Flowers in the Morning

by Irene Davidson

  The last sheet of paper was pulled away, to reveal a much smaller canvas than those already adorning the walls. Rosetta replaced her glasses and held it at arm’s length ...as she studied the painting, the look on her face dissolved from that of mild irritation to one of wonderment and delight. Unlike the paintings already hung, this painting depicted, as well as Hamish’s more easily recognised detailed floral work several brightly coloured butterflies delicately fluttering among the flowers and a large caterpillar climbing a green stem. While the composition was perfect and the brushwork finely detailed, there was something more than just the photographic about the scene that elevated it beyond the mundane into a world that few could follow. Rosetta called it Hamish’s magic.

  “Wow! This is so far beyond gorgeous that I’m lost for words. Oh Hamish ...you’re a bloody great Highland marvel ...and I bet you won’t hear that compliment among all the ‘Art-speak’ this evening.” Saying this, Rosetta stopped for a moment and looked sternly over her half-glasses at Hamish before continuing, “...You WILL be here for the opening won’t you?” It was as much a command as a question. “There’s a lot of interest in this show, ...the phone’s been ringing so hot all week that I’ve had to put the answering machine on just to get any work done, ...I’ve pre-sold half the paintings already, some of them to buyers abroad who have never seen your work and are buying on the basis of your reputation alone, ...several of them have flown in specially to be here tonight they’ll want to see YOU.” Rosetta tapped Hamish’s chest twice with her index finger as she paused to draw breath, then went on, “...Well? Do I hear an affirmative to my first question? I know you haven’t been too keen to venture out of late ...but this reclusive thing is not good for business. You may not be aware of it, but a sizeable percentage of your work is bought by women, and, as brilliant as I know you are with a palette knife and a paintbrush, I’m sure that some small part of the appeal is as much you as it is your paintings.” saying this, Rosetta looked up at Hamish, evaluating his appearance, more like a mother before one of her recalcitrant sons than a businesswoman. “A bit of a tidy-up for those wild locks wouldn’t hurt either. I can hardly see your face for all that hair.”

  Self-consciously, Hamish ran a hand through his hair. Rosetta’s comment reminded him that it had been months since he’d bothered to have it trimmed. He smiled down at her and said a trifle cynically. ”Yes mam ...and I suppose you’ll be expecting me to wear a suit as well?”

  His cynicism went right over Rosetta’s head, both literally and figuratively ...it was the advantage, she said, of being so short. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary, the hair cut will do. You are an artist after all ...and I’m sure, knowing you that you’ll look good, whatever you wear. It’s just that with a face like yours, people deserve to be able to see it. Now, I’ll expect you to be here promptly by six o’clock for nibbles, drinks, photo ops and drooling admiration, O.K.?”

  “You make it sound like so much fun, how could I resist?” Hamish replied dryly.

  Rosetta gave him such a steely look over the top of her glasses that it made him pity her sons and husband. “Alright, I’ll do it,” he conceded, “but on the condition that I’m out of here after the first hour ...that’ll be about as much as I can stand and I’ve got dinner with friends at seven thirty.”

  “Fair enough, an hour will be acceptable. You’ve got a deal.” she said “Now off you go and get that haircut.” She shooed him towards the door. “I’ve got a lot to do before this evening. Damn and bugger,...” she muttered to herself, fixated at the painting in her hands, already ignoring him and focused on her next task, “...I think I’m going to have rehang everything to make this the centre of the exhibition.”

  Summarily dismissed, Hamish exited the gallery. He’d planned to catch a bus to Knightsbridge, but as he came out onto the pavement he noticed the sun making a brave attempt to peek through the clouds and decided to walk instead. First, he made a small detour to nearby Drayson Mews, striding along a lane paved with granite setts to reach the door of a tiny hair salon tucked in among the garages and private houses …these had once housed horses and carriages for the surrounding homes. Julia, the stylist who usually cut his hair, stopped cutting her current client’s hair and clutched her heart in mock-shock and dismay when she saw him reflected in the mirror coming through the door behind her.

  “Ugh, Hamish,” she exclaimed, turning around, “I almost didn’t know who was under that mop? Honestly, what have you done to your hair? ...Well, at least I know you haven’t been to anyone else ...that’s obvious.” She left her client, walked across to the counter and ran a glossy dark blue painted nail down the list of the day’s appointments “...hmmm, ...absolutely no free appointments today, ...but you’re clearly an emergency case, so I’ll slide you in between my 11:30 cut and midday highlights. Say around ten to twelve. You’d better be on time though.”

  “I’m hearing that a lot this morning.” Hamish replied with a sigh. “Anyone would think I’m one of those people who are pathologically late for everything. But, I appreciate you making the time for me, so thanks, I’ll be here.”

  With the appointment organised, Hamish made his way out of the salon and wandered back up the mews. It seemed that everyone around him was ultra-busy this morning ...still, he thought, that was London for you, ...he’d known that there would be little chance of getting his hair cut straight away. It was good of Julia to have fitted him in at such short notice, but he was tired of always having to live by appointments and schedules. London wasn’t a place where anyone tended to just ‘drop by’ for anything, friends included. After Elaine’s death the hassle of phoning first to make arrangements to visit their old friends had proved to be too much of a disincentive for him, and he had lost contact with most of them. Even Steve and Linda were usually frantically busy, striving to balance the cafe and restaurant with their family life, but they had always made the extra effort to keep in contact with him and they were generally around the café during the day anyway.

  Taking a short cut to Kensington gardens through the walkway alongside York House, Hamish noticed the usual quantity of dog faeces littering the pavement. Over the years, this path had developed a reputation as an unofficial dog toilet, so much so, that the local inhabitants had unaffectionately named it ‘dogshit alley’. Despite council pleas for dog-owners to act responsibly, and various efforts to clean the streets, there were few places locally where it was possible to walk without keeping an eye on the ground for nasty things that one might regret stepping on and getting past the alley unscathed was a mental challenge almost equal to tanker captains avoiding mines in the Persian gulf during the Iran-Iraq war.

  Having safely negotiated his passage through the alley, Hamish crossed Palace Green and entered the gardens by a gate alongside the palace. Instantly, the landscape, especially at shoe level, improved considerably. He picked up his pace and made good time along the tree-lined path that led past the Serpentine Gallery. There was no time this morning to stop and check out the kind of cutting-edge art that the Serpentine specialised in, not if he was going to make it to the Food Halls at Harrods and back in time for his hair appointment, ...so he kept on, leaving the gardens by the Prince’s gate and hurrying along Kensington Gore to his destination. Purchases completed, he made his way back to Kensington High Street by bus, although at the snail’s pace the buses travelled in the heavy traffic, he wasn’t sure if it saved time at all. Frustrated with the lack of speed, he jumped off the bus and travelled the last part on foot, arriving at the salon with mere seconds to spare.

  True to her word, Julia squeezed him in between her other clients. Chatting non-stop, she had him shampooed, styled and dry in less than twenty minutes. Hamish declined her offer of ‘product’, although Julia had insisted that it would give his hair shine, texture, bounce and life. “Yes,” Hamish concurred politely, “he was sure it would”...whilst thinking, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “There now, that looks better.�
� she pronounced, holding a hand mirror behind Hamish’s head to allow him to see her handiwork. He barely glanced, but thanked her again for her efforts. How good or bad he looked had ceased to be of any great importance to him. He hadn’t been vain even before Elaine and Lucy had died, but since that day he just didn’t care about what people thought of his appearance. He showered and wore clean clothes ...and, well, that was pretty much that.

  Julia’s next client was already tapping a foot and looking pointedly at his watch, so she whisked Hamish out of the chair and directed the salon junior, who had been sweeping up a rather large pile of Hamish’s hair, to take his money.

  “Why does the world feel as if it’s full of managing women today?” Hamish muttered to himself as he left the salon and headed, down the mews, nodding a greeting in passing to the mechanic who was working on a sleek convertible jaguar in the open doorway of Drayson Garage as he ambled his way back to Kensington High Street.

  He had to admit, if only to himself, that it felt good to have his hair out of his eyes and off his collar. He hadn’t realised how long it had grown until Rosetta had been blunt enough, in her usual forthright fashion, to point out that it needed cutting, but he would have had to tie it back in a pony-tail had it grown much longer. Still, at least it had kept his neck warm ...unaccustomed to the cold around his ears, he turned up the collar of his coat. Having nothing in particular to do before the evening’s opening and dinner, he strolled home for lunch, picking up a large bunch of flowers from the flower sellers at the Tube station en route.

  ***

  Home again, Hamish found he couldn’t settle to anything, least of all starting another painting. The afternoon dragged on as he pottered aimlessly around the studio, tidied paints that were already well organised and eventually prepared a canvas ... although he already had several stretched and ready to go. All the while he was thinking about Miss Kendal’s proposition. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t just jump at the offer ...except, that it seemed somewhat too good to be true. He didn’t know if he could trust the old lady ...she had seemed honest enough, but what would happen if he did all the work to fix up the place and then she kicked him out? He picked up a piece of paper and a scrap of charcoal and started to jot down things that he’d want to discuss with the lawyer, then lost himself for nearly an hour doodling miniature sketches of the house and garden around the edges of his writing.

  He was thankful when it came time to get ready for the evening. Showered, shaved and dressed, he took a quick look in the mirror to make sure he would meet Rosetta’s approval. His neatly trimmed reflection stared solemnly back at him. He had chosen a pair of dark chinos, comfortable leather docksiders and a soft merino slate-grey polo-necked pullover ...more to keep his freshly exposed neck warm than for fashion. Tall, broad-shouldered, athletic, handsome, ...he would have been any woman’s dream, ...but his dreams revolved around only one woman and a little girl, and a life together was no longer in the realms of possibility. Slamming the wardrobe door shut on his unsmiling reflection, he wished, for the umpteenth time that it could be so easy to slam a door on his morose thoughts. Since that didn’t seem likely to happen in the next five minutes, he pulled a well-worn black leather jacket off the coat rack near the door, activated the burglar alarm and went out into the dark.

  ***

  Standing very still, wanting to remain anonymous for a few moments longer, Hamish waited in the shadows under a shop doorway opposite the brightly-lit gallery. From his vantage point he could see that Rosetta’s gallery was so overcrowded with patrons that fashionably-dressed people had spilled out onto the wide pavement around the entrance. Men, dressed in the unofficial city uniform of dark business suits, vests, shirts and silk ties and women clad in expensive little designer numbers that they must be freezing in, stood about in small groups, clutching champagne glasses and chatting animatedly. The urge to turn and run was almost too strong to resist. ‘Unsociable’ did little to describe how Hamish was currently feeling, but he had committed himself to this and he knew Rosetta would be devastated ...not to mention livid, if he didn’t show. He took a deep breath and willed himself to take the first step that would carry him into the crowd. “Once more into the breach...” he muttered, as he waited for a gap in the traffic that would allow him to cross the street...

  ...He emerged from the gallery exactly one hour later, his features tightly controlled as he returned polite goodbyes to Rosetta and a heavily bejewelled woman who had, in Hamish’s opinion paid far more than she should have for the painting he had delivered to Rosetta that morning. As he started up the street he exhaled mightily and determined that it would be a cold day in hell before anyone, Rosetta included, would convince him to attend one of his own exhibitions again. He felt as if he’d been flayed alive by overeager art critics, enthusiastic collectors and social wannabees, most wanting to shake his hand and shower him with meaningless compliments, with some going so far as to provide him their insights to the deeper meaning behind his own work. In the future, he decided, if people wanted to purchase his work they could do so without him being present at the event.

  Upon entering the gallery he had been immediately confronted with a tableau of Rosetta, arguing loudly with a well-known but tight-fisted collector who apparently couldn’t understand why the smallest painting in the exhibition should have the largest price tag. Few other people were taking much notice. With the hub-bub of conversation and a harpist playing in the far corner it was difficult to hear what was being said. Rosetta, who had rearranged the entire collection during the day to show off the newest painting to its best advantage, was, admittedly, on something of a short fuse. As the discussion went backwards and forwards between the two combatants, the volume rose until both were almost shouting and Hamish could see that Rosetta was close to losing her cool. He was bemusedly wondering if it would come to blows, -he’d put his money on Rosetta any day - when, suddenly, she noticed Hamish, and with a final “Ah, I see my artist has arrived. Excuse me, I must go.” True to form, she couldn’t resist a parting shot “And …If you think that we should be selling art by the square yard, rather than on the strength of an individual piece’s true worth, perhaps you are in the wrong gallery” ... with that she turned on her vertiginous Louboutin heels and left the collector, who was rich enough that he was unaccustomed to being disagreed with, standing open-mouthed.

  “You look like a man who needs a drink, Hamish dear.” saying this, Rosetta swept two tall glasses off a nearby tray and passed one to Hamish as she led him further into the fray. She took a deep swig of her own drink, before letting out a satisfied “hmmm” as she surveyed the crowd. “He’s not so bad, really.” she said, indicating the gentleman with whom she had been arguing so vehemently just moments before. “I’ll probably apologise later, when I’ve calmed down a bit, but it really gets on my wick when people like that don’t understand that in art, size shouldn’t matter.” she raised one eyebrow sardonically, then smiled, saying, “He’s just a bit put out because he had already bought one of your other paintings earlier in the week and Gloria Swain beat him to that one.” She pointed across the gallery to the small painting, and an overdressed woman who was proudly showing off the work the she had ‘acquired’ to her friends.

  Hamish spent most of the next hour being forcibly introduced to countless strangers by Rosetta, until he felt worn out from smiling and shaking hands. The only respite he found was when he managed to sneak away for a few minutes while Rosetta was deep in conversation with the director of the Tate gallery. He leant against the cool plaster of the wall, close to where the harpist, dressed in a gown of midnight blue silk, was playing and let the gentle notes of a twelfth century French love song wash over him. He had just started to relax, watching the delicate precision of her fingers as they skimmed across the strings, when Rosetta returned to drag him away again. As he followed Rosetta’s purposeful back, the harpist caught his eye for a moment with a look of sympathetic understanding, before returning her attenti
on to her music.

  True to her word, Rosetta did not force Hamish to stay any longer than the agreed hour. When she caught him looking at his watch for the third time in as many minutes, she said, “Oh for goodness sake, stop doing that and get out of here.” She gave him a push towards the door, adding, “You’ve done well tonight. As it was, everything was sold in the first half hour anyway, and I think you have networked enough for one evening.” Noticing Hamish’s pained expression at her last words, she added, looking up at his strained face, “You think I don’t understand how hard all this is for you, but I do.” She continued, “I just can’t allow feelings to get in the way of work ...and this is ‘work’.” She swept an arm around to indicate the crowded room. “These are the people that buy your paintings and keep this gallery running ...and there’s no room in their busy lives for your personal tragedy ...fact is, there’s hardly room in their lives for their own tragedies. See that man over there. Rosetta indicated a grey-haired, well-dressed but grim-faced man who was chatting to another couple with a discrete nod of her head. “His wife left him last weekend, and took their children and all the furniture. Monday morning, he was expected at work, as usual. He’s the CEO of a big international corporation, and they have no time in their corporate schedule for him to have a break-down.” She smiled wryly, “It sounds harsh, but that’s just the way it is in the big city. There’s always someone waiting in the wings to step into your shoes if you falter.” She glanced around the room, “Half the people here have major problems of one kind or another, but they can’t afford to show that they’re down about them.” Shrugging her shoulders she repeated, “It’s just the way it is. You tolerate it, or you get out.”

  As he wended his way through the side streets towards The Minstrel, Hamish thought about what Rosetta had said. He detoured to the studio just long enough to pick up the flowers and gift for his hosts, then, still lost in his thoughts, made his way to the side door that led to their flat above the restaurant. He was surprised to find a note pinned to their door, requesting his presence in the restaurant proper. Returning to the café’s street entrance, Hamish hoped that he wasn’t going to be faced with another crowd of people, ...he’d assumed that the dinner invite had been more or less ‘family only’ and was in no mood to face strangers. It was too late to back out now, so he dutifully tried the handle of the restaurant door. It was locked and he couldn’t see any lights inside, which seemed somewhat strange considering the note, but he rang the doorbell anyway. No answer ...he waiting a moment then pushed the buzzer again.