Alice-Miranda In New York 5 Page 6

  His stomach grumbled. He checked his watch and saw that it was just after 1 pm. Further along the path he spotted a street vendor and walked over to see what he might buy.

  ‘Hot dog please, with mustard and cheese,’ Hugh requested.

  ‘No little one today?’ the man asked.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Hugh frowned.

  ‘Your little girl. You were here yesterday. Sweetest little miss I ever met,’ the man replied.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got a good memory.’ Hugh’s grin was brief. ‘You must meet hundreds of people.’

  ‘When you’ve got all the time in the world, mister, you pay attention,’ the older man said, nodding. ‘And your daughter – she made me smile.’

  ‘She’s at school, actually. Started today,’ Hugh replied as he was handed his lunch.

  ‘Of course. She mentioned that yesterday. Well, you tell her that old Lou said hello and I’m looking forward to seeing her again soon.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’ Hugh thanked the man for his hot dog and walked back to the bench.

  As he sat there, slowly chewing his food, Hugh wondered if what Hector told him could possibly be true. Hugh’s memories of that time were sketchy to say the least. He was only five when it happened. And almost straight afterwards he’d been sent away to school and the topic was barely spoken of again.

  Hugh finished his lunch and pulled the book from its covering. He opened it to the first page and scanned the ornate script, wishing that it was easier to read. The dates were most helpful. Martha Annerley Bedford had been employed by his parents as a nanny to their first-born son Xavier some fourteen years before Hugh’s arrival. The early years seemed to document mostly happy times, helping with the baby and then as he grew into a toddler. As time passed it seemed his brother and father did not always see eye to eye; Nanny Bedford spoke of terrible rows and times when the master did not speak to his son for days on end. But his mother adored him.

  Hugh’s impending arrival sent the household into a spin. A new baby was apparently the last thing anyone expected. By the time Hugh was born, his brother had been away at boarding school for many years, so the two had little to do with one another, except when Xavier came home to Pelham Park for the holidays – and Hugh couldn’t remember much about their time together.

  On a terrible rainy night, Hugh had stood in the window of the nursery and watched the lights of the car flashing down the drive. He hadn’t wanted his mother to go. She had seemed sad and he wanted her to stay close. He could still remember her perfume – that musky scent that stayed with him for years after her death. He hadn’t seen his brother get into the car, but in the morning, Nanny Bedford, whose red eyes were rimmed from the hundreds of tears she had already shed, took Hugh to his father’s study, where he was informed that his mother and his brother would not be returning to Pelham Park.

  Hugh had asked his father where they had gone. The old man had blistered with rage.

  ‘They are dead, you stupid child, dead!’

  Hugh could still remember those words ringing in his ears. He had run towards his father and thrown himself at his knees.

  ‘Take the boy away,’ his father had instructed Nanny, his voice icy, his touch even colder.

  Hugh sobbed for days, taking comfort from the one person who he felt loved him at least as much as his own mother.

  On a bitter day, he stood beside his father and Nanny as they lowered his mother and brother into the ground on the hill overlooking the estate. Almost immediately his father had a lavish crypt built over the gravesite. The memorial to his mother recounted his father’s devotion. His brother warranted only a name and a date.

  Hugh’s heart pounded as he scanned Nanny Bedford’s private recollections. She had disappeared from his life not long after his mother and brother. Hugh was sent away to school where his days were brightened by a slew of clever teachers and a kindly housemistress, Mrs Briggs, who dedicated herself to her young charges and was particularly fond of her youngest.

  Holidays had been spent roaming the estate at Pelham Park, hunting and fishing, often with friends who preferred to spend their break with Hugh rather than brave going home to their own families. Hugh had grown into himself without the aid of parents.

  His father remained a distant figure until Hugh’s thirteenth birthday, when he decided that it was time for the young lad to be taken into the family fold. From that time on, Hugh had spent his school holidays working alongside his father at Kennington’s, learning the grocery business from the ground up. Hugh had loved it from the very first day. And his love for Kennington’s inspired more attention from his father than he had ever known.

  On the few occasions that Hugh felt confident enough to ask his father about his mother and brother, his queries had always been met with a sharp rebuke, as though the mere pronouncement of their names tore open a wound that had never healed.

  Hugh felt like a thief as he read Nanny Bedford’s most private thoughts. In the weeks and days leading up to that terrible time, she recounted fearsome rows between his father and brother with his mother standing between them.

  They have been at it again tonight. Master Xavier and his father arguing over the boy’s future: the lad wanting to find his own way, his father insisting upon a path already trod. I fear it won’t end well.

  Hugh had known nothing of this. He’d spent his days in the nursery, unaware of the war going on downstairs.

  Somewhere in the distance a phone was ringing. Hugh looked up from the diary and saw that the sun had dipped behind a bank of fluffy white clouds. He finally realised the ringing phone was his. It was his wife.

  ‘Hello darling,’ he answered. ‘Of course. No, I hadn’t forgotten – just delayed. I am sorry. Please apologise. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ He closed the diary and returned it to its plastic bag. He’d forgotten all about their meeting with the business manager to go over the accounts for the renovations.

  Hugh stood up. Nanny Bedford’s secrets would have to wait for now.

  Felix Underwood led his class up Madison Avenue, turning left into 81st Street before weaving across the pedestrian lights to the museum.

  ‘Is this your first visit to the Met?’ Mr Underwood asked Alice-Miranda as they climbed the stairs to the entrance.

  ‘Yes. I’ve read all about it and I can’t wait to see inside. The girls are so lucky to have their lessons here every week. My school is in the middle of a village, miles from the city, so if we go to a gallery or museum it takes a whole day,’ Alice-Miranda replied.

  The pair stopped at the top of the stairs and waited for the rest of the group to catch up. Alice-Miranda looked around at the array of visitors scattered across the steps: backpackers, families, well-dressed business men and women and at least three other groups of school students. People were eating and talking on their telephones and some were just lying back enjoying the sun. Of course, there were lots of people taking photographs of the museum’s exterior with its Corinthian columns and enormous banners announcing the current travelling exhibition of Impressionist painters.

  ‘Hurry up, girls, we haven’t got all day,’ Felix Underwood called out to three stragglers.

  The trio scooted up the steps and joined the rest of the group.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ they chorused.

  ‘Okay, you know the drill. We need to head inside and get our badges and our stools and boards. Lucinda, can you show Alice-Miranda what to do?’ the teacher asked.

  ‘Yes, Mr Underwood.’ Lucinda flashed a smile at her new friend.

  ‘Today we are going upstairs to the west galleries to continue our study of European art. You have your sketchbooks and pencils and I want you to take your time selecting a work that really appeals to you. You need to give each painting a chance so I want you to take a good look around. Don’t just choose the first thing you see. And Ha
rriet and Isabelle, don’t bother about finishing early. You’re not going to the Met Store, no matter how much you nag me.’ Two girls who were standing beside each other with their hands in the air quickly put them back down and exchanged dirty looks.

  ‘We will be staying in the European area so please don’t go wandering off. You have a whole hour to sketch your version of whichever artwork you select. And another thing, girls, remember that the gallery has tutors positioned near the exhibits so if you need any assistance just ask, and of course I’ll be around to see how you’re all going as well. Are there any questions?’ Felix Underwood glanced at the group.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Underwood,’ Alice-Miranda said. ‘Do you want us to draw the artwork exactly as it is or how we see it?’

  ‘Good question, Alice-Miranda. Sorry, I forgot that you weren’t here last week. I’d like you to interpret the piece, so it doesn’t need to look exactly the same,’ the teacher replied.

  ‘Which is just as well,’ Lucinda whispered to Alice-Miranda, ‘because last week I tried to draw a Renoir painting of a mother and her children and they ended up with heads like frogs.’

  Alice-Miranda giggled.

  ‘All right then, girls, let’s go. We’ll meet back here at 12.45 pm.’

  Lucinda and Alice-Miranda walked behind Ava and Quincy as the group followed Mr Underwood through a range of exhibits to their destination.

  ‘I hope I do better than last week,’ said Ava. ‘I chose a still life because I thought that would be easy. I mean, how hard is it to draw a bowl of fruit?’ She thumbed through her sketchbook and showed her drawing to Quincy.

  ‘Very?’ Quincy wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Thanks for the encouragement.’ Ava rolled her eyes.

  ‘It’s not that bad. Well, except maybe that bit that looks like a bottom,’ Quincy giggled.

  ‘It’s meant to be a peach,’ Ava protested.

  Alice-Miranda was awestruck as she took in her surroundings. A large group of tourists, betrayed by their cameras and bumbags, was moving, swarm-like, through a piazza brimming with ancient Greek statues. A grey-haired woman in a smart white pants-suit was talking loudly about the various antiquities. Her comments were greeted with many ‘oohs and ahhs’ and the almost continual snapping of photographs.

  ‘Make the most of that now,’ she said, nodding at one rotund fellow with his camera slung around his neck, ‘because there are lots of places where it will just have to go away.’

  He smiled enthusiastically and clearly hadn’t understood a thing she had said.

  When the class reached their destination, Alice-Miranda found a suite of smaller galleries playing host to the style of paintings that adorned the walls of her home, Highton Hall. Grand Old Masters’ portraits of people, some alone, some with their families, others on horseback. There were later landscapes too; a gorgeous Monet and another Turner painting of Venice with the most subtle light dancing on the water between the buildings.

  Alice-Miranda and Lucinda stayed together for the first few minutes before the girls’ natural curiosity split them up. The class was scattered throughout the galleries, each student searching for her favourite work. Alice-Miranda found herself lingering in front of several paintings, trying to work out which she liked the most.

  Fifteen minutes later she found herself completely drawn to a painting by Edgar Degas called The Dance Class. Alice-Miranda unfolded her stool, sat down in front of it and opened her sketchbook, wondering how she would capture the movement, the characters, the feeling of the dance class and all those beautiful white tutus.

  Before long she was engrossed in her task and doing a much better job of it than she had expected to. Her perspective was good and she found drawing people relatively easy, although achieving just the right expressions on their faces was tricky. Her dancers seemed a little cheekier than Mr Degas’s.

  Behind her, a tall man with a thick head of salt-and-pepper coloured hair watched. He observed the Degas and then the small child in front of him as she carefully sketched what she saw. He was impressed with her light touch and the texture she achieved with her pencils.

  She added a little dog that wasn’t in the original painting. He smiled.

  Alice-Miranda held her work out in front of her.

  The man spoke. ‘That’s very good.’

  ‘Oh.’ Alice-Miranda spun around. ‘Do you think so? I know I haven’t got the faces quite right. That man there –’ she pointed at her sketch – ‘looks quite cross, but I think in the real painting he just seems aloof. And this girl –’ she pointed at a ballerina in the foreground – ‘she doesn’t look serene like she does up there. Mine looks like her ballet shoes are two sizes too small.’

  The man put his forefinger to his lip and nodded.

  ‘But I do like your dog,’ he added.

  ‘Oh, well, Mr Underwood said that we could add our own interpretations and I rather liked the idea of a fluffy white dog among the dancers. He sort of matches their tutus, don’t you think?’ Alice-Miranda replied. ‘Perhaps I should put a bow around his neck.’

  ‘Or you could move his head a little so it looks as though he’s about to dance as well,’ the man suggested.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you.’ Alice-Miranda began to erase the dog’s head and reposition it. ‘I am sorry, it was rude of me not to introduce myself properly –’ Alice-Miranda spun around and was surprised that the man had disappeared.

  She stood up and searched the room but he had moved on.

  Alice-Miranda checked her watch. She could hardly believe that it was already twenty to one and she wasn’t nearly finished her work. Other girls from her class were beginning to stand and close their sketchbooks. She did the same, then picked up her folding stool and walked to the entrance. The galleries flowed from one to another. She caught sight of Ava in the next room and walked over to her.

  ‘That was an hour of torture wasn’t it?’ Ava pulled a face. ‘What did you draw?’

  ‘The Dance Class by Mr Degas in the next room,’ Alice-Miranda replied.

  ‘Well, come on, let me see,’ Ava insisted. She put her own sketchbook down on her chair and took Alice-Miranda’s from her. ‘That’s neat!’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Alice-Miranda asked. ‘It’s not finished yet.’

  ‘It’s way better than this.’ Ava flicked open her own sketchbook to reveal a rather square head.

  Alice-Miranda looked at the painting on the wall, then back to Ava’s interpretation.

  ‘You know, I think you’ve drawn that like Picasso would have, in his cubist phase,’ the tiny child admired.

  ‘Except that it was painted by Renoir,’ Ava observed, ‘and his people look like people and mine just look like they’re related to Spongebob Squarepants.’

  ‘Mr Underwood said that it didn’t have to be exactly the same. I think it looks great,’ Alice-Miranda nodded. ‘We’d better go find Mr Underwood, hadn’t we?’ She turned to leave.

  ‘Oh goodness, that’s an amazing painting.’ Alice-Miranda stared at a colourful medieval canvas on the wall near the doorway.

  Ava studied the myriad creatures. ‘Weird, I’d say.’

  ‘No, I think it’s terribly clever. Can you see?’ She pointed. ‘There’s a bear and a lion. It’s one of those pictures that I’m sure the longer you look at it, the more secrets it will share.’ Alice-Miranda wished they had more time. ‘Come on, we’d better get moving.’ She picked up her things and headed for the exit.

  The group tripped their way back to school just in time for lunch, and were greeted at the back door by Maisy.

  ‘She thinks she’s a sniffer dog.’ Lucinda smiled as Maisy thrust her nose against the girls’ skirts looking for snacks.

  ‘I think she’s adorable.’ Alice-Miranda reached down and gave her a friendly pat. ‘But going b
y the size of that tummy, I think she must have a very good sense of smell.’

  The girls raced upstairs to deposit their books and pencils into their lockers. Ava and Quincy had to run an errand for Mr Underwood and said that they would meet Alice-Miranda and Lucinda in the cafeteria.

  Alice-Miranda and Lucinda were walking through the sixth grade corridor when Alice-Miranda spotted the girl from the bus with the pigtails and lilac bows. She was standing side on, staring into her open locker. As Alice-Miranda and Lucinda reached her, the girl closed the locker door and spun around.

  ‘Alethea!’ Alice-Miranda exclaimed. ‘I thought you looked familiar when I saw you getting off the bus this morning. But I could only see you from behind, so I couldn’t really tell.’

  The taller girl stood with her mouth wide open, gaping like a giant cod.

  ‘Do you know each other?’ Lucinda asked, looking from Alice-Miranda to the taller girl.

  ‘Yes,’ Alice-Miranda replied.

  The taller girl closed her mouth and stared at Alice-Miranda, her tanned face taking on a sickly pallor.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ she finally said in a thick southern twang. She threw her pigtails over her shoulders one at a time.

  ‘Of course you do. You’re Alethea Goldsworthy. We were at school together at Winchesterfield-Downsfordvale and then you left at the end of my first term. You were the head prefect.’

  ‘No I wasn’t.’ Alethea shook her head.

  A smaller girl who was standing behind Alethea stepped forward. She had just deposited an armful of books into the next locker.

  ‘Her name’s Thea Mackenzie,’ the child offered. ‘She’s from Alabama.’

  ‘Oh.’ Alice-Miranda was surprised to hear it. She could have sworn that the girl in front of her was Alethea Goldsworthy, except for the accent. ‘I’m sorry,’ Alice-Miranda apologised. ‘But you look exactly like a girl I know.’

  ‘No, you definitely don’t know me.’ The girl narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Then I should introduce myself. My name’s Alice-Miranda Highton-Smith-Kennington-Jones.’ Alice-Miranda held out her hand to the taller girl. She took it and squeezed so hard that Alice-Miranda felt her knuckles grind together.