Carole indicated her Art Crawl map. “Andrew was going to be our next port of call. The Smokehouse Studio.”
“He’s just down the alley behind here.”
“Why’s it called the Smokehouse Studio?” asked Jude.
“Because that’s what it used to be. Don’t know whether you know, but this used to be the Fedborough grocer’s…”
“Yes, we had heard.”
“And next door – the one that’s now an estate agent’s – used to be the town butcher – and behind that was the smokehouse they used for home-curing all their baconand stuff like that. It was on the market at the same time as this place. The people who bought the butcher’s didn’t want it, but I did.”
“That’s where Andrew works?”
“Right. When I thought about buying this place – ”
“When was that actually, Terry?”
“Three, three and a bit years ago.”
“Did you buy it directly from Stanley and Billie Franks?”
“Yes. They’d let it run down because they knew they were retiring soon, so I got it at quite a good price. Needed a hell of a lot doing, though. Everything was in a terrible mess, really filthy.”
“Were they giving up the business because Stanley was starting to get ill?”
“I’ve always assumed so. Certainly Billie was the one who did the negotiation of the sale. Mind you, Stanley must’ve been late sixties by then, so maybe that’s when they’d planned to retire, anyway.”
“Sorry, I interrupted you. You were talking about when you were thinking of buying this place…”
“Yes, well, I knew, if Andrew was going to come with me, I’d have to find him a studio space, and the smokehouse was ideal.” For a moment, Terry Harper betrayed deep insecurity, the fear that Andrew Wragg would walk out if his every whim was not catered for. “That’s really what sold the place to me.”
He moved quickly on, perhaps embarrassed about the lapse into self-revelation. “Anyway, the conversion job is just wonderful. You’ll see it in a minute. You cannot begin to imagine the state the smokehouse was in when I bought the place – much worse than in here. Hadn’t been used for a while – except as a kind of storeroom. Full of all kinds of junk, packing cases, rusty tools – a real glory-hole. But local architect – Alan Burnethorpe, don’t know if you’ve met him…”
Jude nodded. “He’s the one who’s got an office on a houseboat down at Fedborough Bridge?”
“That’s right. Done a lovely refurbishment on that. Alan’s very clever, and he’s known every building in this town all his life. Very sympathetic to their history. He did a wonderful job on the smokehouse too, kept a lot of the original features – the kiln, that kind of thing – and really created this magical space. Andrew’s very happy with his studio.” He spoke the last words with relief, again revealing an edge of paranoia.
“We look forward to seeing it,” said Carole formally. “Not to mention seeing Andrew’s challenging art,” said Jude.
Carole looked around Yesteryear Antiques. “You’ve done wonders with this place too.”
“Yes, well, I wanted to keep that old-fashioned-shop feel. Fits in with the kind of stock I carry.”
“You must be something of an expert in social history.”
“Just a bit.” He picked up the top copy from a pile of hardback books, and coyly straightened the tortoiseshell glasses on his nose. “This is one of mine.” The Edwardian Kitchen by Terence Harper. “I’m working on a new book, about Edwardian garden furniture. At least I am when I get any time…which in the last few months, with this endless Art Crawl palaver, hasn’t been very often.” He gestured round his Aladdin’s cave of domestic treasures. “Anything I can interest either of you in?”
Oh dear, thought Carole, how embarrassing. He thinks we’re here as customers.
As ever, Jude smoothly defused the situation. “Sorry, there’s too much to take in in one visit. I’d like to come back and have a really good riffle around. But this afternoon we’re concentrating on art, not antiques.”
“Right you are.” Terry Harper seemed unoffended. Jude had again found the right words. “Well, give my love to Andrew. Tell him I’m expecting him to join me for a G and T at six-thirty sharp.” Again he allowed them a glimpse of his possessive anxiety. “But it’s lovely to see you two. People like us must stick together in a place like Fedborough.”
“Like us?” said Carole. “What do you mean?”
“We sexual minorities.” He breathed the words and winked. “I’d have known, incidentally, even if Fiona hadn’t pointed it out. But, as I say, we must stick together. Not the most broad-minded place on earth, Fedborough.”
As they emerged from Yesteryear Antiques, Jude could no longer control her pent-up laughter. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she crowed. “Thanks to the wagging tongue of Fiona Lister, all of Fedborough thinks we’re a lesbian couple. Isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?”
Carole’s frosty expression suggested she had heard funnier ones.
Twenty-Eight
The Smokehouse Studio lived up to Terry Harper’s glowing preview. Alan Burnethorpe’s conversion had been imaginative, but respected the existing features of the building. The original structure was little more than a large shed with a slate roof. The interior walls had been stripped back to their russet brickwork; the supporting beams buffed down till the fine light grain showed through. On one side of the roof the slates had been retained, on the other, the spaces between the bare rafters had been glassed in. These windows could be opened by a ratchet mechanism, so that a healthy breeze diluted the warmth of the July sun.
At the back of the large room, a wall had been built to slice off some of the space. Two doors in this presumably led to a bathroom and utility area. But the most striking feature of the studio was the old smoking kiln, a brick cylinder which tapered upwards like an inverted funnel till the chimney found its way out through the roof.
The large doorway in this structure had been bricked into a recess, which contained the matt-black pillar of a Scandinavian wood burning stove. The studio that Terry Harper had had built for his partner reflected the strength and the insecurity of his love. Andrew Wragg could haveno complaints about the working space that had been provided for him.
Everything was meticulously tidy. The untouched canvas on an easel in the centre of the room contrived to look neat, even the array of brushes and acrylic paints were somehow regimented.
Only the paintings themselves showed wildness and indiscipline. Terry Harper had described the work as ‘challenging’; the word Carole would have chosen was ‘dreadful’ – in both senses. There was a fury in the screaming splashes of colour across Andrew Wragg’s canvases. None of the shapes that struggled and strangled each other in the compositions was representational, and yet they were very evocative. They spoke of deep anger, and even deeper pain.
The artist himself also looked angered and pained. When Carole and Jude entered, he was sitting in a throne-like wooden chair, flicking restlessly through a design magazine. His eyes rose from the page to greet them.
“Thank God,” he drawled. “I was beginning to think the world had ended out there and nobody had told me.”
“I’m Carole and this is Jude, my…er…” Terry Harper’s recent misunderstanding about their relationship was still unsettling her. “…my neighbour,” she concluded firmly. “You remember, we met at…”