[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 6

  “Yes, that’s what he said.”

  Poppy smiled at Agnes sympathetically. “Then I’m afraid not. All newspapers keep archives of old stories linked to famous people. At my paper they’re called the Jazz Files. They’re probably called something different at Peter’s paper, but they’ll do the same thing. So that’ll be him from the Newcastle Daily Journal, then probably someone from the Chronicle, the Northern Echo, and the Morpeth Herald too. All the regional papers should be there, and if he knows about the Brownley thing, they probably will too. Tell me again what happened to him?”

  Agnes leaned back and rested her cheek on the windowpane. It reminded Poppy of a Vanessa Bell painting.

  “His body was found at the bottom of the main Ashington Pit shaft. Not far from me mam and dad’s house.”

  Poppy noted the slight slip into regional dialect; just the odd word, but it was there.

  “He’d been on the sauce – had had a couple of pints at the Kickin’ Cuddy – and was heading back to the station. But he never got there, apparently. His body was found by the morning shift. My brother Jeremy was there when they came on him. His neck was broken. No one saw him after he left the pub. The police could find no witnesses and came to the conclusion that he fell down the shaft drunk.”

  Poppy absorbed this, then recalled the layout of the mining village from the time she’d helped her parents there with the winter soup kitchen. “But the shaft is not on the route from the Kicking Cuddy to the station.”

  Agnes looked at her, her brown eyes a pool of pain. “Aye, that’s the problem. The police think he might have been coming to see me.”

  “And why would they think that, Agnes?” Poppy asked, already suspecting she knew the answer after the artist’s confessions of her “living in sin” in Paris.

  Agnes turned away and looked out the window. The sun had already set and the park below was in shadow. “Because, Poppy, he seduced me. He asked me to pose for him, then after that to – to – well, to have intercourse with him. I was only fourteen and completely starstruck. I thought no one else knew, but when he died some of the other children told their parents that I was his “bit on the side”. So that’s why the police came asking. Because me mam and dad lived so close to the pit, they reckoned he had come by our house. But he hadn’t. None of us had seen him. The police talked to the neighbours and none of them had seen him either. So there was no evidence one way or the other. He might have come looking for me – he’d been told I couldn’t come to class anymore because me mam had found out – but he never got to the house. He’d never been before. It was dark. Raining. He was probably drunk. He could easily have got lost and wandered over to the pit. He might even have gone to ask directions. We’ll never know. But you see Poppy, there’s some nasty people in Ashington, and nasty rumours got about. Some of them said I did it.”

  “Did Peter MacMahon say that? That he’d heard rumours that you’d done it?”

  Agnes shook her head. “No, he didn’t. He just said he believed my first art teacher had been tragically killed in Ashington. He wanted to know how I felt about it all these years later.”

  Poppy chewed on her lip as she normally did when she was thinking. It didn’t sound, to be honest, like Peter was out to dig up dirt on Agnes. The artist was filtering his question through her own complicated feelings of sadness and shame. And, perhaps, anger too. Poppy didn’t think she would have to field any questions about Agnes’ possible link to Brownley’s death – that was just village gossip, and if there’d been any evidence an arrest would have been made – but Agnes seemed certain there would be some.

  She reached out and took Agnes’ hand. “Listen Agnes, I really don’t think there’s anything to worry about. If I had read that report I would have asked you about it too. But without actually seeing what it said, I reckon it would have just been a factual account of the finding of the body or the declaration of accidental death, rather than rumours of your involvement. When Peter saw you he seemed delighted to have an opportunity to get a scoop on interviewing a world-famous artist, not a suspected murderer. And,” she laughed gently, “I would know as I’ve interviewed both. But don’t worry. I will come with you tomorrow. And I’ll have a word with Peter when I’m there to find out what it was he actually read. It’ll all be fine. You just focus on the opening. I’ll handle the rest.”

  Agnes squeezed the young reporter’s hand. “Thank you, Poppy. Thank you very, very much.” Then, to Poppy’s dismay, Agnes burst into tears. After a few awkward moments of Poppy giving her a handkerchief and patting her shoulder, Agnes pulled herself together. “I’m sorry. It’s just – well – it’s all a bit emotional. The last time I was back here was me dad’s funeral in 1916. And that didn’t go well. I’m hoping things will be better this time.”

  Poppy smiled at her encouragingly. “I’m sure they will, Agnes. People’s feelings are always frayed at funerals. It’ll be better this time. And you’re here for your job. Just focus on that. You’re a wonderful artist and that’s what people want to acknowledge.”

  Agnes dabbed her eyes and sighed. “I hope you’re right, Poppy. I really do.”

  CHAPTER 6

  WEDNESDAY, 2 OCTOBER 1924, ASHINGTON COLLIERY, NORTHUMBERLAND

  It had been twenty-seven years since Agnes had first painted the curve of railway line leaving Ashington. It was a motif that recurred time and again in her work: roads, rivers, railways – leaving somewhere and petering off to somewhere else. It had become one of her signatures; that and her brazen use of colour. Her first tentative experiments with it under the overly watchful eye of Michael Brownley had become bolder over the years. Influenced by Gauguin, Matisse, and Van Gogh, she had learned to push her palette to extremes. Solid blocks of colour approximated trees and buildings that demanded the viewer either embrace it or look away. It was the colour – that splash of ochre on her hem – that had given the game away to her mother. She had personally gone to see Brownley the following week and told him in no uncertain terms to stay away from her daughter. It turned out that was his last ever lesson. He was to die later that night.

  Memories of her time with Michael had not surfaced for many years – not until that reporter yesterday had mentioned it. The last time she was here – in 1916 – the village was in mourning for the thirteen lives lost in the mine explosion that had killed her father. And she was focused on seeing her family again for the first time in seventeen years. It hadn’t gone well. If she had expected the warm embrace of her mother, she didn’t get it. There was no overt animosity, just indifference. Her mother shook hands with her – yes, she shook her hand – as if she was just one of the few dozen well-wishers, and then moved on down the line. Her brother, Jeremy, had been a little warmer. But as the new head of the family, trying to save his mother from eviction from the mine house she now lived in alone, he didn’t have time to catch up with his estranged older sister. But he did at least say she “looked well” and that something good must have come from her running off. And then, before he went to talk to Reverend Denby, he had said: “Give Mam time. She’s missed ya. It’s just all mixed now with her missing da.”

  So she had given it time. For three days she wandered like an unwanted house guest around her family home. She helped with the cooking and cleaning and hanging out washing, but none of these tasks penetrated through her mother’s defences. On the fourth day, at breakfast, she asked her mother if she would like to get away for a while. She said she could take her back with her to London for a bit. Her mother dropped her porridge spoon, splashing milky oats onto the green checked tablecloth. “Why would I want to do that? So you can show me off to your posh friends? I don’t think so, lass. But I do think it’s time you went back yaself.” And so Agnes packed her bag, gave her mother a kiss on her cold cheek, and got the first train back out of there.

  Now, eight years later, she was returning again. And this time, worries about how her mother would receive her were vying for head space with Michael Brownley. She h
ad not loved Michael. She had slept with him more out of not knowing how to say no to someone so important, rather than out of any uncontrolled adolescent desire. He had not forced her. He had asked her if she wanted to: and she had said yes, simply because she didn’t know how to say no. He had been kind and gentle, but he was no great lover. Not that she had anything to compare it with then, but even so, she had felt that it was all just a bit messy and silly. But if that’s what Mr Brownley wanted, who was she to say no?

  If she had, where would she be today? Married to a miner with a brood of kids? Still working at the village laundry? She might have been “decent” but would she have been happy? Would she have been able to continue with her art? She very much doubted it. And even though she wished she hadn’t lost children and lovers, or been estranged from her family, she did not wish she’d never become an artist. She did not wish she had never lived and worked in Paris and London. But it had come at a cost. She looked at the young blonde woman beside her: Malcolm and Alice Denby’s daughter. She too had left home and was following her dream. But she had had more opportunities than Agnes. She had connections and class behind her. Yes, her family were not rich, but they had had enough to give their daughter a start. Unlike Agnes, whose only chance at “a start” was to become someone’s mistress, Miss Poppy Denby had more respectable options open to her.

  Agnes recalled that Alice Denby had been pregnant with Poppy when Michael Brownley died. And that her little boy, the cherubic Christopher, had later died in the war. Yes, she too had suffered loss. Agnes did not for one minute think Poppy had a silver spoon in her mouth and she was grateful the young journalist had agreed to accompany her today. Just as she had been grateful Poppy’s mother had accompanied her away from Ashington all those years ago. She had wondered how much Alice had told her daughter about what happened at the time, but after a few conversations with the honest and open young woman, Agnes came to the conclusion that Mrs Denby had been true to her word and not told anyone about her shame.

  The train shuddered to a stop at the station, and there on the platform was a delegation from Armstrong College and the Ashington Miners’ Institute waiting to greet her. She smoothed down her exquisite mink coat, put a regal smile on her face, and said: “Are you ready, Poppy?”

  Poppy was pleased to see such a good crowd waiting outside the Agnes Robson Community Hall to greet her new “client”. Poppy appraised them, wondering for a moment whether a new career lay ahead of her in public relations or arts management. No, she thought, it wasn’t for her. She was happy to help out today, chatting to reporters on behalf of Agnes, but it wasn’t what she was cut out for. She eyed up the press corps: two reporters and two photographers. In the end only the Morpeth Herald and the Newcastle Daily Journal were there, the latter represented by the grinning Peter MacMahon who raised his bowler hat to her and Agnes as they arrived. The gentleman from the Morpeth Herald was someone she knew attended her parents’ church.

  When they had first got married, Malcolm and Alice had worked for a Methodist Mission here in Ashington, but when Poppy was a few years old they had taken up an appointment in the more well-to-do market town of Morpeth, just a few miles up the road. They had never lost touch with the mining village though and continued to be involved with the local Methodist circuit, sharing resources and preachers.

  The reporter, a bearded man in his early sixties called Walter Foster, raised his hat when he saw Poppy. “Miss Denby! What a pleasure to see you! I was hoping to have a word with you at your father’s birthday party on Saturday. You will still be coming, won’t you?”

  Poppy smiled. “Good day to you, Mr Foster. Yes I will. That’s why I’m here, actually. I just stopped off in Newcastle for a few days to see some friends and relations. But I shall definitely be there on Saturday. I’ll look forward to catching up with you then.”

  Foster nodded to his rival from the Newcastle newspaper. “Have you met young MacMahon, yet?”

  “I have. I had the pleasure of making Mr MacMahon’s acquaintance yesterday.”

  MacMahon winked, cheekily, at Foster. “Indeed we did. And I had the pleasure of getting an advance interview with Agnes Robson. Isn’t that right, Miss Denby?”

  “Well, she told me the two of you had a little chat, which reminds me…” Poppy readied herself to probe what the reporters knew about the Brownley death, when suddenly they were all called to attention by an elderly gentleman in a brown suit, who had been introduced to Poppy earlier as Professor Reid of the art school.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming today to open this marvellous facility. And thanks also to…”

  The professor droned on for fifteen minutes. In his speech he thanked the serious-looking gentlemen from the Miners’ Institute, wearing their best cheap suits and collars, starched within an inch of their lives; and he thanked the “good people of Ashington and Hirst”, represented by a group of mothers and their children, who had been scrubbed until they shone. The children were learning to paint and draw and an exhibition of their work was hung inside the hall. Professor Reid told the children, very solemnly, that they were honoured to have a world-renowned artist here to judge the competition and went on to give an overview of Miss Robson’s illustrious career. He mentioned that she had first tried her hand at painting right here in Ashington. That she, like the children, was the daughter of a miner, and if they worked very, very hard, they too might have work hung in the world’s leading galleries. The children looked at Agnes in awe. The mothers, if Poppy were not mistaken, appeared to suppress a collective smirk. Or had she just imagined it?

  Professor Reid did not mention the death of Michael Brownley or Agnes’ years of exile. He summed up her difficult years in one simple sentence: “Although from humble beginnings, Miss Robson had the good fortune to learn from the great masters in Paris before being discovered by the famous art critic Roger Fry in London.” No mention of her running off to Paris with an older man and living in sin. No mention of failed pregnancies. No mention of a scandalous Bohemian lifestyle. Instead, he spoke of her as one of the country’s best-loved avant-garde artists. She was a leading light in British Post-Impressionism. Her work was challenging, and at times controversial, always pushing the boundaries of conventional form and palette. He was proud, although she had not studied at Armstrong College proper, to consider her an alumna of their community outreach programme and honoured that she had agreed to lend her name (and money) to their ongoing work here in Ashington.

  As his hagiography came to a close he was rewarded with polite applause and camera flashes. He looked quietly pleased with himself, thought Poppy, and she wondered what Agnes made of it all. The artist seemed politely appreciative of the plaudits but, Poppy noted, kept her gaze turned away from the women and children. It was then the turn of Agnes to say a few words. The reporters’ pencils were poised expectantly, but her comments were few, and her accent decidedly middle English.

  “Thank you Professor Reid; you are too kind. It is the ongoing work of the Newcastle Art School at Armstrong College that is to be applauded, not my humble contribution. Gentlemen of the Miners’ Institute, thank you for the honour of allowing me to lend my name to this hall. I hope it serves the people of Ashington and Hirst well. And now, children, I think it’s time you showed me your paintings.”

  “It should’ve been called Brownley Hall!” a woman from the back of the crowd shouted out.

  “What is that, madame?” asked Professor Reid. He was met by a wall of silence from the mothers and quizzical looks from the children. A number of gentlemen from the Miners’ Institute cleared their throats awkwardly.

  Agnes flashed a terrified glance at Poppy. Poppy stepped forward.

  “I think the lady said it should be called Brownley Hall. That, I believe, is a reference to Miss Robson’s first art teacher. In fact, she was just telling me about him on the train ride coming up, isn’t that right Miss Robson?”

  Agnes looked like a deer in the headlights. Poppy
willed her to calm down. They had spoken about this eventuality over breakfast: what to do if Brownley’s name was brought up. She had urged Agnes to not skirt away from it but to mention her gratitude to him and all the other teachers she had had in her life. That way he would be just one of many. But would she?

  Poppy caught a glimpse of Peter MacMahon out of the corner of her eye. He was raising his finger to ask a question. Come on, Agnes…

  And then, just as Poppy thought she would have to intervene again, Agnes spoke. Her voice, thankfully, was calm and clear. “The naming of the hall was not my decision. But I’m sure Armstrong College meant no disrespect to Mr Brownley. Yes, he was their first teacher here, but there were many more who came after him; each of them made their own contribution to this community and we should be grateful to them all. And now, I think it’s time to see what these wonderful children have been doing.”

  With that she turned on her heel and walked into the hall.

  “What do you remember of Michael Brownley, Miss Robson?” Peter MacMahon’s voice called out after her.

  Poppy stood beside a confused-looking professor who appeared unsure as to whether to follow Agnes inside.

  “And you, Professor Reid,” shouted Walter Foster from the Morpeth Herald. “Do you recall Michael Brownley’s death? Should his name be on the hall too?”

  Reid took on a glazed look and turned to Poppy.

  She took a step forward. “I think Miss Robson has said all that needs to be said today. Michael Brownley was the first of the teachers here, and she and the community will always be grateful to him. Isn’t that right, Professor Reid?”

  “Er, yes, we are. And to answer your question, Mr Foster, no we did not think his name should be on the hall. Michael Brownley, and I remember him from when I too was a young lecturer, did an excellent job getting this project started. But it wasn’t his only project. He worked elsewhere too. In fact, we have a commemorative plaque in his name in the department along with others of our colleagues who died while working for us. Granted, most of them were during the Great War, but he and one or two others, who died outside of combat – by illness or accident – are remembered too. So I can assure you, he has in no way been snubbed. If you would like to come to the college I can show you the plaque.”