by Gary Fry
Jim returned to bed, trying to seek sleep while praying he’d suffer no nightmares. Real life was bad enough. Indeed, he now understood what was coming for him and everyone he’d ever love. In fact, he’d always known this; his chest gave another twitch of discomfort. And the worst thing was that, dream or not, he was about to go through it all again.
ABOLISHER OF ROSES
———
“It’s just not my kind of thing, that’s all. ”
“How do you know if you’ve never been to see anything like it before?”
Peter had to admit that his wife had a point.
He pulled his Mercedes into the art gallery’s car park, feeling proud that the executive saloon was the best vehicle here today. There was little money in the arts, he knew that well, and Patricia’s recent interest in painting was, he believed, a passing fad; just something to keep her occupied while he was out at work and now the kids had fled the nest. Just as sure as he was committed to earning, she’d soon return to rampant high street shopping. But meanwhile Peter knew better than to protest against his wife’s latest passion.
The simple truth was that she was good at it—certainly good enough to have been offered this, her first exhibition. After stepping out of the car and joining her in a slow stroll towards the gallery’s entrance, he noticed a group of men and women their own age—mid-to late-forties—all dressed in label-less slacks, with wild hairdos and grasping hand-rolled cigarettes. Peter had been running a successful carpet manufacturing business for the last twenty-five years; he knew at a glance that these weren’t his kind of people.
“Oh, smile, for God’s sake, ” said Patricia, doing what she’d always done so well in all their years of marriage: kept Public Relations effortlessly intact. As they drew close to the six or seven people, a few faces turned their way and, after recognising the newcomer, matched Patricia’s radiant expression inch for inch.
Frankly, on a Saturday afternoon, Peter would rather be down the pub watching a football match, but knew it would have done him little good if, on today of all days, he’d suggested going for some lunch and a few drinks. Something, he realised, had altered in Patricia. He knew her intimately, having shared her home for nearly thirty years. And something had definitely changed…
Once they’d reached the arty types, Peter did smile—the arch, business-getting grin of a natural predator. He thought briefly of Geraldine, his terminally devoted (and admittedly dotty) mistress thirty miles south in Sheffield, but then vowed to be on his best behaviour here. Geraldine was another kind of woman entirely, one who couldn’t cook, wouldn’t cook. She was great in bed, but this was a different kind of pleasure—an impractical one, Peter thought—from having a fresh shirt ironed and waiting each Monday morning.
So yes, Peter knew on which side his bread was buttered. And then he simply smiled, smiled and smiled again.
The day’s event had been described as an “art trail”. Patricia had told him about the concept before sleep last night, though Peter had been tired from a day full of tricky negotiations with a difficult client and had had only one ear on the job of listening. Once they’d interacted with several of the artists and their significant others, however, he’d deduced the gist of the project.
Behind this out-of-town gallery stood a deep, dark wood, and on the near side of it ran a pathway allowing walkers to roam freely in the safer areas of this North Yorkshire forestation. The idea was for a number of local artists to set up their work—paintings, sculptures, or any other creative form that defied easy categorisation—at key places along the man-made route. The art trail would then be opened, allowing the general public to use pre-prepared maps and discover the many examples of art on display.
It seemed like a novel concept to Peter, though he soon found himself thinking that the organiser—a perpetually happy, middle-aged fellow called Anthony, with whom Patricia seemed to get on well— might have chosen a better day than this one. It was chilly late October, the gallery’s eaves dripping metronomes of dew and buffeted by a breeze with ruthless ambition. All the same, Peter could admit that the event had potential. Maybe if someone with a business mind had been involved from the start, there might have been a chance of sponsorship and promotions, but it was too late for that now…A missed opportunity, then. A cannier approach might have funded the project the following year, even if this one proved financially unsuccessful.
Not that Peter hoped it would become a regular event. While watching his wife engage with other artists and their entourage, he found himself unable to recognise the way she behaved, the way she’d always behaved since they’d first met, had got married as youngsters, and had children; the way she’d supported him while he’d built the business; and then more recently, knee-deep in the middle period of their lives, with the factory booming and the two boys living away from home, the way the intimacy of their first courtship had been thrust again into their lives. In his company, she’d surely never appeared so…zestful as this. Or maybe she had and he’d since forgotten. Whatever the truth was, Peter felt uncomfortable with all these free-spirit creative types, and when the group divided to set up the artistic installations, he took hold of Patricia and drew her back to the car.
They had to retrieve her paintings from the vehicle, but while unlocking the boot, Peter took the opportunity to say, “Just who the hell was that goon you left me with? Christ, him and his dippy girlfriend. Hell’s bells. ”
Peter was referring to a bearded guy and his tatty-looking partner, who’d both exhaled weird tobacco fragrances while talking to him about—what they’d termed, by God—the “relativity of embodiment and the ambiguity of perception. ” It had been as much as Peter could do to prevent himself from sniggering, but now, troubled by the realisation that Patricia regularly fraternised with such folk, he found such dismissive humour difficult to sustain. He could only think this was something to do with the way his wife had changed while talking to them.
Following the kind of pause Peter had long since grown used to, Patricia replied, “That was Graham Lumet. He’s one of Yorkshire’s most respected sculptors. Actually, he’s had exhibitions all over the country. Some abroad, too. He’s pretty famous—in his field, you know. ”
“Well, I’ve never heard of him. ”
“Do you mean, Peter, that he’s never been on the telly?”
Something about this comment, which a glance at Patricia confirmed she hadn’t intended maliciously, stuck pins in Peter, making him think he might be better off with dotty Geraldine in Sheffield, after all. But then he responded firmly.
“I’m not the insensitive Philistine you take me for, Pat. Let me remind you that a business like mine—big enough to offer you carte blanche in life—doesn’t just happen to anyone with a modest sum to invest and hard work to offer. It takes acumen, judgement and commitment. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
She looked at him, her pale blue eyes as fragile as the sky appeared this autumn afternoon. Plucking a bundle of her paintings from the boot, she said, “I understand, Peter, that you’re feeling vulnerable. And if that isn’t because you’re out of your depths, it’s probably to do with being in previously uncharted territory. But just relax. These are good people, once you get to know them. They’re all very ordinary, too—a bit mixed up and yet struggling along. They simply have a talent that needs expressing. Much like you and me, really. ”
She made it sound as if he’d been nervous among these nobodies. Hell, he’d led seminars involving scores of very bright people. For well over a decade, he’d had several hundred staff under his stewardship. So what threat could a bunch of amateur scribblers present?
Nevertheless, he decided to back off. After long experience, he could recognise the point at which he’d pushed his wife too far. He looked again into her crisp blue eyes, observed her rosy cheeks, her luscious lips and pointed ears. Then he remembered her slender body dressed in smart knock-around clothing, her large breasts and sharp hipbones. He loved her a grea
t deal, and these feelings were as complicated as all the other types that co-existed in a troubled world.
“Okay, ” he said, averting his gaze from her. “Let’s go and hang your pictures. ”
In his peripheral vision he sensed Patricia watching, as if expecting him to add, “And then we can go to the pub and catch the second half over a pie and a pint. ” But he didn’t say this, and perhaps that was why she took his hand and said with affection:
“Don’t worry, darling. If it all gets too close to the bone today, I’ll be right here beside you, ready to lead you away. Just as I always have been. ”
Peter wasn’t sure what his wife had meant, but hadn’t cared for its import anyway. However, he remained silent and simply followed as Patricia headed around the stately house which had, regrettably, been converted into an art gallery. Peter thought it might make a nice hotel or even a block of executive apartments. There was considerably more money in both those ventures than all this arty nonsense.
The woodland, when it appeared, was densely shadowed and composed of innumerable clustered trees. Birds fluttered febrile wings, clattering between branches. Lower down, amid tangled undergrowth, small creatures skittered and dodged. The wind pushed through the whole display, bringing an earthy scent of vegetation—of hedges, scatters of ivy, and a variety of wild flowers which boasted as much colour as the harsh season could muster. A man-made path, soon to become the art trail, wound through the scene like a knife pushed into someone’s chest.
After examining the wood for several minutes, Peter decided it was a good setting for what the gallery had in mind, both dramatic and arresting. And for the first time that day his interest perked up a bit.
Patricia had spent the last few months putting together a series of watercolours showcasing her favourite places in the world. Working from holiday photographs, she’d painted the Lake District, the Scottish Borders, a fine villa in Spain they’d stayed in only last year, and many more charming locations. Few people appeared in her compositions, Peter only now noticed, and he wondered whether this was because, with their sons away at university and having the home to herself most days, his wife wanted to focus on other elements of experience, on a wider world unencumbered by maternal and household duties. He imagined that a domestic life might have this effect on a person, and while helping his wife peg her canvases to a length of bunting she’d already suspended between two bushes, he couldn’t help turning this scrutiny back on himself. Had he just experienced an insight, he wondered? Hadn’t he attempted to see Patricia for who she might be now?
He quickly pushed aside these thoughts, however, and then switched his attention to a few other artists preparing their own creations before the exhibition opened in an hour.
Frankly, after observing their work for several minutes, Peter didn’t think any of the other art here was much cop. Certainly none was as coherent as his wife’s stylish paintings. One younger woman—she was quite attractive, notwithstanding an affected air of self-importance—was wrapping swathes of deep red material around the trunks of several trees. The ones she’d already finished resembled bloody bandages.
“Hey, what’s the point of that?” Peter asked once they’d finished setting up Patricia’s pretty display. He pointed at the wounded-looking trees. “It’s just pretentious drivel, isn’t it? Look, I know I’m no culture vulture, but let’s be honest here. What the hell is it supposed to mean?”
“It’s not supposed to mean anything in particular, ” Patricia replied—a little defensively, Peter thought, but he pushed on all the same.
“So…what’s its use, then?”
“Why should it be of any use?”
He shook his head, genuinely bewildered. “Well, surely it’s got to serve some purpose. Shouldn’t it enlighten? Or at least instruct? Isn’t that what art is about?”
With an unreadable expression, Patricia continued staring at those bloodied red trunks. “I guess it’s supposed to be left to your imagination. You should make of it what you will. ”
But Peter shook his head. “It’s all very well saying that, Pat, but I can’t make any sense of it. Red bandages wrapped round tree trunks…I mean, where do I even start interpreting such a thing?”
“Yes, I see what you’re getting at. ” Patricia sounded animated, as if she’d been waiting months to have this conversation, possibly even with the practical husband to whom she’d been faithful all these years. “But if you could determine the meaning of art too easily, what would be the point of it? I mean, in those circumstances it would only confirm what you already know. Why would you seek recourse to art at all? Why not just blunder on with your own deep-rooted beliefs?”
Peter bristled in response to either these words or the way his wife had spoken them. Feeling defensive, he added, “So you’re saying…you’re saying that I blunder on with deep-rooted beliefs?”
Patricia lost a little of her sparkle, as if expecting a debate she was unwilling to enter into. Nevertheless, she quickly tried repairing the damaged discussion. “I was only speaking hypothetically, Peter. ”
But he responded with a lengthy exhalation. He’d felt affronted by his wife’s words, though couldn’t figure out why. “Hypothetically?” he asked, with mounting incredulity. “Oh, I don’t know, Pat. I really don’t know anymore. ”
Once he’d turned away, Patricia stiffened her tone in a way she’d rarely done in the past. “Oh, for God’s sake, I was just trying to make the point that we go to art to be challenged, to have our…our sedimented habits shaken up. ”
Peter could admit that he’d relied on this evasive strategy—taking offence at something she might not even have meant—too frequently in the past, and that she was at last calling his bluff. All the same, he was determined to have the last word.
“Such fine phrases, ” he said, realising he was losing his temper. ‘Peter’s petty tantrums’, he knew folk at work called his irascible disposition, even the many yes-men and women he’d head-hunted over the years. He turned and glanced at his wife. “Did you learn them all from Graham Looney, your C-list Celebrity sculptor friend?”
His wife stared at him. In the past, at such rancorous moments (and there’d been many over the years), a sheen of moisture might have appeared in those blue-blue eyes, but not this time. She looked strong, her posture firm and resolute, and then she asked in a plaintive voice, “Why do you always have to be like this, Peter?”
Looking back, he thought she looked different from what he was used to, as if even her shape had fundamentally altered, thrusting many parts of her out at odd angles, making dominant features—her eyes, her lips, her hands—larger than they should be, while other aspects were diminished in stature…Then he glanced away, towards the pathway leading deep into the shadow-packed wood.
“I guess I’m just not good enough for you anymore, ” he replied, and while striking away between countless trees dripping with incipient rainfall, he called back, “Despite a million in the bank. Despite our five-bedroomed detached. Despite the freedom you’ve always enjoyed in life. I guess I’m just not…good enough…anymore. ”
He might also have added, Despite my steady, unadventurous lifestyle, along with, Despite the mistress I’ve kept for nearly a decade. But he didn’t add these things. That wasn’t, after all, the game he was playing, and he believed this latest wily move would result in what he’d been trying to achieve all day. Once he’d strayed further into the silent woodland, Patricia would come running, telling him in a feigned punitive voice not to be stubborn and foolish, yet basically conceding her position in their stand-off. That way, the power would shift back to him. At the factory, he possessed the ability to hire and fire; at home, he’d always drawn on edgy moods, as well as a tacit knowledge of all he’d ever done for his family. It was a devastating combination and had always worked for him.
Peter kept on moving. The only sound he heard from behind, however, was nails being hammered at a distance, as another of those faux artists installe
d whatever meaningless nonsense they hoped to fool the public with today. Nevertheless, despite his heart sinking with disappointment and a little fear, Peter reminded himself that he was no fool. Okay, so his gamble just now had backfired—his wife hadn’t come running, after all—but that didn’t mean he was beaten yet.
Before venturing into the wood to enjoy the art trail, the organiser Graham Lumet (Peter now regretted lampooning the man’s surname in Patricia’s company) had given all the event’s participants a printed guide to the exhibition, which Peter realised, after quickly checking his wristwatch, was due to start any minute. He’d slipped his copy of the guide into one back pocket, not expecting to make much use of it. However, since the path ahead had dwindled to a muddy makeshift furrow, he thought it might be wise to figure out where he’d ventured.
He learned from the photocopied map that his wife’s collection of paintings was the last of ten installations on display today. That meant Peter wouldn’t see any more artworks while advancing further along the route he’d chosen. He should turn around, then: swallow his pride, go back to his wife, and stand beside her as she got out of her system whatever creative virus had recently infected it…While flattening creases in the printed guide, Peter noticed all the daylight around him change; it became more luminescent, almost spectral.
He was feeling hungry; that must be why his perceptions were presently sensitive. He’d also just mentally pictured his wife in bed, fighting off the feverish excesses of some unforgiving bug. When this imaginary Patricia had opened her mouth to release toxins, however, Peter had seen only a mirror between her teeth, with an image of himself caught in this glass, clamped between her vibrant lips…
He thrust aside these invasive thoughts, telling himself that he was just tired after another long week at work. And while considering turning back to walk the way he’d come, he noticed something unusual about the guide he’d been given earlier. It wasn’t a single sheet, after all. It was double and folded over, and there was additional information on the back.