English name, Andrew Wragg. He wore tight black leather trousers and a shimmering black V-necked sweater, deliberately contrasting with the collars and ties of the other male guests. Had someone else turned up to one of her dinner parties dressed in that way, Fiona Lister would have been vocal in her disapproval, but the fact that Andrew had seemed to give her some kind of charge. She was being so daring, inviting someone ‘like that’. She beamed indulgently whenever he spoke, impressed by the astonishing breadth of her own mind.
Andrew could have been as much as twenty years younger than Terry, and he was clearly the volatile element in the partnership. He flirted outrageously with the other guests, regardless of gender, and was prone to calculatedly shocking remarks. Terry looked on benignly, a parody of the steady older man, with a lot of raised eyebrows and comfortable ‘What on earth can I do with him?’ grimaces.
Terry Harper, it was established when Jude and Carole were introduced, ran the Yesteryear Antiques, which James Lister had pointed out during his ‘Dawn Walk as being Fedborough’s former grocery. Andrew Wragg was some unspecified kind of artist, and worked in the studio that had been converted from the smokehouse behind his partner’s shop.
The Art Crawl turned out to be the one Debbie Carlton had described to Carole, and, as its organizers, Terry and Andrew were more than happy to talk on the subject.
“I’m quietly confident it’s going to be rather good this year,” said the older man. He spoke with the same restrained neatness as he dressed.
“Remind me, Terry – when does the thing actually start?” asked Dr Durrington.
Fiona Lister saw it as her duty to provide the answer. “Really! Don’t you pay any attention to what’s going on in this town, Donald?”
Joan Durrington also looked daggers at her husband, but said nothing and took a sip of her mineral water.
The doctor’s protestations that he was kept rather busy in his practice were swept away by his hostess. “There’s Fedborough Festival literature and posters all over the town. There’s even a big banner out on the A27. The Festival starts with the Carnival Parade on Thursday night, and the Art Crawl is open to the public at two o’clock on Friday. Open two to six every afternoon of the Festival. You really ought to know that, Donald – particularly since one of the artists is exhibiting in your house.”
She sounded genuinely offended that any prominent citizen of Fedborough should remain ignorant of what was going on in the town. Donald Durrington looked suitablychastened. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Joan deals with all that sort of thing.”
His wife’s expression suggested this was not an arrangement with which she was happy. It also suggested their marriage was not necessarily an arrangement with which she was happy.
“Yes, just a week to go,” said Terry Harper. “All in place, though. I think it’ll work well.” He smiled coyly. “Though I’m afraid we may have put one or two backs up around the town.”
“One or two?” screeched Andrew. “Always had a way with the old understatement, didn’t you? I think he’s offended so many people, soon he’s going to need police protection.”
“Why is that?” asked Fiona Lister with steely gentility. “Who have you been offending, Terry?”
He made a shrugging gesture of studied innocence. “All I’ve done is to suggest that we should broaden the range of artists
There was a sparkle in Fiona Lister’s eyes as she leaned forward to listen. Her highly sensitive gossip- antennae informed her that bitchiness was imminent.
Terry Harper listed some of the locals who’d featured in previous years’ Art Crawls, but whose work didn’t meet the more exacting artistic standards his regime was introducing. Andrew Wragg chipped in to the aspersions with his own scurrilous addenda. They were clearly going into a practised routine; some of Terry’s lines showed signs of long honing.
None of the names meant anything to Carole or Jude, so they just sat back and let the malice flow around them.
Terry: “His idea of mixed-media is about as original as cheese and pineapple chunks on a cocktail stick.”
Andrew: “And the cheese in his case’d only be bog-standard Cheddar.”
Terry: “I mean, her little whimsical pictures of kittens’d be all right on the front of a chocolate box.”
Andrew: “Oh yes, lots of people like a nice bit of pussy.”
Terry: “Goblins and elves carved from driftwood must be useful for something…”
Andrew: “Kindling, perhaps?”
“…but you can’t call them art,” Terry Harper concluded. “No, so I’m afraid a lot of the local amateurs and weekend painters have had their noses rather put out of joint. But I just think that in the arts you have to have the highest standards possible.” He spoke with regret at the hard task he had set himself, but was obviously enjoying every minute of it. He loved being in charge of the Fed-borough Art Crawl Hanging Committee. And his attitude to hanging was reminiscent of Judge Jeffries.
“So who of the locals has survived?” asked Fiona Lister eagerly, storing information for future slights and put-downs.
“Well…Alan Burnethorpe’s still in there, of course, but then his drawings are quite superb.”
James Lister chuckled. “I always like his stuff. Doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination. After last year there was no one in Fedborough who didn’t know what the lovely Joke looked like in the altogether.”
He was all set to bracket the speech with another chuckle, but catching Fiona’s eye, let it wither instantly on the bough.
Terry Harper sighed coyly. “And I’m afraid there’s someone else in this room who’s survived the cull.” He sent an indulgent look across to Andrew Wragg. “Because I just haven’t got the strength for any more tantrums. I knew if I excluded him, I’d never hear the end of it.”
“That’s not the reason. Don’t listen to him!” shrieked the younger man in mock-affront. “I’m going to be represented because I’m bloody good! In years to come, art-lovers will make pilgrimages to the Fedborough Smokehouse to see where I worked. And all of you lot’ll be boasting that you once were once at the same dinner party as Andrew Wragg!”
He was so over the top as to be humorous, and he duly got his laugh. But Carole had the feeling he more than half believed what he was saying.
“What about Debbie Carlton?” asked Fiona Lister in acid tones. “Have her little watercolours survived the cull?”
“Oh yes,” Terry replied. “Debbie’s one of the few genuinely talented artists in Fedborough. Present company, of course, excepted,” he added quickly before Andrew could say anything.
This was clearly the wrong answer so far as Fiona Lister was concerned. “Her parents always said she was very gifted.” She sniffed. “Couldn’t see it myself. Billie and Stanley were very tickled when she got into art college. Can’t imagine why. It’s not a proper training for anything. At least our children all got professional qualifications, didn’t they, James?”
Her husband hastily agreed that indeed they did.
With trepidation, the Rev Trigwell tiptoed into the conversation. “Of course, Fiona, you must have seen a lot of the Frankses in the old days…what with their grocery being right next door to your butcher’s…”
From the frown it prompted, this hadn’t been the right thing to say either. Carole got the feeling that the only right thing to say after Fiona Lister’s every pronouncement was ‘Yes’. From the subdued way her husband was behaving that evening, it seemed to be a lesson he had learnt early in their marriage.
“Did you hear,” Fiona went on, after a withering look at the vicar, “that Francis Carlton had been back in Fedborough this week?”
“Oh, yes!” squealed Andrew Wragg. “Owning up to the police about all the women he’d chopped up in the cellar of Felling House.”
Fiona Lister spoke, darkly portentous. “He certainly did have other women friends, after he’d been married to Debbie.”
“Having women friends,” said Jude, who was getting a bit sick of all the prejudice flying about, “doesn’t automatically mean chopping them up.”
