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Jude Ladyman - Stories |
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Kindred Spirits |
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Shell Cottage overlooked the sea like a miniature castle complete with turreted columns and walls studded with shells and coral. Two plaster dogs stood guard at the front gate and various creatures had found their way among the rocks at their feet. Betty McBain had lived in the cottage for fifty years and the town nearby had grown towards her. It went from being a few scattered houses and gum trees to a suburban sprawl. A cacophony of whirring sprinklers and the sizzle of backyard barbecues filled the air these days. She heard the flick flick down the footpath of roller blades and looking out the window could see one of the local kids blurring past in his fluorescent gladiator outfit. Betty spent most of her days in the studio, a long sunny room at the front of the house. It was a wonderful place crammed with baskets of dried flowers shells and driftwood collected from the beach. Children often brought her rocks from the beach and she was amazed at their shapes and patterns, each one as individual as human beings are. From there she could observe the outside world and it made her feel connected to it. She was eighty and though sprightly for her age didn't venture out much but spent most of her days painting. Stacked everywhere were canvases vibrant with colour. There was a scraggy kid from the suburban sprawl down the road who used to wander past Betty's every day, head cocked to one side as he peered at her through the window. He usually stuck his tongue out and it was starting to bug her so the next time she saw him she put down her paintbrush and strode out onto the front porch. Close up he was even scruffier than she'd thought but his eyes had a spark that made her realize she wasn't going to chastise him. - 2 - "What are you painting? I know about painting," he said with conviction. "Well knock me down with a feather, here he was telling her he knew about painting". She was intrigued and asked him if he'd like to come in and see. He followed her into the studio and stood hesitantly at the door, a little black shadow with the light dancing behind him as he gawked in wonder. He picked up some brushes lying on the table, feeling the texture of the bristles as he looked at the paintings on the walls. He told her he didn't paint like that, "real stuff" as he called the portraits in front of him. He painted more "wild stuff", stuff that just came straight out of his mind. She asked him if he'd like to show her and his eyes lit up as she brought out a fresh canvas and a selection of long brushes. They grew even wider as she set him up with an easel and some tubes of paint. The breeze billowed the curtains and outside the surf rolled and crashed in its daily struggle. Hours must have passed as the sun was going down and neither of them had spoken, both immersed in the language of the paint. She cleared her throat, put down her brush and stretched. He was still painting furiously and she walked over and stood behind him. Thick strokes in mainly blues and reds and somehow it all came together to form an impression of her at the window like a whirling dervish caught in the wind and clouds. She knew instantly it was better than anything she would do in her lifetime. The boy had created a mystery from a seeming mess of paint thrown on every which way. Later that night when she walked back into the studio and saw the painting standing there in the ghostly moonlight she suddenly wanted to paint with a fury she'd never felt before. Without thinking she started on one that had been sitting there for months a great blank space she wanted to inhabit. - 3 - Her son found her later that
day sitting in the chair with a smile on her face and paint on her hands.
He shook her gently to break her from her sleep only to find her cold.
He held her limp hand and looked at the canvas in front of her.
It was all yellow and gold and hazy blue with the figure of a man walking
along the beach. He looked closer and realised it was his father
who had died three years ago and his face was wet with tears he couldn't
hold back. As he gently closed the door he took one last look
and noticed a smaller painting, one he'd never seen before of his mother
at the window.
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