‘I don’t know,’ I said, trying my best to hide my irritation. ‘To look at it more closely, I suppose. To put the pieces together.’
‘Odelle, does Mr Scott understand that Mr Reede would like to make this painting a big splash – not just for the Skelton, but for himself? He spoke of the possibility of an exhibition. Is that what Mr Scott wants?’
‘I don’t know what he wants. But surely an exhibition can only be a good thing.’
‘Men like Edmund Reede are circus masters. They will spin a reputation from thin air. They will wrap it up and increase its wonder, just so what they possess increases in value. What I mean is, Odelle – be careful to remind Mr Scott what he’s actually looking at. Don’t let Reede take what he has away from him.’
‘But I thought you agreed with Mr Reede that the Skelton should keep his painting safe.’
‘Only until Mr Scott has made his decision.’ She took a long drag on her cigarette and stared into the hollyhocks. ‘If I was Mr Scott, I would keep it. I would keep it and enjoy it. His mother clearly did, and so should he.’
‘But if it is an important painting, he could sell it, he could use the money. He’s stuck, you see.’
She turned to me. ‘So he does want to sell it. He’s worried about money.’
‘I don’t know the ins and outs. But the painting could be useful. If there was an exhibition of it – a long--lost painting come to light, that sort of thing – I’m sure that would be popular. Lawrie could be involved. He could help with organizing. He’s very clever. Enthusiastic. -People like him.’
‘You’re not his mother.’
‘And you’re not mine.’
The words came out before I could stop them. Quick winced; I was horrified. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry—-’
‘No – you’re right,’ she said. ‘You’re quite right. You must think I’m interfering.’
‘I didn’t mean – I’m only trying to help him.’
‘Mr Scott isn’t stuck,’ Quick said. ‘I’m sure he could do many things. His existence doesn’t hinge on that painting. He should just take it home and enjoy it for what it is. A very good painting – an excellent painting, designed for private pleasure.’
‘But isn’t it better that more than one person can see it?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that the ethos of a place like the Skelton – shouldn’t it be shared?’
‘That’s fair. But like Reede said, we don’t know enough about the painting yet. We need to go slowly. You don’t just happen upon a painting like that, Odelle. -People always have something to hide. Listen to the words Mr Scott isn’t saying.’
‘Lawrie is an honest person,’ I said, my voice rising again.
‘Of course,’ Quick said, her own words tightening with emotion. ‘Of course he is. But you can still be honest at the same time as having something to hide. And if there is something to hide, then the Skelton could look very foolish indeed.’
She levered herself out of the chair and walked slowly into the cottage. I sat, stupefied, unable to think properly. What was going on here? The bees appeared to drone again, looping from flower to flower. Above, the sky was now cloudless. Suddenly everything seemed so very alive, vibrating, the green leaves turning slightly gold, moving in a psychedelic pattern as the sunshine rippled.
For a mad moment I imagined Quick might be fetching a revolver, that she was going to point it at me and demand answers that I couldn’t give. Something had switched rapidly over the brief course of our picnic, a change of energy like the light through the leaves, impossible to catch. But when Quick came back, she was holding a beautiful octavo leather notebook. ‘I bought this for you,’ she said, holding it out.
I could almost laugh, thinking about this scene now – no, it was not a firearm, but Quick knew full well it was still a weapon.
‘For me?’ I said.
‘Just a small present, to say thank you for doing such a wonderful job. I’m very glad we found you, Odelle. Or you found us, more to the point. Happy Birthday.’
I took the notebook from her. It was handmade, thick calfskin leather with a matte ruby finish. The pages were the colour of cream. It was a Stradivarius of notebooks, compared to the flimsy numbers I bought in Woolworth’s. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It’s so kind.’
From somewhere over the fences, a lawn mower ground itself up to a mechanical whine, and a child shrieked. ‘Well,’ said Quick peaceably. ‘Don’t they always say? You never know when inspiration is going to strike.’
IX
On Sunday, I sat on my bed with my new notebook from Quick, and thought about what she’d said in the garden. Like most artists, everything I produced was connected to who I was – and so I suffered according to how my work was received. The idea that anyone might be able to detach their personal value from their public output was revolutionary. I didn’t know if it was possible, even desirable. Surely it would affect the quality of the work?
Still, I knew I’d gone too far in the opposite direction, and something had to change. Ever since I could pick up a pen, other -people’s pleasure was how I’d garnered attention and defined success. When I began receiving public acknowledgement for a private act, something was essentially lost. My writing became the axis upon which all my identity and happiness hinged. It was now outward--looking, a self--conscious performance. I was asked to repeat the pleasure for -people, again and again, until the facsimile of my act became the act itself.