by Tim Bowler
She lay back and looked up at the sky, and pondered the enigma of Grandpa. It made no sense, his asking her opinion. She knew nothing about art. She only knew that for some reason he felt more comfortable working when she was around. Maybe Mom was right; maybe he did see her as a kind of muse, though that was hardly a word she would ever have applied to herself.
She glanced at him from time to time, taking care to make sure he didn’t feel she was trying to see what he was doing. She had learned over the years how touchy he was about people watching him when he was trying to concentrate, or, worse still, glancing over his shoulder before he was ready to show his work. But he was absorbed and had started quickly, which was a good sign. She said nothing and gazed back at the sky.
Two hours passed, and still he seemed intent and focused. He was working fast, feverishly fast, as though he wanted to wrench the picture out of himself in one convulsive effort.
Suddenly, to her dismay, he threw down the brush. “It’s no good. I can’t get it right. ”
She sat up and saw him scowling at the painting. “Am I putting you off, Grandpa? ”
“No, no, it’s not you. It’s me. Look at the damn thing. ”
“Are you sure you want me to? ”
“’Course I do. ” He glared at her, but she knew his venom was directed not at her but at the picture, and himself. She stood up, walked around behind him, and looked over his shoulder; and gave a start.
It was still the river scene, but he had added so much more. The hints of green that had suggested the riverbanks were darker and had touches of brown; the pale waters had flecks of silver and gold and blue; but the picture was now dominated by swirls of mist and a strange tension in the water as it was drawn down a widening mouth toward the sea. There was still a remoteness about the scene, yet it seemed more haunting, more disturbing than ever.
And still there was no boy.
“Where is it, Grandpa? ”
His eyes flashed at her, and she thought for a moment he was resentful at her question, and she cursed herself for asking it. She knew that, to him, after working with intensity on a painting, the vision he was trying to express was so obvious to him, it did not occur to him that others could not see it as easily as he did, so their questions seemed like an insult. But she was wrong this time: He was still only angry with himself.
“It’s supposed to be this river, ” he said.
“But not this part. ”
“No, ” he said cryptically. “Not this part. ”
“I like it. I really do. ” She smiled at him, glad that she didn’t have to lie to him. But he only scowled more deeply.
“It’s garbage. ”
He leaned back in his chair, and she wondered what she should do. He was spent now and bitterly frustrated with himself, and she foresaw troublesome hours ahead for everyone. He was difficult enough after finishing a painting, but not finishing a painting was even worse and usually meant an agony of moodiness and petulance until he was finally able to give form to the images that chafed inside him.
“Don’t give up on the picture, Grandpa, ” she said.
But he didn’t answer. His face had darkened; his body was shuddering. Suddenly he clapped a hand to his chest.
She started forward.
“Grandpa, no! ”
CHAPTER FIVE
He was losing consciousness fast. She held him upright in the chair, calling to him. “Grandpa, please don’t die. ”
His eyes flickered at her, but she didn’t know whether he saw her.
“I’ll run and find Mom and Dad, ” she said.
“Don’t . . . don’t . . . ” he muttered. “Don’t . . . leave . . . me . . . ”
His face was screwed up in pain. She knelt beside him, thinking of Mom and Dad, and the first aid lessons she should have taken, and where the nearest telephone was, and . . .
His eyes opened wider, and consciousness seemed to return, though with a struggle. He took a deep breath, and she heard how much it hurt him.
“Wheelchair, ” he gasped. “Wheelchair. ”
“But — ”
“Wheelchair. ” His eyes focused on her. “Get me . . . back to the cottage. I’ll . . . I’ll be all right if I can . . . get to my bed. ”
He grimaced and clutched at his chest again.
“I’m getting Mom and Dad, ” she said.
“No! ” He seized her hand and gripped it with all his strength. “Listen, I’ll be all right in a minute. It’s just a turn. It’ll pass. I . . . I just need to get back to my bed and rest and . . . and have my pills. ” He gritted his teeth. “The wheelchair . . . can you get it? ”
She didn’t want to leave him now. He was breathing more jerkily than ever, and his face looked almost white, but his eyes were wide open again and at least he didn’t look as though he was about to lose consciousness. And it was just possible Mom and Dad might be back at the cottage.
She stood up. “I’ll get it, Grandpa. ”
She ran back to the cottage and quickly looked for Mom and Dad, but there was no sign of them. The wheelchair sat where they had left it only a short while ago. She seized the handles and raced with it back to Grandpa.
His body had sagged, and his head had fallen forward on his chest, but at the sound of her footsteps he looked up. His breathing had calmed, but he was still hideously pale.
“I’ll help you into it, ” she said.
He started to protest, but she leaned forward and slid her arms around his back.
“Be careful how you lift me, ” he panted. “Don’t strain yourself. If you can’t do it, leave me here. I’ll manage. I’ll — ”
“Grandpa, shut up, will you? ”
Somehow she pulled him toward her, helped, she knew, by the efforts he was making himself. But he was heavy; though not a bulky man, his body was wiry and tough and even in old age retained a residue of the great strength he must have had in his youth. She felt her cheek against his as she edged him, bit by bit, into the wheelchair.
He slumped back in it, struggling again for breath, and for a moment she feared another attack was coming. Then he winked at her.
“Thank you, nurse. ” He turned his head away and gazed toward the river. “I’m all right now. Just get me back to my bed. ”
She frowned. He wasn’t all right; he was seriously unwell and needed to be in the hospital or at the very least have a doctor look at him. If only they had a telephone at the cottage, so she could call Mom and Dad on the mobile phone.
“Come on, Grandpa. Let’s get you to your bed. ”
She started to push him back up the slope. He said nothing but at least didn’t seem to be getting any worse. They reached the cottage, and she steered him through to his bedroom.
He looked around at her. “I can manage now. ”
“No, you can’t. ”
“Yes, I can. ”
She didn’t bother to argue but simply leaned forward and put her arms around him again.
“I can do it, ” he said, but she could feel he wasn’t resisting her. There was some strength in his legs, it seemed, though not much and certainly not enough for him to stand up on his own. With an effort she eased him onto the bed, then realized she hadn’t pulled back the top sheet first and he was now lying on it.
He chuckled. “We’re neither of us very good at this, are we? ”
She tried to smile but found she could not.
“Don’t bother about the sheet, ” he said. “I’ll lie here for a bit. Can you pass me my pills? And the water? ”
She steadied the glass for him as he drank down the capsules.
“Is there anything else you want, Grandpa? ”
“Straighten my legs, will you? ”
She put down the glass and did as he asked, then stood back and looked over him.
“Do you want me to put that blanket over you? ”
“No, it’ll be too hot. Just leave it by me. I’ll pull it over, if I want it. Go and get the painting things, will you
? I’ll be all right now. ”
She bit her lip. It was so difficult to know how best to help him. She felt she should be doing much more than this. The immediate danger seemed to have passed, but she prayed Mom and Dad would come back soon.
“I’ll get the things, ” she said, and made for the door.
“Jess? ” he called.
She stopped and turned.
“Promise me something, ” he said.
She walked back to him and sat on the bed. “Anything. ”
“Promise me you won’t tell your mom and dad what’s happened. ”
“But — ”
“Jess, listen. ” He took her hand. “I haven’t got long. I haven’t got long at all. ” He looked her hard in the eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying? ”
She dropped her gaze and nodded.
“But I want to finish my painting, ” he said. “And I want to finish it here. I don’t want to go into the hospital, not yet. At the end, maybe, if I’ve got to, when I’ve finished my painting. I don’t much care what happens to me then. Do you understand? ”
She didn’t want to understand, and she didn’t want to promise to keep silent and bottle all this inside her. She wanted to share it with Mom and Dad the moment they came back; and she felt they deserved to know. They loved Grandpa just as much as she did. But she knew Grandpa would never see it that way.
She said nothing; but nodded once again.
“Go and get the things, ” he said.
Struggling to conceal her distress, she ran from the room and out into the sunshine again; and there, standing in front of the cottage, were Mom and Dad.
And a man.
CHAPTER SIX
“This is Alfred, ” said Dad. “Alfred, this is Jess. ”
“And that’s short for Jessica, isn’t it? ” said the man. “I’ve been hearing all about you and I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve got a cat called Jessica. She’s not a swimmer like you are but she likes a nice bit of fish. ”
And he held out his hand.
Jess was still thinking of Grandpa and felt unprepared for this string of unrelated facts, but she took his hand, and hers seemed to disappear inside it. He was elderly, like Grandpa, and seemed friendly enough, if a little eccentric. He was tall and ungainly and had a huge floppy nose that looked like a blob of clay that had fallen onto him by accident. His eyes were bright and direct and reminded her of a child she’d once seen watching a magician.
He looked around.
“This river’s a beauty for swimming, and there’s a good beach at Braymouth. My sister lives there. Wouldn’t live anywhere else, she says. She’s got a eat, too, but it’s called Jasper. That’s funny, Jessica and Jasper, two J’s. Now there’s a thing. ”
And he went on talking about his older brother in South Africa, his other sister and her husband and their four children in London, and why they didn’t like living there but had to, and his nephews and nieces and how sorry he was that he didn’t have any grandchildren but maybe there was still hope.
Jess looked and listened, feeling somewhat nettled that no one had asked about Grandpa. She would have to interrupt this man soon if Mom and Dad didn’t say something.
Mom smiled at her. “Jess, you’ll never guess. We went to meet Mr. and Mrs. Gray and ask them if they knew anyone called Alfred, and it turns out he’s Mrs. Gray’s father. ”
“My son-in-law built this cottage, ” said Alfred, quick to regain control of the conversation. “And he’s got more houses around Braymouth way. He’s a good lad. Handy with tools. He and my daughter put a lot of work into these vacation cottages. Not that they ever make much money out of them. They’re too honest to be good at business. ”
“Spoken like a true cynic, ” said Mom.
“Absolutely, ” said Alfred, clearly without the slightest idea what she meant. “Anyway, where is the old boy? ”
“He’s in bed, ” said Jess. She saw a look of alarm on Dad’s face and quickly added, “He’s having a rest. ”
Dad narrowed his eyes. “He’s been all right, hasn’t he? ”
“Yes. ” She looked away, certain he’d seen the lie in her face.
“I’ll go see if he’s awake, ” he said.
“Don’t disturb him on my account, ” said Alfred. “Not if he’s sleeping. No hurry. Haven’t seen him for sixty years. Another hour or two won’t make much difference. We can stay here and chat till he wakes up. ”
Mom and Jess exchanged glances.
“Well, I’ll go and check anyway, ” said Dad, and he entered the cottage. Mom smiled at Alfred. “Pop’ll be pleased to see you. ”
“I doubt that very much, ” said Alfred. “He never had any time for me when we were boys. Don’t suppose he’ll have much more now. Unless he’s changed, and that’s even less likely. ”
Jess stared at him, stunned by his words. Yet he had spoken them without bitterness or sarcasm, indeed with only obvious affection. She tried to imagine what Alfred must have been like as a boy. Big for his age, that was for sure, and probably much as he seemed now: bumbling, well-meaning, and frustratingly fond of words.
Grandpa would not have wanted to spend much time with him.
“And how’s his temper? ” said Alfred.
“Short, ” said Mom. “With everyone except Jess. ”
“Ah? ” Alfred wheeled around and looked Jess over. “Now I can understand that. ”
She felt herself blush, but fortunately Dad came back at that moment.
“He’s awake but he looks dreadful, really pale and weak, and he’s very out of sorts. He didn’t even have the strength to snap at me when I tried to straighten the sheets. ” He looked at Jess. “You sure he was OK when he was with you? He says he’s just tired, but I don’t like the look of him. And I thought he wanted to get that painting finished. ”
She looked down, unsure of how much she should say. “He’s done some of it, but I think it wore him out a bit. ”
“So he hasn’t finished it? ”
“No. ”
Dad’s face darkened. “We’re in for trouble, then. ”
Jess glanced at Alfred and wondered whether they should be talking about Grandpa like this in front of him. But to her surprise Alfred was chortling to himself.
“Reckon I turned up in the nick of time. If he’s going to be that bad tempered, he can vent it on me like he used to and I can give you all a break. It’ll be like old times. ”
“I’m not quite sure we should allow that to happen, ” said Dad.
But Alfred only laughed even more.
“You needn’t worry about me. He was always going after me when we were kids. I used to drive him crazy. You see, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but I have a sort of tendency to talk a lot. So they say, anyway. Always have done. But he was —well, he was always wrapped up in his own thoughts. Self-contained, you know what I mean? Trouble was, he was the only other boy for miles around, so I used to go look for him, and spend time with him, you know, for company, which I don’t think he always appreciated. So don’t worry —I’m used to him giving me a bad time. I never took any notice in the old days and I won’t take any now. As I say, it’ll be like old times. ”
Dad frowned.
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t turn out like that. Anyway, I told him you’re here. He didn’t seem surprised you’re still living in the area. ”
“Just surprised I’m still living at all, eh? ”
“Well, yes, he did say something to that effect. Anyway, he says it’s OK to take you through to see him. ”
Jess caught Dad by the arm. “Dad, can I go for a walk? ”
“A walk? Where? ”
“I want to explore. ”
“We’ve just been exploring, and you didn’t want to come. ”
“That’s because I thought I ought to stay with Grandpa. Please, I won’t go far. ”
“But what about lunch? Alfred’s going to be joining us and — ”
“I’
m not hungry, honestly. I just want to — ”
“But I don’t want you wandering around on your own. ”
“Why not? ”
“Well, it’s not . . . ” He glanced at Alfred. “I mean, around here . . . anything could . . . ”
Alfred read his thoughts as easily as Jess did.
“She should be safe enough, ” he said, “as long as she doesn’t do anything stupid or go too far. The only problem in these parts is, if you do get into trouble, there’s nobody for miles around to help you. ”
Jess thought of her feelings earlier, of the clear sensation of someone’s presence; but she said nothing, still determined to go off.
Alfred mused on.
“She should be all right. She looks like a sensible girl. And it’s good for walking around here. A bit lonely, but I like feeling I’ve got the place all to myself even if I do get down in the dumps sometimes when my daughter and son-in-law are out and I’ve got nobody to talk to. But my sister comes over from Braymouth every Tuesday and Sunday, and on Wednesdays we — ”
“But what about the river? ” said Dad, quick to interrupt before Alfred could get into his stride. “Jess’ll be drawn to that. You said it’s good for swimming, but is it really safe? ”
“Safe enough for a good swimmer. No, the only thing your girl’ll have to worry about is boredom. ” He winked at her. “No boys around here. ”
She looked down. “I’m not bothered about that. ”
She was desperate now to get away on her own. She needed seclusion to come to terms with her anxieties about Grandpa; and he needed seclusion, too, not the company of a garrulous old acquaintance. He needed to recover his strength and self-confidence so that he could make another attempt on that painting. Even here, away from his presence, she could sense his frustration. And the thought that one more attack might cost him his life and deny him the thing he yearned for filled her with fear.
Dad still looked uncomfortable at the thought of her going off on her own but he argued no further, and finally, with some reluctance, went inside with Alfred.