by Tim Bowler
“Ignoramus, he said. ”
“Every ignoramus what the thing means. And if artists had to explain their pictures to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who came along, they’d never get any work done. And he said — ”
Mom interrupted her, laughing. “Something like that. Anyway, I was hoping you might know something about this painting, seeing as you seem to be a sort of muse for him. ”
“Muse? ”
“Someone who inspires an artist. ”
She knew what the word meant. Grandpa had often used it when she went to watch him paint, but generally it was just to say that the muse wasn’t being kind to him today, or that he’d have to be nice to the muse today as he had a difficult bit to work on, or something like that. He’d never suggested the muse had anything to do with her. Indeed, she’d always thought he meant some kind of goddess, not a human being at all. And it was hard to imagine anyone, even a goddess, having any influence over someone as willful as Grandpa.
“He doesn’t need me to inspire him, ” she said. “He’s been painting all his life. ”
Mom ran her finger around the edge of the painting, as though debating whether to answer; then she spoke, in a quiet, thoughtful voice. “But he’s only really found himself in his painting since you were born. His earlier pictures all lacked something. They had plenty of technical skill, but the magic wasn’t there. ” She paused. “But after you were born, it’s like something started to motivate him, and it’s gone on motivating him ever since. ”
“But he’s never called me a muse or anything like that. ”
“He wouldn’t. And he’s never said anything to Dad or me either. He probably doesn’t even see it that way himself, and if anyone asked him about it, he’d say they’re talking garbage. But there’s something —I don’t know what it is — but something he gets from you, something really important to him. Dad and I both feel it. ” She stroked Jess on the cheek. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but keep it to yourself and don’t let it make you vain —not that you would. Just treat it as a sign of his love. ”
Jess looked back at the painting and said nothing.
“So you don’t know anything about the river boy? ” said Mom.
“Sorry. ”
“Not to worry. Well, let’s get going. Bring the picture out to the car, can you? Not that I can see him having the energy to finish it on vacation, whatever he thinks. You know how worked up he gets when he’s painting. ”
Jess picked it up. “I’ll be along in a moment. ”
“Well, don’t hang around. We’ve got a hell of a journey in front of us. ”
“OK. ”
She waited until Mom had gone, then stared down at the picture again; and the words slid into her mind once more.
River Boy.
It was strange, but no doubt, as Mom said, Grandpa would put the boy in later. If he was strong enough to paint. That was the big worry. He might never lift a brush again, though she doubted that. He was so obsessive about a painting once he had started it, and this one —this one she sensed was important to him. And, for some reason, also to her.
She didn’t know why. She only knew that the more she looked at it, the more the presence of the absent boy seemed to grow, until finally it overwhelmed everything, the banks and the sky and even the river itself, pulling her into the picture and onward, irresistibly, toward the sea.
CHAPTER TWO
The journey took longer than even Dad had anticipated. Conversation died away and came back, and died away and came back, and finally died away altogether. Jess dozed through much of the trip. And into her mind came sleepy images of Grandpa.
She saw pictures of him playing with her in the garden when she was very small, letting her climb all over him, pretending she was too strong for him; pictures of him taking her to the hospital the time she fell off the swing and hurt her leg; pictures of him teaching her to ride a bike, holding on to the saddle to steady her and calling out encouragement when he realized she was afraid. And most of all, pictures of him painting; and pictures of him watching her while she swam.
She opened her eyes and saw another picture, the picture of an old man slumped on the backseat beside her, fast asleep, his chin on his chest, his head tipped slightly toward her. He seemed so fragile, especially with his eyes closed so that she couldn’t see the fire that usually blazed there. She glanced at Mom in the front seat and saw her nodding, too, then caught Dad’s eye in the car mirror.
“All right, Jess? ” he said.
“Yes. ” It wasn’t true and she suspected he sensed it but he didn’t press her. She stared out of the window at the dipping sun. “How much longer? ”
“Few hours yet. Tired? ”
“Yes. ”
“We’ll have a good rest when we get there. ”
“Do you think there’ll be anybody there who remembers Grandpa? ”
“Doubt it. Depends on whether anyone from his boyhood days has stayed on in the area, and whether they’re still alive. ” He glanced around as though to check Grandpa was still asleep. “He hasn’t kept in touch with anyone, that’s for sure. You know what he’s like for blocking out the past. He says he’s got a name to look up. Someone called Alfred who used to live around there. But I think it’s very unlikely anybody’ll know him. And even if they do, we probably won’t meet them. It’s a very remote place. The nearest house to us is about two miles, apparently. Ah, well. It’s what he wanted. ”
She gazed out at the fields and hills, so different from the urban landscape she’d grown up with, and wondered about the point of all this. They’d planned the trip before Grandpa’s heart attack, and it had been his own wish: he wanted to go back and see his boyhood home again, something he had never expressed the slightest desire to do.
That in itself was out of character: he’d always scorned looking back, as though it were a weakness. But memories, she knew, must be painful for him. Having lost both parents at the age of fifteen in the fire that destroyed their house, he had every right to think hard of the past.
Yet now they were going back.
She looked at him close beside her, hunched and weak, still fast asleep. Maybe he would surprise her; maybe on this vacation he would regain his health, become strong again. But the more she looked at him, the more her fears grew.
Amid those fears, her eyes closed once more.
She woke to the sound of running water. And Dad’s voice, weary but relieved.
“Wake up, everybody. We’re here. ”
She blinked and looked about her. Night had fallen, but through the window she could see the dark outline of trees. Dad opened the driver’s door to climb out, and the interior light flashed onto the sluggish confusion of their faces. Mom twisted around in her seat.
“Everybody OK? Pop? ”
“Yes, ” mumbled Grandpa, clearly not so.
“Jess? ”
“I’m OK. ”
Mom yawned. “Thought we’d never get here. That road from Braymouth seemed to wind on forever. ”
Jess pushed her door open and stepped out, and the sound of the water rushed over her with greater force. She looked to the right, and there, glistening under the moon, was the stream.
Mom climbed out of the car, walked over, and put an arm around her. “Beautiful place. Hope it’s not too cut off for you. ”
Jess said nothing; she was still captivated by the sound of the stream. Dad’s voice broke into her reverie.
“Let’s take a look around the cottage. ”
She turned around and gave a start: she’d been so fascinated by the river that she hadn’t even noticed the dusky shape of the cottage close by. It stood to the left of her with tall trees behind and the river twisted past it only a short distance away.
“Dad? ” she said. “Did you say there aren’t any other houses? ”
“Afraid not. We’re more or less on our own here. There’s a house about two miles away along the Braymouth road. That’s where Mr. and Mrs.
Gray live. They’re the owners of this place. They’ve got several vacation cottages, Mr. Gray told me, but they’re mostly around Braymouth. That’s the only community around here and it’s only an average-size town. There’s not much else, just the odd farm. ”
She looked around her, still absorbed by the sound of the stream. She was glad they were on their own here; she didn’t want any other communities. Just the four of them, and this place; that was enough. Braymouth could be as far away as it liked.
“How far’s Braymouth? ” she said.
“About twenty-five miles as the crow flies, ” said Dad. “At least forty by road once you’ve twisted around and climbed over the hills, and probably about the same if you were to follow the base of the valley. I expect this little stream ends up at Braymouth. ”
“It does, ” said Grandpa in a breathless voice behind them.
They turned and saw him struggling to lift himself out of the car. Dad hurried over to help him. “Sorry, Dad, ” he said. “Here, let me . . . ”
With an effort and much assistance Grandpa stood up and gazed about him in the darkness. Jess watched him, wondering what he was thinking, being here again after all these years. He sniffed the air suddenly and looked around at Dad. “And it’s not just a little stream, ” he said grumpily. “It turns into a good-sized river just down from here. ” He glanced at the cottage. “So this is where we’re staying. ”
“Yes. ” Dad hesitated. “And I don’t want any complaints. You’ve no idea how much trouble I had finding accommodation in this place. ”
“Who did you say owns it? ”
“People called Gray. ”
“Never heard of them. ”
“You won’t have. Anyway, let’s get inside. ”
“I’ll walk with Pop, ” said Mom.
“Don’t bother me, ” said Grandpa. “I’m all right. ”
Dad switched on a flashlight and led the way toward the cottage.
“Mr. Gray said he’d leave the key on the ledge over the door. ”
“Very trusting, ” said Grandpa.
“Well, when I told him how late we’d be getting here, I don’t think he fancied staying up. I expect we’ll see him in the morning. ”
“There’s the ledge, ” said Mom. She felt over it. “And here’s the key. ”
She unlocked the door, and they entered. Jess found a light switch and flicked it on to reveal a narrow hall stretching ahead of them with stairs at the end.
It seemed clean and comfortable enough downstairs. There was a decent-sized sitting room, a small bathroom with a sink, and a large game room with a table-tennis table dominating one half of it and a cupboard stuffed full of balls, bats, and rackets of various types. In the corner, as they’d requested, was a collapsible cot already assembled.
Mom walked over and examined it. “It’s quite springy, Pop. Will you be all right on this? ”
“I’ve slept on worse. ”
“I’m sorry. Putting you in here was the only solution we could think of. ”
“I expect I’ll cope. ”
They wandered through to inspect the kitchen, and Grandpa slumped straight into a chair. He said nothing, but Jess could tell from his face that he was desperately tired, desperately anxious to be left alone. She saw a note on the table and handed it to Dad, who quickly read it through.
“It’s from Mr. Gray, ” he said. “He says the only place to get food is Braymouth but he’s put milk and butter in the fridge and bread, tea, coffee, and sugar in the pantry. That’s nice of him. Where’s the pantry? ”
“Here, ” said Jess, opening a door.
“He told us on the phone there’s a freezer, ” said Mom, looking around her.
“Over there, ” said Dad.
She looked it over.
“Bigger than I expected. That’s good. And not a badsized fridge. Still, I suppose you have to stock up well out here. ”
Jess caught Dad’s eye, and they both smiled. Mom always packed enough provisions for a round-the-world trip, no matter where they were going. They probably wouldn’t need to go to Braymouth at all if they didn’t want to.
They left Grandpa sitting in the kitchen and checked the upstairs rooms. There was a bathroom and two bedrooms, a double and a small single. Jess walked into hers and looked around. It had a table, an armchair, a built-in wardrobe, and a comfortable enough bed; it seemed fairly welcoming. She wandered over to the window and saw the stream running past barely thirty feet away.
Mom spoke from behind her in the doorway. “I’m a bit bothered about the noise of that stream. We didn’t realize there was a river running so close. ”
“I don’t mind it. ”
“You haven’t tried sleeping here yet. I hope it doesn’t keep you awake. Our room’s noisy enough, and that’s on the other side of the house. ”
“I’ll be fine, Mom. Honestly. ”
She saw anxiety on Mom’s face and tried to think of something to reassure her. “I like the sound of the river, ” she said eventually. “I really do. It makes me think of swimming. I’d have chosen this room even if there’d been others free. Anyway, all that matters is that Grandpa’s comfortable downstairs. ”
Mom walked over to the window and gazed down at the stream, frowning. “I just hope he is, ” she said.
Jess soon found Mom was right. The stream did keep her awake. Yet it was strange: something about the sound seemed to rest her, almost as much as sleep itself.
She lay back in the bed, watching the play of moonlight upon the window and listening to the water below, racing on toward the sea. It was impossible to ignore the music of the stream —it so dominated everything —but she soon found she didn’t want to ignore it. She liked it; and the more she listened, the more it seemed like conversation.
Strange conversation, and constant, too, as though the river had much to impart. Perhaps Grandpa was listening as well. Perhaps he was lying awake right now, just as she was, drinking in this falling chatter. Perhaps, being born here, he understood it better than she did. He must have listened to the river many a time.
She sat up, frowning.
Thoughts of Grandpa always filled her with a mixture of feelings: admiration at his strength; tenderness at his vulnerability. It was hard to think of Grandpa dying. She had always imagined he would go on for years —and perhaps he would. Perhaps he would astonish them all. He was old, but not that old.
She listened to the river again, and finally its restlessness mastered her, matching perhaps the restlessness she felt within herself, and she stood up, put her bathrobe on, and wandered to the window, then leaned down, elbows on the sill, her chin cupped in her hands, and watched the stream as it ran past, talking to the night.
“What are you saying? ” she murmured to it. “What are you trying to tell me? ”
The waters slipped past, dark and sleek, gurgling over the rocks just down from her window, then twisting away toward the lower ground hidden beyond the house. And part of her seemed to run with them, all the way to the sea.
She sighed.
There was something strange about this place, unsettling even, yet not scary. It was as though there were a spirit here, not some ghoul or creeping shade, but a spirit of the river, of the trees and hills, a spirit running through all this like a magic charm.
The waters ran on, tinkling like a music box.
She shivered slightly and pulled her bathrobe more tightly around her, then, on an impulse, walked to the door of her room, opened it, and listened, trying to block out the sound of the river and hear the steady breathing of her parents.
There it was, Dad’s anyway, and that was enough. Mom famously slept through everything, but Dad was the one who generally had trouble dropping off, though once he was asleep, he usually stayed asleep, and everyone could hear it.
She tiptoed down the stairs, feeling her way carefully, unsure where the light switch was in case she needed it. At the bottom she stopped; then, as softly as she could, entered t
he sitting room. There was the dark shape of the coffin, waiting to be fully unpacked in the morning, and, at the far end, the door to Grandpa’s makeshift bedroom. She crept forward, put her ear close to it, and listened, trying to hear the sound of breathing.
There was none.
She felt a flutter of panic and pushed the door open. He was lying in the bed, his face thrown back, his mouth wide open as if in a scream. She started forward, knocking the edge of the table-tennis table as she did so —then he spoke.
“It’s all right. I’m OK. ”
He sounded tired, but she was relieved to hear his voice. She felt her breath slow down again.
“Come and sit here, ” he said.
She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, close to him.
“Take my hand, ” he said, struggling to free his arm from beneath the sheet.
She helped him and took his hand. It seemed so withered now, not like it used to he. Again she thought back to the days when she had been little and his hands had held her and made her feel safe. Now those hands were taking strength from hers.
“Can’t you sleep? ” he said.
She shook her head.
“Neither can I, ” he said. “I keep thinking how different this place feels to what I remember. ” He looked at her hard, his eyes almost steely against the darkness. “Everything changes, Jess. Everything. Nothing stays the same. Nothing lasts forever. There’s no use fighting it. We have to accept it. ”
She knew what he was telling her and she didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to think of change. She wanted to think of everything being the same forever. And even if some things did have to change, she didn’t want them to change now. Some other time, perhaps, when she was good and ready and able to accept them.
He chuckled suddenly.
“Tell you one thing that won’t have changed. Guy called Alfred, if he’s still alive. He used to live around here when I was a boy. Same age as me. His folks had a cottage about two miles from here. Might even be the one those people — what are they called? Gray? —are now living in. Can’t imagine Alfred’d be any different. He was one of those characters you could never imagine doing anything unusual. He’s probably living around here somewhere if he’s still . . . if he’s still . . . alive . . . ”