Bay Tree Cottage Page 5

  Nell peered out of the window. ‘Must be Warren Cutler. He’s lifting a box out of his car boot.’

  Elise joined her at the window. ‘He’s a funny-looking little man, isn’t he?’ She chuckled suddenly. ‘He looks just like his carvings, all sharp and ready to claw or bite.’

  ‘He’s smiling.’

  ‘That’s a very plastic smile, if you ask me. I bet he rehearsed it.’ She went back to her chair.

  Angus looked at her in surprise. ‘I’ve never heard you speak so negatively about anyone, Elise.’

  ‘Just occasionally you meet someone and take an instant dislike to him.’

  ‘But you haven’t actually met the man yet.’

  ‘I don’t need to meet him if I can see him and study his face when he doesn’t know he’s being observed. Life writes lines of character on faces, and people’s expressions tell you a lot. If you live long enough, you learn to read them. Oh, not a hundred per cent, I’ll grant you, no one can do it that well. But I’m old enough to have had a lot of practice. Of course, some people are born with a gift for acting and they can fool anyone, but I’m usually pretty accurate.’

  ‘They say a person’s character shows in their eyes,’ Nell said from where she was waiting to open the door. ‘That’s what I look at.’

  Elise nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. It’s a good place to start, I’ll grant you. It’s been recognised throughout history that the eyes are the mirror of the soul. I like Cicero’s version of it best. He lived in about the first or second century BC, if I remember correctly, but his words are still true: he said the face is the picture of the mind and the eyes are its interpreter.’

  Someone knocked on the door and Nell moved to open it. ‘Here goes! We’re about to get our first chance to interpret Warren Cutler, eyes and all. It’ll be interesting to compare notes afterwards.’

  Angus winked at Elise as Nell went out into the hall and made a thumbs-down sign, whispering, ‘I didn’t like the looks of him, either, I don’t know why.’ He turned back to watch the newcomer.

  ‘Ah, Mr Cutler? Do come in. I’m Nell Denning, manager of this project.’ She introduced the others then looked at the box he was holding. ‘Why don’t you put that down on this side table? We’ll have a little chat first then you can show us your other piece.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  He sat down opposite the three of them, looking bright and alert. He answered all the questions without hesitation, sometimes offering what Elise felt were politically correct answers without any real passion behind them. But she couldn’t help noticing that most of his answers were directed towards Angus and only one towards her, when she asked him a question directly. His smile seemed painted on his face and hardly slipped for a second, hardly changed either.

  ‘Would you like to show us your other carving now?’ Nell asked once the panel members had gone through the agreed questions.

  Cutler opened the box and took out the piece, a wickedly clever old woman with everything about her slightly exaggerated.

  You had to admit he was good, she thought. More than good.

  Cutler’s eyes flickered towards Elise as he took the carving out and a slight frown crossed his face. Perhaps he was regretting his choice of other piece of work now he’d seen an old woman on the panel.

  Was it her imagination or had he paused for a few seconds to reinstate the smile. Oh, she definitely hadn’t changed her mind about her first impression of him.

  ‘The carving is clever,’ Angus said. ‘You’re very skilful.’

  Cutler took out some photos. ‘I thought you might like to look at some of my other work as well.’

  Once again, it was Angus he was addressing, and Angus to whom he handed the photos first.

  Elise watched Nell frown at that, but the younger woman didn’t comment, just let Cutler go through his photos with Angus, who passed each one to his wife and stopped the artist explaining the next till she and Elise had had time to see it.

  And still, Cutler continued to pass them to Angus first. He wasn’t very good at picking up clues about the people he was interacting with, however good he was with wood.

  His photos showed excellent carvings, but all seemed to emphasise people’s and animals’ weaknesses or vanities.

  After they’d handed back the photos, Nell said briskly, ‘Do you have any questions, Mr Cutler?’

  ‘Warren, please. You made all the terms of the residency clear in the material you sent me, but I wondered when you expect to make a decision.’

  ‘Within a couple of days. We’ll be in touch. Email all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She walked him to the door.

  Elise sighed in relief as the air in the room seemed to brighten and grow fresher.

  When he’d driven away, Nell came to sit down again. It was a moment or two before she asked, ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘He’s a brilliant carver,’ Angus said. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘But all his carvings seem cruel,’ Elise said. ‘I couldn’t live with any of them. And he only addressed me once, very briefly. I think he’s ageist underneath all that smiling.’

  ‘He certainly focused on Angus,’ Nell said thoughtfully. ‘He ought to have paid more attention to you and me, Elise. Perhaps he’s sexist as well.’

  ‘Do you think people are stupid enough to be overtly ageist or sexist these days?’ Angus asked. ‘It can be the other way round, in my experience, with people being too politically correct.’

  Elise scowled. ‘Well, you’re still young. In my experience, they aren’t as politically correct with older people as they are with people your age. My own niece used to be ageist, tried to lock me away to keep me safe because she didn’t think I could look after myself. Ha! Who wants to live in a cosy little prison and be so safe that you’re bored to tears?’

  ‘Ah. Right. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Her scowl deepened. ‘And it’ll be easier for you as you grow older, Angus, simply because you’re a man. Being an old woman is far more difficult than being an old man. I was out with my friend Victor before he died, looking at new computers. We went into a shop and the young man there asked him what he wanted, didn’t even look at me after the first glance.

  ‘When Victor said it was me who needed a new computer, the man still spoke to him. He actually asked, “And what sort of computer does your wife want?” as if I couldn’t speak for myself.’ She let out a little huff of annoyance at the memory.

  ‘He really said that about you?’

  ‘Yes. I gave him a piece of my mind and walked out. When I buy my new computer, I shan’t do it from any shop where I’m treated like that, I can tell you.’

  ‘Where did you get your new computer in the end?’

  ‘I haven’t bought one yet. My old one still works. Victor died suddenly, you see, and I lost heart for a while.’ She blinked away a tear. She still missed him.

  ‘If you tell me what sort of computer you want, I’ll get you a good price,’ Angus said. ‘And help set it up, if you like.’

  ‘That’d be great. I can afford a good one now I’ve sold my house.’

  After a moment’s silence, Nell brought them back to the point. ‘So do we cross Cutler off our list?’

  ‘I don’t know. My heart is warring with my head here. You can’t deny that he’s a truly brilliant woodcarver.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to see what this Jean Brunham is like, then. Let’s grab a cup of tea while we’re waiting for her. I’m parched.’

  Chapter Five

  Ginger got ready for her interview in plenty of time, but however much she fiddled with her hair and make-up, she wasn’t happy with her appearance. It showed in her face how deep-down weary she was. There were not only dark circles under her eyes but her face was drawn and her whole body looked tense. She felt tired out. It must be the long drive.

  Worst of all was her hair colour, which was far too garish. She hoped to do something to fade the c
olour, but didn’t dare experiment just before an interview.

  In the end, she scrubbed her face clean of make-up, which she rarely wore anyway. They could take her or leave her as she was. This wasn’t a beauty contest, after all. It was her work that was being judged, not her appearance.

  She took the bags of embroideries and other needlework with her because she didn’t like to leave them in the room at the B & B, even though the owner seemed a nice woman. They were too precious.

  Most of her work was in storage back in Newcastle, years of work that had filled the empty hours of her life with Alan, with beauty at small cost. Her favourite embroideries, including the ones she’d sent photos of, were all in the old carpet bag she’d brought with her because she couldn’t bear to leave them in the storage locker she’d hired.

  She patted the bag as she put it on the front passenger seat next to her.

  Now all she had to do was find the place where the interview was being held. Dennings is at 1 Peppercorn Street, it said on the email she’d printed out. Drive past the main house and down the slope to Saffron Lane, which is on the left at the bottom. We’ll be using Number 1 for the interviews.

  She asked directions from her landlady and set off in plenty of time. She really liked this little town. The centre was so pretty, with hanging baskets of flowers everywhere, looking glorious against the golden-grey stone. She might put one in her next embroidery.

  She let out a scornful sniff. You could hang a dozen baskets in the street where she lived and it’d still look a mess, besides which kids would probably nick them to sell if you even tried.

  Peppercorn Street was easy to find and her spirits lifted a little. Her head was still aching but it’d just have to ache. She’d stop to buy some aspirins on the way back from the interview. She hadn’t thought to bring any with her because she didn’t usually get headaches.

  She followed the long street up a gentle slope. There were small blocks of flats at the lower end, houses and a retirement development in the middle stretch, and huge, old-fashioned three-storey houses at the top. Imagine living in one of those!

  She stopped in the turning circle, which seemed at first like a dead end, and looked for Number 1, nearly panicking when she couldn’t find it. Then she realised that the drive which led off the top of the street had a sign to one side saying ‘Dennings, 1 Peppercorn Street’ half-covered by a drooping tree branch. No wonder she’d missed it at first.

  There weren’t any gates so she turned into the drive. Strangely, as she passed through the entrance, she felt a sense of welcome. It felt as if she were coming home. And why she should feel that so strongly when she’d never been here before, she couldn’t understand.

  Perhaps it was a good sign. Or perhaps she was just imagining it. Who knew?

  She braked when she saw a small manor house set a little way back to the right. It was such an elegant building! Eighteenth century, from what she’d read about architecture in her library books, symmetrical and balanced, built of the same beautiful stone as the main buildings in the town centre.

  It couldn’t be more unlike the modern monstrosity of corrugated iron with garish red and yellow panels they’d built near her home to rehouse the library. That looked more like a couple of egg boxes, plonked together by a child. This house was not only beautiful but had a well-loved air, or was she imagining that as well?

  She shrugged. Imagination was free. She could imagine anything she wanted, and often did.

  She’d seen photos of stately homes in books but had never visited one in real life. She’d been ill when they’d taken her class at school to see one. She’d mostly been bored by school and the only thing she’d enjoyed had been the sewing classes. Well, she’d needed them, hadn’t she, to learn how to mend her own clothes because her mother didn’t do mending or sewing of any sort.

  Most of Ginger’s general knowledge and education had been acquired as she grew older and life served her a few sharp lessons in reality on the way. With a husband more interested in drinking with his mates at the pub than in spending time with her, she’d stayed with him mainly so that her son could have a decent home.

  And look at the thanks she’d got for that!

  She’d turned to books because they were free from the library. Even her passion for raised stump work embroidery had come from a book she’d read as a young mother, and then the librarian had got her more books on the same subject. Without their silent companionship, she’d have been lost over the years.

  It hurt her to see on the news that libraries were being closed down all over the country. The barbarians weren’t just at the gates, it seemed to her, they’d got right through them. Didn’t they realise how much children and older folk needed libraries, not just to borrow books, though that was important, but to have somewhere safe to go and meet people?

  She’d learnt a lot from TV, too, then a few years ago she’d taken an evening class and saved up to buy a computer. Going on the Internet had expanded her world even further.

  Realising she was still parked near the big house, lost in thought, she shot a panicky glance at her ten-pound cheapie wristwatch, terrified of being late. No. She was all right. She had time to linger by the gardens, which were as pretty as the house they surrounded.

  How lucky the occupants were to live in such a beautiful place! Did they appreciate that? She’d love to have a garden full of flowers. She’d had to make do with pot plants. Donny would probably let them die of thirst.

  Still, the owners of this house must be kind, civilised people if they were setting up a small artists’ colony and giving six lucky artists such a wonderful gift: time to pursue their dreams and hone their artistic skills without worrying about rent.

  Oh, please let me win a place here! She crossed her fingers for luck at the mere thought. But her common sense reminded her that she mustn’t let herself feel too optimistic because she wasn’t the only person applying for one of these six-month residencies.

  The organisers must have liked her embroideries, though, or they’d not have asked to see photos of more. And those had won her an interview with all travel and accommodation expenses paid. So surely that was a hopeful sign?

  As she let her car roll forward, her mobile phone tinkled and she stopped in the shade of a huge old tree to see who it was – then promptly wished she hadn’t. Her son. She switched off the phone without reading the message.

  Donny might know her phone number but he couldn’t trace where she was from that. She couldn’t afford to buy a new mobile phone or change providers, and probably didn’t have the skill to do it efficiently. She’d needed his help to learn how to use this phone and hadn’t he rubbed that in! She’d just have to ignore his messages. She didn’t need to open them to know what was in them, after all.

  She stared down the last part of the gentle slope through gardens filled with flowering bushes and bees buzzing gently as they foraged among them. She wished she could go and bury her face in the flowers to clear away all the petrol fumes she’d breathed in on the journey here. That must be why her head felt rather muzzy today.

  Something drew her eyes to the bottom of the slope. A shaft of sunlight was shining down on what looked like a very short street set behind a grove of small trees and shrubs. That had to be Saffron Lane and the houses where the artists would live. They looked charming, with those dormer windows.

  The sunlight flickered and she blinked her eyes, not sure whether she was seeing clearly because the house at the end, which was set at a right angle to the others, seemed to be in a spotlight, with all the windows twinkling a welcome. There were men working on it and vans parked outside.

  She’d love to do an embroidery of that house, with people at the windows and in the garden, a dog playing with a child outside, maybe. If she got this residency, she would do.

  Parking in front of Number 1, she stretched her body and eased her shoulders, then waggled her hands about to get rid of the stiffness. She must have been clutching the car wh
eel too tightly.

  Time to face the interview. ‘Best foot forward, Ginger!’ she muttered aloud as she got out of the car and bent down to take out the bag of embroideries, before locking the vehicle.

  Please let this work out for me, she prayed as she moved towards the front door.

  It didn’t seem too much to ask.

  Nell peeped out of the window when they heard a car draw up. ‘She’s here.’

  Her husband joined her. ‘She looks older than fifty and utterly exhausted. Has she driven down from Newcastle today, do you think?’

  ‘She said she was coming down yesterday. Maybe she was too nervous to sleep properly. Oh dear, look at her hair. That colour of red’s far too garish for someone with such a pale complexion. And her clothes aren’t very smart. How can she produce such beautiful embroideries and not know to dress better than that?’

  ‘She said she was a widow, so perhaps her husband didn’t leave her comfortably set up.’

  ‘We aren’t choosing someone because they look needy, Angus. We’re setting up an artists’ colony and if we’re to attract visitors and earn money from our gallery, they must produce very special work that people will want to buy. I still worry that we’re not the best people to judge their quality as artists.’

  He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Of course we are. We want to attract ordinary people to visit Saffron Lane, not precious posers who talk up rubbish and call it art, so we’re exactly the sort of people to select who moves in. You found several applicants who may be suitable for this slot at Number 4 and we couldn’t choose between today’s three from the photos of their work. Let’s see if we can make a decision when we’ve seen all their pieces properly, and met them in person.’

  ‘Definitely the latter. They have to be able to deal with visitors, so they need to be presentable and good with people as well.’

  He moved away. ‘She’s coming up the path. I’ll let her in.’