‘Well, dear, it may seem funny to you, of course, but then you haven’t lost all your treasures that you’d been collecting since heaven knows when.’
‘I’m really sorry, Mrs. Matthews. I don’t think it’s funny. It was just...’
‘Yes, well, dear. I suppose you can see the funny side of it, all that water and not a drop to put a fire out with, but I was that mad, I can tell you.’
1 think I’ll have a bit on Treetops,’ Auntie Sal said thoughtfully.
Maisie Matthews looked at her uncertainly and Billy Pyle, who had heard enough of disaster, broke gratefully into geniality, clapped me again on the shoulder, and said yes, it was time to see the next contest.
Duty done, I thought with a sigh, and took myself off to watch the race from the top of the stands, out of sight and earshot.
Treetops broke down and finished last, limping. Too bad for its owner, trainer, and Auntie Sal. I wandered down to the parade ring to see the Grand National winner walk round before his race, but without any thought of drawing him. I reckoned he was just about played out as a subject, and there would shortly be a glut.
The afternoon went quickly, as usual. I won a little, lost a little, and filled my eyes with something better than money. On the stands for the last race, I found myself approached by Maisie Matthews. No mistaking the bright red coat, the air of gloss, and the big, kind-looking, worldly face. She drew to a halt on the step below me, looking up. Entirely self-confident, though registering doubt.
‘Aren’t you,’ she said, ‘the young man I had a drink with, with Sal and Billy?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I wasn’t sure,’ she said, the doubt disappearing. ‘You look older out here.’
‘Different light,’ I said, agreeing. She too looked older, by about ten years. Fifty-something, I thought. Bar-light always flattered.
‘They said you were an artist.’ Their mild disapproval coloured the way she spoke.
‘Mm,’ I said, watching the runners canter past on the way to the post.
‘Not very well paid, is it, dear?’
I grinned at her, liking her directness. ‘It depends who you are. Picasso didn’t grumble.’
‘How much would you charge to paint a picture for me?’
‘What sort of picture?’
‘Well, dear, you may say it sounds morbid and I dare say it is, but I was just thinking this morning when I went over there, and really it makes me that mad every time I see it, well, I was thinking actually that it makes a crazy picture, that burnt ruin with the chimney sticking up, and the burnt hedge behind and all that sea, and I was thinking of getting the local photographer who does all the weddings and things to come along and take a colour picture, because when it’s all cleared away and rebuilt, no one will believe how awful it was, and I want to hang it in the new house, just to show them.’
‘But...’
‘So how much would you charge? Because I dare say you can see I am not short of the next quid but if it would be hundreds I might as well get the photographer of course.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed gravely. ‘How about if I came to see the house, or what’s left of it, and gave you an estimate?’
She saw nothing odd in that. ‘All right, dear. That sounds very businesslike. Of course, it will have to be soon, though, because once the insurance people have been I am having the rubble cleared up.’
‘How soon?’
‘Well, dear, as you’re half-way there, could you come today?’
We discussed it. She said she would drive me in her Jaguar as I hadn’t a car, and I could go home by train just as easily from Worthing as from Plumpton.
So I agreed.
One takes the most momentous steps unawares.
The ruin was definitely paintagenic, if there is such a word. On the way there, more or less non-stop, she had talked about her late husband, Archie, who had looked after her very well, dear.
‘Well, that’s to say, I looked after him, too, dear, because of course I was a nurse. Private, of course. I nursed his first wife all through her illness, cancer it was, dear, of course, and then I stayed on for a bit to look after him, and, well, he asked me to stay on for life, dear, and I did. Of course he was much older, he’s been gone more than ten years now. He looked after me very well, Archie did.’
She glanced fondly at the huge opal. Many a man would have liked to have been remembered as kindly.
‘Since he went, and left me so well off, dear, it seemed a shame not to get some fun out of it, so I carried on with what we were doing when we were together those few years, which was going round to auction sales in big houses, dear, because you pick up such nice things there, quite cheap sometimes, and of course it’s ever so much more interesting when the things have belonged to someone well known or famous.’ She changed gear with a jerk and aggressively passed an inoffensive little van. ‘And now all those things are burnt to cinders, of course, and all the memories of Archie and the places we went together, and I’ll tell you, dear, it makes me mad.’
‘It’s really horrid for you.’
‘Yes, dear, it is.’
I reflected that it was the second time in a fortnight that I’d been cast in the role of comforter; and I felt as inadequate for her as I had for Donald.
She stamped on the brakes outside the remains of her house and rocked us to a standstill. From the opulence of the minor mansions on either side, her property had been far from a slum; but all that was left was an extensive sprawling black heap, with jagged pieces of outside wall defining its former shape, and the thick brick chimney, as she’d said, pointing sturdily skywards from the centre. Ironic, I thought fleetingly, that the fireplace alone had survived the flames.
‘There you are, dear,’ Maisie said. ‘What do you think?’
‘A very hot fire.’
She raised her pencilled eyebrows. ‘But yes, dear, all fires are hot, aren’t they? And of course there was a lot of wood. So many of these old seaside houses were built with a lot of wood.’
Even before we climbed out of her big pale blue car, I could smell the ash.
‘How long ago...?’ I asked.
‘Last week-end, dear. Sunday.’
While we surveyed the mess for a moment in silence a man walked slowly into view from behind the chimney. He was looking down, concentrating, taking a step at a time and then bending to poke into the rubble.
Maisie, for all her scarlet-coated bulk, was nimble on her feet.
‘Hey,’ she called, hopping out of the car and advancing purposefully. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
The man straightened up, looking startled. About forty, I judged, with a raincoat, a crisp-looking trilby and a down-turning moustache.
He raised his hat politely. ‘Insurance, madam.’
‘I thought you were coming on Monday.’
‘I happened to be in the district. No time like the present, don’t you think?’
‘Well, I suppose not,’ Maisie said. ‘And I hope there isn’t going to be any shilly-shallying over you paying up, though of course nothing is going to get my treasures back and I’d rather have them than any amount of money, as I’ve got plenty of that in any case.’
The man was unused to Maisie’s brand of chat.
‘Er...’ he said. ‘Oh yes. I see.’
‘Have you found out what started it?’ Maisie demanded.
‘No, madam.’
‘Found anything at all?’
‘No, madam.’
‘Well, how soon can I get all this cleared away?’
‘Any time you like, madam.’
He stepped carefully towards us, picking his way round clumps of blackened debris. He had steady greyish eyes, a strong chin, and an overall air of intelligence.
‘What’s your name?’ Maisie asked.
‘Greene, madam.’ He paused slightly, and added ‘With an ‘e”.