Landscape with corpse, p.2
Landscape with Corpse, page 2
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I gasped at last. ‘It’s a picture. Your first picture, Oliver.’
‘Hmm!’ He was abruptly pensive. ‘I’ll make a right fool of myself,’ he said miserably.
‘No you won’t. It’s a college. They’re supposed to teach you. And what the devil does it matter, anyway? It’s going to be a very interesting week.’
But he wasn’t happy about it.
2
The BMW is an easy car to drive; you can control it with one hand on the wheel, if necessary. Oliver liked to do as much driving as possible, so we decided that he would drive us to Leominster, and I would take over for Jennifer’s 115 miles to Bryngowan, as I anticipated a multitude of tight corners over the mountains, which Oliver would find troublesome. Therefore, after an early lunch, we were on the road at two o’clock, with Oliver at the wheel. There was plenty of time.
The route was straightforward, once we had picked up the road from Shrewsbury. Oliver held the car at a steady fifty, and it was ten minutes to three when we turned into the car park. And clearly, there she was, our Jennifer, decorously standing amongst a scattering of canvas hold-alls, boxes and packages.
Beside her was a white Citroen and a tall, dark man. At the sight of a blue BMW arriving, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek, slipped into the Citroen and drove rapidly past us, with not a sideways glance, his tyres protesting. This, I guessed, would be the Paul she had mentioned.
We drew to a halt. Oliver slid out from behind the wheel, smiling, then we offered formal handshakes, which were no more than the touching of palms.
‘So we’re both on time,’ I remarked. ‘Shall we get your stuff inside?’
She shrugged. ‘Might as well.’ It didn’t seem that she was in a good mood.
Her attention was for Oliver. Her smile was for him. I guessed that she would be in her mid-twenties, a slim woman, poised and smart, and wearing an embroidered bolero over a white silk shirt. She was fully aware of the impact she made, casually aware. She shook her head, and a cascade of natural blond hair swung with it, then settled like a swarm of pigeons disturbed from a scattering of bread. Her long and slim legs were clothed in black, tight leggings, which gave the impression, literally, that there was nothing but flesh beneath.
I produced my second best smile. ‘I’m Philipa, and this is my husband, Oliver.’ It was better to present the set-up right at the beginning, I thought. ‘And you’ll be Jennifer, no doubt.’
She flashed a look at Oliver that said it all. It was the bright, seeking eye of the predator.
‘It’s nice to meet you both,’ she said. ‘And I can’t say how grateful I am for helping me out. My friends call me Jennie.’
I had the impression that it was an honour to be included in her list of friends. ‘No trouble,’ I said, and smiled my own specially empty smile to underline it. ‘And we’ll call you Jennie.’
By this time Oliver had the boot open. We managed to fit in Jennie’s luggage, and there was a spare seat in the rear, which itself soon became piled high.
‘I think that’s the lot,’ she said, nodding.
‘You’re sure?’ I asked, not meaning it in any sarcastic manner.
But she darted at me a brisk glance of rejection. ‘I’ve done it often enough not to forget a thing,’ she assured me, nodding. ‘There are six of these week-long courses every year. I know it inside-out.’
‘Such as the route, I assume,’ I said. ‘So you’ll be able to direct us?’
‘Oh yes. Of course. So I suppose I’d better sit in the front?’ She raised her eyebrows at me, cocking her head.
‘It would be better,’ I agreed placidly.
She had seen Oliver driving into the car park, and clearly therefore expected him to be driving out. So I held open the front passenger’s door, as Oliver slammed his rear one, and she was stuck with me, like it or not.
I fastened my seat belt and started the engine.
‘It’ll be Brecon, and then on to Llandovery,’ she told me, a faint sullen tone in her voice. ‘But after that you’ll find it a bit tricky.’
She meant, I realised, the barrier presented by the Cambrian Mountains.
I nodded. She told me to turn left out of the car park and pick up the Brecon road at the traffic lights. It was signposted.
I drove. Jennie was restless. She kept giving me instructions just after I had made my own decisions. I simply nodded. After a while, she refrained from telling me that I could have got past some wagon or other, if I’d put my foot down. Blandly, I ignored all such advice. At one time, I had had instruction from a rally driver.
But eventually, she relaxed. ‘Is this your first time?’ she asked. ‘At the college?’
‘Well…yes. But I meant on this painting course.’
‘Oh yes. To both.’
‘What do you do? I mean—what medium?’
I shot her a quick glance. ‘Well…Oliver’s pastels, and I’m watercolours.’
She gave this some consideration, more than I’d have thought it deserved. Then at last she said, ‘I’m acrylics. I used to do watercolours, but I switched over. Now I much prefer acrylics. Very versatile, they are. You can over-paint with acrylics, which can get awfully messy with watercolours.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘You’re right there. But it’s the transparency of watercolours that attracts me.’
‘Yes,’ she conceded. ‘I do see that. If you can do it.’ She sounded rather doubtful about my abilities.
Then she was silent for a few miles, apart from her odd comments such as, ‘Take the right fork here.’ Or, ‘Second turn-off at the island.’ Useful comments, which I appreciated.
I had set the trip indicator on the dash before we left Leominster, and noted the time on the clock, so that when she commented, with forty miles coming up, that we were running a bit late, I was able to say, with a certain amount of confidence, ‘We’ll make it by five-thirty. That’s the clocking-in time, it said in the brochure.’
‘But…get there early, and you can grab one of the better parking spaces. Tight corner coming up.’
‘In what way better?’ I asked, taking it smoothly.
‘Oh…closer to Reception. So it’s not so far to have to carry all your painting stuff and what not.’
Behind me, Oliver cleared his throat. ‘A distinct advantage,’ he declared.
She ignored that. ‘You’re going to enjoy it,’ she assured me. ‘It’s like a top-class hotel.’ So she was talking about the place, not the painting. ‘The food’s very good,’ she went on, ‘and they’ve got their own private bar.’
And of course Oliver had to comment again, ‘A distinct advantage.’
Jennie ignored that, too. ‘Have you got a double room?’ she asked me.
‘Well…naturally.’
‘Lucky you. They’re quite swish.’
‘Swish?’
She touched my arm, making a point. ‘Your own bathroom and shower, and loads of room. But you really need a partner, to help fill the bed. Which, of course, you’ve got.’
I allowed a short time to elapse, dreading that Oliver would put in his comment again. Then, when he remained silent—though I got a glimpse of his grin in the rear-view mirror—I went on, ‘So you’ve tried one yourself?’
She laughed. ‘Room or partner?’
‘I was’, I told her, ‘thinking of both. Together,’ I added, in case she’d missed my point.
‘Oh yes,’ she agreed. ‘That.’
I waited while a couple of miles drifted beneath the wheels. We were now climbing, and the corners were becoming more tricky.
‘So it’s going to be a bit boring for you,’ I suggested, referring to her lack of a partner and a double room.
‘Oh no. Not at all.’ Then she hesitated, deciding how far to take it. ‘There’re usually eight or so in our group, and a couple of other courses going on at the same time. So you get to meet some very interesting people. You’ll see.’
I refrained from mentioning that I’d brought my own interesting person.
Then we took the last of the tricky bends, and had reached the peak. We came down from the mountains with the sun declining almost directly ahead. The view was breath-taking.
Jennie appeared not to be interested in the view, which was strange for an artist. ‘You’ll like him,’ she said confidently. ‘Everybody likes him.’
‘Who?’ I seemed to have missed something whilst I was admiring the view.
‘Geoff Davies. He’s our tutor. Oh…he’s very good. His tutoring and his own work. A palette knife man, he is. Spreads it on like butter. Tricky, that is. But you’ll like him.’
I had the impression, by that time, that Jennie had no difficulty in distributing her affections. Perhaps she had a kindly nature, and felt she ought to spread her favours between all the men surrounding her at any given time. And it was clear that they did surround her. She expected it. Invited it.
‘There it is,’ she said suddenly. ‘Look.’
We had just climbed a tortuous hill and breasted the rise. A magnificent vista confronted us, with Cardigan Bay fading into the misty distance. On a slope, and low in the valley, was an imposing building, copper-red in this lowered sunlight, an isolated mansion.
It looked comfortably placid, and below it, at the foot of a slope that led down to the slim glint of a river, was a small township, which spread its growth to nudge the sea.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said softly, to myself. ‘Don’t you think it’s lovely, Oliver?’
‘I can’t see it too well from back here,’ he complained. ‘But you can’t deny that there’s plenty of landscape just waiting to be painted.’
‘And the harbour,’ said Jennie with enthusiasm. ‘It used to be a fishing village, and the wharfs are still there. Plenty of sailing boats still around, as well. That’s where I like to sit myself down—the harbour. Sit there and paint. Where I always go.’
‘Ah yes—’ I began, but she interrupted.
‘There’s no need to drive all the way down to the town. If you take the next turn right, you’ll find it takes you straight past the college drive.’
I did as she suggested, but I eased the car to a slower speed, as I still had something to ask her, and the asking time was running out. ‘Do you mean that we all wander off on our own?’
If that were the case, we might as well have stayed at home, and struggled along as well as we could.
But Jennie dispelled that impression. ‘Oh no! It’s not like that. Not at all. We all decide where we’re going to settle down with our easels and stools and what not, and Geoff—oh, he’s lovely—he comes round to all of us, from time to time, and helps, suggests, gives you tips. Take it from me, you’ll like him, and you’re going to do fine.’
‘Ah!’ I said, nodding.
‘The entrance is on the left.’
‘I see it.’
We swept up the long drive between lines of trees, until a bend revealed the building. It was a grand, stone-built house, with stone balconies and balustrades outside the upstairs mullioned windows. We had passed the gravelled area designated Parking. Which Jennie had completely ignored. She was peering ahead, anxiously.
‘Keep going,’ she said. ‘Along the front.’
This had been the terrace in the grand days of the mansion, thirty yards across, and with the stone pillars and balustrades of the balconies repeated at its edge. Fanned steps ran down grandly to a sloping lawn, with trees massed beyond it.
‘There!’ she cried. ‘There’s a space.’
I would not have seen it as a space, but she seemed confident. Already, about twenty cars were parked there, and were being unloaded. I stopped the car as Jennie slid out and walked ahead to locate a space, and then, with much gesticulation and a lot of left-hand-downs and easy-nows, she guided me in.
‘There,’ she said, opening the door again to peer in. ‘Didn’t I tell you! The office is just round the corner of the main building.’
She was in a flutter of excitement. Clearly, she thoroughly enjoyed these breaks at Bryngowan, though I wasn’t certain whether her enjoyment arose entirely from her expectancy of what painting masterpieces she might produce.
She was well known, obviously. Several people called out to her. ‘Where’s your Porsche, Jennie?’ shouted one of the men.
So it was a Porsche she had crashed. She wandered off to explain that two finite objects cannot be in the same place at the same time.
From then onwards we needed no assistance. We took our luggage in, and found the reception desk.
‘Ah yes,’ said the young woman. ‘Mr and Mrs Simpson, isn’t it? I see you managed to get our Jennifer here all right.’
‘No difficulty,’ I assured her. ‘The trip has been very pleasant.’
‘Well—we’ve got you in the main house, overlooking the terrace. You go along the corridor, to your left from here, into the hall, and up the stairs. You can’t miss it. You’re in A4.’
‘It’s a beautiful place,’ I said.
‘It is, isn’t it. Now…if you’ll just look at the notice board behind you, you’ll see all you need to know.’
We turned and looked. There were two other courses. Advanced German (Lecture Room 2 at 8.30) and Chinese Brush Painting (Lecture Room 3 at 8.30).
And…Landscape Painting—meet in the Glasshouse at 8.30.
Glasshouse? I hadn’t noticed anything deserving that title. Perhaps it had been a greenhouse, when the place was built. Glasshouse now.
We found the hall, graceful and restful. The staircase angled up three walls. And there, facing us across a landing, was A4.
We stopped just inside the door, taking it all in. Carved oak was the motif. The bed could have been a four-poster in its youth, but now lacked its posts and canopy. A pity. That would have been a novel experience. The bathroom (I opened the door and popped my head in) contained both bath and shower—separate. When I went to the windows, to sample the view, I saw that it opened out as french windows, on to one of the balconies.
I ventured outside, and there was my BMW, right opposite, which I’d left unlocked for Jennie. Two cars away was parked a white Citroen.
She was there, reaching out her painting equipment and her luggage. Or at least, that was what she had been doing, but now another woman, somewhat older than Jennie, with touches of grey in her hair and wearing a bright flowered dress, was standing in front of her, looking straight into her eyes and waving a finger angrily beneath her nose. Suddenly, all activity around them was stilled.
Jennie stood still, smiling slightly, though that was obviously forced, as the other woman’s voice rose in pitch and in volume.
‘I might have guessed you’d be here, Jennie Crane. But I’m telling you something. Are you listening? Just start your funny games again, that’s what I’m telling you, and I’ll wipe that nasty smile right off your silly face. Do I make myself clear?’
It was not said quietly, nor lightly. There was fury in that voice, and just a hint of despair.
Jennie shrugged, pouted, and then looked round with a grimace of distaste. Then, having captured her audience, she said distinctly into the abrupt silence, ‘If you think so much of him, Pam darling, you want to try showing him you do. Shall I give you a few tips, Pam? Would that help?’
The finger wagged more frantically beneath Jennie’s nose. Jennie’s expression suddenly hardened. She was clearly fighting to maintain a certain amount of dignity, but an abrupt anger sent her voice into a higher and shriller tone. ‘Will you stop waving that damned finger at me!’
‘Finger! Finger! You’ll get more than a finger…’ And the hand closed into a fist.
Jennie’s temper flared. ‘Stop it!’ Her voice was caught on a choke of fury. ‘Stop it!’
Then she caught the wrist and flung it aside, twisting it in the same movement. The woman she had called Pam gave a cry of pain, and fell back, to stumble up the first of the steps into the hall. Then, both hands to her face now, she turned and ran up the remaining steps. It seemed she too had a room in the main house. I heard her feet thump up the stairs. Then…silence. No door on the landing opened; no door slammed in frustration and anger.
I looked at Oliver in appeal. He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘It’s not our affair, Phillie.’
Yet there was a hint of query in his voice; he knows my uncontrollable curiosity. There was silence outside. I shook my head, and quietly opened our door.
She was sitting on the top stair, rocking herself, holding her right wrist in her left hand.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘May I help? I saw what happened…’
She turned her head to me. ‘Paul went to get our key,’ she said miserably. ‘He’s certainly taking his time.’
She assumed I knew who Paul was, but she couldn’t know that I’d thought I had seen him, driving a white Citroen out of the car park at Leominster. Now I saw that her eyes were flooded with tears
‘Your wrist?’ I asked.
She whispered, ‘It hurts.’
‘Then why don’t you come into our room,’ I said. ‘And we’ll take a look at it. My husband’s got something that might help.’
Her instinct had been to rush to solitude, and then to weep. Already, her face was crumpled with misery, and tears now dripped from her chin.
‘Please,’ I repeated, and limply she allowed herself to be led inside A4.
Oliver said, ‘Oh dear. You know, she could have sprained that wrist. We’d better take a look at it.’
This he delivered in the flat and unemotional voice of a true policeman. His calming voice. The tears became sniffles, and we led her inside the bathroom. Under the cold tap with her hand, and I gently manipulated her wrist. There was no cry of pain. Good. Not too bad, then. She lifted her ravaged face to me.
‘Oliver,’ I said, ‘can you go and collect the rest of our luggage?’
He nodded, and turned to leave, then he paused. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘I’ve got some cream that’ll do wonders to that wrist. Don’t go away.’ Then he slipped out of the door.
She must have realised that she’d done a very foolish thing, confronting Jennie in that manner, and so publicly. It had in no way eased her situation, whatever that was—though I could make a good guess—and I left her in peace while she washed her face.
