The Gallery of Vanished Husbands: A Novel (30 page)

Leonard smiled. He didn’t tell Juliet that he hadn’t eaten any of the
rugelach
and his mind was perfectly clear. He suspected that she wouldn’t remember anything he’d said, but at least he had tried to warn her.

 • • • 

They drove home in silence. No one wanted to speak. To their collective relief, Charlie turned up the radio and everyone stared out the windows watching the sunny afternoon drift by, the rushing hedgerows buttered with yellow cowslips and daubed with dog roses. The Rigbys came on the radio.

‘Turn it off,’ snapped Frieda.

‘Why?’ asked Charlie, nonetheless switching it off.

‘All of that, and Matt Rigby didn’t even come,’ said Frieda.

Leonard turned awkwardly in his seat to look at his sister. ‘Yes he did. All of them came.’

Frieda gawped at him. ‘You’re lying.’

‘No, I’m not. I talked to him. He’s okay. We chatted about music and art and then he drew a penguin on my neck. Look.’

He pulled down his collar to reveal a charcoal smear that once might have resembled a penguin. Frieda peered at it and then closed her eyes and sank back into silence. That was it. The final sign. Matt Rigby had come to the party and she had missed him because she had accidently eaten hash and was being sick in the loo. Her head pulsed with distant pain and she remembered the previous night. She’d lain on the ripped linoleum floor, her head wedged beside the toilet bowl, the porcelain cooling her forehead. The sound of music had wafted up between the floorboards, and she’d thought she could see it – the notes were waves of blue and green with speckles of gold and red. They’d caught in the light fitting on the ceiling, and banged against the window before seeping out of the cracks in the glass. She’d lain on the floor for hours, alternately vomiting and watching the music drift through her fingers. There had been an odd-shaped stain on the ceiling, a gathering of mould that looked like a drawing of Moses in the storybook her grandfather had read to her when she was very little. Moses had opened his mouth and swallowed the music notes that had swum up to the ceiling like multicoloured tropical fishes. Never mind that the Rigbys hadn’t showed up, she’d decided at the time. Watching Moses gulp fishes was much better. He had opened his mouth wider than the world and between his teeth she’d seen a galaxy of weaving fish.

As the lanes gave way to roads and traffic and the grey haze of the city, Frieda realised it had been a sign. She wasn’t supposed to meet the band and she wasn’t destined to marry Matt Rigby. All this time she’d been toying with the trappings of religion to annoy her mother but now for the first time she felt the tingle of faith. Somehow her pantomime had turned real. When she reached home, she’d put on her thick tights and on Friday she’d go to
shul
with her grandfather.

After they arrived home Juliet took a long shower. When she came downstairs in her dressing gown, to her dismay she found Frieda unpacking the crate containing Rabbi Plotkin’s kosher plates. She stood in the kitchen doorway and watched as Frieda stacked them neatly into the cupboard. She waited in silence, a pain in her chest.

‘You’re not to touch these,’ said Frieda without turning round.

The Last Time I Saw Her,
Max Langford, Oil on Wood, 20 x 35in, 1966

M
RS GREENE WAS
thrilled about the wedding. In her gloomier moments Juliet believed her mother was more excited than the bride to be. The only advantage of the short engagement was that Mrs Greene couldn’t purchase any more prospective hats – the spare room had metamorphosed into a milliner’s showroom lined with candy-coloured effusions. Frieda was only quietly delighted, flushing a perfect pink when teased about the handsomeness of the groom. Juliet didn’t think he was handsome in the least, deciding that the best one could say of Dov was that he was unobtrusive, like a plain desk lamp or inoffensive curtain fabric. He blinked and gulped a lot as though trying to swallow his Adam’s apple and keep it down. It never occurred to Juliet that she was the cause of his anxiety. Despite all the years, the stigma of her status pursued her like a shadow and Frieda never confided to her mother the anxious discussions between the rabbis and Dov’s conservative family. The Cohens were very fond of Frieda and understood that the boy seemed to like her very much indeed (in fact, it almost amounted to passion, which was only just respectable) but since the arrival of the first Rabbi Cohen in Britain fifty years earlier they had enjoyed a seamless respectability and no one wanted the Montagues besmirching that beige, unblemished record. Everybody liked Mrs Greene and Mr Greene was a solid fellow, a real
mensch
. But George Montague? No one really remembered him but they told one another that they did, and his weakness for cards bloomed into a seasoned wickedness. The only decent thing that could be said about George was that having taken it upon himself to vanish, he wasn’t present to trouble the decent folk of Chislehurst. Juliet Montague, however, remained a problem. First there was the gallery and the indecent paintings – Mrs Cohen had ventured up to town for a private view, just to see what was what, mind, and discovered that the place was full of nudes – girls and even boys with everything on display like wieners in a hotdog stand. The next problem with Juliet was the boyfriend. Juliet was rumoured to have had a lover for many years, an older man, a lascivious painter (‘Was there any other kind?’ Mrs Cohen asked the good ladies on the luncheon committee) who wasn’t even Jewish. But the last obstacle to decency was Juliet herself. It went beyond what she did (peddle obscene paintings) or that she had a (
goy
) lover
.
It was something about Juliet. She was always very polite and even baked the odd strudel for her mother’s summer parties. Still, nearly everyone agreed that there was something about Juliet Montague that couldn’t be trusted. She might make strudel, but Mr Harris had a sore stomach afterwards and she was suspected of using lard instead of margarine. She was polite but there was pertness in her gaze.

Juliet tried to ignore the whispers as best she could. She knew the tittle-tattle upset her parents and for that she was sorry, but she refused to believe that it wounded Frieda or it was she who brought out Dov’s bullfrog gulping and glistening brow. Juliet found it impossible to imagine how this damp young man, who seemed to wilt like a heat-addled tulip in her presence, could be engaging when she wasn’t there. She asked Leonard who, though not a fan of Dov, prevaricated out of loyalty to his sister, declaring that he could be ‘rather funny now and again’ – though the only instance he could think of was when once before dinner Dov had forgotten he’d put his hat on his chair and sat on it, squashing it quite flat. It
was
funny. It was also an accident. In truth there was nothing poor Dov could do to make Juliet like him or approve of the match – she simply thought that at nineteen Frieda was far too young to marry.

‘Are you marrying him to punish me?’ Juliet asked her, more than once.

Frieda rearranged the long material of her skirt and fixed Juliet with the disapproving look she couldn’t bear.

‘Mum, I know you find it hard to fathom but my marrying Dov isn’t actually about you.’

Juliet licked her lips and wished she could find the right words. There had never been that ease between them that she enjoyed with Leonard. It wasn’t that she loved him more, she just never fretted about what to say to him. She took a breath.

‘Well, darling, if it’s about sex, you don’t have to get married. It’s not like it was. We can go and get you some pills from the doctor and you can sleep with Dov, if that’s what you want. Maybe even other men.’

‘I don’t want to sleep with other men. I only want to sleep with Dov.’

Two angry points of colour appeared on Frieda’s cheeks, but for once Juliet ignored the warning sign and carried on.

‘Take the pill then and only sleep with Dov. But go to university. Get a degree. If you still want him, marry him when you graduate.’

Frieda narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t want to go university. I want to be a wife and a mother. That’s the most important thing in the world.’

Juliet felt the full sting of her criticism and it stuck in her throat like a fishbone. She looked away so that Frieda wouldn’t see the tears that threatened. Try as she might, she couldn’t face the thought of organising the wedding. All those religious types with their marauding happiness, pleased at the wedding, pleased that they’d saved another soul. She blinked and smiled. The best she could hope for was sufficient time for Frieda to change her mind.

‘When were you thinking? Perhaps next January, I’ve always liked winter weddings. All that red.’

‘June,’ said Frieda, daring Juliet to contradict her.

‘Oh, but darling, I can’t organise it in time for June. There’s the summer show at the gallery.’

Frieda sighed and pouted, giving an excellent impression of being hurt. ‘That’s all right. Granny will take care of everything.’

Juliet swallowed, understanding that this was what Frieda had really wanted. Juliet could not be trusted. She must be kept far away from delicate social arrangements and Jewish events. There was nothing more to be done. She retreated.

Granddaughter and grandmother delighted in colluding. A June wedding. The flowers would be marvellous and they’d have English strawberries for dessert. Mrs Greene was determined to arrange everything properly, as if the trouble with Juliet’s marriage could be put down to an inadequate wedding with substandard floral arrangements. If every detail in Frieda’s was correct then, like a shrub planted carefully in the right soil, everything else would follow just as it should.

Juliet tried to take an interest and study guest lists and seating plans but seeing how few of her friends Mrs Greene and Frieda had allowed, she only felt more miserable. She pleaded for the inclusion of the gallery boys – though they weren’t boys any longer, but men over thirty with families of their own.

‘Darling, it’s nice that you’ve invited Philip, but really you must ask his wife. And what about Charlie and Marjorie? And Jim simply has to come. He’ll be terribly hurt if he’s not invited.’

Frieda scowled and bit her lip. Her crush on Philip had not receded even as his hairline started to thin, and she’d never quite forgiven him for marrying the gleaming Caroline five years before.

‘Caroline won’t come. We’re not smart enough for her.’

‘Of course she will. Philip’s terribly fond of you.’

Begrudgingly, Caroline was added to the list.

‘Must I have Charlie? He’s Leonard’s friend, not mine.’

‘Yes,’ said Juliet. ‘And Marjorie too.’

‘I don’t like her,’ said Frieda.

Juliet sighed. Few people did. Charlie had surprised everyone by marrying Marjorie, the nude model. She’d been an extremely pretty girl, but the roses had faded fast. She’d not lived up to the promise of youthful beauty, and instead of transforming into a lovely woman had become an ordinary and rather unhappy one. Whenever Juliet caught Charlie looking at his wife, he always seemed to wear an expression of surprise and disappointment. Juliet felt sorry for her. Charlie’s family were not kind to Marjorie – the daughter of a painter-
decorator was not their sort. The jokes that Marjorie’s father liked to make about himself and his son-in-law being part of the same profession (‘Paint’s just paint in the end, however you slap it on!’) were not appreciated. That wedding had been an absolute disaster, Juliet remembered. Valerie had got frightfully drunk before the ceremony and Juliet had had to take her for a lie down during the speeches. En route, Valerie had grabbed her arm and confided in a gin-scented whisper, ‘I’d rather he’d married you – even a divorced
Jewess
would be better than this.’ Unfortunately Valerie turned out to be quite right – once Charlie lost interest in painting Marjorie, they had nothing left in common. Marjorie liked being in pictures, not talking about them. They’d not had any children and in disappointment Charlie continued to pour his affection onto Leonard. Marjorie tried to befriend him too and to Juliet’s relief at least Leonard was kind to her.

‘Marjorie comes,’ said Juliet. ‘And Jim.’

Frieda huffed. ‘But, suppose, you know.’ She squirmed. ‘He might bring someone with him.’

Juliet laughed. ‘He will not bring a gentleman friend to your wedding, Frieda, and I’m quite certain that he won’t flirt with the rabbi. Jim isn’t partial to beards.’

Frieda scowled, hating being teased. ‘I don’t think Dov’s family would like it. It
is
against the law.’

Juliet looked up sharply. ‘Then I strongly suggest you don’t tell them things that are none of their business. Don’t pick up the Cohens’ nastier habits, Frieda.’

Frieda said nothing and added his name to the list in tiny writing, as though if she wrote it very small, no one would notice him on the day itself.

‘And you missed off Max. No need to post his invitation, I’ll give it to him when I see him at the weekend.’

Frieda studied her mother with steady green eyes for a moment before declaring softly, ‘I won’t have that man at my wedding.’

Frieda’s childish dislike had hardened like old varnish into hatred. Over the years Juliet had done her best to ignore it but now she recoiled, jolted by the revulsion in her daughter’s voice.

‘He’s your friend,’ Frieda continued. ‘I won’t have him. I won’t have Dov and his family look at that man and at you and say
things
. He is not coming.’

At that, Frieda actually stamped her bare foot on the carpet and Juliet watched her open-mouthed, unsure whether to laugh or shake her.

 • • • 

Later in the week the boys offered little sympathy. When Juliet arrived at the gallery, Charlie was in a foul mood. He’d spent the last month labouring on an abstract triptych far from his usual style and, observing Juliet’s indifferent shrug, concluded that it wasn’t working, wasn’t going to work. He started to paint over the canvas in thick, furious strokes of white, experiencing a masochistic delight as weeks of work vanished in a snowstorm.

‘What did you expect? She’s never liked Max.’

‘It’s Freudian. Girls never like the chap who’s diddling their mother. Unless it’s their father of course,’ added Jim helpfully.

‘I know she avoided him, but she seems to actually hate him,’ said Juliet.

‘I don’t know why you’re so upset. It’s not like Max would even go with you to the wedding,’ said Charlie. ‘I mean can you see him coming to Chislehurst and staying in your little house and putting on a morning suit as you fasten a pair of pearlescent cufflinks and dab cologne behind his ears?’

Juliet ignored him and turned away to look through a selection of canvases Jim had brought by. While the studio still formed part of the gallery, Charlie was the only one to use it regularly. For the first years of his marriage he’d worked mainly at his and Marjorie’s home in Dorset but slowly he’d crept back to London a night and then a week at a time. Sometimes she suspected that he slept at the gallery. Jim and Philip no longer worked in the studio, and while Juliet tried to encourage new painters to use the space if they needed it, Charlie usually frightened them away within a month or two – accusing them of using his brushes or leaving doors unlocked or talking too much.

She studied the first of Jim’s paintings, a silkscreen print of a Devon swimming pool, the water cool in the sunlight, ripples like fish scales, and smiled. Unhurried, she spread out the rest, already hanging them in her mind. As well as mounting the gallery shows, Juliet sold Charlie, Jim and a dozen others around the world. She didn’t sell Philip’s paintings. She’d never cared for his racehorse portraits and they had proved too lucrative for him to spend time on other work (Juliet suspected that Caroline, like most thoroughbreds, was expensive to keep). While Philip remained a friend, he had little need of her services.

Juliet’s favourite part of the year was the summer exhibition where she displayed now-established artists like Jim alongside new discoveries.

‘Who’ve you found for this year’s show?’ asked Jim, surveying the canvases stacked in piles against the studio walls.

She sighed. ‘No one yet. But I’m going to take Leonard to the art school shows and dowse for talent there.’

‘Leonard’s getting pretty good himself,’ said Charlie. ‘Did you see the finished collage?’

Juliet shook her head, still transfixed by the blue ripples in Jim’s pool and only half listening.

‘You should think about including one of his pictures. Give the kid some confidence,’ said Charlie.

‘Perhaps,’ said Juliet. ‘Oh, I like this one.’

She pointed to one of Jim’s canvases, a large screen-print of a snub-nose adolescent boy fast asleep beside green lido waters.

‘We’ll show this here, but I’m going to put on a frightfully high reserve. I think we should send it to New York and see what they could do.’

Jim shrugged, smiling at her frank enthusiasm. Charlie sped up his whitewashing, irritated that Juliet hadn’t shown any great zeal for his latest pieces, more irritated that he didn’t like them either.

‘Tom Hopkins has some great new work,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m going to include at least three. I’d like them all in the show but there simply isn’t room.’

She fumbled through a series of unframed canvases stacked against a wall and then brought out a painting of a naked boy bathing beside a millpond, blue evening light shading him, above a purple sky scattered with dandelion-clock stars. It was a blend of English pastoral idyll and Picasso colour games. Jim and Charlie came closer to look. Charlie laughed.