It's just as well I was never one of that curious band of women known as "window shoppers", because in all the years of my first unhappy marriage I was so hard pressed for cash that "window shopping" would have been just an exercise in futility and frustration. Clothing, jewelry, and their allied fripperies never interested me, and they still don't, although my second, wonderfully happy marriage is to a man who can afford to indulge me in every whim. He, poor darling, is the one who feels the frustration-he would like nothing better than to see me spending his money much more freely than I do. His sole aim in life is to try and make up to me for all the deprivations of the foregoing years and he nearly submerges me under a constant shower of gifts. Of course I accept them most gratefully because I know they're chosen with much loving care, but I would be just as blissfully happy without them.
Which brings me to this very odd story-the story that began when he refused to buy me something I had set my heart on.
Through all the dreary years, the two things which helped to relieve the monotony and cheerlessness were music and reading; tastes, which, thank God, my dear man shares with me. So now I have the time and the means I love browsing amongst books and in record shops, buying all my favorites to keep for ever. Our house is full of books and music, not to be used anymore as an escape from life but as things we can enjoy together.
Apart from these joyful pursuits I also like, from time to time, wandering around picture galleries. Not that I know anything about art or the finer points of painting-I belong to the "I-know-what-I-like" school so derided by true aficionados-but I love beauty in all its forms and if my ideas of what constitutes beauty don't coincide with other people's, well, I can't help that! So there I was one day, pottering about in a smallish art gallery, more to fill in some time than anything, when I saw the painting.
It was in oils, signed by a name I'd never heard of before. In the foreground was a strip of deserted beach, the tide running out to a calm grey sea, where one small boat appeared to be at anchor. The remainder of the canvas, a good half of it, was just an empty sky. The only touch of bright colour was at the top, a red reflection shading into pink, of the sun hidden behind clouds. Whether it was sunrise of sunset, I couldn't guess. And that was all. Why it fascinated me so much I've no idea. I only know I loved it and I stood gazing at it for about ten minutes.
The woman who was in charge of the gallery hovered near. I said, "That's beautiful. How much is it?" She told me the price but whether it was expensive or not, I had no way of telling. As I said before I know very little about art. She told me about the painter, an elderly man, she said, who'd painted several things for them in the past. I was tempted very strongly to buy it there and then, but I said I'd think about it and come again, and with one last look, I left.
That night we were sitting by the fire, drinking our after-dinner coffee when I mentioned it.
"I fell in love with a painting today," I said.
He smiled his loving smile and replied, "Did you, my darling? Where did you see it?"
I explained to him about the gallery, where it was, and how I came to be there, and repeated how taken I'd been with this particular exhibit.
"Why didn't you buy it, love?" was his next natural question.
"Oh," I answered, "a painting isn't the kind of thing one buys in a hurry. I want to go and have another look at it and see if it still impresses me as much at a second visit. Also, I couldn't decide on the right place to hang it. And most important of all, it's something we both have to live with so I had to talk to you about it first, didn't I?"
I knew what his reply to that would be, that if I liked it he was quite sure he would, too.
"Tell me what the subject was," he wanted to know.
So I described it to him as I've written it down. He listened attentively as he always does when I talk to him and when I came to a halt, he looked a little puzzled and took a few reflective sips of coffee.
"Seems a strange choice for you, darling," he then said. "I thought you liked bold, vivid splashes of colour all over a canvas. You've laughed about this many a time and said your mother must have been frightened by a gipsy. I can't see you getting excited about a seascape somehow. What attracted you so strongly to this?"
Well, that's a question I'd asked myself and I still didn't know the answer so my reply to him was hesitant.
"I don't know. I honestly don't know. I think it was the..." I searched for the right word "...the loneliness of it."
He frowned a bit and repeated my word. "Loneliness?" he said. "That's a very odd expression to use about a painting."
I thought some more about it but couldn't come up with anything different.
"Yes," I said. "I know it sounds queer but I can't describe it in any other way. It was a definite impression of loneliness that I saw in that painting, but I love it. It says something to me but I don't know what."
I could see that for some reason he wasn't happy about my halting explanation so I didn't push it, but I was quite sure he would let me buy it if I still felt the same attraction when I went to see it a second time. All he said after that was, "Well if I can get home reasonably early one day this week we'll go and look at it together," and the conversation turned to other things I let a few days go by before I went to the gallery again; I wanted to see if the effect had worn off; then I began to panic. What if somebody else took a fancy to my beautiful picture and snatched it away from me? Breathlessly I rushed in and there it was, but this time I knew beyond all doubt I wanted it. Once more I stood and looked at it for long minutes and then I said to the woman, "I'll bring my husband in soon and get him to buy it for me."
I suppose you could say that was the first strange thing, the first `out-of-character' thing my obsession with a picture so unlike my usual taste. Now the next strange thing was about to happen. On the evening of my second visit to what I was beginning to call 'my picture' we were once again sitting by the fire after dinner. As he was pouring the coffee, I began an intensive study of our big living room-well, a study of the walls, actually. It didn't take me long to make up my mind and finally I said, "Yes!" aloud.
He paused, turned to me, cream jug in hand, and asked, "Yes, what?"
I told him. "I've been looking round to try and decide where my sea picture can hang to the best advantage. That end wall is the ideal place. It'll be in a good light and we can see it nicely from here. What do you think?"
He returned to measuring out the cream and sugar and his answer couldn't have been shorter. "No," he said. Just that, nothing added.
I laughed and gave him back his observation in reverse. "No, what?"
He handed me my cup of coffee, took his own, drank a little, then said, "No, the picture won't go on that wall."
I looked around the room again and as he didn't seem to want to make any further suggestion I prodded him on a bit.
"All right, if you say so, darling. I thought it would look rather well there but I don't really know much about picture hanging. Tell me where you suggest it should go?"
Then came his little bombshell.
"Nowhere," he said. "I don't want it in the house at all."
To say I was surprised is putting it at its mildest. It couldn't possibly be that he was refusing me something I'd set my heart on, he who was always urging me to buy anything I fancied! I decided he must be joking and said so. But he wasn't, and made it very clear.
"No, I'm not joking. I simply don't want that blasted painting in this house."
I was so bewildered, I said the first thing that came into my head. "But I don't understand. You haven't seen it, so why...?"
He didn't let me finish whatever I was going to say.
"I have seen it," he staggered me by saying. "I went to look at it the day after you first mentioned it. I was going to buy it for you as a surprise."
I felt myself getting more confused by the minute and all I could come up with this time was to accuse him with something about "thinking we were going to look at it together." Then my brain began to work a bit and I came to the heart of the matter.
"So, you saw it and it seems you didn't like it. All right, love. I'm disappointed but as I said before, a painting is something we both have to live with. We'll forget it."
I should have had the sense to leave it at that and drop the subject, but being a woman, I had to probe further. Remember, I wasn't only disappointed but it had given me a nasty jolt to discover he could say "no" to me. So just as a final postscript I added, "'tho' for the life of me I can't see what there was to dislike about a simple representation of sea and sky."
The violence of his reply nearly shot me out of my seat. His voice is always quiet and he didn't raise it then, but there was an element of suppressed rage about it that was more effective than a shout. "Like it!" he said, "I hated it. I hated it!"
I'm not an unintelligent woman and I could sense there was something upsetting him very much. But what, in God's name, could it possibly be? I seemed to have set something in motion that I didn't understand and certainly didn't like. I had to think very fast ... say something, anything, to lighten the odd atmosphere. So I laughed, gave him a hug, and said, "Well, I've joked about my mother being frightened by a gipsy. I reckon your mother must have been frightened by a sailor. That's why you don't like the sea. So that's the end of the silly old picture. Let's forget all about it and give me another cup of coffee before it's stone cold."
I felt the tension going out of him and I worked very hard all the evening to woo him back into his usual delightful self.
But I didn't forget. Of course, I gave up any thought of ever owning the painting but it was so extraordinary, and I've got my fair share of feminine curiosity so I wanted to know what caused his peculiar outburst. I even dallied with the idea that he'd had a minor brainstorm, but he's much too well balanced, too well-integrated for things like that. No-there had to be a concrete reason and I was determined to find out what it was, somehow, sometime. To be fair to myself it wasn't only idle curiosity. The workings of his mind fascinate me-he's so full of surprises, odd bits of wisdom, he's more capable than anybody I've ever met of going straight to the roots of a problem and sorting it out in a flash. Which all made the mystery of the painting more intriguing still.
It's a pity I didn't remember what happened to Bluebeard's wife. God knows. She found enough skeletons in the cupboard, poor bitch! But I doubt whether even that would have stopped me once my detective instincts were roused, and my Leo is no Bluebeard. He's a one-woman man now, whatever his past was like before we married. If I ever doubted that, I'd go straight off the top of the highest cliff I could find. But there are skeletons, and skeletons, as I was to discover.
Leo isn't the type of man to bare his soul indiscriminately, but I knew if he confided in anyone, apart from me, it would be to his best friend, Rick. They go back a long way together, from the days when they were both in Bomber Command during the war, and they're still like David and Jonathon. Our marriage hadn't broken the friendship up, far from it. I like him so much; he's so happy for us both it would be impossible to shut him out. I knew that if anybody could throw some light on my mystery it would be Rick. I waited like a spider in its web for an opportunity to tackle him.
I didn't have to wait too long before testing my theory. The unsuspecting fly phoned one evening and I answered the ring. After exchanging a few pleasantries he said, "I'd like a word with your other half. Is he around?"
"You'll have to make do with me for a few minutes," I told him. "The lord and master's taking a bath and changing for dinner."
"What!" Rick said. "And you're not up there scrubbing his back! You're slipping, woman."
Here was my chance. I injected a semi-mournful note into my voice. "'Fraid not" I said. "In fact, I think he's going off me."
Rick laughed. "That'll be the day!" he jeered.
I carried on. "You think I'm joking, don't you? But I can read the signs. The rot's setting in already. For the very first time he's refused to let me buy something I'd set my heart on."
He fell straight into my web. "Oh," he said. "Are you talking about that painting?"
I pounced. "Aha!" I exclaimed. "So you know all about that, do you?"
There was a pause from the other end of the line. I bet he was kicking himself for his indiscretion. Then, rather lamely, he tried to cover up. "Leo did mention something about it," came the guarded answer.
"Right!" he got back from me. "So you can tell me what he's up to now. But not at the moment; I can hear him thumping about so he'll be down any minute, but next time I get you alone we'll take this up again."
Before he finished his chat with Leo and rang off, I'd arranged for him to come to dinner later that week. All I had to do, then, was to try and dream up some little Machiavellian maneuver to get him on his own. As things turned out I didn't have to overtax my brains. I had a slight cold, a very slight cold, but my dear old watchdog always fusses about like a demented earwig if I get as much as a pain in my little toe! So it didn't take much persuasion on his part to settle me comfortably by the fire while he cleared away the dinner things.
"Just leave them on the draining board, darling," I suggested. "Mrs. Thing'll see to them in the morning." But I knew he wouldn't, he's much too considerate, and there I was, with Rick "to entertain me," Leo said, while he was crashing about in the kitchen, whistling happily. Like candy from a baby, I thought.
"Now then," I began purposefully. "Tell me about this painting business."
Rick looked uncomfortable and said, "I'd much rather not. Let it be, love. Forget it."
"I'm sure you would much rather not," I retorted and used a very vulgar metaphor to describe how men stick together. But seeing that he looked really unhappy I relented somewhat.
"Look, love," I began again. "This isn't just curiosity, although I admit I am curious. But don't you see I really need to know? He's never refused me anything before and I think I'm entitled to know why."
He still sat in silence, eyeing me soberly and I saw that more drastic measures were called for.
"OK." I said at last. "You won't tell me. He won't talk about it. There's only one thing left. Tomorrow I'm going to buy the bloody thing and then we'll see what happens!"
His response took me by surprise. He put out a hand towards me as if he was trying to restrain me by sheer bodily force, and said with great vehemence, "For God's sake, don't! Don't bring the damn thing into the house."
I was really shaken, but I couldn't leave it alone now. I had to press on so I said, "Then you had better look on this as blackmail. Tell me why. This whole ridiculous thing's got quite out of hand and I'm determined to know what's at the back of it."
Rick knew he was fighting a losing battle but he made one desperate bid.
"Supposing I were to tell you that knowing would make you unhappy? Would you still want the truth?"
"Yes I would," I replied. "I've gone too far now to back out. Anyway," I went on gaily, "I'll have to take the risk, and I promise I won't hold it against you if I don't like what I hear."
That was the last light-hearted remark I made through the remainder of our strange conversation, and to tell the truth, I had to act my socks off to appear my usual self, even after Leo rejoined us for the rest of the evening.
But to go back to Rick. He was quiet for a minute or two, marshaling his thoughts, I guess; his first remark seemed so irrelevant that it startled me. "Leo thinks you're psychic, did you know that?" Before I had a chance to say anything he went on. "Your account of that picture was very vivid but it was your peculiar description of the effect it had on you . . . your use of the word `loneliness' that set his brain ticking over. That's why he went to look at it for himself, by himself. Well, he went and he saw; he recognized the painting from your description easily enough. But... "
He stopped and looked at me earnestly. "From here on, you'll just have to take my word for it, that this is absolutely true. You see, love, after he told me about it I was curious enough to want to see it as well, so I did. And I can assure you that I saw exactly the same as he did. It wasn't the product of an over-active imagination."
He waited for this to sink in and then continued. "The strip of beach was the coast of France which we'd just crossed over in our Lancasters coming home from a bombing raid on Germany. The rosy reflection in the sky was the dawn, we'd been the last ones in and we were the last ones to leave. Even the fishing boat was there that day. The Jerries used them to camouflage their guns. In your empty sky were three planes, Leo piloting one, me another, and in the third was Hugo. And it was there, in a scene so identical to the painted one, the artist might almost have been there, that Hugo's plane was blown up. We were both flying alongside and heard his last message and saw him die."
I was stunned, shattered beyond belief. Never, in my wildest speculations about Leo's behavior, had I come anywhere near to this incredible story. I was so shaken that all I could do was say faintly, "Oh, my God! We're not back to that again, are we?"
Hugo, Leo and Rick ... known as the Three Musketeers in the squadron ... but in those far off days I only had eyes for Hugo. Although I was married, Hugo was my lover for three ecstatic years. Nothing, nobody in the world existed for me except him, and when he died my world came to an end. Looking back on it now, I honestly believe that if Leo hadn't been around I'd have joined Hugo. Poor Leo ... I had no idea he'd loved me too, and I used him shamefully. He was just a body, a shoulder to cry on, someone to put me to bed when I was too drunk to stand up, to be cursed for being alive when Hugo was dead, to jeer at for never answering me back. For a whole year he took everything I dished out without complaint, and when the war ended and he was sent abroad, I saw him go without any regrets on my part at all. His letters stayed unanswered and finally stopped coming.
And all through the years the ache inside me never grew less for my beautiful young Hugo, the crust of ice round my heart was as cold and thick as Everest ... until the day Leo bounced back into my life again. He bulldozed and battered away until all my defenses crumbled, the ice melted. I became human again. Only people who've been through a similar experience will know this isn't just fanciful talk but the strict truth. Before I could even stop to think properly, we were married. Married and so happy.
But during the years of our marriage I've sometimes wondered. There have been some very dodgy moments when Hugo's name's come up. God knows I've done my best to make Leo understand the past is over and done with. But does he believe me? Come to that, do I truly believe it myself? That thought I have to put resolutely behind me.
And now, here we go again, all over a damned painting. All these things scurried round in my head like swarms of ants. Rick said, his face full of concern, "Are you all right, love?"
With an effort I pulled myself together but all I could mutter was, "I don't believe it!"
Rick shook his head. "I'm sorry, but you have to. Oh I know there must be hundreds, thousands, of bits of coastline just like that, for all I know the chap who painted the picture may have done it purely from his own imagination, but to Leo, and to me, it was all too familiar. It was a weird sensation. I can tell you. But," he went on, "you can understand now, can't you, why he couldn't possibly have that stuck under his nose for the rest of his life?"
My mind was in a turmoil; there were a dozen things I wanted to say. A dozen things I wanted to ask. But time was running out and Leo's chores in the kitchen would soon be finished; there might not be another opportunity to talk privately for ages.
One thing, though, I had to ask; all my peace of mind for the future could hang in the balance, contingent on the answer.
"Why did you say Leo thinks I'm psychic?" I shot out. "Surely he can't believe that when I walked into the gallery I read all those signs in a simple painting? Nobody ever told me exactly where Hugo was shot down; if I thought about it, I assumed it was over Germany somewhere. What happened to Hugo all those years ago couldn't have been further from my mind, so where did Leo make the connection?"
Rick took his time over answering.
"We both know what an intelligent man he is, but we both know where his Achilles's heel lies. He's just not quite normal on the subject of you and Hugo." He paused, and then, "If only you hadn't used that particular expression `loneliness'. You're usually so good with words. When you described what you'd seen and the impression it gave, all the alarm bells rang in his head. His theory, which may sound completely cracked to you, is this. Hugo died in what, to all intents and purposes, was that identical spot. His death started years and years of sorrow and loneliness for you, and Leo believes quite firmly, that when you stood looking at that damned picture, you subconsciously picked up those vibrations."
I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or simply dismiss the whole explanation as rubbish. The outwardly civilized part of me said it was a load of codswallop, but the hidden atavism that lurks deep down in all of us wondered.
That just about ended the conversation. Dear old Rick kept the attention off me as much as he could when Leo brought in the coffee, giving me a breathing space to recover my wits. We did revert to it, briefly, when Leo did his martyr's act again, washing up the cups.
I turned to Rick almost in desperation, pleading with him. "What am I going to do, Rick? What am I going to do! What chance do Leo and I have, if Hugo's always going to be standing between us?"
He smiled, such a gentle, loving smile. "If you haven't forgotten him after all these years, you're never going to forget him now, that's for sure. But can't you try and regard it in a slightly, very slightly, different way? Can't you imagine him standing beside you both, not between you? I knew him, too, don't forget, and if he's anywhere around I'm damn certain he's only too happy to know you're being loved and well looked after."
That was all we had time for, and the full wisdom of his last remark didn't make much impact until a short while later, when it hit me what thorough good sense it made.
There's a postscript to my odd tale, of course. I fought against the inclination for a few days, to pay one last visit. To the gallery, I mean ... but I acted on the principle that if you fall off a horse you should remount straight away. With some inward trembling then, I walked in, stood in front of those few inches of wood and canvas, the cause of such a commotion in my life, and I looked at it for the last time, coldly and dispassionately. All the magic has gone; I felt nothing at all. It was only a picture of sand and sea and an empty sky.
© 2006 by Michael Owen.