The Parasol Flower Read online

  “Lovely,” said Bob.

  “And you’re sure, now, about walking home?” Daphne asked.

  “She’s a young lass, Daph.”

  I laughed. “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So we’ll go for our shop, then,” said Daphne.

  “Yes, we’ll go for our shop.”

  Every Thursday they shopped for groceries together. As it turned out, I spent all afternoon at the Fulgham House estate that day, well past the grocery shopping, and barely made it back in time for dinner. I have no memory at all of walking home to the Plewetts’ stuccoed townhouse.

  Like many stately homes, Fulgham House is managed by the British National Trust. It’s the sort of place you tour via cordoned-off runways, all of you oohing and aahing over the ceiling fresco in the massive ballroom, pointing at the delicate tea service sent from the emperor of Siam. And somebody will remark on how short they made the beds in the eighteenth century.

  I was enjoying myself by venturing off the beaten paths to examine details such as the mother-of-pearl spittoon in the men’s drawing room. Through this tapestry of Victorian elegance and oddity, my mind was threading memories of my ex-boyfriend Jason, who had emailed me a cursory Christmas greeting the night before. I debated with myself as to whether I’d been unkind and shortsighted, or rather ethical and courageous, to have broken up with him. He would have wanted me to break up with him, was a recurring thought. Point being, my mood was reflective and somewhat inward-facing, and I was taken entirely by surprise when I encountered it. There, inside a plastic display case, lying open almost casually—was a first edition copy of The Descent of Woman. Open to page 173.

  There it was, The Parasol Flower.

  I studied the familiar forest scene again, with its moss-covered boulders, its towering trees and lianas. At the center, that immense pale blossom had unwound itself, ribbed like the delicate underside of a parasol, its petals slightly curling along the edges. The same E.W. in the corner. The familiar opposing page of text, whose first whole paragraph began, “Mr. Darwin has described the sudden emergence of the flowering plants as an abominable mystery.” I looked around me. No one else was in the room. No one to tell me that I was on candid camera, and that coincidences like this did not happen. The very same page!

  A printed label affixed to the exhibit stated the book was written and published “by Eva Peterborough and her husband Charles”—a semantically loaded formulation, I thought—“following an extended stay in Kuala Kangsa, British Malaya.” The Peterborough family members, I had just learned, were the last inhabitants of Fulgham House.

  I stood so long peering into the plastic case that a security guard ambled over. We chatted. Against my wishes, he fetched the head museum tour guide—an enthusiastic woman with a crew cut. Miranda, her name was, told me about the avant-garde atheist Peterboroughs and their time abroad. Fulgham House had been owned historically by the Pellinghams, the family of the wife, Eva, who had left to travel the world.

  “Malaysia,” I said. “That’s where they discovered this parasol flower.”

  “Interesting name, isn’t it.”

  “You don’t happen to know who the artist is? I imagine that E.W.,” I tried unsuccessfully to point through the plastic case at the initials on the illustration, “are the initials of the engraver. Rather than the artist?”

  “Yes, quite right.” She looked impressed. “That’s Edward White. Well-known engraver of the period.” Motioning me into an adjoining sitting room, Miranda pointed at two paintings hanging side by side, each one depicting a caged bird. “That,” she said, “is the artist.”

  The delicately feathered birds stared at each other, forever separated, toeing their bamboo coops. Exotic, lonely, attractively yet bizarrely ornamented. What a marvelous pair: two lonely little freak shows. I located a white wiggle at the corner of each painting that read H. or perhaps A. Ingles, or Inglis. By then my mind was racing. Compared to The Parasol Flower the style here was somewhat more abstract, or perhaps it was simply that the media differed from painting to engraving. The colors were wild yet perfectly pitched; the mood was somehow warm and sorrowful. Beautiful was an insufficient word. The bird portraits were stunning. Murdo, read the plate on one frame; Jane, on the other.

  “Were these birds…the Peterboroughs’ pets?” I stammered. But I had a hundred questions—

  Miranda laughed. “We think so, yes. They’re birds of paradise. There’s a whole section about these birds in The Descent. Unusual creatures.”

  I didn’t recall the section. “And so, is it H. Inglis? Is this the same artist who…”

  She nodded. “Hannah Inglis.”

  “Hannah Inglis,” I said, my scalp tingling. “Really! Who is—what was her connection to the family?”

  A guarded look entered Miranda’s eyes. Or was that my imagination? Had I offended her with my enthusiasm that Hannah was a woman? She replied, “Besides selling them art? None, as far as I’m aware.”

  Silently I was putting pieces together. If this Hannah Inglis was living in Malaysia at the same time as the Peterboroughs, who had bought her paintings, then in all likelihood they’d known one another socially. The British community there must have been a small one. “Are there any other Hannah Inglis works in the estate’s collection?”

  No, unfortunately not. Blah-blah-blah.

  “And so you don’t have the original of The Parasol Flower?” I didn’t hide my surprise and disappointment.

  No, unfortunately not. Blah-blah-blah.

  “What year were these ones painted?”

  Miranda looked regretful. “We’re not sure. Some time before The Descent was published.”

  “It’s interesting,” I remarked, “that she painted the birds in their cages.”

  She checked her watch. “You might want to see if Kew Gardens has any of her paintings. They have quite a collection of nineteenth-century botanicals. Do feel free to be in touch with us if we can assist in any way with your research.”

  I’d told Miranda I was writing a dissertation on pioneering English artists. A lie, of course. As I strolled through the remaining rooms at Fulgham House, my suspicion solidified that Miranda had not been entirely truthful with me either. If Hannah Inglis meant so little to her, why had she remembered, straight away, that The Parasol Flower was her creation?

  A visit to Kew Gardens was considered touristy fun, by Daphne and Bob, so I had no need to explain Hannah Inglis. At the Frimley library, I’d performed preliminary searches on the Kew archives, the world’s largest flowers, and variations of “artist Hannah Inglis.” Nothing was coming up. But my Kew Garden Info Desk query had been forwarded to Alvin, one of their archivists. He’d confirmed that Kew had one of Hannah’s paintings in their holdings. Immediately, I drafted an email to the staff at Fulgham House.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: many thanks

  Dear Fulgham House,

  Earlier this month I enjoyed an amazing visit to your property. What a beautiful place! During my visit, I spoke for some time with your museum manager, Miranda (sorry I do not recall her surname), regarding the Peterborough art collection. More particularly, the work of artist Hannah Inglis. I am following up, first and foremost, to thank Miranda for her time.

  I also wanted to let her know that I took her suggestion to contact Kew Gardens London. Kew does indeed have one work by Hannah Inglis in their collection: Strangler Fig Upon Kapok. It was submitted to the 1896 Amateur Botanical Art Competition and the archivist’s records show it was sent from Kuala Kansa, Malaya.

  Regarding a parasol flower, incidentally, the Kew botanist who spoke with me dismissed the idea that such a flower exists or ever existed. Apparently, it defies some sort of biological logic?! Did the Peterboroughs leave any notebooks about their scientifi
c discoveries? I’m also wondering if other works of art by H. Inglis may have gone to relations or descendants of the Peterborough family. Wherever it may be now, there must have been an original of The Parasol Flower from which the engraving for the book was made. Thank you in advance for any assistance you are able to offer me.

  Kind regards,

  Nancy Roach, PhD (ABD)

  Had the Gardens acquired Strangler Fig Upon Kapok as they did many other works at that time, through donation, Alvin would have had a devil of a time locating it. “They didn’t bother to catalogue the donations,” he confessed. “S’pose they had a hard enough time cataloguing the plants themselves.”

  “I’m surprised the Gardens has kept the paintings all of these years,” I interjected.

  “Kept all the entries,” said Alvin. “Property of the Gardens, once you submit work to a competition.” He pecked at the keyboard. “Now. 1896. The category was ‘women: other,’” said Alvin, scanning the monitor, “which seems to have referred to anything that was not a watercolour illustration. In the traditional botanical training.” He squinted at the handwritten script in the logbook the Gardens had used to record the entries. “C17,” he said, moving out from behind his desk. “I’ll fetch it.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly, watching as he whipped a pair of surgical gloves from a nearby cabinet.

  He returned quite some time later bearing a squarish painting on a wooden stretcher. It looked to be about a little over a yard in length and a little less than that in width. With his blue-gloved hands Alvin propped it on a low filing cabinet and began gently dusting it with a feather duster. We sneezed simultaneously.

  “I’m sorry to put you to all of this trouble…”

  Alvin grunted as he torqued himself upright. “No trouble ‘tall if it’ll help your research. That’s why we’re here.”

  He backed away and we stood side by side in his office, staring at the painting. The finished work, as I would later come to describe it, was a calculated assault on the senses.

  “Amazing,” I breathed.

  “Isn’t it just,” he said.

  We took the painting to a conference room down the hall, where there would be more scope for viewing.

  “Who’s the artist?” Alvin asked me, as we stood again, further back, in contemplation. “Is she well-known?”

  “I don’t know, actually…I’m trying to find out who she is. What I mean is, I have her name, as you know, but unfortunately that’s about all I’ve been able to find so far.” I told him a bit about The Descent engraving and the birds of paradise paintings at Fulgham House.

  “Lovely spot, the Fulgham estate.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nasty family, though.”

  I asked him for permission to take some photographs. To oblige me, Alvin moved the painting once again, into the reception area of the archives, where it was brighter for shooting without a flash, and went off to answer his buzzing mobile phone. I took a few photographs, front and back, as if I were some sort of art specialist. Then I scribbled a few notes about my time at the archives and what Alvin had found in the logbook. I have to tell you, I was tempted to snatch the painting. Had I not already left an accurate contact address and telephone number for the Plewetts, I might well have. Clearly Kew didn’t deserve it. Hannah’s painting was going to be submerged again in a stack of amateur botanicals and packed away out of sight.

  Alvin eventually loped back in, wiping his hands on the back of his pants. Perhaps after the phone call he’d dashed out back to plant saplings.

  “All set?” he asked, and I nodded. He snapped on his disposable gloves.

  “It’s just so…well done,” I said of the painting.

  He cocked his head for a last look before gently seizing Strangler Fig Upon Kapok by its edges.

  On the train back to Frimley I replayed my time at Kew in my head. Stupidly, I’d asked Alvin nothing at all about the Amateur Botanical Competitions or the other works submitted. Which piece had won that year? What exactly were the works competing to show? Would it have been unusual to send in a painting from abroad? Perhaps Alvin assumed that I knew the answers to such questions, being (as I was pretending to be) a specialist in pioneering women’s art.

  Then there was my grand summing up of the artwork: it’s just so well done. A particularly inept finale for a supposedly educated specialist. Dwelling on this punishing moment, it dawned on me that H. Inglis must have been an educated specialist. Surely it was unlikely that she painted with such technical skill absent any formal training. As I was soon to confirm, there were very few art schools that admitted women in the 1880s or ’90s. I was no longer looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Meanwhile, back at the Plewetts’, I’d received a typo-laden yet promising email from Miranda. Things were hotting up, as Daphne would have put it.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: many thanks

  Dear Nancy,

  I remember that afternoon very well. Thank you for your kinds words.

  I have wondered how you got on at Kew if you ever went there. I have taken the liberty of contacting one of the Pellingham descendents, Dr. Barnaby Munk. He is amenable to being reached at [email protected]

  Best wishes in your quest!

  Kind regards,

  Miranda

  Six

  Art is a leap of faith, Monsieur Godot used to say. Faith is necessary but faith doesn’t make it any easier. He walks the room as he lectures. After, he visits them singly at their desks while they paint. Other days he paints for them, with wet brushes stashed like weapons in his pockets and belt. One above his left ear. “The picture that looks as if it were done without any effort can be a perfect battlefield in its making.”

  “Not this kind of a battle,” Hannah tells her teacher. “This isn’t what you had in mind.” She rubs her knuckles against her temples. She is sitting in the public gardens, on a stone bench beside a camellia bush. Not far from where she and the sergeant usually meet.

  Sergeant Singh soon arrives through the main entrance, loping in his characteristic way, a slight slouch in his shoulders. He is in uniform: the stark white woollen trousers, red jacket and sash, a sky blue turban wound high and tight. From his belt sways a sheathed machete.

  When she first considered painting in the jungle, Hannah sought help. Somebody with know-how and the kind of courage—stupidity, might be just as apt—that it took to fend off the wild animals they all heard at nightfall, screeching, thumping, and barking in the wilds beyond the village. It made sense to her that a policeman came forward; members of the squad had been some of the first inhabitants of the area, she was told, tasked with mapping and clearing “the brush” before civil order could enter the picture. For the past year, or just about, she and Sergeant Singh had met on Mondays.

  In the deep jungle, ironically, most animals fled. The fiercest creature they’d encountered was a stubborn tapir.

  She can’t afford him anymore. That is more to the point.

  “Greetings, madam. How are you feeling today?”

  She has canceled on the last two Mondays, saying she was ill. “Oh. Yes, I’m fine. Fine now,” she fibs. The truth is she is worse than ever; she can’t see past her predicament.

  He hoists her stool under one arm and takes her paintbox by the handle. Naturally, he doesn’t realize she’s no intention of entering the forest.

  “Have you never worn a gun?”

  “Gun?” He looks down at himself. “No.”

  “How odd. I thought…”

  “Never, madam. Military are issued guns.”

  He sets off down the crushed gravel pathway, forcing her to follow. It is not yet midday and already the heat is pressing at her lungs, tightening her sleeves against her damp skin. It would be hot, inde
ed, to work in the village. The forest is shaded. And private.

  “Before you go any further, Sergeant—”

  He slows and turns. Seeing her face, he stops.

  “I cannot…” Hannah clears her throat. “Cleopatra was killed by a tiger. The colonel, in his wisdom, is seeking revenge on this tiger. On all tigers, by the sounds of it.”

  “I see.”

  “Cleopatra is—was—our dairy cow.”

  “I see.”

  How much does he see, truly? Drawing a long breath, she continues: “We had rather a discussion, he and I…that’s not important. The colonel believes it is not reasonable for me to continue to paint outdoors. It’s not reasonable to continue to do what you do, was the way he put it.” The anger is just as close as if he’d told her yesterday. “This, from the man who is funding an indiscriminate war on tigers!”

  Sergeant Singh looks away.

  “Moreover. This is to the point, now, Sergeant.” She loosens the strap of her sunbonnet and fans her neck with her hand. “It seems I cannot afford to pay you any longer for your assistance.”

  His expression has not changed. He is still holding the stool and paint box.

  “Sergeant?” Hannah looks around her, shielding her eyes. “I shall have to start carrying a parasol, along with everything else.”

  “Pardon me, madam, but you’ll not be heading into the jungle on your own, will you?”

  “No,” she admits, with some vexation. In the past few days she has gone back and forth on this question. She is simply not courageous enough for it. “I thought…I might paint from what I can observe here in the gardens. Or perhaps in the village. It’s high time I seriously attempted more work with the figure. I should make the most of our wonderful villagers.”

  He smiles grimly at her false cheer and her apologies, still clutching the stool and paints, while she expresses her genuine gratitude for his service and the time spent helping her. It is true that he has been so much more thoughtful and useful than she could have ever anticipated.

  “Goodness, do you remember that tree snake?” she says, laughing. “And my series of elephant dung paintings? You’ve put up with a great deal.” As she travels through a few other reminiscences, he remains silent. At last, Hannah prompts him to tell her what he is thinking. What will be his contribution to the town gossip?