Glimmer and other Stories

by Nicola McDonagh

‘Afflatus?’

  ‘Remind you of anyone?’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Will you help?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight fourteen.’

  ‘In approximately one minute the lights are going to be switched off, brace yourself.’

  The room went black and the air filled with the screams of frightened art lovers.

  In the darkness, Lola grabbed the window. She opened her coat and stuffed it into a huge pocket roughly sewn onto the lining. She quickly buttoned it up, gripped Raphael by the elbow, and dragged him towards the exit.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve got the window. Come on, before they notice.’

  ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘One of the electricians is an old friend of mine.’

  A flashlight lit up Lola’s face and she fell back into Raphael’s arms clutching at her stomach.

  ‘It’s my appendix. I have to get out of here now!’

  The guard stood still and stared at her face. Raphael pulled her up. ‘She needs to get to a hospital before it bursts, come on!’

  ‘Right, sorry it’s just that I thought I recognised this woman.’

  Lola clutched at her stomach and moaned.

  ‘Okay, follow me,’ the guard said and led them to the exit. ‘Sorry about that Sir, Madam. Take care now.’

  Raphael and Lola brushed past him and stepped into the open. They ran a few hundred yards and stopped underneath a flickering lamppost.

  ‘Thank you, Raphael.’

  ‘My pleasure. Where are you going to hide it?’

  ‘I’m not going to hide it.’

  Lola reached into her coat and pulled out the window. She held it up to the sky so that the moon shone through it.

  ‘This is how you should look at it,’ she said.

  The pair gazed at the coloured glass.

  At how the moon’s soft light changed its appearance.

  At how the blues turned green and seemed to pour down the pane like tears.

  ‘He called it “The Eyes of Wisdom.”’

  ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

  Raphael Looked into her eyes.

  Lola loosened her grip and let the window fall.

  It smashed onto the concrete pavement.

  The End

  Rousseau’s Suburban Jungle

  Esther saw it in the window, trapped inside a green plastic frame. She pressed her nose against the pane and said, ‘I’ll save you.’

  A bell jingled as Esther opened the door of the charity shop.

  A waft of warm, stale air filled her mouth and tickled her throat as though she had swallowed a moth. She coughed.

  ‘Morning.’

  She did not respond to the plump, grey-haired female that stood behind the counter. The shop assistant smiled and fumbled through a mess of tangled pearl necklaces. She tilted her head to one side as Esther slowly walked towards her. ‘Do you need a hand, dear?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right you are then. Just let me know if you do.

  Esther breathed heavily and came to a halt when she reached the glass-topped counter. ‘How much do you want for it?’

  The lady looked to where Esther pointed, raised her glasses in front of her eyes and said, ‘I don’t know, it’s a kiddies picture isn’t it?’

  ‘No, not really. How much?’

  The woman licked her front teeth and shrugged. ‘Four pounds should be about right.’

  ‘I don’t want the frame.’

  ‘Oh, but…’

  ‘I’ll still pay the four pounds. Could you just take it out of that, that thing?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  The assistant mumbled her way to the window display and dragged the picture towards her. She picked it up as though it weighed more than she did, and carried it, huffing and puffing to the counter. Esther leant heavily against her walking stick as the woman spoke, ‘It’s a funny old picture. Is it from some children’s television programme?’

  ‘No, it’s a painting by Henri Rousseau.’

  The elderly lady chuckled and began to unclip the metal clasps that held the cardboard back onto the frame. ‘Sorry dear, but I think this is just a print. Not a painting.’

  Closing her eyes tightly, she flared her nostrils and took a deep breath. ‘I know, but the print is from a painting by Henri Rousseau.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ the woman said and stared at the picture before her. She squinted and held it up, turning it left and right as though she could not make out what it was.

  ‘The colours are very garish. Not really my thing. Too cartooney for my taste. What kind of animal is it anyway? A giant kitten? Funny colour hair it’s got. Not sure about the teeth. Is it supposed to be some kind of circus act? Are they midgets riding it? All looks out of proportion.’

  Esther stared into the woman’s watery eyes. ‘The lion’s mane is the colour of ripened wheat and it is smiling. Two children sit upon the animals back as it walks amongst long yellow grass. There is a moon and dove above their heads, and the sky is darkening. The girl’s untamed tresses fly out behind her in an imitation of the big cat’s shaggy hair. It is titled, ‘The Infants and The Lion’. It was my favourite painting as a child.’

  ‘Oh, well, I can see how a child would take to it. An adult, though? Well, each to his, or her own. Sentimental value and all that,’ the assistant said and carefully unpeeled the image from the dusty glass front. ‘Do you want a bag for it?’

  ‘No, just roll it up.’

  ‘Right you are then.’

  The woman pushed the picture forwards on the glass top until it resembled a long tube and handed it to Esther. She took it and put it under her left armpit whilst she rummaged in her baggy trouser pocket for some change. ‘Ta, me dear,’ the shop assistant said and before she could put the money in the till, Esther had limped out of the building.

  Esther laid her precious purchase on the passenger seat of the car and drove through the narrow streets to her house. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the print gradually uncurl, and put her left hand on top to prevent any further movement. The car, still in third gear, juddered when she turned off the engine, causing Esther to stumble as she got out.

  She clutched the picture to her breast and walked stiffly up the garden path. Without relinquishing her hold upon the print, she flicked out the chain around her neck with her thumb. She took the key between her fingers, leaned towards the lock, put it in and opened the front door.

  Once inside the high-ceilinged, darkened hallway, Esther relaxed a little. She walked to the bottom of the stairs, listened for a few seconds then turned left past the stair cupboard, and went into the kitchen.

  Brightness from the room attacked her pale grey eyes. She blinked and headed blearily towards the large metal table in the centre. Laying her walking stick against the leg, she smoothed out the print on the surface. Once it was flattened, she stared at it like a mother seeing her newborn baby. Smiling, Esther moved her fingers across the thick paper feeling the shapes of colour as though they were painted in Braille.

  Placing both palms on the picture, she closed her eyes and imagined herself as the girl in the painting, sitting on the back of the strolling lion; thighs clenched into its ribs, the short fur tickling her flesh as the beast ambled through the trees and ferns. Esther lifted her head and behind her lowered lids saw the hovering bird. She felt the wind from its beating wings brush against her flushed face and breathed in its smell. A mixture of pungent jungle earth and clean blue sky that filled her lungs with the breath of freedom.

  She let the imagined air leave her body in one long sigh, opened her eyes and stared around the brightly lit kitchen. It was painted white with cream cupboards. Thin fluorescent strip lights buzzed below the large wall cabinets, and round spotlights sunk into the ceiling illuminated work areas and the cream cooker. It looked as though someone had spray painted the room wit
h buttermilk.

  Esther searched the place for a spot of colour to break up the even tones, but found none. Not even a speck of dirt, or a blob of last night’s pasta sauce on the grey speckled worktop. The decor had a dullness that was almost tangible. It gave Esther a headache. She massaged her throbbing temples, and with one hand on the table to support her, grabbed the pink striped walking stick that Peter had named ‘Her candy bar’ and hobbled towards her studio.

  She paused at the staircase; waited for a moment then walked through the hall to a room with a brown-varnished door. She pushed it open, stood at the entrance and stared at the jumble of card, cloth, paints, and books that were scattered around the floor and shelves.

  To the casual onlooker, the place was chaotic. But Esther knew where everything was. She went over to a stack of watercolour sketches propped up against the far wall, and rummaged through them until she found the one she was looking for. It was an early piece in the style of Rousseau’s ‘Eve and The Serpent’. Child-like in its simplicity, the drawing held a special fondness to her. It was the first picture she had shown Peter.

  The russet sunset behind the woman’s ear was the colour she’d wanted for the walls in the kitchen. But Peter said, ‘No. What are you thinking? It’s small as it is. You introduce dark colours and it’ll shrink even more. Keep it white, keep it light.’

  Peter transformed the small space into a bright soulless room devoid of hue. After a month of this sterile scene, Esther hung some Chagall’s on the one cupboard-free wall next to the window. All blues and reds and energetic brush strokes, they seemed to laugh at the lack of colour that surrounded them. Peter shook his head when he saw the pictures.

  ‘They don’t go.’ He walked over to them and wiped his finger along the top of the frames. ‘They’re covered in grease already. Why can’t you just leave this wall bare? It’ll be easier to clean.’ He stepped back and put his hand over his mouth and nose, then shook his head again. ‘No, sorry, but they’ve got to go,’ he said and took them all down.

  Esther put the painting back amongst the others and reached out for a pot of crimson emulsion. She stopped abruptly. The bones in her left leg made a clicking noise, and a sharp pain stabbed at her calf. She knelt down and took a deep breath. Then wiped away the moisture from her eyes, and blinked.

  An old magazine stuck between a blank canvas and a wooden pallet caught her attention. She pulled it out and held it up to the net-curtained window. Faded and moth-eaten, but perfectly legible, it was the magazine that Peter had published an article about her, more than thirty years ago.

  Opening it, she flicked through the pages until she found the article. Esther squinted and read it out loud. “Purple and green tumble over one another in swirls and twists until they meet in the middle. Paint thrown and plastered onto canvas, wood and cloth ignite with tangled colours. The beginning and the end blur into a mesh of intriguing lines and shapes that baffle and beguile the eye.” She ripped out the page. She’d gotten her one and only exhibition on the strength of the piece.

  The event was grand. Her mother laid on nibbles and drinks, and Peter contacted the local newspaper. Esther, dressed in a red maxi skirt and purple tank top, grinned at the visitors that scrutinised her work. She overheard a young couple talk about one of her favourite pieces.

  ‘God! It looks like someone fell into a bucket of emulsion and sat on a piece of paper.’

  ‘I know what you mean, Justin. Did you see that huge canvas at the back? You know the one called “Fire in my Soul”’

  ‘Yeah. Dear god Trina, it’s just a swirl of red and orange. I mean, a chimp could paint something like that.’

  ‘Or a blind jellyfish.’

  The couple laughed until their cheeks went red, then went to the refreshment table to top up their glasses. Esther stared at her paintings and saw them through their eyes.

  ‘What’s up?’ Peter said and touched her on the shoulder.

  ‘I don’t think people like my stuff.’

  Peter took her hand and kissed her fingers. ‘They do. Look at how many turned up.’

  Esther gazed at the dozens of well-dressed men and women. She half closed her eyes and they became blurry shapes, randomly moving about, making back-throated noises and laughing at their own jokes. ‘They’re only here for the booze.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’ll see. It’ll be a sell-out.’

  She sold one painting, to her mother. The newspaper covered her debut with a heading entitled ‘Esther Gibbons - don’t give up your day job.’ The last line simply said, ‘Degenerate scrawls from an unpromising young artist.’ Peter took the critique hard, and never wrote again.

  ‘Always was too sensitive,’ Esther said to the small picture of Peter at the bottom of the magazine article. She sniffed and searched the shelves for an empty frame to put it in, and found one face down next to a photograph of her as a child, with Jenny, the Alsatian puppy. She put the article on the shelf, picked up the photo, touched the image of the dog and said, ‘It was you that made me want to become an artist.’

  Esther was fourteen when the large-eared Alsatian ran into a pot of paint her father was using to cover up a crack in the ceiling. Egg shell blue that matched the colour of the flowers on the black and yellow sofa. Jenny ran through the house spreading dashes of colour across the floor, walls and skirting boards. Esther followed marvelling at the haphazard patterns the dog’s tail and paws made. Her giggles ended when her father saw the mess.

  She hid Jenny in the coal-hole for two days. Waiting for her father to go to work before letting her out, feeding, watering and exercising her pet before he returned. Eventually, he calmed down, but he did not forget.

  A week later, Esther came home from school to find the dog whimpering under her bed, licking at a deep cut in her side. She ran to the kitchen and found her father wiping a small vegetable knife on a tea towel.

  ‘You’ve killed Jenny,’ she said and clenched her fists.

  ‘I haven’t killed her. I just nicked her a bit, to show her a lesson.’ He bent down to face his daughter, put the blade against her cheek and said, ‘If you don’t stop blubbing, I’ll do the same to you.’

  That evening Esther broke into her father’s workshop opened a tin of red paint and plunged her hands into it. She walked back to the house her arms outstretched before her; drops of thick emulsion falling to the ground like blood from an open wound. She dripped huge globs of paint onto the beige and brown mat in the hallway, up the stairs, over the landing and onto the oriental rug in her parent’s bedroom.

  ‘What have you done?’

  Esther turned to see her father standing in the doorway, face as red as her hands, with her mother clawing at his shoulders as he tensed. He grabbed his wife’s wrists and pushed her away with such force, that she cracked her head on the opposite wall and lost consciousness.

  ‘Come here,’ he said to Esther. She backed away. ‘Come here!’

  Esther heard Jenny barking, muffled and at a distance.

  ‘She’s locked in the kitchen, she can’t help you.’ Esther put her head down, rushed past her father and headed for the stairs. She felt a sharp thud against her back. Her father’s fist knocked out all the air in her lungs and the force of his knuckles against her spine unsteadied her. She fell down the stairs, cracking four ribs and breaking bones in her right and left femurs and tibias.

  She awoke in an ambulance to the sound of her mother crying.

  ‘Did he hurt Jenny?’

  ‘Hey baby, you’re awake,’ her mother said and wiped her swollen eyes with the back of her bruised hand.

  ‘Jenny?’

  ‘She’s fine. Mrs Owen has her. Don’t worry, he didn’t hurt her,’ she said and smiled a smile that made Esther shiver. ‘Your dog bit the tip of his nose off. I’ve never seen so much blood, or heard a grown man squeal like that.’ She took her daughter’s hand in hers and squeezed it gently. ‘He won’t be coming back.’

  Esther relaxed and slipped her hand out fr
om her mother’s damp grip.

  Legs pinned and braced, Esther spent over a year unable to move. During the long days of healing, she read all she could about Rousseau and his contemporaries, and vowed to paint like they did, unbound, free and fierce.

  ‘Can I have some paint and some paper Mum?’

  Mrs Gibbons dried her hands on the front of her apron. ‘I bought you those pastel thingy’s only last week. I thought you liked them?’

  ‘I do, it’s just, I want to paint.’

  Her mother bit her lip, and stared at her daughter propped up in the chair, cushions pushed around her hips and under her arms so she wouldn’t fall out. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet. I mean, you’d need an easel and you’d have to stand up to paint and you can hardly sit properly without support and…’ she turned away from her daughter and took a long breath. ‘Maybe when the doctors say you’re ready.’

  ‘I am ready.’

  Mrs Gibbons turned to face Esther. ‘Tell you what,’ she said and squatted down beside her, ‘why don’t we wait to see how you get on after your last physio session. Okay?’

  Esther sighed, and said, ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  Mrs Gibbons grinned, patted her daughter’s thigh and stood.

  ‘Can I go to the school dance next week?’

  ‘What? I thought you didn’t want to go.’

  ‘I didn’t, but Louise said that everyone’s saying that I’m handicapped. They’re calling me ‘Ironsides’ and ‘Metal legs’ and stuff. I just want to go and show them that I’m not useless, that I’m still me.’

  ‘That Louise, she’s nothing but trouble.’

  ‘She’s the only friend I’ve got. Please, Mum?’

  ‘Okay, but only if I come with you.’

  Esther looked down.

  ‘I’ve bought that blue dress from the catalogue.’

  Esther looked up. ‘What the long one with the red trimming?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t buy it especially for the dance, just for when you know.’

  ‘Know what?’ a lanky girl wearing a yellow shoulder padded blouse and high-waisted grey trousers said. She entered the kitchen; or rather Jenny did, dragging Louise behind her.