Buried in Clay (15 page)

I had arranged to arrive at Tacoma in early June which gave me two weeks spare to spend with my aunt in Majorca. Faithful Joanne would keep the shop ticking over during my absence, as she and David had done for the three years I had spent awaiting Her Majesty’s pleasure. The truth was I had no stomach for the business any more.

‘If I lose my joy at acquiring a beautiful piece I shall retire.’

Those words haunted me.

As soon as I arrived at Palma airport I knew I had done the right thing. Early summer in Majorca is a time for flowers and greenery, warmth rather than heat, for fresh, clean days and my aunt was a balm – the perfect person to spend time with.

She picked me up at the airport, making no reference to my appearance or saying anything, apart from
observations about the weather, or the new road they were building through the mountain. She worried that Soller, no longer isolated by narrow mountain roads, would open up to mass tourism, like some other parts of the island. She didn’t seem to mind my quietness. She was always sensitive to my moods and knew I was happier silent.

It was not her way to fuss over me, to worry about my mental state, nag about my weight or try to intrude on my suffering. She had not contacted me all the time I had been in prison, instinctively knowing I must fight that battle alone. She was one to shoulder burdens and accept what life threw at her without complaint and she expected me to be the same. She knew I needed time to heal and was content to allow me to recover in my own time. We talked a lot about Richard in those weeks. I found it better that she referred to him with the affection she had always shown him in life and did not blame him for my plight after he had died.

Every night when I opened my window to the stars I communed with my husband. He seemed close – some of our happiest moments had been on this holiday isle. I told him how much I still loved him, that I would not stop. I told him that Michael and Linda now lived in his beloved house, that it looked as proud and beautiful as ever, that he had a grandson. Some nights I missed him so much I almost imagined I could smell the smoke from his cigar wafting in through the open window. Those nights I would cry
myself to sleep as I had cried in mourning for my parents.

One night when the weather was cool and damp we lit the log fire and sat by it, holding out our hands to its warmth and I confided in my aunt my greatest sadness.

‘I didn’t tell him about the baby,’ I said. ‘I should have done. I shouldn’t have held it back from him. More than anything I wish he had known that we would have a son or a daughter. We could have shared that happiness.’

My aunt looked at me with a strange look. ‘He knew,’ she said. ‘Of course he knew. Look at the photograph of the pair of you taken that evening. I’ve studied it. Just look at the way he is watching over you. He knew you were carrying his child. I never saw him look at you quite like that before. So caring and loving.’

‘But if he knew that I was pregnant then he must have known too that he was putting not only me but his own child at risk.’

Her eyes clouded. ‘We don’t know exactly what he believed was happening. Susie – we’ll never know.’ She put her hand on my arm. ‘Don’t carry that burden with you. You must learn to live again.’

But I remembered his collapse at the table on the night of our wedding anniversary when she had brought up the subject of the hanging in the Far East and the dubious human rights and I doubted him. While I didn’t want to believe that Richard had wilfully put me and his child at risk neither could I believe that he had been a dupe. And he must have been one or the other. It was a
problem that rolled round and round in my head all the time.

I could find no answer and I never would now. I could not ask him so I fell silent.

‘I did try to warn you, Susie,’ she said softly. ‘The painting, you know. It was my warning to you. Hall o’th’Wood influenced you both in your different ways. You saw only its beauty; Richard only its responsibility.’

She fell silent.

A night or two later she broached the subject of the job I was about to undertake. I showed her the letter with its gold coronet heading.

‘Do you know anything about him, this Wernier-King?’

I shook my head.

‘Is he even bona fide?’

‘His secretaries have been very efficient at organising my flights,’ I said. ‘There was a problem with my visa because…’ I felt my face crumple. I was, it seemed, persona non grata, as far as entry to the United States of America was concerned. I suspected that Mr Wernier-King, or rather his minions, had had to do much arranging and palm-greasing to facilitate my visit.

‘They seem to have ironed everything out,’ I said. ‘I have no reason to have any concerns about him. I suspect he’s an ageing millionaire – probably bald and fat and obsessed with his collection.’ I smiled. ‘I shall be safe enough.’

‘Well – ’ she still looked dubious. ‘If things don’t work out too well you can always come back here. Use it as a bolt-hole. The only thing is I won’t be here.’

‘What?’ I looked at her, suddenly ashamed. I had been so wrapped up in my own emotions that we had not really talked about her. Something was different. She was excited about something. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve been asked to have an exhibition in Paris, Susie,’ she said excitedly, ‘in one of the bigger art galleries near to the Louvre for the next six months.’ She couldn’t hide her joy. ‘It’s my big chance, Susie. I’m to do some lectures and teaching and most of all I have the gallery walls on which to hang my paintings. So I’m going to live there for a while.’ She looked around her. ‘Shut up this place. I’ll be back at some point but this is my chance. I have to take it.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course. You must. Why – it’s wonderful.’

I did feel happy for her.

I hugged her, suddenly very proud of her talent. I had always known that one day her art would be discovered and this was it. She was right. Opportunities should be grasped with both hands. They do not swing around for a second time.

We spent a few days in Palma, shopping for clothes, she for Paris and I for America. We bought casual and smart. I did not know how I would be expected to dress so bought trousers and shirts, a couple of miniskirts and
two suits. We wandered into one of the more expensive salons and I bought an off-the-shoulder, red evening dress, full-skirted, with a fur stole for my shoulders. I teamed it with strappy, black, high-heeled shoes and at last met with my aunt’s approval; even my own to some extent. As I looked at myself in the long mirror I reflected that I had changed beyond recognition since Richard had died. He would not have known me. I was much thinner than when I had married him. Sara was right, I was bordering on bony. I had lost all the curves Richard had so adored, the full breasts, the curving hips, the shapely legs. I had cut my hair shorter so it reached my shoulders. But the biggest and most awful change was in my face. Deep in my eyes. They stared back at me, world-weary. Cynical. Dull. Dead. I had lost all my sparkle.

My aunt, for her part, bought smart suits but she also bought baggy trousers and flashy tops which made her look like a tiny Pablo Picasso. We laughed and joked over our purchases and came home with a car full of carrier bags.

The next morning my aunt drove me to the airport and kissed me goodbye. I wished her luck and flew to Newark airport.

I had trouble with my green form and it took an age to pass through customs. My suitcase was opened twice but once I had passed through into the arrivals lounge I was spotted by a uniformed chauffeur who was holding up a placard with my name on it. Mrs Susanna Oliver.

Another example of my employer’s efficiency. After the long flights, time difference and baggage protocol this end I was pleased.

The chauffeur dealt deftly with my luggage and within minutes we were speeding along the freeway, heading towards Long Island, in a black Chevrolet.

For the first time I was curious about my employer and leant forward. ‘What is Mr Wernier-King like?’

The chauffeur half-turned. ‘Best you make up your own mind, Mrs Oliver.’

A cockney accent. ‘You’re English.’

He gave a smile into the rear-view mirror. ‘Mr Wernier-King is something of an Anglophile,’ he said. ‘He was at university in England and became fond of the place. There are a few Brits at Tacoma. You’ll find out.’

‘And Tacoma,’ I said. ‘What is it like?’

‘You’ll see.’ There was something almost ominous about the statement.

I had my own visions of some rustic, rambling, ranchlike place, a clapboard house, with horses in surrounding fields kept in by post-and-rail fencing. I had never been to America before so my images were from the movies or TV. It turned out I could not have been more wrong. We drove for almost an hour before turning in front of an enormous pair of gilded gates which swung open as we reached them.

Someone must have been watching out for us.

Tacoma was an enormous mock-Palladian mansion. Pale pink, with a fountain in the front, white stone, a
man driving a chariot through the waters which splashed over him. I thought it gross. In fact I hated the place on sight. For the first time since I had accepted the invitation to come to Tacoma I was frankly worried. This did not look like the home of a man who collected Staffordshire Pottery, which was – after all – a
cottage-dweller
’s taste. This was about as far from a cottage as Buckingham Palace.

The chauffeur was watching for my reaction as we slid to a halt in front of the pillared portico. I said nothing but he met my eyes and nodded, understanding. Then the door was opened by a black maid wearing a black dress over which was a spotless, white apron. A manservant took my bags from the car and the Chevrolet slid away. The maid held the door open and I walked inside.

I was led into a huge hall with a domed ceiling three floors up. The floor was of black-and-white tiles on which stood white, marble statues, many of them copies of classical statues that I recognised. Rodin’s The Kiss, Michelangelo’s David. Even a Rosetta Stone. A staircase swept up the centre, splitting in front of an enormous window which blazed in the evening sun, the subject a huge still life. I was reminded of Richard’s window in Hall o’th’Wood and felt my familiar twinge of pain almost like an old friend. Overhead blazed a huge, crystal chandelier. I stood still and felt dwarfed.

I remember my dual impressions. The first was that the whole thing seemed theatrical, a stage set designed to awe and impress. And my second thought was that this
was my first brush with such ostentatious wealth. I stood in the hall, feeling tiny and insignificant then a door opened to my left and an older woman, also wearing a black dress, came hurrying up to me. There was a swift discussion between the two maids and all that I was conscious of was that I wanted to have a wash, brush my hair, clean my teeth – and sleep after the long flight.

It was not to be.

The older woman finally spoke to me. ‘Mrs Oliver?’ she said. Another English accent. ‘Mr Wernier-King insists that you be brought to him straight away. So if you’ll follow me please.’

There was to be no argument.

She led me along a long corridor, passing several polished, mahogany doors, until the passage narrowed and we stopped outside the door at the end. She knocked, pressed her ear to it, listened for a second, knocked again and held the door open for me to pass her.

‘Mrs Oliver, sir,’ she announced, closing the door behind her. I listened to her footsteps recede along the hall.

The room was small and dim – the curtains were drawn. In the corner a television was spewing out Disney cartoons. Draped across a sofa, watching them, was a young man – twenty-something at a guess. He had blonde hair which flopped over his brow and was wearing a pale blue sweater and white jeans. His feet were bare and on the floor was a pair of slippers. He glanced across at me then stood up, switched the
television off and walked right up to me, standing very close. He was tall – a little over six feet and very slim. ‘Mrs Oliver?’ he said uncertainly.

‘Yes?’ I was wondering where my elderly millionaire was. And who this was.

‘Mrs Susanna Oliver?’ He seemed confused.

‘Yes,’ I said again with a tinge of impatience.

He relaxed then, gave a disarmingly wide grin and held his hand out. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Paul.’

I was confused now. I felt my jaw drop.

‘Paul Wernier-King,’ he said quickly. ‘I wrote you about my collection?’

I had had my comfortable picture of a portly,
middle-aged
man, a collector. Not this callow youth. For a moment I didn’t know what to say. I simply couldn’t reconcile my idea with this reality. Neither could I imagine this youth collecting Staffordshire figures. Maybe I greeted him back, shook his proffered hand, said something. I’m sure I did. It would have been rude not to but I don’t remember the details now. I only remember my utter confusion on that first evening.

I do recall taking stock of him. He was tall and slim. He had a shock of blonde hair and very bright blue eyes. He had regular, straight, white teeth and wore a casual air which seemed at odds with the formality of Tacoma. I was intrigued.

‘I can’t wait for you to see the pieces,’ he said, enthusiastically. ‘But I’ve decided we should hang on until tomorrow. I guess you’re tired.’

I said yes, that I was.

‘So I’ll just show you around the rest of the house so as you don’t get lost.’ He laughed. ‘Then we’ll have something to eat and you can take a bath and retire. Your bags will already be in your room and unpacked.’

Again I knew I had no choice. For all his casual, friendly manner, this youth did not seem used to being argued with and I was aware that in this huge, horrible house I was no more than a servant. A paid employee.

He walked quickly from the room and I followed him.

That night Paul Wernier-King displayed his great home and his wealth. He led me from room to room to room and I quickly realised that his family had a great deal of money. I wondered how they had made so much.