* * *
On Monday, I meet Corey at five at Trafalgar Square, under one of the huge lion statues. I greet him with a kiss, which seems to take him by surprise as he blinks at me.
“We are on a date,” I say, gesturing towards his hand.
He takes mine. “Where are we going?”
“Over there.” I point towards the huge white building, fronted with ancient Greek-style columns, on the edge of the square. I watch his face, smiling as I see understanding dawn in his eyes.
“The National Gallery?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in the bag?” Corey asks, nodding towards the rucksack slung over my left shoulder.
“All in good time,” I say with a grin.
As we go inside, I toss a ten-pound note into the donations box. I don’t bother with getting a guidebook or an audio tour for either of us. It’s not my first time here, and I know it’s far from Corey’s. We take our time wandering through the galleries, even though I’ve brought him here for one specific painting.
When we enter the Wentworth Wing, I catch my breath. From here, I can see through the open doors to the next gallery and the next, and several more, all providing a frame for the painting we’ve come to see at the end. In that moment, I can understand whyWhistlejacketis Corey’s favourite painting. Even from several galleries away, it’s stunning and imposing.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Corey asks, his voice quiet.
“Very.”
“Our parents brought us here for the first time when we were ten. I remember standing here and seeingWhistlejacket,and I fell in love. I ignored every other painting in the galleries. I just walked straight towards it.” He lets out a laugh. “My parents freaked when they turned around and I wasn’t there anymore. They were frantic by the time they found me sitting in front of the painting.”
“I bet they were.”
“Did you know there are ten rooms between here and the oneWhistlejacketis in?”
“I didn’t.”
He squeezes my hand, and we start to walk forward, straight toward the painting of a chestnut horse with a flaxen mane and tail, rearing up.
“There’s a theory the painting is unfinished,” Corey says as we approach it.
“It doesn’t look unfinished.”
“It was commissioned by the second Marquess of Rockingham. Apparently, it was supposed to be a gift for King George II. The story goes that Rockingham was going to get two other artists to paint in a landscape behind Whistlejacket, and the king beside him. But for some reason, that never happened.”
“Do you know why?” I ask, fascinated.
Corey shrugs. “There are two stories. One is more amusing, and the other is more likely.”
“Tell me the amusing story.”
“When the portrait was nearly finished, Whistlejacket was led in front of the painting. He took umbrage at it because he thought it was a rival stallion and reared up to attack it, lifting the stable hand leading him clean off the ground. Apparently, Rockingham was so amused by the horse’s reaction that he decided he wanted it hung in his own home without any further decoration.”
“That’s a good story.”
Corey nods. “Yes. Sadly, it probably is just a story. The more likely reason is that Rockingham decided not to hire the other two painters after he fell out of favour with the king.”
I lead Corey to the bench seat in front of the painting. “Well, I’m going to choose to believe the first story you told me.” I nod at the painting. “It’s amazingly realistic.”
“It is. Stubbs knew more about equine physiology than any other painter of his time. He studied it relentlessly. He also painted other horses on blank backgrounds for Rockingham, so maybe there is a grain of truth in the story.” He sighs. “Or maybe it was never intended to be anything more than it is.” He points towards the bottom of the painting. “Do you see the shadows beneath his rear hooves?”
“Yes.”
