Another Life: Escape to Cornwall with this gripping, emotional, page-turning read

Lady Isabella lay carefully wedged on her back on a large table as if she was sleeping. Gabby saw now in the better light that the wood section at the central lower front, under a fold of drapery, was rotten and would have to be investigated. This had caused deterioration in both gesso and paint layer. The gesso had become crumbly and the paint was flaking. Most other wood sections appeared sound and the adhesive secure.

Lady Isabella measured approximately sixty inches/152.4cms high. Her core consisted of vertical rectangular pieces of wood, glued and possibly nailed together, although the nails were invisible. The outer wood was carved into the figure shape. The paint layer was mainly cream in colour, probably oil and white lead. There was, as Valerie Mischell had said, evidence of an earlier cream paint and traces of gold and blue.

Gabby had brought Nell with her and she too was captivated. Gabby knew Nell would not give advice unless she asked for it so she outlined the initial treatments she intended to follow before she asked Nell for her opinion.

‘There seems to be about four areas of paint loss and missing gesso beneath the neck, with cracks in between … on the upper chest there …’ Gabby got out her measuring tape ‘… and here, Nell, see? Those vertical cracks following the underlying wood edges, they are …’ Gabby measured them carefully ‘… six centimetres apart on the lower half and skirt front. And here, the edges of the restorer’s paint are chipped on the lily she’s holding, and here on the dark edges of her hair.’

Nell peered down at the figurehead. ‘She doesn’t appear to have a varnish layer.’ She borrowed Gabby’s magnifying glasses and moved slowly round the table. ‘Rot has set in there, definitely. You can see the wood is more fragile here. Damage to the area has caused loss of paint and wood. This area will have to be carefully prepared, Gabby, before she is moved again, so as not to cause further loss. It will need to be consolidated …’

‘Mischell said the same thing. To start with I’m going to treat all the flaking edges of paint with conservation consolidant and then test the stability of the wood and any poor areas I find. The central lower front section here can be injected with resin B72. The gesso and paint losses I thought I’d fill, texture and retouch to match the present colour and tone down the brightness of her hair. The lily leaf and the braid on her robe could be toned down with muted tones in acrylic paint. What do you think?’

‘Gabby, have confidence. You don’t need me to advise you, you’re spot on. I would do exactly as you’ve outlined. But I wouldn’t spend too much time on toning the rather garish paint from the more recent renovations. It’s possible there will be a future repaint as the museum researches the original colours. Concentrate on conserving and repair. Modify the colours by all means, but leave evidence when you clean of natural wear and tear.’

She touched Gabby’s arm. ‘Before you begin, it really is important to investigate the structure and run tests, which you are doing …’

Nell suddenly bent and peered again at the flowing robe under Lady Isabella’s damaged left hand. She picked up a pair of tweezers.

‘Mischell found traces of original blue-green paint, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up. Later, to get at the exact colours, you must be sure to find the right pigment. You see the dress here? This blue, if you look carefully, differs from that piece in the crack there …’

She lifted the tiny piece of blue paint and dropped it into a small polythene pocket Gabby held out for her. ‘My only advice is don’t hurry, take your time. Never assume there are only one or two differing paints applied, there will probably have been many over the years, with only a vague thought to the original colour or period. Run as many tests as you think necessary, until you are absolutely sure. How much time have you quoted for?’

‘I couldn’t be absolutely sure how long it would take me, but I told them I would rather overestimate. I said possibly two months.’

‘Good. It’s taken long enough to reach its resting place, a few weeks here or there in the interests of getting it right should be immaterial. Your quote for the figurehead was rather low, I thought.’

‘Well … Nell … it’s good experience.’

Nell bent to Isabella’s face. ‘Her face is exceptional, wonderfully carved. It seems familiar, somehow; perhaps it reminds me of a painting I’ve seen. Tom Welland was an extraordinary carver. He went into such detail, and of course his speciality was faces. Like a photographer, he seemed to capture the person behind the face; imbued wood with the tangible essence of a live woman, in the same way an artist does.’

Gabby stared at her. ‘Nell! What do you know about Tom Welland?’

Nell laughed. ‘I looked him up in one of my father’s ancient marine books when Mark Hannah mentioned him the other day on the phone. There was only one short paragraph.’

‘So what did it say about him?’

‘It just commented on the high quality of his work and how well-known and sought-after he became in France and Spain and Canada, where he spent some years. He was at the height of his career when all record of him disappeared. It was rumoured that he may have upset some sponsor and moved abroad for a while. There is no record of what happened to him.’

‘That’s what Mark Hannah and Peter found, too.’

‘All my old books will be in research libraries. There is a huge growing interest in figureheads and marine wrecks. Mainly because there are so few records and so many figureheads have been allowed to just rot away.’

Nell went downstairs to talk to John Bradbury while Gabby took her samples of paint and placed them into the little self-sealing polythene pockets. Elan, who was joining them for lunch in the pub with John, came up the stairs and sat and sketched the figurehead while Gabby made notes of what she would need initially. Looking up into the blind wooden face of Isabella she longed to make those eyes see, replace colour and life into her face, dress her in her blue and gold.

They walked over to the pub and Gabby was amused at the shorthand Nell, Elan and John had, in the way of people who have known each other for a long time.

‘Why is your Canadian researching in Devon,’ Elan asked Gabby, ‘when the Isabella was registered in a Cornish port?’

‘Sir Richard Magor, who built and owned the Lady Isabella, grew up in Devon. His family had a big shipbuilding business near Appledore and also in Prince Edward Island.’

‘The 1860s,’ Nell said, ‘when the Lady Isabella was being built, was an amazing time for trade around the islands. These ships travelled all round Britain, and Tom Welland’s work must have been admired everywhere. It’s such a pity there are so relatively few photographs or records left of the carvers of figureheads of that time.’

‘I suppose the women on some of the figureheads had to sit for the carvers, like a muse for a painter,’ Elan said. ‘Lots of room for naughty dalliance.’

‘I shall view your evocative paintings in a different light from now on,’ John Bradbury said dryly. ‘There I have been, humbled and admiring of your spirituality, when it was possibly lust.’

Elan laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. You know how rarely I paint people. However, standing in front of that figurehead this morning I thought what a challenge that face would have been to paint. So much there. Such a contradiction of innocence and sensuality. I hope your Canadian discovers who she was and what sort of life she led.’

The conversation turned to what everyone wanted to eat. Gabby wished she had brought her own car as she longed to get to Truro to send her samples off.

‘Lunch is on me,’ Elan said. ‘I’ve sold quite a few paintings this month and I am very pleased indeed.’

‘Did you know Mark Hannah bought two of your paintings on Tresco, Elan? As soon as he saw them he had to have them.’

‘No, I didn’t. How touching. Hurrah for Canadians.’

‘He would like to meet you. Perhaps when you have your London exhibition?’

‘Be delighted. What are you going to eat, child?’

‘Oh, a sandwich – prawn, I think.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Gabby wants to be off,’ Nell said. ‘Elan, if I lend Gabby my car, would you give me a lift home?’

‘Of course, but the child must eat her sandwich first.’

Gabby grinned. ‘Yes, Daddy. Will you all think I’m rude if I leave straight afterwards? I want to go back via Truro to post off my paint samples.’

John Bradbury winked at her. ‘Poor girl, stuck having lunch with the camp and the aged.’

‘Speak for yourself!’ Elan and Nell chorused together.

The wind was getting up by the time Gabby drove out of the car park. Spring squalls could erupt and as quickly subside before the sun set. The sea had turned into a mass of white angry waves and a tanker was heading for shallow water. The fishing fleet were coming in early but the sun was still warm on her hands as she drove in Nell’s wonderful high-sided Land Rover. Gabby only noticed the limitations of her own car when she drove Nell’s.

As she parked in Truro her mobile phone bleeped. She picked it up and studied it. She had two text messages. The first was from Josh. WELL DONE. U CAN TEXT! WELCUM 20C. GOT LNG WKEND. WILL RING. LUV JOSH.

Gabby decided to save her rude reply until later. She looked at her second message. WHAT GOOD TIME TO RING. BE NICE TO TALK. TRAIL GONE COLD. MARK.

Gabby posted her samples at the post office then drove home. The farmyard was quiet, she had the place to herself. Shadow, who objected to being left, was ecstatic to see her and pranced round her like a horse. Gabby made tea and sent two replies to the outside world:

DON’T BE RUDE. LOOK FWD WKEND, LUV GX.

Then, to Mark, SIX QTE GOOD TIME. GABBY.