Chapter 1
Chapter One
Irolled up my powder-blue crew-neck jumper and stuffed it into my open suitcase on the bed – only for it to be mercilessly crushed under everything else I’d rammed in there.
‘Oh bugger!’
Outside my bedroom window, London was awash with slate-grey rain. Umbrellas were popping up along the street like multicoloured mushrooms. Across the road, the butter-stone slopes and angles of the local post office and coffee shop were wearing chains of raindrops.
I’d envisaged quickly packing for my two-week holiday to visit my parents and brother back home, before taking a meander around the shops to check out new paintbrushes for my acrylic landscape work.
Then I’d intended to spend the afternoon making more headway on my Scarlet Highwayman portrait, which could safely be described as my perpetual ‘work in progress’.
I’d reworked my imaginings of this mysterious man on several different occasions, as I attempted to capture what I thought might be the perfect representation of him.
I’d had to construct his image using scant details from one rather faded sketch that I’d found buried in some obscure historical guide to Scottish coastal resorts, when I was in my late teens.
The Scarlet Highwayman and the mysterious, enchanting McKerron Castle, up in Port Starr, my Scottish Highland seaside hometown, never failed to captivate me.
I could imagine him on his shadowy black horse (rumoured to be named Linus) streaking along the surf, or Linus’s hooves clattering over the castle cobbles.
Painting had always been important to me, ever since I was in my teens, but became even more so after my divorce. I suppose I was trying to reconnect with my love of it after my marriage failed; build my confidence back up with something I knew I possessed a talent for.
The story of the notorious Scarlet Highwayman was every bit a part of Port Starr as our vanilla, rocky beaches and McKerron Castle, but he wasn’t spoken of with any great affection. In recent years, the tale had lost some of its charm.
If the tale of the highwayman did ever surface, the locals would dismiss him with comments like ‘Och, he was a wrong ’un, that one,’ or ‘We don’t speak about the likes of him.
’ He had been branded a ruthless robber, banished into the realms of Port Starr history, for so-called marauding around the local area for almost forty years.
From the information I’d managed to research about him over the years, he’d been described as tall, with wild brown curls and dark eyes; to me, that conjured up a rather alluring image.
I’d used a limited portrait palette of titanium white, yellow ochre, light red, raw amber and dry black to recreate his face, but I still wasn’t happy with the angle I’d given his chin.
I was so keen to get my portrait of him right and as representative of him as I could, that I felt sometimes like I was continuously getting it wrong.
My fascination with this man had started at Port Starr Academy, my old secondary school, when, instead of choosing a Mediterranean breakfast scene of bowls of fruit or an array of crockery to paint and submit as part of my Higher Art portfolio, I opted to paint a portrait of the highwayman.
I knew it was a risky option but found myself completely immersed as I was able to use artistic licence to bring him to life.
Not only did my decision pay off (I was awarded an A pass), but my art teacher, Ms Duffin, put my name and my highwayman portrait forward for a regional exhibition on Scottish history.
My work was selected, and from that day, the Scarlet Highwayman became even more of an enigma to me.
Not only that, but it fired up my desire to become a full-time artist. While studying for my art degree in Edinburgh, I spent my time continuing to research everything I could about him.
There were all sorts of fanciful claims and some rather disturbing accusations, but nothing that could identify who he was or why he became the person that he did.
The more mysterious his past became, the more intrigued I was. And over the many years, my fascination never waned. Even my then husband, Nick, commented that I seemed more interested in the Scarlet Highwayman than in him.
My spare bedroom in my rented flat in North London, which I’d converted into an art studio, contained everything, from my two wet panel boxes, for transporting paintings while I was out and about, to my pochade box: an easel and palette in one, made out of maple and stained with a deep-cherry finish.
My sketching desk, with its chrome, high-backed wooden chair, looked directly out of the window onto a swirl of treetops, with the merest glimpse of London architecture sandwiched between the jumble of shops.
The top of my desk was organised chaos. There was a sea of miniature paint pots, assorted pencils and a large, recycled jam jar containing my favourite paintbrushes. I used red sable for my watercolours and synthetic, cheaper brushes which were hardier when coming into frequent contact with water.
So, despite most of my salary going on my expensive London rent, I’d managed to transform my bijou flat into a supportive space to paint and savour my love of art.
This was like a gift to me post-divorce: the freedom and the change of scene; the solitary independence.
I hoped that my moving on signalled a new life for myself and that I could finally finish my portrait of the Scarlet Highwayman.
That in itself would be an accomplishment for me.
Speaking of which, my Scarlet Highwayman portrait was sitting on one of my larger easels in the far-right corner.
I’d already finished sculpting his strong jaw but had wanted to capture a deeper intensity to his mouth and take another considered look at his chin.
I’d paint with some music on, as the raindrops chased each other down the windows and with the heady scent of my palette of vibrant and more muted colours.
I even loved to swirl my paintbrushes in the jar of water.
For a day job I worked as a receptionist in a small art gallery, Artisan, just ten minutes’ walk from my flat, which I really enjoyed, but it also brought home the fact that I was a struggling painter, still searching for recognition.
I’d been sixteen when my artwork of the Scarlet Highwayman had been chosen for that exhibition.
I’d managed to sell the odd piece to friends and acquaintances, but it was so sporadic.
Artisan tended to concentrate on more traditional pieces, such as moody portraits and smudgy watercolours of majestic landscapes, although more recently, Mr Hanson, the owner, had relented and featured the odd glass installation.
I’d worked there for almost a year, and the calmness and beauty of the art had anchored me when Nick, my now ex-husband, abandoned me for one of his lithe photography students.
I glowered down at my stubborn case, which was still refusing to close, and decided instead to indulge myself with a hot chocolate and undertake a bit more work on my portrait.
I’d also take it back home with me, so I could continue to work on it back in Port Starr; I might have more inspiration there.
I could always return to the laborious task of packing for my trip home tomorrow.
Port Starr railway station was every bit as antiquated as I remembered, with its white picket fence, a rockery bursting with heather and a crackly public address system.
I stumbled out of the train carriage like a Christmas nativity donkey, weighed down with my case, my Highwayman portrait in its protective canvas under my arm, and a bulging hessian shoulder bag.
I’d managed to pack two of my smaller sketchpads, a set of travelling paints and an assortment of my chalks and coloured pencils to satisfy my creative demands while on holiday.
When I staggered past the ticket office on the way out, I made the mistake of checking out my appearance in its windows.
Oh hell. My long pale blonde hair was fighting to escape from its high ponytail, and I had tired smudges under my blue eyes.
My mouth usually carried a permanent hint of mild amusement, but today it was pulling down at the corners.
As other passengers weaved and darted around me, grateful to also escape from their six-hour carriage confinement, I dropped my luggage around my feet and took a greedy glug from the bottle of water I’d bought on the train.
Then I spotted my brother, Caleb, with his dark-red hair and lopsided smile, hovering by his white Golf in the station car park.
With both his rich hair colour and hazel eyes, he looked so like my dad at that age, whereas it was often commented that I had the same, almost Nordic appearance as Mum.
I squinted through the Sunday-afternoon concoction of weary travellers and brisk March air. We waved at one another and then Caleb strode over to assist me with my luggage. I waggled my case at him. ‘Sorry it’s not Louis Vuitton.’
My big brother gave me a hug and planted a kiss on top of my head. His eyes softened when he looked down at me. ‘You know what I think about material possessions.’
‘Yes, easy for you to say when you’re a successful cartoonist.’
Caleb seized my bags and marched back towards his car. ‘I wouldn’t use the word “successful”, Popps.’
‘At least you’ve actually got commissions for your work.’
As I watched Caleb carefully lay my things and my Highwayman portrait into the boot of his car, I thought about the paltry sales of my artwork and my shoulders slumped further. I did wonder sometimes if the odd sales I made to people I knew were post-divorce pity purchases.
Caleb tugged open his driver-side door and rattled his car keys. ‘You should have more belief in your talent. You also need to get your paintings out there more.’ He cocked one eyebrow at me as he slid on his seatbelt. ‘Nobody is going to buy your work if they don’t know it exists.’