AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Robyn?’ He spoke tentatively. ‘Don’t be angry with me.’
‘I’m not.’
He retreated back to his easel, brushing something off the surface with an agitated flick of his finger.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I was hoping one of us would have answers.’
‘No luck with your emails?’
I shook my head. ‘We’re on our own. Do I go on?’
He stiffened, ramrod straight. ‘What?’
‘Or go home.’
‘Why? Surely this is only a temporary breakdown in communication? You said yourself he’s on holiday.’
‘But Camilla—’
‘Is a self-centred bitch when she wants to be. She’s probably cosying up to her next customer,’ he said bitterly.
‘So… we should just plough on?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If we’d not met, you would be here taking photos, not worrying, wouldn’t you?’
He was right. His “so-what” attitude helped, especially as my anxieties were born out of meeting him. I licked my dry lips. If I wanted to be a professional, I had to acquire his calm, business-like approach. There was money in my accounts, and a car and camera in my possession. If David wanted them back, he would have to find me, and I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. As for Medici, my hope that he might be some kind of informative mentor had trickled away. He was playing a game of hide and seek, and I was damned if I was going to jump to attention whenever he decided to pop his head out of the rabbit hole. I puffed out my cheeks and blew away the tightness in my chest with a lengthy exhale.
‘I’ll get started.’ I crouched and unzipped the bag.
‘What’s on today’s agenda?’ Joseph’s voice had lifted a tone or too.
‘Odd things, as usual.’ I rose and hung the camera strap around my neck. ‘I like what you’ve chosen.’
His shoulders relaxed further, and an elastic smile spread into his cheeks. Somewhere underneath the stubble, there were two dimples forming. ‘Good.’ He seemed genuinely taken by my approval. ‘No latrines?’
I laughed. ‘No. You’re okay. They’re windows.’
Some narrow, some rounded with arches; there was a hotch-potch of everything on the East Tower. It was the lack of symmetry, the variety of structure that drew my attention deeper into the stonework. In contrast, I had the impression Joseph hunted for something that emanated outside the buildings, between them almost. Whatever the weather, and it had been excellent to date, he always overlaid an airy complexion to his paintings, as if he was a special effects artist, and the technique ensured the contrast of dark and light remained balanced and colourful. I focused my zoom lens on one spot to test it, then wandered off and left him drawing his pencil lines.
Helmsley Castle was a sprawling ruin with extensive earthworks and robbed out walls. Joseph had chosen a corner spot and settled into his task easily. I thumbed through Braithwaite’s guide. He had dedicated two densely packed pages of enamoured information on Helmsley. Reading it again, I felt little inspiration; the passages lacked his usual hubris and whimsical insights.
Out of Joseph’s sight, I dropped down onto a low wall. The list was scrunched somewhere in the bag and torn in two. I pieced the halves together and smoothed the sheet across my lap. There were four areas to photograph. Medici hadn’t given me precise locations. There was a carved corbel and a jutting oak beam for starters, intricate design features, practical architectural stuff. I criss-crossed the bailey in my hunt for each one. The light was problematic due to thickened clouds. I made adjustments to the shutter speed until I thought I had the right balance of shades. The breeze ebbed, sending my fringe in all directions. In between shots, I occasionally glanced over to Joseph. When he looked across, he waved and I waved back. After my last sequence of photographs, I checked again and he was gone, having left his easel behind. I spotted him halfway to the Great Hall and hastily intercepted him.
‘Taking a break while a layer dries,’ he said, upon my approach. ‘Time for my tour.’
‘Oh.’
He grinned and purloined the camera bag. I didn’t mind the intervention as my arms ached badly.
‘We agreed. My education is wanting.’
Hardly true, but I buzzed with a burst of energy all the same.
‘No little guidebook?’ he asked.
‘I’m getting tired of it.’ We were outside the Great Hall which had been converted into a Tudor house with glazed windows and timber interior. I explained the beginnings of the castle.
‘The same family behind Rievaulx,’ he said.
