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The Bee's Kiss(40)

By:Barbara Cleverly


He ignored the sergeant’s look of disbelief.

They strolled on towards the artist. Aware of their approach, he remained facing his easel, all his attention on his work. As they drew near he raised his brush from the canvas and took a step back. ‘I can never quite get it,’ he said. ‘Every year I try to recreate the blue of those bluebells in the distance but it’s unseizable! Damn frustrating! Do you paint?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Joe. ‘Though I enjoy paintings.’

He looked over Orlando’s shoulder, prepared to say something polite and non-committal. It was always difficult to find the right formula to avoid giving offence when faced with the efforts of enthusiastic amateurs. These days there were no more rules, it seemed to him. The fast-changing fashion for Cubism, Fauvism, Dadaism, Surrealism had left the public – and Joe – gasping and uncertain how to interpret what they were seeing – a situation ripe for painters to exploit. All too easy to retreat behind a gently knowing, ‘Oh, but I wonder if you can have understood? Surely you’re au fait with Ordurism? But it’s the latest thing! When I was last in Montmartre . . .’

Joe tried to keep up. He went to galleries and viewings, he learned the vocabulary of the latest trends. He stood by open-mouthed at his sister’s side as she, a quivering flame of concupiscence, spent a very great deal of her husband’s money in the Cork Street galleries.

He looked at Orlando’s painting and tried to imagine the comments of the two elderly uncles who had taken on the task of civilizing the rough young Scot when he was sent to them after his father’s death. In the long vacations of those sunny Edwardian years before the war Joe had spent hours in their company, trailing through museums and grand houses, occasionally going to the opera, the theatre and – his greatest delight – the music hall, and these hours spent in their company had marked his tastes indelibly. But he was always conscious that Harold and Samuel had been Victorian at heart, formed and bound by the traditions of an iron generation. Joe felt himself challenged and excited by the cultural yeast he was aware of on all sides, bubbling its way up through the lumpen acceptances of an earlier age.

The polite, pre-prepared phrases remained unspoken.

‘I like that,’ he said. ‘I like that very much indeed.’

His eye ran over the free-flowing lines, the bright bursts of colour running into the mysterious dark depths of the woodland. ‘It’s the essence of England. It’s what I’ll close my eyes and see on my death-bed.’

Orlando turned and looked at him, his attention finally caught. ‘Then there’s something lacking,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I hadn’t thought of it in paradisal terms . . .’ He selected a fine brush from the jar at his feet and loaded it with paint. In the few quick strokes of an expert draughtsman, he had transformed the picture, Joe thought, watching, enchanted.

Now, a figure was to be seen under the eaves of the wood, running out, mouth open in horror, one hand pointing back into the dim depths.

‘That’s better,’ said Orlando. ‘No such thing as paradise. Especially not within twenty miles of King’s Hanger. There’s always a lurking serpent in this place. A Lucifer? Some frightfulness in the woods? That’s more to your taste, I expect, Mr Policeman?’

‘At the risk of a further sneer, I’ll be honest and say – yes, in fact, it is. You’ve turned, in a few strokes, a good painting into something quite exceptional.’ He hesitated. ‘Tell me – was this particular picture commissioned?’ he enquired, trying not to betray his fascination. ‘Does it have a home to go to?’

‘Yes, it does. The Countess of Deben is quite a collector of bucolic images. The English countryside through the seasons is her interest. Though the harbinger of doom I’ve just painted in will unsettle her – I shall have to turn it into a scarecrow.’

‘A pity! Can’t you deck him out in a few leaves and an enigmatic smile and he can be the Green Man, emerging from his winter sleep, rude and rammish, and all ready to leap upon the Maiden of Spring. There she is! I see her lurking behind the apple tree.’

Orlando smiled, put away his brush and wiped his hands on his pinny. He pushed his over-long, springy reddish hair off his face. A good face, Joe thought, and not the weak-featured, placatory mask he had been expecting. Intelligent hazel eyes, long-lashed and upswept, unusual in a man, accounted for his success with women no doubt. He was of medium height, probably an inch or so shorter than his sister had been, lean and wiry. He had the brown and creased skin of a man who spent much of the year out of doors and this impression was underlined by his clothes. Stained brown corduroy trousers, a linen shirt which had once been white and of good quality, and a red kerchief knotted, gypsy-fashion about his neck made a clear statement. And nothing about the man was suggesting ill health.