My Margaret, Your Toshie E-Book

Keith Adamson

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 266

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A novel based on the intertwined lives of Margaret MacDonald & Charles Rennie Mackintosh. War has broken out and architect Charles Rennie Mackintosh is in self-imposed exile from his native Glasgow, painting wildflowers in watercolour in a sleepy Suffolk village. As a man from 'foreign parts', however, he falls prey to the suspicions of apprehensive villagers, even finding himself accused of spying. With tensions running high, it is his wife Margaret who comes to the rescue by engineering their escape to Chelsea. There they find themselves in a burgeoning artistic scene where old friends encourage them to seek out a completely new life in a rather different part of the world. Will this be the turning point? Can Margaret's continuing love and support be just the leverage Charles needs to reinvent himself as an artist?

Leseprobe

KEITH ADAMSON is a retired architectural technician, living with his partner in south-west Spain after having worked for over fifty years in the construction industry in Glasgow. An appreciation of Mackintosh is in the blood of anyone associated with architecture in Scotland, and Adamson considers himself no exception. Writing has always been his main other sphere of interest and this is how he continues to spend his days, having a number of unpublished novels on his hard drive. In the 1980s and ’90s he had some success with a few short stories included in various anthologies such as Oranges and Lemons, The Freezer Counter and Borderline, the Mainstream Book of Scottish Gay Writing. This is his first published novel.

First published 2023

ISBN: 978-1-80425-096-9

Passages on pp 106–71 are freely adapted by the author from Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s letters to Margaret Macdonald Mackintosh, as published in Pamela Robertson (ed), The Chronycle: The Letters of Charles Rennie Mackintosh to Margaret Macdonald Mackintosh, 1927 (2001), © Hunterian Art Gallery, University of Glasgow.

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

Typeset in 10.5 point Sabon by Lapiz

© Keith Adamson 2023

Contents

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

PART II

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

Afterword

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

PART I

CHAPTER 1

LIKE ANY TEN-YEAR-OLD boy, Billy English had little sense of the passing of time. When he wandered along the foreshore at Walberswick-on-Blyth, engrossed in beachcombing, or simply letting his attention be caught by an oystercatcher that had been keeping just a matter of yards away from him, he hardly noticed how close the sun was to the horizon or how soon it would be dark. Only too well aware of her son’s failing in this respect, Martha resigned herself to trusting that his stomach wouldn’t fail to bring him home – indeed, he would probably catch the scent of her boiling pot of mutton, and follow it back to the kitchen as unerringly as a foxhound on the trail of its quarry.

Nevertheless, the sound of the latch on the kitchen door made her heart jump with relief, and she tried to feign nonchalance as she asked, ‘So, where have you been to this hour?’

She already knew the answer, because it was always the same: ‘Oh, just walking. Hunting for whelks.’ Billy took off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. ‘I saw a starfish in one of the rock pools.’

‘Did you, now?’ Despite herself, Martha always found herself drawn into her son’s account of his day.

‘There were two herring gulls fighting on one of the breakwaters. One of them might have taken some scraps out of a bin.’

Billy made a bid to help himself to one of the potatoes draining in the colander, but his mother slapped the back of his hand.

‘That man was there again,’ he said. ‘Near the ferry.’

That wasn’t something she wanted to hear, and a little knot of anxiety returned to her throat. ‘What man?’

‘You know, the man with the cloak and the funny hat.’

She remembered Tom having said that the newcomer, with his deerstalker hat and pipe, bore a resemblance to Sherlock Holmes.

‘What was he doing?’

‘Nothing much. He went limping down to the shore and got so near the water I’ll bet he got his boots wet. Then he just stood and looked out to sea. I watched him for a bit, but I got bored after a while and it was getting dark, so I thought I’d better get back along the beach.’

He made a second attempt to steal a small potato, this time with success, and continued his story with his mouth full. ‘Later on, after I got back to the green, when I came around the corner, he suddenly turned up right in front of me. The moon was up by that time, but I still never saw him until he was almost on top of me. He made me jump good and proper.’

‘Did he speak to you?’

‘Yes, he said, “Did you enjoy your walk?” He speaks funny. Like a foreigner.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said I had enjoyed it very much, thank you, sir.’

‘And then…?’

‘And then I came home.’

Martha could tell there was nothing more to be gleaned from Billy about the man with the club foot. She told him to go and wash his hands for supper, before hauling the mutton bone out of the pot on the stove and placing it on the board so she could attack it with her cleaver. The stranger had been the subject of speculation between her and her husband, not to mention others in the village, for several months now, and Tom was a little wary of him. The couple had come down from Scotland last year, a matter of weeks before the war with Germany was announced, and were renting rooms in Westwood Cottage. It was Mr Mackintosh’s habit to walk down to the Anchor Inn of an evening and take a drink or two. Sometimes he went to the Bell Hotel, or to both, one after the other. But he always sat on his own and never spoke to anyone except the landlord.

When Tom got home, the girls came through to the kitchen and the family took their places around the table.

‘You might not get any more meat after this,’ said Martha. ‘It’s getting increasingly difficult to come by. Mr Round kept this joint by for me, but he warned me it could be the last one.’

‘Then we’ll just have to eat beans,’ said Esther, and Billy blew a raspberry.

‘That’s enough, Billy,’ said Tom.

‘Dad,’ asked Billy, ‘why do we have to keep the blinds down now?’

‘It’s the blackout,’ said Tom. ‘If the Germans come over, they’ll look out for lights on the ground to target their bombs.’

Martha gave Tom a look and shook her head. She didn’t like such talk in front of the children.

‘They better not drop any bombs on us,’ said Billy.

‘Billy bumped into the Scotsman again today,’ said Martha, changing the subject. ‘He asked Billy if he’d enjoyed his walk.’

Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps you should stay away from him.’

‘I don’t see why. He’s okay. He gave me half of one of his sandwiches. And he’s a good drawer. He showed me how to draw a daisy.’

‘He showed me how to draw a daisy!’ said Esther, mimicking her brother. ‘Is that what you want to do? Draw daisies?’

‘He draws buildings too. He showed me a drawing he’s made of the smoke shed.’

Tom smirked. ‘He could get into trouble drawing that. It’s not just a smoke shed.’

The children looked at him quizzically.

‘What is it, then?’ asked Martha.

But Tom just tapped the side of his nose.

* * *

The English family weren’t the only ones wondering about the strange Scotsman. Almost everyone in the village was anxious to know what his business was and the Cooper girl, who was a scullery maid at The Towers, just along from Westwood Cottage, was a rich source of gossip.

‘That man,’ she said to Martha, while she was queuing in the butcher’s shop, ‘the one staying in the cottage. He’s supposed to be Scotch, but he doesn’t sound like any Scotch person I’ve ever heard. None of the herring girls down at the harbour speak like him.’

‘So, what do you reckon, then, Doris? Where do you think he’s from?’

‘Well, of course I don’t really know, but it could be that he’s just covering up his real accent. Which just might be…’ she lowered her voice. ‘Maybe he’s German.’

Martha was horrified. ‘What about his wife? Is she a German too?’

Doris put her finger to her lips and glanced quickly about her before replying. ‘Could be… I don’t know. But I know this. She’s gone off up to Glasgow and left her husband to fend for himself. I know because Mrs Barnet told me, and her husband has the keys to the cottage.’

‘That’s strange.’

‘And on Tuesday night I saw this lamp flashing in the upstairs window. Like maybe he was signalling to somebody out at sea.’

By now, Martha was convinced that all was not well and whispered conspiratorially.

‘Perhaps we should tell somebody.’

Doris nodded. ‘I think we should. Somebody in authority.’

* * *

As Margaret Mackintosh came within sight of Westwood Cottage after trudging the two miles from the station, she was puzzled to see the house in darkness. Letting herself into the parlour, she found the room in a state of disarray, as if it had been broken into. Every cupboard door was open, and drawers were pulled out with their contents all over the floor. One of the chairs was tipped over on its back and the standard lamp was leaning at an angle against the wall. There was no sign of her husband.

At The Bell, everyone looked up as Margaret walked in. She didn’t usually grace the bar with her presence, and the sudden appearance of this statuesque lady with luxuriant red hair and calm grey eyes, daring to enter such an establishment unaccompanied, commanded the attention of both clientele and staff.

‘Has anyone seen Mr Mackintosh? Has he been in here this evening?’ she asked, addressing nobody in particular and trying to disguise the rising panic in her voice.

The barman put down the glass that he had been wiping, beckoned to her and leaned over the counter, speaking quietly.

‘Mrs Mackintosh, your husband has been taken to the police station in Southwold. I think you should go there right away.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘That’s all I know, I’m afraid.’

Margaret looked around, wondering if anyone could drive her there, failing which she’d have to persuade the ferryman to take her across the River Blyth. Tom English had been watching her since she came in, and now caught her eye. He knocked back his drink and came over to the bar.

‘I need to go into Southwold, Mrs Mackintosh. Why don’t you come with me?’

Grateful for the offer, she suspected that Tom was simply being kind; but it had been a long and tiring journey from Glasgow down to London, and then the little train to Walberswick seemed to take an age. The thought of a further two-mile walk into the town was almost too much to bear.

‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea what’s happened? The cottage looks as though it’s been ransacked.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know any more than you do. I’m sure there’s just been some sort of mix-up.’

Margaret shook her head, imagining that her husband had somehow got himself into a drunken brawl, although that wouldn’t account for the state of the cottage. While she waited for Tom to fetch his trap, all sorts of scenarios flitted through her mind.

* * *

‘Yes,’ said the sergeant at the desk. ‘We have your husband in the cell. He was arrested by the military this afternoon. There are some questions about security.’

‘Security?’ Margaret couldn’t understand what he was talking about. ‘Of the cottage?’

‘Of the nation, Mrs Mackintosh.’

Suddenly the reason for the cottage being in such a state became clear. ‘What on earth did they think…?’

‘You’d have to ask them, Mrs Mackintosh.’ He handed her a card bearing the name of a captain in the Royal Navy.

‘Can I see my husband?’

A visitor in the cell wouldn’t altogether comply with protocol, but there was something about the lady’s manner and bearing that made it impossible to deny her request.

The sergeant led Margaret to the block at the rear of the police station, opened the cell door and waited outside. ‘You have ten minutes,’ he announced.

Charles was in a state of high agitation. ‘Well, am I glad to see you. For God’s sake, tell these stupid buggers that they’re mistaken.’

Margaret put her hand on his arm and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. ‘Toshie, you have to keep your temper. Language won’t help.’

‘I suppose. Tell me about your trip. How was your sister?’

‘Oh… the usual.’ Margaret ran her hand through her hair. ‘Frances won’t listen to reason as far as Bertie’s concerned. I told her we all love Bertie, but…. Well, it didn’t do any good. She still dotes on him, of course.’

She sat down on the hard bench that would serve as a bed. ‘We’ll talk about that later. Tell me how on earth you ended up in here.’

‘It was a raid. Twelve bloody soldiers with bayonets, for God’s sake. They thought I was using the oil lamp to signal to the Hun. Can you imagine? I was only trying to light the bloody thing.’

‘But you told them…?’

‘Of course I told them. They wouldn’t listen to anything I said.’

‘I hope you kept your temper.’

‘No, I bloody well did not. They had no business being there. No right to search through my stuff as if I were some common criminal. They ended up having to restrain me physically.’

Margaret’s heart sank. ‘Well, that wouldn’t have helped. What were they looking for?’

‘Evidence that I was a spy, apparently. Of course, they found the letters from Hoffman and the ones from Olbrich and Hermann Muthesius. I saw the officer pick them up, and when I tried to grab them out of his hand, they fell on the floor, and then everyone could see they were in German. Can you imagine? They seem to think they contain some sort of code.’

Margaret could imagine only too well. If they thought he was signalling to the Germans out at sea, and then came across all that correspondence from Germany and Austria, it was hardly looking good.

‘Oh, and the sketch I did of the smoke house. They took that. “You have no business making drawings of the harbour,” they said. Obviously, the smoke house is the nerve centre of the War Office.’

Margaret began to see the funny side and a barely suppressed smile flickered across her face.

‘It’s not funny. Tell them I’m a famous architect and they have to let me go.’

She took his hand. ‘You’re going to have to stay here tonight. I’ll wire Patrick Geddes in the morning and see if he can help.’ Patrick had been a good friend to them both while he had been living in Edinburgh, and had earned himself a number of influential acquaintances during his time in London.

In bad grace, Charles accepted her word for it.

* * *

In the morning, Charles was taken to the town hall and questioned by a magistrate and the captain of a Royal Navy ship that was anchored out in the bay. Margaret had walked over from Walberswick and provided the court with her and her husband’s personal details. She had to spell her own name, Margaret Mempes Macdonald Mackintosh, three times before they got it right. Her husband took the view that the whole affair was beneath contempt and refused to say anything. The officials were clearly running out of patience, although they were inclined to heed Margaret, whose manner was that of a lady of a substance and somebody to be reckoned with.

‘These letters,’ she said, ‘are mostly personal correspondence. Charles is an artist and has a publisher in Berlin. If it hadn’t been for the war, we were planning to visit Paris, Berlin and Vienna.’ They were clearly sceptical. ‘I can read German,’ she offered. ‘If it helps, I could translate them for you.’

‘My dear lady,’ sighed the magistrate, ‘we can hardly take your word for the content of these letters. We would have to get them translated by a disinterested third party. Somebody from Cambridge.’

‘And in the meantime…?’

‘In the meantime, we’ll hold on to them. The best we can offer you now is that your husband be subject to house arrest in Walberswick. We’ll keep his passport until the situation is resolved.’

* * *

When they returned to the cottage, Charles looked disconsolately at the mess, but made no attempt to pick anything up. He walked over to the window and stared out across the sea.

‘Can you imagine? Me. A spy?’

‘How supercilious they were,’ said Margaret. ‘Self-important, pumped-up petty officials.’

‘That magistrate kept calling me “Mr Rennie-Mackintosh” as if I were some double-barrelled aristocrat.’

‘Mr and Mrs Rennie-Mackintosh,’ said Margaret in a high voice, imitating the announcement of a footman at a society dinner, ‘from Walberswick.’

Charles began to laugh. ‘The Rennie-Mackintoshes fae Glesca,’ he corrected, and for no apparent reason, their laughter rose to near hysteria as a relief from the nightmare of the last two days.

The next day, Margaret received a call from Anna Geddes. Her husband was heavily engaged in checking the proofs of his latest book, but of course he would pull whatever strings were necessary to get Toshie off the hook. She added that Patrick had insisted the Mackintoshes come to stay with them in London, for clearly they would no longer be welcome in Walberswick.

‘It’s going to be like being cast out of paradise,’ said Charles. ‘I’m not sure if London’s the answer.’

Margaret could see only too well that this was the case. Toshie loved it here, and he had been productive with his watercolours, some of which she’d been able to sell. Admittedly, she’d had to approach his old client, Mr Davidson, but he was of a generous nature and had said he’d be delighted to buy one of Toshie’s paintings. How were they going to live in London, so far from the natural surroundings that Charles craved, and with the ever-present threat of air-raids?

‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ she said.

‘I’m sure we shall,’ said Charles. ‘But it won’t be like the old days.’

CHAPTER 2

‘OF COURSE, IT can never be like the old days,’ said Margaret, as Meg Morris served her tea in the first-floor sitting-room of her home in Cheyne Walk. ‘Those days are long gone.’

The Geddesses had made them feel very welcome, and after staying with them for a few days, Margaret and Charles developed a liking for the area and thought they should find a place of their own. Margaret began investigating some properties and soon found them a house to rent in Chelsea with a studio that met both their artistic requirements, and before long they had sought out a social scene of like-minded people: a collection of artists and writers that felt like their natural milieu. The group met informally at the Blue Cockatoo, a restaurant owned and run by a formidable lady with a bouffant hairstyle, by the name of Hettie Swaisland, and it was there that Charles and Margaret were able to renew their acquaintance with the painter John Duncan Fergusson, whom they had met on a few brief occasions in Glasgow shortly after they were married. Fergusson was now living in London with his partner Margaret Morris, with whom he had fallen in love while studying painting in Paris. She was an accomplished and innovative dancer, seventeen years his junior, but their attraction to each other had been instant. The couple, who preferred to be known as Fergus and Meg, had spent a year in France together before heading back to Britain and taking up residence in Chelsea.

‘What about the old days?’ asked Meg, offering Margaret another scone, which she politely declined. ‘How did you and Toshie meet?’

Margaret sipped her tea. ‘Well, my life changed when I was eighteen and my father decided to up sticks and move the whole family back to Glasgow. I suppose he had always been a little homesick for Scotland. He installed my brother Charles as a clerk in my uncle’s firm of solicitors, in which he himself had been a partner before he and my mother moved to Tipton. Frances and I had both been at art college in Stoke, and would have been quite content to stay there. But you know how it is – when you’re young, you think your father knows everything, and when he said we’d do better in Glasgow, we thought he must be right.’

‘And was he?’

‘Yes, as it turned out. In more ways than one. He wasted no time enrolling us in the Glasgow School of Art, and we both soon found our feet. That was where it all started. I can’t remember exactly when we met Toshie and Bertie, but we had that instant connection… you know, as if we had always been friends. So, we became known as “The Four”: Toshie, Bertie, Frances and me, and we were the first of “The Immortals”.’ She laughed at the thought of it. ‘Sounds a bit ironic now, doesn’t it?’

‘“The Immortals?”’

‘That was the name we adopted for our study group. Really, it was all John Keppie’s doing.’

‘Toshie’s boss?’

‘Yes. He used to invite us and some of the other students down at weekends to stay in a pair of bungalows that he rented in Ayrshire at a little fishing village called Dunure. He was there, of course, and both of his sisters, Jessie and Janet. I don’t know why we considered ourselves immortal – the arrogance of youth, I suppose. But we worked hard and played hard, as it were. It was an extremely stimulating environment. We used to call it, of all things, the “Roaring Camp”.’

‘That’s an odd name.’

‘I think it was from a short story one of us had read about the gold rush in California called The Luck of the Roaring Camp. Dunure seemed a bit primitive to us – like a gold rush shanty town. But those weekends were truly beautiful. It was a lovely time for us all.’

‘So, you were thrown together, you and Toshie?’

Margaret laughed again. ‘Well, no. Not exactly. Toshie was engaged to John’s sister Jessie. She had set her sights on him from the start, and I was the last person to think of coming between them.’

‘And Toshie…? Did he return her affections?’

‘Well, you know what he’s like…’

Meg said nothing, waiting for Margaret to expand on her theme.

‘He neither encouraged nor discouraged her. It was as if he accepted that they were somehow destined to be together and went along with it. I’m not sure he was ever in love with her, to be honest. He had asked John for permission to marry her, since their father was no longer alive, and John had told him they should wait until Toshie became better established.’

‘And all this time you were waiting in the wings…’

‘No, not really. It wasn’t like that. We were like a family, like brothers and sisters, although there was never any doubt that Frances and Bertie would wind up together. Theirs was a match made in heaven.’

Meg wanted all the details, and decided to refill the teapot, excusing herself to the kitchen where she set the kettle back on the hob.

Left to herself, Margaret closed her eyes, allowing the memories of those summers to come flooding back. How they would take advantage of the long dry days to paint in the open air, and carry a picnic with them, so that work was always leavened with pleasure. She had often wondered if John’s motives were slightly cynical because his employees would appreciate his generosity and pay it back with interest in terms of their loyalty. But even if that were the case, she realised how lucky they had been to be given the opportunity to draw and paint in that free and loving atmosphere. They had been like young plants, nurtured and watered until they responded by issuing blooms infused with scent and colour.

* * *

‘Don’t you want to join the others?’

John had found Margaret in the bay window with an open book on her lap. He was wearing a floppy hat and carried a raincoat over his shoulder.

Margaret looked up and slipped a bus ticket onto the page. ‘Yes, is everyone ready?’

‘Ready and waiting. Frances has your paints. What’s the book?’

‘Ruskin. The Seven Pillars. You must have read it.’

‘Of course. Essential stuff for architecture students. Is it Charles’s?’

She offered him the copy, still open where she’d left it, and he noticed the little doodles down the right-hand margin in Mackintosh’s unmistakable style.

‘Ah. Are you reading it, or just looking at the pictures?’

Margaret shot him a dismissive look as she snapped the book shut. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

The rest of the self-titled ‘Immortals’ were waiting across the road, already laughing and joking in anticipation of a day’s entertainment. Margaret’s sister Frances had draped herself characteristically over Bertie McNair’s shoulder, and Jessie and Jane Keppie were having a lively conversation with the three other girls. John was just about to lock the front door when he spotted the housekeeper coming up the garden path carrying an enormous basket of clean towels.

‘Ah, Mrs Stewart. How are you today?’

‘I’m right as rain, Sir. Thank you for asking. I’m sorry, I’m a bit late, on account of Mr Stewart was being a little cantankerous this morning.’

‘That’s perfectly all right. We’re all out for the day now, so you can get on with your work undisturbed.’ As he withdrew the key, he thought he’d better ask after her husband. ‘How is Mr Stewart? Better, I hope.’

She made a face. ‘He’s just himself, Sir. A little prone to fanciful ideas. He thinks he saw the White Lady last night and now he can’t stop talking about her. All in his imagination, of course.’

‘Of course. Well, I’m sure you’re a great comfort to him.’

As they took their leave, Margaret asked John what Mrs Stewart had been referring to.

‘Oh, it’s a local superstition. Kennedy Castle’s supposed to be haunted and the White Lady is said to walk from the ruins at midnight across the park, and up across the raised beach. Actually, her route is supposed to go right through one of the rooms in the house.’

‘That one at the back that you don’t use?’

‘Yes. Did you sense an atmosphere? Some people who’ve stayed here before refused to go in there, although they hadn’t even heard the story.’

‘No. I wasn’t aware of anything,’ said Margaret. ‘I don’t think I’m what they call… sensitive.’

‘I’m sure you’re a most sensitive girl in every way,’ said John, holding the garden gate open for her.

‘What do you have planned for us today?’ she asked.

‘Nothing too strenuous. Bertie wants to sketch some details of the mill at Dunure Mains – you know, stone skews and that kind of thing. My sister’s armed with her camera, as usual.’

Margaret made a face. ‘Oh dear. I hate having my picture taken.’

‘Who said she was going to take your picture?’

‘Jane always takes our pictures. The other day she said how boring it would be to have nothing but snaps of buildings.’

‘Well, the camera’s very useful in that respect. And I don’t mind if she makes us all pose as well. It lightens the day.’

‘The day,’ said Margaret, ‘is really light enough already.’

John never quite knew how to take her, but her remark wasn’t intended as a rebuke – only to express how lighthearted she felt the moment she stepped outside and filled her lungs with the fresh country air.

John’s other sister, Jessie, took Margaret’s arm and walked with her at the rear of the little procession.

‘I’m so glad you could join us,’ she said. ‘We’re going to have such fun.’

Margaret said it was very kind of her brother to invite them all.

‘Oh, you know John. Takes after our father in that respect. He loves giving other people opportunities.’

Her glance strayed to Margaret’s sister ahead of them on the road, arm in arm with Bertie McNair. ‘Look at Frances. I do believe she’s in seventh heaven.’

‘They’re good together, aren’t they?’ said Margaret. ‘Bertie’s so full of life.’

‘He’s a devil,’ said Jessie. ‘She needs to watch that one!’

Kathy Cameron overheard them and turned round. ‘Bertie’s been teaching us the new dance.’

Margaret raised an eyebrow. ‘Not the Kangaroo Hop? He made it up himself, you know. I don’t think it’s ever going to catch on.’

They all paused at the stile that led into the meadow. Charles said he was going to go to the mill with Bertie and John to sketch some details, and they would catch the others up around lunchtime. Frances asked Bertie if, by any chance, he had her smock.

‘No, my dear. What would I be doing with your smock?’

‘I don’t know. I thought perhaps you’d brought it for me. I couldn’t find it this morning.’

‘Well, you must have mislaid it.’ Giving a shrug, he caught hold of Charles’s arm and they headed off with John towards the mill. The girls were left on their own.

‘Did you hear about the White Lady?’ said Frances. ‘Apparently she “walked” last night.’

‘Oh, that’s just a lot of nonsense,’ said Jessie.

‘How did you hear about her?’ asked Margaret.

‘Bertie told me. He heard it from someone at the inn last night.’

‘It’s nothing but local gossip,’ said Jessie. ‘You shouldn’t pay any attention.’

‘Funnily enough,’ said Margaret, ‘that Mrs Stewart said her husband spotted the White Lady last night.’

‘There you are!’ cried Frances.

‘What time did Toshie and Bertie get back from the inn last night?’ Margaret asked, suspicious that they may have been up to some kind of mischief.

‘Oh, I think it was well after midnight. Close to one o’clock, I should imagine.’

They turned their attention to Jane, who was trying to manoeuvre her camera and tripod over the stile into the meadow, and together they gave her a helping hand.

* * *

It was a warm, languorous morning. There were bees and dragonflies flitting across the hedgerows. The scent of ozone hung heavy in the air. Each of the artists found positions for themselves where they could be comfortable for the time it would take to produce a creditable sketch or painting. It was work, but it was relaxing work. As Margaret took inspiration from the looping tendrils of a white convolvulus, she remembered something Toshie had said about looking into the spaces between the foliage and making the shapes count. She played with the idea of incorporating faces and was even tempted to introduce winged human figures. But suddenly the notion of it becoming like a childish puzzle – spot the fairy – didn’t appeal to her. Instead, she started to draw human forms around the edge of her picture that were themselves elongated and sinuous, inspired by the forms of the plants.

Shortly after midday, they spotted the three men returning along the cliff top.

‘Just in time for lunch,’ cried Kathy, opening the hamper.

Agnes and Janet began to pass round the sandwiches they’d made earlier.

‘So,’ Jessie asked Charles, ‘show me what you did.’

He had three pages of small thumbnail sketches. As Charles had said, they were details, noting how the building was put together.

‘It’s a fine building,’ said Jessie. ‘Why don’t we paint the whole thing?’

‘We shall,’ Charles confirmed, biting into his sandwich. ‘But we have to understand it first. It’s like a language, you know? Almost a forgotten language. Incredible, isn’t it? That the skill should get passed on from generation to generation, but it gets eroded on the way.’

‘As does language,’ said Jessie, appreciating his analogy.