A Brush with Death Read online

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind taking me to my train? I can easily get a taxi,’ I said.

  I almost always drive to weekends away, however far it is. I like to get there under my own steam and be able to bring my travelling paints and sketchbook, so that if the weekend extends I can always do some work at the same time. I am lucky not to be bound by a nine-to-five office job although it does mean people often try hard to persuade me to stay on Sunday night too.

  This particular bank holiday I had come directly to Beckenstale Manor on the train from London. I’d been visiting my parents and if I’d gone back to Sussex to pick up my car I would have never arrived in time for dinner on Friday, and Lady Greengrass does not like her schedule to be put out. ‘If I ask someone for the weekend, I expect them to arrive on Friday with time to change and have a cocktail before dinner, and only leave after we’ve had lunch on Sunday. It does make it difficult catering for the casual younger generation who pick and choose when they arrive and when they leave. People have no manners nowadays. I do hope Asquintha will insist the grandchildren know properly how to spend a weekend away.’

  Telling me to get a shuffle on, she got up and walked straight out of the room without giving me a chance to say anything else.

  I went down the length of the table to say goodbye to Lord Greengrass.

  ‘Thank you Alexander, for a lovely weekend. I have so enjoyed spending the bank holiday with you both.’

  ‘Susie!’ He stood up, opening his arms and placing his hands on my shoulders. ‘Diana and I much enjoy your visits. Please come again soon.’ He kissed me on both cheeks. ‘No need to leave it for a year.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I smiled and left the room.

  ‘Coo-eee! Susie! Hang on a minute,’ shouted Alexander, a little too loudly.

  I poked my head back round the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t forget to sign the visitors’ book, it’s on the hall table.’

  ‘Of course.’ I smiled and raised my hand to say goodbye.

  The traditional visitors’ book, hardbound in luxurious calf leather, lived on the round table in the centre of the large hall, its gilt-edged pages catching the light of the enormous chandelier dangling above. It would be difficult to leave without signing it anyway, as Diana always opens it the evening before a guest, or ‘visitor’ as she likes to say, departs.

  ‘Susie, please sign the book, no comments,’ instructed Diana, whose size was diminished by the looming figure of Butler Shepherd standing behind her, all ready and waiting to hold open one half of the enormous front door.

  As I wrote the date ‘29th September – 1st August’ and signed my name ‘Susie Mahl’ with a certain amount of pressure applied to ensure a legible signature on the thick, woven cream paper, I couldn’t help but notice that the last person to stay at Beckenstale Manor was Robert Hatch back in February. This visit must have coincided with Alexander’s retirement as Chairman of the Game Conservancy, and Hatch’s appointment.

  It surprised me that two elderly people living in a big house furnished with servants had not had more visitors over the summer. But then again I had rarely met anyone other than immediate family in all the times I’d stayed here, and as a small party is far more relaxing than a houseful I had never questioned it. But now, confronted with this almost empty page, various theories ran through my mind, then, before I got carried away as I am wont to do, I purposely stopped myself nosying into other people’s business.

  I have a knack of paying a little more attention to detail than is needed at times. It’s not malicious, but I just enjoy matching things up and making sense of situations.

  Avoiding the faux pas of closing the book and smudging the wet ink, I laid down the fountain pen and put my right hand into my skirt pocket, ruffling around to find a bank note for Butler Shepherd.

  Tipping is a custom in a grand house that you as a visitor should abide by. Servants rely on tips. Their basic wage is the minimum and it is only through the accumulation of houseguests’ tips that they can afford treats, whether that be a present for a loved one or a holiday away from the estate. The general form is to leave money for each night under the lamp on your bedside table, an equivalent amount on your dressing table in an envelope labelled ‘For the Kitchen’, and a sum of your choice slipped into the butler’s hand on departure.

  The front door was opened and sunlight cast a golden triangle onto the porch and, as I passed Butler Shepherd, in a smooth transaction I slipped the note from the cup of my hand into his.

  ‘Thank you Ma’am,’ he said bowing his large head. ‘Your luggage is in the boot.’

  There’s something about Shepherd that disconcerts me. I think it’s his eyes, which stare without the slightest flicker. He’s been with the Greengrasses a long time and on one occasion I’ve witnessed him hovering in a bedroom doorway as Mary, his wife and also the housekeeper, unpacked a visitor’s suitcases. Unpacking is not unusual; all guests on arrival have an opportunity to request their belongings not be touched, but if they don’t, Mary hangs up pressed clothes and neatly folds the others into a chest, leaving the drawers ajar for the visitor to see where everything has been put.

  There is ample opportunity for servants to frequent bedrooms throughout their daily routine as rooms are tidied in the morning, and after six in the evening shutters and curtains are closed and beds turned down. If Shepherd had a tendency for light-fingeredness I am sure he would no longer be here, but it’s well known that rich people can be careless with their loose change.

  I stepped down from the porch onto the gravel of the yard and within moments Diana and I were gliding in her Volvo estate down the drive, through the parkland and past the ornamental sheep, headed for the village.

  Spire is half a mile west from the end of the Greengrasses’ drive. The small village is stretched out along one big bend in the country lane. We flew through it, and just before the last house on the left Diana turned right and bumped down a private drive running alongside the low flint wall of the graveyard.

  I was sure that she had been longing for an excuse to call in on this new couple, and I was a little concerned that introducing me was a rather feeble one. I was nobody to the Codringtons, and by the size of their house they were clearly somebody. With the wheels of the car crunching the gravel we drew up adjacent to their front door.

  The Codringtons were clearly very much still getting settled after moving in; the garden was half mapped out with twine, a concrete mixer was almost secured to the patio with its own residue and the windows were curtainless.

  Lady Greengrass stretched an arm behind her seat and reached for a clematis in a small pot. Before we were fully out of the car the front door edged open and there stood a real stunner: elegantly thin, snappy short hair and compelling female attractiveness. At moments like these I think I should be wearing my underwear on the outside. Back at you, Keira Knightley. Lady Greengrass thrust the clematis towards her hopefully soon-to-be new friend.

  ‘I’m Lady Greengrass – Diana – from Beckenstale Manor and this is Susie Mahl, an artist friend we have staying for the weekend.’

  ‘Antonia Codrington, pleased to meet you.’ After which, handed the clematis, came a genuine thank-you and then there was a fraction of a pause before coffee was offered.

  Following in line, through the cold porch and tiptoeing over piles of outdoor kit we soon found ourselves in a remarkably tidy and rather jazzy kitchen. A door opened, through which came an unsurprisingly attractive, very tall man. ‘I’m Ben, Antonia’s husband,’ he said, as Diana and I both received a firm handshake.

  ‘Benji, will you make coffee, please? Come, Diana and Susie, have a seat.’

  Antonia perched on the arm of a chair at the head of the disconcerting glass-topped table, which cut a transparent dash across the centre of the kitchen. Diana and I sat on either side of her.

  This was the very first posh house I’d been inside that had a modern, individual style. The lights hung from the ceiling on retractabl
e strings, the sink was one curved continuation of the surface into which it sank, and little details such as a see-through toaster and revolving fridge caught my eye. But there was something undeniably comfy to the kitchen that made me think there wasn’t a whiff of interior designer or lighting consultant. Antonia, or perhaps Ben, had enviable taste. There was evidence of a child but no noise to be heard, and a dogless basket in the corner.

  Ben brought mugs of hot coffee to the table and, while the Aga took the chill out of the air, we listened to Diana’s run-down of the village. She knew virtually everything, helped in no small part by being the organist of the flint-spired church that could be seen through the kitchen window.

  As I listened, a snide comment of Asquintha’s echoed in my ear: ‘She’s the first and only organist I’ve ever met with one deaf ear and a bum too big for a piano stool’.

  As Diana went on at great length the poor Codringtons soon began to deduce what they were in for. Here was a woman who once a week would be at the end of their garden, peering over the yew hedge desperate to be asked in with a ‘Oh, why thank you, just a glass of sherry and I’ll be on my way.’

  With my train to catch, there was just enough time for the Codringtons to have learnt more than enough about us from Diana, and for us to know no more than meets the eye about them.

  As these things tend to come about, no sooner had my thank-you card arrived at the Greengrasses than Diana was off to drop in on the Codringtons, suggesting that if they ever wanted their dog or horses drawn then they really should consider contacting me. ‘Such a pleasure to have around, and really rather a good artist’ was how Diana put it, apparently.

  Five months later, on the bright end of a November lunchtime, my home telephone rang unexpectedly. I crossed the kitchen into the studio and grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Susie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Antonia Codrington. Sorry to call out of the blue but I got your number from Lady Greengrass who has been encouraging us to have a drawing done of our dog, Situp.’

  ‘Oh, that is nice of her to have suggested it.’

  ‘We’ve often thought of having him drawn but we’ve held out until we got a recommendation from a reliable source. There are many average artists dashing out pet portraits but when we saw your drawing of the Greengrasses’ Harriet we really did think you had a style unlike anything we’d seen before, and we love it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘I mean it, your drawing not only shows the character of the dog but to choose such a humorous pose without ridicule is very talented. Would you come and draw our dog?’

  Not yet knowing Antonia nearly well enough for chit-chat, the conversation didn’t diverge in any way from the subject of commission. I was delighted to agree, and followed on with the usual questions, beginning with the inevitable, ‘What breed of dog is Situp?’

  ‘He’s a Deerhound. Big chap, about four and a half feet long, two feet high when standing and three and a half feet tall when sitting upright. Ash-grey, fit and lean.’

  It is such a help when I get a client who predicts and answers several questions at once without using any infantile pet terms, either to me or the animal in the background – ‘oochy coochey’ being a particular favourite with some of my clients.

  I continued talking Antonia through the process: ‘I will carry out the final drawing at home in my studio but to begin with it would be ideal if I could come and spend two days with Situp in order to get to know him. During this time, I’d like to do a handful of preliminary drawings and take several photographs.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you’d be wanting to visit. I could tell from the life in your drawing of Harriet that you didn’t just copy her from a photograph.’

  I find it impossible to get atmosphere in my work if I have not sat in front of the subject, and I was encouraged that Antonia had liked the pose I had chosen for Harriet. No matter what it is, a living being or an inert object, I have the need to spend time in the same place as my subject before I can fully understand and engage. For me painting and drawing is half heart, half hand and eye; and without one, I can’t use the other.

  I asked Antonia if she could email me some pictures of her dog. ‘They would be very useful in helping me have an image of him in my head. Quick snaps would do fine. I don’t want to take up your time.’

  ‘Of course I will. There are plenty already on my iPad. Just ignore the hideous orange ball he almost always has in his mouth.’

  There was a small pause.

  ‘Now, I suppose we ought to discuss price,’ said Antonia with her pleasantly straightforward approach.

  Helpfully I have a flat fee for pet drawings, which removes any awkwardness of discussing amount or timescale, particularly as people rarely realise quite how long it takes to create a work of art. Almost the better it is, the easier it looks to do but the longer it may take to achieve this.

  I talked Antonia through my terms of business. ‘Extra costs include travel and framing, if you’d like me to organise that.’

  Antonia, faultless in her decision-making, answered, ‘Don’t worry about a frame. Ben shall sort that.’

  I explained that I like to be left alone to decide the pose of the pet and composition of the drawing, on the agreement that the client only pays if they like the final picture.

  ‘That sounds good to me, but how does it work with those who want a particular pose?’

  ‘Interesting question,’ I said. ‘In those cases I think I’m probably not the right choice for them. I can’t draw something truthfully unless I have composed it in my head, and therefore it is important for me not to be bound by preconceived poses or input from the owner.’

  Although I was possibly going into too much detail, I wanted to try and explain what spurs me on as an artist. It is difficult to express this without sounding pretentious but I tried. ‘I have to look and look until I am captured by a subject. It could be anything from a pose to a shaft of light falling on the pet, but I need to allow something to grasp my attention before I am given a way in to recording what I see on paper. I don’t mean to sound inflexible but it frustrates me when people ask me to draw something and then they tell me how to do it.’

  ‘I completely understand. Ben is the creative one in our family and I’ve found it is never a good idea to question his judgment as it just throws him in to a total spin. You’ve put it so clearly.’

  Understandably Antonia wanted to be at home when I come to visit Situp so we had to find a mutually suitable weekend. This wasn’t that easy. Her high-powered job as a ‘contract risk and security consultant’ – no, I’m not one hundred percent sure what that is either – required her to be in Switzerland every three weeks. How much consulting can a consultant do?

  But, after a bit of discussion, and her kind offer to stay, we settled on the forthcoming weekend.

  ‘We,’ said Antonia, and quickly tagged on, ‘and Situp of course, look forward to seeing you. Why not arrive around 6pm on Friday? I’ll send you that email with photographs now. Thanks, Susie.’

  I put the receiver straight down on the desk, slightly hoping I’d forget about it and the battery would run flat. I hate telephones; haunted by those silent moments during adolescent calls to the opposite sex, I still get nervous.

  Even my best friends know not to call me.

  Talking of which, I remembered I owed Nancy a letter particularly, since she’s pregnant again and in need of distraction.

  Kemps Cottage

  6th November

  Dear Nanc,

  I hope you, Peggy and Adam are well. Not long to go till the next one arrives. How do you feel? Still eating lots of canned sausages? I hadn’t heard of that craving before but then again you’ve always been slightly dated in your guilty treats. Remember when you were still eating Cremola Foam in powder form long after dip-dabs came out?

  Life in Sussex is as happy as ever. I really do enjoy the fact I can co
me home, spend days in the studio, walk for miles on the Downs and rarely get interrupted. You must come and visit again soon. I know it’s not ideal sleeping arrangements but my neighbour Cecilia continues to say she will happily put my friends up.

  I’m currently painting very large seascapes from the small oil sketches I did in the summer. Do you remember that day we picnicked at Cuckmere Haven and I painted the cliffs? Well, that one is almost finished. Peggy could walk in to it, it’s so big!

  I’m off to the West Country this weekend to draw a dog. Not the usual, as this one is a Deerhound. Staying with a posh young couple so will give you the full run down of a weekend in luxury when I am back home.

  Lots of love Nanc and to the other two,

  Xxx Susie

  Friday morning arrived. It was early but I wanted to finish my still life of a tangerine before I headed off to the Codringtons. If I left it until Monday morning, the delicate green leaf I’m struggling with will be all dry and crispy by the time I’m back in the studio. I got out of bed and only woke up fully under the gush of the shower as I pondered what underwear I was going to put on. A twinset would give a little bit of confidence for a weekend with new acquaintances.

  The stairs creaked as I tiptoed on wet feet back up to my bedroom, which slopes with the gentle slump of the cottage. I went straight for the chest of drawers which sits at a jaunty angle to the right of my bed. That’s where I keep carefully folded and delicately layered brassieres and bottoms. I am not half as prescriptively tidy with the rest of the house but these scented-paper lined drawers deserve extra special care. I chose a bright pink, lacy twinset to slip into.

  I was pleased to have another commission. I needed more pennies in my Rue Saint Honoré pot, and I was all too aware of Christmas drawing near and the presents to be gathered.

  I always spend Christmas with my parents in London in the home I grew up in, south of the river. Rare book-shops, blue-and-white-awninged butchers, furniture restorers and friendly neighbours, Cleaver Square and its environs has a gentrification of its own.