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Please don’t deviate from the schedule. The castles must be photographed in the order given between July and the end of August.
I wasn’t keen on that constraint. It smacked of micromanagement, and what if the weather was appalling? Surely flexibility was key to the success of the project? But after I shopped around for an expensive digital camera, I changed my mind. Thinking about it calmly, the route was logical, from north to south, and there was more than enough time to visit other places along the way, which as far as I was concerned, was a must. I was a free agent and without more commissions, I had to consider other ways I might bring extra earnings. If I focused on the famous ones, then I might be able to sell the images online or to an agent. If the season was important, then it was advantageous for light and warmth - no grim black and white shots. Mr “whoever” wanted summer scenery with full foliage and white clouds, not rain and dewy grass. As he lived abroad, he probably had little understanding of how unreliable English weather was during the summer.
I spent a few more hours researching, checking accessibility of each castle, the days they were open to the public, and the local amenities. I would have to book hotels… No, not hotels. Bed and breakfast, or lodgings. Travelling was likely to be a lonely affair, and this was the chance to meet people. The thought of banishing myself inside a hotel room was abhorrent, and too much like a busman’s holiday.
With my brain ignited, I couldn’t stop, and I fired off a stream of questions to David. How would I receive the expenses? I needed money up front for fuel and board. What if I had to query any aspect of the project – was I always going to get an appropriate answer from David? Why couldn’t I communicate directly with his friend? If I used libraries or internet cafes on route, couldn’t I email him, or telephone him?
Direct communication would be an awkward issue. David anticipated it would be limited. His friend wasn’t to be bothered too much due to some unspecified health problem. David understood my concerns and I received nothing other than weak sympathy in reply. Then, I touched on the biggest bug of all. What did I call the client? Because surely, there would a contract, an agreement of some kind? What proof had I that he even existed?
The agreement would be with David, as the representative and UK resident, and he would take possession of the prints, manage the paperwork, including any fees demanded for the taking of commercial photographs, something I’d overlooked. It would mean signing over the copyright of the photographs to him; I could keep copies, but never publish them anywhere. Okay, that made sense. As for the money, he would arrange for a weekly allowance. Any discrepancies we could argue over later, but he didn’t anticipate any major issues.
Easter approached, the deadline for my final decision. David had sent a draft of the agreement and I kept it by my bed, in the drawer. A routine check of my inbox revealed an email from an unrecognised account. I hovered over the delete button, and assumed it was spam. Something alerted me, a sharp taste in my mouth, almost bittersweet. I paid closer attention to the email address:
LDM1449
What was the significance of the handle?
The subject of the email was simplyCastles. Could this be the elusive friend of David Carmichael? I fumbled with the mouse buttons and opened the message.
David passed on your email address. I hope you do not mind me contacting you. I am pleased you have decided to help me with this project.
I know this must be daunting. I don’t make too many demands of you, I hope. There is something of a connection between us – our love of the past, the beauty of structures that embody it, whether intact or ruined. From what David told me, I understand you seek the same things as me.
I did? Somewhat presumptuous of him. What had David told him? I doubted he understood my true motivation for agreeing to the arrangement and I wasn’t going to discuss the reason via the medium of email. Worryingly, there was an implication he had seen something of my photographs, but how? David hadn’t taken any of them with him, not even copies of the ones I used in the exhibition. I read on:
Once you send me your first batch of images – I’m glad you have chosen a digital camera, it is convenient for us all – then we can discuss things further.
What things? The castles or the images?
The reasons for my anonymity must be strange to you, but please put your trust in me and allow me this privilege. I look forward to receiving your photographs of Bamburgh Castle.
Bamburgh was the first on the itinerary. It was a must see.
As for his signature at the end – he referred to himself simply as “Medici”. I looked up the name and found an entry that fitted with his email address. Lorenzo de’ Medici, nobleman of Florence and patron of the arts, was born in 1449. My mystery man was keen on staying in the shadows. We might as well be playing a game of cat and mouse. This email had left me far from excited at the thought of visiting this distant castle, and slowly, like a creeping sensation of coldness, I was beginning to understand why I had lost my enthusiasm.
I backed off handing in my notice for the same reason I couldn’t tell my parents: I was no longer convinced I was the right person.
Five
The wind buffeted the easel, causing it to rock slightly on its spindly legs. Stretched across the board and held in place with strips of tape, the white paper was marked with faint pencil lines. He tapped the paintbrush on the edge of the small bucket dangling below and waited for the squall to die down. A week after Easter and the weather remained unsettled.
The wind dropped. He looked up and focused on the central point of the landscape. Carelessly placed, as if dropped with little thought onto the far end of the triangular ramparts, was the stone windmill. The rounded structure rested on a square plinth and there were features to note: tiny glazed windows; cone-shaped roof; smoothed stones with no visible mortar. The windmill, sadly, held no other facets of interest having lost its sails. The artist had little time to dwell on history of the building; the guidebook was buried in his rucksack. With the weather and time set against him, he would create a rough draft and finish the rest later.
The view beyond the windmill distracted him from time to time. On the horizon, the billowing greyness of the sky blended into the turbulent seas. It remained an impressive landscape even with the lack of bright sunshine.
People pried, who wouldn’t? Strolling past they stopped to look. Some commented in an appreciative manner, and he smiled with his lips only. Eventually, the audience drifted away and left him to flick the brush across the canvas in relative solitude. The paint coverage was good; the wind effective in drying the canvas. At his feet was the paint box, and he crouched to retrieve an unopened tube. The outside of the lidded box was the worse for wear; it had been on many journeys, right across Europe, but the inside was in better shape. He traced the initials faintly etched into the wood – LDM – with the tip of his finger before rising again.
He maintained a firm stance, standing with his legs apart, his broad shoulders slightly hunched. The palette rested somewhat precariously on one arm, the brushes in a pot by his feet. He worked reasonably fast. Pausing between strokes, he sniffed the salty air, and turned to glance up at the darkening sky. The wind had shifted direction. The shelter provided by the walls was no longer sufficient. As if aware, the easel shivered and wobbled on its thin legs. He swiftly mixed the last batch of colours, applied the wet, silky fibres to the paper and covered the faint sketch marks of the windmill with a dapple complexion.
The warden came and stood next to him, nodding appreciatively. ‘Sorry. We’re closing soon.’
‘Just about done.’ The artist cocked his head to one side, and rapped the brush handle on the palette.
‘Impressive. But why the windmill?’ The warden gestured behind them to the vast structure looming high above their heads. ‘Isn’t this what you’ve come to paint?’
‘It isn’t what you expect, though, is it? A windmill on a battlement.’ The artist wiped his brush on a rag.
‘Will you be back tomorrow?’ the warden asked.
