.
and more nervous. Perhaps it was merely the excitement of seeing the figurehead, but Elan thought not. He knew from experience he would have to wait to find out. Gabby was like a bird; startle her and she would be off, a dot on the horizon. She could perversely, casually drop small bombshells, and Elan had learnt that his reaction had to appear insouciant in order to share her rare intimacies.
Watching her chatting on the phone to Nell, he thought back to the first glimpse she had obliquely given him of her past.
‘Come on, child,’ he once urged. ‘Have another glass. I don’t drink wine and it will be wasted.’
‘No, Elan, no more. I’m hopeless, I can’t drink more than one glass, truly. You know that.’
‘But you and Shadow are walking, you haven’t got to drive. Come on, Gabby, it’s such a good wine.’
Gabby had placed her hand over her glass firmly and looking down at the table she’d said, quietly, ‘Please, Elan, don’t press me. I only ever have one glass, not because it will affect me, but because I am afraid it won’t. It is in my genes – I have to watch it.’
She had sat opposite him, avoiding his eyes. He was ashamed of his crassness in not just accepting her refusal. He had gone round the table and kissed the top of her head. With his hands on her shoulders he had apologized, promised he would never browbeat her again.
She had stood up, smiling. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m collecting Josh from Cubs.’
At the door Elan had said gently, ‘Gabby, I don’t believe for a moment you are genetically predisposed to alcohol abuse. It would certainly have manifested itself before now, so banish that thought from your head.’
‘OK.’
She was gone, over the fields at a trot away from him. He knew she would immediately regret having given him even the briefest glimpse of her past. He resolved never to be tempted to repeat to Nell anything Gabby said to him. She needed to trust him absolutely. It was not that Gabby was not close to Nell, it was that she was too close. He knew Gabby’s childhood was a taboo subject, an uncharted and forbidden landscape.
As Gabby replaced the phone now he pushed the cork back into the bottle of wine for her to take home. He watched her walk, a small, neat enigma, across his field. He stood in the open doorway and lifted his whisky glass to the navy blue sea.
‘God bless Gabby and keep her from ever having her heart broken – especially by a sodding Canadian.’
After supper, when they had cleared away the supper things and Charlie had left for the pub quiz-night, Gabby got out the folder Peter had given her containing the Canadian restorer’s report on the figurehead of Isabella, and laid out all the photographs and the better quality JPEG images of areas of damage.
She had been inspected by a Valerie Mischell, of Collections and Conservation, Museum and Heritage Services, Culture Division, City of Toronto, at the home of Mark Hannah, ‘… who discovered the figurehead and generously provided much of the following information which forms part of his research into marine shipping and wrecks of the 19th century.’
Gabby scanned the first page of the report; it would be interesting to know more about Mark Hannah and his work.
‘The purpose of the inspection is to provide information for the Victoria & Albert Museum in London … describing any obvious work that might be necessary in the opinion of the person carrying out the inspection …’
‘These are very good photographs of her,’ Nell said, coming and peering down at the array of images. ‘What an interesting face.’
They both studied the photographs. Isabella lay with a gold headpiece around her hair. Her right hand held a lily, and Nell stared down at the flowing lines of her robe and at her hands. The right hand was beautifully carved, fingers splayed, with a thin gold band on her little finger.
‘Mark said she had been cut away from the bow timbers, Nell. She is flatter in the back, and can you see, here … her left hand is damaged and has been remodelled.’
‘You’re lucky to have such a detailed report, Gabby, from someone of obvious experience. It will be of enormous help to you.’
‘If I’m given the job, Nell.’
‘The figurehead has been painted several times. Many elements have been painted with gold-coloured oil paint. Evidence of an older cream-coloured paint layer under the white coating …’ Gabby read from the report.
She picked up another photograph. ‘Detail of crack along neck. Head secure but some paint loss reveals a thin layer of plaster underneath the paint …’
‘Look at the detail of the right ear as it disappears into her hair,’ Nell said, entranced.
‘Oh, Nell, you really need to see the figurehead itself to appreciate the detail. Look at the robe, the wrist, the curve of her arm at the elbow as it disappears into her robe … This would be such a wonderful project to work on.’
Nell smiled. Gabby’s enthusiasm was infectious and Nell felt a whiff of envy at Gabby’s chance of working with something so beautiful.
‘The neck and upper body seem the most damaged.’
‘That left hand … it’s a terrible reproduction, totally out of proportion.’
‘Mm, I can see that. What else does she say?’
‘Image 01–0193 … Traces of blue-green paint in upper rear right gap.’ Gabby jumped on the last sentence and photograph. ‘Great! Nell, she found some original paint!’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, Gabby, until you’ve done a detailed inspection of your own.’
‘You are going to come and see her, aren’t you?’
‘I’d certainly like to see her before you start. You just can’t wait to get your teeth into this, can you?’
‘I haven’t got the job yet, Nell!’
‘I know Peter, Gabby. He wouldn’t let you take this report away unless he wanted you to restore it.’
The phone went and Nell got up. ‘It’s probably Elan.’
He and Nell phoned each other most nights. But it was not Elan, it was Peter.
‘Were your ears burning?’ Nell asked.
‘Why? Should they have been?’
‘Gabby and I were just looking through the report that Mark Hannah brought with him.’
‘Good, I can catch Gabby in work mode. How are you, Nell? I hear you’ve been landed with the Browns’ enormous picture.’
Nell had a clear picture of his wolfish, cerebral face crinkling with amusement. ‘Glad you find it funny, Peter. I trust you had nothing to do with them coming to me with it?’
‘I merely advised them that if anyone could do anything with it, you could.’
‘Thank you very much! Well, I hope when I am a bent old crone still working on that masterpiece you will have the grace to feel guilty. I will hand you over to Gabby.’
‘You will never be an old crone, Nell. We must have lunch soon?’
‘Look forward to it,’ Nell said, handing the phone to Gabby. How ridiculous that a certain tone of voice, like a code or secret signal, could still contract her stomach with memory of love.
‘Hello Peter,’ Gabby said, breathless.
‘Gabby, I’ve come up with an idea that might satisfy all the various bodies responsible for the funding for the museum. I’ve spoken to John and he thinks it is possibly the answer, if you are