A Brush with Death Page 4

  Taking with me the box of soap I’d brought as a gift I headed downstairs. The smell in the corridor promised a good dinner and my tummy gave a gentle rumble.

  ‘You look nice Susie, great tights!’ said Antonia who was in the kitchen holding her daughter.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and handed her the box of soap. ‘This is a small gift for having me to stay.’

  ‘How kind of you. Lovely soap is so nice to have and what pretty packaging.’

  Antonia had received my present with her one free arm and introduced me to the occupant of the other. ‘This is Arabella,’ she said, looking down at her young daughter. ‘Bella, say hello to Susie.’

  The little girl, who was wearing pretty, floral pyjamas, looked at me with a stern stare, clearly weighing up the newcomer. Podgy-limbed, hair as dark as her father’s, red-cheeked and full of alarming potential, this was a child with a gaze like none I had ever met before. Finally, maintaining a heavy brow, she turned to her mother and said, ‘Susie.’

  ‘Yes, Bells, that’s right,’ beamed Antonia. ‘Sorry Susie, she’s a little tired and about to be whisked off to bed.’

  At that precise moment the kitchen door creaked and in waddled the nanny.

  ‘May, this is Susie,’ introduced Antonia. ‘She’s with us for the weekend as I’ve asked her to draw Situp.’

  May stuck out her hand, which I shook with as much of a grasp as I could get.

  ‘Hello May.’

  ‘Hello Susie. Lovely dog, Situp. Lovely dog.’

  Bella was promptly taken out of the room by May, and the boys entered in a cloud of Henry’s aftershave. Effeminate as some men think it is, I do love a whiff of aftershave. (Next time you pass a string of male bicyclists in France, inhale deeply, you won’t be disappointed.)

  ‘What’s for supper, Anty?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Very funny. You know I can’t even boil an egg.’

  ‘Just teasing. Fish pie’s my bet, Susie. Conservative man, our Ben.’

  Dinner was unfussy and completely delicious. When it came to pudding Ben jumped up and rapidly cleared the plates into the dishwasher, reaching up into the cupboard high above the kettle to produce a large bar of dark chocolate. ‘Ice-cream and chocolate sauce anyone?’ he asked.

  I waited for Henry to answer and in doing so he turned to me and exclaimed, ‘You have to have Ben’s ice-cream-chocolate-sauce-delight – it’s the best ever.’ He turned to Ben. ‘Yes please Benji, I’ll shout for Susie too.’

  There was no need for Antonia to answer, her smile told us all she was definitely in for some.

  ‘I think he likes you,’ said Antonia, peering through the table to Situp who’d lain on my feet most of the evening.

  ‘Seems to,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not often he makes friends so quickly. He’s yet to fully warm to Henry,’ said Antonia, smiling in good humour at their friend.

  By the time we’d finished pudding it wasn’t anywhere near 11pm, but it was clear all the same that none of us wanted to stay up late. I had a day of drawing ahead, the sooner Henry could lay his head on his pillow the better, while the parenting would kick in for Antonia and Ben at seven the next morning. May does nights, I’d been told, and parents do mornings. Nancy would certainly have a less exhausting life with an arrangement like this.

  I was first to say ‘Goodnight’ and then quickly made myself scarce. No doubt they would soon be having a little tête-à-tête about the newcomer. Any of us would do the same. ‘Footage’ is what my family calls this, as if someday one of us might write a novel.

  Within moments I was snuggled between the perfectly-ironed, luxury cotton sheets of the double bed. The comfort reminded me of those extraordinary years in my twenties house-sitting and PA-ing for the rich and famous. The last thing I counted was eleven strikes of the church bells, before sleeping deeply as if there was not a thing in the world to worry about.

  It was only 8:30am but I was the last up. There was a note on the table written in biro.

  Help yourself to anything, I’m down at the stable – will be back by 9

  A.

  Antonia was obviously cleaning out Minty, Bella’s horse. A true sacrifice, if you’re the horsey type, is to wait for your three-year-old to grow up a bit before you can ride together, and be rid of the long walks spent watching your little poppet jiggle up and down, and from side to side.

  I flicked on the mesmerising see-through kettle and helped myself to a bowl of muesli from the table. I ate it standing up as I looked out of the tall bay window. Ben and Henry were moving the chicken coop onto slightly fresher grass. It was an amusing sight. Ben is so tall that in order to keep the coop at a flat level when they were walking, Henry had to use all his strength and hold up his end as high as his chest. The poor chickens were shut in their nesting box and even standing inside I could hear a sound so frantic I’d be surprised if any eggs were laid over the rest of the winter.

  I sat down at the table and added more milk to my bowl. As with every commission, I find myself in a privileged house spending time with the pet and its owners. A forty-eight-hour visit of walkies and spontaneous photographs. It’s a key part of my process. I have to capture – intuitively and accurately, hopefully – the character of the pet in my drawing. If I sense the words ‘Good Boysies’ going through the owner’s mind when they admire the finished picture, then I know that I’ve cracked it. I am lucky enough so far not to have had a drawing refused.

  In every commission I am attempting sensitively to portray that look of loyalty that passes from pet to owner. The knack of capturing this is not always simple. There are two parts to it. The first is to get the pet looking straight at me. Then the animal in question must adopt an expression which shows its character: a pricked ear, cocked head, raised eyebrow. I must get at least one photograph with both these things happening at the same time. Two days is almost always necessary to get the little so-and-so to stop looking confused and trust me enough to show some characterful charm.

  As I swallowed my last mouthful of muesli, in came Ben followed by Henry. ‘Morning,’ they said in unison as Situp crept in behind them with a slightly anxious expression and scurried to his basket.

  Henry plonked himself down opposite me and poured cereal into his bowl as if it had no bottom to it. Ben pressed the button on the coffee machine, and over the sound of grinding beans Henry looked at me, his spoon mounded with cereal and bellowed, ‘Very good stuff this.’

  I smiled back at him, briefly taking in his strong and modestly hairy forearms as he rolled up the sleeves of his distressed woollen jumper and Tattersall shirt; this high-quality and well-worn clothing being a sure sign of a true gent. Fortunately, Henry did not carry the two less attractive common features of the aristocracy: buck-teeth and a large triangular nose.

  ‘Coffee?’ Ben asked as the grinding stopped and he raised his eyebrows, or eyebrow in his case, at us both.

  ‘Yes please,’ I replied. ‘The kettle’s just boiled.’

  Henry, mouth full, was nodding too. The cafetière steamed as Ben poured in the water, half watching it and half turned towards us.

  ‘Susie, if I can be a help with Situp today, just say. If you need somewhere quiet there is room for you both in my office above the garage. Henry and I are going to leave you alone. I’ve recruited him to dig manure into the flowerbeds while it’s dry out there. He’s fitter and stronger than all of us put together.’

  ‘Going to be dry all weekend, according to the forecast,’ said Henry, ignoring the compliment.

  ‘That’s great,’ said Ben. ‘It’s so difficult to get any outdoor jobs done at this time of year. These short days of good weather are few and far between.’ Without sitting down he continued talking at the same time as he began to lay the wood-burner in advance of the next fire. ‘When the sun’s set I always feel it’s time to go to bed. If Anty and I are both at home in the week we struggle to keep working when it’s dark.’

  Ben got a firelighter out of the box and
practically put his whole head inside the wood-burner whilst nestling it amongst the kindling. I could only just make out what he was saying. ‘Must be bad for an artist, the winter light?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed as his head reappeared. ‘It’s not great for painting. I do have a daylight bulb in the studio, which makes a difference to drawing, but artificial light is no good for mixing a warm colour. My day at home is over once I’ve lit the fire, and so the temperature dictates the timetable.’

  Ben sprung up and came to sit at the head of the table. He poured us all a cup of coffee and finally sat still for a bit.

  ‘You’re lucky, you two,’ piped up Henry, who had finished his cereal. ‘I’m totally at the will of others and if I stopped when I felt like it, I could be putting someone’s life on the line. My responsibilities are not something I can bat about willy-nilly.’

  Slightly taken aback, no longer assuming he was the city slicker I’d put him down for, I asked Henry what he did.

  ‘I’m a cosmetic surgeon,’ he said with a broad grin.

  It took me completely by surprise. I hadn’t come across one of these in the flesh before.

  ‘No ordinary cosmetic surgeon, Susie,’ said Ben seemingly over-excited by the turn of conversation. ‘Henry’s one of the most successful on Harley Street.’

  This would explain the finely-cut suit he’d arrived in yesterday. He must earn a packet and I guess being on the right side of forty and good-looking pays off in his trade.

  I blushed, remembering my first glance of him coming out of the petrol station kiosk. In my head I did a quick suitability calculation: knee-weakeningly handsome, very rich, similar age, probably unmarried, reassuringly scruffy out of work clothes…But before I convinced myself he was The One in that slightly eager way any single person of a certain age does, Ben distracted me. ‘He’s normally booked up for months with no time for weekends away but now he’s on secondment and only works three days a week,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, not entirely sure what ‘on secondment’ meant.

  ‘We’ve got him here for an extra-long weekend.’ Ben smirked at Henry. ‘Eager to invite yourself to stay, weren’t you, Henry?’

  ‘C’mon Ben, you make it sound like you didn’t want to see me.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t quite so eager on visiting us in Notting Hill.’

  Obviously not keen to keep this banter going, Henry hastily swung a question in my direction, ‘Where do you live Susie?’

  He was interested in me, and that could only be a good sign!

  ‘East Sussex.’

  ‘Really?’ he said as if he was genuinely pleased to hear it.

  ‘Yes, just north of Brighton.’

  ‘What are the chances of that? I’m lecturing three days a week at a Sussex university in Brighton.’ He quickly added, ‘Well, Hove actually.’

  I laughed at his in-joke and very nearly let slip that I’d seen him on my way here.

  ‘What area of cosmetic surgery are you in?’ I was intrigued to know.

  ‘Female body-reshaping.’

  ‘If you Google him he’s top of the listings,’ said Ben helpfully.

  ‘I’ve got the record for the highest number of breast augmentations performed in the shortest amount of time,’ Henry boasted. ‘Five before lunch; that’s one an hour on a good day, or two an hour if you get what I’m saying.’

  Ben laughed. His friend amused him.

  I, on the other hand, was feeling a bit sensitive about the way the conversation I’d initiated was going.

  ‘But it’s not like that any more,’ said Henry. ‘Five years ago I retrained in labiaplasty and now I seem to have hit the jackpot. Who’d have thought that would be the next big thing.’

  ‘Henry! You don’t know Susie nearly well enough for this conversation and so I’m going to stop you right there,’ said Ben, in an effort to prevent his friend embarrassing himself. ‘Let’s just settle for the fact you’re very good at what you do.’

  Henry, now with modest intentions, justified Ben’s comment. ‘I reckon it’s because I don’t let my feelings get involved. Most male surgeons give up the job because they can’t cope emotionally. They fall in love with their clients and as soon as this happens they lose their surgical skills, as they’re too busy worrying about whether the perfect body they’re operating on is ever going to wake up again. I never suffer from this problem.’

  ‘So, no surprise you can’t make a relationship work,’ said Ben. ‘You have to let your heart out of its cage one of these days, my friend.’

  ‘You know me too well,’ said Henry, seemingly unperturbed by Ben’s directness.

  ‘Right, Susie, what’s the plan?’ asked Ben.

  Relieved at the thought of getting up and out of the kitchen I suggested we could go for a walk so that I could get to know Situp.

  ‘If you don’t mind hanging on for half an hour or so until Antonia’s back, then we’ll all go together up the chalk path behind the house to the standing stone on the hill. I’m not sure she’d forgive us if we went without her.’

  ‘Of course, that sounds great. If it’s okay I’ll do some drawings of Situp before we go. Can I take you up on the offer of your office? It would be good to be somewhere quiet.’

  ‘Sure.’ Ben jumped up from the table, ‘Come on boy,’ he said to the basket in the corner. Reluctantly Situp came towards him, snaking around Henry’s outstretched arm trying to pat him.

  ‘Come on doggy, liven up,’ said Ben. ‘He’s not usually this sullen, Susie, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ve two days to cheer him up.’

  ‘When you’ve got your things from the car just go across the yard, up those pine steps.’ Ben pointed out of the window. ‘And straight into the office. I’ll take Situp and his basket there now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said as they left the kitchen. Henry began clearing the table and by the time I’d come back downstairs with my car keys he’d gone and everything was put away. Such good manners for someone who’s had a privileged upbringing.

  Ben’s office was sparse. It was kind of him to let me into his private space. His laptop was open on his desk although not on. By its side was a stress ball and a notepad with various page-references scribbled down. Most likely from the tome which lay by its side. The Codringtons had not lived in the Glebe House long but, still, there really was very little in here. No distraction, I supposed, from Ben’s incomprehensibly dull occupation of writing the definitive history of private banking. The only one of four walls without windows had a long bookshelf with a row of financial guides stretching the length of it. Not even I was tempted to look in them.

  Situp was curled up dozily in a wicker basket in the centre of the room.

  I bent down to look closely at his features and decided to rest on the floor and study his muzzle. He didn’t even stir. Maybe he’d had a bad night’s sleep as dogs do, you know.

  I began with some very quick sketches and then settled in to a more detailed drawing, which involved immense concentration. As it tends to do, this led to a complete annulment of time and I got the fright of my life when, quick as a flash, Situp braced upright and the office door was flung open.

  ‘Hi Susie, that’s us ready to go up the hill,’ announced Henry with gusto.

  Situp scurried outside so quickly it was hard to believe how calm he had been only moments ago.

  Henry hovered in the doorway as I packed up my things. It was very thoughtful of him not to come in. It’s a natural reaction for most people to wander up and look over your shoulder, rarely asking whether you mind or not. Most stare as if they have the right to do so, disregarding the fact this is your hard work. I don’t often take offence, as I accept that it’s just part and parcel of being an artist. But there is quite a large bit of me that’s relieved when people don’t mosey over, half-pretending not to look.

  Together, Henry and I descended the steps and met up with the others in the yard. I sprung the boot of my car open, and
swapped my drawing things for my outdoor kit. Henry offered his arm to stop me wobbling on one foot as I squeezed the other into a Wellington boot.

  ‘Morning Susie,’ said Antonia who was looking county in jodhpurs and patent riding boots, with Bella sitting atop a small ochre-coloured pony. ‘I hope you slept okay and the bells didn’t wake you.’

  ‘Nothing would have woken me in that incredibly comfy bed.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so pleased.’ She turned to wipe a tear from po-faced Bella’s cheek. There had obviously been a tantrum.

  ‘Right let’s go,’ said Antonia, and then on realising her husband wasn’t there, shouted, ‘BEN!’

  On cue he came out of the house. ‘Alright Anty, I was just locking up.’

  I slipped my camera into my pocket and all together we set off round the back of the house and up the chalk path.

  The Purbeck Hills are one of my favourite stretches of downland in southern England. Ancient and riven with mystery. We followed a route up through a cavern of green fields. Antonia led Minty, with Bella wobbling precariously from side to side in the saddle, although Antonia didn’t seem the slightest bit worried by that. Ben and Henry marched on up front and I lagged behind, taking in Situp’s motion as he raced up ahead and back down to us again, tail wagging at last. Calling him he bounded towards me, full of the thrill of being outside in the crisp winter air.

  I snapped away with my camera as we walked for over an hour. The November sky was the pale blue colour it goes when the air is cold and the sun is blazing. And while it was easy to get this delightful dog to express the endearing qualities of its character, frustratingly in almost every shot he had his tongue hanging out. A difficult thing for a dog to put away when he’s hot and well exercised.

  It wasn’t until we were back in the yard, Situp sitting tall, left ear raised ever so slightly, legs ready to spring at any moment and eyes looking at me with adoration that I snapped a picture with lightning reaction, catching his pose. I knew at once that it was ‘the one’.