Crossing the line - 14. Finding Greg

Dan’s inquiries into Greg’s present whereabouts managed to draw a blank, so we needed a re-think. Dan, I suspected, was getting worried; if Greg had dropped out so thoroughly, then perhaps there was something genuinely wrong. One way forward was to tell Francis Heyward and see if he was interested enough to pay someone to search professionally. I’d already tried the most direct approach and contacted Donald Mitchell’s agent, but word had come back that Donald had only a vague recollection of the man and had not kept any information about him. Before we pressed the destruct button and contacted Francis Heyward, I’d passed the word out to my artistic contacts.

A collector who owned the pictures was interested in getting in contact with the model for Donald Mitchell’s Greg sequence. No strings, and email contact was OK, just to find out more about his work with other artists. I wasn’t sanguine, but you never know, someone might remember something.

Surprisingly, word did come back. From Greg himself!

The email was sent to my blog, not my regular email address, so clearly Greg had done some homework and worked out who I was. Greg was living in the Midlands and still had links with the art scene (amongst other things) – his words, deliberately vague. I replied explaining a bit more background, about Dan and such, including that he and I were an item.

The resulting email from Greg was a little more forthcoming, though still brusque and rather more profanity laden. We’d clearly piqued his interest, if nothing else he’d be happy to meet for a chat, but it would have to be on his home turf. I just hoped that in person he had more to say, and that he wasn’t too angry.

Dan had pointed out that we might be on the receiving end of years of resentment, or worse. On the basis that if we were going to meet Greg, we should get it over and done with, we fixed a date in a couple of days’ time. Dan was off and I’d just lost a big job; it happens, commercial elements come into play. Shit happens, but it always rankles, and this little jaunt would give me a way of keeping my mind on other things.

It was a long drive. Greg lived in darkest Derbyshire; an area known to neither Dan nor me. Once we left the A1 it was lovely, full of signs about Robin Hood and the Dukeries, whatever they were. Judging from the address he’d given us, Greg lived on a country estate, or in a building on one. And from his brief explanation, it was some sort of artistic community.

On the journey, we didn’t talk much about Greg, neither of us knew quite what to expect and it was certainly a case of playing it by ear. Instead, we talked about Verona, what we wanted to do, what we might be obliged to do and such. Which led me to anecdotes of disasters and delights on previous press trips – nearly missing the culture minister’s speech because an over-enthusiastic guide didn’t know when to stop talking, the sense of fatigue you feel at yet another presentation by local dignitaries.

Then I needed to concentrate on my phone and navigate via Google Maps, and when Google said we were getting close, I texted Greg that we were on our way. As a result, I wasn’t really paying attention to exactly where we were ending up, beyond a left here, right there, and was brought to attention by Dan’s “Where the fuck are we?”

It was a car park in huge a walled enclosure, a walled garden presumably and old, judging by the patina and weathering of the bricks. One end there was a garden centre, hidden behind the wall, and then a group of buildings in a courtyard, mixing old and new, modern in the style of the old. Again, all brick, with stone detailing, the modern in-fill notable for its clean lines contrasting with the fussier detailing of the older work.

These buildings were signposted café, farm shop, craft centre, and gallery. No sign of artist studios or anything. We got out and saw Greg perched on a wall by the entrance to the courtyard. He was all in blue, jeans, a Guernsey which looked stylish but had seen better days, and a light blue scarf round his neck. We walked over, and besides the photo he’d sent us for recognition, he still had a clear look of the man in Donald Mitchell’s pictures.

Whatever this was, it was an attractive place, nicely designed. The café had outdoor seating, and rather striking water features, and we passed a couple who had clearly been stocking up at the farm shop.

Greg’s demeanour was friendly enough, though hardly effusive. “Found it OK?”

Dan smiled, “Thanks to the wonders of Google Maps, but what the hell is this place?”

“Norton Estate.” His manner suggested that the name should be obvious to us. When we didn’t respond he continued with some reluctance, “Live and work here, don’t I? Figured it was safest to meet in the public bit.”

“Thanks, we appreciate it.”

“You want cake”, this was said more as a statement than question, but his manner eased.

“Yes please, it looks pleasant.”

“Right enough. Fill you in when we sit.”

Greg was one of those blokes who seemed to have grown into themselves as they got older. In the paintings, he came over as young, personable, a bit bland, more personality than looks. Now, ten or so years later, he was a bit blockier, but still trim, and had a solidity and character about him, making him striking; not in my top ten for looks perhaps, but far more than just ‘wouldn’t say no’. His manner, however, left something to be desired. Perhaps he was naturally taciturn, or perhaps we were, after all, dealing with years of anger.

The café was one of the old estate buildings; a noticeboard explained that it dated from an era when grand estates generated their own power and such; remember that we were in coal mining country. The cakes were spectacular, and the coffee wasn’t bad either and judging by the number of customers, it was rightly popular. Greg was immediately recognised, and a waiter cleared a table for him.

As we ate, he gave us a bit of background. Give him a subject, and it seemed that Greg could be chatty. Perhaps we got the standard spiel, but it was certainly interesting though hardly relevant. The Norton Priory Estate had been in the same family for generations. Money had come from coal fields, which all disappeared after the war, come Nationalisation, and the Estate had been let go to ruin. The present owner was trying to reinvent it and provide viable sources of income. Hence the Farm Shop, café, garden centre and such, and there were other businesses on the Estate as well including the artists’ studios where Greg worked.

Dan and I filled him in on the more recent history of the pictures, from us seeing two at the gallery to the complete set’s new position in Francis Heyward’s house. He looked, assessing each of us, a slightly unnerving stare.

“Why should I speak to you?”

I looked at Dan, who shrugged, so I continued, “As you probably gather Francis Heyward is well heeled.”

Greg snorted, “Have to be, from the old git’s prices”, the old git referred to Donald Mitchell.

“Dan here heads up his security and I started advising him on art.”

“The old git’s pictures of me?”

“No, older pieces, 20th century nudes, that sort of thing.”

“And?” He stared at us, challenging. How to explain?

Dan came to the rescue, “Mr Heyward seems to have taken a shine to Vaughan, throws all sorts of artistic queries at him.”

“Unpaid adviser, more fool you.”

“He says he wants to check that you are OK. I did an article about exploitation, brought up what we knew of Mitchell and you, what I knew of Mitchell’s reputation.”

“You give ‘em details.”

I pulled a face, “Candidly, no. Wouldn’t get published. To risky, he’s a litigious sod.”

“What a fucking surprise.”

“But after we saw the pictures at the Tramshed, Dan had wondered what had happened.”

“Like what?”

“The lively straight bloke with a girlfriend that he knew and the boy in the pictures.”

“Showing all the goods off. Fucking hell. So, what are you planning on telling this Heyward bloke?”

Dan answered, “That we’ve met you. That you’re well and healthy. Anything else is up to you.”

“And can I trust you?”

“Well, given Francis Heyward’s money, I suspect he could find you easily enough, unless you are really off grid. But we can stay here, and simply chat. Then we’ll go.”

I realised that meeting here had an element of protection in it for Greg, hiding his real address.

“OK. Old git told me he’d not sell the pictures. Told me fuck all.”

“About the exhibition and the sale?”

“Not a dicky bird. Pisses me off.”

“Does he know your contact details?”

Greg looked a bit fierce, “Not hard to find me. Old mate of his in one of our studios, and my fucking name on the bloke’s rent bill.”

“I tried contacting Mitchell, through his agent and got a brush off, you won’t be surprised to learn.”

Greg gave a derisive snort, “And this Heyward bloke, is he on the level or is he a perv?” Greg laughed, “A perv with money, judging from the old git’s prices.”

I explained, “Francis Heyward inherited a fortune from a developer Father. He didn’t inherit his Father’s love of dodgy business methods. And he collects art, mainly modern and mainly nudes.”

Dan smiled, “He means naked men.”

Greg nodded, “Rich perv, with taste, and a bit of a conscience.”

“He likes stirring things up, the sequence of pictures of you are in the staircase hall of his country house.”

“Shit, all of them?”

“In sequence.”

“Well, I’ll be… The whole works? Me knackers standing out like that?”

I grinned, “In glorious technicolour. They look, you look, very impressive.”

Greg whistled, “Fuckin’ hell, wouldn’t think anyone’d have the guts. Folk can see it, like?”

“Visitors to The Manor, invited guests. It’s not a public display, and believe you me, not many get in.”

“Fair enough, so he’s a bit of a weirdo. Think he’d let me see the pictures, in situ so to speak?”

“Yes. I think he wants to meet you.”

Greg cocked an eye at me, “You reckon?”

“He’s straight up or seems so. He said he wanted to make sure you were fit and healthy.”

“Though we reckon he might have a hidden agenda.”

“What sort?”

“Not sure. We’d told him that Dan had recognised you, and he came up with the idea of contacting you.”

“He a mate of yours?”

Dan laughed, “Vaughan’s his latest pet project. He likes the idea of having a tame writer, and Vaughan tells it straight, doesn’t suck up to him.”

“So, he’s not a mate, but he’s a bit more than Dan’s boss and someone who commissions articles from me. I don’t think someone like him really has mates. We’re not sure where this is going, but I assure you that he did buy the pictures. I know the gallery owner, Amanda, and she’s been paid. And I’ve seen them hanging together. I think he would like to show them off to you. There might be more but forewarned is fore-armed.”

“Wants to show me off? This me, not the pictures.”

“May be.”

“I expect so. He’s a manipulative bloke, we reckon.”

“Fair enough, been warned. Think I’ll cope.”

He went silent for a bit; we finished off cake and coffee and I wondered if that was it.

“If I tell you, you’re not gonna write about it.” Again, a question as a statement.

“Tell me?”

“What happened, the stuff with the old git and after.”

“I won’t write anything, unless you say.”

“Maybe”, he wrinkled his nose. “Maybe I can trust you. Like the articles.”

“You’ve read my stuff?”

“Yeah”, he gave a grin, “did me research. OK. Len says I ought to talk about it. No notes, no tape.”

I shook my head, “I didn’t bring either.”

He nodded, “Good man. Mitchell picked me up in a pub.”

“Seems he often did that to likely lads.”

“Yeah. ‘Did I want to earn some cash?’ That was it. Went to his studio; I took me shirt off and he painted me.”

“No nudes.”

“Nah. Not at first, a few shirtless, that sort of thing, one in me kecks. Never thought about sex with a bloke, but something about him. He suggested me getting me kit off, I didn’t reckon anything of it.”

“He painted you nude.”

Greg gave a bitter laugh, “No question. More than that.”

“Sex?”

“You bet. I fuckin’ fell for it; we’d have sex and he’d draw it and paint it. Made you think you were the most important thing in the world. Then it was over, thank you, there’s your money plus a bonus.”

“How long for?”

“A year, on and off; weekends, evenings and me days off. That’s a year of a bloke looking at you, really looking, and talking as well, and fucking you to boot. Then nothing. I freaked out.”

Dan leaned forward, “Because you couldn’t cope with having sex with a guy?”

“Nah. Sex was fucking fantastic. Old git might not look much but he knew his stuff.”

“All the way?”

“You bet. There was me; I had girlfriends, and I was loving a guy’s dick up my arse. No question.”

“You freaked out afterwards?”

“It stopped, just like that. I was nothing. I missed it. I fucking missed it. No going back, no-one to talk to, certainly not me mates, and so it festered.”

“You never thought of…”

“Do me a favour. I wasn’t a fuckin’ fairy, couldn’t be.”

“Except you liked sex with guys.”

“One guy. Went through a bad patch, left the Force, had dead end jobs, drank too much, treated a series of girls badly. I needed money so I answered an ad and started sitting for artists.”

“An artists’ model.”

“Yeah, taking me kit of for kids in colleges and stuff. It paid shit, but it was regular.” He stared at us, “Regular stuff, supervised, nothing dodgy. Turns out I was an OK model, did what I was told. Took me out of myself.”

“So, there are other pictures of you?”

He laughed, “God knows how many, some with me bits out there, but only one set of Donald Mitchells. Thank God. Anyroad, I met an older artist, Donna McKee.”

I nodded, “I know Donna, interviewed her a few times.”

“I did stuff for some of her classes, and she asked me to sit for her. Strange old broad, reckoned she didn’t do nudes, leastwise not blokes, but she had a project coming up.”

“The triptych for Manchester Metropolitan.”

“Yep, and she needed a naked bloke.”

“To be the Spirit of Progress.”

He grinned, for the first time in our conversations, “Something like that. We got chatting. She’s not a fast worker.”

“Meticulous and detailed.”

He smiled, “You bet, she did sketches of me knackers, from all angles, in great detail. Even gave me one.”

“You still got it?”

“Of course. Donald Mitchell came up. I didn’t mean to talk about him, but some if it came out. I didn’t know she was a Lesbian. That never came up; might have freaked me out if it had. She quizzed me about Mitchell and seemed to understand. About the sex and that. She talked about getting married, to a bloke, and then falling in love with a woman. How it had freaked her out.”

“You two got on?”

“Yeah, strange. Good as therapy. Started to pull myself together. I could do both. That it was allowed, that folk actually did that.”

“Like guys and girls?”

“Took me some time; not sure I’m the settling sort, like you.”

I smiled, “I never thought I was.”

“Did some work for a couple who share a studio here, husband and wife, he draws, and she models clay. I sat for them both.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Started helping them with office work, they were a complete mess. Got me started.”

Dan nodded, “You might leave the Force well behind, but the discipline and liking for order pops back.”

“Summat like that. Now I do the admin for the studios here, let to a whole crowd of them.”

“Artists.”

“All sorts, paint, print, woodcarving, pots, the lot, a few jewellery, even a weaver.”

It turned out that the owner was Martin Potter, whose name I knew. The Norton surname had died out long ago, but the same family had lived in the big house, Norton Priory, for hundreds of years. An old priory, Potter’s ancestors had bought it off Henry VIII and turned it into a house.

Greg was back with his spiel, on more comfortable ground, “Martin Potter’s grandmother created a trust to help craftsmen and artists, they turned the old stables and horse training ground into modern studios. They couldn’t afford to keep horses after the war, and the old dame felt that the buildings ought to be put to a good use. Martin’s done a lot more, most every estate building has folk doing stuff in it, from cheese to a brewery to bakers to artists and potters, there’s even an artisan blacksmith that does all the fancy ironwork.” Here he gestured to the rather impressive fence on one side of the courtyard. “I started out as just casual labour, but I have a regular job now.”

“Wow, quite a story. Do you keep up with any of the blokes from the Nick?”

He frowned, “Nah. Lost touch when the shit happened. All in the past. And now you?”

Dan smiled, “Ex-copper. Head of security for Francis Heyward.”

Dan filled Greg in on the background, which led inevitably to how we’d met which was becoming a bit of a party piece, but Greg’s reaction was different because he’d been a copper, been on the other side. Then there was question of what next. It was up to Greg, but my stomach rumbling seemed to break the tone somewhat.

“Hungry?”

We both nodded, “Breakfast seems hours ago.”

“I’ve got some stuff back in the office, local cheese, and our own bread, some of the artists are about and I can show you around after.”

We’d have both have been content with eating in the café, certainly the food looked good, but Greg seemed to be going some way towards unbending, it seemed rude to not accept the invitation.

Of course, it meant getting in the car again. Dan was surprised, I don’t think that he’d appreciated the scale of the Estate. Greg came with us; he’d walked over but we’d drive back. Out and then in on another road. It was a bit like a village, and Greg pointed out some of the buildings. It might seem idyllic, but from his descriptions, the butter-coloured stone buildings had a hive activity going in in and around them.

Our destination was the former manège, a huge 19th century space for training horses, now repurposed as studios. The walls were original, but everything else was new. Evidently it had been nearly derelict before Martin Potter’s grandmother had it resurrected. Horse breeding’s an expensive business and after the war money was tight.

Greg pointed to an impressive pair of doors, “Original, but just for show, we go in here.”

The door was ordinary and led into a functional foyer with informative posters, handmade notices, and community stuff. Greg led us into his office. You could tell it was his, in pride of place was the Donna McKee drawing of his dick, in glorious Donna McKee detail.

Greg looked proud, but a bit abashed, “Len’s idea, he reckoned ‘if you’ve got it flaunt it’”

“And you’ve got a terrific Donna McKee.”

“Yeah, but it’s a bit in your face?”

Dan grinned, “Wait till you see the Donald Mitchells.”

Greg’s response was a grunt. He made no explanation as to who Len was, a mate presumably.

He was a taciturn but hospitable host, proud of the origin of the food, including two types of cheese, chutney, and terrific bread, all from small makers on the Estate, a positive feast. It was a largely silent meal; he wasn’t forthcoming though happy to answer questions about the Estate and its activities.

“I’ll talk to Heyward, if I can see the pictures.”

“Fair enough, all we can do is ask.”

He nodded, “Do it by email, right. Keep all this separate”, and he waved his hand around the office.

“We’ll try, but he has lots of resources.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“We’ll try.”

The rest of the trip was a delight. The studios housed a variety of makers, craftspeople, and painters. I had a whale of a time and I think Dan did too. After a comprehensive tour, Greg looked at his watch, “Cake should’ve arrived; you up for more food?”

Dan was polite, but if it was anything like that which we had earlier I was happy. Back in the office there was indeed cake, a warm yeasty aroma and a thirty-something-year-old man. Blond, moustache, big, with a smile that seemed to mask nerves. So, this was Len. He was a baker; we’d eaten his bread for lunch and here was some sort of yeasty tea loaf. He seemed relatively laidback, clearly, he and Greg had a relationship that was comfortable, friendly even judging from the way Len simply slipped into Greg’s office and acted as host.

We left them promptly; it was a long drive. Once we’d got back onto the A1, we relaxed.

“Fuck, I’m stuffed.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have eaten that second piece of cake.”

Dan grinned, “It was tasty, wasn’t it?”

“True. Handy to have a friend who’s the local baker.”

“Friend?”

“You think boyfriend?”

“They seemed friendly enough. I wonder what the story is. Len wouldn’t be what I expected.”

“Me neither. What do you reckon to Greg?”

“Been through a bit, but he seems to have come out the other side OK.”

“Not so sure whether he’s completely come through.”

“A lot of issues, as they say. Didn’t give that much away.”

I laughed, “Unless he was parroting the history of the Norton Estate, it was like pulling teeth.”

“And Heyward.”

I shrugged, “The truth.”

We chatted round the subject, but very much aware that Greg might be someone who kept the details of his life close.

--oOo—oOo—

The email from Archie came almost by return. Mr Heyward was delighted we had got into contact with Greg, and that all was well. Mr Heyward would be pleased to show Greg the pictures. I passed Greg’s email address on to Archie, and I was surprised to find that we were included in the process. So, in a couple of weeks, Greg would come down, along with his friend Len. That set our antennae tingling, Len might just be a mate, but Greg was letting him see the most intimate things.

Dan and I would join them at The Manor, with Francis Heyward. And the final email had a brief postscript, the Norman James was on its way, and would be back in place by then!