Reede laughed; a twitchy joviality. ‘Look, old chap, I’m sorry if I was blunt. We get a damned lot of -people coming in here with Auntie Edna’s heirlooms or something they bought for three bob off a bloke in Brick Lane, and you get a bit sick of it. But what you’ve got there looks interesting. If you let me take a look, I might be able to tell you why.’
Lawrie hesitated, before placing the painting back on the counter. He unwrapped the rest of the paper. Reede stepped towards it, drinking in the image, his fingers hovering over the paint, the second girl’s floating head, her snaking plait, the lion’s passive stare. ‘My goodness,’ he breathed. ‘Where did your mother get this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you ask her?’
Lawrie glanced at me. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Ah.’ Reede hesitated. ‘So – have you any idea where she might have got it from?’
‘She bought most of her things from junk shops or flea markets, sometimes at auctions, but this one has been around since I was a little boy. It was always hanging on her wall, whatever house we moved to.’
‘Where was it hanging last?’
‘Her house in Surrey.’
‘Did she ever talk about it to you?’
‘Why would she do that?’
Reede gently picked up the painting and looked on the back. ‘No frame, just a hook,’ he murmured. ‘Well,’ he said, addressing Lawrie. ‘If she always had it hanging up, it might have had particular meaning to her.’
‘I think she just thought it was pretty,’ Lawrie said.
‘Pretty is not the word I would use.’
‘What word would you use, sir?’
Reede blinked away Lawrie’s tone. ‘On first impressions, “brave”. And provenance matters, Mr Scott, if you choose to exhibit things, or put things on the market. I assume that’s why you brought it to us.’
‘So it’s worth something?’
There was a pause. Reede breathed deeply, his eyes pinned to the picture. ‘Mr Scott, may I take you to my office so I can take a closer look at this?’
‘All right.’
‘Miss Bastien, bring us coffee.’
Reede picked up the painting and gestured for Lawrie to follow him. I watched them walk up the spiral staircase, Lawrie looking back over his shoulder at me, his eyes wide with excitement, giving me a thumbs up.
OUTSIDE, THE RAIN WAS BECOMING a torrent. I scoured the square for Quick, but of course, by now, she had gone. With her rolled--up umbrella in my hand like a lance, I ran along the left side of the square and turned up towards Piccadilly, blindly hoping I would see her. I took another right, unconsciously heading towards the tube station, and then I saw her, a block ahead. The traffic honked and screeched, and the statue of Eros loomed.
‘Quick!’ I yelled. ‘Your umbrella!’ Heads turned to look at me, but I didn’t care. Quick hurried on, so I ran faster, reaching out to touch her arm. With lightning speed she pulled away from me and whirled round. Her expression seemed fixed on some distant point well beyond the bustling road, the tall and soot--encrusted buildings, the colourful billboards, the pedestrians hopping desperately around the puddles. Then she focused on me, almost with relief. She was drenched, and though her face was sopping wet, I couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears.
‘I forgot something,’ she said. ‘At home – I’ve forgotten – I need to go back and get it.’
‘Here,’ I said, ‘your umbrella. Let me call you a cab.’
She looked down at her umbrella, then up at me. ‘You’re soaking, Odelle. Why on earth did you run out?’
‘Because – well, because you did. And look at you.’ I put my hand on her wet sleeve and she stared at it momentarily. I was surprised by how thin her arm felt to touch.
‘Here.’ She pulled the umbrella out of my hands and opened it above our heads. We stared at each other under the black canopy, the roar of rain bashing down upon its flimsy structure, -people brushing us as they ran to and fro for cover. Her curls were matted to her head; her powder had washed off her face, I could see the true flesh of her skin – and strangely, without the make--up, it looked more like a mask. She went as if to say something, but seemed to stop herself. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she murmured, briefly closing her eyes. ‘It’s a bloody monsoon.’
‘Shall I call you a cab?’
‘I’ll get the tube. You don’t have a cigarette, do you?’
‘No,’ I said, disconcerted, for surely she knew by now I didn’t smoke.
‘That man – how did he come to the Skelton?’ she asked. ‘Do you know him? You seemed to know him.’
I looked down. Huge puddles were forming around our shoes. I thought of the coffee I was supposed to be making, how long I could be out here before I lost my job. ‘I only met him once before – at Cynth’s wedding. He found me again today.’
‘Found you? That’s fairly persistent behaviour. He’s not – bothering you, is he?’
‘Not at all. He’s fine,’ I said, a touch defensive. Why was Quick talking about Lawrie, when she was the one acting strange?
‘All right.’ She seemed to calm a bit. ‘Look, Odelle – I have to go. Tell him not to bother you with that painting.’
‘Mr Reede has already seen it.’
‘What?’
‘He came in shortly after you. Said that you and he had an early meeting. He had one look at it and took it to his office.’
She looked over my shoulder, in the direction of the Skelton. ‘What did Mr Reede say, when he saw it?’
‘He seemed . . . excited.’
Quick lowered her eyes, her expression closed. In that moment, she looked very old. She gripped my hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you, Odelle – for my umbrella. You’re a tribune, you really are. But take it, I’m going underground. Go back to the office.’
‘Quick, wait—-’
She thrust the umbrella into my hand, and turned down the steps of the station. Before I could even call again to her, Quick had disappeared.
January 1936
1