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Her fierce expression magnified. ‘You know I am. You’ve been at Prudhoe, Bowes, and now here.’
‘They’re close to each other, relatively, so…’ He thought back further. ‘Warkworth. You were in the car park. A red Corsa.’
Her whole demeanour gravitated downwards, as if on the brink of a collapse. He reached to catch her elbow, and missed.
She’d leapt back, wide-eyed, and landed in a puddle. ‘You went to Bamburgh, too.’
How had she known he was there at Easter? What had seemed like remarkable coincidences, now rebounded into something sinister. His heartbeats weren’t normal. Neither was the tremble of his hands.
‘Who are you?’ she asked quietly. Her cheeks were colourless porcelain.
He wanted to know the same thing. He cleared his throat, and feeling generous, he stretched out his hand. ‘I’m Joseph. I’m a freelance artist.’ Naturally, he avoided using his family name, and if pushed, he would use a different one as a precaution.
‘What kind of artist?’ She kept her arms bolted to her sides.
He might have to explain a few awkward things, which he suspected she wouldn’t believe.
The sunbeam hit the wall above her head and illuminated the fine features of her face. A pretty face.
‘Tell you what. Let’s meet up later for a drink because I really need to take advantage of the sunshine.’ He lowered his hand, accepting it was premature. She was cautious for a reason, and he wanted to know why. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m up to, and you can explain why you’re stalking me.’
Her long-lashed eyes widened into moons. The indignation was back. ‘Okay, you’re on.’
PART THREE
‘How beautiful is youth, that is always slipping away! Whoever wants to be happy, let him be so: of tomorrow there's no knowing.’
Lorenzo de' Medici
Nineteen
When I was a young boy becoming an artist never crossed my mind. Those who witnessed my early accomplishments assumed it was my destiny, while I considered myself a fledging who would never take off. The art teacher at school encouraged me to seriously consider becoming one. Bullied me, perhaps, to be truthful. I wasn’t a cooperative student, and I made a point of letting her down without remorse.
However, her persistence worked in the end, and I asked Dad to give up some of his precious garage space. Begrudgingly, he did, and I turned the concrete cavern into a poorly-lit studio that was barely fit for purpose. Money was always an issue; supplies were expensive. I worked odd jobs for the neighbours and during the summer holidays I helped out in the local bicycle shop. Cycling was my other hobby.
Fortunately, I instinctively shied away from exotic materials, and chose watercolours, pencils, the odd piece of chalk lying around, and occasionally, I fashioned a figurine in clay. There were no whacky junk sculptures made out of car parts and greasy rags, the things Dad left lying around in the garage. Against all expectations, I followed the path of fine art, and showed no interest in breaking out into other styles. Nor did I hanker to go to art college. I blamed my youth, a lacklustre father, and the complex behaviour of my brothers. Instead I opted to learn to teach. My reasoning I thought was sensible: I would have a steady income while I indulged in necessary isolation during the long holidays.
I never relished teaching, even when the private school provided me with plenty of art supplies to keep me from quitting. It wasn’t that I disliked children; I could tolerate them in art classes, and there were the good ones who paid attention and tried hard. Unfortunately, for a significant majority art was the relax and chat class, the muck around and waste time lesson. Much of my precious time was spent tidying the classroom up after each lesson. The mess generated by teenagers in one hour was spectacular and detestable.
The suggestion, by one wiser friend, someone with connections to the local council, was adult education. I cut back the school hours, and branched out into evening classes for retired folks with time on their hands for frivolous hobbies. It suited me perfectly. Between classes and during the holidays, I was able to pursue what I should have stuck to in the first place. In a cluttered studio, finally free from that childhood dung heap called a council house, I took up brush, pencil or palette knife, withdrew into my personal headspace, and cocooned myself there for hours, often without food.
It was a beginning, and it felt like it should go somewhere better. Friends from teaching college where I had trained threw ideas my way once again, and one went as far as setting up a website to showcase stuff I’d painted. I paid scant attention to its maintenance. Clients sent me photographs of loved ones and I turned them into an artistic representation in watercolours or pastels, sometimes a pencil drawing. It supplemented my modest income. However, the idea of drawing countless faces of people and pets wasn’t appealing. Illustrating children’s books was another suggestion. I backed away from that idea; I struggled to relate to the mind of a child, so how could I possibly illustrate their world if I lacked empathy?
The illustrators I met suggested other specialities. One painted meticulous representations of botanical plants for a horticultural publisher. Beautiful, I agreed without envy, knowing that she fancied me and wanted that level of exactitude in her love life too. I told her, honestly, it wasn’t my thing, turning a living thing into object d’art. We parted company amicably, or so I thought. She presented me a framed picture of a beetroot, garishly red, bleeding almost, with a fork stabbed into its side.
Okay, said another one of my colleagues, what about architecture? Initially I had rolled my eyes in a sweeping dismissal until I thought through what I liked doing best. When I saw open spaces, I wanted to capture them. The vast terrains, brash colours, subtle textures. From then on for the summer weeks, I travelled around Europe, carting with me a slim-downed collection of brushes and paints, and tried my hand at different scenes. The Alps generated a reasonable period of feverish activity, though I preferred the warmer climate of the Pyrenees. Then I ventured into forests, but trees brought me back to living things, and there wasn’t enough space between the branches to feel that emptiness. Finally, three summers ago, I reached Greece and, in amongst the rugged rocks and arid heat, I discovered the relics of an empire, the toppled columns, epic amphitheatres and cavernous tombs of kings. The oven-baked air was crisp and tangy, filled with the rich aroma of olives, and I breathed it in until I was sated. Nothing beat that feeling that comes with a vast emptiness. Clogged streets and tower blocks would never be my home again. I lived for that distant summer in the perfumed meadows with the cypress trees, eating apricots and feeding my obsession to draw.
The feeling stayed with me on the leisurely journey home, allowing me to fill my notepad with endless sketches. What my father considered odd was the lack of photographs. I tapped my forehead. ‘It’s all up here.’ I grinned, wryly. Nobody quite knew how my brain operated. All I needed was a sketch and an outline of colourful brush strokes to aid my memory.
Those paintings of Ancient Greece produced the first genuine sales via galleries I had approached. I went back to Greece, taking my time in Italy along the way. The connection of space and substance created a specialism of my own. I steered away from urban vistas and concentrated on landscapes with features, human endeavours overlaying natural ones. Stonehenge was the next project, then on to Glastonbury Tor, followed by Hadrian’s Wall. Experimenting with various media, I became versatile with works ranging from a quick charcoal sketch to elaborate oil paintings. I still depended on teaching for an income, but now and again I pocketed extra cash with a sale or the occasional commission. For those odd jobs I relied on an agent with fingers in many pies, and unusual ones, too. The only stipulation I gave her was that I used an alias. The habit had evolved to the point where I had abandoned my real name, except when I had to use it for legal reasons.
Still, the castles commission took me by surprise, especially the scale of the project and the money on offer for completing the collection – mega bucks, as Dad would say. All I was told by Camilla was that it wasn’t for a book. It was a gift: a collection of paintings for somebody who admired castles. I wasn’t fussed because it meant I could escape the city, disconnect myself from all the aggravation that followed me around like a ball and chain. No phone, television or computer. Just brushes, easel, and a tent.
Twenty
While Joseph painted, I had a few hours to kill.
I wandered through the small town of Barnard Castle, visited a museum, browsed shop windows, and as the hour of our appointment approached, I returned to the river to snap a few shots of the castle from the distance. Situated on the banks of the River Tees, the castle was prominent and, unlike Dunstanburgh, was part of the community. I took advantage of a bench and waited.
