Walker's Emporium E-Book

Jeff Hunt

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

A magnificent painting is a casualty of war. But things are not as they seem. Can Nick Butler graduate from web design to saving an iconic cultural piece while he obsesses over the beautiful woman who coverts art of all types? An intriguing puzzle of war, romance and human nature as many diverse people struggle for possession and understanding.

Leseprobe

Jeff Hunt

Walker's Emporium

Pensive Forest

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Introduction

Nadendkend Bos

PERSONAE

Eighteenth Century

Rhinehart van Droot

Grinelda Granff

Twenty-First Century

Nick , Hannah Butler

Mere Walker / Tahanga

Mr Clive Walker

Julia partner Keri

Samantha Adams [grandma]

1870

FRENCH

Sub-lieutenant Baffier

Colonel Magre

GERMAN

Captain Kamp

Colonel Petzold

Frau Goth – domestic

1944

Baroness Marie

Colonel Meyer

Emilia Goth – nurse

Twenty-First Century

Assessors in Europe

Hans Decker

Helen Hander

Chapter One

I squeezed Grandma’s hand and gave her a gentle kiss on her forehead. It would not be long now. Barely able to move her lips she said, “I’m glad you’ll be there. Look after Hannah, she..”

Strength failed her but I knew she had no confidence that Hannah could safely navigate her way through life so I said, “I won’t desert her.”

The woman who had fought for the sick and dying, for the weak and needy with an iron determination had at last given up and knew I wouldn’t let her down.

I kissed the damaged side of her face that had been the burden she had borne throughout her life. But also her strength. Such a disfigured woman had to show tenacity to win favour to make her way in the world. She had done that.

“I love you Gran.”

I am glad that I was with her at the end and the last thing I heard from her was her trust in me. And the last thing she heard from me was my love.

“You are a rich man,” Ms Hollyford, said. “Even discounting the generous third party bequests, what remains in shares and bank deposits amounts to well over a million, and you have acquired an extra house to share with your sister, Hannah. And there are the mysterious treasures your grandmother stored in the trunk. Are they as valuable as the will suggests?”

I laughed, “I really don’t know. The trunk is still in Grandma’s house where Hannah is living. But my speciality is electronics. There is some jewellery that might be junk, some second world war paraphernalia and some wrapped paintings. I’ll have them all assessed.”

Liz Hollyford shuffled a pen to and fro on her desk for moment. I flattered myself that she was aware that she was talking to a well dressed, reasonable looking, well mannered millionaire who was relying on her professional expertise. Professionally and privately, she was hoping to make a good impression.

I watched the pen travel across the page once more. In the last few months I had had to deal with my grandmother’s death, a funeral, being executer to a will, a trunk of rather odd and mismatched second world war memorabilia, and now the realisation that I had become a marketable commodity for ambitious young professional women.

Liz pushed a business card across the table, “Try Walker’s Art Emporium. We use them and find them reliable for art and artefacts assessment and restoration. Would you like a referral?”

She gave me her most encouraging smile when I said yes. “Please, be in touch if there is anything else I can do for you.”

I was fairly confident that she hoped that I would think of something.

Rhinehart van Droot wondered if he should be working today. He felt stale and a little bored. His subject was pretty enough and posed without complaint, but it did not fulfil him as once it had. He would complete the painting in another two weeks and receive a generous payment and many compliments from Grinelda’s doting father, but Rhinehart longed to do something more than paint a pretty face gazing wistfully from yet another money earning canvas. Perhaps today he should be outside finishing his current landscape. He glanced across at the partly completed work. Even that didn’t inspire him. But as he pondered, he felt a rising tide of the old enthusiasm. Who was to say that landscape and portraiture are quite different from each other? Is not the human form part of nature? Is a tree that takes sustenance from the moist soil really any different from the human who eats and drinks the bounty of the earth and grows in the life sustaining strength of the sun? And the innocent developing creature before him would be ideal to evoke a vision of nature and human combined. And so he set about completing Grinelda’s portrait with a new vigour, for even a revolutionary painter of vision and imagination must eat and not alienate wealthy clients.

Walker’s Art Emporium was not what I had expected. I had been greeted by an under-dressed young woman, surrounded by greeting cards, chocolate box kitsch art and the paraphernalia of hobbies and painting. She asked me if she could help.

I wondered how to escape. I had clearly been mislead. I had arrived carrying - nearly dragging - the top two of three packages that were supposed to contain valuable old paintings. I did not want them assessed by a ten-year-old lookalike standing under a tedious print of ‘Sunrise over Eastbourne.’

But I was premature. When I explained, she turned to a curtain covered entrance at the back and called, “Mr Walker, someone with some art work for you.”

Mr Walker, when he appeared, mistook my smile of relief, for one of greeting and managed a slightly twisted expression in return. He must have been nearly eighty and belied his name by being barely able to move. I felt more confident nonetheless.

I followed him through the curtain into another world. I had the feeling one gets at a fancy restaurant when the door to the kitchen swings open, and there are several denim clad cooks chucking food into blackened pots. The unlined walls running with condensation. Then the door closes and luxury returns. Now I was in the artists’ equivalent of the kitchen. Packing material, glue pots, furze covered tables, knives and oil and real art. Mr Walker saw me falter, and smiled sardonically. “There’s show and there’s dough,” he said. “Out there we look inviting, and here we do a job. Now what have we here?”

He helped me lay my packages on a table and began slowly and methodically to cut away the tape and binding. He was unhurried and careful. I had time to admire a professional at work. I had the feeling that he would understand the art work inside as well as he understood the need for care in its opening. As he unravelled the layers he asked where they had come from.

“It was bequest from my grandmother. She has had some treasures in storage for a long time. She seemed to think some of it very important and probably valuable.”

Mr Walker paused and laid down the scissors that had snipped away a chord. “If this is stolen I am professionally bound to report it,” he said. “If it appears on any wanted lists of missing art, I can’t stay silent. Perhaps you would like to take it elsewhere?”

I sighed in exasperation. The damn things were heavy and awkward, and almost certainly of no interest to anyone but my grandparents, who were now both dead.

Mr Walker saw my reluctance and came to my rescue. “It’s more than my livelihood is worth to deal in stolen or notified art, but in my experience people attach far more importance to their investments than is justified. This is clearly not for hanging. Someone has put it aside as a nest egg, planning to make a million when the artist has died or become famous. They see art changing hands for vast fortunes and try to jump on the bandwagon. It seldom works and they end up with a mediocre work from a forgotten, rather than a famous artist. May I go on?”

I shrugged philosophically. I didn’t want to aid crime anyway. If it was stolen, it would have to be given back. And how likely was it that Grandma was a fence? I chuckled to myself and Mr Walker looked puzzled for a moment, but I gave a casual wave that he correctly took as permission to lift away the last of the protective covering.

In novels, when people are surprised they freeze, they give a sharp intake of breath or they stiffen. With a great deal of hindsight I now know what I did to Mr Walker that day, but I swear he did all three. For moment he just gazed, then I heard his breath then he came more upright from his usual stooped posture. After a pause he recovered himself. He carefully moved the painting to a side table and began the same methodical process with the second one. But he had had time to think.

“I would like to have my art advisor with me. I wonder if you would leave these here? I’ll be in touch before the end of the week.”

I was not reluctant to go. The painting was in good hands and I had things to do. I left with the feeling that perhaps I was now the owner of something important to the art world. I was in a childishly expansive mood. My interests had broadened a little and so as I left I read a poster about a local art exhibition and resolved to go to see more of a culture that I knew so little of.

With renewed vigour Rhinehart painted the young Grinelda Granff. Her round, impish young face became a little longer. Her chin a little more pointed. Her neat hair grew longer and shone brighter in the light from the window. The shadow became deeper and more mysterious. The lace of her magnificent gown stood a bit straighter and brighter. The painting was still indisputably the young Miss Granff but she blossomed from attractive girl to a beautiful young woman under Rhinehart’s brush. If his patron was pleased, van Droot’s next project would be so much easier.

As he painted, Rhinehart considered how his subject would look nude. But no, that was not what he wished for. He wanted nature and natural as it is in life. His young subject would not flourish in a forest naked. “I wonder if you have a straight white gown?” he asked.

Willing to please her father’s important friend Grinelda told him of her plain walking gown.

“Excellent. Would you bring it tomorrow? We are nearly done with the formal portrait and I wish to go to the grotto with you to do informal sketches by the lake.”

Grinelda clapped her hands. Anything to be out and about. Her father trusted van Droot with her. An outing made a change from the circumscribed life of the young gentlewoman.

The attractive young woman stood stunned beside her grandfather. “He doesn’t know what it is?”

“He wouldn’t know a Picasso from a Turner,” the old man replied.

“Who is he?”

“Nick Butler. He’s in electronics and computers.”

“But there was no documentation with it?”

“I’ll ask, but I was so stunned I thought only to get rid of him and call you. Do you think it’s genuine?”

“There’s nothing to suggest it isn’t. Its framing, quality and general condition suggest early nineteenth century. The style and signature are Antoine Watteau. When it’s cleaned and restored it will have the colour Watteau preferred. It may be a hoax but the tests will show that and it’s a very fine painting nonetheless.”

Mere lifted the wrapping off the other painting. “What’s this?”

Her grandfather chuckled. “You can see for yourself. Beautiful and very good but not competition for the Watteau. What do you think?”

Mere nodded. “My guess is it’s a lesser known Gabi. It’s age and condition will give it value and it’s really not too bad. It’s a bit of a comedown from the Watteau, but then just about everything is. Does this Nick Butler have any others? A Ruben or Rembrandt perhaps?

The old man touched her back affectionately. “Now you’re being greedy. He does have another and we can’t rule out something exciting, but lower your expectations a bit, my dear.”

With the portrait finished and waiting removal to the city gallery for a formal unveiling, Rhinehart set about his revised project with reawakened enthusiasm. Realism is at the heart of art, but so is imagination. He used an existing sketch but extended the lake in the foreground, marked where a tree would be removed and where Grinelda would appear and began to sketch her from memory, standing in a simple peasant style of robe. Execution proved to be much more difficult than the dream, but Rhinehart was inspired and at last he captured the vision. Water, sun, landscape and maiden combined in a picture both worldly and unworldly. He basked for a moment in a feeling of newness and adventure that he had not ever expected to feel again. Tomorrow he would return to Brenmer Wood with Grinelda and deal with detail there. Then soon after he would summon Grinelda again to pose her in the studio to complete the blending in a mystical scene. She was a compliant young woman - a little vain. She would do it and enjoy it. Rhinehart poured a glass of good wine and sat back to consider that life had much improved from a day or two before.

And so it was done. Light, water, trees and Ginelda came together in a vision of life and vitality. Rhinehart longed to do more - to touch with more paint, more light, to add and remove. He had never felt so much a part of his work. But it was over. To do more would be to detract from it. He had sketched and painted Grinelda both in his studio and in the wood. He had sketched the lake and then modified it by adding light to the lake and adding his model to the shore. He was convinced that he had achieved something beautiful, meaningful and surreal. He forced himself to sit back and admire. ‘They will remember me for this,’ he said to no one but himself. ‘Let them laugh and tease as young Grinelda did when she saw only that she seemed to be a tree. But they will come to understand and they will not mock.' Nevertheless he felt a gnawing unease. Perhaps they would never understand. Perhaps they would always mock. Perhaps he had created nothing but farcical nonsense. But it was done now. There was no going back. He would not if he could.

The Governor took a step back and shrugged again. “It doesn’t improve with distance,” he said sardonically. “Have you seen his formal portrait of Herr Granff’s daughter? Quite up to his usual standard. Granff was delighted by it and not at all pleased by this. But still, we must allow our notable artists some latitude, or do you think I should say their little joke? We can hang it in the small room and quietly lose it into the store in a month or two. If anyone wants to buy it they will be able to have a cheap van Droot, although what one would do with it is beyond me. The French are often keen for something different. I’ll see if I can persuade Rhinehart to offer it to Paris.” The secretary smiled in agreement and they moved on to more acceptable offerings.

I kidded myself that I was an art collector now and had every right to visit an art showing. But I felt more like a five-year-old off to school for the first time. I made my way through the gathering dusk past shops I saw almost every day and often used, until I came to the gallery I had only ever peered into briefly. Common sense told me that I was simply going to see a local struggling artist trying to flog off her merchandise, but unfamiliarity told me I had probably dressed wrongly and that I would not even know how to view the art work nor what to say. The door stood ajar so I tentatively surveyed the territory before I committed myself. I felt better. Everyone from the elderly to little children wandered about, sometimes gazing casually at the walls, but more often drinking, eating and chatting. It seemed that quite a number of them were only there for the sandwiches and a glass of cheap wine.

I joined in, and soon felt quite involved. The paintings seemed eye-wateringly expensive to someone like myself who thinks a $5 poster of a cat is decoration enough, but I began to visualise them on my walls and felt very superior and sophisticated.

There was a tinkling sound from the elevated stand. I froze. The most magnificent Māori woman was on the stand. Was this the artist? Tall and slender, she shone with health and vigour. Sleek black hair and a rich olive complexion. Beautiful. She wore a simple grey top and short skirt showing gorgeous long graceful legs, and to break the simplicity she wore a bright red scarf over her shoulder and a bright yellow one looped around her waist. It seemed to me that she was the best art object in the room and made everything and everyone else almost invisible. She reminded me that I had spent too long caring for my grandmother, then dealing with the estate and then trying to catch up with neglected work. My contact with the world of people lately had been too limited.

I had frozen in my tracks as I admired, but it seemed that no one else even noticed. The merry mindless hubbub continued.

“Attention, please. Time for speeches”

A few of the crowd replied with laughing insults and calls for no speeches. Clearly many of these people were friends and comfortable in their own environment.

“Oi,” she said with mock anger, “is there some language we speak here that is not English?”

Her audience began to gather around the platform.

“Thank you. Just a few quick thanks and introductions and you can get back to buying Julia’s amazing artwork. Isn’t she great?”

That was greeted by a genuine burst of applause and some cheers and whistles.

“Thank you John Miller for letting us use the gallery. There he is over by the big pot plant, looking ... looking ... gosh how are you looking John?”

“Handsome and debonair,” came the reply.

Another warm round of clapping, laughing and calls greeted that.

“I have some bad news for you regarding that, John. But we are grateful for the use of the gallery. And now the woman you’ve all been waiting for. Where is she?”