The Mermaid Garden (5 page)

and deduced from her expression that Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes

would not be coming back to paint anything.

“So, this position of artist-in-residence, what does it involve, ex-

actly?”

Marina felt the familiar tug in her stomach, an internal warning sys-

tem that never failed. She didn’t want Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes in

her hotel, name-dropping all summer. Once again, she found herself

having to go through the motions in order not to be impolite. “Last

year we had a charming man who resided with us for three months,

teaching the hotel guests painting. It’s something different I like to

offer our residents.”

“What a brilliant idea—and such lovely surroundings to paint.”

“I think so. Last summer Paul taught us all how to paint.”

“You as well?” She directed her question at Grey.

“Not me, I’m no artist. Marina had a go, didn’t you, darling?”

“Yes, though I’m no good at it, either. It was fun to experiment, and

he was such a nice man. It was a pleasure to have him to stay all sum-

mer, and we missed him when he left. He’d become part of the family.”

“As shall I. One loves nothing more than to roll up one’s sleeves and

get stuck in. All hands on deck.”

“Absolutely,” said Grey, finding her heartiness comical. The waiter

placed his coffee on the table along with herbal tea and a glass of grape-fruit juice.

Elizabeth rested her cigarette on the ashtray. “Now let me show you

what I do.” She delved into her bag and pulled out a black photo album.

“I’m afraid my art is too big to carry around. Some of my paintings

are hanging in royal households, so you can imagine, one can hardly

go asking to borrow them, can one? This will give you a good idea.”

She handed Grey the book. Marina pulled her chair closer to her hus-

band and nudged him with her elbow. “I’m jolly good with people,”

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Elizabeth continued. “You see, it’s one thing knowing how to paint, but quite another knowing how to teach. I’m fortunate enough to be adept

at both.” Grey nudged his wife back.

They leafed through photographs of horses sketched in charcoal, to

still lifes in oil. There was no doubt that Elizabeth had talent. However, her work had nothing of the heart of Balthazar Bascobalena’s melancholy boats, nor his flair. She was extremely good, but she had no soul.

“You’re very talented, Elizabeth,” Marina said, trying to sound enthu-

siastic.

“Thank you. One loves what one does, and I think it shows,

don’t you?”

“Oh, it really does,” said Grey, but Marina could see no traces of

pleasure in her work at all.

Elizabeth finished one cigarette and lit another. As she sipped her

tea, Marina noticed her face fall in repose. She suddenly looked old and sad, like an actress weary of playing her role. Marina felt a twinge of compassion, but she couldn’t wait to be rid of her.

“She was dreadful,” she exclaimed to her husband once Elizabeth’s car

had disappeared up the drive.

“You have to kiss many frogs before you find your prince. Perhaps

the same applies to your artist.”

“Oh really, Grey. I suppose you think this is all very funny.”

“I’m amused.”

“Well, at least one of us is.”

He put his arm around her and squeezed her affectionately. “Dar-

ling, you have to keep your sense of humor. The world is full of wonderful people—wonderfully ghastly and wonderfully pleasant. Elizabeth

Pembridge-Hughes was certainly entertaining.”

“I’d enjoy it like you if I didn’t feel so anxious.”

“There’s nothing to be anxious about. It’ll all work out in the end.

Consider this a study in human nature.”

She grinned up at him. “From which I deduce that God has a sense

of humor, too.”

“Yes, but I think He was very serious when He created you.” He

laughed, and Marina couldn’t help but laugh with him.

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* * *

At midday Harvey Dovecote strode into the hall. A determined bache-

lor, Harvey had worked for Grey and Marina from the very beginning,

having been estate manager for the last and least fortunate Duke and

Duchess of Somerland. Now, at seventy-five, he did little more than

odd jobs for Marina, clad in his habitual tweed cap and sky-blue boiler suit. The regular guests delighted in his familiar presence as he went

about his work with irrepressible optimism and charm. He was a be-

loved character, as much a part of the hotel as the bricks and mor-

tar, and Marina had grown entirely dependent on his down-to-earth

good sense. He swept leaves, filled the log baskets, mended broken

pipes, and fused light switches. He repaired roof tiles and leaking ceilings, and plastered and painted when the decoration needed touching

up. There was nothing he couldn’t do, and he had the energy of a man

twenty years his junior.

Fit and wiry, Harvey had thinning gray hair and a long, genial face

that always smiled. His skin was scratched with deep laughter lines

but his eyes sparkled with the reflection of an agile mind that missed

nothing and saw the humor in everything. He arrived as Elizabeth

Pembridge-Hughes sped off in her Range Rover.

“Another one bites the dust!”

“Oh, Harvey, I’m so pleased you’re back!” Marina exclaimed, feeling

a pleasant calm wash away her doubts. “You wouldn’t believe the people

I’ve had to interview today. A pirate and a name-dropper. If the third

interview isn’t a success, I don’t know what I shall do.”

“You shall wait for the right person to appear.”

“You think he will?”

“Oh, he will.” Harvey’s certainty was comforting.

“How’s your mother? I’m sorry. I’m so wound up in my project

I forgot to ask.” She placed her hand on his arm, for his mother’s health had declined recently and she’d been put in a home. She was ninety-eight, and Harvey was devoted to her, visiting her up to three times a

week.

“She’s bearing up. Sun Valley Nursing Home is dreary, but me and

my nephew, Steve, keep her entertained, as much as we can. She’s

very excited because Steve’s gone and bought a secondhand Jaguar.

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Beautiful car. Purrs like a big cat. He drove it to the nursing home, and they wheeled her out so she could get a good look at it.”

“You haven’t told me about Steve before. I never even knew you had

a nephew. He sounds very successful.”

“He is. He lives in a big house just outside Salisbury, full of beautiful things. He’s a collector, you know. You’d be amazed by the things he

has. My brother, Tony, never amounted to much, but his boy Steve’s

broken the mold. He’ll lend me the Jag if I ask him, he’s that generous.

Might have to bring it down here and show it off.”

Marina laughed. “You at the wheel of a swish car? Now that I’d like

to see.”

“And I’d like to see the look on your face when I take you out in it!”

He opened his wide mouth and laughed heartily.

“Oh, I’d love that, Harvey. It’s many years since I’ve been in a beautiful sports car.”

She suddenly grew serious. “You heard the news this morning?”

“I did indeed. He’s like Macavity the Mystery Cat.”

“Really, Harvey . . .”

“He’s called the Hidden Paw—

For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.”

He grinned as he managed, yet again, to make her smile.

“It’s no laughing matter, Harvey.”

“I don’t like to see you worried.”

“But it
is
a worry, Harvey. We have to be vigilant and hope he doesn’t target us. We’re small compared to the places he’s robbed so far, so

I hope he’ll overlook us.”

“I expect he will. There’s not much to steal here, is there.”

“Nothing really valuable, no.”

“So put it out of your mind.”

“Only once the police have caught him.”

“He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:

For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!”

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“You don’t seem at all anxious about it.”

“Being anxious isn’t going to stop him targeting the Polzanze.”

“Then what is?”

“I’ll stand outside with a shotgun.”

“I don’t think I’d feel any safer with you wielding a gun, Harvey. We

need something else.”

“He scratched his chin. “A dog?”

“You know I don’t allow dogs on the premises.”

“You’d feel a lot safer if you had one. Cats like Macavity don’t like to rob places with dogs.”

She turned away and folded her arms. “I couldn’t bear a dog. I just

couldn’t . . .”

“Dogs are very friendly animals.”

“I know . . . but I really couldn’t . . .”

“Then we’ll think of something else,” he said soothingly.

She smiled with relief. “Yes, please. Anything but a dog.”

Marina’s third and final candidate arrived late. A bumbling, university graduate in jeans and beige corduroy jacket, he was foppish, with long

blond hair and a baby face that barely looked old enough to be out of

school. They had tea in the conservatory, for the wind had picked up,

and he told her about himself while she tried to concentrate and look

interested. Harvey caught her eye as he wandered out to the terrace to

fix a wobbling table, and pulled a face. She didn’t need his confirmation, but it was nice to know that he agreed; George Quigley would not be

staying the summer, either.

It was hard to get rid of him. He drank endless cups of tea and ate

four slices of cake and whole handfuls of little egg sandwiches. Ma-

rina listened patiently while he chatted on about Exeter University, his girlfriend, and his somewhat optimistic plans for his future, exhibiting all over the world. His work was abstract, as she expected it would be.

She laughed away her disappointment, imagining what her old ladies

would make of it.

Marina explained that his work was simply too modern for her

guests and cut him off briskly when he tried to tell her that he could

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paint anything she wanted. He could have painted like David Hockney

for all she cared; she simply did not like him. Just as he was on the point of leaving, Clementine strode into the hall. She took one look at him,

and her face flowered into a smile. They exchanged glances and he re-

turned her smile, looking her up and down appreciatively. Clementine

watched him leave then turned to her stepmother excitedly.

“Is
he
coming to stay the summer?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s highly unsuitable.”

Clementine’s face snapped shut. “What’s unsuitable about him? If

you ask me, he’s just what you want.”

“Which is why I’m not asking you.”

“You’re very hard to please. Anyway, your fusty old ladies would love

a handsome young man like him.”

“His paintings are much too modern.”

“If he’s talented, he can probably paint boring landscapes to your

heart’s content.”

“I didn’t warm to him.”

“I did.”

“Then go out and talk to him. Look, he’s hanging around his car. He

clearly fancies you.”

“No,” she retorted sharply.

“Not interested?”

Clementine clicked her tongue crossly and stalked off. “You wouldn’t

understand.”

Marina sighed. “I’m going out,” she said to Jennifer. “I need some air.

This has been a very trying day. Have you seen Jake?”

“Not back yet.”

“How long does it take to see a dentist? Well, I’m off. Grey is around, should you need him.”

Marina walked purposefully along the cliff top, arms folded, shoulders

hunched against the blustering wind. She could never gaze upon the

ocean without her heart aching with longing, especially on a clear day

such as this, when the setting sun pulled at her soul until it hurt.

She hurried down the well-trodden path to the beach, where the last

rays of sun were gradually being swallowed into shadow, and kicked off

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her shoes to tread barefoot over the sand. The fresh air filled her lungs, and her chest expanded with the beauty of the dying day. She had held

it together for so long, burying her sorrow down deep where she be-

lieved she wouldn’t find it. But now, as she approached her mid-fifties, it had found her, bubbling up through the cracks in her aging body, and she could no longer ignore it.

The disappointment of the day and her worries about their business

overwhelmed her, and she began to sob. Why hadn’t one of those artists

been suitable? Why had they all been so totally inappropriate? Why

did she feel her life was suddenly without purpose or direction? Why

now, after nearly forty years, did her past suddenly open behind her like a dam and flood her with painful memories? She was overcome and

sank to her knees. Hugging her belly, she rocked back and forth in an

effort to assuage the ache inside.

It was there that Grey found her. He ran down the beach and gath-

ered her into his arms. She yielded without resistance, burying her face in his chest and blocking out the sea. Neither said a word. For what was there to say? No amount of carefully chosen words could soothe the