Twenties Girl

“That’ll be five pounds.”

Five whole pounds? Just to see a vicarage? Bloody hell.

“Here’s a guide.” She hands me a leaflet, but I don’t look at it. I’m not exactly interested in the house. I walk swiftly away from the woman, into a sitting room filled with old-fashioned sofas and rugs, and look all around.

“Sadie?” I hiss. “Sadie, are you here?”

“This would have been where Malory spent his evenings.” The woman’s voice makes me jump. I didn’t realize she’d followed me.

“Oh, right.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Lovely. I’ll just go through here…” I head into an adjacent dining room, which looks like a stage set for a period drama. “Sadie?”

“This was the family dining room, of course…”

For God’s sake. People should be able to take tours of vicarages without being followed. I head over to the window and look out at the garden, where the family I saw before is wandering around. There’s not a whisper of Sadie.

This was a stupid idea. She’s not here. Why would she hang around the house of the guy who broke her heart, anyway? I turn around to leave and almost bump into the woman, standing behind me.

“I take it you’re an admirer of his work?” She smiles.

Work? Whose work?

“Er… yes,” I say hastily. “Of course. A great admirer. Very great.” For the first time I glance down at the leaflet in my hand. The title reads: Welcome to the House of Cecil Malory, and underneath is a landscape painting of some cliffs.

Cecil Malory. He’s a famous artist, isn’t he? I mean, not like Picasso, but I’ve definitely heard of him. For the first time I feel a spark of interest.

“So is this where Cecil Malory once lived or something?” I ask.

“Of course.” She looks taken aback by the question. “That’s the reason for the house being restored as a museum. He lived here ’til 1927.”

Until 1927? Now I’m genuinely interested. If he was living here in 1927, Sadie would have known him, surely. They would have hung out together.

“Was he a friend of the vicar’s son? A guy called Stephen Nettleton?”

“Dear…” The woman eyes me, apparently perplexed at the question. “Surely you know that Stephen Nettleton was Cecil Malory. He never used his family name for his work.”

Stephen was Cecil Malory?

Stephen… is Cecil Malory?

I’m too gobsmacked to speak.

“He later changed his name by deed poll,” she continues. “As a protest against his parents, it’s thought. After his move to France…”

I’m only half listening. My mind is in turmoil. Stephen became a famous painter. This makes no sense. Sadie never told me he was a famous painter. She would have boasted unbearably about it. Didn’t she know?

“… and never reconciled before his tragically young death.” The woman ends on a solemn note, then smiles. “Perhaps you would like to see the bedrooms?”

“No. I mean… Sorry.” I rub my forehead. “I’m a bit… confused. Steph-I mean Cecil Malory-was a friend of my great-aunt, you see. She lived in this village. She knew him. But I don’t think she ever realized he became famous.”

“Ah.” The woman nods knowledgeably. “Well, of course, he wasn’t during his lifetime. It wasn’t until long after his death that interest began in his paintings, first in France and then in his homeland. Since he died so young, there is of course a limited body of work, which is why his paintings became so prized and valuable. In the 1980s they shot up in value. That’s when his name really became known widely.”

The 1980s. Sadie had her stroke in 1981. She went into care. No one told her anything. She had no idea what was going on in the outside world.

I look up from my reverie to see the woman giving me another odd look. I bet she’s wishing she could give me my five quid back and get rid of me.

“Er… Sorry. I’m just thinking. Did he work in a shed in the garden?”

“Yes.” The woman’s face lights up. “If you’re interested, we do sell a number of books on Malory…” She hurries out and returns holding a slim hardback. “Details about his early life are a little sketchy, as many village records were lost during the war, and by the time the research was being done, many of his contemporaries had passed away. However, there are some lovely accounts of his time in France, when his landscape drawing really took off.” She hands me the book, which has a painting of the sea on the front.

“Thanks.” I take it from her and start flipping through. Almost at once I come across a black-and-white photograph of a man painting on a cliff, captioned A rare image of Cecil Malory at work. I can instantly see why he and Sadie would have been lovers. He’s tall and dark and powerful-looking, with dark eyes and an ancient tattered shirt.

Bastard.

He probably thought he was a genius. He probably thought he was too good for a normal relationship. Even though he’s long dead, I’m fighting an urge to yell at him. How could he treat Sadie so badly? How could he go off to France and forget about her?

“He was a towering talent.” The woman is following my gaze. “His early death was one of the tragedies of the twentieth century.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he deserved it.” I give her a baleful look. “Maybe he should have been nicer to his girlfriend. Did you think of that?”

The woman looks totally confused. She opens her mouth and closes it again.

I flip on, past pictures of the sea and more cliffs and a line drawing of a hen… and then I suddenly freeze. An eye is looking out of the book at me. It’s a blown-up detail from a painting. Just one eye, with long, long lashes and a teasing glint.

I know that eye.

“Excuse me.” I can barely get the words out. “What’s this?” I’m jabbing at the book. “Who’s this? Where does this come from?”

“Dear…” I can see the woman trying to keep her patience. “You must know that, surely. That’s a detail from one of his most famous paintings. We have a version in the library if you’d like to have a look-”

“Yes.” I’m already moving. “I would. Please. Show me.”

She leads me down a creaking corridor, through to a dim, carpeted room. There are bookshelves on every wall, old leather chairs, and a large painting hanging over the fireplace.

“There we are,” she says fondly. “Our pride and joy.”

I can’t reply. My throat’s too tight. I stand motionless, clutching the book, just staring.

There she is. Gazing out of the ornate gilt frame, looking as though she owns the world, is Sadie.

I’ve never seen her as radiant as she looks in this picture. I’ve never seen her so relaxed. So happy. So beautiful. Her eyes are massive, dark, luminous with love.

She’s reclining on a chaise, naked except for a gauze fabric draped over her shoulder and hips, which only partially obscures the view. Her shingled hair exposes the length of her elegant neck. She’s wearing glittering earrings. And around her neck, falling down between her pale, gauzy breasts, twined around her fingers, tumbling in a shimmering pool of beads, is the dragonfly necklace.

I can suddenly hear her voice again in my ears. I was happy when I wore it… I felt beautiful. Like a goddess.

It all makes sense. This is why she wanted the necklace. This is what it means to her. At that time in her life, she was happy. Never mind what happened before or after. Never mind that her heart got broken. At that precise moment, everything was perfect.

“It’s… amazing.” I wipe a tear from my eye.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” The woman gives me a pleased look. Obviously I’m finally behaving as proper art-lovers are supposed to. “The detail and brushwork are just exquisite. Every bead in the necklace is a tiny masterpiece. It’s painted with such love.” She regards the portrait affectionately. “And all the more special, of course, because it’s the only one.”

“What do you mean?” I say, confused. “Cecil Malory painted lots of pictures, didn’t he?”