The gallery

It wasn’t a kind face. The eyes were dark and challenging above the long, bony nose, the cheeks faintly flushed with a delicate carnation pink. I wondered idly if the man had been a heavy drinker or whether the unknown artist had desperately tried to introduce a little life into the cadaverous face. The mouth pouted, half-hidden under a ginger moustache and forked beard.  A mouth, I thought, for secrets, small and mean and tight-lipped.
I didn’t need to read the inscription to know the subject of this impressive portrait.  This was William Cecil, 1st Baron Burghley and chief advisor to Elizabeth I.  He was her Secretary of State and eventually Lord High Treasurer.  He was also the creator of one of the most efficient spy systems of the seventeenth century. No wonder he stared out of his portrait with the dispassionate gaze of a ruthless judge – just but never merciful.
I moved on to view the other portraits but was conscious of that challenging stare, an itch between my shoulder blades. I tried to ignore it but could not shake off a growing uneasiness.  Impatiently, I shrugged my shoulders, trying to ease the tension. The air suddenly seemed stuffy and artificial, and, without warning, I felt a flash of an ancient panic, the fear of isolation and enclosed space.  Claustrophobia.  For a few seconds I stood transfixed, heart pumping, the primal brain screaming its fear while my rational mind struggled to regain control.  The dim lighting of the Tudor galleries and absence of windows fed the fear, turning me in an instant from a successful professional woman into a child, once more afraid of the dark.
Desperately, I fought to calm myself.  I bent and concentrated on my breathing, deliberately slowing each breath to a count of three.  In... Out... In... As my breathing settled into the steady rhythm I felt the rapid thump of my heart stumble and fall into a slower, less frenetic beat and knew I had mastered the worst of the crisis.  The prickle of sweat above my upper lip dried in the cool air and I felt suddenly thirsty, as if I had just finished a long run.  Straightening, I looked around, hoping that no-one had seen me in that moment of vulnerability.  I was ashamed and angry with myself for the lapse, but there had been no witnesses.  I was still alone in this part of the Gallery. 
The panic attacks always came without warning.  Each time I hoped this would be the last.  Although my instinct was to move away, towards light and people, I knew that giving in to the fear was counter-productive.  Anyway, I could now hear a couple speaking in the next room, their murmuring voices reassuring me that I was near to others, no longer isolated. They, like me, must be killing an idle hour in the Portrait Gallery, sheltering from the miserable London drizzle. Their presence, heard but not seen, helped dispelled my foolish fears and I glared across at the Burghley portrait as if he had been somehow responsible for my panic.  His face stared dispassionately back, the expression hinting at a steely disdain of my weakness.
I grimaced, determined not to give in to my claustrophobia, and moved to the next portrait along the wall.   As I turned, I realised the voices in the room beyond had fallen silent.   A quick tug of panic flooded my gut as I felt myself, once more, alone.  I moved towards the open door of the next room, determined to move back into the busier areas of the Gallery, back towards the light.   As I neared the door, I thought I heard a slight moan, followed by a faint thud, as if a woman had dropped a heavy handbag.  I hurried forward then, some instinct propelling me towards the sound.  As I passed the Burghley portrait I felt Cecil’s eyes on me, inscrutable as a hangman, and I knew the warning had been clear but misunderstood. The threat was real.

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