Heathen/Nemesis

Thirty-Eight

The smile on the face of the attendant was a marked contrast to Donna’s expression of shocked surprise.

As he saw her concern, again his smile faded.

‘Well, let’s say the James Worsdale I know has been dead that long,’ he said apologetically. ‘But if there’s another ...’ He shrugged. ‘It’s an unusual name.’

Donna’s mind was still reeling but she reached for her handbag, pulling out the diary.

‘Look,’ she said, thrusting the book at him and pointing at the entry. ‘James Worsdale, Dublin National Gallery.’

‘You’re in the right place, then. His work is exhibited here. He’s not.’

Donna shook her head, now totally puzzled by what she’d heard. She felt a little foolish, too.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and turned to leave.

‘Wait,’ the attendant said. ‘Have you got five minutes to spare? You came here to see Worsdale’s work; the least I can do is show it to you.’

She hesitated, then smiled thinly.

‘Five minutes?’ she repeated. ‘I feel such an idiot,’ she said.

‘No need to. You wouldn’t be the first one through these doors,’ he nodded towards the main entrance and smiled broadly.

The gesture was infectious and Donna at last found herself grinning, too. The attendant clambered out from behind the counter, one of his colleagues taking his place. He walked around to where Donna stood and motioned for her to follow him. Again she was struck by his good looks and his relaxed, easy manner. He introduced himself.

‘My name’s Gordon Mahoney,’ he told her.

‘Donna Ward. How long have you worked here?’

‘Six years. It pays to know whose paintings are exhibited here. People are always asking questions.’

‘But not always looking for the artist,’ she said.

Mahoney grinned.

‘What makes Worsdale’s work so interesting to you?’ he wanted to know as they walked through the gallery, passing among the tourists and the students and the other visitors.

‘It was my husband who was interested in him,’ she said a little sadly.

‘Is he with you today?’

‘He’s dead.’ She swallowed hard.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mahoney said quickly. ‘Was he interested in obscure Irish painters, then?’

‘Was Worsdale like that?’

‘He wasn’t one of our most famous painters. Maybe obscure is being a little unkind to him, though.’

They climbed a flight of stone steps and reached another floor. Mahoney moved briskly along, glancing at Donna every now and then. He finally came to a halt and made a sweeping gesture with his arm designed to encompass the array of canvases on the wall.

‘This is some of James Worsdale’s work,’ Mahoney explained.

Donna stood looking at them, listening as the attendant pointed out each canvas in turn and told her a little about it. They were unremarkable works: landscapes, portraits and still-lifes. She could see nothing amongst them to explain why Chris should have been so interested in the artist’s work. She knew very little about art and couldn’t tell if the paintings were brilliant or not. To her, they looked accomplished but ordinary. What the hell made Worsdale so interesting to her late husband?

‘What was your husband looking for?’ Mahoney wanted to know.

Donna merely shook her head gently, looking from canvas to canvas.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘Is this it? All of his paintings?’

‘All we have. Well, nearly all. There’s one in storage.’ He smiled. ‘In fact, it’s permanantly in storage and it’s probably the most interesting thing he ever painted, but the subject matter makes it a little, how shall I put it, undesirable for public display.’

‘Why, is it obscene or something?’ she asked.

Mahoney laughed.

‘Anything but.’

‘So why is it never put on show?’

‘You could say it’s something of an embarrassment.’ He looked at her and held her gaze.

‘Could I see it, please?’ she asked.

Mahoney hesitated, his infectious smile fading.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ He looked around, as if afraid that someone might be listening to their conversation.

‘It could be important,’ she persisted.

He nodded finally.

‘Okay. Come with me.’