The Ecliptic (39 page)

Next morning, the day was drier, brighter. I took a sketchbook, took a satchel, took Jim’s coat. I found some pickings of my own. Lavender, petunias, geraniums. Brought them back to the
cottage and mulched them. I did the same thing Jim used to do, or what I used to do for Jim. I worked the muller, smoothed it, left the paint so nice and thick. A dash of Cremnitz in
it—
sparingly
. Such a pleasant paint to load onto the brush, upon the knife-edge. But it was much too sunny in that room to concentrate. Shrieking crows and gulls outside, cats
stalking the tall grass. Things flashing: glints of chrome on distant boats, wobbling on the loch. Strange how metal sharpened beams of sunlight into needles. The hulls rocked gently, side to side.
One moment, there they were
—
those bright white shards—the next thing, gone
.
But what if I could capture them somehow? What if I could paint them all in Cremnitz?
Everything except those tiny spikes of light. Render the scene so thickly that from ten feet away you would see a formless blur—
pure abstraction—
and from an arm’s length
you would see the definition. Detail. Clarity. It was possible to achieve a feat like that. But who had tried before? Someone, definitely someone.
Men of soaring talent
.

I made the stretcher frame myself from planks—from leftovers in the outhouse, paintings of Henry’s, never started, never finished—and I hammered every brass tack through the
fabric with the blunt end of a pestle. Good strong boat upholstery, tightly fibred. Quick to prime. And I hung a swathe of it over the window, tacked that too, holding the light at bay. It stopped
me trying for a glimpse of Jim out there. Removed all distractions. Focused.

But no, but no, but nothing.

Accept the flaws or fix them.
Someone had told me that once. Over the phone:
Accept the flaws or fix them
.
That’s what I always say
. Like something from a
textbook. A very gentle voice. Meek and insubstantial.

And then I ground up all the lavender and geraniums. The petunias would not give.

Blue paste in the mortar. A smidge of oil, then mix.

There was plenty to eat, but nothing I wanted.

I was fine for a while.

A bit light-headed.

I thought the mantel clock was ticking in the ground beneath me. I felt the tremors in my feet. But it was just the crunch of glass under my shoes.

Still, a candy-striped line did not seem right.

I had to show it in the paint.

Try the lavender with geraniums. More linseed oil. A good dose of that Cremnitz White would do it. Except nothing would appear. No—it had to
ache
more. The paint. It had to
ache
. Not shine, not glisten, not hum. There had to be one painting I refused to sacrifice.
Straight for the jugular
. Possible, if I kept on going. There were no hours any more.
The clock was missing. And where was I supposed to go exactly? What was I supposed to do?

Outside again and sketching. Strange how metal sharpened sunlight into needles but so difficult to draw. The masts were easier. Flick of the pencil—he would be back any
day now—and that was it. Those simple boats. A lot more people on the pier. Pickings in the basket from the verges of the hills. Mostly weeds. Yes, he would come back any day now. He told me
so. I trusted him. And I could throw his paintings in the loch if he did not.

Crushed another tablet in the mortar and went straight in with Cremnitz. Smearing the paint, it seemed to ache a fraction more. There were sixty-four tablets when Jim left and
now just fifty-two. Coral-coloured things, made white under the pestle. Powdered just like salt. A pinch of it did not go far. That night, for dinner: soda bread, the way my mother used to bake it.
Jim made sure to leave me with some matches. He put them in the drawer: two boxes. Some of them were blackened, struck already. When he got back, we would need more. We could exhume the clock or
get another. We could get back what we lost.

Night-time and barely a light on. Trees a dense black cluster up ahead. The whispering boat ropes straining with the tide. And everywhere so quiet and cool. The smells of night
so sheer and fulsome. I was carrying two of his best Judas boards above my head, pall-bearing.

It had taken all day to work up the courage—his messages must not have reached me; the last train must have left without him—but I had waited and waited and waited too long.

They were heavy and rough at the sides. Took them down to the rim of the loch. Silt and sand beneath me, the water bracing, ankle-high. I threw them forwards and they splashed. They hardly flew
at all. But still the water doused me. The boards drifted away like rafts and vanished in the dark. The boat ropes tightened, gave.

He had gone to look for Ana Helène. It was foolish to think otherwise. There were plenty more boards in the cottage. I had stacked them up in the back room. The kitchen light ahead of me,
a woozy yellow star to guide me back. I had his permission for this, I had his approval. But no more for tonight.

The boat ropes were still tightening when I opened my eyes, but they were nowhere to be seen. I was lying in Jim’s sleeping bag of curtains, amongst his clothes, the musk
of them, and day was falling onto me. The ropes were very close by, the creak of them prolonged, repeating. I stood up in the sleeping bag until it peeled right off me. I followed the sound, along
the hallway—creaking—to the lounge. And Jim was in the rocking chair, arms folded. A fierce look about his face: all tensed. His boots were new and glassy. He wore a hefty opal ring.
‘Where are they?’ he said, letting the words hang. ‘The best two are missing. Where are they?’ Those steady creaking rockers, back and forth.

‘In the loch,’ I said. ‘You told me I could do it.’

He nodded. ‘After a week, I told you. It’s been six days.’ But his words could not be trusted any more. Standing now, dusting his hands. Sizing me up, as though for a portrait.
Head down and to the side. No pencil to measure me. The proportions would be wrong. ‘Ellie,’ he said, ‘how concerned should I be?’

I did not understand his question. The room was much too bright. He was wearing a fine set of clothes, the kind for impressing: serge blazer, a well-ironed shirt. His hair was no shorter, no
longer, but the remnants of his tan still shaded his cheekbones. And that big opal ring. ‘Not at all. I’ve been painting,’ I said.

He glared at me. ‘Yes, I can see that.’ A note of contempt in the voice. ‘But you don’t look well,’ he said. ‘Just awful, in fact. Have you been
eating?’

I shrugged. ‘A bit of soda bread.’

‘Soda bread. That’s all you’ve had?’

‘Well, just a few bites. I made it too salty.’

‘In the whole six days?’

‘My mother used to bake it.’

‘Uh-huh. All right, I see.’ He stepped forward, softening. ‘I think you’d better lie down.’

‘When did you get back?’ I said.

‘I don’t know. Early.’

‘You missed your train.’

‘Not exactly. Come on—bed now.’ He walked me backwards. ‘I’ll make you some hot milk and then you’ve got to eat something.’

Warm milk in our stomachs and half a pack of biscuits. Things were better after that. We sat in the kitchen with the back door open, letting in the dregs of summer, all the
giddy bugs. The brightness hard to bear. But Jim was home now. Head of the table, watching me chew. His chin resting on his fists. Slack-faced, sighing. ‘I should cook you something
proper,’ he said. ‘Have another.’ Raisins in the biscuits were shrivelled and delicious. I kept on eating, drank more milk. ‘That’s a fair-size canvas in the back
room,’ he said. ‘You stretched that on your own?’

I said, ‘No one else around to help me, was there?’

‘Well, the painting is—’ Head to one side.

‘Not finished.’

‘More like you can’t stop working on it.’

‘It won’t come together.’ No more biscuits.

‘It reminds me of something.’

‘A very bad Turner.’

‘No, I don’t mean it’s derivative.’

‘Your eyes need testing.’

‘Ellie—you’re worrying me.’

‘I’m eating, aren’t I? What more do you want?’

He bit on his knuckle, considering the answer. His eyes did not leave mine. I could see the gap in his teeth from fighting. He said, ‘Actually, it reminds me of the work I did when I was
drinking—
heavily
drinking. Your thoughts are leaking out of so many different places you can’t hold them. There’s no control, no discipline. Everything’s just
streaming out of you and you can’t stop it. I understand what that feels like, believe me I do. Feels like freedom but all you’re really doing is shutting things out. It leads you
nowhere good.’

‘You shouldn’t have left me here,’ I told him.

‘Yes, I think you’re probably right.’

‘Then why did you?’

‘Because I had to.’ Staring at the tabletop. ‘I’ve been in the state you’re in now, Ellie, and I can’t go back to it. As much as I care for you, I
won’t.’

He did not say
love
. He did not even think it. ‘I’m hopeless on my own,’ I said.

‘That isn’t true. You’ve always been alone. You thrive that way.’