House of the Lost

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As Catherine helped prepare the day room for Mr Kendal’s talk to St Luke’s patients, she realized she was nervous. She examined this feeling and discovered it was because she wanted Theo Kendal to give a good account of himself. She could not bear it if he was hesitant or mumbly, or – even worse – if his talk was boring. She could not imagine him being boring under any circumstances, but people were constantly a surprise.

He arrived on time, which pleased her, ringing the big old-fashioned doorbell, and smiling when she opened it, saying he had not expected to see her.

‘There’s a rota for door-answering,’ said Catherine, as he stepped inside. ‘But I lay in wait because I thought you might like to see a familiar face. Convents can be a bit disconcerting if you aren’t used to them.’

‘It’s certainly not terrain I’ve ever explored in any detail,’ he said with the mixture of slight amusement and gravity Catherine remembered.

He was wearing an olive-green corduroy jacket over a cotton shirt with a knitted tie. Catherine thought this was what people nowadays called smart casual, but whatever it was called, it was exactly right for the occasion. He had paid the nuns and patients the compliment of not turning up in scruffy jeans and trainers, but had not gone over the top. His hair looked as if it needed cutting, but probably this was how he wore it anyway. It was soft and dark; it would feel like spun cotton if you touched it.

She and one of the other nuns had set out chairs in the big day room, leaving wide aisles for wheelchairs. Catherine had polished the desk that stood in the bay window. It was a nice old mahogany piece with an inset leather blotter, and she had set out on it a notebook and pen, and a carafe of water with a tumbler. The promised flipchart was at one side – they had brought it in from the library; Sister Miriam had agreed to the loan for a couple of hours – with two felt-tipped pens for writing. Mr Kendal said this was really excellent, absolutely ideal, and he hoped his talk would be as good as the arrangements.

‘I’m sure it will,’ said Catherine. ‘I think there’ll be about twenty people,’ she added a bit doubtfully. ‘I expect you’re used to far larger audiences.’

‘I promise you I’m not,’ he said. ‘On rainy nights in small towns, I’m lucky if twenty turn up. Not all writers are celebrities.’ The smile showed again, lighting up his eyes.

‘Dr Innes is coming,’ said Catherine, ‘and several of the other sisters. Oh, and Reverend Mother hopes you’ll have a cup of tea in her study afterwards.’

‘Yes, certainly.’ He prowled round the desk a couple of times, like a cat inspecting new territory, tried the flipchart and nodded, then spread out his notes. Catherine watched him for a moment, then went out to help wheel in the patients. Most of them had wanted to come, pleased at the diversion in their ordered day.

In fact it looked like being a full house. The Bursar came, very alert, carrying a notebook and pen, and Dr Innes followed her. Catherine was pleased he had managed to spare the time because he was always so busy. Sister Miriam came in quietly, and took an unobtrusive seat near the back. Catherine wondered if Sister Miriam had read any of Mr Kendal’s books and if so what she had made of them. Sister Agnes bustled in at the last moment, slightly out of breath, apologizing for her tardy arrival, explaining she had had to finish supervising the washing-up and was sorry if she had brought with her any aroma of cooking. You could not, she said to the room in general, cook chicken casserole for thirty people without it permeating your garments.

Mr Kendal gave her his marvellous smile, and glanced at Catherine. She had the strong impression he was sharing a kindly joke with her, and she suddenly wanted to smile back. This would not be a very good idea, though, so she looked down at her feet. When she looked up again, he was glancing through his notes, and she thought she must have imagined that moment of mental intimacy.

If he was nervous at talking to a roomful of strangers, he did not show it. He seemed perfectly relaxed, and when he began Catherine relaxed as well, because although he was not an outstanding orator, his voice was nice and it carried comfortably to the whole room, and what he said was interesting. Catherine listened, her eyes fixed on him, as he explained how he had started writing sketches at university for Footlights. He talked about the journey a writer took during the creation of a book, and the closeness he developed with his characters, and also a little about research methods, recounting a couple of incidents which had happened during the gathering of material for one of his books. This was done wittily and caused considerable laughter. It’s all right, thought Catherine, they like him. They’re enjoying what he’s telling them.

Towards the end, using the flipchart, Mr Kendal illustrated what he called the unrolling of a plot, making columns for the different plotlines for the various characters. It had not occurred to Catherine that books could be divided up like this, but Mr Kendal explained it very clearly. Then he asked the audience to call out suggestions for characters and backgrounds so they could develop a basic story. There were, he said, only five or six basic plots in the world, just as there were only five or six basic tunes in music.

This went a bit awkwardly at first, because most people in the room were diffident about being the first to speak. But then one of the men made a suggestion about a man injured in a road smash, and somebody else said perhaps the man was a target for a hit-man.

‘Perhaps he was. Yes, that’s very promising. All right, what had he done to make him somebody’s target?’ asked Mr Kendal, and after this the ideas rolled in thick and fast. The Bursar and Sister Agnes both contributed several suggestions, and although Catherine would have liked to take part, she thought she had better not.

‘Terrific,’ said Mr Kendal, scribbling delightedly on the flip-chart. His eyes were alight with enthusiasm and energy. ‘You see what happens?’ he said. ‘One idea leads to another – and then another.’ He stepped back, to survey the results of their handiwork. ‘D’you know, I think we’ve given ourselves the basis for at least three books there.’

‘Three?’ said the Bursar.

‘At least three, unless we could find a Dostoevsky or Charles Dickens to bring them together into one. But you see the basic principle?’ And he went smoothly into a more general discussion, inviting questions from the audience, and dealing with them, Catherine thought, very well and very courteously.

Theo had been rather touched to find how carefully the sisters had prepared for him, and he was pleased Sister Catherine was there. As she took him across the big polished hall and up the stairs to Reverend Mother’s study, he noticed again how smooth and clear her complexion was. It made him think of lightly polished ivory.

‘Thank you for all the trouble you’ve gone to,’ he said.

‘It was no trouble. The study’s along here.’

‘Is this floor the nuns’ living quarters?’

‘Yes. Common room, TV room, a couple of small extra studies for private visits. The bedrooms are on the top floor – they’re converted from the attics in the main. The chapel’s along that corridor.’

‘Do you have a – what would the term be? A house priest?’

‘We share him with four other villages,’ said Catherine. ‘It means daily Mass is a moveable feast but it’s surprising how easily you get used to that.’

‘Is this the lion’s den?’ said Theo, as they stopped in front of a door.

‘Much worse. Reverend Mother’s study. But she won’t eat you, especially since the Bursar will already have told her you didn’t preach the doctrine of the Antichrist or advocate smoking cannabis in your talk.’

While Theo was thinking how to reply to this, she knocked on the door, then opened it and left him to it.

The room was half study, half office, with a large, extremely tidy desk, glass-fronted bookcases mostly containing religious works, and framed prints – again of religious subjects – on the walls. There were several modern filing cabinets and, unexpectedly, a computer and printer with scanner.

Theo found himself liking Reverend Mother, who was fairly elderly but had bright intelligent eyes, and he also liked the Bursar who came in a few moments later and was sturdy and forthright. They both thanked him for sparing time from his busy schedule to talk to their patients. The Bursar said she had enjoyed his talk and found it very instructive. She added that she had read his last book and found it perceptive and well constructed. ‘You have a remarkable insight into people’s emotions, Mr Kendal.’

‘Thank you,’ said Theo, not daring to ask which of his characters’ emotions the Bursar had in mind.

‘The Bursar writes a little on her own account,’ said Reverend Mother.

‘Dabbling,’ said the Bursar gruffly.

‘She wrote and edited our centenary booklet last year,’ went on Reverend Mother serenely, ‘and made a very good job of it.’

‘Is it still available? I’d like to have one,’ said Theo.

They looked pleased, and the Bursar promised to look one out. There was a box of them somewhere around.

‘And,’ pursued Reverend Mother, ‘she has long planned to write a history of this area. Its folklore and legends and so on.’

‘Only for local circulation, you understand.’

‘I like folklore and legends,’ said Theo. ‘They spin a tapestry more or less by themselves, but they’re the fabric of a country’s heritage. Any country.’

‘One day I’ll get round to it,’ said the Bursar. ‘Although not if it means learning how to operate that machine.’ She indicated the computer in the corner. ‘None of us are very well-versed in the ways of modern technology. I typewrote the centenary material and just handed it over to the printers, smudgy erasures and all, I’m afraid. Sister Catherine attended a one-week course about computers last year, though.’

‘So that we could send and receive emails,’ explained Reverend Mother. ‘People expect it nowadays.’

‘And we don’t want anyone thinking we’re living in the Middle Ages, still using quill pens and parchment,’ added the Bursar.

‘Of course not,’ said Theo, secretly entertained. ‘But you must get round to your history. People like reading about the place where they live. Don’t forget the centenary book for me as well, will you? And I’ll expect an invitation to the launch party of your local history book when it’s published.’ He was pleased when they both smiled appreciatively at this.

It was as the Bursar ushered him back to the ground floor and across the hall that he saw, in a rather shadowy corner, a pair of framed sketches: one of St Luke’s, the other a view of the Chet’s tributary from one of the banks. They were quite small, each one roughly fifteen inches by ten, executed in what looked like charcoal and neatly framed in narrow surrounds. The convent was shown against one of the lowering skies so typical of this area, and behind it the fields looked bleak and unfriendly. But both sketches had a quality that was distinctive and Theo’s attention was caught.

‘Are you interested in art, Mr Kendal?’ asked the Bursar, as he paused.

‘Only in a general way.’ He paused, then said, ‘There’s a sketch at Fenn House that I think might be done by the same hand as these.’ Charmery’s portrait, he thought, but he only said, ‘I wonder if it’s someone local.’

‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know how long we’ve had these,’ said the Bursar. ‘This hall had to be completely cleared last month – we found woodworm in the panelling and everything got moved or tidied away or swapped round. I don’t think anything is back in its original place yet. Never let anyone tell you the Church is a rich institution, Mr Kendal, because after paying that bill we’re verging on bankruptcy, and— Yes, what is it?’ She turned as a very young nun came into the hall.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Bursar, but they’re on the phone from Norwich about the fractured pelvis. He wasn’t due here until Friday, but the ambulance service can only manage the journey tomorrow. Sister Catherine’s with a patient and I can’t find anyone else.’

‘Wretched people. Are they holding on? I’ll speak to them. Mr Kendal, would you…’

‘I can find my way out,’ said Theo at once. ‘Take your phone call.’

‘Would you mind that? The outer hall’s just through there and the door won’t be locked at this hour. You’ll come to see us again?’

‘I’d like to,’ he said, meaning it. ‘Thank you.’

He waited until she had gone, then looked at the pictures once more, seeing the similarities to Charmery’s picture even more strongly. There were the same light pencil patterns – almost like the random scribbles of a child – indicating shadows. And there were corners of darkness that contained different and more intricate patterns, suggesting there might be something slightly sinister hiding within them. There was a faint suggestion of drowned faces just beneath the surface of the river and of sightless eyes staring upwards into the gunmetal sky. Charmery, dead under the boat-house, thought Theo, her body in the cloudy green water for three days before it was found. What had she thought in those last frantic moments before she died? Had she thought about the child – had she wanted to survive because the child was somewhere in the world? If so, where was it now?

It was very quiet in the hall. Theo glanced about him, and then reached up carefully and lifted the sketch of St Luke’s from its hook, turning it over. The back was covered with the same brown paper as Charmery’s portrait, and taped in place in the same way. But the back of Charmery’s portrait had been completely blank and anonymous. This was not. Across the lower corner was a slanting signature. ‘Matthew Valk’.

Theo stood in the dim hall for a very long time, staring down at the signature, aware of a feeling that something had reached out to clasp his hand.

When he finally forced himself to replace the sketch he felt as if he had severed a very fragile link, although he was not sure what the link was. He made sure the picture was hanging exactly as it had been, then crossed to the main doors. As he did so, somewhere behind him an inner door closed very softly. Theo looked back, but everywhere was wreathed in shadows and nothing moved. Or did it? Probably he had simply heard one of the nuns going about her lawful business. He was getting neurotic about being followed and watched, but after last night’s scare and the bizarre confession on the computer, he thought this hardly surprising. He opened the main doors and went out into the dark afternoon.

It had started to rain again, but he scarcely noticed. His mind was filled with Matthew. Matthew existed – or had existed in the recent past. More than that, he had been in Melbray. He had not only sketched Charmery, he had sketched St Luke’s and that view from the bank. How recently had he done that?

Theo went down the narrow road leading back to Fenn House, his feet making squelching sounds on the rain-sodden road. He and Lesley had always liked squelching through the rain; they had worn wellingtons and vied with one another to see who could make the most spectacular splashes. Charmery had had wellingtons as well, but they were patterned ones, bought specially from one of the big London stores. Lesley had drawn Charmery in the wellingtons, making a semi-cartoon of it. Charmery had at first been furious, saying Lesley had made her look ugly, but later she had laughed at the cartoon, and said she would keep it and when Lesley was a famous artist, she would sell it for a lot of money.

And years afterwards, she had sat in front of an artist called Matthew and looked at him with that warm and vulnerable intimacy.