‘I’m sorry you had an awful experience when you were so young and first showed your work. I’m sorry it knocked your confidence and made you feel you weren’t good enough to be an artist in your own right.’ Every word Gil murmured was falling into her heart. ‘Because everything in here tells me that you are good enough and the reason I did this was to help you see it in some way. They’re beautiful and brilliant, and they belong wherever you want them to be seen. Or not, that’s your choice. But they’re special to me because they’re part of you.’
She was crying properly now. Some of it relief that her drawings weren’t on public display, but it wasn’t all that. Mostly it was because she’d never imagined seeing her work like this again and Gil had done it for her.
‘What are you planning to do for our second date?’ She tried to laugh through the tears, and he gently smoothed them away. ‘Because this will take some beating. Both for shock value and thoughtfulness, although I’m not sure you’re meant to cry on a first date. That usually comes later.’
‘Well, I haven’t exactly got as far as a second date,’ he said softly, kissing her forehead. ‘I thought we might be over before we got to number two if this backfired.’
‘It nearly did.’ She turned around, leaning into him as she dared to take another peep at the walls. ‘But it’s probably the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me. It was always easier to hide away, to keep my art to myself.’
‘You’re saying that like it’s too late, Pippa. It doesn’t have to be, not if you want something different.’
A few days later, she was still doing her best to avoid the sidelong glances Harriet was giving her. The gallery date with Gil had been utterly unexpected and he’d arranged champagne to celebrate her private exhibition. Afterwards, when they’d taken down her work and left the room ready to be rehung, they’d gone on for dinner at a quiet country pub. Parting back at the house with Harriet and Luca there had been difficult, and they’d shared a goodnight kiss that had kept Pippa awake for ages, thinking about Gil and what he’d done for her.
Luca had since left to join friends backpacking in Spain for a few days and the house felt quieter without him. It was impossible now to avoid thoughts of the future, with Harriet joining her dad for a holiday soon, and that would mean Pippa had little reason to remain in Hartfell. She’d been busy with plans since her brief visit to London and the date with Gil, ones that she’d kept quiet from everyone but Harriet, needing to be certain everything was in place before she revealed them.
She let herself into the practice, planning to catch up with messages. Yesterday, she’d emailed her dad, and she was hoping for a swift response. For once he had replied straightaway and a sigh of happiness and relief escaped when she read it. An email had also arrived from Edmund, the local historian, and Pippa’s heart began to beat rapidly as she scanned it. She needed to act on that now, and she called Miles and made a request which he immediately agreed to.
Ninety minutes later she met Miles outside the youth hostel, and Edmund arrived shortly after. His news, as he’d already pointed out, might amount to nothing and she shouldn’t get her hopes too high. But that didn’t stop her praying he was right.
‘This is all a bit sudden, isn’t it?’ Miles unlocked the front door of the hostel. ‘First time we’ve had any interest in the building.’
‘Once I have a trail to pursue, I’m afraid I must continue. Old habits die hard.’ Edmund chuckled and Pippa grinned at him. She knew from Hazel he’d spent his career as a language expert with MI5, travelling to London and beyond, and had now turned his considerable intellect and expertise to local history.
Inside, the building was cool, with the thick stone walls keeping out the warmth of the day. It had once been a pub and the three downstairs rooms were large, the last of them a functional and unattractive kitchen she glimpsed at the end of a short corridor. Plain red sofas and chairs sat on a blue carpet in one reception room, a long pine table in the other, chairs lined up either side.
‘So what’s this about?’ Miles questioned. ‘I know what you said on the phone, Pippa, but you were in a bit of a hurry.’
‘Would you like me to explain?’ Edmund gave her a questioning glance and she nodded. ‘I’ve been helping Pippa research her family history, Mr Gray.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘My knees, I’m afraid. I made some enquiries about her great-grandmother, Ivy Walker, who was a farmer’s wife and an artist.
‘I managed to track down the granddaughter of Ivy’s closest friend, who had a gift for detail and remembered many of the stories she’d heard. We had a marvellous chat online, and she was able to tell me that Ivy was very lively, an excellent pianist and was also expert at training the working dogs they ran on the farm.’
Pippa felt a rush of warmth for the woman Ivy had been. One whom she’d never get to know but whose life had amounted to much more than those solemn, rather flat black-and-white photographs she’d seen. Now she was imagining Ivy’s life in colour; a woman who liked to laugh and loved animals, enjoyed music and was highly skilled.
‘Right,’ Miles said slowly. ‘But what does that have to do with the hostel?’
‘Well, of course, Pippa’s main interest is in Ivy’s paintings, and that’s where we might just have had a stroke of luck. Linda, that’s the delightful woman with whom I spoke yesterday, told me that her grandmother had had a couple of Ivy’s paintings but sadly they were lost.’
‘Oh.’ Pippa’s shoulders dropped. So close to finding Ivy’s work only to have it snatched away again. But Edmund was still speaking, and she quickly refocused. ‘I’m sorry, I missed that?’
‘What she does remember, though, is that Ivy painted flowers too. Wild ones, the sort she would’ve seen around the farm. And I think what we’re interested in might be upstairs,’ Edmund nodded towards a central staircase in the hall. ‘Why don’t you have a look, Pippa? I’m sure you’ll recognise what we’re looking for if it’s there.’
Pippa didn’t need a second invitation and she hurried up to the first floor, peeking in each room, bunk beds and mattresses confirming the hostel’s functionality. At the back of the building, she opened the door onto another small room which slept four, and a hand flew to her mouth. A painting hung on the far wall, and she crept forward, barely breathing. It was a grouping of three poppies and even though the frame was damaged and the painting dirty, she saw the exquisite detail the artist had captured.
Scarlet flowers with dark centres, each petal so soft and perfectly shaped she almost expected them to flutter. Green stems were bright beneath the red, grouped in a meadow beneath a pale blue sky. She really needed much better light to make out a tiny signature in the corner. It could be anIbut then again it might be aJ. Holding her breath, she lifted the painting carefully from the wall and turned it over. She gasped at the sight of the small and neat handwriting, unable to hold back the rush of emotion and gathering tears.
Poppies in Lowgill Meadow. Ivy Walker, 1940
‘Have you found it?’ Edmund’s voice floated up and she couldn’t keep him waiting any longer. He had led Pippa to her family history, to this painting, and she returned downstairs, her smile almost making her face ache.
‘Yes. I think it’s Ivy’s.’ She turned it over so he could read the inscription and he was every bit as delighted, thrilled with their discovery. ‘Edmund, thank you.’ Impulsively Pippa threw an arm around him, the painting tucked beneath the other. ‘I can’t tell you what this means.’
‘I think I can guess, my dear.’ He patted her hand, his own eyes shining.
‘Miles, I know this is very unorthodox, but please can I take the painting home with me?’ She turned the full effect of her enthusiasm on Miles, and he blinked.
‘Well, er, it’s not really that simple,’ he said uncertainly. ‘The hostel is for sale with the contents and I’m not—’
‘Please,’ she said urgently, gripping the painting. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask, and I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but if I leave it here now it might be lost forever. It’s precious to me, irreplaceable really. It’s not really worth anything to anyone else and it might end up in a car boot sale or a skip. I promise I’ll put in writing that I have it and I’ll pay whatever the Association wants. Even the cost of the building.’
