We flew higher, above the city, up and beyond. The air was thick, stuff falling from above. And there was movement now below, people on the road, carts, horses, people leaving the city.
I saw a girl running. Away from the mountain, away from that black cloud. Running, running.
On that day, of all days, there would be no attention paid to a runaway slave. May she have run far.
As we flew. Far, far. Away from the mountain, until there was no more falling stuff, and that terrible black cloud was distant. And then, at last, in a good marshy place, where there was no garden, no fountain, no presiding Herms, but water, reeds, the kind of habitat appropriate to Porphyrio porphyrio, we came to earth again. And there we settled, and bred, as have my descendants, thus ensuring the survival of the species from that benighted age into your own. Where things are done differently, but it is not for me to proclaim progress, or otherwise.
Abroad
Fifty years ago there were peasants in Europe. France was full of them—Spain, Portugal. Greece had the very best—prototype peasants. As for Macedonia, places like that—you were spoiled for choice. Plowing with oxen and a sort of prehistoric plow. Heaving water out of wells, carrying it picturesquely on the head in a pitcher. Washing their clothes in the river, drying them in colorful swathes on the banks. Driving their donkeys to market, with interesting goods in panniers. Small boys herding goats on rocky hillsides. Women hoeing fields. Old men grinding maize. Landscapes peppered with peasants, doing what peasants do, wearing proper peasant clothes—women in long skirts and aprons, men with black waistcoats and baggy trousers.
In England we didn’t have peasants. Just the rural working class. Farmworkers. Not the same. Not colorful, not picturesque. They had tractors and mains water. They dressed from the Co-Op.
We were artists. Tony and I. We needed subject matter. We needed arresting, evocative subject matter. So we needed Abroad. Anyone artistic needed Abroad in the 1950s. You needed the Mediterranean, and fishing boats pulled up on sandy shores. Olive groves under blue skies. Romanesque churches. Market squares with campanile and peasantry. Sunflowers, cactuses, prickly pears, cypresses, palms. We needed scenery; we needed well-furnished scenery. Particularly we needed peasants. Real, earthy, traditional peasants.
I sketched. Tony both sketched and photographed. A sketch would be worked up later into an oil painting, back home. The photos were prompts, reminders; that girl with the great load of washing on her head could be used in due course—such a graceful stance.
Abroad was cheap—relatively cheap. We were skint, and you could potter around Spain or Greece for weeks on a few pesetas or drachma or whatever. One was always in a muddle with the money—what this scruffy note was worth, or this fistful of coins—and then pleasantly surprised when some old dear was apparently offering B and B for tuppence ha’penny, or so it seemed. Mind, not B and B as we think of it; more like a bare room with an iron bedstead and a jug and basin, and some crusty bread and coffee in the morning. But all so authentic. We wouldn’t have gone near a hotel or a pension, even if we could have afforded it. We wanted to be seeing things as they saw them—the locals. I’ve still got a sketch I did of one of those old dears—all in black, head to toe, brown wrinkly face, and so grateful for whatever we paid. Portuguese, I think. Or possibly Italian. Or was that in Yugoslavia?
We were young—early twenties. We’d met at art college, set up together, decided to get Abroad, as much as possible, for as long as possible. Abroad then was just Europe; now it’s everywhere—Sri Lanka, Thailand, Barbados, wherever. But in the 50s Abroad meant the Continent, and that was that.
Tony was so good-looking. Those sort of rather ravaged good looks, even at twenty-two or so—thin face, dark brown eyes, dark brown hair flopping over his forehead, dark brown body too because we were so much in the sun. Abroad’s lovely sun. And he was very much the artist: French beret, check shirt with the sleeves rolled up, linen slacks.
And me? I was pretty arty too, back then. Jeans, when jeans were hardly known. Bra top, bare midriff. Sloppy Joe sweater when chilly, fair hair to my shoulders, tied back with a pink cotton hanky. The hair is neither long nor fair these days. Went mouse, then gray, and shoulder length won’t do at eighty. Oh, well; I dare say Tony has worn a bit, too. Wherever he is. If he still is.
Attractive? Yes. I was. We were a somewhat arresting couple, I’d say. Sketching away in little Greek fishing villages or beside some Spanish field, with the fishermen heaving nets or whatever, and Spanish peasants picking and cutting and digging and generally getting into nice poses that you could quickly rough out for future use. There’d be plenty of banter directed at us, that of course we couldn’t understand, all perfectly amiable, and lots of smiles and flashing white teeth as well. Peasants always seemed to have rather good teeth. Except for the old ones. Shortage of teeth, then. Thank heaven for modern dentistry. Mine aren’t too bad.
Mind, we did sometimes realize that we weren’t seeing things as the locals saw them. There was the day of the life class. Somewhere in France. Tony had decided he wanted to do some life drawing. We were in the depths of the countryside, we had had a picnic by a field. “Come on,” he said. “Life class.” So I had stripped off and I was sitting there, posing and sunbathing both at once, and Tony had his sketch pad out, when all of a sudden this—well, peasant—appeared. The farmer, I suppose. And roared at us. Shouted and yelled. And then stormed off, and next thing a couple of gendarmes arrived. I’d got my clothes on by then. So we were down at the police station explaining for hours. No charges, but don’t do it again.
There could be problems about money, too. Peasants seemed to be overconcerned with money. All that careful counting out of coins, in the markets; endless bargaining over the equivalent of a farthing or two. Goodness, farthings . . . I’ve almost forgotten them—odd that the word swims up. We always got the coins confused. If you accidentally gave too little there’d be an end to the flashing white smiles and a flood of abuse instead. Not so picturesque, suddenly. You learned to tread carefully, where money was concerned; a bit of an obsession, apparently, in those circles.
We weren’t having to worry about money all that much. Everything so cheap. We could eke out what we’d brought for weeks on end, and if we found we had absolutely miscalculated, or we wanted to stay longer, well—there could always be an emergency telegram home. Mummy and Daddy would come up with something—grumbling a bit. I was supposed to be on an allowance, and not overspend, and they were a tad tight-lipped about Tony, and us not being married, or even thinking of it, but they were in favor of Abroad. Mummy felt it was so educational. So if we ran short it would just be a question of a post office, and an arrangement with some bank, when we’d found one. Not all that thick on the ground, often, banks; peasants seem to do without them.
I shouldn’t keep saying peasants. Sounds patronizing. People. Country people. Thing is, they were—in a way that doesn’t exist anymore. No peasants in Europe now. I know—I’ve been there. No long skirts, black waistcoats, oxen, prehistoric plows. Banks all over the place. I don’t know where young artists are to go nowadays.
Right—people. Peasant being merely a technical term. Nicely different people, which was what we liked about them, apart from the subject potential. Not boring English. England was so boring in the 1950s. Everyone agreed about that, even Mummy and Daddy. They went Abroad as much as they could, too, though a different Abroad from ours: Italian Riviera, and French châteaux. You didn’t holiday in Wales or Cornwall, in the 1950s—not if you could possibly help it.
Not boring English, and not speaking English. That was part of the appeal—not knowing what people were talking about. Just that chatter of Spanish or Greek or whatever. You were on the outside, not involved, just looking on, which is what you were there for. We had a bit of French, from school, but that didn’t get you far. Peasant French was something else. Sorry—country people French.
Goodn
ess—how we got around. It amazes me, now, looking back. We never cared for being stuck in one place, so it would be into the car and off—when the car was behaving, that was. Old Hillman. Ancient Hillman—proper old banger. Many punctures, many stops while the radiator boiled. Many failures to start unless pushed. Places like Greece and Yugoslavia, we used buses; elsewhere, the car. Blissfully empty roads—you tootled along on your own, deep in France or Italy or wherever. A few of those old Citroëns—deux chevaux—the occasional pickup truck, lots of bikes. Garages as infrequent as banks, which could be a problem when the Hillman was playing up, or when we’d forgotten to get petrol. You always carried a can, in case.
But the point was to be carefree, independent. Artists can’t be hampered by the dailiness of ordinary life—Tony felt strongly about that. Doing the same things each day, forever bothered about money. Art has to be freed from all that. Everything was very daily, in Europe, back then—daily life was what we were looking at constantly, what we were sketching. Subject matter, said Tony, that’s the point. He was very serious about his work—more experimental than I was, more abstract, very much a colorist. He had tremendous promise—everyone said so. He was going to be the next Graham Sutherland, Paul Nash. I think it hasn’t worked out like that. I’d have heard.
We weren’t getting on quite so well that summer. We disagreed in Brittany, argued our way down to the Auvergne, made it up somewhere around the Pyrenees, squabbled again in Catalonia. Issues about where to go next, and how long to stay here or there, plus the Hillman was being really tricky. I said I was tired of Spain. Tony said we’ve hardly touched Spain—amazing landscapes, super people, so visual.
The last time he’d say that.
Actually, we were on good terms, the day we came across the wedding party. We’d driven deep into the back of beyond, miles from any town, hardly any villages even, just isolated farms, fields of this and that, hillsides with goats. So I had laughed and agreed. Only problem was the Hillman, which kept coughing and spluttering and stalling. We stopped, to give the tiresome thing a rest, and did some sketching beside a pasture with cows wearing bells, got the car started again, with difficulty, and then a mile or so further on suddenly there were all these people.
A farmhouse, and a long table outside with eats and drinks, and this party going on—everyone done up to the nines, and the younger ones dancing, and the bride and groom very obvious. She was about my age—Spanishly gorgeous, long black hair, glittering eyes.
We slowed down. Slow was all the Hillman cared to do at that point, anyway. But we were both thinking the same thing . . . must draw this. Tony was reaching for his sketch pad before he was out of the car.
We stopped a little way away. Tried to be unobtrusive. Sat on a stone wall by the road. Did quick sketches: that old fellow at the end of the table, the woman pouring wine, those girls dancing.
Unobtrusive? Two people couldn’t turn up in a car out of nowhere without being noticed. Children came over, peeked at our sketches, ran back giggling. A woman brought two glasses of wine, indicated that we could join the party.
We did. We went and sat by the table, accepted a bite of this, a taste of that, sketched some more. Big smiles all round.
What luck! The real thing, so authentic.
Tony drew the bride. He was good at a likeness; she came out well. Much approval—laughter, and the sketch passed from hand to hand.
Artista?
Yes, we said. Yes. Artista.
Bueno! Muy bueno!
Then the bride’s mother wanted her portrait done. And a sister. Tony obliged, though I could see he was getting a bit bored with this. It was like being one of those people who sit around at Piccadilly Circus with an easel, doing bespoke likenesses. Not his scene.
After a couple of hours we decided to move on. You can have enough of authentic, eventually. So lots of smiles and hand-shaking, and we headed back to the car.
It wouldn’t start. Ignition dead. Terminally dead.
Our situation had been observed. Some of the men came over and set about giving us a push.
That usually did the trick. Not this time.
Somebody opened up the bonnet, peered inside. Much tutting and frowning. Others looked, expressed dismay.
Garage? we said. El garage?
Laughter. Gesticulations. We got the message. The nearest garage was twenty-five kilometers away.
The father of the bride had taken over a leadership role. The farmer, evidently. Big, burly man with a forthright manner. Some sort of conference took place—everyone talking at once—and then he seemed to be offering a plan. He gestured toward the old pickup parked by the farm, one of the only two vehicles in sight. The other was a battered little car that didn’t look any healthier than ours. The means of transport around here was evident: mule, cart, and bike.
Some rope was fetched. The idea, it seemed, was to tow the Hillman to this distant garage.
We beamed. Gracias, gracias.
A pause. Unmistakable indication of what was needed. Dinero. Peseta. Money.
Ah, we said. Sí, sí.
Trouble was, we were pretty well out of cash. Not a long-term problem—we had traveler’s checks. But we’d been meaning to find a bank for the last couple of days, and then never did.
We got this across. Banco, we said. We get to a banco and then we have dinero. No problem.
Yes, problem. Money up front. Surprising how clearly the farmer got that across.
Oh, come on, said Tony. Surely they can trust us? When the car’s fixed we get to a bank, and bring him what’s needed. We go with the bloke in the pickup and then stay with the car till it’s done.
He explained, all smiles. Pointed to car, to pickup, indicating time on his watch. “Then—banco! Then—come back here! Aquí! Dinero!” He displayed our traveler’s checks, which provoked derision.
No. No and no. Aquí. Stay here.
The pickup had been driven up and the Hillman roped behind. Tony sighed: “Well, if that’s the way they want it. How long’s this garage going to need, I wonder?”
El garage? Cuanto tiempo?
Much shrugging and rolling of eyes. You were talking days, several days. A week.
By now we were getting a bit fed up. Evidently we were going to spend rather more time with authentic Spanish country life than we’d reckoned with. And the warmth had rather gone out of our welcome. Treatment had become distinctly brisk. Do this, come over here. We got our stuff out of the car, as indicated, watched the Hillman bump away behind the pickup, carried the haversacks, easels, sketchbooks, painting equipment over to a barn where, the farmer’s wife proposed, we should sleep. Hay bales. Chickens for company. Oh, well. We’d have a tale to tell, at least.
The farmer was taking a thoughtful interest in our paints. Picking up tubes of color, fingering brushes. He looked at Tony, with a sort of smile. Speculative smile.
“Artista. Bueno!”
He beckoned. We followed him into the big farmhouse kitchen. Flagged floor. Huge old black stove. Whitewashed walls. To which he pointed. Then to himself, to his wife, to others who had now crowded in.
“Niente dinero—pintura.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Tony.
This, it seemed, was the deal. You haven’t got any cash to pay up front for taking your car twenty-five kilometers to the garage, getting it fixed, and bringing it back, so you can pay in kind. A nice fresco on our kitchen wall—group portrait of the family. Take it or leave it—except that leave it wasn’t an option.
Tony painted all through the next day. He painted the farmer, as central figure. He painted the wife, alongside. He painted the bride, who had gone to live just a couple of fields away, it turned out. He painted the bride’s two little sisters.
There was criticism, at points. The farmer wanted his money’s worth. This face not so good, do it again. More color h
ere. Put the family dog in there.
Tony painted on, the following day. The son. An old granny, brought in for the occasion on a cart. A couple of aunts.
“It’s like the Last Supper,” he said. “And I’m not bloody Leonardo, am I?”
He was given a glass of wine, presumably to keep his strength up. Food was provided twice a day; basic food—coarse bread, soup, bit of hard cheese, a chunk of sausage, a tomato. Authentic, you had to call it. Same as they were eating themselves.
And me? I was not painting—oh, no. I had been measured as an artista, it appeared, and found wanting. There were other plans for me.
I fetched water. The well was some way away from the house. You pumped with a sort of iron handle thing. It made your arm ache. Then you carried the buckets. I hadn’t known before that water is heavy. Several trips, over the course of the day. “Bueno,” said the farmer’s wife. I suppose she did this, normally.
I made use of the water, as instructed. I washed clothes, in a tub. Scrub. Scrub some more. Rinse. Hang out to dry.
Bueno, bueno. And here’s another lot. Do those now. When you’ve fetched more water.
The kitchen floor. Scrub again. On hands and knees. I scrubbed around Tony’s feet, as he worked. I said, “What if we just refuse? Say we’re damn well not going on like this.”
“He’ll just say—OK, push off, get lost. We’re miles from anywhere. We haven’t got the foggiest idea where they’ve taken the car.”
I said, “We haven’t been very clever, have we?”
Tony stared at his fresco, teeth clenched.
“And you’ve got the best of it,” I said. “At least you’re painting. Just try doing this.”
“Frankly,” he said, “I never want to bloody paint again.”
“Ándale!” snorted the elderly uncle who was posing for his place in the lineup. Irritable interjection—get on with it.
The Purple Swamp Hen and Other Stories Page 2