Chapter 4 Elise
Elise
The woman at the village shop hadn’t been able to be much help about the exhibition. Beyond saying one of the organisers was a teacher at the local school who was away for the summer, she hadn’t known anything else.
“Sorry, love, I don’t actually live in the village, so I don’t get involved so much as I’d like to in what happens here.
I do know the teacher is friendly with another one of the artists working on the Marsh House project, because she was in here the other day talking about it.
Esther Marshall. Lives in the cottage by the bridge.
I think she makes tapestries. She might be able to tell you something. ”
Not wanting to waste any time, Elise followed up this lead that same lunchtime. The door was opened by a woman in her thirties with an amazing mass of curly red hair and a ready smile.
“Sorry to bother you. My name’s Elise. I’m working up at Marsh House, and the lady at the shop thought you might be making some tapestries for the project?”
The woman’s smile grew even stronger. “You’re the artist!
It’s no bother at all. In fact, it’s fabulous to meet you.
I’m Esther. Come in, come in. You’ll have to excuse the mess, though.
I’ve been working practically nonstop, and when I’m that absorbed I get selective vision where housework is concerned.
How are things over at Marsh House? Are you settling in okay? ”
“Well, today’s only my first real day working there, so I’ve just been planning the order I’m going to tackle everything so far really.”
“Enough time to have met the gorgeous Sam, though, I imagine,” Esther said with a distinct twinkle in her eye.
“Whoa, that man: part Viking, part pussycat. If I didn’t already have a husband, I’d be over there every day with my wool samples claiming I needed to match them to something or other in the house.
” She laughed. “Sorry, I do shut up sometimes, you’ve just caught me while my husband’s away.
I’ve hardly spoken to anyone for days. Would you like to see what I’ve been working on?
I’m making the fabric for the chairs in the dining room. ”
“The room with the murals of the marshes? Yes, I’d love to see. It’s my absolute favourite room.”
“Stunning, isn’t it? Or will be, after you’ve worked your magic. My work room’s through here.”
As Elise followed Esther into a light-filled room with a loom set up by the window, she heard voices—a radio.
Esther went over to switch it off. “I’m something of a radio addict when I’m weaving,” she explained. “It keeps me company. Anyway, this is the first of the pieces for the chairs. I’m doing marsh plants for the seat cushions and a different bird for each of the chair backs.”
“I’ve seen those birds,” Elise said, studying the tapestry on the tapestry loom—a half-finished woven image of a familiar black-and-white bird with a long orange beak.
“Oyster catchers? Yes, there are a lot of those on the marshes. I’m going to do a lapwing, a barn owl, an avocet, a marsh harrier, and a little egret too.”
“It will look fantastic,” Elise said, imagining the room set out with a table and the tapestry-inlaid chairs.
“I hope so. I think the artist who painted the murals would have approved, don’t you? Lilias. Such a pretty name, isn’t it?”
Elise hadn’t thought about it before. “It’s unusual.”
“Yes. But then I imagine Lilias herself was quite unusual for her time, don’t you? Decorating her house with murals and paintings the way she did. Apparently she came from a long line of artists. Her father was a member of the Royal Academy. He also wrote several books about the history of art.”
“You’ve done your research.”
“I was interested. Also, Iris, one of my best friends, is a history buff—she told me about her.”
“Actually,” Elise said, grateful the opportunity had come without any effort on her part, “I was wondering about the exhibition about World War Two that was on in the village hall. My husband and I went to see it. The lady at the shop said your friend helped to organise it?”
“Yes, she did. Iris is a teacher at the primary school, and they had the Second World War as a topic last year. Iris being Iris, she got really stuck into it and contacted the county Museums Service. One of their outreach workers got involved, and they came up with the idea of having an exhibition. It was so good, wasn’t it? Really brought the past to life.”
Elise nodded. “It really did, yes. Do you know when Iris will be back? I wanted to find out more about one of the exhibits.”
“She’s away on her honeymoon at the moment, actually. She’ll not be back until just before the new term, lucky thing. They’re doing a tour—Thailand, Australia, and New Zealand.”
Elise’s heart sank. “Oh. That’s nice,” she said, doing her best to disguise her feelings. “I don’t suppose you know who the outreach worker was?”
“I think she was called Jean. Don’t hold me to that, though. But it shouldn’t be that difficult to find out if you really want to know. What exhibit was it?”
“It was one of the photographs. An evacuee boy.”
“Oh, they were absolutely heartrending, those photos, weren’t they? All those children with their little suitcases and name labels pinned to their coats. I can’t imagine how they must have felt, waiting to be picked, missing their parents.”
“Yes. I took a picture of it, actually. It was this one.” She showed Esther the photo on her camera. “He . . . well, he reminded me a bit of my son.”
Esther took the camera from her and had a good look. “He has extraordinarily expressive eyes, doesn’t he?” she said, then handed the camera back.
There was something embarrassed about her expression, and Elise waited, sensing she had something more to say.
“I hope you don’t mind, but when I heard you were going to be the artist at Marsh House, I did an internet search about you. I absolutely love your work, so I kept looking, and . . . well, a newspaper story popped up while I was searching, so . . .”
Elise knew the story Esther was referring to. She’d won a prestigious art prize but had failed to turn up to the awards ceremony because it had been the week after Charlie died.
“Ah,” she said, looking away from Esther’s sympathetic gaze.
“I’m so very sorry.”
Elise nodded, returning the camera to her bag. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t think about the photograph being like him at the time, but now you’ve shown it to me again, they do look alike, don’t they? Although . . .”
Esther’s sentence trailed off, but Elise could easily supply the missing words, or an approximation of them.
But it’s just a coincidence, isn’t it? It can’t mean anything.
Suddenly the hope that had existed inside her since she’d set eyes on the photograph crumbled.
What exactly had she been hoping for? That she would somehow be able to reclaim a piece of Charlie through the photograph?
This whole thing—the whole reason she was here—was just another crazy response to her heartbreak.
Her phone rang into the awkwardness. “Excuse me,” she said to Esther, taking it from her bag. But as soon as Elise spoke, the caller hung up.
“Must have been a wrong number,” she said, putting her phone away.
“Can I make you a cup of tea?” Esther asked. “I was just going to have one myself.”
Tea would mean more chat. Possibly more questions about Charlie. Normally, Elise would have instinctively said no and taken her leave. But she liked Esther, and it would be good to have a friend while she was working down here.
“That would be nice, thanks.”
They took their tea outside, sitting at a table for two on the patio. Elise could hear the sound of the stream at the bottom of the garden. Birds singing.
“It’s so peaceful here.”
“Most of the time it is. Now and then the traffic gets held up—as you might have seen, the road through the village wasn’t built for caravans trying to pass each other—and we’re treated to five minutes of horn-blasting road rage. But on the whole, it’s a good place to live. We’re blessed.”
She reached out to touch Elise’s hand. Since the two of them had only met around fifteen minutes before, this might have felt like an imposition, but somehow it didn’t; it felt entirely natural. Comforting. “The past six months must have been so awful for you. I can’t imagine how awful.”
There was a bird feeder hanging from a tree at the bottom of the garden.
Elise focussed on the blue tit feeding at it, the cautious way it tilted its head, keeping an eye on them.
“Every day, every second without Charlie feels like a pointless struggle,” she said.
“I just . . . go through the motions of life. Coming here was . . .”
Esther’s compassionate gaze reached out to her. “Coming here was a good thing to do.”
Elise looked at her. “D’you think so?”
“Of course. I’ve seen your work, remember? You’re so talented, and Marsh House is such a special place. It deserves someone like you. So does Lilias. I think . . . well, perhaps it sounds a bit silly, but I think that photograph called you here for a reason.”
Elise nodded, tears filling her eyes. “I think so too.”
“Good. We’re in agreement, then. And I for one am very glad you’re here. Come round to visit any time you like. And if you want to bring the gorgeous Sam with you, that’s fine by me. Though please don’t tell my husband I said that when he gets back, will you?”
The decision to pay Esther a visit had been a good one, Elise thought as she pushed through the encroaching weeds lining the path to Marsh House’s front door.
She may not have found out what she wanted, but against all the odds, she’d made a new friend.
Esther was kind, talented, and interesting.
Easy to talk to. And now Esther knew about Charlie, and that was good too.
She put her key in the lock, listening for Sam as the door opened. But all was still and silent. He must have gone out.
“Hello, Lilias,” Elise found herself saying out loud, because somehow, now that Esther had spoken about her, Lilias had come to life for Elise in a way she hadn’t done before.
“I shall do my very best with your house.” And as she stood there, in the hall, she had the feeling that the house was absorbing her words. That Lilias approved.