Hidden, p.5
Hidden, page 5
~~~
The Testimony of Esme Howard
Myddleton Mote, November 25th 1917
Guy found my journal and burned it. I imagine he read it first. He then burned all the blank paper he could find, including my unused sketchbooks.
I have tried to reason with him, but he is now beyond my reach. When I insisted I needed paper to make lists and menus for Mrs Talbot, Guy said we could dispense with her services, by which I supposed he meant I should cook and clean. Then he realised I would have to leave the house to buy provisions, which could include paper. Mrs Talbot is therefore staying on and I am to be allowed small sheets of paper which Guy has already cut in half. These are to be issued by him and will be rationed.
I shall of course continue to write. (I am writing this on the back of a receipt for linseed oil and turpentine.) I have even more need to express and order my thoughts, now I know my marriage is over, over before it has even begun.
Fortunately I have discovered that if I use a sharp pencil, I can write very small indeed. It is a slow process but the pace allows me to consider what I wish to say, so not a word is wasted – and wasted words would mean wasted paper.
I must conceal these tiny documents somewhere Guy will never find them, though at the moment, I have no idea where. I shall find a way to do it. He will not have the satisfaction of seeing me give in to either anger or despair. But I confess I am sometimes afraid.
Guy shall not see it.
CHAPTER THREE
The discovery of the priest hole unsettled me, so I did what I always do when I’m stressed. I retreated to my study and sat down at my desk to work. There were page proofs to check, emails to answer and student assignments to mark. There was plenty to distract me, but for once work didn’t have its usual soothing effect, preoccupied as I was with what I’d experienced in the priest hole and elsewhere. A bad feeling. A very bad feeling. A sense that there was something uncanny at Myddleton Mote. I had thought it was the spirit of my father, but I now felt as if I was tuning in to suffering, to fear. I doubted Godfrey had been afraid of much other than old age and infirmity. Was it just an accumulation of fear, the terror of men who had feared for their lives and called on their God in the priest hole? Or was there something more?
I sat staring into space, my work forgotten. It was at times like these that I missed having a partner. Not Patrick, who never considered anyone’s needs apart from his own. His idea of responsible fatherhood was simply to indulge his sons in a brazen attempt to become the more popular parent. I still missed the calm reasonableness of Ben and the companionship and sympathy of the friends I’d gradually lost, trying to conceal the shame and horror of my second marriage. I had believed there was a kind of dignity in silence and secrecy, but I’d mistaken isolation for self-sufficiency.
Fear had held me prisoner for years. Fear, not Patrick. I was allowed to work and socialise, but made to feel these things were wrong. When I came home I would turn the key and walk into a kind of mental prison. Then there would be the interrogation. Where had I been? Who did I see? Pointless questions because whatever I said, Patrick didn’t believe me. Whatever I did was some sort of crime. Spending time with friends. Dressing attractively for work. I learned not to smile at strangers when out with Patrick because I knew he would be watching me and indulging his paranoid fantasies.
Divorced, I was still haunted by Patrick; by memories of asking him to leave, begging him to leave, so the children and I could settle down to some sort of stable existence; memories of Patrick – oh, so charming and persuasive! – convincing me he’d changed, he was so sorry, it would never happen again, it was just the pressure of work, or money problems, or too much booze that had made him lash out with his tongue and eventually his fist.
I never wished him dead – I refused to succumb to hate – but many times I wished he’d never been born. Mostly, I just wanted him out. Out of my home, out of my life, out of my children’s lives. Even now, I still feared an intrusion. I dreaded a return to the chaos that had characterized our wretched marriage.
Was I having a belated breakdown? Was I simply dreaming? Would I wake up to find myself in my old London flat, having dreamed a fairy tale fantasy of finding my father and acquiring an Elizabethan manor house?
With a shudder, I remembered how, in the last few desperate months of living with Patrick, I told myself I was dreaming, it was all just a really bad nightmare. I would wake in the morning and find I was still married to the other Patrick, the boys’ father, the man I used to love.
But when I did wake, I found broken glass and china on the kitchen floor and remembered how it got there. After I’d cleared it up and got into the shower, I saw the bruises – new ones and others now fading – and I knew it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t even a nightmare. This was my life.
*
We opened the Mote to the public twice a week for the summer. It was a financial necessity, hard work and a lot of fun. The twins liked to walk round their home on open days, pretending they were members of the public. They said they wanted to hear what the punters said and Leo called it “market research”. I suspected it was just an excuse to eavesdrop, to play an elaborate spying game, but provided they didn’t annoy Joan, volunteer and local history buff who sold the tickets, I could see no harm in it, especially as I was guilty myself of wanting to observe while unobserved.
My curiosity really was market research and I chose to look down on our customers from the squint window overlooking the Great Hall. This was a small aperture from which most of the large room below could be seen. In Victorian times it had been where the children of the house had sat – in splendid and snobbish isolation – to watch the Christmas entertainment provided for the village children who were invited up to the big house for high tea, after which they left with full stomachs and a new toy.
I was curious to see who visited the Mote (mostly women); how old they were (mostly retired); whether they were tourists or local people, snooping on their neighbours. I loved to hear their comments (mostly complimentary) and see which artefacts caught their eye and gave rise to discussion. (Log fires, flower arrangements and anything personal of my father’s.) Our visitors would stand and admire for a few moments, then shuffle on, but I was always pleased when someone enjoyed the smell of wood smoke or fresh flowers, or noticed the way the sunlight passed through the stained glass and cast coloured shadows on the wall. It gave me pleasure to share our beautiful home, though I had succumbed to pressure from Stella to install CCTV. We’d enlisted a few volunteers to man the open rooms but, keen on their subject, they were inclined to chat with visitors, making it easy for someone to pilfer small items.
Since our visitors were mostly female, elderly and hunted in pairs, a solitary male in his prime was bound to catch my eye. He paid particular attention to the paintings which he examined close up, like a professional, admiring the artist’s technique. When he moved out of range of the squint window I went downstairs and followed at a distance to ensure nothing was damaged or even stolen, for this dark and elegantly saturnine visitor was Patrick Dunne, my ex-husband who had not been allowed to cross my threshold since I’d left him.
When he arrived in the Long Gallery his eye was caught immediately by the Gentileschi portrait, even though it was tucked away in an ill-lit corner. Facing a mirror on the other side of the room, I watched his reflection as he studied the painting carefully for several minutes. He then turned his attention to The Painted Ladies, examining each one for longer than the average visitor, but when he arrived at my father’s portrait, he passed by with barely a glance. By now I realised Patrick had come to see only the valuable paintings. I struggled to suppress the first irrational stirrings of panic and followed, still keeping my distance.
When he emerged from the Long Gallery he consulted the leaflet Kay had written, summarizing the Mote’s history, then headed downstairs, apparently making for the exit. In a small room that had once been the apple store, we displayed local tourist information and a poster for The Bodies in the Library. Stella had photocopied press articles about the dinners and posted photos and menus. It made a colourful display, but Patrick ignored it in favour of the Visitors’ Book.
Stella had insisted we should have one. She said it was useful for market research and gave people a chance to give us feedback, good and bad, which they duly did. To my astonishment, Patrick picked up the pen that was attached to the book, bent and scrawled a message. He put the pen down, then pulled the heavy oak door open, allowing sunlight to pour in to the gloomy, window-less room. As the door banged shut behind him, I hurried over to look at the book. He’d written The Gentileschi should be in a room on its own. She shines like a good deed in a naughty world. The Painted Ladies should be painted over.
In the address column he’d written in a perfect facsimile of the famous hand:
Vincent van Gogh
Arles
France
Furious, I ripped the page out of the book, screwed it up and tossed it on the floor, then sank down onto a hard wooden chair, shaking.
Patrick Dunne had left his calling card. My ex-husband – himself a gifted artist, one who’d served time at Her Majesty’s pleasure for selling his own brilliant forgeries – had come to Myddleton Mote to view my art collection and he had wanted me to know.
Staring at the screwed up paper on the floor, my anger turned to fear, as it always did, so that in the end I never knew if fear protected me from my anger, or anger from my fear. I stood up and looked at the visitors’ book again. I turned the pages, skimming backwards through the weeks that the house had been open to the public. It appeared Myddleton Mote had been honoured by visits from Claude Monet and Picasso, as well as Van Gogh. Nauseated, I slammed the book shut.
Even though Patrick had done no damage to the paintings, I walked back through the house and back up to the Long Gallery, wanting to check every one that had caught his eye, as if his very gaze could somehow desecrate.
I stood in front of the portraits, studying them, trying to calm myself. I was relieved Patrick had ignored my father’s. That at least was unsullied. He was probably right about the Gentileschi. It was the most important and valuable in the collection. Perhaps it should have been given pride of place. I moved on to The Painted Ladies, of which I was now very fond. I loved them, but I could see why they wouldn’t appeal to an art snob like Patrick. They were too accessible. They were also portraits of female victims. Patrick would not have been able to relate to the subject matter, nor would he have tried.
Now that I knew Patrick despised Esme’s paintings, I felt all the more determined to honour them. My father had loved them and collected them. To begin with, I’d liked them because he did. It was a way of feeling closer to him, to stand and look at paintings he’d loved, but now I loved them in their own right. They had become my friends, my soulmates even.
I didn’t know I was weeping until I realised I couldn’t see the pictures any more. My tears had little to do with Patrick. I refused to shed one more on his account. I was crying for Esme who had painted her own sad and sensitive face over and over, apparently never happy with the end result.
As I rubbed my eyes and composed myself, I heard a noise. Another woman crying.
I looked round but the gallery was empty. Frightened, irrational, I suddenly thought of Stella and the baby. Turning away from the portraits, I ran out of the gallery, down the stairs and out of the house, over to the office.
As I burst through the door, Stella looked up from her laptop, alarmed. ‘Mum! What’s wrong?’
I stared at her, blinking. ‘You’re… you’re all right?’
‘Yes, of course I am! I’m fine.’ She frowned, then got up from her desk, walked round and stood in front of me, placing her hand on my arm. ‘What’s the matter? Has something happened?’
‘No… Well, not really. You’re all right? And the baby?’
‘It’s fine. Kicking away,’ she said patting her bump.
‘Oh, good. I was worried… I thought I heard something.’
‘What?’
‘A woman crying… I must have imagined it, but it seemed so real.’
‘Sit down,’ Stella said, leading me towards a chair. ‘I think you’ve been overdoing things. You probably heard a bird outside. There are all sorts in these woods. Or maybe it was a cat mewing.’
‘I’m sorry. I must have frightened you, bursting in like that.’
‘You should have rung me. I’ve always got my phone on me.’
‘No, I wanted to see you. And I… I needed to get out of the house.’
‘It’s a bit much on open days, isn’t it? Letting all those strangers into your home. Must feel a bit like an invasion.’ I nodded, unable to speak. ‘Well, as you’re here, can I ask you something? It’s about the leaking moat.’ She walked over to a shelf and took down a bulging folder of paperwork. There was still a spring in her step despite a now sizeable bump, but as soon as she sat down again, she kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the desk.
‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,’ she said, passing me a letter. ‘But the structural engineer said the best thing to do about the leaking moat is to drain it, repair the cracks in the clay walls, then refill it with water. Alternatively, he said drain it permanently, dam the stream to redirect it into the overflow ponds, then plant up the moat as a sunken garden. Ferns, primroses, that sort of thing. That would be much cheaper of course, but I’d advise against it. The moat is a real attraction and helps us compete with other houses and gardens. People do love a moat.’
‘The water level’s still sinking then?’
‘Afraid so. Rapidly, in fact. Now the weather’s warmed up, water is evaporating and the stream that feeds the moat is pretty feeble after the dry spring. We could do with a few really heavy downpours.’
‘And if we don’t repair?’
‘The water level will go down every summer, the moat will become dank and smelly, then it will fill up again in winter.’
‘When nobody visits.’
‘Exactly. And the cracks in the clay will probably get bigger over the years, so the moat is unlikely ever to fill up to its proper depth.’
‘So you think we should get it fixed.’
‘I do, but I know it might not be at the top of your priority list.’
‘It isn’t. The roof needs urgent attention.’
‘I know, but that won’t affect visitor numbers. In terms of the business––’
‘Yes, yes, I know, but this is our home.’
‘And if we want to stay here, we need to make it earn its keep. This first year we really do need to get people in so they leave lovely reviews on Trip Advisor. And the moat is one of the things people will talk about and photograph. It’s so magical! Everyone stops on the bridge to look down into it.’
‘They do, don’t they?’ I said with a tentative smile. ‘I’ve been watching the visitors…’ My smile faded as I remembered Patrick. ‘I watch people from my bedroom window as they arrive. First of all they look up to take in the Tudor façade. After that, they walk on to the bridge and they always pause to look down into the water. They stop to savour the moment. It’s as if they want to linger, poised between two worlds, neither on water nor dry land. Perhaps they feel as if they’re standing on a threshold… a threshold of something ancient.’
Stella nodded. ‘I sense that every time I come home. As soon as you step on to the bridge, the Mote magic begins.’
I regarded her calm, contented face for a moment before saying, ‘You haven’t sensed anything else?’
‘No… Well, the weight of history, I suppose. There’s a definite atmosphere, isn’t there? And those old portraits are a bit weird.’
‘You think so?’
‘Well, the fact that they all look the same is odd. As if the model had been cloned.’
‘It’s not a model, it’s the artist. The paintings are all self-portraits. Esme Howard painted herself over and over again for some reason.’
‘Perhaps she was saving money on models. Or maybe it was some massive vanity project.’
‘If she’d been that vain, wouldn’t she have commissioned other people to paint her? She was quite successful. She must have known a lot of other artists.’
‘So are you feeling a bit spooked by the Mote then?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘No, it’s what you’re not saying that I think I’m picking up on.’
‘You said you sensed the weight of history. Is that all? You don’t feel a sense of… sadness? Or suffering?’
‘No, I love the Mote. Marcus and I are deliriously happy here. And we think it will be a wonderful place to raise a child.’
‘Of course it will! Oh, just ignore me. I’m being silly. I’m so pleased you’re happy here.’
‘Couldn’t be happier.’ Stella gave me a breezy smile which I struggled to return and she noticed. ‘Mum, if there was a problem… something bothering you… you would say, wouldn’t you?’
My throat contracted, preventing speech. Memories threatened to overwhelm me: all the lies I’d lived and told, trying to protect my teenage daughter from knowing just what kind of man had replaced her dead father. I swallowed and said, ‘I’m fine, Stella. But… Well, maybe there is a problem. A real problem, I mean. Something I’m not imagining.’
She took her feet off the desk and sat up. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No.’
I recognised an old look of anguish on Stella’s face as she said, ‘You don’t have to protect me any more, Mum. I’m a big girl now. And I’ve got Marcus – who’s even bigger.’ We both smiled at the feeble joke. ‘It was different when I was young. I was frightened and angry and I… well, I judged you. I thought I knew it all and I didn’t. You had two small boys to look after as well as me and Patrick was – is – their father. I understand now, or I think I do. Women don’t walk, most of them. They know they should, but they don’t. They stick it out, like you did, until they just can’t take any more.’
