AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

by Richard Banks

When you go to a provincial gallery you do so more in hope than expectation. If the curator is a person of discernment the procurement of art from living artists will have been astute and well presented, the beginning of a collection that may, in time, acquire a national reputation. If not, you are largely left with the daubings of pre-war and Victorian artists who, the accompanying texts assure us, were well known, if not renown, within their locality.

         For those, like me, who yearn to connect with something more inspired there is little to delay our departure through the gift shop and into the cafe beyond. Indeed on a rain-swept morning the cafe at the Holksmere Town Arts Centre was probably the best place to be. It did, I was told, an excellent pot roast and with that in mind I made my way to the gallery at half eleven intending to while away an hour at most before sampling the culinary arts of a Chef who was about to move on to more remunerative employment in a High Street restaurant.

         The collection proved to be as depressing as the weather and I was soon through to the Victorians when I paused before a painting that seemed to have a little more merit than the rest. Evidently, the gallery thought so too for it had recently been revarnished returning its colours to something like their original hues. The scene it depicted also had topographical interest, showing the west front of the parish church before its restoration in the 1890s. Outside, in the churchyard, is gathered a wedding party of some forty well-heeled members of the local gentry, along with a few others of more splendid appearance. It’s a summer’s day, bright sunshine, short black shadows indicating that it’s only an hour or two into the afternoon. Behind the guests, between them and the church, a horse-drawn carriage waits to take the bride and groom to the reception that has, no doubt, been organised and paid for by the bride’s parents.

         “Good grief, what a performance that was!”

         The voice came from behind me. Without my knowing, someone had entered the room and was only a yard behind me. There was a chill in the air that was almost a mist. I half turned and he came up level with me, a strange little man in a paint bespattered smock that came down to his knees.

         “Thank goodness for photography. Never thought I would say that, but on that day how else would I have coped. An oil painting of themselves and all their guests was what they wanted, accurate in every detail, everyone to be just as they were, standing exactly where they had put themselves. How was I to manage that when they were come and gone in fifteen minutes?”

         The question was apparently rhetorical for the man continued swiftly on.

         “I had no choice but to make a deal with the devil, well, as good as. Paid Timpson, the photographer, to take four plates and work as slowly as he could, while I busied myself sketching everything that caught my eye. Never worked so quickly in my life. In the three weeks that followed I returned to the churchyard on no less than seven occasions to make sure I had the colours and background detail exactly as they were. It was a labour of love, I can tell you. Mark, you there was more than love involved. Had the painting not been to Browning’s liking he would probably have refused to pay me.

         See that man there, the one with the medals, that’s the Earl of Dramgordon. He wasn’t even there, taken ill the day before, but Browning insisted that because he had been invited he must therefore be included. It would, he said, be a breach of etiquette to leave him out. Nonsense! Browning was a social climber who wanted the painting so he could show it off in his dining room.  Leave out the Earl, his guest of honour, no way was he going to do that. Mind you he needn’t have worried, several of his younger guests also distinguished themselves in the years to come. Charley Wainwright won the VC at Mafeking and later became a Government Minister, while the Jones boy became a West End playwright. Then there was Millie Bracknell, who shall we say, achieved a certain popularity in Princely circles. Browning would not have been slow in pointing them out to his dinner guests. He paid me thirty guineas for the picture and got the bargain of his life. Think about it, he had that picture for twenty-five years, twenty-five years of using it so he could brag and show-off. How can you put a price on that? Well, if you could it would be a darn sight more than thirty guineas. However, I shouldn’t complain, the picture was good publicity for me and I received some useful commissions as a consequence of his dinner parties.”

         “And now it’s here,” I said. The words passed slowly from my lips and seemed to struggle through the air.

         “Yes,” he said, “although more by good fortune than design. When Browning died, predeceased by his wife, all his property passed to his only child, the bride in my picture. But what was she to do with my picture? Her husband had left her for an American heiress and applied for a Decree Absolute. The last thing she wanted on her walls was a picture of them both on their wedding day. So she gave it to the daughter of the aforementioned Jones who lived in Scotland, a country Browning’s daughter had never visited and had no thought of doing so. Out of sight and out of mind she reasoned, and so it proved, the picture taking pride of place in another far off dining room. Thirty years on its spinster owner passed away and her house and furnishings were sold at auction. I’m ashamed to say that the reverend gentleman who purchased my picture paid only £3. And why did he buy it? Because he liked the look of the church in the background! Ten years later he was host to an English clergyman who recognised the church and told him where it could be found.

         Although the picture was undisputedly the property of the Scottish Minister the thought that it properly belonged to the parish church rather than himself began to trouble him rather more than his conscience should have allowed. The following year, while availing himself of the reciprocal hospitality of his English counterpart, he visited the church and soon after bestowed the picture upon its board of trustees. It was that body who in 1981 gifted it to the Gallery on condition that the local council undertake certain necessary repairs that the church was unable or possibly unwilling to finance. Its formal unveiling was marked by a gathering of local dignitaries to which I was not invited. Well, of course, I was long gone, dead and buried in the graveyard of the church I once painted. But at least I was not forgotten. Even now there are still a few people who know my name. I wager you won’t be forgetting me in a hurry.”

         I tried to answer but this time the words refused to come. Another voice boomed out from behind me causing me to spin round in alarm. A large, middle-aged man had entered the room in the company of one somewhat younger and of more modest proportions. Our eyes met and he stopped in mid-sentence. Disconcerted and lost for something to say I turned back towards the artist but he was no more to be seen.

         The spell broken and myself in need of a chair to sit upon I hastily made my way to the cafe where I held tightly to the self-service bar until I managed to order and pay for the pot roast. The lady at the till asked if I was alright and when I said I was she bid me take a seat; my meal, when ready, would be brought over to me. I needed no second bidding and sat down at the nearest table. It was my first meeting with a ghost and although he had obviously meant me no harm the encounter left me both bewildered and shaken.

         The lady on the till briefly abandoned her post to bring me my lunch. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

         My querulous expression was changing for the worse. The ghostly encounter was not yet done. The faint but unmistakable sound of his voice was growing louder, drawing ever closer, a  goodbye said, then silence as the artist entered the cafe. The till lady acknowledged his presence with a wave of her hand.

         “Can you see him too?” I spluttered.

         “What, Mr Pettegrew?” she asked, looking at me with renewed concern. “Yes, he’s an actor pretending to be one of the artists in the exhibition. Surprised you didn’t meet him on your way through. He’s proving quite an attraction, especially with the kiddies. At least, that’s what most people think. Now, if you’re sure you’re OK I better get back to the till. The sticky pudding’s very tasty if you fancy a dessert.”

         I did not have dessert. Having by now attracted the unwanted attention of the cafe’s patrons I was only too ready to make my escape. Needless to say, I departed the gallery in a very different mood to the one in which I arrived. How I was taken in by a theatrical performance when no one else had been, I am at a loss to explain. On reflection, the embarrassment I felt was no more than I deserved. No critic is more worthy than the poor artist he despises. I have since done my penance, making a thorough study of the county’s lesser-known talents. They are an interesting bunch, much deserving of the book I am planning to write. If any have become ghosts I look forward to meeting them.                 

 

Copyright Richard Banks