‘Arthur …’
‘Well, it’s their property. They paid for it. I suppose they can do with it as they want.’
Dr Redwing remembered. Sir Magnus had commissioned the portrait for his wife’s fortieth birthday and she had been grateful at the time, even when she discovered how little Sir Magnus intended to pay. It was a commission. It meant so much to Arthur’s self-esteem and he had set about the work with enthusiasm. He had painted Frances Pye over three sittings in the garden – with Dingle Dell in the background. He hadn’t been given nearly enough time and to begin with Lady Pye had been a reluctant sitter. But even she had been impressed by the result; a portrait that brought out everything that was good in her and which showed her relaxed, half-smiling, in command. Arthur had been quietly satisfied with the result and at the time so had Sir Magnus, hanging it prominently in his great hall.
‘It must be a mistake,’ she said. ‘Why would they want to throw it out?’
‘They were burning it,’ Arthur replied, heavily. He gestured vaguely at the canvas. ‘He seems to have cut it to pieces first.’
‘Can you save it? Is there anything you can do with it?’
She knew the answer. The woman’s imperious eyes had survived; the dark, sweeping hair, part of one shoulder. But most of the painting was blackened. The canvas had been slashed and burned. She didn’t even want it in the house.
‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur said. ‘I haven’t done the supper.’
He emptied his glass and walked out of the room.
6
‘Have you seen this?’
Robin Osborne was reading a copy of the Bath Weekly Chronicle and Henrietta had never seen him look so angry. There really was something quite Old Testament about him, she thought, with his black hair falling to the collar, his white face, his bright, angry eyes. Moses would have looked much the same with the golden calf. Or Joshua storming the walls of Jericho. ‘They’re going to cut down Dingle Dell!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Henrietta had made two cups of tea. She put them down and moved further into the room.
‘Sir Magnus Pye has sold it for development. They’re going to build a new road and eight new houses.’
‘Where?’
‘Right here!’ The vicar gestured at the window. ‘Right at the bottom of our garden! That’s going to be our view from now on – a row of modern houses! He won’t see them, of course. He’ll be on the other side of the lake and I’m sure he’ll leave enough trees to form a screen. But you and me …’
‘He can’t do it, can he?’ Henrietta went round so that she could read the headline. NEW HOMES FOR SAXBY-ON-AVON. It seemed to be a remarkably up-beat interpretation of such an act of vandalism. Her husband’s hands were visibly shaking as he held the paper. ‘The land’s protected!’ she went on.
‘It doesn’t matter if it’s protected or not. It seems he’s got permission. The same thing’s been going on all over the country. It says here that work will begin before the end of the summer. That means next month or the month after. And there’s nothing we can do.’
‘We can write to the bishop.’
‘The bishop won’t help. Nobody will.’
‘We can try.’
‘No, Henrietta. It’s too late.’
Later that evening, as they stood together preparing the supper, he was still upset.
‘This dreadful, dreadful man. He sits there, in that big house of his, looking down at the rest of us – and it wasn’t even as if he did anything to deserve it. He just inherited it from his father and his father before him. This is 1955, for heaven’s sake. Not the Middle Ages! Of course, it doesn’t help having the bloody Tories still in power but you’d have thought we’d have moved away from the days when people were given wealth and power simply because of an accident of birth.
‘When did Sir Magnus do anything to help anyone else? Look at the church! We’ve got the leaking roof, the new heating system that we can’t afford and he’s never put his hand in his pocket to stump up so much as a shilling. He hardly ever comes to services in this, the very church he was christened in. Oh! And he’s got a plot reserved in the cemetery. The sooner he inhabits it, the better – if you ask me.’
‘I’m sure you don’t mean that, Robin.’
‘You’re right, Hen. It was a wicked thing to say and it was quite wrong of me.’ Osborne paused and took a breath. ‘I’m not opposed to new housing in Saxby-on-Avon. On the contrary, it’s important if the village is going to keep hold of its young people. But this development has got nothing to do with that. I very much doubt that anyone around here will be able to afford the new houses. And you mark my words. They’ll be nasty modern things, quite out of keeping with the village.’
‘You can’t stand in the way of progress.’
‘Is this progress? Wiping out a beautiful meadow and a wood that’s been there for a thousand years? Frankly, I’m surprised he can get away with it. All the time we’ve been living here, we’ve loved Dingle Dell. You know what it means to us. Well, a year from now, if this goes ahead, we’re going to be stuck here next to a suburban street.’ He put down the vegetable peeler and took off the apron he had been wearing. ‘I’m going to the church,’ he announced, suddenly.
‘What about dinner?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘No. Thank you, my dear. But I need time to reflect.’ He put on his jacket. ‘I need to ask for forgiveness.’
‘You haven’t done anything.’
‘I’ve said things that I shouldn’t have said. And I have thoughts in my head, also, that shouldn’t be there. To feel hatred for your fellow man … it’s a terrible thing.’
‘Some men deserve it.’
‘That is certainly true. But Sir Magnus is a human like the rest of us. I shall pray that he has a change of heart.’
He left the room. Henrietta heard the front door open and close, then set about clearing the kitchen. She was deeply concerned about her husband and knew only too well what the loss of Dingle Dell would mean to the two of them. Was there something she could do about it? Perhaps if she went to see Sir Magnus Pye herself …
Meanwhile, Robin Osborne was cycling up the High Street, on his way to the church. His bicycle was something of a joke in the village, a terrible old bone-rattler with wheels that wobbled and a metal frame that weighed a ton. There was a basket suspended from the handlebars and it was usually filled with prayer books or fresh vegetables which he had grown himself and which he liked to distribute as gifts to poorer members of his congregation. This evening it was empty.