6
Dorothea
Six Weeks Before
Dorothea didn’t trust journalists. Yet, against her better judgement, here was one tripping over her driveway in impractical heels and a flimsy coat despite it being late November. It was raining heavily yet the woman didn’t have an umbrella and was trying to shield her blonde curls with a leather tote bag while the wind whipped at the hem of her trench coat.
It was Gabe who had convinced her to speak to this young woman, even though he knew she rarely gave interviews – not because she believed she was somehow above it but because she had to be on her guard. She knew any journalist would be very interested to know about who she’d been before becoming the enigmatic Dorothea Roe, a persona she had carefully cultivated over forty-five years.
‘No, Gabe,’ she’d said when her agent had called her a week earlier to tell her that a journalist from a broadsheetwanted to interview her for their Sunday supplement. ‘It’s not a good idea.’
‘Of course it’s a good idea, darling. You’ve got a new collection you’re about to release. It’s great publicity. You’ve been off the scene for years. This is your comeback.’
‘I’m seventy-three years old … it’s hardly a comeback.’
‘One last hurrah. That’s what we agreed.’
‘I don’t have anything to say.’ Which, again, wasn’t strictly the truth.
‘Just tell them a little about your life now, what you’ve been up to these past fifteen years, and hint at what’s to come in the new collection.’
So she’d agreed. And only to keep Gabe happy.
Solly suddenly growled next to her, alerting her to the knock at the door, and she reluctantly left her position by the living-room window to go and answer it. The journalist, Maria something or other, seemed nice enough even if she was wearing totally impractical shoes which she offered to take off at the door. ‘No, don’t worry about that. Your feet will freeze.’ Maria’s eyes widened in awe as she stepped over the threshold. All Dorothea could see were all the things that needed doing to her house, but most people were blinded by the original features and airy space. They sat in the cosy, warm kitchen and ate the pancakes that Dorothea had made on the Aga’s hob the day before and drank tea while the sky outside darkened and thunder rolled overhead. Maria’s damp coat was slung over the back of her chair and, too late,Dorothea realized she should have offered to hang it up. She often forgot her manners, so seldom did people now visit her. Maria was complimentary about Dorothea’s house, her work, her dog and even her pancakes. She told Dorothea she didn’t look a day over sixty, even though Dorothea wasn’t vain enough to believe it, and she said how powerful she’d found Dorothea’s most famous sculpture,Woman in Turmoil.
And then, with her Dictaphone placed in front of her on the wooden table, Maria leaned forward conspiratorially and asked the one question Dorothea had been dreading.
‘One of your collections, calledDangerous Love, is about a toxic relationship? Was this because you’d experienced this yourself?’
‘Well, not in a romantic relationship,’ Dorothea replied, firmly and without a beat. ‘But I saw it in my parents. My father was physically abusive towards my mother, and back then there weren’t many places a woman could go to for refuge. Not in the South West area, anyway. Domestic violence wasn’t taken seriously by the police back then. So my mum put up with it.’ Dorothea pulled the cuffs of her oversized cable-knit cardigan over her hands and sat back in her chair, hoping that would be the end of that line of questioning. She hated talking about her father.
‘And what about partners? Were you ever married or had any serious relationships?’
Maria’s eyes gleamed and Dorothea wondered whatshe knew. ‘No. There were relationships, of course, but nothing that lasted. I prefer my own company these days.’
‘And children?’
Dorothea lowered her guard, just a little, while also reminding herself that she was speaking to a journalist who might twist her words. ‘I found out at a young age that I couldn’t have children.’ She coughed into her sleeve. She didn’t want this journalist to feel sorry for her. ‘Would you like more tea?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve drunk three cups since I’ve been here.’
‘Sorry, it’s my vice, I’m afraid. Caffeine is my only drug.’
Maria smiled and tapped the tips of her too-long taupe gel nails against her mug. Dorothea eyed them curiously, wondering how she could possibly do everyday tasks with such talons. ‘What made you decide to set up an art therapy centre in the late 1970s?’
‘I’d met Annette by this point, and after I’d started to have some small success with my own art …’
Maria consulted her notes. ‘You mean Annette Baker-Hume?’
‘Yes. That’s right. Annette told me her idea about the centre, and I loved the sound of her vision, so I offered to come on board. I wanted to do something to help others. There was a small group of us back then, all connected to art in our own way. Annette and Maisie both trained as art therapists …’
‘And that’s Maisie …?’
‘Hill. Annette’s friend Rosemary Farrington was also involved – she put up the capital. We were quite the campaigners back then, always on a protest or a march. We fought for women’s rights.’ She smiled sadly at the memory, remembering the type of young women they’d been. Feisty, dogged, idealistic.
‘And is the business still running today?’
‘Yes. Although a couple of us have taken a step back, the centre is still running.’
