A Light Between Oceans Episode 35
“Lucas, perhaps we could reschedule the appointment with the other museum?”
Sandy put her hand gently on his arm as they walked towards the tram.
“What for?”
He didn’t respond to her touch, and there was a hard edge to his voice that she’d never heard before.
“Lucas, please. You’ve had a shock, and –”
“There’s the tram.”
He took her arm, but only to hurry, and they boarded just in time.
They sank on to the wooden seat, Lucas staring ahead.
Sandy longed to soothe him, to somehow give him hope, but something inside cautioned her against it.
“There it is – across the road.”
Lucas stood up and Sandy followed as they scrambled off the tram.
The gallery lacked the charm of the last one, and the greeting was hardly encouraging,
“Mr Brook, I’m sorry. After we agreed on your appointment, I tried to contact you again. I’m afraid no-one here remembers your father.”
“I see,” Lucas’s said flatly. It had been his last hope.
“But I’d be very interested to have a look at your father’s painting,” the man went on.
“You said he was Dutch, and was in England during the war?”
Sandy saw the sympathy in the young man’s face.
“It’s quite a remarkable piece,” she said, grasping for a thread of positivity.
“Other experts have been very impressed.”
Without enthusiasm, Lucas took the painting from the bag and the young man surveyed it.
“Ah, yes. Many European artists who went to Britain at that time were the models of Modernism.
“They combined old world styles with new spirit. I see that here.”
Then the young man’s face changed.
“May I take it into the light?” he asked.
Lucas handed him the painting, and he and Sandy waited as he walked to the window and tilted it in various directions.
“Your father gave you this?”
“No,” Lucas replied. “I didn’t know it existed. I saw it in a gallery in New York and bought it.”
“For quite a sum, may I ask?”
“Well, yes.”
“I wonder, Mr Brook . . .” The man seemed to be measuring his words.
“May I have permission to have a closer look? Sometimes we see certain things that could affect the value.”
“What do you mean?” Lucas demanded, and Sandy felt her stomach tighten as she heard the annoyance in his voice.
“I will explain. Do you have time to come into our workshop?”
“Yes. But –”
“Mr Brook, you have perhaps heard the term pentimento?” the man interrupted.
“No, I haven’t,” Lucas admitted.
“We see it from time to time, but most often in seventeenth-century paintings.
“Sometimes an artist decided to change part or all of a painting, but used the same canvas, so it was painted over.
“It’s fascinating to see what lies beneath, and learning what was in the artist’s mind. People are repositioned, backgrounds changed.
“Sometimes, over hundreds of years, faint traces of the original can be seen.”
“What’s that got to do with my father’s painting?” Lucas demanded. “Are you saying he painted something underneath?”
The man shook his head.
“I cannot say until we take a closer look. We use a special piece of equipment. I’ll show you.”
They went through a corridor and into a workshop.
It smelled of chemicals, and was filled with paintings, tables and equipment of various kinds.
The man pointed to a camera with a long cylindrical lens, mounted on a desk in front of an easel. Positioned at the side was a screen.
“It’s called an infrared reflectography camera,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?”
The chemicals had made Sandy feel slightly queasy, and a chair was welcome.
She looked at Lucas, longing for some sort of connection to return between them.
There had been so many questions and he’d had such a dreadful shock.
He looked stunned and grim with contained anger, but Sandy knew he was filled with tension and disappointment.
The young man had positioned the painting on the easel and was slowly moving the lens across it.
Once again, Sandy reached for Lucas, and this time boldly took his hand.
“Mr Brook,” the man began slowly, “I’m terribly sorry, but . . .”
He stopped, then turned to face Lucas.
“There is indeed an irregularity here. You will want to contact the gallery where you purchased –”
“What’s the problem?” Lucas asked sharply.
“It is as I suspected,” the man said, gesturing towards the screen. “A portion of the canvas has been painted over.
“I regret to tell you,
Mr Brook, that there is another signature beneath your father’s. I can only conclude that your father painted over it with his own.”
“What?” Lucas’s face began to flush as he stumbled round the desk. He leaned over the screen.
Sandy followed and they stood together, the silence of the room broken only by the muffled sounds of other members of staff as they went about their work.
Sandy stared in disbelief at the signature, clearly illuminated beneath that of Lucas’s father.
It glowed in the eerie light of the camera, unmistakable.
Donald Ashford – her father.