The Gallery of Vanished Husbands: A Novel (12 page)

‘If there’s anything to worry about, we worry now,’ said Juliet. ‘I told you, he’s not coming back.’

Mr Greene rubbed his temples where a headache was starting to pulse.

‘In the meantime the synagogue will help, Mrs Montague.’

It took Juliet a moment to realise that Rabbi Plotkin was offering charity. Mr Greene understood instantly and was already shaking his head. ‘No, no, we don’t take handouts. It’s for us to help her. We’re her family.’

Juliet squeezed Mr Greene’s hand. ‘I’ll be quite all right, Rabbi. I’ll work.’ She turned to her father. ‘I’ll go back to work at Greene & Son, if you’ll have me.’

For the first time that afternoon Mr Greene smiled a weak and watery smile. Juliet tried, but found that she could not return it. She’d married George at the age of eighteen in part to escape Greene & Son. Now, at the venerable age of twenty-four, she found herself going back to the factory and this time with no prospect of escape or reprieve.

 • • • 

Early on Monday morning, Mr Greene called for Juliet and together they walked the children to school before taking the bus to the factory. Perched on the top deck beside his daughter, Mr Greene had to stop himself from humming. The whole business was most unfortunate, but he couldn’t help feeling satisfied that at last his Juliet was coming back to work at Greene & Son. For months after she’d left, he experienced a dull pang every time he peered into the back office and realised she wasn’t there. The bus took the next corner rather too fast and Juliet thumped into his side. He reached out and patted her hand.

‘Well, here we are again, like old times.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Juliet. ‘Like old times.’

She glanced out of the window and saw that it was starting to rain, fat beads drenching the pavement. For the hundredth time she wondered why George had taken the portrait. The cash and the bond certificates she understood. Had he been in such a hurry that he couldn’t wait to remove the money taped to the back of the picture? She imagined the portrait lying discarded in some gutter or thrust into a rubbish bin, the rain seeping into the canvas, the paint starting to crack and flake.

Look, Look She Flies!
Max Langford, Watercolour on Paper, 12 x 15in, 1959

M
RS GREENE DIDN’T
like it one bit. Mr Greene remained silent on the matter, preferring not to be trapped like a thief between his wife and daughter but succeeding only in irritating both. Philip and Jim thought it was a daft idea but that Juliet should be left to get on with it. Charlie was silently furious, brooding with unhappiness. Only Frieda and Leonard were delighted.

‘A holiday? A whole two weeks? Is it by the sea? Just us?’

Leonard continually questioned his mother for the pleasure of hearing her confirmation. He’d never been on holiday before. There had been day trips but Leonard had never once stayed in a hotel, let alone a cottage. The word conjured all kinds of romance. Straw roofs. Walls made of mud. Cows in the kitchen.

While Juliet was pleased by the idea of a holiday and gratified by the fervour of the children’s enthusiasm, there was another reason for the trip and this was the source of Charlie and Mrs Greene’s disquiet. She’d rented the cottage in order to be close to Max Langford. His pictures were so familiar to her, like a favourite place – Mulberry Avenue in May when the cherry trees formed a procession of frothy bridesmaids, the Bayswater Road on a Sunday afternoon – and yet she had still not met him. Excitement made her almost as dizzy as Leonard, who had packed for his holiday a full fortnight in advance without being asked. Charlie’s insistence that Max was a recluse and all species of peculiar only increased her determination. She attempted to mollify him. ‘Perhaps I’ll persuade Max to come to our first exhibition at the gallery. It’ll be funny if he’s not there.’ Charlie had not replied. They both knew that somehow, without intending it, Max had caught her in the hairs of his brush, and she was stuck as firmly as a fly in a bead of drying paint.

Charlie insisted on driving them. He’d announced that Juliet’s trip to Dorset coincided with a visit to his mother, a visit he had apparently long intended but forgotten to mention. He could drop them on his way. Leonard was almost as thrilled by the prospect of a drive in Charlie’s car, a brand new scarlet Morris Mini-Minor, as he was by the holiday itself. They left London on a hot August evening, the dusty city grey as old laundry, and arrived in Fippenny Hollow as the moon rose above the hills like a polished silver pocket watch. Juliet was glad that Charlie knew where he was going. To her every lane and hedge looked the same, a Minotaur’s maze speckled with daisies and lady’s bedstraw. They passed stone gates labelled with National Trust opening times.

‘The Langford Estate. Or it was before Max gave it to the Trust.’

‘Why did he give it away?’

‘Money. And running a place like that is a vocation. Or it needs to be. Max isn’t like that. All he cares about are his pictures and his stupid birds.’

His anger exasperated Juliet, and she looked out of the window into the green darkness. Sometimes just the mention of Max’s name was enough to send Charlie into a fit of petulance. He hurled the car around the bend, forcing her to grip the seat. She glanced back to check that both children were still asleep, suddenly wishing they’d taken the train.

They drew up beside a stone cottage and Juliet climbed out, inhaling the sickly scent of honeysuckle. Charlie roused Leonard, helping him onto the verge, where he stood blinking and unsteady beside Frieda, who clutched her cherry-red rucksack.

‘I’ll give you a hand with the bags,’ said Charlie.

‘No. Thank you. We’ll be all right,’ said Juliet, wanting him gone.

Charlie studied her for a second and then with a shrug climbed back into the car and roared away between the funnel of hedges, leaving them on the lane, the unlit cottage gazing at them with empty eyes.

The three of them stood among the clutter of suitcases and fishing rods and buckets, and stared. It had been a hot day, clear and cloudless, but now the August night was cool and full of stars. The sky was packed with them, clear and white and so many that it was impossible to fix on just one light without feeling giddy.

 • • • 

When the children were at last asleep in bed, Juliet slipped out of the house, the key tucked into her pocket. The cottage was half a mile from Max’s. She just wanted to see where he lived. She wouldn’t knock on the door; not tonight. Wrapping her cardigan around her shoulders she walked up the lane into the mouth of the trees. The country gloom unnerved her. Every bush and stretch of grass put forth bodiless noise: rattles and whispers and the hurry of feather or fur. The thick summer canopy swallowed the stars and the ground echoed with her footsteps. She heard something – not the scuffle of creatures in the undergrowth or the wind ruffling leaves, but music through a window. A track branched off from the lane and into the wood and it was from here that the music drifted out of the darkness. Juliet followed like Gretel tracing her breadcrumbs.

In the green heart of the wood squatted a brick house, small and ugly. The trees and scrub had crept closer and closer, as though playing a game of grandmother’s footsteps that the red house was losing inch by inch, year by year. The strange music filtered through the trees. She leaned against the papery trunk of a birch and listened. There was a light upstairs and she waited, hoping for a glimpse of him. She was determined to persuade him to paint portraits once again. The bird paintings were magical and lucid and odd, but Juliet wanted to see that eye turn its gaze onto people. She remembered the sketch of the girl he’d drawn before the war – the mischief and flirtation held in a few pencil strokes.

‘Max Langford. I’m Juliet Montague and you’re going to paint me,’ she called into the night.

 • • • 

After four days, Juliet began to wonder whether she would ever meet Max at all. She knocked on the door of the house in the woods twice each day and peered among the trees in case he was sliding fox-like through the shadows. He was not. She slipped notes through the letter box asking him to call round for tea, writing that unless she heard to the contrary she would expect him. There was no reply. Juliet, Leonard and Frieda sat round the scrubbed kitchen table in the cottage, poised over boiled eggs and scones and some kind of elderly veined cheese, Juliet telling the children that their visitor surely must appear. Any minute. Any minute. The minutes came and went. He did not.

Charlie called at the cottage every morning. He didn’t ask Juliet whether she had seen Max, for which she was grateful. He offered no advice but neither did he gloat. Leonard scrambled to the door the moment he heard Charlie’s car. He had recovered from his disappointment that Charlie was neither his father nor a spy, and accompanied him on various fishing and painting trips around the countryside. This was how, on their fifth day at Fippenny Hollow, Juliet discovered the way into the house in the wood. Charlie and Leonard returned home in time for supper, Leonard rosy-cheeked and happy, a trout in one hand and a watercolour of its slippery corpse flapping in the other. He held out both for approval.

‘We were painting by the Piddle. Did you know that the river is called the Piddle, so it’s not rude. And a man came by. He was walking with his dog. I wanted to paint the dog but it wouldn’t keep still. And he looked at my fish picture. The man not the dog. The dog just sniffed it. And the man said that it was really good.’ Leonard paused, waiting for Juliet to agree.

‘It’s a wonderful painting, darling.’

Satisfied, Leonard continued. ‘And he said that there is a painter in the wood. A famous war artist. And he teaches people at his house on Fridays. And that I’m good enough to go. When is Friday?’

Juliet looked at Charlie, who kept very still and would not catch her eye.

‘Tomorrow is Friday, darling. But I don’t think you need another teacher. Not when you’ve got Charlie.’

Charlie stood over the stone sink with a bucket, gutting the fish with a knife, so that their scarlet and grey flecked innards slithered into the pail. Frieda sat at the table painting her fingernails pink. The exact shade of the trout gizzards, noted Leonard, wondering whether he should swipe the varnish for his next picture.

‘Come with me on Friday,’ said Juliet to Charlie. ‘You know I must go. But you should come too.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Charlie.

‘Come on. You were friends. You
are
friends. It was you who showed me his pictures in the first place.’

She smiled, taking a fish from him. She wiped her cheek, and smeared blood across it, noticing it on her fingertips like harlot’s rouge.

Charlie frowned. ‘What you have to appreciate, Juliet, is that he isn’t like he used to be.’ He paused as though reaching for the right words. ‘Max Langford is a war artist without a war.’

 • • • 

On Friday night Juliet crossed back into the wood. The children were asleep, or else pretending to be. She waited until eight for Charlie to appear and when he did not she set out alone up the lane before striking along the track into the trees, unable to decide whether she was relieved or disappointed that he had not come. The day had been damp and the floor of the wood smelled of loam and leaf mould, sweet and rich like a very good and complex wine – the kind Charlie’s mother served at dinner and Juliet sniffed and did not drink. This time the woods were not empty. Voices floated through the gloom; snatches of chatter and laughter. Juliet felt a pang of regret – she knew it was quite ridiculous but she’d hoped to have Max to herself. In a shopping bag she carried Leonard’s watercolours, carefully wrapped up in a tea towel. While she felt slightly ridiculous taking a child’s set of paints (complete with Tom ’n’ Jerry stickers on the tin) she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask Charlie if she could borrow his.

Yellow lights shone through the bands of tree trunks and from a hundred yards away she could see figures gathering around the front door, silhouetted like paper dolls against the light. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward to join them, feeling a prickle of triumph as she finally crossed the threshold into a narrow hall, where she was instantly caught in a crush of bosoms.

The painters were almost all women, matrons of middle age corseted in thick country tweed – the kind termed ‘sensible’ –
and stout walking shoes. The ladies clasped paint sets and a hodgepodge of gifts: jars of piccalilli, a wheel of cheese, a milking stool, a jam jar filled with meadowsweet and willow herb. The ladies set these offerings on a plain wooden table. In the glow of an oil-lamp, the heaped table looked to Juliet like a kind of pagan altar, though to whom she was not sure.

The house was set too deep in the woods to have mains electricity and the sills and surfaces were dotted with paraffin lamps and candles so that the air reeked softly of kerosene and wood smoke. Juliet stayed quiet, listening to the hurry of strangers’ hellos. From the outside the house was unattractive – a Victorian cottage built quickly and out of sight of the Langford mansion, the red brick pockmarked with soot, the tiled roof low and hunched – so she was unprepared for the interior to be beautiful. Charlie insisted on Max’s oddness, his disregard for convention, and she’d come to expect a hovel with curls of mouldering wallpaper, skittering insects and rotting floors. Instead the paper in the hall was hand-printed – a repeating motif of red-stencilled woodpeckers thrumming their beaks against black books for woodworm. The floors were covered with rugs, mostly skins or fleece, and where they were not hidden they gleamed with beeswax. Woodcuts and lithographs of the surrounding countryside adorned the walls – standing stones under a buttered moon, a trio of moths, an owl in the afternoon – and she longed for the other women to move aside so she could study them. The colours of the skirting boards, banister and doors were ochre, rust and dusty green – the muted colours of Max’s palette, so that Juliet felt as if she had slipped inside one of his pictures. Even the curtains had been painted by hand; she realised that the polka dots had been dabbed on with a brush and that Max had signed the bottom corner of the fabric. Through an open door she glimpsed a small, clean kitchen, the table lined with bloodied newspaper and rabbits stripped of their fur, flesh raw and red.

The women began to shuffle forward like passengers at a bus stop and Juliet joined the end of the queue, filing through a low doorway into a sitting room. She heard a man’s voice, cool and clear as an announcer for the BBC.

‘Find a place to sit, ladies. We’re very full tonight.’

The room was packed. The women perched on foldout chairs, stools and patterned sofas. Two elderly men crammed beside one other on the window seat, tight as books on an over-stuffed shelf. Every surface had been decorated – the round feet of the sofa were festooned with painted yellow claws, camels trekked along the ceiling cornicing, the round plaster mouldings forming dunes and humps. The cupboards were washed with blue, the ridges of the wood panels picked out in creamy lines. The chimney breast was formed from the ridged back of a dragon, green and gold, the fearsome toothed jaws opening into a fireplace where flames stuttered. The effect should have been overwhelming – it was a carnival of detail and colour and decorative styles, as though, unable to pick just one, Max had chosen them all – and yet the overall effect was quite beautiful. Juliet observed with interest the wry humour of the room; a giant moth flattened itself against the windowpane, and as one of the gentleman tried to brush it away she saw that it was painted onto the glass. She smiled, deciding that only an artist could foresee how it could all work together.

She found a perch on the arm of a sofa and peered over the grey heads, impatient for a glimpse of Max. She wondered now whether she should be excited or afraid. From Charlie’s description of him, she half expected a blinking madman with wild eyes and unbrushed hair.

‘Hello, Juliet Montague.’

Max stood at her elbow. She knew it was him even though he did not look remotely like a madman and his sandy-brown hair was almost tidy.

‘You can’t possibly work like that.’ He gestured to her precarious seat on the arm of the settee. ‘Either you want to paint properly or you don’t and you can go home.’