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Mrs McDougal had no qualms about giving me access to her computer. The redoubtable lady with flaxen hair and raspberry skid marks down her blouse, was eating a jam sandwich when I arrived at the Thirsk B&B. She carried my suitcase upstairs like a miniature lumberjack. I didn’t ask if she was still married or a widow. There wasn’t a ring nor a shadow of one. I concluded she was also unlikely to have nocturnal callers, and thankfully, since my stomach was growling, she was happy to provide me with dinner – she offered me steak pie. She paid no heed to my camera equipment. At the mention of checking my emails, she waved me out of the bedroom, and I followed her downstairs.
‘Ye’ve lovely hair.’ She poked at her bun. ‘Mine’s twisted like thistles. Canna get it tae hang straight.’
I sympathised wordlessly.
‘Gin ye fancy a wee dram, then help yourself.’
I had noted the whisky bottle next to the kettle.
‘I put ane ivery room. It’s my wee welcome tae ye.’
Having struggled with the Geordie dialect, I was having to concentrate even harder with the diminutive Mrs McDougal’s native tongue.
‘You’ve not lost your Scots,’ I dared to say.
‘Ay, sae people like tae say.’ A jovial smile fractured her face. ‘The Edinburgh folk like tae stay here. But ye’re a southern lass.’
‘Midlands.’
‘Ay, south.’
She showed me into her cluttered front room. The keyboard was overwhelmed by magazines and knitting patterns. She bustled and cleared a space for me on the chair. ‘There ye gae. Take ye time.’ She paused by the door. ‘Dae ye like your tatties mashit?’
I replayed the sentence a few times. ‘Yes, please.’
The door squeaked.
‘An yer gravy wi onions?’
My fingers stilled on the keys. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Ye’re an easy lass. No fussy.’
Finally, she left the room.
I composed two emails. The one that went to Medici had an assumption of continuing mutual trust:
I’m not alone in my endeavours. A young man is painting the same locations, supposedly for an agent – Camilla Brooke – do you know her? Small world! I supposed there is no harm in us working together, just a bit weird that he has the same list you gave me.
I hesitated over the send button, and impulsively added a few sentences at the end:
I saw, heard, something at Middleham and it felt so real. I might be going a little crazy. Hopefully not affecting the quality of my photos. Memory stick two on its way. Hope it reaches you okay. Did you know David had gone off on his holidays?
Of course he should know, but I wanted to make a point that I felt abandoned, and that he should feel responsible for me; he was my patron.
With David I expressed my concerns with a demand:
Did you commission an artist to paint exactly the same castles as me? Do you know an illustration agent called Camilla Brooke? She’s the one he’s dealing with. I’m understandably spooked. We have talked about it – his name is Joseph – and agree we’re being kept in the dark. Is there a purpose to what we’re doing and why is Medici so secretive? Would like some answers.
And if Joseph was working indirectly for my patron, so would he. Buoyed with energy, I felt invigorated by my newfound assertiveness. If the emails failed to draw the pair out of their shells, I would have to withdraw my services and hope that a half-finished project was sufficient a threat. Medici might find another photographer to complete the assignment if he wished, but I doubted he would get one by the end of August. There was plenty of money resting in my account and I planned to milk it while I enjoyed Joseph’s company.
Before I logged out of the account, an email bounced back:
Professor Carmichael is out of the office. Please contact the faculty office for further assistance.
There was no date provided for his return. Deflated, I went for a walk around Thirsk. I didn’t take a single photograph. My lack of focus extended to the camera lens; I didn’t know where to point it. I nearly dropped the phone on the pavement when it beeped. The text from Yvette capped my unproductive day with fresh worries.
