by Anna Kent
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingertips to my temples, feeling the vibrations echoing inside my head. It reminded me of the basement flat Grace and I had shared after I graduated. I’d done my best work there, and this attic had the same feel. It was perfect.
Rohan caught up with me, puffing slightly from the exertion of climbing steps almost as steep as a ladder.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Studio?’
I nodded and he blew dust off one of the boxes. ‘Looks like the last people left some stuff.’ He opened the top box and pulled out a toddler’s dress. ‘Meh. Baby clothes. Shame it’s not the family treasure.’
‘We have to buy this house,’ I said, heart thumping. ‘Rohan, please. I really need to live here.’
Five
Funnily enough, I hadn’t studied Art at university. Much as I’d wanted to.
‘Nope,’ my dad had said when I’d pushed him, again and again, to let me do something more interesting than Management Science. ‘No way.’
We’d argued it this way and that over dinner, relentlessly, for months.
‘You don’t need a degree in Fine Art in order to paint,’ he said. ‘Did you see the graduate prospects on a Fine Art course? Seventy-one per cent. Compared to what? Ninety per cent on Man-Sci? It’s a no-brainer.’
‘Did you see the student satisfaction scores?’ I’d retorted, because I’d looked at the website too. ‘4.03 on Management Science, and 4.52 on Fine Art.’
‘Pff,’ Dad had said. ‘University courses aren’t designed to make people happy. They’re designed to get people qualifications and jobs – good jobs, careers – and set them up for life.’
‘Sounds boring,’ I’d muttered under my breath.
‘You can paint in your spare time,’ Dad said, over and over, like a broken record, like the words were a part of him, a part of his soul, his identity. In the end, I’d resolved to switch courses once I got to university, but then everything had happened and the fight had gone out of me and I’d ended up, empty as a soggy paper bag, on the Management Science course, and it had been Grace who’d helped me find my way back to painting.
She liked to watch television in my room. Every evening after lectures she’d slip into my room and flick it on. One evening, while she devoured whatever it was she was watching, I’d got my pencils and doodled a little sketch of her, enjoying the comforting rub of pencil on paper.
‘What’s that?’ she asked as the credits finally rolled, and I shrugged and turned the picture away. ‘Nothing.’
But she grabbed it from me and examined it, a wry smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘You know, it’s really rather good,’ she said. ‘You can actually draw. Weren’t you tempted to study Art? I mean, seriously, why are you studying Management Science when you so clearly hate it?’
I picked at the skin around my thumbs and tried to come up with a better answer than ‘because my dad told me to’.
‘Because it’ll be useful?’ I said.
‘No doubt about it.’ Grace picked up a bottle of my nail polish and started languidly to paint her nails. She balanced the blue polish she loved so much precariously on a textbook on my duvet cover. ‘But what about passion? I’ve known since I was twelve that I wanted to be a doctor, and my whole life since then has been spent working towards that goal. The subjects I chose, how hard I studied… the summer jobs I took. All to get me closer to where I want to be.’
‘Wow,’ I said faintly.
‘But what makes you happy – what makes your soul sing – is art,’ Grace declared. One hand done, she replaced the cap on the polish and looked up. ‘So why aren’t you painting? Just because you’re studying Management Science doesn’t mean you can’t paint. It’s not as if the two are mutually exclusive.’
She tilted her head and looked at me, waiting, and my mouth fell open. Dad may have said the same thing a hundred times, but this was the first time the words had actually reached me. Grace spoke again.
‘And if I were you – if I had your talent, I mean – I would be bloody well nurturing it in my spare time, not sitting about feeling sorry for myself. I mean, let’s be honest: we both know you could do with some joy in your lonely little life.’ The words stung despite her laugh, but she shook up the nail polish, unscrewed the cap and continued stroking blue onto her nails. The next day I went to the art supply shop and bought what materials I could afford.
There was just about space for the easel in my room. I’d bought a pre-stretched canvas, primed and ready to go, and a set of acrylic paints: a box of tubes every colour of the rainbow, but it was the darker colours that called to me. On my virgin palette, I squeezed out black and grey, greens and browns and reds and oranges, and then I picked a brush and I dipped it into the paints and swirled and stroked the colours onto the canvas, knowing but not wanting to know what was coming. Knowing that it wasn’t going to be pretty.
And, underneath my hand, a landscape started to appear – fields and hedges and trees and birds – but I couldn’t stem the feelings that exploded through my brush and I lashed the colours onto the canvas, twisting the picture into something dark and angry; a visible ejaculation of fear, of horror and of shame.
It was only when I’d finished, as the students in the rooms around me started to wake, banging doors and shuffling off to breakfast, that I saw how far I’d demolished the landscape; how I’d warped the birds into dribbling beasts of horror; how the flowers, the golden fields and the hedges had morphed into something dark, twisted and angry; how I’d given trees whispers of faces that observed with beady eyes and spiteful, pointy mouths; how I’d sucked up the beauty of nature and spat out something sick, which oozed malevolence, darkness and evil.
But, as I’d sat there, spent, and taken in the finished painting in its entirety, I’d realized that not only was there a beauty to that destruction, but that the act of painting it had taken away a sliver of the self-hatred that sat on my shoulder, ugly and dark, like a beast that needed constant feeding. From then on, when the feelings became too much to bear, I’d buy more supplies and start another picture, sitting up all night as my soul drained onto the canvas. These landscapes were the ones that formed the basis of the collection that was shown at my first exhibition.
It had been, in every sense, a triumph.
Six
After I’d had some lunch and made a bit of a fuss of Alfie, who was unused to me going out for so long, I climbed the stairs up to the second bedroom. The door was closed: Rohan and I had gone bit by bit with the house renovation – the kitchen and bathrooms our priorities, then the living area and the master bedroom. This room was still largely untouched; a space neither of us had cause to use. I stood outside the door for a moment and took a breath, then pushed it gently open.
Inside, the air was cold and musty – neglected – yet I had the feeling that I’d disturbed something. Was there a rustling? Or the echo of a rustling? I peered at the room. The bed and dresser we’d inherited from the previous occupants looked dejected, as if waiting for their owner to return. I kicked the leg of the bed, thinking to send any potential mice skittering, but of course we had a cat so there were no mice, and the room answered with a silence that caused the hairs on my arms to stand on end.
I skirted around the bed and opened the wardrobe, catching as I did so an echo of the scent that had steeped into the wood – something floral, and soft, like talcum powder. A few wooden hangers still remained on the rail and, on the floor, there was a pair of flip-flops, the ancient print of a foot embossed on the thin, cracked rubber. I slid a foot gently into one. Cinderella.
Replacing the shoe carefully, I pulled out the fabric of the flowery curtains and sneezed. The pattern was faded from bearing witness to thousands of sunrises, but the fabric was sound – with a good vacuum and a clean, they’d do. I pushed open the window, letting fresh air rush into the room, and looked around. A springclean, a lick of polish on the wardrobe… It wouldn’t be such a big deal to invite Grace to stay, and if Rohan was g
oing to be working in New York… I bit my lip and my heart thumped. Would he acually go without me?
The bed creaked a little as I sat down on the edge, then I swung my legs up and let myself sink back, my body suddenly heavy – pulled down by something more than gravity. It was as if the bed itself wanted to feel my weight on it; as if it were drawing me in, the mattress wrapping itself around the contours of my body as I settled into the dips and rises made by the past owner. My nose prickled with dust.
Lying on my back, I took in the room from this new perspective. Had the wallpaper danced in front of the other girl’s eyes, too, the pattern appearing to move as it joined and separated from itself in an eternal, swaying dance? Had she lain awake at night, staring at it as she pictured her future and planned what she’d do with her life?
I blinked and rubbed my forehead to rid myself of the pattern imprinted on my retinas, then opened them again with a smile: the crazy pattern was just the kind of thing Grace-the-extrovert would like.
Despite the saggy mattress, the bed was comfortable and, the longer I lay there, the more I felt it pulling me in, sucking me deeper. I closed my eyes once more, and, slowly, something started to form in my mind’s eye – an image of some sort. It was hazy, a will-o’-the-wisp that faded if I tried to focus on it. So I let it come, batting down the buzz of excitement lest it interfere: this was a feeling I knew; a feeling I hadn’t had for a long time. I concentrated only on breathing in and out while I let my subconscious take form in my mind’s eye, like a bubble from deep down making its way to the surface. And then, was it my imagination, or was there the lightest of touches on my arm – a hand, cold? I jumped and my eyes snapped open as a gust of wind tugged at the curtains and blew the room door open, slamming it against its hinges so it bounced.
I scrambled up and ran, without thinking, to the attic, where I picked out a canvas and placed it carefully on my easel. Without letting my thoughts interrupt what I was doing, I picked up my palette and squeezed out a few colours. I mixed a few – skin tones, I noticed – which I dabbled onto some rough paper and played with, using different brushes as well as my fingers, and experimenting with the way the colour might vary in different lights. Then, still not knowing what it was that was forming in my subconscious, I mixed a palette of complementary colours – a blue, some browns, a pale purple – and I dabbled them together on the paper, smudging them into one another. When Rohan’s head appeared at the top of the stairs I barely processed his presence.
‘Phew, hot day,’ he said, loosening his tie, then he crossed the floor, kissed the back of my neck and took in what I was doing with his face level with mine.
‘Ahh,’ he said, standing back up, and I could hear both hope and admiration glittering in his voice as he recognized this almost dissociative state I was in. ‘Does the artist work again?’ He put his hands on my shoulders and gave them a little massage. ‘Nice colours. What’s it going to be?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I said, staring at the palette and the colours on the paper as if seeing them for the first time. But that wasn’t true. I hadn’t thought about it, but when I sat back and took in the overall impression of what I’d mixed, there was only one thing – one person – it could be, and the thought made my heart jump.
‘Divine intervention, eh?’ said Rohan, touching steepled hands to his forehead as if saying thanks to God. ‘Finally! Hallelujah for that!’ He paused then scrunched up his face. ‘I hate to say this when you’re finally working, but shouldn’t you be getting ready? The table’s booked for 7.30, and you know how Mum hates us to be late.’
Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
‘I understand that it was that summer when Abigail first began working on a new portrait painting?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you feel at that point?’
‘I was hopeful. It was a good thing. She’d stagnated creatively for some time so I was glad to see her mixing paints for something other than a dog portrait. I really hoped she’d got her mojo back, not least because she had an exhibition lined up and she was running out of time. Francesca – from the gallery– kept putting the dates back and I got the impression that her patience was running out. I worried that if Abs didn’t pull something out of the bag, she wouldn’t be given another chance.
‘So I was relieved when I saw her starting on something that looked like it might be more serious. I mean, she’s a talented artist. If only she’d just focus and not spend her time pissing about – excuse me – with pet portraits.
‘Her first collection was a massive success, you know. The critics loved it. It sold. Every piece sold. Have you seen it online?’
‘Not yet.’
‘It was dark; threatening. You can google it. It’s scary. Looking back, I suppose that was a clue… but you don’t know at the time, do you? You don’t know where these things come from.’
‘And you don’t want to ask?’
[Pause] ‘No. You don’t want to ask.’
Seven
It was Rohan’s idea that we had dinner with his parents a minimum of once a month. Though, when I say ‘his parents’, I really mean his mother. And, when I say it was his idea, I’m absolutely sure it was hers. I wouldn’t be giving anything away to say that it’s she who wears the trousers in my in-laws’ marriage – an arrangement that suits my father-in-law, Clive, down to the ground.
Meena Allerton is a strong woman who usually gets what she wants in life, and Rohan is her only son – her pride and joy – a point which she’d made clear from the moment she first cast her eyes over me. While she never judged me, not openly anyway, I always had the impression she thought I was lucky to be with Rohan – never the other way around. Sometimes I wondered if she would have preferred Rohan to marry a ‘nice Indian girl’ for, although he is to all intents and purposes British, we both know that if you scratch a little deeper, he’s laced through to his soul with the spirituality of Meena’s Hindu background. Physically, he’s a good mix of both his parents: his colouring and his aristocratic bone structure from Meena’s side, and the blue-green eyes courtesy of the Anglo-Saxon input of the Allertons. A paler, bearded version of Hrithik Roshan, as Meena’s always saying. I roll my eyes, but secretly I agree.
Meena herself is the only member of the family not originally from England. She was born in India and sent to the UK to study. It was here in London, while she studied for her degree, that she surprised everyone by falling in love with Clive, a quiet, unassuming Accountancy student. The stand-off about where they would live after marriage was the stuff of family legend: while Clive was happy enough to give India a try, my mother-in-law refused point-blank to go back, and so the Allerton family tree remained firmly rooted in North London, where it always had been. I often wondered if Meena missed the colours and life of India but, when I asked her, she said she missed only three things: her parents – both now dead; the warmth of the sun; and the ‘perfect’ masala dosas from a certain street-food shack.
In fact, her quest to find a dosa that rivalled these magical ones from India underscored the Allerton family’s entire lives. Whenever we found ourselves in a restaurant that served southern Indian food, there would be a certain quickening as she wondered: could this be the one? She’d lick her lips and finger the menu nervously.
‘For God’s sake, don’t do it,’ Clive would sigh. ‘Don’t torture yourself, love.’
But still, a dosa would be ordered. Meena would taste it, delicately, as if it might contain something toxic, then her head would tip sideways and up as if asking the opinion of the gods, but then she’d shake her head and turn her lips downward. Seeing her shoulders sag with disappointment every time was strangely moving.
‘Nope,’ she’d say, pushing it away with a sigh, then she’d tell Rohan to order ‘pav bhaji or chana puri – and maybe some veg samosas?’ instead. But, once the attention had moved away from her, she would slide her hand gently back out toward th
e dosa, pull it towards her and eat it greedily with the sambar running down her wrists. The first time I witnessed this decimation of the rejected dosa, I looked at Rohan with a laugh ready to burst, but he refused to meet my eye, and I learned right there and then that no one laughs at Meena Allerton.
Anyway, the dinner for which I’d had to pull myself away from my easel was the ‘at-least-monthly’ dinner we took with Meena and Clive.
Eight
Meena was already at the table when we arrived at the restaurant; there was no sign of Clive, but this was not unusual. Rather than reschedule if her husband couldn’t make it, Meena would come without him, desperate, I’m sure, not to get out of the habit of the monthly meeting lest it set a precedent.
The restaurant had embraced the heatwave, its huge glass doors zig-zagged back to open up the place completely to the pavement. I was glad to see Meena was seated at a booth a little way back and to the side from this edge – blame the PTSD if you like, but I couldn’t relax too close to the edge. Meena was dressed in pale-blue jeans and a kurta, which made her look almost ordinary and that created a dissonance inside me; ‘ordinary’ was not a word anyone would naturally associate with my mother-in-law, a formidable woman known in the community for her phenomenal ability to raise both funds and awareness for whichever causes she chose to champion: premature babies, abused women, cancer research.
