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Newlyn

In the kitchen, I picked up a mug and debated a ginger nut. They weren’t to everyone’s taste. Tash seemed to have an endless supply of biscuits. Would Rory want one with his tea?

Tash was grinning suggestively at me. ‘You’ve got to shag him and then tell me it was fabulous.’

I opened my eyes wide. ‘No, absolutely not.’

‘ I can’t, because I’m married.’

‘I have a partner,’ I said, watching Tash roll her eyes. ‘He’s your one pass . . . your words, not mine.’

‘Sadly, he hasn’t looked at me the way he has at you, otherwise I’d be in there.’ She thrust the other mug of tea at me. ‘Flirt then. It’s good for the soul and Paul will never know.’

I glared at her, but took the mug and walked to the study.

It had been years since I’d last flirted and I wasn’t sure I’d remember how to.

No. This was not what I should be thinking about.

Just because Rory Crown was here did not mean I had permission to flirt.

I stopped. Did anyone need permission to flirt?

The last time it had happened, it had led to a very unpleasant discussion with Paul. I didn’t need that again.

In the study, Rory had spread the script out over the top of the desk. He was scribbling in a notebook and looked up as I placed the mug down beside him.

‘This is brilliant. The poetry is sublime.’ He leaned back in the chair and focused on me. Everything froze, including my brain, while I tried to think of something intelligent to say.

‘Studying words all the time, don’t you become immune . . . inured or jaded even?’ God, I could kick myself. Why use one word when you could use three.

‘Fair question, but first, does that happen to you with art?’ The corner of his mouth lifted and I looked away to refocus my thoughts. I was simply having a fan-girl reaction, nothing more.

‘Not really. Art is so variable that I’m never not surprised, thrilled, shocked or at times horrified. Only rarely am I bored, and I suspect that is because the artist was too.’

He stood and pulled up an armchair for me. ‘Words – literature as a whole – are the same.’

‘I see.’

It was a stupid reply, but he smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ve read Ways of Seeing by John Berger.’

‘Yes.’

‘That sentence . . . “Seeing comes before words.” It has always stayed with me.’

I looked at him anew. ‘Why?’

‘I deal in words. I try and look behind them for insight and meaning.’ He ran his hand through his dark hair, messing it up a bit. Suddenly he looked younger.

I took a sip of tea and imagined what it would be like to kiss him, but then banished the thought and focused on what he was saying.

‘Only those who cannot see start in a different place. So when I’m looking at words, I think about what the author saw, felt, needed, wanted before they put them down on paper.’ He paused. ‘Then I also stop and consider what they mean to me, how they make me feel and why they do that.’

How he made me feel and why was something I didn’t want to think about.

‘I’ve never looked at words that way, but now that you say it, I can see the connection with art.’

He nodded and picked up a page. ‘That’s what troubles me about Forster’s work.’

‘Wasn’t he your classic Edwardian who moved into the new age after the First World War?’

‘On paper, yes, but his later poems, the Venetian ones in particular, don’t fit with the man he was then.’

‘Sorry, A-level English didn’t cover this.’

‘It should have. He was a fascist, and during his Venice trip he worked with Mussolini on his poetry.’

‘Mussolini wrote poetry?’

‘Terrible poetry, but having read some of the correspondence, I believe Forster positively fawned over him.’ He held a page out.

‘I struggle to think of a man with his politics and the associated views on women and a woman’s place in the world writing such emotive, passionate work.

In a way the poetry and its beauty are worth study despite the man behind it.

How we read these words today is vastly different to when they were read at the time with another world war looming. ’

‘I hadn’t considered that, and now I feel like a fool.’

‘Don’t. That wasn’t my intention.’ He smiled and looked at me.

It was clear he saw an intelligent woman, and unless I was wrong, one he found interesting.

It took my breath away. I was the grunt who did the research, the professor’s partner, and the one who’d messed up.

But he didn’t see any of those things. He saw the Ren I had been. The one I thought lost.

‘The brilliance of art in all its forms is that it is not time-dependent. The themes, the feelings, the meanings are timeless.’

I nodded. ‘This house is full of such work. But now I can’t get the fact that Forster was a fascist out of my head.’

‘I’m sure you’ve come across artists who were vile in how they lived and acted, and yet created great beauty.’

‘Absolutely. So many have a terrible record with women, whether as lovers, fathers, brothers or friends.’

‘Yes, I love your Instagram posts.’

I blinked. Surely he wasn’t one of my followers. I wouldn’t have missed that.

‘My friend Lucy Williams, at Helwyn House, pointed out your account years ago. I’ve been following you since.’

Tash walked into the room wielding a packet of Rich Tea biscuits. She looked between us, then said, ‘Anyone fancy one?’

* * *

For the past hour I had been double-checking all the paintings on the inventory and I went into the study to check the details of the painting by Sheba’s mother. Rory was straightening the manuscript.

‘With your permission, I’d like to take this to Exeter for Tim Pearce to assess. He’s the acknowledged expert on Forster. I’ve already emailed him, and he’s keen.’

‘That should be fine. I’ve photographed most of it, so I have it on hand for reference.

’ I placed the painting back on the wall and took another photograph.

Sheba’s mother’s work was excellent. Not the genius of her daughter, but had she lived longer, it might have evolved even more.

I would highlight some of it on Instagram.

It would be good to see her profile raised even just a little bit.

‘These artists are lucky to have you in charge of their work.’ Rory was genuine in his comment, and something grew inside me. It had been a long time since I’d received a compliment outside of work.

‘Thank you.’

‘I can see your determination.’

I frowned, not sure where this was going.

‘Your posts on Instagram are great and your work here at Harbour House demonstrates your commitment to showcasing the work of these women.’ He stood. ‘Would it be possible for me to have a look at the studios before I go?’

‘Of course. Sheba’s is a mess, but I don’t know if that was the way she worked or the result of searches.’

I led him through the house. Tash was in the kitchen, carefully cleaning the dust off a sculpture.

‘Do you want to come with us to have a look through the studios?’ I asked, collecting the keys off the counter.

She smiled slyly. ‘I have to give Gareth a ring.’ She pulled out her phone and walked towards the front of the house. She was lying, but I couldn’t call her out.

At the back door, we were met by Bastard. Unlike Tash, she wasn’t trying to leave us unsupervised.

I opened Sheba’s studio first. Chaos and colour.

‘I see what you mean.’ Rory looked at the canvases stacked against the walls.

‘It was a lot worse earlier, but I’ve begun to sort them by date where possible.’ My eye was caught by another canvas. It spoke of autumn with golds, browns and a brilliant blue. Whether it was sea or sky I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter.

Bastard jumped onto a table and pushed a pencil onto the floor.

She still had the heart of a kitten. Rory swooped down to pick it up, and Bastard eyed him before pushing it off again.

He played with the cat until she became bored and jumped down, sending a canvas flying.

Rory and I both went to catch it, his hand meeting mine.

I looked up, startled by the feeling of coming home and the excitement of leaving.

‘That was close,’ he said, meeting my glance.

‘It was.’ I moved my hand and he put the canvas back.

‘Bastard will have to be more careful.’ He looked around for the cat, who was now on a windowsill cleaning her paw, oblivious to the damage she could have caused. She sent us a look of disgust and jumped down, setting off the old radio. The sounds of Vivaldi filled the space.

‘You have quite a task in here.’

‘I do.’ I shut the radio off. ‘I’m trying to take it in small chunks.’ I pointed to a neat pile against the far wall. ‘That’s where I was working when you arrived.’ It was all a bit overwhelming, and my shoulders dropped.

‘When I return from Exeter, I’d be happy to help out.’ He placed a hand on my arm. It was meant to be comforting, but there was a connection between us that I couldn’t deny. I must be careful.

‘Thank you.’ I smiled. ‘That would be great.’ No, no, it wouldn’t. He was far too attractive. It wasn’t simply his good looks, it was his personality too. Quiet, clever and kind. It was dangerous.

‘Would you like to see Viv’s studio?’

‘I’d love to.’

I looked around for Bastard, but she was already sitting outside in a puddle of sunshine, waiting impatiently for us.

I locked Sheba’s studio and went to Viv’s.

Dust motes hung in the still air of the large space.

It felt other-worldly. The statue on the left-hand side of the studio haunted me now that Tash had pointed out what she saw.

Rory was silent, almost reverent, as he walked among the works.

‘How is it that her work isn’t hailed as genius?’

‘I’m coming to the conclusion that neither of them sought fame.’

‘That in itself is interesting, and begs so many questions.’ He glanced from me to the haunting sculpture. ‘You can see so much joy and movement in her pieces, but this one . . .’

‘I know. Tash thinks it’s grief.’

He turned to me. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. It’s almost too raw to put a name to it.’

‘Love.’ His gaze didn’t leave mine. ‘Loss.’ He touched the gnarled wood. ‘She has captured both, and the twisted wood, the dark and the light, says more about the experience than could ever be put into words.’

I swallowed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I was lucky to have Hebe’s love.’ He paused. ‘I’m still devastated at losing her.’ He looked up from the statue. ‘Until this moment, I had never seen anything that captured that feeling . . . There is love, there is loss, but there is beauty and hope.’ His glance met mine.

‘Yes.’ I couldn’t move. Hope.