A Brush with Death Page 3

  My parents, Joseph and Marion, are old and crabbity. In the two years I’ve lived here they’ve hardly ever visited me in Sussex as it’s too big a step from train to platform apparently. Most of their good friends have passed away, partly their fault for not mixing with their own generation, instead preferring the company of older people; while I, their only child, have so far failed to produce any offspring.

  I have often wondered why parents crave grandchildren. Is it because they can have a second shot at being Mummy and Daddy, cleaning their conscience on the next generation? Or maybe it provides compatible conversation with their contemporaries for years to come, now that their own children have learnt to walk, speak, go to the loo alone, been educated, are in full-time employment and (hopefully) married to the one person out there for them.

  To be fair, my parents are more broadminded than most and have always supported and encouraged me whichever way I have wanted to go. We are fortunate to have brains. Proper brains, I don’t think I am boasting to claim. Interests growing up lay in sustainable hobbies, like reading and classical music, and we were surrounded by quality from door knocker to washing-up brush. Not often the most effective, but always tasteful. My father took the second half of William Morris’s mantra: ‘Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful’ to such an extreme there was no leeway to fulfil the first.

  I love my parents for the enlightenment they brought me and the sophistication ingrained in their make-up. I’ve always wanted to spoil them and this Christmas I had in mind to give them what they have been on the hunt for for over several years now: an inlayed maple and rosewood antique chessboard.

  As I mused on this I packed my bag for the weekend so that I would be all ready to go as soon as I’d conquered the two-tone green leaf conundrum. As the day progressed and the painting didn’t, I sacrificed lunch for more time at the easel. Finally, minutes before I had to leave, I cracked the perfect combination of greens for topside and underside of the tangerine leaf. I was filled with the great feeling of joy in getting the interaction of colour just right.

  Colour theory is an area of painting that fascinates me and something which I am pretty sure will preoccupy my mind and be the drive of my artistic practice forever. For me the fact that any single colour changes in our perception depending upon which colours are next to it, is simply magic.

  To get the combination of greens for the topside and underside of the leaf correct it was important that I held up the colour I’d mixed to the orange of the tangerine skin. Had I looked at it against the blue of my shirt or the white of my palette I would have seen it as a different green. You may have never realised before that none of us ever see a single colour. They are all in continuous flux, determined by their neighbours.

  I rarely ever buy a pre-mixed colour of paint which is why the trolley in my studio basically only has tubes of warm or cool blues, reds and yellows. From these primary colours I know that, with trial and error, I can make almost any other colour. The problem with pre-mixed tubes of paint is not knowing the exact combination of primary colours within them, and therefore making modifying the hue very difficult.

  To get the colour of the tangerine leaf just right I mixed varying amounts of lemon-yellow, cobalt-blue and cadmium-red to make dark green, a little of which I held up on my pallet knife to the orange of the skin. Only then could I see that I’d mixed too vivid a green and needed to add a lot more cadmium-red to tone it down.

  There are various different threads of colour theory. The Impressionists applied small dots of yellow and blue paint, which become mixed in our perception giving an impression of green. This technique gives a rough texture to the surface of their paintings which, like eating the skin of a kiwi before the delicious fruit, doesn’t appeal to my taste.

  Hardly even glancing at my finally finished painting I hurriedly cleaned my brushes in vegetable oil and popped my palette into the fridge to keep the leftover oil paint from drying out over the weekend.

  My mobile started to buzz on the floor of the studio. ‘Mum’ was flashing on the screen. I picked it up without bending my knees.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Susie, everything okay?’

  This was my mother’s way of indicating she wanted a quick conversation.

  ‘Yes everything’s good. I’m about to set off to Dorset for the weekend.’

  ‘How lovely. With friends?’ She tried to be casual but I knew her too well and could picture the hope in her expression that a suitor was in tow.

  ‘A dog commission for a couple called Codrington. I don’t know them well.’

  ‘Well done, sweetie, you’re really taking off with these. It’s so clever of you.’

  Mum is a great support but she doesn’t like to spend too much time on the telephone, and so she quickly got in her latest technological problem she wanted my help with.

  ‘I can’t do it now,’ I replied, ‘I have to leave but will do it as soon as I’m back next week.’

  ‘Thank you sweetie, I don’t know why my computer plays up so often. It infuriates me.’

  I had tried to help with her computer before; neither of us, it seemed, were technologically savvy.

  Stepping out of my boiler suit, leaving it in a wrinkled heap on the floor, I rushed through my not very big house and placed my overnight bag, sketchbook, camera, outdoor kit and a gift box of smellies in to the boot of the car. The engine started and Smooth FM instantaneously blared out an embarrassing old favourite.

  Dammit, only fifteen miles in and the petrol light came on. Thankfully I was in luck, a cheap fuel station appearing almost in response to the warning light. Why is it that the price of fuel wavers from country lane to motorway? Surely there should be a set price countrywide?

  As I was drawing up to the pump, a man leaving the kiosk caught my eye. I always think there’s something tantalising about an athletic man in a finely cut suit (that’s one with two slits in the jacket, not one).

  I find I have to be careful not to get caught out staring at people. Recording the things which catch my eye is part of the process of getting to know myself better, the chemistry of inside and outside meeting. Indeed, this is the essence of what, as an artist, I attempt to convey in my paintings and drawings. I’m not sure pet portraits fully utilise this intuition, but as commissions tend to do, they take me away from my personal interpretations and force me to portray what it is I think the owner of the beloved animal wants to see.

  Mulling on the good-looking stranger I’d pretended not to be looking at, with a full tank of fuel and a greedy packet of liquorice to perk me up, I set off on the remainder of the journey.

  I think I hide it well but I do get a little nervous going to stay at places I have not been to before. You never quite know if you’ve packed the right clothes or got a generous enough present. It is at times like this I really could do with a wingman. Not that Geoffrey was ever any help. He had no clue about the fluster girls get into worrying about what to wear and who might be there, and he used to tease me rather than attempt to settle the nerves. Nevertheless he was with me as my companion on those occasions, and that is something I miss.

  It was very dark as I bumped along the Codringtons’ drive. I looked at the clock on my dashboard: six o’clock on the dot, which meant that I was bang on time, as I always am. Even if I try to be late I am never even a second out. The nightmare guest, but at least I’m consistent.

  As I went through the ornate house gates the church bells were striking the hour, particularly eerie on such a cold, moonless winter night. My headlights lit up an unfamiliar car in the yard: a Saab that I was pretty sure hadn’t been here last time. I was certain I would have remembered as it’s a car our family always wanted. When life seemed too much my mother used to joke, ‘A Saab and servants – that’s all I ask for.’

  The thought that there were others staying this weekend caused my nerves to jangle a little more.

  As I turned my engine of
f the outdoor light immediately came on. Antonia appeared on the front step, together with a dog the size of a horse – Situp, I assumed. She was followed by her handsome husband. Do we kiss hello? I wondered. It’s easy to kiss another woman hello without too much deliberation, but kissing a man can either be interpreted as a sign of flirtation or an over-familiar, slightly unmannerly act. But before there was time for me to come to a conclusion, Ben had crossed the gravel and relieved me of my suitcase.

  ‘Hi Susie, I hope your journey was okay?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied a bit stiffly.

  Antonia stood on the porch holding on to the dog’s collar, ‘We’re so pleased to have you to stay for the weekend. This is Situp,’ she said. I patted him and then followed my hosts into the warmth of their home.

  Crumbs! In the kitchen was the man from the petrol station. My heart gave a flutter of juvenile excitement.

  ‘Henry Dunstan-Sherbet,’ he introduced himself.

  Here was a double-barrelled, wedding-ringless hunk. You can’t be too sure with the upper classes that no ring means no wife, but I was happy to assume that in this case it did.

  ‘Susie.’ I gave him just my first name.

  ‘Yes, you’ve come to draw Situp, I hear. Nice to meet you.’ He leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks. I was flattered he’d initiated it and I didn’t mind at all.

  Situp had been ‘at school’ when Diana and I had dropped over previously, and despite seeing photographs Antonia had emailed to me, I’d kept an open mind as to what a Deerhound would look like.

  Situp was table-height, svelte, two tones of grey and he was more characterful than most ‘trained’ dogs. He’d be out of place in a shooting line, that’s for sure, being far too calm-natured for ratting out pheasants; with legs almost as long as Antonia’s he’d be a comical sight amongst the smaller spaniels. Not that this mattered, as Ben didn’t seem the type to be shooting every weekend – too soft a voice and no signet ring – and as for Antonia, she’s certainly not the type of woman who would relish a weekend in the company of other wives, however nice they are.

  I assumed that Situp had been sent away to gundog school mainly to understand the full meaning of his name rather than be ordered into adopting country-pursuit behaviour.

  I liked him. He was hovering at my knees, ever so slightly leaning against my shin angling for a pet. I rubbed the top of his head and smiled down at him. I am going to enjoy drawing this one, I thought.

  Fighting a wave of tiredness from driving in the dark, I sat on the arm of one of the corduroy sofas, an addition from my last visit. Almost immediately I was handed a cup of tea. ‘Thanks Ben.’ It was as if he could read my mind.

  Joining Henry, he sunk into the sofa opposite me, while Antonia stood between us warming the backs of her legs against the wood-burning stove. On command, Situp retreated to his basket. ‘Don’t let him annoy you Susie, if you give an inch he’ll take a mile.’ Antonia smiled with genuine companionship.

  There was word of a child aged two named Arabella, but no one dwelt on her for long. Presumably it was a case of out of sight, out of mind, as she was being taken care of by Antonia’s childhood nanny who Henry referred to as ‘May the Muncher.’ I wondered if he was joking, but his easy manner here made me think Henry had known the Codringtons a long time.

  Over the course of tea, I learned that Antonia and Ben had been undergraduates at Oxford a few years before I was studying at the Ruskin School of Art. We reminisced about the beauty of the colleges. Ben had been a scholar at University College and Antonia told the story of how, when he first took her back to his room, he had paused en route at the Shelley Memorial to recite ‘Love’s Philosophy.’

  The fountains mingle with the river

  And the rivers with the Ocean,

  The winds of heaven mix for ever

  With a sweet emotion;

  Nothing in the world is single;

  All things by a law divine

  In one spirit meet and mingle.

  Why not I with thine?—

  See the mountains kiss high Heaven

  And the waves clasp one another;

  No sister-flower would be forgiven

  If it disdained its brother;

  And the sunlight clasps the earth,

  And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

  What is all this sweet work worth

  If thou kiss not me?

  There was something unashamedly pretentious about Oxbridge students, I thought. But I could see that although I wouldn’t like to include myself in this opinion, others might if I were to talk about our art school parties. Parties had almost always been fancy dress, with themes such as ‘Your favourite character from a Brueghel painting’, or worse. And then there was our regular after-dinner party game (plenty of opportunity as there were many dinner parties) of ‘Gather your team-mates and recreate a scene from a nineteenth century masterpiece.’ The nights had gone on too late to remember in detail quite how it all played out, and with the distance of time I could only hope we maintained a sense of humour about it all.

  Henry looked exhausted and gave little to the conversation. He was from the other side of the fence, a Cambridge medical student coincidentally at the same College as Alexander Greengrass. Only those in the know could pronounce the ‘keys’ properly in ‘Gonville and Caius.’

  ‘None of us know how he got in there,’ said Ben. ‘It’s not like he had the grades.’ He turned to his friend, smiled and said, ‘Our Henry can charm the pants off anyone when it comes to getting something he wants.’

  ‘Ben!’ said Antonia. ‘Lay off him.’

  Henry smiled. As the conversation progressed I found out he’d known Ben since birth and they’d even shared a pram. ‘Our mothers are best friends,’ said Henry, ‘have been since they were twelve.’ He looked at Ben, presumably alluding to the secrets both generations must share.

  There was plenty of time over the weekend and so I didn’t embark with Henry on the boring, although I’ve always thought rather interesting, questions of occupation and habitation. He was dressed in a suit, and I wondered if perhaps he’d left medicine for the gold rush of hedge funding.

  Antonia began to draw down the kitchen blinds, and said, ‘Let me show you to your rooms.’

  Henry gallantly picked up my bag together with his.

  Upstairs the house was far bigger than it looked from the outside. Much like the Codringtons, it was tall and narrow, going up four floors. Henry and I were being shown to our respective rooms when Situp came horsing up the stairs and blasted through the partly opened door of a bedroom on the second floor that had wooden letters spelling ‘Bella’ on it.

  Henry and I both tensed up but there was no need as Situp soon came sulking back out, having been barked at by Antonia for misbehaving. ‘Sorry for that,’ she said. ‘He’s a big softie really and would never hurt our darling Bella but I feel I should tell him off.’

  Situp, tail between his legs, slunk off down the stairs in that hangdog way guilty canines have.

  ‘Now, you’re in here, Henry, and there’s a bathroom just round there,’ Antonia pointed to a little staircase, which went back on itself. ‘And you’re upstairs,’ she told me.

  Henry handed me my bag and I followed Antonia up another flight. ‘There you go, there’s a bathroom under that arch. We’ll eat in the kitchen about seven-thirty so bathe if you want.’

  Quietly I closed the door and smiled to myself. Not often do I end up somewhere so relaxed that I can put drawing out of my mind and just look forward to the evening ahead. There were shutters on the windows but I drew the curtains all the same. They made the room look softer and told a dream-like tale of stags racing through a forest full of berries. The bed was very comfortable, with a topper and a hot blanket. Luxury. In the en suite bathroom under the arch there was a bottle of pine bath-essence, the vibrant green of which was lodged in my long-term memory, back to those happy times of three baths a day at Granny B’s house, anything to keep wa
rm. Pine bath-essence, if you haven’t come across it before, is like washing powder: something you think you can smell from outside the packaging. I always think this is similar to the sensation of simultaneously secreting saliva at the back of your teeth when you say the word ‘lemon’.

  I poured a good slug of green liquid into the running bath. The water was absolutely baking, as it often is in great big houses with great big boilers, so whilst I left it to cool I unpacked my suitcase. A surprisingly homely touch for Antonia, I thought, was that inside each draw of the clothes chest was a little lavender pillow. Perfume for my panties. How nice.

  I slipped out of my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and flicked through my book until I reached the dog-eared pages that denoted ‘Mrs Packletide’s Tiger’ and then bathed in the deep water, indulging in a bit of humorous alone time.

  I do enjoy the fact that my job plunges me straight into other people’s lives. If I’m being honest I am a bit of a nosy parker. I always have been. Not in a deceitful way, it just interests me to see how other people live. What they surround themselves with and how they interact with one another. Unfortunately my curiosity sometimes leads me to a truth I would rather not know. Only two weeks ago did I come across an old schoolfriend’s husband getting it on in a bathroom with her sister. It was very late. The sister had unfortunately forgotten that her room and mine had an inter connecting jack-and-jill bathroom. When I woke by coincidence in the early hours of the morning and saw a light shining through the keyhole I couldn’t stop myself getting out of bed and having a peek through the crack. I seriously regret doing so, as I am left bearing an abhorrent guilty secret. For there, right in front of me and very close, was the provocative younger sister wrapped round her brother-in-law in a position I would rather not describe.

  I was toasty warm and a little wrinkly when I got out of the bath and my hair, although thick, had gone rather flat. My fringe needed a puff up and my ponytail end was a little damp. I gave it a right go with the hairdryer and got such a bouffant effect I decided to leave it down. No time for make-up, I put on my pretty pink underwear, a casual jersey, a cotton miniskirt and fashion tights. Lucky Henry, you might well think.