‘Lady Ritmeester? Came in last week and mentioned she was going to the family chateau in France for a while.’
Teddy seemed glad to give out this piece of news, Handley noted, as a little titbit of revenge. ‘I’m thwarted in my evil sexual designs. Like you were when I came in. So let’s get back to money.’
‘Didn’t you receive my letter?’
‘I got nothing.’
‘My secretary sent it a week ago.’
‘I suppose my mad son-in-law found it,’ Handley said, ‘and burned it.’
‘Anyway, I sold “Abraham in Flanders”, “The Prodigal Poacher” and “Jacob and Esau”. I’ve had offers for four others. Then there are royalties on reproductions. Comes to nearly £3,000.’
‘Was there a chit in the envelope?’
‘I believe so.’ He took a cheque book from his drawer and showed the stub for £2,952.
‘Write me another,’ Handley said. ‘And give me a drink. My hand’s trembling.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ Teddy said, ‘I’ll see first whether or not this one’s been cashed.’
Handley flushed. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
He poured a large brandy. ‘Absolutely. With my life — and that’s saying something. But I’ve got to do it this way to satisfy my financial people. It’s only a matter of days. If you’re short of a thousand I can give it you on account.’
Handley sat down. ‘I’m not that short — yet.’
‘Tell me how your work is.’
The lost cheque worried him. ‘The crack-up’s coming. But work’s all right. The community’s bursting at the seams. Four people dropping out. I was thinking of asking Daphne to join. You as well.’
‘Very kind,’ Teddy said sarcastically. ‘But I don’t like the country. Fresh air brings back my asthma. Why don’t you have lunch with me? We’ll split a bottle of good wine at “The Flayed Ox”.’
‘I’m off to Rowney’s for a stock of paints and paper. Anyway, I’ve got to look for the cheque. I’ll go back home and tear the place apart.’
‘Just do some more marvellous work,’ Teddy said.
‘I sometimes think I’ll never even paint a door again.’
‘A good sign. Something’s bubbling in you. You’re a fine artist, Albert.’
Handley stood, sick of being where he was, though he didn’t know where else he wanted to be. ‘I’d often prefer it if there wasn’t so much money coming in,’ he said, anger breaking through his pleasant humour. ‘I’ve worked half my life on begging letters and the dole, and suddenly I get swamped with ten thousand a year. I’d much rather get fifteen hundred so that I can scrape along just one notch above the bread line.’
Greensleaves didn’t like this sort of talk. ‘Your work’s the same, whatever you earn.’
‘Yes, but if I got enough to eat and nothing else I wouldn’t stick to what made me rich, but would do something different. It’d be more interesting.’
‘For God’s sake don’t change your style,’ Teddy exclaimed, and Handley noted with satisfaction that he’d never seen him so agitated. ‘It’s exactly what people want. You’re in a bad way. What’s eating you?’
Handley pushed his face to within half a foot: ‘You’re eating me — with chutney and pickle. You’ve got my liver in your fangs. And, naturally, I don’t like it.’
Teddy felt a strong impulse to kiss him, but resisted because he didn’t relish the savage punch-up that was sure to follow when his gesture of goodwill was misconstrued. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said, as Handley drew away.
‘I don’t savvy myself. But I’ve always painted exactly as I liked, and the fact that I’ve made money in the last few years hasn’t changed my ideas a bit. I’m not that sort of bloke. If Enid and I had to live in a tent so that I could experiment with other styles, we’d do it. I’m not saying I’m going to, but it might come one of these years.’
Teddy smiled with relief. ‘Every artist has to develop and widen his talent: As long as he keeps on the broad road of it, and doesn’t wander into dead-ends and byways.’
‘You can leave that to me. I certainly shan’t do the sort of black melancholy crap that’s hanging in your gallery this morning. I never was one to frighten myself to death. Anyway, thanks for the invitation to lunch. I must do my shopping and get back to Enid.’
They parted on the usual good terms. Handley drove towards Percy Street, but got glued in traffic for half an hour around Oxford Circus, so that by the time he’d found a meter-bay, and bought his painting materials, it was well into lunch-time. He sat alone with a quick pizza on Charlotte Street, mulling over the fate of the fat cheque that never got to him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Saying goodbye to Maricarmen, in the cool and early morning, was like making his farewell to a woman at the end of a fiery sexual affair. She had, after all, taken a hard line on killing him, and two people couldn’t get closer to actually enlacing than that. He thought she must feel it too, when they shook hands and looked at each other. She smiled, as if to mark this closeness, but it quickly died on reaching the point when there seemed to be almost no barrier between their intimacy.
Through the frigid cant of departure Dawley knew that what they meant to each other could never die, no matter where she went — even though they might not meet again. The Rambler slid through the front gate. He watched it go up the village street and out of sight.
It was a green day, when the mind swung neither one way nor the other but simply followed any event that turned up. He sensed that the community would not now get back into its routine because Cuthbert and Maricarmen had taken whatever impetus it had. There was a heap of mail on the kitchen sideboard, but nothing for him. He poured a mug of coffee, then cut a thick slice of bread and put a lump of butter on his plate. ‘So they’ve gone.’
‘I’m fond of them both,’ Myra said, ‘but Maricarmen was like ice, as if she hardly knew what she was doing.’
He wolfed his breakfast. ‘She’ll wake up. Everyone does.’
She thought of herself: ‘I wonder if they do?’
‘That’s the way it usually goes. It’s a fair system.’
Ralph came in, hands rough as if he’d been shifting earth. He stood by the mail, and slipped a long envelope into his pocket. ‘I’ll see to him,’ he offered, taking the dish of porridge to feed Mark. She was glad to let him, and sat opposite Frank.
‘Been digging somebody’s grave?’
‘Filling one in,’ Ralph smiled. ‘Somebody else dug it. I’m keeping fit, really. Cuthbert advised me to do more physical work. He said it was good for me. It would teach me how to think.’
Dean came into the kitchen. ‘I can smell coffee.’ He looked refreshed, but worried, as if he’d already been awake for an hour. ‘Cuthbert’s gone?’
‘You didn’t say goodbye,’ Frank said, reaching for the honey.
Lines creased the skin of his low forehead. ‘I’m sorry. Do you think Cuth’s off for good?’
‘It’s hard to imagine,’ Dawley said.
He took the coffee pot from the Aga, and poured two mugs: ‘One’s for Enid,’ and went back upstairs with them.
‘He’s asking for trouble,’ Frank said.
Myra refilled their cups. ‘He is fond of Enid.’
‘I’ll say.’
The letter in Ralph’s pocket called out to be read as he went upstairs, so he opened it at the first landing. There was no sun to see by and light was dim, but as he looked at the clear typed lines, his left hand began to tremble, then the right. He leaned against the window to re-read the first paragraph, for he had gone no further. The words assaulted his senses, and his legs shook so that he was forced to sit down. He grew dizzy, and held the letter away. Then he became positively tired, as if he hadn’t been to bed all night.