[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Read online

  Oh dear, thought Poppy, if only he had not added that last sentence…

  “I’ll take you up on that, Professor,” said Peter MacMahon before the older reporter could answer.

  “And so will I,” said Foster, stepping in front of MacMahon. “It’ll make an interesting side article.”

  Poppy groaned inwardly. Oh dear; this press liaison malarkey is turning into a fiasco.

  Inside the hall Agnes enjoyed her time with the children. She was surprisingly at ease with them, slipping, without realizing it, back into her native dialect. She was introduced to the children’s teacher: a young man in his late twenties, around the age Michael Brownley had been when she’d first met him. She looked at the older girls in the group and wondered if any of them had the same type of relationship with their teacher as she’d had. She hoped not. One of the girls – a red-headed young beauty, around twelve years old, who said her name was Edna – looked like she might be a prime candidate. Agnes took extra time with her. Her work was good: a watercolour of a pit head silhouette with an orange poppy growing through the cracks in a paving stone in the foreground. It was a little cliched in subject, but the technique was strong and it showed an understanding of emotional narrative.

  “That’s very good, Edna.”

  “Ta, miss.”

  “D’ya like paintin’?”

  “Aye miss, I do.”

  Agnes looked over at the art teacher who was in conversation with one of the men from the Miners’ Institute, then lowered her voice. “And d’ya ever stay after class to help Mr Simons?”

  Edna screwed up her nose, making her look very young. “Nah miss. Me mam needs uz back home. I go straight back, I do.”

  Agnes nodded her approval. “That’s good Edna, that’s very good. And what do you want to do when you grow up?”

  Edna looked across at the group of mothers sipping tea and munching on egg sandwiches. “I don’t know, miss. Get married? Have bairns of me own?”

  Agnes pursed her lips. “Have ya not thought of doing something with ya art? Ya very good, ya know.”

  “Like you, miss?”

  “Aye Edna, like me.” But even as she said it she realized Edna’s chances of becoming a professional artist – or in fact anything other than a wife and mother – were very slim. It was then that an idea began to form in her mind. What if she were to set up a bursary scheme? To help gifted female artists to go to a good school? There were a couple of well-respected girls’ schools in the area, but not for the likes of young Edna. She could speak to Dot Denby about it. That would be just the sort of thing Dot might want to get involved in. And perhaps Grace too. Grace, a bookkeeper, was very good at administration. Not Agnes’ or Dot’s strength. She would give it some more thought.

  She had three rosettes in her hands. She selected a boy of around eight for third place, a girl about the same age for second, but reserved the first for Edna. The girl looked tickled pink and blushed like a beetroot when Professor Reid congratulated her, before she ran over to the group of mothers calling: “Mam! Mam! I won!”

  Her mother came over to have a look. “Eeee pet, well done!”

  Agnes stepped forward and reached out her hand. The woman looked at it curiously for a moment, then reached out her own. It was limp and quickly withdrawn. “Hello, I’m Agnes Robson. You have a very talented daughter, Mrs…?”

  “Storey. Mrs Storey.”

  “Storey? Are you related to Mr Storey from the general goods shop? I used to get sweets there when I was little.”

  Mrs Storey’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, I remember.”

  Agnes stiffened. Mrs Storey was in her late thirties. Storey would be her married name. Had Agnes known her as a child? Under a different name? She would have been one of the younger children in the group… Agnes couldn’t remember, and didn’t want to open a hornet’s nest by asking.

  Agnes forced herself to continue making small talk, then moved on to the parents of the second- and third-placed children. Then something caught her eye. A man had entered the hall, standing in the doorway, cap in hand. He was tall and slim, stooped slightly at the shoulders. His greying hair made him look older than his thirty-nine years. It was Jeremy, Agnes’ brother.

  He caught her eye and smiled. She made her apologies to the group she was with and walked over to him. She wanted to fling open her arms and embrace him, but she didn’t. She knew that might be considered acceptable to her arty middle-class friends in London, but it would not be in working-class Ashington. Not even with her brother.

  “Jemmy, I was wonderin’ if you’d come. I’m glad ya did.”

  She looked over his shoulder, hoping to see any other family members. Hoping to see her mam.

  “Anyone else with ya?”

  “No, Aggy. They wouldna come.”

  Agnes struggled to hide her disappointment.

  Jeremy looked over to the gossiping mothers eyeing him and his sister with disapproval. “Because of them’uns.”

  Agnes glowered at the women. Challenged, they turned away. “Aye, I could have done without them’uns today too.”

  “But she’s asked uz to ask ya if ya’ll come home for tea. She’s put a spread on.”

  Agnes’ heart jumped into her mouth. “She has? Really?”

  “Aye, she has. Will ya come, Aggy?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Aye Jemmy, I will.”

  He smiled. “That’s grand. And ya can meet me wife. And the bairns. I’ve told them all aboot their Auntie Aggie.”

  Suddenly, they were joined by Poppy Denby. Poppy had been valiantly keeping the journalists away from Agnes. But she looked frustrated.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Agnes,” she smiled at the tall, stooped miner, “but I really think you need to say a few words to the reporters.” She turned to the man, then said: “Hello, there. I’m Poppy Denby.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Agnes, instinctively reverting back to her middle-English accent, “this is my brother, Jeremy Robson. Jeremy, this is Miss Poppy Denby, the Reverend and Mrs Denby’s daughter.”

  Jeremy reached up and pulled his forelock. “Pleasure to meet ya, miss. Ya mam and dad are good folks.”

  Poppy smiled and thanked him. “Yes they are. It’s my dad’s sixtieth birthday coming up.”

  “Aye, so I’ve heard.”

  “Listen,” said Poppy, turning to Agnes, “I don’t want to keep you from your family, but the reporters are – they’re, well – digging a bit. And I think we need to give them something to distract them from…,” she cast a quick look at Jeremy, “… from you know what. And the best way to do that is to get them interested in another story. I was wondering, do you have any ‘scoops’ you can give them? Something about your upcoming work or anything like that?”

  Agnes thought for a moment, then said: “Actually Poppy, I think I might. What do you think of the Agnes Robson Bursary for Artistic Young Ladies?”

  Poppy’s face lit up. “I think that sounds splendid! Have you spoken to any other reporters about it?”

  “No, not a soul.”

  “Then that’s perfect. Would you be prepared to talk to them about it now?”

  Agnes looked over at the reporters, then at her brother, waiting patiently for her. “Actually Poppy, do you think you could put them off a bit? Give them enough to keep them interested but then delay the actual interview? I need to give it a bit more thought first, and…” she smiled at Jeremy, “… me mam’s waiting for uz.”

  Poppy nodded her understanding. “Yes, I can do that. But we can’t leave them too long.”

  “Not too long, Poppy, I promise. Just not today, please. Not today.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THURSDAY, 3 OCTOBER 1924, LAING ART GALLERY, NEWCASTLE

  The Indian summer in Newcastle was finally showing its heels. A pair of horses that were being led into the public stables adjoining the gallery clomped their way through a light carpet of oak leaves and acorns, and the lad who told them to “hey up” had a woollen sc
arf tucked into his collar. Poppy, wearing her best but flimsiest evening gown, pulled her coat collar up against the biting breeze. She was waiting on the steps of the gallery for the arrival of the press, watching a horse-drawn cart pull up to the nearby “lying-in hospital” for pregnant married women of limited means. She watched as one of the ladies in question was helped out of the cart and guided into the hospital. Only married women, she noted. She thought of the unmarried Agnes and her two miscarriages. Where did women like her go if they carried to full term? A sister ushered the woman in and closed the door.

  Poppy turned her attention back to the gallery. She had arranged for Peter MacMahon from the Journal and Walter Foster from the Herald to get to the exhibition an hour earlier than the public to take photographs of the artwork, and to talk to Agnes about her idea for bursaries for female artists. She had had some difficulty yesterday convincing the reporters that they had nothing to gain by printing rumours about Agnes’ involvement in a decades-old death, but finally managed to persuade them that if they did they would lose all access to the artist and the inside track on the bursary fund. “This isn’t a rumour; it’s fact. But if you’d rather we gave the story to the Northern Echo…”

  The men had reluctantly agreed. Poppy knew that everything depended on how well Agnes did in her interview with them today. She had spent some time earlier that morning coaching the artist in the best way to answer questions and hoped that she had taken at least some of it on board. Poppy was a little bit annoyed with how much time this “press liaison” role was taking up. Hadn’t she just agreed to go to Ashington? But now here she was at the gallery too. Perhaps she should take Agnes up on her offer of payment; she was supposed to be on holiday, after all. Yet somehow she felt she needed to see Agnes through this. She was surprised at how vulnerable the older woman seemed up here in the North. When Poppy had interviewed her in London she was the epitome of the confident, sophisticated artist. But here – well, here she was just the daughter of a coal miner whose community showed her scant respect. And, up until yesterday, her family had rejected her too.

  There was something in that that pulled at Poppy’s heartstrings. Perhaps it was because she too had difficulties with her family. Neither of her parents were thrilled with her choice of career. And if her mother had her way, she would have no career at all. Granted, they had not turned their backs on her as Agnes’ family had done for many years, and they were not at all estranged, but there was still tension between them. Poppy’s mother feared her insistence on working would rule her out of the marriage stakes, and, Poppy had to admit, she might be right. After all, it was partly due to her job that she had declined Daniel’s offer to go with him to South Africa.

  A brown-suited man turned the corner from New Bridge Street, near the lying-in hospital, into Higham Place. It was Walter Foster carrying a camera case and tripod. He waved to Poppy.

  “Good evening, Mr Foster. No photographer?”

  Foster shook his head. “No, just me. Budget cuts. Is MacMahon here yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good-oh. Then perhaps I can see Miss Robson first.”

  Poppy chuckled. “Don’t worry, Mr Foster, you can both have a turn. I’ve arranged for each of you to speak to her for fifteen minutes.”

  “Only fifteen minutes?”

  “I’m afraid so. Miss Robson has a lot to do this evening. But if you don’t get all you need tonight you can forward some written questions to me in the morning and I’ll see that Miss Robson answers them for you. Ah, here’s Mr MacMahon.”

  A black cab pulled up and let Peter MacMahon and his photographer out. Poppy repeated the arrangements that she had just explained to Foster and MacMahon echoed the other journalist’s complaint.

  “I’m sorry Peter; that’s all I can do for now. But there should be lots you can do at the exhibition opening tonight. Don’t forget there will be friends, family, and dignitaries you can speak to too.” Poppy was slightly perturbed that she had to tell the men how to do their jobs. If the shoe were on the other foot she would know exactly how to go about getting a story, even with the restrictions imposed on them.

  Poppy ushered the men into the gallery and through the Marble Hall with its hanging baskets of evergreen plants. She checked in her coat at the ladies’ cloakroom while the reporters and cameraman did the same at the gentlemen’s facility. Poppy ducked into the powder room to check her outfit – the spaghetti-strapped, wine-red Lucien Lelong with train Aunt Dot had given her – then touched up her lipstick and checked that her marcelled waves were behaving themselves under the diamanté headband. Happy with the results, she emerged from the cloakroom to appreciative glances from the press posse.

  “Golly, you look splendid, Miss Denby!”

  “Thank you, Mr MacMahon,” said Poppy, quietly pleased with the response.

  Lifting her train, she led the way up the granite staircase – past its distinctive arts and crafts stained-glass window – to the landing of the first floor. Around a rotunda, with a broad granite balustrade, caterers were setting up drinks and food tables, while in the corner between the entrances to galleries A and D, a string quartet were tuning up. Way above them, the last of the afternoon sun wept through the glass ceiling of the oculus. Poppy looked over the balustrade to see her aunt’s neighbour Mrs Sherman – without her two poodles – cross the hall of the atrium below. Poppy wondered for a moment what she was doing here, then remembered that she was the curator Dante Sherman’s mother. In fact, she was about to meet Mr Sherman now. Agnes had told her that he was insisting on accompanying the reporters around the exhibition to ensure that they “behaved”. Poppy sighed to herself; it always disappointed her what a poor reputation journalists had with the general public.

  Memories and Mementoes: Agnes Robson, daughter of the North had been hung in Gallery A – on the far side of the rotunda. To the right of the double doors was the largest painting in the Laing: Holy Motherhood, a renaissance nouveau homage to fifteenth-century religious iconography, by contemporary artist Thomas Cooper Gotch. It had first been exhibited for the gallery’s opening in 1902. Frozen forever in a bronzed gilt frame, four women, playing instruments or reading books, flanked the “holy mother” who sat, indifferent to the naked infant lying on her lap. The painting had always disturbed Poppy as there wasn’t an ounce of maternal love in any of the characters. She remembered as a child contemplating the painting, feeling sorry for the poor, cold baby, who was supposed to grow up to be the saviour of the world.

  Standing in front of the painting was the dandy figure of Dante Sherman, with a clipboard and pen. He wore a conventional tuxedo and tails, but peeking out of his jacket were flouncy Byronic cuffs, worthy of Oscar Wilde, and a velvet collar. Instead of a plain white bow tie, he wore an elaborate cravat of white silk with gold embroidery. As Poppy and the journalists approached, he allowed his gold-framed monocle to drop out of his eye socket and dangle down the front of his jacket.

  “Ah, Miss Denby and the gentlemen from the press.” He checked his pocket watch. “You are five minutes late.”

  “Our apologies, Mr Sherman. Agnes said you would be willing to show Mr MacMahon and Mr Foster the collection, is that correct?”

  Sherman pursed his lips and checked his pocket watch again. “It is – briefly. So shall we get started? Miss Robson is waiting in Gallery B, which we are currently using as a green room. Follow me please.”

  Sherman turned on his well-polished heel, pushed open the door to Gallery A, and led the journalists through it. He pointed to the door of Gallery B. “Miss Robson is in there. One of you can get started with her and I’ll take the other one around the exhibition. We will swap over in exactly fifteen minutes. Any questions?”

  “Er yes,” said an amused-looking Peter MacMahon, winking at his photographer. “Who’s going first? Should we toss a coin, Foster?”

  “I, well I –”

  Sherman snapped his fingers in front of MacMahon’s face. “Decide. Now. Time is ticki
ng.”

  “Well,” said Poppy, annoyed by Sherman’s manner, but at the same time realizing time was not on their side. “Perhaps Mr Foster would like to go first with Agnes. He has come the farthest. Then we’ll swap over. Is that all right?” Her tone, and challenging stare at Peter MacMahon, brooked no disagreement.

  “That’s fine and dandy,” said MacMahon, a Cheshire cat grin still on his face. “All right, Bob?” he asked his photographer.

  “All right, Pete,” the man replied, and started unpacking his tripod.

  Poppy smiled her thanks at the man, appreciating his no-fuss attitude – so like Daniel’s – and then gestured for Walter Foster to accompany her through the gallery to the makeshift green room. As Foster pushed open the door she heard Dante Sherman drawl, “So, here we have a fine example of Miss Robson’s work from her early years in Paris. You see the use of primary colour and the marked influence of Gauguin –”

  The door swung shut behind her and Foster, and they stepped into a screened-off section of the long vaulted Gallery B. In front of her, lying on a Chippendale chaise longue, was Agnes. Her neck was resting on the arm of the furniture and her eyes were closed. One hand was resting on her forehead.

  “Agnes? Are you all right?”

  Agnes opened her eyes and turned her head towards Poppy; a tired smile gently emerged.

  “Sorry Poppy – yes, I’m fine. I was just having a little rest before everyone arrives. And… oh, it’s the gentleman from the press; I had almost forgotten.”

  She sat up and dropped her legs to the floor, smoothing down her green velvet gown. Poppy noted how beautiful she looked. Her hair – which she still wore unfashionably long – was pinned on one side with a diamond-encrusted comb and then swept down over the other shoulder in a cascade of ebony waves.