The Girl in the Picture. Kerry Barrett

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СКАЧАТЬ I went out into the hall. As far as I could tell there was nothing at the far end. No extra room, or door. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. This was a strange place.

      Tingling with curiosity – and feeling a little bit unsettled – I went back downstairs to the bedrooms.

      Ben and the boys were in the biggest room, which also looked out over the garden. Stan’s face was flushed and Oscar looked cross.

      ‘Mummy,’ he said as I walked in. ‘I am meant to have this room because I am the biggest but Stan says he has to have it because he wants to watch for pirates on the sea.’ His face crumpled. ‘But I want to look for pirates too.’

      ‘Bunk beds,’ I said. ‘We’ll get you bunk beds and we can make them look like a ship. Then you can sail off at bedtime and look for pirates together.’

      Ben shot me a grateful glance and I smiled at him.

      ‘I’ve found something funny,’ I said, casually. ‘Can you come and see?’

      Ben and the boys followed me up the narrow, rickety stairs to the attic room. We all stood in a line in the middle of the floor, staring out at the sea.

      ‘Look,’ I said. ‘When I was in the garden, I could see three windows in this room. There were the two big ones, and a little one – remember?’

      Ben nodded, realization showing on his face. ‘But up here you can only see two windows,’ he said. ‘That’s mental.’

      He went over to one of the windows and pushed up the sash, but it was fixed so it couldn’t open too far. ‘I thought I could lean out and see the other window,’ he said. ‘But I won’t fit my head through that gap.’

      ‘My head will fit,’ said Oscar.

      ‘No,’ Ben and I said together.

      Oscar looked put out. ‘Maybe the little window is on next door’s house,’ he said.

      Ben ruffled his hair. ‘Good idea, pal. But next door isn’t attached to our house. It’s not like in London.’

      I was standing still, staring at the windows, feeling a tiny flutter of something in my stomach. Was that excitement?

      ‘You’re loving this,’ Ben said, looking at my face. ‘One sniff of a mystery and you’re in your element.’

      He had a point.

      ‘Oh come on,’ I said. ‘A missing window? Don’t pretend you’re not interested.’

      He smiled at me, not bothering to deny it.

      ‘Maybe there’s a hidden room,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s a portal to Narnia.’

      ‘Or maybe there’s a ventilation brick in these old, thick walls.’

      I snorted. ‘Don’t ruin it.’

      Ben grinned. ‘I think we’d notice if the house was bigger on the outside than the inside,’ he said.

      ‘Like the Tardis,’ Oscar shouted in glee. Then he frowned. ‘But the other way round.’

      I started to laugh. ‘I don’t think you guys are taking this seriously enough,’ I said, mock stern. ‘This could be something very exciting.’

      Ben nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this.’

      He went over to the wall at the far end of the room and tapped it. Then he tapped it again in a different place, and again and again. I sat down on the floor, with Stan on my lap, and watched.

      ‘What are you doing?’ I asked eventually.

      Ben looked at me in pity. ‘I’m checking to see if the wall sounds hollow,’ he explained. ‘If it sounds hollow then perhaps there’s another room behind here.’

      ‘Does it sound hollow?’

      There was a pause.

      ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

      I laughed.

      ‘Well then we need to compare it to the other walls,’ I said.

      And then there was chaos. Stan and Oscar raced around, banging the walls, as Ben and I listened and said, ‘hmm’. We had no idea what we were listening for, but it was fun. The boys shouted, and we laughed, and I thought that maybe everything was going to be okay.

Chapter 5

      1855

      Violet

      I almost slipped on the rocks as I struggled down to the beach, even though I’d been that way hundreds of times before. My easel wasn’t heavy, but it was cumbersome, and the bag of paints and brushes I was carrying banged against my legs. Eventually, though, I found my perfect spot. It was warm, but the sun wasn’t too dazzling and I breathed in the sea air deeply.

      Working quickly, I set up my easel and pinned my paper down securely. I arranged my paints on the rock behind me, as I’d planned, pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and picked up my brush. I paused for a second, appreciating the moment; I was completely content. This was how I’d dreamed of working for – oh months, years perhaps. I finally felt like a real painter. My room in the attic was wonderful, of course, and I would always be grateful to Philips, the lad from the village who did all the odd jobs around the house and garden and who’d helped me secretly create my own studio.

      I frowned, thinking of Father, who didn’t like me to draw. He said it was vulgar. He wanted me to marry and lead a normal life. A normal, boring life, I thought. A mundane life. A life with no purpose.

      But out here, breathing in the sea air, I felt like I had a purpose. I was telling a story with my work and it seemed it was what I’d been waiting for. For years all I’d drawn was myself – and various kitchen cats. Endless self-portraits that helped my technique, undoubtedly, but – if I was honest – bored me stupid.

      Then, one day, I’d picked up Father’s Times, and read about a new group of artists known as the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. They painted stories – Bible stories, tales from Shakespeare, all sorts – and they used real-life models to do it. It had been like a light turned on in my mind. Suddenly I knew what I wanted to do – I wanted to be like those artists. Paint like those artists. Live life like those artists.

      After that, I devoured any articles on the Pre-Raphaelites in Father’s newspaper, and I read the Illustrated London News, and even Punch, when I could get it, though Father wasn’t keen on that one. I saved the issues that mentioned art and kept them hidden away with my drawing equipment.

      The Times – and sometimes the other papers, too – were often critical of my heroes, who were determined to shake up the art world. But the more criticism they received, the more I adored them. They were so thrilling and forward-thinking – everything I wanted my life to be like.

      I dreamed of living in London and imagined myself debating what makes good art with Dante Gabriel Rossetti – who was impossibly СКАЧАТЬ