It was the largest of the three bedrooms; also the most cluttered, because it clearly served as both living quarters and studio space. A variety of paint pots, brushes soaking in cleaning fluid, old newspapers scattered over the floor and rags streaked with multicoloured oils all testified to the nature of her work; and in front of the window, catching the best of the sunlight, there was an easel supporting a large canvas, hidden from view by an off-white sheet. I must admit that I hadn’t been much prey to curiosity regarding Phoebe up until this point: I had noticed, in a superficial way, that she was very attractive (oddly enough she reminded me of Shirley Eaton, whose image had for so long provided my ideal of feminine beauty), but this would probably have had more effect if I hadn’t still been under the spell cast by Alice during our short meeting; and to me, at any rate, she had said scarcely anything of interest – had said scarcely anything at all, if it came to that – since my arrival. And yet there was something irresistible about the idea of spying on her work in progress; something wickedly analogous, I suppose, to the thought of glimpsing her in a state of undress. I took hold of a corner of the sheet and lifted it two or three inches. A tantalizing area of thick, grey-green paint came into view. I raised the sheet some more, until I could just about see a provocative little band of coppery red, placed teasingly on the edge of the canvas. It was more than I could bear, and in one sudden, ruthless movement I whipped the sheet away, so that the entire picture stood exposed to me in all its unfinished glory.
I looked at it for several minutes before it started to make any sense. All I could see at first was this random patchwork of colour, striking enough in itself, but oppressive and disorientating. Then gradually, as I began to make out certain curves and boundaries, it came to seem less like a patchwork and more like a vortex, and I felt myself caught up in a giddying swirl of movement and energy. Finally, some shapes started to emerge, and I began the treacherous business of trying to put a name to them: that globe, which dominated the left-hand side of the painting, and what seemed to be some sort of netted implement … Could it be anything as mundane as a clogged and muddled still life? A roughly sketched scrub of waste land – in the corner of Joan’s back yard, say – with a football and an old tennis racket in it? It seemed increasingly likely, and I felt my excitement begin to subside, when …
‘Please don’t look at that.’
Phoebe stood in the doorway, clutching a paper bag to her chest.
There was nothing I could say, except, ‘I’m sorry, I – I was just curious.’
She carried the paper bag to her desk and took out a drawing pad and some pencils.
‘I don’t mind you coming in here,’ she said. ‘But I don’t like people looking at my work.’
‘I’m sorry, I should have just … asked you or something – ’
‘It isn’t that.’ She pulled the sheet back over the canvas and started to rearrange the bunch of wilting gyp which stood in a jam jar on her window-sill.
‘It’s very good,’ I said. I could feel her grow suddenly tense, but persisted in blundering on: ‘I mean, to fill a picture with so much drama and power, when you’re dealing with a couple of everyday objects like that; it’s remarkable. I mean, a football and a tennis racket – who would have thought it …?’
Phoebe turned to face me, but her eyes remained lowered and her voice muted. ‘I don’t have much confidence in my abilities as a painter.’
‘Well you should.’
‘It’s the last in a series of six pictures inspired by the Orpheus legend.’
‘And if the others are as good as th–’ I stared at her in surprise. ‘Pardon?’
‘It shows his lyre and his disembodied head being carried along by the waters of the Hebrus.’
I sat down on the bed. ‘Ah.’
‘Now you see why I don’t like to show people my work.’
There was little prospect of an end to the ensuing silence. I looked blankly into the middle distance, too flustered to manage anything in the way of an apology, while Phoebe sat down at her desk and started to sharpen one of the pencils. I had almost come to the conclusion that it would be best if I got up and left without another word, when she said abruptly: ‘Has she changed much?’
This threw me at first.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Joan. Has she changed much, since you knew her?’
‘Oh. No, not really.’ Then I thought about it. ‘Well to be honest, I can’t really say. I mean, I’ve never really known her as an adult, only as a child. It’s been a bit like meeting her for the first time.’
‘Yes, I’d noticed. You’re almost like strangers.’
I shrugged: but in a rueful rather than a nonchalant way. ‘Perhaps it was a bad idea for me to come.’
‘No, I don’t think so. She’s been looking forward to this for weeks. And she loves having you here, I can tell. She’s very different with you around. Graham thinks so too.’
‘In what way different?’
‘Less … desperate, I suppose.’
I didn’t like the sound of that.
‘I think she gets lonely up here, you see. And her work can be very demanding. We both do our best to jolly her along. I know she’s dreading the summer, when we’re not going to be here to keep her company. Not that we find it a strain, or anything,’ she added earnestly. ‘We both get on with her all right, and there are really only one or two things which seem – well, beyond the call of duty … Like when we have to play games.’
‘Games?’
‘Quite often, after dinner, she wants us to play board games. Monopoly, Snakes and Ladders, things like that.’
I said nothing; just shuddered, for some reason.
‘Anyway, that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about. She won’t be doing it while you’re here, that’s for sure. Doesn’t have to.’
∗
‘Now – who’s for a quick game of Scrabble?’
Joan beamed expectantly around the table, and all three of us did our best to avoid meeting her eye. Graham resorted to his trick of stacking the plates again, Phoebe concentrated on slowly draining what was left in her wineglass, and I developed a sudden interest in translating the Polish Trade Union poster which had been staring me in the face for the last three evenings. But then, after a few seconds, I began to sense that the other two were relying on me to come to the rescue, so I said: ‘Actually I could do with an hour or two alone with my notebook, if that’s all right. The ideas have been coming thick and fast today.’
Brazen falsehood though it was, it was the only excuse Joan was likely to accept. ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘I’d hate to come between you and your Muse. But if this is a new book you’re working on, you must make me a promise.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That I can be the first person to read it when you’ve finished, of course.’
I smiled awkwardly. ‘Well, this is something of a long-term project: I doubt if it’ll see the light of day for years. In the meantime I’ve got something else to be thinking about. I’m contemplating a move into non-fiction.’ It was hard to tell, from her expression, whether Joan was impressed or baffled by this revelation. ‘I’ve been offered the job of writing the history of a certain eminent family. It’s quite a distinction, if you must know.’
‘Oh – and who might they be?’
I told her, and Graham snorted with incredulous laughter.
‘That bunch of vampires? Well, you must be on your uppers, that’s all I can say.’ He disappeared into the kitchen, carrying our plates and the remains of Phoebe’s excellent parmigiana. As he left he could still be heard muttering, ‘The Winshaws, eh? That’s a good one.’