“No.”
“Were you ever called a genius?”
“Mr. Yarrow. I don’t know where this is leading, but I find it intrusive and embarrassing.”
“I’m trying to pay you a compliment. Miss Parmenter. You have to be a pretty exceptional lady to go to all the trouble you have to keep your sister’s name before the public, considering you had no talent of your own. That’s what I call selflessness.”
“Oh, nonsense.” murmured Miss Parmenter, looking coyly into her cup.
“Not at all. Come clean with me. Didn’t you ever feel a twinge of envy?”
She looked up and regarded him steadily. “You must understand, Mr. Yarrow, that I was brought up to love and respect my sister and all my family. Father believed in certain principles that I am afraid are neglected by the modem generation of parents.”
“Old-fashioned values?”
“I’ve heard them called that. I’ve heard it said that we were repressed, presumably because we didn’t go about in gangs, terrifying people. If we needed to express ourselves, we learned to do it creatively. like my sister.”
“How about you?” asked Mr. Yarrow. “Did you do anything creative?”
“I would rather not talk about myself.”
“You weren’t motivated?”
“I didn’t have the opportunity. Mother died when I was twenty, so I had to manage the home and care for Father.”
“Ah, the parent trap.” said Mr. Yarrow. “The unmarried daughter caring for the aged parent.”
Miss Parmenter set down her cup and saucer. She was so irritated that she feared she might snap the handle from the cup. “Mr. Yarrow, I don’t know whether that remark was intended to be sympathetic. If so, it was misplaced. I was pleased and privileged to be able to look after my father for over thirty years. The fact that I chose to remain unmarried is immaterial. I have nothing to hide from you or anyone else, but I will not have my life dissected by a total stranger who knows nothing about it. Nothing.”
“Easy.” said Mr. Yarrow, as if he were speaking to a dangerous animal. “You did invite me here, remember?”
“I invited the Artemis Gallery to send a representative with a view to mounting an exhibition.”
“But you didn’t bargain for a guy like me who takes a personal interest in the job?”
“I don’t mind telling you that I expected someone more — well, more businesslike.”
“Pinstripes and bowler?”
“Well—”
“Give me strength,” muttered Mr. Yarrow. “Okay, let’s do it your way. What have you got to show me?”
Miss Parmenter folded her arms and sat back in her chair. “In a moment. First, how much do you know about my sister’s career?”
“Enough. The Royal College. The two years with Hamada in Japan. Those elegant tall pots in the palest wood-ash glazes she produced right through the Forties and Fifties.”
“How any have you seen?”
“Not many,” he admitted. “Most of them went into private collections.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Thank you for that. The few I’ve seen are knockouts.” He added for her benefit, “Exquisite.”
“I like honesty,” Miss Parmenter observed. “If my generation had a fault, it was putting too much stress on being tactful, sometimes at the expense of the truth. Young people are not so sensitive about what they say. They can be hurtful, but at least they are honest. I would like you to be honest with me.”
“It’s okay. I was a boy scout.”
She stood, picked up the tray, and carried it toward the door. “There’s no need to be facetious.”
He followed her to the door and reached for the handle. “Miss Parmenter, I was trying to make a point. You don’t have to treat me like a kid.”
She laughed. She could hardly believe that she was actually laughing, but she was. The funny thing was that he was right. She was treating him like a child. She wasn’t in the least afraid of him. And this was the man she had almost refused to admit because of the intimidating clothes he wore.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Nothing you would understand.”
“Shall I take the tray?”
“No, I can manage, thank you. But come with me.” She was distinctly enjoying this. Her moment was approaching, and she intended to savor it. She carried the tea things through the kitchen and set them down. She felt supremely confident.
She stood in her kitchen and emptied the teapot and said, without looking at him, “Do you know what I’ve been doing since Father died?”
“Tracking down your sisters pots?”
“Yes. Maggie was very meticulous. She kept a record of each one, who bought it, what they paid and when. Some have changed hands several times since then, and a few have suffered accidents, unfortunately, but I think I can account for every one.”
“Useful.”
“Some people simply refuse to sell, of course.”
“To sell? You buy the pots back?”
“I offer a very fair price. Since Father died, I have not been short of money. Altogether, I have reclaimed over seventy pots.”
“Why? What did you do it for?”
“For this.”
“This?”
“The exhibition.”
Mr. Yarrow was rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t understand. You don’t have to repossess all the pots to put them on show. People are usually willing to loan them.”
She smiled again. “You obviously think I’m soft in the head, or whatever the current expression is.”
“I just think it’s a hell of an expensive way to put on an exhibition. Okay, it’s a terrific tribute to your sister, but where does it leave you? On the breadline, if I know anything about the value of those pots. Even if we go ahead with the show, I can’t guarantee that you’ll get your money back.”
“The money doesn’t interest me.”
“They charge a commission on anything they sell.”
Miss Parmenter scarcely heard him. She said, “I think you should see the collection now.”
“Try and stop me,” said Mr. Yarrow.
“You promise to give your honest opinion?”
“You can rely on me.”
“Come this way, then.” She led him out of the kitchen and through the passage to a door at the end. She stepped aside. “You may open it and go in.”
Mr. Yarrow stepped into the room.
Miss Parmenter waited outside, smiling to herself. “Take as long as you like,” she called out. “After all, there’s a lifetime of work in there.”
A lifetime — and more. An old tune was going through her head. Something Father had often whistled when he was in a good mood, one of those mornings when a letter arrived. “It’s from our Maggie, and bless me if she hasn’t sold another pot. Isn’t she the cats whiskers?”
A pity Father couldn’t have lived to see what his other, disregarded daughter had finally achieved. Or Maggie herself, the brilliant, celebrated Maggie. Wouldn’t she have been astonished!
A step! Mr. Yarrow was coming out!
He had taken off his sunglasses. He had blue eyes and they were open extraordinarily wide, as they should have been after what they had just seen.
She was so anxious that she almost reached out to touch him. “Well?”
He fiddled with the collar of his shirt. “I’m — lost for words.”
Miss Parmenter gave a nervous laugh. “I expect you are, but tell me what you think.”
With a shrug, he said, “I’m just amazed, that’s all.”
“I knew you would be. But you like it, don’t you?”
He turned his eyes aside. “It’s an incredible thing to have done. Years of work, I’m sure.”
“I want to know,” she told him. “You promised to be frank with me.”
“Right.” He rubbed his arms as if he suddenly felt a draught of cold air. “Shall we go through to your sitting room?”