Presence of Mind (6 page)

‘What an absolutely extraordinary painting!'

Immediately there was silence, while everyone registered that this was the first time he had seen it. He was standing in front of it with his hands behind his back, gazing up at it in total absorption. Simon, with a wink at the rest of us, said laughingly, ‘How about an analysis of it, Max? What do you read into it?'

Lance, who had just come through the french windows, stopped dead, instantly summing up the position. ‘I think a cup of tea would warm everyone,' he began, but Stella gestured to him to be quiet.

‘We're just asking Max to analyse your painting.'

‘
Your
painting?' Max turned sharply. Across the room he and Lance stared at each other.

‘Well, now that Stella's given the game away,' Simon said disgustedly, ‘we might as well admit –'

‘But you didn't paint it.' The statement cut flatly across Simon's voice.

Edgar said indignantly, ‘He most certainly did! Surely you must have seen it before? It's very well known – made Lance's fortune for him years ago.'

Max ignored him. His eyes hadn't left Lance. ‘Are you telling me that you painted that picture?'

Paula gave a light embarrassed laugh. ‘Darling, even if he isn't, everyone else is! Don't make such a meal of it!'

Max relaxed slightly. ‘I beg your pardon. I was so –'

‘Well, come on!' Simon insisted. ‘What do you think of it? You're a head-shrinker – give us your opinion. What is it trying to say?'

Max smiled a little. ‘Head-shrinker I might be, art critic I definitely am not. However, that painting undoubtedly has a certain quality which – reaches out for you.'

Almost against my will, my eyes were drawn back to the hated canvas. In the premature gloom it glowed with a weird unearthly beauty. Max went on slowly, addressing Lance now, who still stood motionless just inside the room.

‘I must apologise for my outspokenness. I admit to considerable surprise to learn you're the artist of this painting.'

‘But why?' Stella asked curiously, for all of us.

‘It's hard to say. After all, Lance and I hardly know each other, I realise that. But – well, he seems to have developed very differently from what I'd have expected on the basis of this picture. However, you say it was done some time ago.' His voice tailed off and for all his politeness I could see he was still not convinced. Everyone waited and after a moment he went on: ‘There's a basic insecurity about it – a longing for changelessness but an acknowledgement, in those worn and weary faces, that such things cannot be. Eternal youth –' he leant forward to read the title on the frame – ‘or spring, or whatever is granted to very few and they pay a high price for it.'

‘A high price?' Cynthia echoed a little nervously.

‘Of course. They die young.'

My eyes flew from the dark, intelligent face to Lance's white one. He had put out a hand to the wall as though to steady himself and instinctively I moved over to him and took his arm. He didn't seem to notice me. His face had a shuttered, in-turned look which frightened me.

Edgar cleared his throat uncomfortably and Simon said with a forced laugh, ‘Well, that's quite an eye-opener! Not thinking of charging a consultation fee are you, Max?'

Max smiled deprecatingly and turned at last from the painting. For a long moment his eyes again held Lance's and I felt the tremor that went through him like a high voltage shockwave. Yet even as I battled with conflicting emotions of anxiety for Lance and indignation against Max, I knew in my heart that the little doctor had unerringly pinpointed the essence of what had made me hate and fear the painting so much. It had an undeniable aura of approaching death.

I said in a rush, ‘Darling you're cold and this sweater's quite wet. You'd better go and change. You mentioned tea – I think we could all do with some. Light the gas fire, Stella, if you're cold. I'll go and ask Mrs Rose to put the kettle on.'

By the time I returned to the room the tension had evaporated and they were sitting chatting in little groups, the men particularly looking strangely incongruous with their bare legs in the rather formal atmosphere of the room. Someone had closed the windows and the rain continued to beat heavily against the glass. Lance, still pale beneath his tan, was talking more or less normally to Edgar and Cynthia.

Simon pulled out the coffee table for me and I lowered the tray on to it. Behind me the door opened again and Briony's voice, oddly taut, said a little too brightly, ‘I thought I heard the rattle of cups! Anything to eat?'

‘Good heavens, child!' Cynthia exclaimed, ‘It's hardly any time since lunch! What it must be to have a ravening appetite and still remain slender and sylph-like. Youth, blessed youth!'

‘I gather the film's over?' Lance commented.

‘Yes, thank goodness.'

‘Wasn't it much good?'

‘It was horrible!' declared Rachel Forrest – or was it Rebecca? – perching on the arm of her mother's chair. ‘All about reincarnation and spirits and things.'

In the distance a low growl of thunder underlined her words.

‘Put the lights on, Briony,' I said sharply, ‘I can hardly see what I'm doing. Half the tea will be in the saucers. And there's a plate of biscuits here if you're convinced you can't last till supper.'

‘Reincarnation?' Paula repeated with lifted eyebrows.

‘Hardly in the classification of light entertainment, surely?'

‘It's a load of rubbish,' Simon said flatly.

‘Nevertheless,' Roger put in, ‘about two-thirds of the world's population believe in it. Actually, I find the whole idea fascinating. And you know, biologically it makes pretty good sense. Just imagine if everyone and everything which has ever lived goes on living after death. Boy, the population explosion we keep hearing about would have nothing on the problems they'd have to cope with in the spirit world!'

‘You mean all of us sitting here now might have been alive before?' his sister Lindsay asked, round-eyed.

‘Probably, yes. It's against the law of nature, after all, for energy to be wasted. Mind you, I'm not saying I definitely believe in it, only that it's an intriguing concept. And incidentally it was one of the Christian dogmas, too, before they came up with original sin.'

Simon said suspiciously, ‘You seem to know a lot about it. When did you start taking an interest in this kind of thing?'

‘There's a book in the school library on comparative religions. It certainly makes you stop and think.'

I handed the last cup and saucer to Lance, noticing with concern how much his hand was shaking. From him I automatically glanced at Briony and felt a further stirring of unease. She was sitting rigidly on the sofa holding tightly to Mark's hand and her eyes were wide and frightened. I didn't understand what was upsetting her but I cast about frantically for a natural means of changing the conversation. Before I could think of anything, Rebecca said encouragingly, ‘Go on then, Roger. How does it work? Can you choose when you'll be born again?'

Roger glanced apologetically at his parents. ‘Views vary on that. Some people say yes, which is why, even when there's no medical reason, some women can't have babies. A soul apparently doesn't choose to have them as parents.'

‘Thanks very much,' said Cynthia, drily. ‘And before you all start looking askance at me, let me make it quite clear that no soul was ever given the chance of choosing me! Edgar and I opted out of the procreation stakes quite voluntarily and believe me we've never regretted it!' Her tone implied that she was regretting it less than ever at the present moment.

Roger, who had flushed during this interruption, repeated hastily, ‘As I said, that's only one theory. One of the main beliefs is that how you behave in this existence conditions you for the next, and so on.'

‘I think that's quite enough from you,' put in his father firmly. ‘Over to you, Max. Shoot him down in flames!'

Max bent forward to replace his cup and saucer on the table. ‘I don't want to bore you all with a psychological dissertation, but obviously in our line of business we feel that all such theories are indicative of the state of mind of those holding them. It's the mind itself, though not many people appreciate it, which is one of the greatest mysteries of the universe.'

Outside the windows the garden was now obscured by a curtain of heavy rain and it was almost as dark as night. The thunder had moved closer and Max had to wait for its roll to finish before continuing.

‘The power of the mind can be devastating. Most of the so-called supernatural occurrences can be put down to some form of telepathy or mind control.'

‘From what Roger said about a soul taking over a body,' interrupted one of his daughters – they'd changed places since I last pinpointed them and I was no longer sure which was which – ‘it sounds rather like possession, and I shouldn't fancy that.'

‘You need not worry!' her father replied. ‘Possession is much more likely to be by one's own neuroses than by any outside force.'

‘But there
are
genuine cases of possession,' Roger insisted. ‘Look at exorcism and all the rest of it.'

‘I confess,' said Max smoothly, ‘that there is a great deal we still don't understand. Nevertheless, I repeat that most disturbances of that nature originate in the mind – perhaps by means of dual or even multiple personality.'

As he finished speaking there was a deafening peal of thunder directly overhead and all the lights went out. One of the girls gave a little scream and even I, in my own sitting-room, experienced a moment of sheer primitive terror. Then Edgar flicked his lighter and in its wavery light we all looked at one another and laughed shamefacedly.

‘Stage effects and all!' Simon commented. ‘A fuse seems to have blown. Got any fuse wire, Lance?'

I stood up. ‘It's no use asking him – he wouldn't know what to do with it if he had! I'll go and see if I can find out what's happened.'

‘Perhaps I can help,' Edgar volunteered. I hesitated, but as it would have seemed odd to argue, I made my way out of the room, Edgar close behind me.

From the far end of the hall came Mrs Rose's hesitant voice. ‘Are all the lights out, ma'am?'

‘All the downstairs ones, anyway. We're just going to see what we can do. In the meantime, Mrs Rose, would you take a few candles into the sitting-room if you can lay your hands on them. I seem to remember we bought a stock during the last fuel cuts. The fuse box is in the cloakroom,' I added over my shoulder to Edgar.

The stairs loomed on our right and I swerved to avoid them. Only a very faint light was coming through the glass of the front door, more a diffused darkness. The cloakroom lay directly ahead and I moved cautiously inside. I realised I was trembling and was not sure whether it was from cold – the temperature must have dropped ten degrees in the last hour – or from the awareness of Edgar close behind me. Two days ago I wouldn't have given his presence a second thought. He still had his lighter flaring and was bending beside me over the fuse box. I thought wildly – I can't just go off and leave him! It would look so stupid! And then, blessedly, a flickering light blossomed in the doorway as Mrs Rose appeared with her candles.

‘Here you are, sir, this should help.'

‘Oh thank you.' I took one gratefully and held it up for Edgar. He was fiddling with the card of fuse wire and I watched him in silence. After a moment he sat back and simultaneously there was a concerted cheer from the direction of the sitting-room and the light from its open door spilled into the hall. Edgar stood up slowly and, steadying my hand with his, blew out the candle I held.

‘You're cold,' he said quietly.

‘Yes. Thanks so much. Lance is absolutely useless round the house! I've become quite adept now at changing plugs and things' I hurried out into the hall before he could reply and reached the sitting-room to find the others coming out.

‘You're not going already?' It was seldom before seven that we had the house to ourselves on a Sunday evening.

‘The girls are shivering,' Paula said apologetically. ‘I think we should go home and change into something more suitable. Don't worry about an umbrella' – I had turned to the stand – ‘we're dressed for water anyway!'

The worst of the storm had passed and it was already getting lighter again. Within minutes everyone had gone. As the last of them drove away I closed the door and turned to Lance and Briony. Both of them looked pale and strained. Distractedly I tried to think back. They had both been all right at lunch. I could pin Lance's discomfort to all the talk about the painting, a familiar enough cause of stress in this family, but all I could think of in Briony's case was that perhaps she and Mark had quarrelled. Yet she'd been holding on to his hand just before the lights went out, when Roger was talking about that ridiculous film. Could it have been that which had upset her? I wondered as we moved back into the deserted sitting-room.

Trying to restore a more normal atmosphere, I remarked, ‘They're a strange family, the Forrests. I'm not sure they fitted in all that well.'

‘No,' Lance replied abruptly. ‘Frankly, I rather regretted inviting them. I can't say I cared for the man over much. Rather an inflated opinion of himself, I thought. His wife and family seemed pleasant enough, though.'

Briony had moved automatically over to the painting and Lance's eyes followed her compulsively, full of a strange yearning. After a moment she laid her arms along the mantelshelf and rested her head on them.

‘What is it, darling? Another headache?'

‘I think one's coming on, yes.' Her voice was muffled. ‘It's probably the thunder.' She turned, her face drawn. ‘I think if you don't mind I'll go upstairs. If the headache clears I've some revision I ought to do, and if it doesn't – well, darkness and rest are the only things that help.'