paintings became so prized and valuable. In the 1980s they shot up in value. That’s when his name really became known widely.”

The 1980s. Sadie had her stroke in 1981. She went into care. No one told her anything. She had no idea what was going on in the outside world.

I look up from my reverie to see the woman giving me another odd look. I bet she’s wishing she could give me my five quid back and get rid of me.

“Er… Sorry. I’m just thinking. Did he work in a shed in the garden?”

“Yes.” The woman’s face lights up. “If you’re interested, we do sell a number of books on Malory…” She hurries out and returns holding a slim hardback. “Details about his early life are a little sketchy, as many village records were lost during the war, and by the time the research was being done, many of his contemporaries had passed away. However, there are some lovely accounts of his time in France, when his landscape drawing really took off.” She hands me the book, which has a painting of the sea on the front.

“Thanks.” I take it from her and start flipping through. Almost at once I come across a black-and-white photograph of a man painting on a cliff, captioned A rare image of Cecil Malory at work. I can instantly see why he and Sadie would have been lovers. He’s tall and dark and powerful-looking, with dark eyes and an ancient tattered shirt.

Bastard.

He probably thought he was a genius. He probably thought he was too good for a normal relationship. Even though he’s long dead, I’m fighting an urge to yell at him. How could he treat Sadie so badly? How could he go off to France and forget about her?

“He was a towering talent.” The woman is following my gaze. “His early death was one of the tragedies of the twentieth century.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he deserved it.” I give her a baleful look. “Maybe he should have been nicer to his girlfriend. Did you think of that?”

The woman looks totally confused. She opens her mouth and closes it again.

I flip on, past pictures of the sea and more cliffs and a line drawing of a hen… and then I suddenly freeze. An eye is looking out of the book at me. It’s a blown-up detail from a painting. Just one eye, with long, long lashes and a teasing glint.

I know that eye.

“Excuse me.” I can barely get the words out. “What’s this?” I’m jabbing at the book. “Who’s this? Where does this come from?”

“Dear…” I can see the woman trying to keep her patience. “You must know that, surely. That’s a detail from one of his most famous paintings. We have a version in the library if you’d like to have a look-”

“Yes.” I’m already moving. “I would. Please. Show me.”

She leads me down a creaking corridor, through to a dim, carpeted room. There are bookshelves on every wall, old leather chairs, and a large painting hanging over the fireplace.

“There we are,” she says fondly. “Our pride and joy.”

I can’t reply. My throat’s too tight. I stand motionless, clutching the book, just staring.

There she is. Gazing out of the ornate gilt frame, looking as though she owns the world, is Sadie.

I’ve never seen her as radiant as she looks in this picture. I’ve never seen her so relaxed. So happy. So beautiful. Her eyes are massive, dark, luminous with love.

She’s reclining on a chaise, naked except for a gauze fabric draped over her shoulder and hips, which only partially obscures the view. Her shingled hair exposes the length of her elegant neck. She’s wearing glittering earrings. And around her neck, falling down between her pale, gauzy breasts, twined around her fingers, tumbling in a shimmering pool of beads, is the dragonfly necklace.

I can suddenly hear her voice again in my ears. I was happy when I wore it… I felt beautiful. Like a goddess.

It all makes sense. This is why she wanted the necklace. This is what it means to her. At that time in her life, she was happy. Never mind what happened before or after. Never mind that her heart got broken. At that precise moment, everything was perfect.

“It’s… amazing.” I wipe a tear from my eye.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” The woman gives me a pleased look. Obviously I’m finally behaving as proper art-lovers are supposed to. “The detail and brushwork are just exquisite. Every bead in the necklace is a tiny masterpiece. It’s painted with such love.” She regards the portrait affectionately. “And all the more special, of course, because it’s the only one.”

“What do you mean?” I say, confused. “Cecil Malory painted lots of pictures, didn’t he?”

“Indeed. But he never painted any other portraits. He refused to, his whole life. He was asked plenty of times in France as his reputation grew locally, but he would always reply, ‘J’ai peint celui que j’ai voulu peindre.’” The woman leaves a poetic pause. “I have painted the one I wanted to paint.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded, my head sparking as I take this all in. He only ever painted Sadie? His whole life? He’d painted the one he wanted to paint?

“And in this bead…” The woman moves toward the painting with a knowing smile. “Right in this bead here there’s a little surprise. A little secret, if you like.” She beckons me forward. “Can you see it?”

I try to focus obediently on the bead. It just looks like a bead.

“It’s almost impossible, except under a magnifying glass… here.” She produces a piece of matte paper. Printed on it is the bead from the painting, enlarged massively. As I peer at it, to my astonishment I find I’m looking at a face. A man’s face.

“Is that…” I look up.

“Malory.” She nods in delight. “His own reflection in the necklace. He put himself into the painting. The most miniature hidden portrait. It was discovered only ten years ago. Like a little secret message.”

“May I see?”

With shaking hands, I take the paper from her and stare at him. There he is. In the painting. In the necklace. Part of her. He never painted another portrait. He’d painted the one he wanted to paint.

He did love Sadie. He did. I know it.

I look up at the painting, tears blurring my eyes again. The woman’s right. He painted her with love. You can see it in every brushstroke.

“It’s… amazing.” I swallow. “Are there… um… any more books about him?” I’m desperate to get this woman out of the room. I wait until her footsteps have disappeared down the passage, then tilt my head up.

“Sadie!” I call desperately. “Sadie, can you hear me? I’ve found the painting! It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re in a museum! And you know what? Stephen didn’t paint anyone but you. Never, his whole life. You were the only one. He put himself in your necklace. He loved you. Sadie, I know he loved you. I so wish you could see this-”

I break off breathlessly, but the room is silent and dead. She’s not hearing me, wherever she is. As I hear footsteps, I quickly turn and plaster on a smile. The woman hands me a pile of books.

“This is all our available stock. Are you an art-history student or simply interested in Malory?”

“I’m just interested in this one painting,” I say frankly. “And I was wondering. Do you… or the experts… have any idea who this is? What’s the painting called?”

“It’s called Girl with a Necklace. And, of course, many people are interested in the identity of the sitter.” The woman launches into what’s clearly a well-rehearsed speech. “Some research has been done, but unfortunately, to date, no one has been able to identify her beyond what is believed to be her first name.” She pauses, then adds fondly, “Mabel.”

“Mabel?” I stare at her in horror. “She wasn’t called Mabel!”

“Dear!” The woman gives me a reproving smile. “I know to modern ears it may seem a little quaint, but, believe me, Mabel was a common name of the time. And on the back of the painting there’s an inscription. Malory himself wrote, My Mabel.”

For God’s sake.

“It was a nickname! It was their private joke! Her name was Sadie, OK? Sadie Lancaster. I’ll write it down. And I know it was her because…” I hesitate momentously. “This is my great-aunt.”

I’m expecting a gasp or something, but the woman just gives me a dubious look.

“Goodness, dear. That’s quite a claim. What makes you think she’s your great-aunt?”

“I don’t think she is, I know she is. She lived here in Archbury. She knew Steph-I mean Cecil Malory. They were lovers. It’s definitely her.”

“Do you have any evidence? Do you have a photograph of her in her youth? Any archives?”

“Well… no,” I say, a little frustrated. “But I know it’s her, beyond a doubt. And I’ll prove it somehow. And you should put a sign up saying her name and stop calling her Mabel-” I pause mid-track as something new and startling occurs to me. “Hang on a minute. This is Sadie’s painting! He gave it to her! She lost it for years, but it’s still hers. Or, I suppose, Dad’s and Uncle Bill’s now. How did you get it? What’s it doing here?”

“I’m sorry?” The woman sounds bewildered, and I give an impatient sigh.

“This painting belonged to my great-aunt. But it was lost, years and years ago. The family house burned down and she thought the painting was destroyed. So how did it end up hanging on this wall?” I can’t help sounding accusing, and she recoils.

“I’m afraid I have no idea. I’ve worked here for ten years and it’s certainly been here all that time.”

“Right.” I assume a businesslike air. “Well, can I please talk to the director of this museum or whoever’s in charge of this painting? At once?”

The woman gives me a wary, puzzled look. “Dear… you do realize this is only a reproduction, don’t you?”

“What?” I feel wrong-footed. “What do you mean?”

“The original is four times the size and, dare I say it, even more splendid.”

“But…” I look at the painting in confusion. It looks pretty real to me. “So, where’s the original? Locked up in a safe or something?”

“No, dear,” she says patiently. “It’s hanging in the London Portrait Gallery.”