Southend U3A

July 2023

The Picture in the Attic - Marie Day

It started one dull, grey, winter morning in January. I was going to work in the equally dull, grey office where I was employed as secretary, for that read dogsbody, to the dull, grey managers of ‘Dark, Drab and Murky’ purveyors of fine art. Apart from the chance to actually learn a bit about paintings and artists the job was generally as cheerless as the bleak view I could see at this moment from my kitchen window. I was expected in work at 11am so that’s how I was still at home when the post arrived. The usual cascade of junk mail, leaflets and bills fell on to the doormat. I picked it up without much interest and idly sifted through discarding restaurant menus, offers to landscape my garden and adverts for shows at the local theatre. Not expecting to find anything worthy of attention I got halfway through the pile and stopped. In the pile was an expensive looking envelope with my name and address handwritten. Miss Della Ware,1a Broadway Avenue, Southend on Sea. I very rarely get real mail so I opened it straight away.

On headed notepaper I read that I was asked to attend the reading of the will of my late aunt, Miss Mary Land of Colchester. It was years since I’d heard that name. My mother was one of three daughters. Two, including my mother, had married and with new family in tow scattered never to meet again. Occasional remembered Christmas cards arrived but not much else in the way of family news.

I didn’t have much time to think about it; the letter said the reading was today at 4pm. It also said it might be to my advantage to attend. I phoned my office straight away and said that there had been a death in the family (true) and would need a few days off. After a lot of fuss about short notice etc. in which I put on my most weepy voice it was agreed I could have time off as part of my usual holiday entitlement. All heart, my employers!

As soon as I put down the phone I packed a small suitcase, checked that I’d locked up and set off in my battered and very old Micra following the directions also included in the letter. With a fair wind and luckily a traffic jam free road I arrived in Colchester a few hours later. I had time to find a room in ‘Roman Remains Guest House’ in the shadows of Colchester Castle. I even had time for lunch in a pub suitably named ‘The Family Tree’ before finding the solicitor’s office of ‘Hope, Faith and Long’. A name I believed might be a good omen as ‘to my advantage’ had me thinking of what my likely inheritance might be.

I was shown into a large, book lined room by a smartly dressed secretary. As I entered, I realised my arrival was anticipated not only by the solicitor but the only other person in the room sitting in front of a huge, walnut desk. The solicitor introduced herself as Ms. Long and welcomed me.

‘Hello Miss Dare. Please come and sit down. Now you are both here we can read your aunt’s will.’

I sat down next to an impatient looking man of about my age.

‘This is your cousin Mr. Mitch Egan, the son of your aunt Missi.’

He acknowledged me with a disinterested nod and a very clammy handshake.

Ms. Long proceeded, ‘Thank you both for coming at such short notice. This is the last will and testament of Miss Mary Land of ‘Countryside Cottage, Garden Lane, Colchester. I have not seen either of my sisters for many years but I do know that both have predeceased me. The bulk of my estate …’

At this point both Mitch and I sat straighter in our seats.

Ms. Long continued, ‘will be sold and the proceeds donated to ‘The Waggy Tails and Furry Paws Cat and Dog Rescue’ to be shared between their three sites at Petham Kent, Catfield Norfolk and Dogdyke Lincolnshire. Before this happens the children of my two deceased sisters will each have time to visit my home of 50 years and may choose one item connected to the words inside an envelope Ms. Long will give to them. I would only ask that they choose with care. First impressions are not always what they seem. My sisters were impetuous and careless. Perhaps why we did not get on. I hope their offspring have more about them.’

And with that Ms. Long opened a drawer and produced two envelopes. She handed an envelope to each of us; plain except for our names on the outside. Ms. Long had that look on her face that said she knew the punchline to a joke that we weren’t in on. She wished us well and gave us directions to my aunt’s cottage. We would be met by my late aunt’s housekeeper who would give us access to what we needed once we’d read the contents of the envelope. With a last suggestion we heed our aunt’s words she said goodbye.

However, cousin Mitch shot out of the door like it was a sprint and not a marathon to find something that warranted our respective journeys that day. I opened my envelope and studied the words. Mine started with the word ATTIC in capitals. Then ‘Imagine a portrayal – be dogmatic to avoid catastrophe.’ The cottage wasn’t far away so it was 20 minutes later I parked outside the well documented, chocolate box cottage beside a very shiny, red Porsche. Obviously, my impatient cousin wasn’t as much in need of an inheritance as myself or perhaps he was minding it for a friend I thought more charitably. I reread my message and none the wiser walked up the path to an open door. A grey-haired lady welcomed me into the hall.

‘Hello, my name is Mrs. Island. Please call me Rhoda. I’m – sorry – was Miss Land’s housekeeper. Your cousin is already here as you can ascertain by the commotion coming from the cellar.’

She rolled her eyes, not necessarily in amusement, as it really was a cacophony of sounds coming from below. I introduced myself and showed her the contents of my envelope. She showed me to a ladder which led to the attic and said she’d be in the kitchen if she was needed.

After thanking her I climbed the ladder. The attic was now quite dark but a skylight let in the moonlight and luckily it was a clear, cloudless night. I’d tried not to let my expectations get the better of me but in my mind, I was of course hoping not to have to search for too long. The attic was crowded with old furniture and boxes and the floor felt sticky. Everything was covered in dust and cobwebs. I carefully manoeuvred along the roof space not seeing anything that grabbed my attention. Then right at the end, propped up against the wall was a painting. My heart beat so much I thought Mitch would hear it in the cellar. It was very dirty but I thought I could see an outline of a building. There was a box of old rags on the floor so I grabbed some and started rubbing away at the grime. This revealed little more of the picture which was definitely an old cottage so I started looking for a signature. Rub as I might I could only uncover three letters – Car. At work I had learned about a variety of painters but the only one that came to mind was Caravaggio. Even my limited knowledge told me he didn’t paint country cottages. Looking at my hands I realised they were filthy and thought I’d be better off taking the painting downstairs. It wasn’t a big canvas so I was able to carefully lower myself and the painting onto the floor below. I left the rest of the contents of the attic to the cats and dogs home!

When I got into the hall cousin Mitch, as grubby as myself, had come up for air from the cellar. In his hands he had a book; the cover as dirty as my picture. Nevertheless, he seemed excited. For the first time he spoke to me. His eyes sparkled like Howard Carter in the Valley of the Kings not a dusty old cellar under a country cottage.

‘I think I’ve found something rare. From what I can see the cover has a picture of a boy in glasses and I can just make out the publication date as 1997.’

As he spoke his voice had risen almost to a squeak. I tried to congratulate him on his find but he shot out of the door not even saying goodbye. So much for family ties! Mrs. Island came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a tea towel. She smiled at me and said, ‘Hope you both chose wisely. Mr. Egan I think did not heed my employer’s message.’

‘What was it?’ I asked.

Picking up the discarded envelope screwed up and thrown on the floor she flattened out the paper and read,

‘CELLAR – find the magic if you can. Don’t be in a hurry. Be sure to potter about.’

‘That sounds like he should have looked at a few more things before he chose.’ I thought out loud.

‘That depends what you expect to find and whether your mind is open to other things. My lady liked to send people in the wrong direction.’

When she saw I’d chosen the painting she smiled her little smile again and wished me well with my choice.

She waved as I drove off with the painting on the back seat. After a long shower, a delicious dinner and a blissful sleep I drove home the next morning. I began an internet search for artists beginning Car but with limited knowledge I didn’t get far. So, it was the next day that I took my inheritance to work. I asked Mr. Murky, who spends more time with paintings than either of his partners, to look at the painting for me. In the light of day, it didn’t actually give me great hopes but nothing ventured. Mr. Murky used some stuff (technical term) to start cleaning it.

‘It looks to me like you have a painting on a painting. Because canvas can be expensive artists sometimes use it twice by painting over. The top painting is a picture of a cottage. Quite well executed and we could try to see who Car is. Now the decision. Shall I leave the top painting of the cottage or shall I get someone to remove it and see what we have underneath?’

My message had said be dogmatic to avoid catastrophe. But by now I had convinced myself that to hold back might mean disaster so I told Mr. Murky to remove the top layer and reveal what was underneath.

I left the painting with a restorer for a week. It cost quite a bit of my savings but I had by now a vision in my head of an auction room and newspaper stories of the sale of an unseen masterpiece uncovered in an attic. When I went back, I can truly say I wasn’t ready for what I saw! It was a portrait all right. It was an old lady sitting in a chair. From the likeness to my mother, I assumed it was my Aunt Mary. At her feet was a small dog, a spaniel with long, floppy ears and on her lap a tabby cat. It was signed M. Land and titled ‘Peaceful Moments with Charlie and Millie’. That explained the cat and dog’s home angle!

The restorer began to explain, ‘I’ve uncovered the signature on the painting I’ve removed. It said A.G. Carrick.’

I was none the wiser.

‘I did wonder why you wanted it removed but you insisted and the customer is always right. I take it you don’t know who A.G. Carrick is?’

I felt my heart beating faster for all for the wrong reasons this time.

‘No, but you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?’

‘Well, your aunt was an enthusiastic amateur by all accounts but I’m afraid she wasn’t ever going to trouble the Tate gallery. However, on investigation I’ve been told that she gave this particular portrait to a friend. This friend worked for a well to do family for a while. The son of the family was a painter and when he needed more canvas the friend offered this one to be reused. She said she didn’t mind as she always felt the eyes followed her round the room. When she left their employment, she was given the new painting back and, in her turn, unthinkingly gave it back to your aunt. Your aunt didn’t like it much, no animals I suppose, so that’s how it was put in the attic. The son of the family used the name A.G. Carrick.’

I didn’t like the way this was going. Did I really want to know?

‘So who is this A.G.Carrick then?’

‘The painting – an original A.G. Carrick – otherwise know to the world as – King Charles 111.’ the restorer finished with what I thought of as a rather uncharitable flourish.

He went on, ‘Shame really. It could have been worth quite a bit!’

As I left the building, my inheritance tucked under my arm I rather unkindly hoped cousin Mitch was at this moment slumped over a bar somewhere sobbing into his Butter Beer, with his ‘1st edition’ Harry Potter (not), having been told it was a cheap Malaysian copy. I expect wherever she is Aunt Mary is having a laugh with Charlie and Millie and just as I arrived back at the offices of ‘Dark, Drab and Murky’ the skies opened and adding insult to injury it began to rain cats and dogs!