The Ecliptic

by Benjamin Wood

  His cheek stayed pressed to the camera. ‘You’re right—I need to get up much higher.’ He slid one of the workbenches closer to the paintings and leapt onto it, the legs buckling slightly under his weight. ‘Better,’ he said, focusing. ‘A tripod would be nice, but you can’t have it all.’ He clicked, and loaded the next frame, his thumb jabbing hard at the lever.

  Jim had deflected so much attention onto my plans and my lack of purpose in the past few months that I had not paused to consider where his own ambitions were steering him. The daily accretion of Judas blossom paintings had been his priority for so long that I assumed he would go on forever. Until I die—they were his words. Until I die. The thought that he might suddenly stop making them had not once entered my mind. ‘What are you planning to do with these, Jim? I don’t see what the rush is.’

  He jumped down from the table and squared his eyes at me. ‘Look, first things first, I need to get them onto film. Can’t do much until that’s sorted.’ Nudging the table further along, he climbed back onto it. ‘Then I’ve got to sell the camera. I reckon I could get fifteen, twenty quid for it, if I can take it to a proper shop in Glasgow—that’ll be enough to get the prints done and pay for the train down.’

  ‘Down where?’

  ‘London.’ He said it so nonchalantly. ‘I want these paintings to be seen.’

  I went very quiet.

  Jim clicked the shutter, reloaded, clicked again. ‘Don’t get all upset. I’ll be back in a few days.’

  ‘You’ve told me that before.’

  ‘Well, you’re just going to have to trust me this time, aren’t you?’

  I was not sure that I could, and he read this in my attitude before I could voice it.

  He widened his stance on the tabletop. ‘Look, you could come with me. I mean, if I can get a decent price for the camera, we’ll have enough for two returns. But then I’d have to leave all my paintings here, and I don’t want to risk it. You can think of them as a deposit—if I don’t come back inside a week, flog them, burn them, do what you like with them.’

  This was all the encouragement I needed. In London, there was Dulcie and the Roxborough and a tranche of worthless canvases to finish. In London, there was Victor Yail and the endless recitation of my problems and mistakes. In London, there was nothing. ‘Can’t you just stay a few more days—at least until you can find a battery?’

  He shook his head, wincing.

  ‘You’re not doing the paintings any justice like that. All the exposures will be off.’

  ‘We’ll see how they come out,’ he replied. ‘People only need to get the gist of what I’m up to. And I can carry a few boards down with me. I was thinking of getting a suitcase to put them in. The others I’ll come back for.’

  ‘Are you showing them to Max?’

  ‘No, I’ve had my fill of him for one lifetime, thanks very much.’ He let the camera hang from his neck like an old gas mask in a box. ‘Thought I’d start with Bernie, actually. He can get my foot in a door or two. Everyone likes Bernie, and everyone who doesn’t like him owes him a favour.’

  ‘Bernie Cale?’

  ‘Yup.’ He hopped down. And, placing the cap back on the lens, he said, ‘Come on, don’t be getting yourself so worked up. I’ve known Bernie for ages. I knew him before I knew you. We used to go the track together.’

  ‘I don’t care about that. I don’t care about Bernie, for God’s sake.’

  He tried to embrace me but I turned away. ‘Then what’s the matter? You’ve got a terrible frown on you.’

  ‘I just—’ I said. ‘I can’t believe that you’re abandoning me all over again.’

  ‘Woah, steady on. I’m coming straight back. I told you that.’ He gathered the lapels of my blouse and drew me in close. ‘Four or five days, that’s all it’ll be. You won’t even have time to miss me.’ And he kissed the tip of my nose. ‘Nobody’s getting abandoned. Come on, don’t chew on your lip like that—you’ll make it sore.’

  I was biting it to keep from crying.

  ‘In any case,’ he went on, ‘I don’t think Bernie would let me bunk with him longer than a week.’

  I should have waited for a moment to let the bright idea that came to me cloud over and extinguish itself. But I did not. I said, ‘Why don’t you just use the flat?’

  ‘Whose flat?’

  ‘Mine.’

  Jim’s eyelids quivered. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to—I mean, that wouldn’t be—no, I’d feel terrible. I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not having you sleeping on Bernie’s floor. He takes all-comers in that place of his. Pays for most of them, from what I’ve heard.’ I had no real evidence for this, of course, just bits of gossip. But Bernie was the sort of man it was easy to envision staggering from a Soho doorway in the small hours with his shirt-tails untucked. So I did not feel too sore about accusing him.

  ‘Only if you’re sure,’ Jim said. ‘Only if you’re certain.’ He kissed me in that way he favoured most: dead centre of my forehead, the first spot I had been taught to reach for when I blessed myself in church. But as he moved his lips away, he did not look at me.

  The heavy heartbeat of the mantel clock, the noiseless turning of its hands; another second lost to waiting, another hour without Jim. And where was I? Alone again, sleepless, the summer running down, new ochre leaves fringing the loch and so much rain. Steam lifting on the hills. Rare sprays of traffic. A flavour to the air: bonfires, boat fuel, cold wet pasture. I slammed the clock against the kitchen wall repeatedly—the glass smashed but the mechanism purred, continued, no complaints. With my bare hands, I dug a shallow grave out in the garden. I buried it alive. Now I did not have to worry about the hours ticking by. There were no hours. Just the slow spread of aloneness and a quickly fading hope. But at least I had the work to occupy me. At least I had the work.

  Except the work itself was hopeless. I had tried so very hard with it. At first, I did not bother. I lay in bed, reading that same novel and my magazines, and wondered what Jim was doing in London. Not just silly speculations: good day, bad day, which? I mapped his whereabouts precisely in my head. He was at the barber’s shop on Allitsen Road getting a shave; he was in a meeting with the Leicester Gallery; he was eating chips and saveloy with Bernie Cale by the canal; he was standing with me at the bathroom mirror; then he was gone. And I was standing at the bathroom mirror alone, looking sinewy and shucked. My hair was like pulled thistles. My face had dark abrasions. I was decaying. Whose skin was this? I could not remember bathing yesterday or the day before. And I grew very anxious about Jim coming back—he would be coming back any day now—to find me stewing in my idleness—not sure exactly when—and he would spin right on his heels and run. Leave me for a third time. The last. So I ran a hot bath—I had done this before—and lowered myself in.

  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 f
rom 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.’

  ‘Well, I don’t feel it.’ And I pushed myself upright. ‘I can’t paint any more. I’m done with it all.’

  The chair legs scraped. Ji
m grabbed for my arm. He took my wrist. I scowled at him. ‘Ellie, please, sit down.’ A kindly flutter of his hand. ‘I need to tell you something. It’s important.’ Such levelness to his expression: he gave nothing away. (Petunias.) So I did as he asked.

  Inhaling once, sharply. His palms pressed together. ‘I wore this for the trip,’ he said. The opal ring slipped off. It wobbled on the table. ‘It’s not the subtlest bit of jewellery in the world, but it has sentimental value.’ I did not pick it up. My mouth was dry.

  ‘Sentimental why?’ I said.

  ‘It belongs to someone dear to me.’

  ‘Ana Helène.’ Only a fool would assume otherwise.

  ‘No.’ He smiled. ‘A man from my regiment.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I know it’s an ugly old thing, but it makes me proud to wear it.’

  ‘Is there any water left?’ I said.

  Slitting his eyes. ‘Of course. I’ll get you some.’

  Filled a glass from the tap. Studied the birds in the garden. The daylight made me sore, but not Jim Culvers. He admired the afternoon for what it was. He passed me the water and sat down again. ‘Listen now, I want you to hear this. It might just stop you doing something stupid.’ I took very slow gulps. ‘I lied to you, months ago. When you asked me where I’d been, I lied to you. And I’m sorry, but I had to.’

  ‘I know you weren’t in London,’ I said. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘Ellie, listen to me now. It’s important that you hear me.’

  ‘You don’t have to pretend. You care for me, that’s all. And yes, I care for you. Now we just have to get on with it. We don’t need to get married.’

  He reached across the table. For the ring, I thought. But no—for my hand. He gripped it tightly. ‘Ana Helène is just a name,’ he said. ‘I made her up—I had to think of something on the spot. Please listen.’

  His words could not be trusted.

  My mouth felt worse for the water. Pasty thick.