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Authors: Deborah Crombie
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soft brown hair neither strikingly blond nor brunette; her eyes were too pale for beauty. A warm glow began in her midriff and spread outwards. “I wish I could see the painting,” she said wistfully
.
“Oh, she is that lovely, with her sweet face and the sky all blue and gold behind her. Of course,” Betty gave her a sly smile, “I don’t know if you wanna be that good. Or if your mother and father, they would let you go in a Catholic church.”
“No, and no,” she answered, laughing
.
“I think I’m going to call you that. Angel. It suits you.”
“Angel,” she repeated, trying it out on her tongue, liking the sound, and the image of the painting in her mind
.
And so she became Angel, to Betty, to Betty’s brother, Ron, and toall the friends that came after. This small thing constituted not only the cementing of her friendship with Betty, but the beginning of an identity that would separate her finally from her family. What she didn’t realize was that the image of the angel in the painting would stay with her long after she had lost touch with all who had known her by that name
.
CHAPTER FOUR
Opinions vary as to the start of the antiques trade in Portobello Road. One theory is that when the Caledonian Market, well known in prewar days as the place to buy a secondhand wardrobe or bedstead, closed in 1948, some of the displaced antique stalls set up in Portobello Road.
—Whetlor and Bartlett,
from
Portobello
G EMMA CHECKED THE ADDRESS OF D AWN A RROWOOD’S FRIEND in the
A to Zed
she kept in her car, locating the flat near the South Ken tube station. Near enough that she thought she would drive there unannounced, and informal enough to justify her going alone.
The rain began to slacken as she pulled away from the station, and it seemed natural to her that she should drive down the hill and stop for a moment in front of the house on St. John’s Gardens.
It looked larger than she remembered from the previous evening. More solid and prosperous. She thought of her parents’ flat over the bakery, the cheap digs she had shared with a friend in her first days on the force, the tatty semidetached in Leyton she had bought with Rob, and now her tiny garage flat. Doubt flooded through her. Was she up to this house, with the expectations and commitment it represented?
Then she thought of her friend Erika Rosenthal’s home a fewblocks away, and of the sense of contentment and homecoming she’d experienced in those rooms. It came to her that with this house she was being offered a chance to create that life for herself; she would be a fool to pass it by.
She closed her eyes, gathering herself for her next task, and in that instant she had a vision. Distant and silent, as if viewed through the opposite end of a telescope: They were all together in the house, she and Kincaid, the boys, and a child whose face she could not see. The image vanished as abruptly as a bubble popping, but the sense of home and family stayed with her like a half-remembered dream.
N ATALIE C HAINE LIVED IN A GARDEN FLAT IN O NSLOW G ARDENS . I T WAS a chic address and the flat’s entrance reflected it: shining paint and polished brass, flanked by perfect topiaries set in large Italian pots. The sound of a television came faintly from within. Gemma lifted the knocker and rapped lightly.
A woman opened the door so quickly that Gemma decided she must have been expecting someone else. Tall, slightly heavyset, with pale olive skin and a mass of frizzy dark hair pulled back with an oversized clip, she looked as if she had been crying. “Oh,” she said, her brow creasing as she studied Gemma. “I thought you were someone come about the telly. But you’re not, are you?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Gemma slipped her identification from her jacket pocket. “My name’s Gemma James. Are you Natalie Caine?” When the woman nodded, Gemma continued, “I wondered if I might have a word with you about your friend Dawn
.
“Oh, she is that lovely, with her sweet face and the sky all blue and gold behind her. Of course,” Betty gave her a sly smile, “I don’t know if you wanna be that good. Or if your mother and father, they would let you go in a Catholic church.”
“No, and no,” she answered, laughing
.
“I think I’m going to call you that. Angel. It suits you.”
“Angel,” she repeated, trying it out on her tongue, liking the sound, and the image of the painting in her mind
.
And so she became Angel, to Betty, to Betty’s brother, Ron, and toall the friends that came after. This small thing constituted not only the cementing of her friendship with Betty, but the beginning of an identity that would separate her finally from her family. What she didn’t realize was that the image of the angel in the painting would stay with her long after she had lost touch with all who had known her by that name
.
CHAPTER FOUR
Opinions vary as to the start of the antiques trade in Portobello Road. One theory is that when the Caledonian Market, well known in prewar days as the place to buy a secondhand wardrobe or bedstead, closed in 1948, some of the displaced antique stalls set up in Portobello Road.
—Whetlor and Bartlett,
from
Portobello
G EMMA CHECKED THE ADDRESS OF D AWN A RROWOOD’S FRIEND in the
A to Zed
she kept in her car, locating the flat near the South Ken tube station. Near enough that she thought she would drive there unannounced, and informal enough to justify her going alone.
The rain began to slacken as she pulled away from the station, and it seemed natural to her that she should drive down the hill and stop for a moment in front of the house on St. John’s Gardens.
It looked larger than she remembered from the previous evening. More solid and prosperous. She thought of her parents’ flat over the bakery, the cheap digs she had shared with a friend in her first days on the force, the tatty semidetached in Leyton she had bought with Rob, and now her tiny garage flat. Doubt flooded through her. Was she up to this house, with the expectations and commitment it represented?
Then she thought of her friend Erika Rosenthal’s home a fewblocks away, and of the sense of contentment and homecoming she’d experienced in those rooms. It came to her that with this house she was being offered a chance to create that life for herself; she would be a fool to pass it by.
She closed her eyes, gathering herself for her next task, and in that instant she had a vision. Distant and silent, as if viewed through the opposite end of a telescope: They were all together in the house, she and Kincaid, the boys, and a child whose face she could not see. The image vanished as abruptly as a bubble popping, but the sense of home and family stayed with her like a half-remembered dream.
N ATALIE C HAINE LIVED IN A GARDEN FLAT IN O NSLOW G ARDENS . I T WAS a chic address and the flat’s entrance reflected it: shining paint and polished brass, flanked by perfect topiaries set in large Italian pots. The sound of a television came faintly from within. Gemma lifted the knocker and rapped lightly.
A woman opened the door so quickly that Gemma decided she must have been expecting someone else. Tall, slightly heavyset, with pale olive skin and a mass of frizzy dark hair pulled back with an oversized clip, she looked as if she had been crying. “Oh,” she said, her brow creasing as she studied Gemma. “I thought you were someone come about the telly. But you’re not, are you?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Gemma slipped her identification from her jacket pocket. “My name’s Gemma James. Are you Natalie Caine?” When the woman nodded, Gemma continued, “I wondered if I might have a word with you about your friend Dawn
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