Painting in the Shadows Read online

  ‘It was an accident, Mr Swindon. Thomas went down like a ton of bricks. We tried to grab him.’ Wayne looks distraught.

  ‘Yes and of course our thoughts are with him. We’re all terribly concerned.’

  His tone suggests all the concern is for the painting.

  ‘Giles, you and your people best write a report immediately. I’ll phone the director at – where did we borrow this from?’

  One of the curatorial staff steps forward, a short-haired girl all mannishly tailored in navy trousers, brogues and a white shirt. ‘Royal Holloway College.’ She offers up her clipboard. ‘In London.’

  The director quirks an eyebrow at this. ‘Did they send their own person?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right. Move the painting to conservation but don’t do a thing to it until I find out if Royal Holloway will let us do the work or not. Giles, I’ll let you know the minute I get the go-ahead.’ Swindon fixes the curators with a hard eye. ‘I want an alternate plan for the exhibition hang in case we have to pull the painting. Make sure I see a copy by the end of the day. The rest of you, get back to what you were doing.’ He starts to turn. ‘I’m sure you all realise this fiasco will have massive repercussions for the Museum’s insurance, not to mention the blow to our credibility and ability to borrow works in the future. So naturally I don’t need to mention that if anyone breathes a word of this outside this room, most specifically but not exclusively, to the media, the perpetrator will be starring in a re-enactment of Ribera’s Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew. Check the print collection if you’re confused. Is that crystal?’

  Swindon stands there, presenting his rigid back to most of the staff. When the murmur of assent reaches a satisfactory volume, he nods once and strides off. The room seems to exhale when he’s gone.

  Giles and Wayne bend their heads together, murmuring and pointing, then break apart. Wayne heads toward his men while Giles scans the room. He spots us and starts in our direction, and we meet him halfway.

  ‘That’s going to be a big job,’ John says.

  Giles presses the heels of his hands into his temples, as though trying to stop his head from exploding.

  ‘Good luck. We’d best let you get on with it.’ I look at John and tip my head toward the door.

  Giles still has his hands on his head. ‘I should have retired last year. My blood pressure can’t take this sort of thing anymore.’

  ‘Your people didn’t cause the damage, Giles, and if your department does a brilliant repair you’ll be the Museum’s hero. Besides, much as I hate seeing paintings hurt, the main thing is the packer who collapsed is okay.’ I smile weakly.

  ‘Goodness Alex, we should be thanking you for what you did.’ Giles grabs my upper arms as though he’s about to pull me into a hug but settles for a bracing squeeze. He inhales, opens his mouth to say something else, but then just shakes his head.

  ‘I just got there first. No thanks necessary.’ The last thing I want is anyone at MIMA making a fuss. ‘You should get on and see what you’re going to do with that painting.’ I look across to where Wayne and his crew are carefully manoeuvring the large canvas onto a trolley. ‘Will you do the work yourself?’

  ‘My God no. I’m an administrator these days. The only thing I repair is the relationship between my department and the board.’

  ‘We can see ourselves out.’ John takes my arm. The three of us start toward the exit, same way we came in.

  ‘Why don’t you come to the conservation studios now?’ Giles says as we walk. ‘I don’t think I’m ready to face that painting without moral support. And you could have a look at the other things we’re working on.’

  John and I exchange a glance. I shrug. What else could happen?

  ‘If you’re sure it won’t be a bother, what with every­thing.’ John’s eyes have lit up at the renewed hope of talking shop.

  Giles shakes his head. ‘I might even get your advice on what to do. We don’t usually deal with that level of … I remember you telling me about the repair you did on the painting that got caught in a clock mechanism.’

  ‘That was nothing. My favourite was the one the cat tried to climb.’ John puts up his hands and mimes claws raking through the air.

  ‘God help me.’ Giles shakes his head.

  We follow Giles into the utilitarian heart of the Museum, pacing along hallways and up a flight of stairs oddly devoid of life. The reason becomes obvious the moment we enter the painting conservation lab; everyone seems to be here, clustered in a far corner. The room itself is vast and high-ceilinged, scattered with easels and work benches, lined with shelves and heavy with the reek of paint and solvents. As we cross the room John rubs his hands together, his head swivelling from side to side. Giles leads us forward and the cluster of people parts as they become aware of his presence. John gets a couple of nods of recognition and I get a few curious looks which I return with what I hope seems like a modicum of equanimity.

  The damaged painting is propped on an easel, the tear all the more shocking now the canvas is upright, and the torn fragment flops forward. Standing in front of it and blocking the rest of my view is a woman with spiky bleached-blonde hair, accented with a streak of blue. She’s tiny but perfectly proportioned, like a pixie drawn by Ida Rentoul Outhwaite in one of her 1920s children’s books. When she spots John her eyes narrow for a moment and the pixie thing slips, then she breaks into a wide smile.

  ‘Porter. What are you doing here?’ Her tone is light but I notice she shifts almost imperceptibly to block John’s view of the painting.

  Tilting my body sideways a bit, I try to see more of the canvas. I glimpse an iceberg near the top right corner. Definitely Arctic.

  ‘Surprise! Hi Meredith, long time no … Never mind. Giles asked me to pop in.’ John nods toward the painting. ‘Have a look at what you’re working on. Offer some suggestions.’

  She rounds on Giles. ‘You’re kidding. I’m the senior painting conservator here.’

  ‘But you know me; I’m more than happy to help.’ John earns a dirty look from both Giles and Meredith.

  ‘Coincidence, Meredith. John was just visiting.’ Giles sounds like he’s trying to coax a feral kitten to come closer.

  ‘Sure, Giles is right, just visiting.’ John holds up both hands, showing he’s unarmed.

  Meredith stares at him with flinty eyes for a moment, then relaxes and visibly expands. ‘All right then.’ She turns to me and sticks out her hand. ‘Meredith Buchanan, senior conservator.’

  ‘Alex Clayton.’ I take her tiny hand, expecting a bird-like delicacy, but get a firm shake instead.

  Most of the people start to drift off, back to their own work in the conservation labs, or heading out the door to other duties. Giles is still here, and I’m aware of a couple of other people in lab coats hovering behind us as Meredith steps aside and beckons John and me closer to the painting.

  ‘You two know each other?’ I look between Meredith and John.

  ‘We’ve met in a professional capacity,’ Meredith says in a tight voice. Behind her back John shakes his head at me, eyes wide. I’ll get the story later, so I turn to the canvas. And puff out a heavy sigh.

  ‘Yeah, the tear is pretty bad, isn’t it?’ Meredith says. ‘It’s going to be a rush to get it fixed in time for the exhibition.’

  ‘No, I mean, yes, the damage is bad, but that’s not … Do you know what this is?’

  ‘Well, it’s obviously by Edwin Landseer.’ Meredith consults a clipboard. ‘And according to this it’s called Man Proposes, God Disposes.’

  ‘Yep, that’s it all right.’ I take in the whole painting, nearly two and a half metres long. Artistically, it shows all of the bravura you’d expect from one of Landseer’s more graphic animal subjects. This particular work is even more dramatic because of the fairly restricted palette. And calling it an Arctic landscape doesn’t even b
egin to convey how sensa­tionally wonderful this painting is. I can actually feel my heart beating faster as I stare at it. Those greys and whites I’d glimpsed earlier, together with some steely blues, combine in myriad ways to depict the tundra: snow, jagged icebergs – some highlighted with just a tip of orange-pink as though kissed by a feeble sun – a grey, lowering sky and black, black water. It’s a vast, empty wilderness except for the two polar bears filling the foreground. Not the sort of cute things you see frolicking behind David Attenborough, but aggressive, with jaws wide and steaming breath: blood-lusting beasts. Between the bears lie the last traces of a shipwreck: a mast, some tattered sailcloth and human bones, one of which, a rib, is clamped between slavering polar bear teeth. It’s awful and fabulous all at the same time and I love it.

  ‘What, Alex?’ John’s voice breaks into my thoughts and I jump a little. I glance around and see Meredith and Giles are looking at me curiously. There’s a grin on my face that’s probably not appropriate for viewing a newly-ripped artwork and I try to rearrange my features into something more appropriately sombre.

  ‘Just that I’ve heard about this painting.’ I hope John doesn’t push it, but he knows me too well.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Um, it’s cursed.’

  Meredith snorts. ‘It sure as hell is now that there’s a massive tear in it.’

  ‘No,’ I sigh. ‘Your standard issue “bad things will happen if” type of curse.’

  Meredith shoots Giles a grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got this, boss. I’m prepared to battle on with the repair in the face of evil. But I hope you’ll remember my grit and dedication when a more senior spot opens up.’ Both of them turn and look at me like I’m nuts, and I hold up both my hands in a not-guilty gesture.

  ‘Just saying. The polar bears rampaging through a shipwreck reference an Arctic expedition that went horribly wrong and apparently ended in cannibalism. So that’s meant to be a human ribcage there.’ I point to a section of the painting. ‘And that’s why the bear on the left is destroying the British ensign, the naval flag.’

  John nods. ‘I get it. So that sort of signifies the destruction of British values.’ John is always good at picking up on symbolism in art.

  ‘Because we all know that a real Englishman would never eat one of the chaps.’ I catch the look on Giles’ face and shrug. ‘Sorry, but that was the consensus. Eaten by the heathen natives? Sure. But not by one of Her Majesty’s subjects.’

  ‘How ridiculous,’ Meredith murmurs, shaking her head.

  ‘Look, it’s just a silly story – a nice bit of history but not something you probably want to advertise in light of today’s events.’ Suddenly I want to get out of here. I catch John’s eye.

  ‘We should go, Alex. Let these people get on with it, whatever it may be.’ He smiles broadly at Meredith.

  ‘Sorry things turned out like this,’ Giles says, but he’s shifting from foot to foot and glancing at his watch as he says it.

  ‘Alex and I were catching up anyway, so it’s no trouble. But feel free to call me next time you have a cursed artwork that needs attention and no one expendable for the job.’ He grins at Meredith again, then turns to me. ‘Shall we get going now and have a look at the exhibition on opening night? I’m sure we must be on the VIP list after today and besides, looking at those polar bears chowing down has made me really hungry.’

  I wrinkle my nose and Meredith whispers a quiet, ‘Ew.’ Giles looks at his watch again.

  ‘Lunch then,’ I say. ‘I know a great vegetarian place not far from here.’ I don’t, but I wish I did.

  I glance over my shoulder as we pass into the corridor and see Meredith back in front of the canvas, magnifying loupe on her head, peering intently at the damaged area. Then the door swings shut and she’s gone.

  ***

  John and I make our way back to the mousehole. Ray appears not to have moved since we first arrived but stirs himself enough to take our visitor passes and buzz us out. I head straight for Southgate.

  ‘So where are we having lunch?’ John is one of those frustratingly skinny people: perpetually hungry and with an ability to pack food away like it’s Christmas and yet never putting on so much as a single gram of fat.

  ‘You’re paying, right? ’Cause it’s been a lean month.’

  John nods.

  ‘Well, in that case, I definitely need a drink. Walter’s Wine Bar it is.’

  The sun is in our faces so I put on my Ray-Bans as we head along St Kilda Road and past the Arts Centre before turning into the Southgate complex. Even with a backdrop of modern skyscrapers, I can appreciate what has drawn countless artists to this perspective since the 1800s: sweeping into marvellous Melbourne, Princes Bridge is flanked at its far end by the triumphant architecture of Flinders Street Station and the neo-Gothic glory of St Paul’s Cathedral, and the whole vista forms a vision of progress and timelessness.

  At Walter’s the lunch rush is tapering off, so we decide to sit inside where it’s cool and dim, the background volume a convivial hum. I order a glass of pinot grigio from the guy who seated us, and after a moment’s deliberation John opts for the same. He always makes a show of knowing something, but at heart he’s a wine philistine. Our waiter quickly returns with the drinks and takes our meal order. Naturally, John goes for fish and chips. I consider calories and prices and slap the menu closed. Salad.

  ‘Well that was a pleasant visit to MIMA.’ I give John a mock toast. ‘You’re right, I should go there more.’

  John takes a sip of his wine, staring at me over the rim of the glass. ‘That was just bad luck.’

  ‘Well for Tommo the packer it sure was.’ I swallow a large mouthful of pinot.

  ‘You were amazing, Alex. I have no clue about CPR and you just jumped right in.’

  I wave him off. ‘Can we talk about something else please?’

  John stares at me.

  ‘You know my thoughts on MIMA. Whenever I stick my head above their parapet, bad things happen. Please, let’s talk about the painting. Or why I haven’t seen you for a couple of months.’

  ‘Busy with work and Sue’s had me doing a lot of odd jobs at home.’

  I swirl the wine in my glass, debating whether to push the point.

  ‘Tell me more about the curse.’ John offers me the bread basket but I shake my head. He helps himself to a generous chunk of ciabatta and dunks the end in a dish of olive oil before taking a bite.

  ‘You’re not going to double-dip, are you?’

  John is still chewing, but he bugs his eyes and reaches toward the oil with the remains of his ciabatta, hovering it just above the surface.

  ‘Do you want to hear about the curse or not?’

  He pulls his hand back, which I take as a sign to talk.

  ‘Where did we get to? Ill-fated voyage, cannibalism blah, blah.’

  ‘Can’t say I noticed anything much about the painting except the large gash in the canvas, but I didn’t see any people actually getting eaten.’

  At that moment the waiter arrives with our lunch and from the expression on his face, he clearly heard the end of what John just said. He places fish and chips between John’s cutlery before carefully lining up a beetroot and feta salad in front of me.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ He tops up our water and gives John a cool stare. When we shake our heads he forces a smile and flounces off.

  ‘Should I have reassured him I was only talking about a painting?’ John asks, spearing four chips on his fork.

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

  ‘True.’

  John tucks into his fish and I play with my salad, forking up a few mouthfuls but mostly rearranging the ingredients into colour-blocked patterns. After what seems like only a few minutes, I hear the scrape of cutlery on china and I look up. John’s plate is half empty.

  ‘So it’s q
uite an important painting, then?’ he asks.

  ‘Well it’s not really famous or even really well-known, but –’

  ‘Help yourself to chips,’ John interrupts.

  ‘There was this whole swathe of Arctic painting during that period that sort of turned the artistic notion of the “Sublime Wilderness” on its head. For the first time, I think people were starting to feel they were violating a pristine world, and then Landseer comes along to show them there may be consequences.’ I take a couple of chips. ‘So in many ways, it is an important painting.’

  ‘So Landseer was like a nineteenth-century greenie. Swindon can expect Royal Holloway to be pretty pissed then.’

  ‘I think that’d be a given regardless of the painting’s subject, don’t you? I mean, even though the whole thing was an accident and someone almost died, how mortifying for MIMA.’

  ‘And of course if Royal Holloway had sent a courier with the painting, there’d have been one of their own here to verify the story. As it stands …’

  ‘Still, it’s a fabulous painting.’

  ‘How do you even know all this?’ John is staring at me while still managing to convey a continuous series of chips to his mouth.

  I shrug. ‘It’s my time period and Landseer has always been an artist who interests me.’

  ‘You really should have become a tweedy academic.’

  ‘I already have my mother to remind me of my failure in that regard, thanks very much. And, you did ask.’

  ‘Sorry. It was actually a compliment. What else?’

  ‘What else is there?’ I catch our waiter’s eye and raise my eyebrows. ‘My meter is going to run out, so let’s go.’

  ‘But when do we get to the curse?’ John grabs the last few chips from his plate.

  ‘Pay the bill and I’ll give you the next thrilling instalment while we walk.’

  We head back the way we came, the sun hot on our backs and the footpath clear ahead of us. With five o’clock fast approaching we’re in the slow trickle of foot traffic moving away from the city. It’s such a pleasant afternoon that the whole idea of curses and cannibalism in the Arctic Circle seems a bit ludicrous.