by Jodi Taylor
He sighed deeply. A man in torment. ‘Another one labouring under the yoke of female oppression, of course.’
I stared at him in disbelief. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Well,’ he said, kicking off his boots in the mudroom and entering the kitchen. ‘Look at the facts. There’s you – female; Joy – female; Mrs Crisp – female; Sharon – female; six hens – all female; and me – not female. How is that not oppression?’
‘You have...’ I counted things on my fingers ‘...at least ten females all poised to cater to your every whim and you’re complaining?’
‘What whim? When does anyone around here ever pay any heed to my needs?’ he said, accepting a cup of tea and slice of cake from Mrs Crisp.
‘And you’re not alone ... Boxer’s a boy. And the cat. Well, a former ... boy.’
‘You’re not making your case for Team Boy here.’
‘What did you want to ... tell me?’ I said, before he began to feel too sorry for himself.
‘Ah, yes. Any chance of another slice of ... Oh, thanks very much, Mrs Crisp. Yes. Good news, Jenny. I’ve got that exhibition space in London. I don’t have the details yet, but they might take five, possibly six pieces.’
‘Do you have so many?’
‘Four definitely and another one nearly completed so, yes. Just for once I’m ahead of the game.’
‘Russell, that’s wonderful news. I’m so pleased for you. Mrs Crisp, did you hear?’
‘I did,’ she said, trying to take his plate off him. ‘And it won’t take you long to bang out the sixth, either. Especially if you get out of my kitchen and make a start now. Slosh a few paints on a bit of canvas and you could be finished by lunchtime.’
‘There’s slightly more to it than that,’ said the artist indignantly, struggling to reclaim his plate.
‘That’s as maybe,’ she said, gaining possession at last, ‘but it was the getting out of my kitchen part that I wanted you to pay particular attention to.’
‘I have to go into Rushford to have a word at Swallows,’ he said. Swallows was our local art gallery. ‘It was Elliott Swallow who recommended me, and the London man is there today. It’s a chance to meet him.’ He picked up his car keys. ‘Want to come too?’
‘Love to,’ I said.
‘Especially after you’ve had a shower, changed your clothes, and combed your hair,’ said Mrs Crisp to Russell, taking his car keys back off him.
‘Can I refer both of you to my previous comments on female oppression?’
*
We clattered into Rushford. I was instructed to look for a parking space. It was market day and the place was heaving, so I wasn’t optimistic. I looked left. Thomas was supposed to look right but soon became distracted by all the window displays. He’s such a shopping victim sometimes.
‘So tell me all about the exhibition.’
‘It’s not just me exhibiting,’ said Russell. ‘In fact, it wouldn’t be me at all if someone hadn’t had to drop out. I’m afraid it’s going to take me a while to work my way up to a solo exhibition again.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Once they see your stuff, they’ll be offering you wall space all over London.’
‘Well, it doesn’t work quite like that, but thank you anyway, Jenny.’
He swerved into an unexpected parking space. There was the usual amount of hooting. I found the parking disc under the seat and set the correct time.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Ensuring you don’t get yet another ticket. What time is it?’
‘Eleven thirty.’
He set it for twelve o’clock.
‘Russell!’
‘No one will ever know and it gets us another half hour. Come on.’
Slamming the door shut, he strode along the pavement. I trotted beside him. And no, he never bothers to lock his car. And no, no one ever bothers to steal it.
*
The first person we met was little Charlie Kessler. Charlie goes to the special school on the other side of Rushford. He and Marilyn had starred together in our Nativity play last Christmas. Obviously there had been a Baby Jesus and a Virgin Mary and all the other traditional players, but it was Marilyn the Donkey and Charlie, the Star of the East, who had stolen the show. With additional credit to an unscheduled appearance by a new-born lamb half way through the first act. It had been quite an afternoon.
I hadn’t seen Charlie since, but there was no doubt he remembered us. We own a small, omnivorous donkey. Everyone remembers us.
‘Hello Mr Checkland,’ said Charlie, placing himself squarely in Russell’s path and tugging at Russell’s jeans, just in case he hadn’t noticed him.
Russell screeched to a halt and I bumped into him.
‘Hey, Charlie. How’re you?’
‘I’ve got a beetle.’
‘That’s fantastic. Can I see?’
Charlie began to rummage in his pockets. Quite a lengthy process. Russell is frequently oblivious to the passage of time and stood surprisingly patiently until Charlie eventually found a matchbox in his shabby jacket.
I glanced over the road at Swallows. ‘We’ll be late,’ I said to Thomas. ‘And this is his big opportunity.’
‘And this is Charlie’s opportunity to show Russell his beetle,’ said Thomas, gently.
He was right, of course, but I couldn’t help worrying on Russell’s behalf. I tried twice, saying, ‘Russell...’ and each time he grinned at me and said, ‘Won’t be a minute, Jenny. Charlie’s showing me his beetle,’ so I gave it up and thought about how much I loved him instead.
Charlie’s mum appeared from the newsagent’s, harassed and overburdened with shopping. Hers was a large family and she doesn’t always have the time for all of Charlie’s needs. I abandoned all thought of getting Russell to his appointment on time, and indicated I could keep an eye on the pair of them if she had more to do. She nodded, mouthed ‘Two minutes,’ and disappeared into Boots.
The two of them were examining Charlie’s beetle, currently housed in the matchbox with a leaf and a small twig for company.
‘An excellent beetle,’ pronounced Russell, carefully closing the box. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s a rare specimen of the Rareificus Beetleicus species. Well done, Charlie.’
‘His name’s Jim.’
‘An excellent name for an excellent beetle. Do you have a home for him?’
Charlie nodded. ‘In my box.’
‘That’s good,’ said Russell, ‘but this is the Rareificus Beetleicus. Did you know they’re famed for their guarding instincts?’
Oh God, this was going to be the Patagonian Attack Chickens all over again.
Russell was forging on. ‘You should let him live in your garden, Charlie, and then you’ll never have any trouble with aliens, burglars and local government officials as long as you live.’
‘Cool,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ve got a tree. He can live there.’
‘Good idea. The Rareificus Beetleicus loves trees. Well, we have to...’
‘Can I come and see Marilyn?’
‘Of course, but only if your mum says it’s OK.’
‘But I want to come now.’
‘Sorry, Charlie, I have to go somewhere today.’
Charlie’s face fell with disappointment and you’d have to be a lot tougher than Russell is to walk away and leave him standing alone on the pavement.
He smiled. ‘I tell you what I’ll do – I’ll draw you a picture of Marilyn which you can take away with you and put on your bedroom wall, and when I get home, I’ll draw her a picture of you for her to look at. So she doesn’t forget you.’
His face shone. ‘OK.’
The two of them sat down on the pavement there and then. It was market day. Rushford was packed. The market is just behind the high street and I could hear the sounds of animals, men shouting and horseboxes reversing. People on their way to somewhere else streamed all around them. Russell pulled out his notebook and began a quick drawing of Marilyn. Charlie wat
ched, entranced.
‘I want to be a drawing man when I grow up.’
I looked up and down the high street. It was quite possible that Charlie was slightly the more responsible of the two of them, but people knew them both. They’d be fine on their own for a while.
‘Go,’ said Thomas, amused. ‘I’ll keep an eye on them.’
I slipped into the newsagent’s and bought a big colouring book and a jumbo pack of colouring crayons.
They were exactly where I’d left them, Russell was putting the finishing touches to his sketch and Charlie was practically sitting on his lap, breathing heavily in excitement.
‘Can I be a drawing man one day?’
‘You can,’ I said, handing him his book and crayons.
He was nearly speechless with delight.
‘A new colouring book and a beetle,’ said Thomas. ‘It must be his lucky day.’ He paused and then said quietly, ‘You have a good man there, Jenny.’
‘I know,’ I said proudly. Because I did. He could keep ten million chickens in the bath if he wanted to, so long as he found time to sit on the pavement with Charlie Kessler and draw him a donkey.
*
We were nearly twenty minutes late arriving at the gallery. Elderly and silver-haired Elliott Swallow was waiting for us, together with a man who, at first glance, looked to be half the size of Yorkshire. This was the London gallery owner, Jeremy Law. I know no one should judge by appearances, but while Elliott was everyone’s idea of what a gallery owner should look like, this man looked like a cross between Ben Nevis and an angry butcher.
Having begun badly by being late, we made things worse. Mr Law did not seem best pleased at being kept waiting. And we had no excuse. The gallery was directly opposite so neither of them could have failed to see their noon appointment sitting on the pavement drawing donkeys.
Jeremy Law looked pointedly at his watch. Russell looked pointedly at the ceiling. This wasn’t going to go well.
‘Shall we begin?’ said Elliot. ‘Because Jeremy can’t stay long. He has another appointment at one.’
‘Well, I’m sure he can stay long enough to meet Jenny, my wife,’ said Russell, smiling that special smile he always used to keep for Aunt Julia.
I turned to Mr Law, dark against the shop window and, conscious of how important this was, made a complete hash of it.
‘How ... do ... you ... do?’
He stared at me. ‘Bloody ‘ell. We could be here all day.’
Russell was there in an instant. ‘Please address any and all offensive language to me, Mr Law.’
Things went very quiet. I could hear the sounds of everyday life on the other side of the window but in here things were very quiet indeed. Everyone stared at everyone else.
‘Wow,’ said Thomas. ‘It’s like the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, isn’t it? I think this one’s up to you to save, Jenny.’
I was already taking a deep breath and focussing on the texture of Russell’s jacket, but I didn’t get the chance.
‘As you can hear, my wife sometimes has a little difficulty,’ said Russell, gently. ‘Obviously we who know and love her don’t have a problem with it at all. I’m sorry if dealing with it is an insurmountable hurdle for you, but since I’ve taken an instant dislike to you that’s not going to be a problem for either of us, is it? Come on Jenny, what do you say we go and see if Charlie wants to come and visit Marilyn this afternoon?’
He was already heading towards the door and picking up speed. I couldn’t let him throw away his big chance. I put out my hand and said, ‘Goodbye ... Mr ... Law. I’m ... sorry you ...won’t get a ... chance to show Russell’s ... work. He ... really is ... rather ... good, you know.’
He took my hand in his massive paw. His grip was surprisingly soft and gentle. I suspected he’d had to train himself not to break people’s fingers accidentally.
‘Now then, lass. No need to take the hump. Nor that touchy young fellow of yours neither.’
Russell turned reluctantly, hair falling over his forehead, jeans still dusty from the pavement and with a smudge of something on his collar.
Still holding my hand, Mr Law said, ‘So tell me about this husband of yours then.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘his work is wonderful and...’
‘No, not his bloody paintings. Tell me about him.’
‘Um,’ I said, wondering what on earth to say. ‘Um ... well ... he um...’
Russell folded his arms. ‘Well, go on then, Jenny, what am I like?’
I turned to Mr Law. ‘He ... never picks up his ... shoes. He rescued our ... donkey and ... saved me from ... her owner. He can’t ... be trusted in ... the pub by himself. He named one of ... our chickens after his ... ex-girlfriend. He saved our ... horses in a ... fire. He shouts ... all the time. He ... told our ... neighbour we had ... Patagonian ... Attack Chickens. He eats ... everything in ... sight. He hides ... pizza boxes in ... his studio. He keeps ... chickens in the ... bath. He’s teaching ... our daughter her colours ... by showing her cans ... of lager. He...’ I stopped, exhausted.
‘Bloody hell, Jenny,’ said Russell, stunned, although whether by my eloquence or this catalogue of his supposed attributes, I wasn’t sure.
Mr Law shouted, ‘Language!’ and gave a great shout of laughter.
‘Well done, Jenny. That was perfect. I’ll leave you to it now,’ said Thomas, wandering off to look at the artwork, because apart from fancying himself as a bit of a connoisseur, he’s very nosey. On the night of our engagement, Russell took me to a restaurant and Thomas spent the entire evening inspecting the wallpaper and commenting on everyone else’s meal choices. If you take him to one of those big out-of-town stores, you’ve lost him for an hour or so.
Anyway, Swallows gallery specialised in colourful abstracts, very like the stuff Russell was producing at the moment. In fact, I spotted two of Russell’s on display.
Thomas inspected every one closely, his head tilted to one side and his tail swishing gently. Always a sign of deep thought in a horse, he says. The occasional phrase drifted over.
‘I like the brushwork on this one – lots of energy.’ And a moment later, ‘Good grief – I’m surprised this one doesn’t leap off the wall and try to eat us all. And look at this one. What was the artist thinking?’
I tried to close my ears and concentrate on what was going on.
Jeremy Law didn’t hang around. ‘I’ve seen the images you sent. I’d like five pieces – perhaps six. Call it six. How soon could you meet me in London?’
‘Whenever you like,’ said Russell, matching him in briskness, pulling out his phone and checking his calendar. ‘Is tomorrow OK for you?’
Elliott rolled his eyes. I wondered if perhaps there was some sort of ritual to be observed first. The artist should play hard to get. Or argue about the number of pieces required. Or the terms of payment. Whatever. Russell doesn’t do that. It’s not that he can’t negotiate – you should have seen him sort out my Aunt Julia when we broke the news of our engagement – he just doesn’t see the point. Jeremy Law apparently wanted Russell’s stuff. Russell wanted to give it to him. Where was the problem?
‘I’d like to check out the space and sort out hanging details while I’m there.’
‘Aye, I’ll introduce you to my manager.’ He stared challengingly at Russell. ‘Don’t suppose you have your bio written?’
Russell tapped at his phone. ‘I’ve just emailed it to Elliott.’
‘Arriving morning or afternoon?’
‘I’ll come up on the train so late morning.’
‘We’ll talk money then. Anything else?’
‘No,’ said Russell, not to be outdone on brusqueness. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Ready Jenny? I’ll buy you lunch on the strength of my future sales.’
‘In that case, I’ll order the ... most expensive thing on the ... menu.
‘We’re going to McDonald’s.’
‘Oh good,’ said Thomas, who loves McDonald’s.
‘Well
,’ said Russell briskly, once we were on the pavement outside. ‘That didn’t go quite according to plan, but we got there in the end.’ He looked down at me. ‘You did really well, Jenny.’
‘And your show... will go equally well. You’ll be a huge ... success.’
‘You don’t know that. I might not sell anything.’
‘You will. I ... know it.’
He smiled sadly. ‘Don’t you sometimes think your boundless faith in me is a little blind?’
I gave serious consideration to the question and shook my head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
He turned suddenly to stare at a row of wheelie bins.
I was just about to ask what was wrong now, when he spun back again, caught me in a bone-crushing hug and buried his face in my hair.
‘Jenny, you’re a good person. When I’m with you, I’m a good person too. Never leave me.’
‘I ... never will,’ I said, somewhat muffled because my face was being crushed into his jacket, but he seemed happy with the response. He dropped a brief kiss into my hair, cleared his throat, and said, ‘Really Jenny, can you tidy yourself up a little bit, please. You look like a bird’s nest. Not a good look for the wife of a famous painter.’
I smiled up at him.
He grinned back. ‘Come on. Let’s have lunch.’
That night, Thomas said, ‘You should tell him, Jenny.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I should. But if I say something now then he might not go to London tomorrow. You know what he’s like. He’ll insist on staying here and this exhibition is so important to him. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself for a day or so.’
He made a snorting noise.
‘Language,’ I said, channelling Russell. ‘There are young children in this house and as a responsible parent...’
‘Jenny...’
‘I have you, Thomas. And Kevin. And Mrs Crisp. I could probably even have Bill the Insurance Man if I asked politely. It’s not like before. When I was on my own.’
‘Jenny...’
‘And then I’ll tell him when he gets back. When he has time to listen properly.’
‘And when Francesca’s not on the phone to him every five minutes.’
‘That too.’
