A Hopeless Romantic (17 page)

“Yes, the famous Hogarth series,” said Cynthia, marching the length of the gallery as the tour dribbled along behind her. “Harrrem. The jewel of the Needham family’s art collection. Long thought to have been unfinished by Hogarth. In fact, they were only discovered fifty years ago, by the present marquis’s grandmother. Chartley Hall was used as a boarding school during the Second World War, and many of its most prized possessions were put into storage, in the attics above us here.” She stopped in front of the painting. It was boldly executed, showing a man and a woman holding hands, emerging from a country church, with a plethora of characters—the grasping mother-in-law, the sozzled father, a beggar, and some children playing to the side—fanning out around the central bride and groom. “Some of his greatest work is shown in the eight different scenes that make up the series. All his life, Hogarth struggled to reconcile the twin demons of narrative subject matter and what he saw as great ‘historical’ painting in the grand manner…. With this sequence, which shows the happy courtship, wedding, and subsequent life together of a young aristocratic couple, he found it. Note the…”

Laura’s attention wandered. What was Yorky doing at the moment? she wondered. Yorky, and Jo—and all of that—it seemed so far away, a lifetime away. It was good to be away from it all but—did she miss it? She didn’t know, didn’t want to think too closely about it all. She liked the fact that her life was on hold, as if she’d pressed the pause button on a video of her life and gone off for a while. On a tour of stately homes with her parents. Hm. She bit her lip and turned back to Cynthia, who was still talking, her clipped tones hurrying the information along.

“…It was only when Amelia, the new marchioness, was taking these pieces out in 1947 that she stumbled upon a secret cupboard in the depths of the last room. There, rolled up and tied with twine, miraculously preserved—five of the eight paintings of this series. This is the only one of Hogarth’s series that actually tells a happy story, I am pleased to say.”

There was nodding of heads and pleased clucking from the group as Cynthia smiled benignly down at them.

“Where are the others?”

Cynthia looked around her. “I beg your pardon?”

Laura, to her astonishment, found herself saying again, “Where are the other paintings?”

Cynthia turned toward her, her smile a little more forced. “The other paintings?”

“In the series,” Laura said. “You said they found five all rolled up. Why’s there only one up, then?”

“Oh, dear girl,” said Cynthia. “We couldn’t hang the others. Too risky. Someone might cause them damage. They’re very frail, you know. This one’s the strongest.”

“But—” said Laura. “What’s—well…” She stopped, not wanting to sound rude.

“Go on, dear,” said Cynthia, her eyes glinting.

Laura looked wildly around, regretting having started this conversation. Why? Why couldn’t she just keep quiet? She felt the heat of someone’s gaze on her and realized her mother was staring at her, eyes silently beseeching politeness. Laura plowed on.

“Sorry. But—well, what’s the point of keeping them in storage? Why can’t you put them on display so they can be together?”

“It’s not as simple as that, dear,” Cynthia said firmly. “And it’s up to the trustees of the house. It’s not really about putting every one out so the general public can enjoy it, is it?”

“Why?” said Laura, feeling heat rise within her, suddenly so impatient with this sad middle-England, middle-aged debate, setting, scene—everything. The new pragmatist in her rebelled. This wasn’t fairy-tale, it was extortion! “You’ve charged us fifteen pounds each to get in, yet most of the rooms are roped off, the car park’s miles from the house, everyone here is about eighty—no offense, Mum and Dad—no one seems particularly pleased to see us here, we’re treated like cattle…I just wonder why you bother.”

“Laura!” said Angela, horrified.

There was a short silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet on parquet floor as the majority of the group edged surreptitiously toward Cynthia and away from Laura, putting as much distance between themselves and this crazy, dangerous recidivist as they possibly could.

“
Well.
Really,” said Cynthia slowly, puffing up like a tweedy balloon. “I mean, really. That’s not nice, now, is it?”

“Sorry,” said Laura. “My fault. I apologize.”

Laura had been in a negotiation skills workshop a few months ago, where she learned how to deal with reluctant, lazy volunteers, undermined, exhausted teachers, parents who were sometimes demanding, sometimes hopelessly bewildered. The key, in most situations, was to apologize. Say sorry. People love it. It makes them feel much better, even if nothing gets done. The verbal action is greater than the mental commitment, in nine cases out of ten. It astonished Laura, depressed her, amused her sometimes, the power of an apology.

She looked around her, down the long hall at the sunshine that had suddenly broken through the great window at the end, the honey-colored books lining the shelves. She looked at the collection of flared-skirted, guidebook-clutching, middle-aged, middle-class tourists in front of her, and just wanted to be on her own. She should never have come in the first place. She should have stayed at home. What was she doing here, arguing with some tweedy woman about car parks and fees?

“I’m really sorry,” she said again. “I’ll wait outside. Mum—Dad—you take your time. I’ll meet you back at the car, okay?”

Her parents nodded mutely. And so Laura turned and left, moving swiftly down the old wooden staircase that swept majestically down into the great hall. The sun was pouring through the great wide door and, with her flip-flops flapping on the black and white marble floor, she ran outside, away from it all.

chapter sixteen

L
aura walked briskly away from the stable block, leaving the house behind her, the dry ferns and grass crunching satisfyingly under her flip-flops. Ahead of her was a grove of trees, cool and dark amid the yellow-gray meadow. Above her in a white sky, the hazy sun shone down. She could feel sweat pooling at the base of her spine.

Behind the trees was a huge field where, at one end, a mower worked methodically, making his way toward the heavy, nodding grass at the nearer end of the field. Laura could hear the humming sound of the blades, growing louder in the distance. In amongst the edge of the trees there was a little bench. She looked around anxiously, hoping against hope not to be accosted by yet another happy family or irritating fact-giving middle-aged people, such as those who had accompanied her here; but, happily, she was alone. She reached into her bag for her sunglasses. Her hand felt a square shape beneath the torn lining. It was a packet of cigarettes. She hadn’t smoked for days; she only really had with Dan—in fact, she was pretty sure they were Dan’s, from some snatched moment somewhere when she’d rammed them into her bag, in the rush to be somewhere, not late. How strange. They were a bit bashed around, but there was a lighter in the packet, too, so she leaned against a tree and lit a cigarette, closing her eyes and listening with blessed relief to the silence all around her, underpinned only by the sound of the engine growing louder as it came closer.

Something made her open her eyes. It was a deer, moving toward the copse at the edge of her line of vision. Its antlers were huge, fascinating to one who hadn’t really seen a deer close up since she was six on a school trip to Richmond Park. Laura stared at it in wonder, mesmerized by its proud beauty, the contours of its body. The deer stared impassively back. I must take a photo of this, Laura thought, and rummaged in her bag again for her camera. Finally, something that might actually be a good photo, after four days of snapping remarkable road signs, or Mum, Dad, and Granny giving the thumbs-up sign whilst seated around a collapsible camping table.

Laura pinched out her cigarette and threw it on the ground. The noise from the mower was louder in her ears. She crouched amid the grass and tried to make a cooing noise, the better to lure the deer closer, but it stayed where it was, perfectly still, gazing dreamily at her in the sun. Suddenly, the noise behind her stopped, but Laura didn’t care. She edged toward the deer, crouching and shuffling, camera in place.

The afternoon scent of mown grass and the tangy, sharp smell of a bonfire, crackling, filled her nostrils. In the distance, a bird cried harshly in a tree, and Laura remained as still as possible. Suddenly, the deer reared back and ran away, fleeing lightly back into the wood. Laura got to her feet, disappointed, as the smell of the bonfire grew stronger. Perhaps they were burning the fields now that harvesttime was here. Or something.

She turned around, and was appalled by the sight that met her eyes. The cigarette she had put out had obviously not been put out, and at her feet was a small, smoking black haze, with tiny flames that licked the brittle straw around it, that crept along the ground. It was alarmingly big, over a foot wide. Shit. Shit, shit. She was
so stupid
! Where was her cardigan? She knew you were supposed to put fires out with damp towels, perhaps it would do…. Damn! Her mum had it. Damn! She looked down at the fire, and for one mad second thought perhaps she should throw herself on it; then someone from behind grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her out of the way.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” came a furious, low voice. It was a man, a tall man, and he was glaring at Laura as if she were a cockroach he’d found in his kitchen. He was wearing old jeans and a battered T-shirt, and a soft cotton shirt tied around his waist, which he pulled off, flung to the ground, and stamped on, his boots blacking out the center of the blaze.

“Stand back,” he said briefly, not looking at her. “You’ll burn your feet in those shoes.”

“No, I won’t—ouch!” Laura yelled, as she stepped on a small line of flames that had crept away from the main conflagration. She stumbled back and fell over.

He held out his hand and Laura took it, and he pulled her up to her feet with amazing ease. She realized he was furious.

“Are you okay?” he said, steadying her as she hopped backward to put her flip-flop back on. “Good. Do you realize how stupid that was, putting your cigarette out here? Apart from the fact you shouldn’t be smoking in the first place, you idiot, we haven’t had any rain for two weeks. This place could go up like a tinderbox.”

“Right,” said Laura, bending down again and picking up her bag and camera, to cover the embarrassment she felt at being told off. She caught sight of some keys in his hand and deduced that this cross, scruffily dressed, rude man must have been the person driving the mower. She looked up, a ready answer on her lips, but stopped as she caught sight of him.

Mr. Mower was obviously much angrier than she’d realized. He breathed as if he had been running. He was sweaty, and there was grass or hay in his messy black hair. His dark brown eyes were glaring at her with something akin to loathing. He was broad-shouldered, tall, powerful-looking; his face was tanned. Laura suddenly felt rather scared, as if he might pick her up by the scruff of her neck and fling her amongst the blades of the mower, to be shredded to small pieces.

She squinted up at Mr. Mower, annoyance written on her face. “Look, I’m sorry,” she said, trying not to feel upset. He stared impassively back at her, his only expression one of enormous disdain. “But I’m not an idiot. It’s a free country, you know, I can have a cigarette if I want. They should have signs up, if they’re that against it, how was I supposed to know? I’d have picked it up afterward, and I certainly wouldn’t have left it to catch on fire, not being blind or anything, you know,” she finished with a note of triumph in her voice. “Sorry, okay?” She swung her bag over her shoulder and made to leave.

“Typical,” said Mr. Mower behind her as she walked off. “Typical townie. It’s not your fault, is it? It’s always someone else’s fault. I don’t know why we bother sometimes.” Laura carried on, pretending not to hear him. “Here,” he said suddenly. “Hey. You forgot your camera case.” He gripped Laura’s arm lightly.

Laura turned around and smiled up at him, unable to be cross with him for long. He was nice, even if he was fairly rude, prone to throwing people around cornfields. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m not doing very well, am I? Listen, thanks. I’d better get back. Good luck with the seed-sowing, or whatever it is.”

“Crop rotational ecosystem, actually,” Mr. Mower said. “Listen, you haven’t got a cigarette I could nick, have you?”

Laura gaped at him. “Are you having a laugh?”

“No.”

“Why on earth…” Laura said. “You don’t deserve one, do you.”

“No,” the smoking farmer said. “I could go inside, but it’s just such a hassle. Takes about fifteen minutes just to get to my room.”

“Yes,” said Laura, handing over the packet, her heart sinking. She really didn’t want to be treated to some long monologue about the wonders of the estate, how great Lord So-and-So was, how friendly the people were. Fifteen minutes—she looked at her watch.

“Where do you live, then?” she said.

Mr. Mower lit his cigarette. “Over there.” He pointed.

Laura followed his direction. “In…in the house?” she said.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Mower said, laughing at her incredulous expression. “Someone has to, you know.”

“Seriously?” Laura said, impressed despite herself. “You actually live…there?”

“Yep,” said Mr. Mower. He ran his hand over the back of his neck self-consciously.

“So—how come?” Laura said. Her new inner self was saying, “No! Don’t be impressed by this strange man just because he lives in a big house!” And her old inner self was saying, “Wow! Cor!” She shook her head, trying to drown out the voices, then realized she must look insane, so she smiled at him almost shyly.

Mr. Mower looked at her for a second. “How come—what? I live there?”

“Yes,” said Laura. She couldn’t help staring at him. He was…well, pretty okay-looking. In a T-shirt, lean, kind of farmer way, she supposed. The old her would have gone for him like a shot, started batting her eyelids and wondering which room was his. The new Laura smiled pleasantly at him, wondering when she should get back to her parents.