The Mezzotint (Adapted from the M R James short story)

Chapter I

Creest

There is an old Willow tree that sits on the outskirts of Greeven that folk describe as genial.  Under the urgencies of a country breeze, gentle or otherwise, it greets those entering the sleepy hamlet with wafts of horticultural massage from long arching branches relieving them from the tensions of that other, modern universe, whilst in those rare, windless moments its arms would flop, symmetrically downwards, like an old wig, shading the ancient gnarled bark beneath. 

It was the latter, peaceful image of this aged and beloved piece of aesthetic timber that another Greeven resident was often compared to.  He was Professor Henry Creest, pronounced creased; a rather unfortunate name to acquire on birth for a man who, as his autumn years set in, found himself the proprietor of a superfluous of facial wrinkles, matching those of the famous willow.  The principle reinforcement of correspondence between these two inhabitants of Greeven was Creest’s expanse of lank white hair which hung like lazy string along the sides of his head in the manner of those sacred limbs and although his complexion was comparable more to that of a steep sided hill drawn on a contour map, rather than the willow bark, it was gnarled enough to cement the association.  Despite this unappealing combination, his appearance, rather than ostracising him from his fellow villagers, proved to be rather endearing, in particular to the younger generation of ‘Greeveners’.  So Creest became known as ‘Old Willow’

  Creest, however, was not old Greeven.  His history was etched in two other places: Taunton, which provided him with an attractive south western brogue and Oxford, which rescued him from Taunton’s ‘Provincial Normality’ and where he gained a BA First, a Master’s distinction, a highly regarded PHD and a Doctorate in Art.  He accepted a post with the University, developed his expertise to worldly renown, was accepted as a Don and taught there for thirty-five years, until retiring to Greeven at the age of 62.

Why Greeven?  Why ‘Provincial Norfolk’ when, as a young man, he had been intolerant of such places?  Why extricate oneself completely from a world that offered him a cultural menu notably absent on the dining table of this East Anglian backwater? 

No-one knew and Creest offered no plausible explanation.  Folk meditated amongst themselves and concluded that the professor had drained his chalice of luminosity and desired nothing more to drink now than a cup of tea on his back garden patio watching a warm summer sun set across the woodland that decorated the rise behind his cottage, relaxed that he had achieved all there was to achieve for a man of his talents; a sense of leaving at the top, before the onset of senility depreciated all his life’s success, and so they let it be.

He had purchased a modest but pretty cottage at the end of a small lane which itself wound away from the last vestiges of the main street by which the majority of Greeven’s principal businesses could be found:  The pub, post office, grocer’s, a small butcher shop and St Helen-in-the-Wold C of E.  The cottage had a small lounge and kitchen with two bedrooms.  It was snug and Creest enjoyed the trait as it reminded him of his rooms in Oxford.  The garden was larger than expected at first as the green lawn ran away from the back door in a dog leg bordered by a selection of small trees and bushes so that its far end was hidden from view.  One had to follow the curve to its zenith to discover that the lawn turned once again conversely and then straightened up into a large hidden rectangular section surrounded by the most beautiful array of flowers and plants with a picket fence running along the end of the property beyond this the village stream gabbled away happily with the birds in the trees that lined its banks running toward and away from Greeven.

Not that Creest sat on the peripheries of village life allowing the uncomplicated rural tide to wax and wane around him. The weekend after his arrival assuming, correctly, that his advent would be the subject of local discourse, he decided to alleviate the inquisitiveness of the Greeveners by visiting the local public house on the Saturday night and the communion mass on the Sunday morning, introducing himself to all and sundry in order to satiate those curious appetites, by presupposing, also correctly, that most of the village principals would be found at either or both locales.

Their interests or intrigues covered a spectrum of work, leisure and personal relationships.  Creest was happy to discuss his work, albeit on a superficial level, and wherever in the world his expertise had been happy to locate itself.  Hobbies and pursuits were few but passionate.  A Times crossword and the completion of at least two of the harder Sudoku puzzles were a must every morning, as a form of rigorous lateral thought exercise.   He hated outdoor physical exercise but happily manipulated his aging skeleton through a series of morning and evening stretches.  He ate healthily and drank plenty of water and yes, still liked the odd beer, such as the one he was enjoying during his inauguration.

When inquiries moved to the history of his relationships, Creest was not so forthcoming.  His parents, long since dead, had been supportive and communicative.  Yes, he had two intense affiliations with members of the opposite sex but stressed that these had been work based with no romantic purpose, at least not on Creest’s side.  Without reference to the cliché by which many unmarried creatures offer as their excuse, he left the village in little doubt that for the last forty years his work had been his only mistress.

Within a year Creest was as good a Greevener as those with whom he co-existed and those who had preceded him.  His attendances at the Pub and the Church became less frequent as those first forays had served their purpose and besides he was never an ardent worshiper at either altar, but he ran stalls at the church fetes in summer and winter and often his garden flora was seen as decoration upon its dais and pews.  He led a team in the monthly pub quiz and was always the first to contribute to the good causes that the landlord was want to patronage across the course of a drinking year.            

What Creest brought to the village which it hadn’t had before was the support of a weekly art class held at the village hall each Monday.  It hadn’t been his suggestion, rather that of a well to do widow of around 75 years, Dorothy White, who had been attempting to engineer one for some years with other semi-professional artists who had lived in or around Greeven to no avail and who saw Creest as her last opportunity, and not just in this sphere; indeed her prompt to Creest had been given with, if not a twinkle, then at the very least, a glaze in her eyes.  

He didn’t consent on the spot but considered the challenge over the following week and then made his way one morning to the village hall and placed a small notice on the events board.  It read simply “Art classes every Monday morning at 10:00.  Budding beginners and established Picassos welcome.” Humour wasn’t his strong point.

They’d been running for over a year with the usual gamut of successes and failures, but to Creest’s credit and kindly temperament, more people had joined and stayed, despite their shortcomings,  than had left discouraged.  Creest was never convinced that he would ever discover a pupil with genuine skill despite the fact that the art class maestro’s repute had drawn in people from all over the locale, and yet somewhere in the recessed hallways of that great mind, a small candle of hope flickered.

Then one day in late summer, Hope walked in: Hope Lincoln.