The Magical Painting

4

4Lambert sat for a long time, unmoving, considering the boxes before him. They stank of damp and neglect, some stained dark brown in the bottom corners, most buckled and some broken. He did not know where to start, or even why he ever agreed to such an endeavour. Being bored was one thing, but embarking on the sifting through of endless pieces of dirty, decaying sheets of paper was not what he'd signed up for. He should call Sinclair to burn the lot, but such a thing would be tantamount to turning his back on his father's memory.

He rarely saw his father in his youth. A dark, forbidding shape passing by in the corridors, silent, brooding. Sometimes he would listen outside the study, ear pressed to the door, listening to the constant thump of the typewriter, the occasional loud sigh, the clink of the glass as yet another whisky was poured. Sinclair often took him into town and outside the local bookshop window, the manservant would stop and point out the titles his father had created. “One day you might read them,” he said. Lambert never did. Somehow, he could never relate the words, even those of the titles, to the father he knew. When his mother called him for lunch or dinner, they would sit in silence. Lambert never asked where his father was, because he knew. Writing. Always writing.

On the day Lambert left for university, his father emerged from the study, as always dressed immaculately in padded, purple smoking jacket and black silk pyjama bottoms. He smoked a Turkish cigarette with his usual elegance, fingertips alone holding onto the burning, white stick. He appeared tired, with dark shadows under his eyes. “Well Andrew,” he said and smiled.

There were no other words.

As the years of study sauntered by his father took to writing him letters. Initially a few hastily scratched words but soon they developed into something far more detailed. Page after page of ideas, thoughts, observations. After a while, Lambert began to build up a much fuller appreciation of his father, together with a deeper knowledge of the castle and the family heritage.

And now, here before him, stacked up in untidy piles, more chapters in the life of the man whom he knew best from his letters. He wheeled himself closer to the nearest box, grunted as he picked it up and positioned it on his lap. He made his way to the desk, laid it on the top and, using the letter opener in the mahogany writing set, sliced into the thick tape, which bound the box together.

A waft of dank smelling paper hit him when he pulled back the cardboard flaps and he reeled away, wrinkling his nose, coughing. He waved his hand through the air to disperse the smell before remembering the thin latex fabric gloves Sinclair had provided. He slipped them on, the sensation of the material on his skin setting his teeth on edge. He delved inside the box.

The first few creased and torn papers were of little interest, bearing scattered scrawls in a spider's hand, illegible and faded. His heart sank as he went deeper and discovered much the same with every piece he examined. Pages of scribbles, sometimes complete sentences but mainly a single word here and there. 'Smiles, face, eyes of sultry, smoky grey' and any number of other, mysterious, meaningless jottings.

Over the course of the next hours, he diligently went through each box, only to find similar extracts. He was vaguely aware of Sinclair moving in and out the room, bringing plates of sandwiches and pots of tea but concentration centred on the boxes and the more Lambert rooted around, the more he became convinced something of value lay amongst the heaps of scrawl. Why else keep them all? There had to be a reason for he could never countenance his father being a mere hoarder.

In the afternoon, he asked Sinclair to take him out into the glen.

“I need some fresh air,” he explained, gesturing towards the boxes and the collection of curled papers strewn over floor and desk.

On his return, downing his second whisky, Lambert put his head back. All the talk of Jenny, the break-up, it brought nothing but a dark depression. London, with all its hustle and bustle, seemed a million miles away, and yet she remained. Regret, blame, desire. All mingling together.

There was something he recalled, so sharp, so immediate it made his blood freeze. He and Jennifer attended a charity affair, supporting talented young people. Some students from RADA were there, acting out a series of short, one-act plays, and one of them…

Lambert stared into the mist of his memory. How had he not remembered this before now? One scene was of a duchess who had disappeared. Disappeared from an old castle.

Was that why he saw the woman the night of the accident? Were these two dramas interlaced somehow, distorting reality, making his unconscious appear real?

Too much thinking, he decided. He wheeled himself to the drinks' cabinet, poured himself another malt. Sinclair had mentioned something about the internet going down. It seemed all he had was the Scotch, books, and his father's papers.

He swung around to examine a further box. He sighed, delved into it and there, beneath a thick wad of scrawl, he came across a sealed envelope, thick and padded. Inside were a letter and half a dozen or so sepia photographs. He was about to read the letter when something caused him to stop. A tension in his spine. For a moment, he thought some reaction to the accident, a developing problem to do with nerves or tendons, and he pressed his palm into the small of his back and noticed one photograph poking out more prominently than the others. He picked it out and took in the face looking back to him from across the years. And as he stared, his heart grew cold and the ice spread from inside the core of his being, turning thought and sensibility into impenetrable confusion. His dream of Jennifer, the memory of the party. Students, a missing duchess. The accident.

And as he stared, clarity drove away his confusion.

He recognised the face.

The face of the woman in the road.