‘Well I never,’ exhales Dennis from behind me. It’s only then I realize he’s followed me down the steps, leaving the dogs behind.
A frizzle of excitement sears through me and my hands are trembling as I hold my phone up close, the triangle light picking out each detail. And detailed it is. There are so many different things to take in. The woman resembles Dorothea, wearing a silvery-blonde wig and a wool jacket. On her feet are heavy hiking boots, at odds with her thin cotton skirt. She’s clutching some dark fabric in one hand, the other is covered in red paint – which I’m assuming is supposed to be blood. A closer look at the magpies reveals miniature items pinned to them: I notice a Christmas card and a cat brooch.
I’ve seen Dorothea’s work in museums before – mostly her paintings, but once I went to see a sculpture exhibition with my mum not long before she died. I remember finding the papier-mâché sculptures frightening even then.
The skin on the back of my neck prickles and I’m relieved that Dennis has followed me down here.
‘There’s a light switch here,’ he calls from behind me. He presses it and the room floods with light, instantly making everything less scary. I turn off the torch on my phone. There is no reception down here. I scan the rest of the piece – so many details, too many for them to sink in. I take some photos with my phone to pore over later.
‘Lordy. It’s like a secret studio. She never once said she had this here.’ Dennis pulls at the collar of his jumper. ‘I’m not a fan of enclosed spaces, truth be told.’
‘Why don’t you go back up?’
He nods but he doesn’t take his eyes from the sculpture.
I cast my gaze around the windowless room which is roughly ten foot by twelve foot – smaller than the glass-walled studio attached to her house and with a very low ceiling. Anyone above six foot wouldn’t be able to stand up tall in here. A workbench runs along one side of the room with chicken wire, paints, brushes, white spirit and other bottles of unidentified liquids cluttered along it. Chucked in the corner are head-sized balls of papier-mâché, as though Dorothea was going to use them but then decided against it. Clothes and pieces of fabric spillfrom a big bin liner. A cluster of wigs in different colours hangs on a coat rack, which gives the impression of a group of women all huddled together. Cobwebs sparkle from dusty corners and the air is cold. The whole room looks like what I imagine you’d find backstage at a theatre.
‘I don’t understand,’ mutters Dennis, mirroring my own thoughts. ‘What’s this one doing down here? Is it unfinished?’
‘I think she made it here.’ I indicate her materials on the bench.
‘But why not use her studio? It’s like she didn’t want anyone to see this one.’
I feel like I’ve betrayed Dorothea’s trust by bringing Dennis along with me. She left that Post-it Note and key for me to find. In the article I read earlier, Dorothea had told the interviewer that the theme for her new collection was magpies. Was this sculpture here because she hadn’t finished it – although it looks completed to me. Or had she always been planning to keep it down here for me to discover?
Seven’s a secret never told.
‘There’s something quite frightening about this,’ Dennis says, not taking his eyes from it. ‘She told me she was working on a bird theme for her new collection. Did you know her real name was Dorothy Bird?’
I turn to him in surprise. ‘No, I didn’t. Did she tell you that?’
He nods, looking pleased. ‘She was quite private, as you probably know, but slowly, very slowly over the years,little things would come out.’ He coughs into his hanky. ‘The dust down here isn’t good for my chest.’
There is a loud bang and I jump, heart thumping.
The hatch door has closed.
We turn to each other in alarm. ‘The wind’s blown it shut,’ Dennis says, but I can hear the uncertainty in his voice. It’s not particularly windy outside. We head for the stairs and I walk up first and push at the hatch. My throat goes dry when it won’t budge.
‘Here, let me,’ insists Dennis and I take a step back so he can get past. He reaches up and pushes against the door with all his strength.
The hatch still doesn’t move.
‘What’s going on?’ Dennis cries. ‘Who would do this to us?’
We both try it again, shoving our shoulders against it, but it’s no use.
We’re locked in.
14
Dorothea
Ten Months Before
It was finding the Zippo lighter that was the defining moment, she thought afterwards. She’d been out walking the dogs with Dennis, and her blood had run cold as she’d bent down to pick it up, nestled in the long grass on the edges of the wood, glinting in the late summer sunshine, knowing before she even whipped her glasses from the pocket of her dungarees that it would have the initials RF inscribed on it. The silver was tarnished with a slight dent in the corner and her hand trembled as she pocketed it, straightening up and glancing about frantically. Dennis must have noticed because he came straight over, concern on his face.
‘Dotty, is everything okay?’
