The Painter's Friend

by Howard Cunnell

  Tug boat on our stern, Reclaim, the bow gunwales painted orange. Pulling a barge loaded with containers all different shades of yellow: sand, lion, daffodil, sunshine. The pilot was looking up from the river to the paintings on the bridge. Looked across and did a double take as he recognized John. Sounded his horn and gave us the thumbs up.

  Red jumped up and span around, barking.

  The tug pilot was listening to the radio. I could see the antenna on the wheelhouse. An old song, ‘Pretty Flamingo’, that Nan used to sing in the kitchen on Sunday mornings when I was a kid . . . and paradise is where I’ll be. Heard John, shading his eyes as he looked at the paintings, humming as the song was taken away on the wind. Da dada daa.

  Clouds separated once more. John kept the boat parallel, passing along and looking up at the three paintings, then turning the little inflatable boat and coming by again. Hands always moving on the wheel he never looked at.

  People looking from the towpaths either side of the river. Dog walkers, an early morning runner in all the gear. The runner slowed to a stop, jogging on the spot as he looked up at the paintings.

  From the low tender John gazed up at the steep and massive portraits, looking at himself, studying the painted scenes from his life. Birth and love and war. All his untold, unnoticed history was up on the bridge. Now you had to see him. Everybody who fought the wars and built the homes and farmed the land and fished the seas and raised the kids was up there.

  Wind and spray kicked up off the river and blew against us and John wiped his face and I did too. Then the old man turned and smiled and that was enough for me.

  Light burst from Michael’s picture. Michael underwater. Arms stretched wide. White face. Above the tall, up-reaching kelp beds, through columns of cathedral surface light. Black hair streaming behind him. Painting washed in varieties of river green. Almost hidden in the kelp forest I’d placed a painted cairn of pale smooth stones.

  Found river treasure placed and held under a thick film of gel mixed with silver glitter Danny had donated, so that Michael’s was the heaviest and the brightest picture.

  A boy born into a world of painted barges. The living colour in the forest. The river. Michael might be lost forever, but he was held in the embrace of his place and people.

  Goodness, John said.

  The old man coughed and spat something over the side, then put two fingers back on the wheel and made a small correction to our position in the water.

  Some people won’t like it, John said. Think you’re getting something for it.

  You think it’s all right to paint the boy underwater? he said.

  I didn’t answer.

  You’re cold, the old man said, let’s go back.

  John set off without swinging the boat round, so that we were headed under the bridge. Went into the shadow of the bridge before correcting his course and heading back to the island. Ten, fifteen minutes as the crow flies, but we’d been out on the water for over an hour.

  Standing in his large garden across the river, Monty’s owner, wearing a shirt and tie under a jumper, was looking at the bridge through binoculars and talking on the phone at the same time. The vertical purple field of morning was now an emerald lawn mown in straight lines. A sprinkler made rainbow circles in the air.

  Michael would love it, John said, with his back to me. Get a big kick out of it.

  What about you John? You get a kick out of it?

  The old man turned to look at me. Said something I couldn’t hear.

  What?

  Look after the blessed dog, he said.

  The old man seemed to go out of focus and become blurred and then come back. A look of wonder on his face. Then he went out of focus again and stayed that way.

  John put his hand to his heart and fell down, the side of his head hitting the wheel hard as he dropped with a thump like a door banging shut.

  Red barked.

  The Zodiac span wildly off course.

  I scrambled forward on hands and knees. Reached over John’s body. Grabbed the wheel. Pointed the bow towards the island. Let go of the wheel. Lifted John and sat him up but when I let go he fell over on his side, his head bumping on the wet wooden deck.

  John!

  Not breathing.

  Red barking all the time.

  The boat veered away again and I straightened her once more.

  Kaplan’s dock was up ahead. Made a beeline and began shouting and waving. The red-haired girl came running across the lawn.

  She pulled her phone from her shorts pocket.

  Wrenching the wheel round I cut the engine and we came in portside on, too fast, bashing hard into the dock, bouncing off, water in the boat sloshing over John. Red barking desperately, feet spread wide for balance. The boat spinning. Smash turned the key. Got power, straightened for the dock. Cut the engine. Still too fast, but the girl jumped, red hair streaming upwards so that she seemed to be jumping from her own fire. Landed with a thump and nearly lost her balance but she stayed in the boat. Scrambled for the rope. Glanced at John fallen into the well of the boat but said nothing. I fired the engine and lined up the Zodiac with the dock and cut the engine again and came in scraping rubber against wood. Alexandra jumped onto the dock holding the rope and tied us off at the bow. The stern was swinging out towards the river.

  Another rope! the girl shouted.

  Found a rope in the well of the boat and tied one end off at the transom and threw the other end up to her. Alexandra pulled on the rope until we were tight alongside. Feet planted, leaning back. Held on until I got John out.

  The girl led the way to the house.

  I carried John, Red at my heels.

  Into a large, sunlit room. Dark hardwood floor. Vases of white lilies and stargazers. A side table of bottled spirits. Glass decanter pulsing with light. Paintings on the wall that I didn’t see.

  I know CPR, the girl said, tucking a length of red hair behind her ear.

  It’s too late, I said.

  Lay John down on the settee. Arranged him so that he looked as neat as possible. Pulled off his wet hat and stuffed it in my pocket.

  John was soaked through. River water ran from his sodden clothes and body and onto the hardwood floor.

  Can you get some towels? I said.

  The girl was staring at the water running from John’s body as though it were a process, a part of his dying, that would end with the body melted into air.

  Some towels? I said.

  It doesn’t matter about the floor, she said, still staring.

  For him, I said. I don’t want him to get cold.

  Alexandra jumped up. Wide-eyed, all arms and legs.

  Course, she said. How stupid.

  Get away from there Red, I said.

  The paramedics came when the girl was out of the room. Heard the door, and Alexandra talking to them, and then after a minute she brought them in. A squat, bow-legged man with a pushed-in South American face, hard and soft at the same time, and a large woman with electric-blue hair extensions to her waist. Both medics were dressed in green blouse jackets and green cargo trousers. The man wore trainers, the woman thick soled boots. Surgical gloves a lighter shade of blue than the woman’s hair.

  I answered their questions. John Rose, he just fell down. Out on the river. Maybe a heart attack? Lot on his mind. Not sure, around ninety. Terry Godden, the island.

  And what was Mr Rose to you? the blue-haired woman said.

  What was he?

  Who was he?

  John was my neighbour, I said.

  Alexandra Kaplan was looking at John over the pile of thick white towels she was holding.

  And is this his dog?

  Red looked hopefully at the woman when she spoke, and then at me, as if between us the noises we were making might make John appear. She recognized his name like she knew her own, and stood when she heard it. Mouth open, almost smiling, Her tail began and stopped a sideways movement, very slow, as though her body was learning a truth her mind alre
ady knew.

  I put my hand on her silky ear.

  Red’s my dog, I said.

  She licked my hand.

  Buen perro, the South American man said.

  Did Mr Rose have any relatives that you know of, Mr Godden?

  A daughter, Nancy. I don’t know where she lives. John was a widower.

  The South American man was looking through a tiny address book he had taken from John’s pocket. I’d never seen it before. Showed the woman a page. She nodded. The man closed the book. Put it in the pocket of his blouse jacket.

  Thank you Mr Godden, the woman said. We’ll look after your friend from here.

  The hammered-in seams and lines on the old man’s face were set in an expression of stillness. No more wonder. All the other concentrated emotions of his life had sunk back down into him, like the raised strata, the deep long-buried stuff, returning to the riverbed when the storm has passed.

  Then he was gone.

  Not a relative. Couldn’t go with him.

  Alexandra handed me a soft towel.

  You’re wet, she said. And you look cold.

  Thank you.

  John’s wet body had left a dark imprint on the settee, as though he had been suddenly dematerialized by some great force.

  There were tiny islands of water forming on the hardwood floor.

  Gone but his going filled the room, pushing at the places where the walls and ceiling met, my sense of him suddenly uncontained, in danger of being blown away and lost through the open window. John’s island smell was fighting a losing battle against the perfume of the pale, expensive lilies.

  Red was pacing, looking for John.

  Come here Red, I said.

  Her tense body warmed my hands.

  Alexandra went to the window. Looked out, sunlight blazing in her hair. I didn’t know if she could see the river from there.

  What did they ask you? I said.

  What? Alexandra said.

  The paramedics, I said, I heard you talking.

  They wanted to know if I knew you, the girl said. Had you threatened me. They asked if I wanted to call the police.

  Smoothing my beard I saw my black fingernails. Muddy bootprints all over the floor.

  They wanted to know if I thought he was really hurt, Alexandra said.

  The big house. The girl alone. Two desperate men lie to get inside.

  I told them I knew that man, she said. John Rose. He was Michael’s friend.

  The dog raised her head when she heard John’s name, then just as quickly put it back down. Remembered. The man’s name no longer brings the man.

  Then you know John Rose was one of the people your father’s trying to evict, I said.

  My body was not solid at the edges, but fuzzy. Tired.

  I started shaking. Red looked at me, the whites of her eyes showing.

  There was the very real idea that Evelyn Crow would pay me a lot of money for the paintings.

  The girl put her hand on my arm.

  You’re still wet through, she said. You must be freezing. Would you like a drink? Dad’s always raving about the good whisky he keeps.

  I shook myself. Rubbed my face.

  I’d love a cup of tea, I said.

  My dad says murder, she said. Murder a cup of tea, murder a drink. Murder that bugger. Milk and sugar?

  Honey, I said.

  Red followed the girl out of the room. I must have fallen asleep because the girl woke me up when she touched my hand.

  She put the tea down and wrapped a soft blanket around my shoulders.

  Touched my hand again and looked into my face. She smiled.

  I saw Michael, she said, on the bridge.

  I could smell smoke on the girl and would have loved a roll-up to go with the tea, but I’d left my tobacco on the boat. There was the river rot smell again and I realized it was coming from me and not anywhere else.

  It’s not like we’re a single organism, the red-headed girl said.

  Who was that terrible English painter whose red-headed girls looked like they were sleepwalking? Drippy-looking, as Nan would have said. Holman Hunt? This girl’s bright eyes had dimmed to match the events of the day, but she was an electric presence. Burne-Jones, that’s who it was. Red-haired girls on the stairs. Looking like they’d all been bashed on the head or doped.

  While I was sleeping the girl had tied up the flame of her hair, and there was a pattern, as I looked at her side on, made by the symmetry of the pulled-up hair at the back of her neck, and a rising line of separated freckles just above the neck of her T-shirt. The plain black T-shirt was different to the one she’d been wearing when she’d helped me bring John to the house. Dry.

  Michael would have been a boy lost in the tall grass when he was with her, unable to see anything else.

  What? I said.

  Red padded away from the room. Head up, nose out. Searching for John.

  You know, she said. The Kaplans. We’re not like, one creature. With a single purpose. I’m not him. Don’t put what he does on me.

  Red came slowly back into the room hanging her head. I put my hands either side of her narrow ribcage. Could feel her heart beating against the tips of my fingers.

  I know sweetheart, I said.

  Death in every part of the room, in my hands, in air that was still fringed with the river damp that John Rose had carried with him everywhere.

  You should see your face, Alexandra said.

  You have an unfortunate mien Terry, Evelyn Crow had said to me once. Like the world’s against you.

  Michael’s face said you’d pay for not seeing him, the girl said. Do you know what I mean? Set hard. People look at me and think of all the things I can’t be, he said. Can’t be an artist if I look like this, talk like this, come from where I come from. Mike was going to show them. It worked, she said. He disappeared and we’re still talking about him.

  I think my dad quite liked Mike, Alexandra said. Thought he was smart, which he was, a hard worker. Driven. Just didn’t want him anywhere near me. But Mike was so dreamy there was never any chance of that.

  What was he like? I said.

  Michael was like a dark flower, she said.

  I drank the hot sweet tea. Remembered she was not yet twenty.

  When Mike was happy, his face would open up, like a flower in the sun. Big kissy lips. Big eyes, like his dad. It’s also true that lots of times he was just a curly headed scowl who wouldn’t say anything for hours.

  I bet you were the sun coming out and going in, I thought but didn’t say.

  Mike was always making maps. Said he felt like a disinherited prince.

  Alexandra looked at me.

  Not literally, she said. You know about Perseis and her family?

  No, I said, I don’t really know anything.

  So her family are minted, apparently. Richer than my dad. But they cut Perseis off when she took up with Gene.

  She put a red strand back behind her ear.

  Back then, the girl said, after I got to know Gene, I’d ask him how he was and he’d give me his naughty-boy grin – the same one Mike had – and he’d say he was happy as a fat spider. I remember he used to say that all the time.

  I can’t imagine Gene happy, I said.

  I don’t think he was though, she said, that’s what I mean. Mike said his mum was always on at Gene. Nothing was good enough. Mike said he felt like two people. That he was being pulled in too many directions at once. Loved loved loved his dad, but had this glamorous mum who was always whispering in his ear. Telling him he was someone else.

  Mike knew it would be fairly easy to make his mother’s family love him, Alexandra said, the only grandson. And if he had money he could spend all his time drawing and painting. Plus they lived in Paris and Mike was desperate to see Paris, especially after Vesna died – you know about Vesna? – Mike was really upset. We talked about going to Paris together, I could pay for us, but he wouldn’t do it. Said he wouldn’t betray his dad.

 
; Did Mike talk about Anthony Waters? I said. Do you know him?

  I’ve known Tony Waters for as long as I can remember, she said, and I know almost nothing about him. Tony and my dad have secrets. They were arguing about somebody called Brady once and stopped talking when I came into the room. I try and stay out of his way.

  Not like that, she said, looking at me. And not with me. Tony Waters only has eyes for Perseis. It could be sweet, right? And a bit sad. But it’s not. Tony Waters gives me the whim-whams.

  Red had crossed the room. The light in it had moved, and the dog lay stretched out and sleeping, talking in her sleep more than usual. What do you say to a broken-hearted dog?

  My father didn’t send me to Switzerland to be the same girl I was before I left, the girl said.

  I looked at her.

  Nobody said this to my face, she said, but I was sent away so I wouldn’t talk. My dad didn’t want the police asking questions about Tony and finding out things he didn’t want them to find out. Secrets. So they got me out of the country and told the police shit about Gene instead. And who knows what Tony Waters told Perseis?

  And I bet every time the police took Gene in, she said, Tony suddenly appeared at her door. I think Tony put my dad up to sending me away, if you want to know the truth. Which kind of makes me hate my dad. For being weak.

  In Switzerland the other girls treated me like some tragic heroine, Alexandra said. But it was nothing like that. Michael said: I’m going for a swim, you coming? I said: too sleepy. Mike was pissed off. Gene and Perseis had a massive row. About money. Vesna wasn’t there to talk to. I’m going to swim over the weir, Mike said. I dare you, I said, like, yeah, of course you are. I thought he was just talking. I had my eyes closed. I never even saw him go in the water. When I woke up I couldn’t see him. Sometimes I think Mike isn’t dead and that he just kept on swimming right off the island. That one day he’s going to come back for me.

  The girl looked at me.

  I came back because Gene asked me, she said. I wrote to him, told him everything I knew about Mike and what happened. Gene sent me this long, long letter back. They’re eating me alive here, he said, which is something Mike would say. I’m being eaten alive. At the bottom of the letter Gene had made a little drawing of a fat spider being eaten. They think I did it, he said. Nobody knows I didn’t except you. Come back and tell them what you told me. And I did. Told my dad if he didn’t bring me back he could forget about ever seeing me again.