Across the Frozen Desert to Byrd Station
The Heart of the Princes’ Islands
Lafayette’s Homeland, Auvergne
Jerusalem, the Divided City
Seychelles: Tropic Isles of Eden
‘Choosing one is really the challenge,’ he said. ‘I want you to take a few away with you and really have a proper look. Study the photographs. Find a place that does for you what the fjords do for me.’
I was not sure that a photograph could ever calm me. ‘I don’t know, Victor. That seems a bit pointless.’
There was an expression he always brought out when I was not taking him seriously—lips pulled in, eyes rounded—and he was showing it to me now. ‘We’ve been at this for quite a while, haven’t we?’ he said. ‘I’ve sat here listening to you for months and, honestly, I’m not sure that we’re any further forward than we were the day I met you. Aside from you being on a lot of tricyclics and getting more paintings done—most of which you seem to detest. We’ve reached a point where we have to find a strategy for you to cope with your anxieties or they’re going to seriously affect your future. Eventually, you’re going to work yourself into a depression I can’t help you with. That’s why you need to try your best with this exercise. It’s just a visualisation technique—not a cure—but I think it will benefit you.’
At once, the spread of magazines on the table began to seem further away. ‘I will,’ I said. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Good.’ He took off his glasses and breathed on the lenses. ‘We all need a place that’s ours and ours alone. The fjords are mine—you have to choose somewhere else.’
I flicked through the pages of the topmost issue.
Skiers in Alta, Utah.
Oxen in Schneeburg, Austria.
‘It can’t be anywhere you’ve been before—nowhere with memories,’ Victor went on. ‘How you imagine the place is what’s important. That’s the only way it can belong to you.’
Boulder Peak, Idaho.
Mount Lafayette, New Hampshire.
Diamond Rock, Martinique.
‘Do you understand the exercise?’
‘I think so. But—’
‘No buts. No evasions. Just do your best.’
Perhaps it would be like the first time I left Clydebank as a child after the Blitz. My mother took me on a coach to see my great aunt in Coldstream. I was not told what to expect, apart from a lot of countryside, so I imagined it as any five-year-old would have: a small town of grey-bricked cottages beside a river that was permanently frozen, happy people skating on the ice in special wooden clogs and drinking hot chocolate. We arrived into something greener and less magical. The Coldstream I had pictured dropped away, no longer mine.
‘I don’t need to know which place you’ve chosen,’ Victor said, ‘but when I come back in January, I want you to be ready to start calling it to mind. If you can visualise this place when you start feeling anxious, centre yourself there when you need to, then we might be able to bring your dosage down, over time.’ And he reclined, scraping the dull leather caps of his shoes together. ‘I’ll bet that journey up to Scotland isn’t so bad if you can go first-class, you know. Six hours on a train won’t kill you.’
The news came in an envelope from my mother. She had written to me with her usual gossip about the happenings in her building and reports of my father’s foul mood, with one last paragraph pleading for my company at Christmas time. And, clipped to the last page, was a cutting from the newspaper, on which she had written in the margin: Saw this in the Herald yesterday. Sorry, love xx
HOLDEN – HENRY. Peacefully, at Glasgow Royal Infirmary, on Monday 11th December 1961, Henry Mackintosh Holden (artist and lecturer at the Glasgow School of Art), aged 78 years. A generous and loving man who will be sadly missed. Funeral service at Luss Parish Church, Dumbartonshire, his family’s village, on 18th December at 10.30 a.m. No flowers, please.
The funeral was three days away. I called my mother to tell her I would be coming home for a spell. Her delight was tempered by the fact that I would not arrive until after I had paid my respects to Henry. She managed to hide the disappointment in her voice. ‘All right, love. You do what you feel’s best,’ she said. ‘We’ll have the place ready for you.’
It was a very long journey to Luss. I booked myself onto the earliest train to Glasgow, first-class, reasoning that I would need the comfort and the quiet of the roomier carriages. On the way, I read most of a novel and looked through the images in the National Geographic issues I had packed for the trip. It had been a few days since I had seen Victor, and I had still not decided on a photograph to call my own—in truth, they had barely left more than a fleeting impression on me, the sort of wonderment you glean from browsing a jeweller’s window. But I vowed to keep trying.
From Glasgow, I took a connecting train to Balloch, at the foot of Loch Lomond. My suitcase was so heavy that, after a few minutes lugging it, the joints of my elbows crackled with pain. The train was crowded with families and I had to walk through several carriages just to find a seat. The stolid darkness of the Clyde and its surrounds went by the windows, familiar and yet not. It was so late when I arrived at the station that I missed the last bus out of Balloch. I stayed the night at a nearby inn, and, waking early, traipsed along the road with my suitcase to catch the rusting single-decker that would carry me into Luss.
Still, I managed to be late. The service had already started when I got to the church. I stowed my case in the antechamber behind a stack of hassocks and crept down the aisle as quietly as I could. Two young girls were playing ‘Nearer My God To Thee’ on recorders by the altar. Half the pews were empty. A shining casket rested on a plinth with a single wreath of heather. I found a space beside an old man in a faded suit adorned with medals. He nodded at me soberly, and I shared my hymnal with him when it came time to sing. After Henry’s widow read out a poem by Yeats, the old man offered me his handkerchief, but we both sat through the prayers unmoved.
Four strong lads carried the coffin down the aisle to the graveyard, where a fresh cleft in the ground was waiting to receive it, just beyond the hedgerows. People arced around it with the breeze whipping their hair. I clustered with the mourners, hanging back. And when the Reverend gave his words of committal and the formalities were done, I threw a fist of soil into the grave and whispered thank you to a box of wood, wondering what Henry might have thought about it all.
Walking back, I saw his widow linking arms with a man I recognised from art school: a thickset fellow named Kerr whom Henry used to tease for painting cats in every mural, regardless of its subject matter (‘Did you never think to ask yourself, Kerr,’ he once said in our weekly crit, ‘whether those wee calicos have any business at a crucifixion?’). Kerr escorted Mrs Holden to one of the black cars near the church gates before I got a chance to introduce myself. Later, in the vestibule, he came to speak with me as I was waiting to sign the condolence book. We smiled at the remembrance of the calicos, and chatted for a while about my new life in London. He seemed only half-interested in my career as a painter but was extremely curious to know how word of the funeral had reached me. ‘Big news, is it, down there?’ he said, smirking. This led us into reminiscing about Henry and his feelings about London—he used to say that it was a city ‘without compassion for the individual’ but encouraged us to experience it if we were serious about becoming artists. ‘Aye, you don’t forget a fella like him,’ Kerr said, with an air of finality. ‘He gave us a job at the School after. Life-modelling. Ha! I was skint at the time, so I couldn’t say no. Haven’t really painted much since those days.’ Kerr had inherited his father’s hardware shop in Bishopbriggs and now ran it with his sister. I told him that sounded like a very nice life, and he said, ‘Pssh. It’s about ten different kinds of hell rolled into one. But it’s a living.’ He offered me a lift to the pub for the wake, and I accepted. ‘Did you sign that yet?’ he asked, pointing to the condolence book. ‘I never know what to write. Maybe you can think of something for us.’
>
Kerr went off to fetch his car, leaving me in the hush of the vestibule with my suitcase at my heels. Before I wrote my message in the book, I turned back through the pages to check the tenor of the comments—I had never written a condolence before and did not want to draw too much attention to myself. There were a lot of platitudes: Deepest sympathies. Always in our hearts. So many memories. I wanted mine to be more personal. As I searched for a clear space to write, I saw that a page had been turned inwards—creased so that one stumpy half jutted outwards from the spine. I unpicked it. There was another short message there, and a signature:
Paint what you believe.
Thanks for everything you taught me.
Rest in peace, old man.
James Culvers
‘Are we all set then?’ said Kerr.
I did not even realise he was behind me.
He jangled his car keys. ‘We could walk it, mind, but seeing as you’ve got your case . . .’ And he stooped to lift it for me. ‘You all right, love? You’re shivering.’
It was definitely Jim’s handwriting. My heart was shuddering and so was my jaw, but I managed to get the words out: ‘Do you know if Jim was here earlier?’
‘Who?’ Kerr said.
I showed him the page.
‘Never heard of him,’ he said. ‘Who is he?’
I held the book tight. ‘A friend of mine.’
Kerr nodded. He eyed the tome of condolences vised against my chest. ‘You bringing that along for Mrs H? Good thinking.’
The Colquhoun Arms was less than half a mile from the church, back on the road where the bus had dropped me. Beyond the windscreen of Kerr’s Cortina, the outlying hills were yellowed by sunshine. Low clouds seeped across the birdless sky. The treetops softly stirred. We drove in silence. The squat grey cottages of Luss smudged beside Kerr’s head. When he wheeled into the parking space, I jumped out of the car so fast I almost left my case on the back seat. ‘Steady, love,’ he said. ‘It’s open bar.’
I hauled my suitcase across the car park and dumped it by the coat racks. One corner of the pub had been roped off for the function. A huddle of glum-faced men in black were sitting at a long table with sandwiches, supping pints and rolling whisky in short glasses. There was no sign of Jim Culvers. I checked the corridors, the snug, the dark ends of the place. I peered into the Gents, but there was just a bald old fellow standing at the urinal. The barmaid saw me coming out and said, ‘It’s the other one, hen. We need to change that sign. I keep telling ’em.’
Mrs Holden was in a wingback near the fireplace, clutching a tissue. A grey-haired lady was crouched beside her. Approaching them, it occurred to me that they must have been twins. They had equally flat noses and high foreheads, and they both turned to me with the same mannequin expressions as I hovered near them, waiting to speak. ‘Mrs Holden,’ I said. ‘You probably don’t know me, but I knew your husband. He was my favourite teacher. I’m just so sad to lose him.’ It came out as ingenuously as I hoped it would. The sister stood up and said, ‘I’ll get you that brandy, Mags, OK?’ She left us alone.
Mrs Holden hung a stare on me, lids twitching. ‘So good of you to come,’ she said. And she had to bite on her lip to keep from crying. ‘Were you in—’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry. Were you in his mural class?’
‘I was. I came up from London as soon as I heard.’
‘Oh, that’s really good of you.’ She gulped something down. ‘And what is it you do now?’
‘I’m an artist,’ I told her.
‘You make a living that way, do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘A good one?’
I did not know if it was right to smile, but I did. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh, how lovely. He was always so proud of his students. Did you know Geoff Kerr? He’s here somewhere, I think.’
‘Yes, I just got a lift with him.’
‘A good lad, Geoff. He’s been such a help.’ Mrs Holden sniffed in a long breath. And, seeing the condolence book under my arm, she said, ‘Is that for me?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry—of course.’ I gave it to her. ‘I was wondering if you knew where I could find an old friend of mine. Jim Culvers. He was at the service, but I can’t see him here.’
Idly turning through the book, she said, ‘Who?’
‘He’s another student of Henry’s.’ I showed her the page with Jim’s message.
She moved her eyes over the words, but there was no glint of recognition in them. ‘James Culvers. No. I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.’ And she paused, considering the empty fireplace. ‘There was an old student of Henry’s renting the cottage last summer, but I don’t recognise the name. Culvers—I’d remember that. This fella’s name began with a B. Bailey, or Bradley, or something like that. Henry never got me involved.’
‘The cottage?’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘His father’s place. He liked to come out and paint there sometimes. Then his hands got too sore, and he preferred having the money is his pocket. We planned on selling, but it wouldn’t be worth a lot now.’ When I asked for the address, she wafted her hand. ‘Ach, it’s not far. Get to the pier and turn left. It’s the only house on the water that’s not been looked after—you can’t miss it. What was your name again, love, did you say?’
‘Elspeth.’
‘Elspeth what?’
‘Conroy.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out for it,’ she said. ‘In the papers.’
I touched her hand. The skin felt thin as a cobweb. ‘Take care, Mrs Holden.’
‘Aye, you too. Thanks for coming.’
It was one harsh winter away from a wreck—a simple stone cottage with a pitched slate roof, so bearded with moss it was already bowing. There was a pale craquelure on the window frames, hay-coloured, moulting. The gutters were shot. The door glass was patched up with tape. A trampled path meandered up to the house, away from the brow of the loch, where the steel-blue water roiled quietly and a clutch of white sloops lilted on their moorings. I walked up the slope, skimming the waist-high grass with my palm, until I came to a doorstep, half painted black. There were old net curtains at the windows, dishes on the outer sill with food scraps: brown-bread crusts and pickle, a saucer ringed with coffee. But there was no sign of movement inside. I knocked several times and nobody answered.
There was no letterbox to peer through, and the windowpanes were coated in a sooty grime that made it difficult to see beyond the nets. I put my case down and side-stepped through the weeds. At the back of the house was a small garden, overrun with nettles, and a dank wooden outhouse. Behind it, a bank of firs, and two great hummocks pushing at the clouds. There was just one downstairs window, looking into the kitchen—a newspaper was on the table, but I could not read the headlines or the date. If the place was lived in, it was lived in sparely. The tap was dripping, a dried-up dishcloth spread over it. I could not think what I should do. Soon, I found my hand was reaching for the door. The handle turned, the latch came away. It was easy. The hinges squealed as the door opened. I waited, pondering the bareness of the kitchen. The tiles were scuffed by chair legs. The newsprint seemed bright, recent. I decided to go in.
But I was barely past the threshold when I heard his voice: ‘Never would’ve picked you for a burglar, Ellie.’ It came from directly behind me: slow, amused, admonishing. Spinning round, my knuckles grazed the doorframe, but I did not feel the pain until later.
Jim was standing there in a black woollen jacket. He was holding a small basket of flowers. His face was tanned and shaven. I could see his breath steaming out. It was close enough to gather, to bottle, to keep. ‘Why d’you look so afraid?’ he asked. ‘I’m not going to turn you in.’
‘Oh my God—Jim.’ It was all I could get out of me. ‘Jim.’ I stepped forward to hug him, and he did not move, accepting the embrace without returning it. He held the basket aloft, protecting his flowers. Then, giving me one soft tap on the back, he said, ‘All right, all right, enough.’ He smiled
at me apologetically, those familiar big teeth still as gapped as ever. But there was such a newness about him, too. His hair was cut neatly and combed into runnels—it seemed hard as wicker. The skin was smooth about his cheeks and it gave off a limey scent. He looked as sober as a child. ‘Go on inside,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get these into brine.’ When I did not budge, he said again, ‘Go on. I can’t stand about all day. And you seem to ‘ve cut yourself a bad one, look.’ My knuckles were streaking blood.
He followed me into the kitchen, got the iodine from the cupboard. I sat down at the table. My head was in a daze, and I was shivering again. I could not tell if I was relieved to see him or frightened of him leaving me. Dabbing a cloth into the iodine, he came and pressed it on my wound. ‘It’ll sting,’ he said, but I did not care. ‘Just let me take these flowers in. I’ll only be a moment.’
The through-door from the kitchen was just a wall of beads like you might find at the back of a dreary restaurant. As he pushed through them, they swung and clattered, and I could see into the room beyond. It was a bare shell with no carpet and only a wooden rocking chair for furniture. He had made it into a studio. Two narrow tables were arranged beside an easel with a board set up to paint on.
I trailed after him. He was unscrewing the lid of a tall jar filled with cloudy water. The painting beyond him was only part-finished, but it appeared to show the dying blossoms of a cherry tree scattered over flagstones. He tipped the flowers from his basket into the jar. ‘How’re the fingers?’ he asked, not turning to face me. When the lid was screwed tight, he shook the jar vigorously, side to side.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s a process. Helps with the yield.’ And he stopped quaking the jar and put it on the table. He took a metal colander and a bucket from underneath its legs. Removing the lid again, he poured the contents of the jar into the bucket, straining out the sodden flowers. He picked up the colander and began sorting through the petals, selecting only the pinkest, which he placed on a wad of fabric to dry.
The Ecliptic Page 25