The Sea Gate Page 15

  A naked man faces away from the viewer, the taut muscles of his thighs and buttocks almost warm and tangible, despite the semi-abstract style of the painting. The light gilds his raised hip – a slick of confident golden brushstroke – as he reclines on a bed, propped on one elbow, looking at what is clearly the view out of the window in my bedroom. He is portrayed as a male odalisque: an exotic object of desire, his beauty marred only by a mark on the canvas, spoiling the smooth skin beneath his ribs. And the bed appears to be the same as the one in my room. The decorative ferrules and cannonball post-tops are polished to a deep bronze sheen that closely matches the shade of his long back.

  Well, well, Olivia Kitto, you dark horse!

  You can almost smell the testosterone in the room, the scent of sweat and musk. They have clearly just made love. There is a languor in his posture that speaks of deep satisfaction. Out of nowhere, I feel a pleasant hot twinge low in my abdomen. This painting is seriously sexy. I would like to climb up on the bed right now and fit my form to these curves of muscle, slip my hands around him and hold his smooth back against my breastbone, the flat planes of his chest against my palms. I imagine him turning his head to me, smiling, and he has Reda’s face—

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, Becky! Don’t cast the poor, unsuspecting plumber in your sex-starved fantasy.

  It has, I realize with a start, been a while since Eddie and I slept together. How long is ‘a while’? I reach back, searching ever deeper memory. It’s beyond weeks – months… Yet when we started it was sex that bonded us. I remember the first time we slept together, on a mattress in his shared studio, surrounded by easels and sacks of clay, unframed canvases, unfired pots and the smell of white spirit and slip, and how when Eddie kissed me the powerful orange blossom scent he likes to wear – an expensive Serge Lutens fragrance – obliterated all else, just as his tongue and hands brooked no resistance from my protests that it was too soon and we were just friends; how he had spread me wide and left me sore yet aching for more, although nowadays I’m not even sure it would count as consent, and certainly if I hadn’t been so inexperienced and easily swayed, I should have beaten him off and fled home, alone. But there was obviously something in me that craved his hunger, his greed for me – after that, we rarely passed a day without sharing our bodies. Until I became sick. But now that I think about it I can’t even recall the last time we held one another, let alone had sex. I appear to have been sleepwalking through my life. I know that illness stole my mojo, my chemo-induced exhaustion morphing into a long, grey depression. It was during my third month of that that Eddie cheated on me. He didn’t even bother doing much to cover his tracks – he would slink in at three in the morning stinking of wine and sweat and perfume. I’ve tried not to think about this betrayal in the year that has passed, but now it hits me in the gut. What decent human being runs off to have sex with someone else when their partner is engaged in a life and death struggle? Why am I still with a man who did this to me – and it wasn’t the first time, either – and who could not even be bothered to come to my mother’s funeral? These are questions I cannot answer rationally. At the thought of Eddie I feel a brief, warm flutter of desire, even now, but that’s just not enough, is it?

  I take a deep breath and sit back on my heels, shocked anew, taking in this painting in front of me that has been made with love, and trust, a canvas that represents a painful contrast to where I am in my own life.

  Who is this handsome man? Was he Olivia’s lover? Well, of course he was: her painting style is unmistakable, and he’s clearly not just an artist’s model – every lick of paint has been laid on with adoration. I wonder when she painted it. When I look on the back I find there’s no date on it, just a simple ‘OK’ in pencil, like a faint appreciation, or an administrative tick. Olivia Kitto. With a jolt, I realize that the letters are of course Olivia’s initials. Suddenly my brain itches and I get a flashback to an article I read years ago in The Fine Artist magazine – Eddie’s subscription; I thought it pompous and self-serving – which referred to ‘the OK Painter’. It had amused me at the time that anyone would adopt this as their moniker to avoid public exposure. Surely, as Eddie said, getting to be well known was what art was all about? If people didn’t know who the artist was, there was little value to their art. The market was all about the brand, and recognizability. ‘No one serious buys paintings just because they like them,’ Eddie had said, sneeringly. God forbid. Paintings were investments, like gold bars and antiques, to be traded in when their value matured. Except that ‘the OK Painter’ had, I seem to remember, acquired a certain cachet. My skin prickles. I damn the lack of mobile signal at Chynalls: how typical that I can’t go online and check out the story.

  Little mysteries surround me, deliberately withholding themselves, trembling on the edge of revelation.

  I will go into Penzance and call Eddie and get him to unearth the article before I drive into Truro. I carefully rewrap the paintings and stow them in my bedroom, then grab my handbag, phone and keys and have just reached the top of the stairs when I hear the ratchety old doorbell rattling away – three, four, five times – insistent and peremptory. I stick my head over the banister and can just make out three figures outside the door. It is, of course, Rosie Sparrow. And flanking her, her sons, Saul and Ezra.

  I know immediately why they have come. I should go down and angrily demand why Rosie has been siphoning money from Olivia’s account. But I find myself sitting on the top step of the staircase, hoping they will go away. I can hear them muttering, keeping their voices down. Then one of the men peels away and disappears from view. I know where he will have gone: round the back. But there is no back door into the scullery now – indeed, no scullery – and the new door out of the kitchen and all the windows are fitted with new locks, thanks to Mo and Reda. And so I sit here, hugging my knees, the euphoria about the discovered paintings draining away like water out of a holed bucket.

  Someone gives the front door a kick that makes the glass rattle. The voices outside are raised. I remember Ezra saying how isolated the house is, about the accident that happened to the woman walking the cliffs. Being here alone is one thing, being here without a mobile signal or working landline quite another. I must do something about that.

  I rest my head on my knees and wait. Would the Sparrows really have the gall to break in? I listen and listen. There is silence out there now, and at last I summon the strength to get my feet and make my way into my bedroom to peer out of the window. There they are, nearing the gate at the bottom of the path. Thank heaven, they’ve given up. But I know they will be back.

  I duck away from the window as one of the men stares back at the house. I sit down on the bed, shaking, wondering what would have happened if I’d let them in. A shouting match, or something worse? Should I go into the police station in Penzance and report them? But I have no proof of malfeasance – even the bank manager said Olivia had set up the standing order herself.

  Instead, I wait another half hour then creep up the path through the woods to where my hire car is parked and drive very slowly into Penzance, on the lookout all the way for Saul and Ezra’s truck, of which thankfully there is no sign.

  In the car park I call the general number for BT and wait to get through to the right department. I explain the situation – old lady on her own, coming out of hospital, existing line, the need to be reconnected – and wait while they consult their records, or maybe just twiddle their thumbs. At last the woman on the other end of the line says, ‘We’ll send an engineer out to you…’ and gives me an appointment in six weeks’ time. I explain, through gritted teeth, the urgency, but the woman is unmoved, and in the end I cut the connection. In a very bad mood, I march down the hill to the main street.

  The Cornish Hen feels too exposed in its prominent position opposite the bank, so I slip down the side streets to the Honeypot Café opposite the Acorn Theatre and sit with my back to the wall, comforting myself with a large cappuccino and a wicked-looking almond c
roissant. The signal is iffy, but at last I get through.

  A woman’s voice: Evie. My heart sinks. ‘Is James there?’ I ask.

  ‘Good lord, Rebecca, we’ve been worried about you,’ Evie scolds. ‘It’s not like you to go running off. Poor darling Eddie, he’s been at his wits’ end.’

  Poor darling Eddie? I ponder this as she goes to fetch my brother.

  James is also brusque with me. ‘Where on earth are you, Becky? Eddie said you’d run away! He thought we might know where you were.’

  I should have told James, I know, but what is Eddie on about? I told him where I was – in Cornwall helping Cousin Olivia. A flicker of rage boils up. How dare he make it all about him again? I can just imagine his wheedling complaints to James and Evie that I’ve run off, left him at his most vulnerable and busy time. A cold blade enters my chest. Is Eddie thinking of coming down here? To do what – fetch me back? James is talking again but my anger and anxiety have erased some of what he is saying.

  ‘—been selected as a Conservative candidate to fight the next election. Imagine that, Evie running for parliament. Isn’t that fantastic?’

  I do not have a high opinion of Tory politicians but suspect Evie will make rather a good one. ‘Good grief,’ I say, trying to rally my thoughts. ‘Yes, well, you must be very proud of her. Sorry, can we go back to Eddie? What exactly did he say?’

  There is a disgruntled pause at the other end of the phone. I have punctured James’s boastful balloon. ‘He suspects you’re having an affair.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘He thinks you’ve run off with a lover. I told him that was utterly absurd—’

  ‘Oh, thanks. I might have done, you know: it’s not impossible that someone might want to run away with me.’

  Now it is James’s turn to be shocked. ‘You’ve got a lover?’

  ‘I haven’t, of course I haven’t. I’ve no idea why Eddie’s come running to you. I told him I’ve come down to help out an elderly relative – Cousin Olivia, Olivia Kitto – remember the one that Dad called completely batty? He refused to have anything to do with her and took you fishing when Mum and I went to see her.’

  ‘Oh… that one. Pa called her “that awful woman”. She’s a hermit or something, isn’t she? Shut herself off from the world. House smelled terrible. That’s all I can remember. Can’t believe the old bat’s still alive. She must be a hundred.’

  ‘Not quite. And she’s amazing, James! A wonderful character, and in her time a great painter – her work is just wonderful! But she’s in a bad way now, and she’d written to ask Mum to come and help her – I found the letter amongst the stuff I went through at the flat. So I came instead. Look, James, the reason I called is I think there are some people here who’ve been preying on her.’ I lower my voice, but no one in the café appears to be paying me any attention. ‘Taking money out of her account and stuff. They turned up this morning and were threatening and I’m a bit worried.’

  ‘Call the police!’ James says fiercely. ‘Or, even better, come away at once. You don’t want to get caught up in some awful feud – these things can go on for generations in these out-of-the-way places. And besides, we don’t want any family scandal coming out of the woodwork with Evie standing as an MP.’

  ‘I can’t leave. Olivia’s in hospital and I’m trying to get the house ready for her to come back to… but I’ve run out of money, and there’s nothing left in her account.’

  ‘Oh, Becky, always taking on lame ducks. First Mark, then that tree man, then Eddie—’

  I’m taken aback to hear him casting Eddie as a ‘lame duck’. I’m sure he’d be extremely resentful to know my brother despises him so. I wonder if I have unconsciously sided with the losers in life, those who find the world tricky to deal with, who fear failure so much that they flee the fight. As I know I have done for so much of my life.

  ‘You can’t really say Olivia Kitto’s a lame duck; she’s an old lady on her own, and a feisty old bird.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Look, James, I called you for some practical help. First of all, can you lend me some money? And secondly, isn’t your mate Jonathan somebody high up at BT? I need to get the landline connected as quickly as possible and they’re telling me they can’t do anything for months…’

  ‘Crikey, Becks, I can’t just call in favours to buck the system for you—’

  ‘Well, if I end up battered or disappeared…’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic.’

  ‘I’ll leave a note, so everyone will know that I called you and you didn’t do a damn thing because you were more interested in Evie’s career.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Becky. Look, I’ll see what I can do. Give me the address of the property.’

  ‘And promise you won’t tell Eddie the address?’

  There is a pause at the other end of the line. Then he says, ‘Oh really, Becky, that places me in a very difficult position.’ He sighs and then I hear muffled sounds as if he has placed his hand over the receiver. After a few moments his voice is clear in my ear again. ‘Evie says you’re not being fair on Eddie.’

  My hackles rise. ‘It’s nothing to do with Evie.’

  ‘Don’t be so snippy.’

  I force myself not to swear. ‘Look, I’m sorry, it’s all very stressful. What about the money?’

  I can hear him sucking his teeth. ‘Things are a bit tight now. I’m waiting for something to come through so maybe next month—’

  ‘James. I need it right now. Olivia needs it. She’s your relative too, you know.’

  ‘Do you think her paintings are likely to be valuable?’

  Why, oh why, did I mention the paintings? Now he’s regarding them as collateral.

  ‘I really don’t know. Anyway, she’s not dead yet, so don’t be so venal.’

  ‘All right, all right. How much?’

  I take a breath. ‘Ten thousand pounds.’

  Deep silence at the other end of the phone. ‘I hope you’re not getting out of your depth down there, Rebecca.’

  I am, but there is no going back. I wait.

  ‘Well, I can’t possibly give you ten thousand pounds. Maybe I can manage three thousand. Email me your bank details and I’ll make a transfer. You can pay me back – with interest – from your share of the sale of Ma’s flat when it gets sold, though I should warn you there’s a fair chunk of the proceeds that’ll have to go back to the equity release company, which means there won’t be a huge amount left over so don’t go wild.’

  I finish the call and text James the details he’s asked for. At least I can pay Mo and Reda some of what I owe them. Having them back at the house will be a relief. Not that I can duck confronting Rosie Sparrow and her thuggish sons for ever. The waitress arrives with a second coffee and I relish it quietly while I google “Olivia Kitto”. I find a number of other women with the same name, but no Cousin Olivia. I search for ‘the OK Painter’ and amid a slew of irrelevant nonsense find an article on the website of The Fine Artist about modern anonymous artists. I scan it avidly, and when I scroll down, the image with which they have chosen to illustrate the article makes me catch my breath. It is the painting I have just retrieved from the attic, the one I called in my mind The Sea Gate. I read the relevant part of the article with great attention.

  The painting in question disappeared from the sale room the day before the auction, so it was never involved in the bidding on the day, although it does appear in the catalogue and had raised considerable interest, bearing as it did the moniker ‘OK’ on the rear of the unframed canvas, although unlike the previous works sold by the auction house in 2003 and 2004 – namely The Girl in the Orchard (1951) and The Pilchard Fishers (1953) it was not dated. There has been considerable speculation as to the identity of the artist of these works, and critics have drawn parallels with paintings made by artists grouped under the St Ives School of Art, though the style is somewhat more painterly than most works by the more abstract artists in that loose confederation. There is also some mystery as t
o why these paintings have only recently come onto the market, whether they have been deliberately withheld for sale to increase the value, or for more personal reasons.

  The curator of the Tideline Gallery, which specializes in handling the works of Cornish painters in the post-war period, says, ‘No one knows the identity of the artist in question. Some have posited that these paintings may be unfinished works by the artist Oscar Kendal, who lived and worked in West Penwith during his latter years. But others argue that although the textures share the boldness and confidence of Kendal’s best work, the focus and colour palette suggest a more feminine sensibility.’

  Others still argue that the initials do not comprise a signature at all, but are a joke at the art world’s expense, or the administrative flourish of an artist or his assistant selecting works for sale.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, the OK Painter remains a delightful enigma and an anomaly in a market that is driven by brand names.

  I send myself the link via email, and then turn off my phone, feeling as if I am engaged in some work of deep espionage. There is no doubt at all – to me – that Olivia is ‘the OK Painter’. Probably just as well I wasn’t so sure about this when I spoke to James: I am a hopeless liar. Now I want to know why, with the wonderful talent she had, she wanted to remain incognito. She does not strike me as a shrinking violet, or an overtly modest person either. And her paintings are everywhere around the house. I must ask her, if she is strong enough to answer, when I visit.

  *

  At the hospital I go to Phoenix Ward, and find Olivia’s bed empty. Panic clutches at my heart. My despair must be palpable, for a nurse passing through the ward wheeling a trolley of meds stops and says, ‘They’ve moved Mrs Kitto up to Wheal Jane: she’s doing a lot better.’

  Upstairs, I find the nurse in charge and ask about my cousin’s recovery. ‘Oh, Mrs Kitto,’ she says, and rolls her eyes. ‘I think the occupational therapist will be very glad to see the back of her. I’ve never heard such bad language from an old lady.’