Guns in the Gallery

EIGHT

No one could completely ignore what had happened, but the outburst did not put an end to the Private View. The speeches by Giles Green and Denzil Willoughby had been a kind of natural break in the proceedings, and as soon as Fennel was out of the gallery, Zosia and her staff moved into assiduous glass-filling and canapé-offering mode.

There were some murmured comments among the Fethering invitees, but few of them had met the Whittaker family before. The general opinion was that they’d just witnessed the effects of too much alcohol. And, although it would have been embarrassing had the incident involved anyone they knew, the moment of confrontation had actually been quite exciting. Some of the locals, unsure what to expect from the art world, even thought that the scene had perhaps been part of the exhibition. Since the Tate Gallery’s purchase in the 1970s of ‘a pile of bricks’, Fethering folk affected a sophistication incapable of being surprised by anything that went under the name of ‘modern art’. After all, you never knew.

Denzil Willoughby himself seemed the least fazed of anyone there. In spite of what Fennel had said about guilt, he appeared to be immune to it. As soon as she had left, he had turned back to a group of younger people whom no one from Fethering recognized, but whom they had already marked down, from their flamboyant manners and clothing, as the ‘art college crowd’. On their fringes, trying to look part of the group, lingered Gray Czesky, with his dumpy hausfrau wife, Helga, in tow.

Carole Seddon accepted a top-up of her glass from one of Zosia’s helpers. She was glad they were serving the Chilean Chardonnay that she particularly liked from the Crown and Anchor’s wine list. And it was refreshing not to have to worry about driving. Only a three-minute walk from the Cornelian Gallery back to High Tor.

‘Good evening.’

She turned and was surprised to see that the words had come from Spider. Given the framer’s shyness, she hadn’t expected him to be at the Private View. In fact, she thought he had only just put in an appearance. Surely she would have spotted his bulk and distinctive hairstyle if he’d been there earlier. Perhaps he’d been lurking in his workshop.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘I recognized you. You came to get that photo framed.’

‘Yes. Of course I remember . . . Spider, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Spider.’

‘I’m Carole.’

‘Carole. Right.’

There was a silence. The conversational sally seemed to have exhausted him. From across the room Ned Whittaker saw Spider and gave him a wave of recognition.

‘You know the Whittakers?’ asked Carole.

‘Yes, I’ve been over Butterwyke House. Delivered some stuff they’d wanted framing. Posters of Eastern geezers.’

‘Buddhas,’ said Carole, remembering the pictures she and Jude had seen inside the yurt Chervil had shown to them the previous Saturday.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Spider.

‘Did you deliver them to Butterwyke House?’

‘No. To some place in the grounds with lots of, like, huts.’

‘Yurts.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The place is called Walden.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Spider again. ‘They gave me a full guided tour of the whole place, but I didn’t take it all in.’

Once more their conversation was becalmed. Carole racked her brains for something to say, finally coming up with, ‘Did you do any of the framing for this evening?’

It took him a moment or two to understand her question. ‘Oh, you mean, like, for the exhibition?’

‘Yes.’

‘No. I frame pictures, prints, photographs. I wouldn’t touch garbage like this.’

Carole grinned. ‘I’m afraid I agree. Denzil Willoughby isn’t my cup of tea either.’

‘It’s rubbish, that’s what it is, just rubbish.’ He leant forward, overwhelming her by his proximity. ‘If Giles brings in more rubbish like this,’ he went on earnestly, ‘the Cornelian Gallery will be, like, closed within three months. And what’s going to happen to Bonita then?’

What’s going to happen to you then? Would it be easy to find another job as a picture-framer? Carole’s thoughts were instinctive, but she didn’t voice them.

‘I think Giles bullies her,’ Spider confided. ‘She can’t stand up to him. Bonita never wanted this exhibition, but Giles bullied her into having it. Then he insisted on it being on a Friday, and Friday’s, like, Bonita’s day off, her special day when she goes to London. She never misses that, but Giles just doesn’t listen to her. He needs someone to tell him to, like, stop meddling in his mother’s affairs.’

‘That someone being you maybe?’

‘I might at that,’ Spider replied, and then looked almost embarrassed at having said so much. Big speeches didn’t come naturally to him.

At that moment Ted Crisp lumbered up to join them. Carole introduced the two men, who to her surprise seemed instantly to get on and start talking. Or, that is to say, Ted started telling his stock of old jokes and Spider seemed more than happy to listen to them. Carole Seddon would never understand masculine conversation. She slipped away unnoticed into the throng.

In the confusion at the end of Fennel Whittaker’s tirade, no one had noticed that Jude had been one of the few people who left the Cornelian Gallery. Outside the warmth held the promise of summer evenings not too far ahead.

While the other departing guests went on their way, Jude lingered, looking along the line of shops for Fennel. But in vain. There was no sign of the girl. For a moment Jude was about to go round the back of the parade, suspecting that Fennel might have taken her sorrows down to the beach. But then she noticed some movement from inside a Mini parked along the road.

She moved towards it. In the passenger seat sat Fennel Whittaker, the bottle of red wine tipped up, pouring its contents into her mouth. When Jude tapped on the driver’s side window, the girl appeared not to hear her. She tried the door handle, but it was locked.

That sound made Fennel Whittaker look towards her visitor. After a moment’s hesitation, she clicked a button which released the central locking. Jude opened the door and slipped into the driver’s seat.

‘Didn’t realize it was you, Jude. Thought it was my parents. Haven’t got the energy to have another boring heart-to-heart with them.’

Though the girl was undoubtedly very drunk, she was still in control. Her words were not slurred, just a bit faster and louder than normal.

‘So you had a relationship with Denzil Willoughby?’ asked Jude.

‘Yes. Dreadful word that, isn’t it, “relationship”? Sounds like a purely business arrangement. Some bank managers these days are called “Relationship Managers”. Did you know that? I think the word should be kept for people like them, to refer to professional dealings, not to cover all the messy business of living with someone and having sex and making plans and being disappointed. There ought to be another word for that.’

‘Was your . . . whatever this new word is . . . with Denzil Willoughby particularly messy?’

‘I don’t think particularly messy. They all are, aren’t they? At least all of mine have been. What about you, Jude? Have you had a lot of messy ones?’

‘My fair share, I’d say.’

‘Well, I think I’ve had more than my fair share.’ Fennel Whittaker let out a bitter laugh. ‘Though I don’t think “fairness” really comes into it. And to be fair to the men who’ve had relationships with me, I don’t think it can have been easy for them. Never knowing from one minute to the next what person, what version of me, was going to come through the door.’

‘I’ve had depressive friends,’ said Jude gently, ‘who’ve said that the comfort of having an ongoing relationship is that you’ve got someone who knows you’re the same person, whatever mood you’re in.’

‘Well, your friends have been luckier than I have!’ Fennel’s anger was less as she went on. ‘Men are always making jokes about women’s moodiness, uncomfortable jokes about menstrual cycles, but in my experience the women I know have been models of consistency compared to the men. Mind you, any man who takes me on gets a bellyful of moodiness.’ A wistfulness crept into her tone. ‘That’s why I got so excited when I met Denzil. At first he seemed to understand my personality, even see virtues in it. He said that all great artists are volatile, that the volatility is an essential ingredient in the art. He was very understanding.’

‘From what I saw of him this evening he didn’t seem very understanding.’

‘No, Jude. I’m afraid tonight you saw the real Denzil Willoughby – totally selfish. But I was fooled by him for quite a long time. And he can be surprisingly gentle at times. Oh, I know, you always read in the paper about these women who let men suck them dry financially and, generally speaking, you think, “Stupid bitch, why did she let herself be taken for a ride like that?” I’ve been through it, though. I know how credulous you can be when you think the person conning you is offering lurve.’ Her jokey emphasis on the word didn’t disguise the pain she was feeling. ‘But now,’ she said, ‘I feel better for denouncing the bastard in public.’ And she took a celebratory swig from her bottle.

‘Good,’ said Jude. ‘Promise me one thing, Fennel.’

‘What?’

‘That you won’t attempt to drive home in this state.’

‘But I’m perfectly capable of driving home,’ Fennel replied with the unshakeable confidence of the very drunk. ‘If anything, my faculties are sharper than usual. I feel very in control.’

‘How you feel and how you actually are may be two very different things.’

‘Oh, come on, Jude. You’re the last person I would have thought of as a party-pooper.’

‘Well, if that’s what you want to call it, on this occasion that’s the role I’m going to take. It would be a terrible waste if you wrapped this Mini round a tree somewhere between here and Chichester.’

There was a silence as Fennel digested this thought. Then she said, ‘Yes, it would be a terrible waste.’

‘So you’re not at the moment feeling suicidal?’

‘God, no. Oh, I know I have done at times, but I’m putting that behind me. Now I’ve expiated the curse of the extremely unlovely Denzil Willoughby, I very much want to continue living.’

This positive manner was good in one way, but it also sounded alarm bells for Jude. She had treated a lot of bipolar clients, and she knew the dangers of the low that could follow an ecstatic high.

‘Are you taking your medication?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I’m being a good girl. And I know it says on the packet you should try not to drink while you’re on it, but what the hell? Do you know anyone who takes seriously that thing about “avoiding alcohol” when you’re on medication – even antibiotics?’

Jude was forced to admit she knew very few people who ticked that particular box. ‘I think we should get you home,’ she said.

‘How?’ asked Fennel. ‘You say you’re not going to allow me to drive. I don’t want to get a lift with my parents – and all the sanctimonious ticking-off that will involve. Or with Chervil, come to that . . . though I doubt if she’ll be coming home. No doubt spending the night here with lover-boy.’ She infused the word with an infinity of contempt.

‘I’ll drive you home,’ said Jude.

‘I didn’t know you could drive.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be able to?’

‘Well, you haven’t got a car.’

‘I haven’t got a swimming pool, but that doesn’t mean I can’t swim.’

Carole had noticed Jude’s absence fairly soon after she’d left. Her first instinct, to hurry out after her, she curbed. How embarrassing it would be, she thought, if she left the Cornelian Gallery and found Jude outside with some man draped around her. Carole knew that her neighbour’s sex life had been much more varied and adventurous than her own, but in her mind she did sometimes overestimate Jude’s powers as a man-magnet. Still, having witnessed a New Year’s Eve party that had led to a one-night stand, she wouldn’t put anything past her.

It wasn’t as if Jude was dependent on Carole for transport that evening, as had sometimes been the case. They were both within a short walk of their homes. And they weren’t joined at the hip, for heaven’s sake, Carole told herself. They were both grown-up women, capable of making their own decisions and deciding the right moment to leave a Private View. But she couldn’t stop feeling that Jude’s departing without telling her was a slight – a slight slight perhaps, but still a slight.

‘We meet again.’

She turned at the sound of a hesitant voice and saw that Ned and Sheena Whittaker had joined her. ‘Yes. Nice to see you.’

Ned raised his glass. ‘Very acceptable red wine. An Argentinian Malbec. In fact we drink quite a lot of this at home.’

‘The Crown and Anchor has a very good wine list.’

He looked puzzled so Carole elucidated. ‘This is being catered by the Crown and Anchor pub, here in Fethering.’

‘Ah.’

‘How’s the glamping going?’

‘We don’t officially open till tomorrow evening,’ replied Sheena. ‘First guests are supposed to be arriving about four, I think.’ She giggled nervously. ‘Thank goodness Chervil’s in charge. I’d be sweating cobs if it was me.’

‘You’d do it fine, love,’ said her husband. But his reassurance sounded automatic, not convinced that she would.

Carole, whose antennae were very sensitive to deficiencies in the self-esteem department, was once again struck by the Whittakers’ insecurity. All that money and they never seemed quite at ease, always pretending to be people they weren’t.

‘Anyway,’ Ned went on, ‘Walden’s Chervil’s baby, so you don’t have to worry.’

‘Yes, but suppose she was away one night and you weren’t there either and someone from the site came up to the big house wanting me to sort something out for them . . .?’

‘It won’t happen, love,’ he said, with a new harshness in his voice, and Carole realized that this was the type of argument they had had time and time again in the course of their marriage. She wondered what level of resentment Ned felt for his wife’s pussy-footedness.

‘Anyway, Carole,’ Ned went on, ‘it wasn’t Chervil I wanted to talk about. I wanted to apologize for her sister’s behaviour.’

‘Oh, I didn’t really notice it,’ Carole responded fatuously.

‘The fact is . . .’ A look was exchanged between husband and wife. Sheena was clearly urging Ned to stop, but he still proceeded. ‘The fact is that Fennel does have some mental health issues . . .’

‘I had heard that, yes.’

‘. . . and when she has too much to drink, she does things . . . well, you’ve seen what she does.’

‘Yes. Sounded like it was something she wanted to get off her chest.’

‘Mm.’

‘Had she been with Denzil Willoughby for a long time?’ Normally, Carole wouldn’t have asked such a question while its subject was still in the room, but the hubbub of conversation was so loud that she didn’t worry about being overheard.

‘We didn’t know she had been,’ replied Sheena, rather bleakly.

‘Fennel tends to play things rather close to her chest,’ Ned added. ‘Particularly when it comes to her love life.’

‘We kind of knew there was someone in her life, and from things she said, we thought it might be someone in the art world. But no names.’

‘Does she live with you down here?’

The Whittakers exchanged another look before Ned replied, ‘Not all the time. Mostly she lives in a flat we’ve got in Pimlico, but . . .’

He ran out of words and his wife filled the gap for him. ‘There are times when she needs to be with us. Not that we are particularly happy about that.’

‘Nor’s she, to be fair, Sheena.’

‘No, I suppose she isn’t,’ his wife conceded.

‘It’s just –’ Ned shrugged – ‘a difficult situation.’

‘Is she under proper medical supervision?’ asked Carole. The question, with its implication that there also existed improper medical supervision from people like healers, was not one she would have asked had Jude been present.

Above his glasses Ned Whittaker’s brows were raised heavenwards. ‘We’ve tried everything with Fennel. Paid for the best treatment there is available, right from the moment when she first . . . became ill. Everything seems to work for a while, but then . . .’

This time a look from his wife seemed to stop him from saying more. Carole wished she could read the couple’s private semaphore. She got the feeling the Whittakers didn’t see eye to eye over the treatment for their daughter’s condition. Maybe one of them sincerely believed that Fennel could get better and the other was less optimistic. But Carole couldn’t work out which of them took which position.

Further conversation was prevented by a sudden burst of shouting from the other side of the gallery.

‘How dare you say that! My artistic vision is at least as valid as yours is!’

The shouter was, perhaps inevitably, Gray Czesky. Carole should have remembered from their previous encounters how susceptible the painter was to the booze. From the security of his expensive seafront house in Smalting and the enduring safety-net of his wife’s private income, Gray Czesky loved presenting the image of the volatile, unconventional artist. Some local people might accept his work at his own evaluation of it, but clearly Denzil Willoughby had different views.

‘How can you call that art?’ he cried, pointing with derision at the framed watercolour of Fethering Beach that Czesky was holding. ‘A photograph’d be better than that. It’s just a representation of something you see in front of you. You haven’t added anything to what a photographer would produce, just made a considerably less accurate picture of some bloody beach!’

There was an indrawing of breath from the locals. Though they had carte blanche to moan about the oily fragments of plastic that piled up there, the dog messes and illegal barbecues, they didn’t like outsiders criticizing Fethering Beach.

‘There is no bloody artistic vision there,’ Denzil Willoughby continued.

‘Of course there is!’ Both men were now very drunk and squaring up to each other, as if about to start throwing punches. ‘What you see when you look at a Gray Czesky watercolour may look like an innocuous, innocent image, but there’s a lot of subtext there. There’s violence, there’s political dissent in there, if you only have the perception to see it.’

‘Crap!’ Denzil Willoughby countered. ‘I’ve got more political dissent in the fingernail of my little finger than you have in your entire bloody oeuvre!’

The denizens of Fethering watched these exchanges with the concentration they would apply to a Wimbledon final. Maybe this really was what happened at every Private View. They felt excited to be part of the action.

‘So that’s what you think, is it?’ Gray Czesky spat out the words.

‘Yes, that’s what I bloody think. And if you want to make something of it—’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, will you all shut up!’

The words were spoken in a shriek, and it took a moment before the spectators could believe that they had issued from the lips of Bonita Green. They turned in amazement towards the diminutive figure of the gallery-owner as she went on, ‘This entire evening has been ruined! Probably the Cornelian Gallery has been ruined by all this shouting and insults and accusations.’

She moved towards the back of the shop with considerable dignity. ‘I am going upstairs to my flat. And when I come down here tomorrow morning, Giles, I am relying on you to have all the rubbish in here cleared out.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Denzil, cheated for the moment of one fight but eager to find another. ‘When you use the word “rubbish”, do you—’

‘Yes, Mr Willoughby,’ said Bonita Green rather magnificently as she left the room, ‘I do include your work.’