The Swans

A long time ago, I asked my father, what was his perfect idea of
happiness. He answered without hesitation'
"Your mother. Pink!"
His special name for her. I never knew why. Her name was Rebeca, he was
Charles and they named me Charlie.
As their only child, they'd joke, conceived out of wedlock, that I was
their only excuse for marriage.
Both painters, together since art school, each succesful in their own
right. I grew up in West Sussex, near Selsey, once an Island that dates
from the mist of time; from the centre of town you could hear the sea
on three sides. We lived in an old farmhouse surrounded by trees, from
the road invisible, their studio a converted barn, with a high beamed
ceiling and glass panels in the roof that let in the sky. Quite often
as a child I wouldn't see them for days, synchronised, painting
back-to-back. His work large abstract canvases, kaleidoscopes of
colour, my mother only painted birds, detailed and precise, locked away
in their duel universe. I learned independence from my mother's breast
to my father's soul. There were times when he felt unable to paint,
locked into the house for day's, his head stuck in a book passive and
disorientated, my mother would have to preen him back to real life; not
always the easy going person you thought.
I remember one freezing winter morning, his idea of a spontaneous
gesture, dragging me from bed to go ice-skating,
"Charlie, we'll try the local pond. Come on get dressed,"
You didn't argue you dressed! We both failed to spot the scull and
cross bones sign that read DANGER THIN ICE fortunately we were near the
edge when the ice gave. I sprained my ankle, both drenched, he carried
me home on his back like a sack of potatoes, shivering with cold,
"Charlie's had an accident," dumping me at my mother's feet, laughing,
"Serves him right! You can't skate until you can skate, he tried too
hard!"
At six foot four and immensely strong, with a shock of grey hair, my
father refused to suffer fools; he didn't have to. He was liberal in
spirit, but was unable to accept prejudice at any level, he'd reduce
lesser men to dust. My mother, tall strong and beautiful, with thick
braids of scarlet hair, she had opinions and values you didn't mess
with.
One summer evening at dinner, I was about twelve, pushing his plate to
one side, beaming at us, flushed from too much wine, he announced that
he had a surprise, flatly refusing to devulge. Eventually there was a
knock on the door,
"Good its here, at last, you two come and see!" rushing to the
door.
My mother and I looked on, utterly speechless, the surprise was sitting
on the back of a trailer.
"Well,what do you think?" with a small boy face, holding his first
glass of wine,
"Its an Austin Healey, 53 100/S a true British Sports Car, good for
120mph, 8.1 pistons, high lift camshaft."
Stunned, we looked at each other in amazement and then together we sang
in chorus,
"Austin Healey, but you can't drive! And you hate cars,"
And then my mother, operatic, soprano,f sharp!
"Have you taken leave of your senses? What on earth are you going to do
with it? Will you just look at it? No one will ever drive that
again!"
The Healey, was rust raw, part of the body, as was the engine missing
and it arrived with twelve boxes of spares.
"Where do you want it?" the trailer man asked. Like he was delivering
coal!
After it was dispatched in the garage, swollen with guilt, a life long
atheist, he confessed like a devout Catholic, that he'd only paid five
thousand for it!
Never mentioned it sat un-touched for nearly a year. One Saturday
morning it started, the epic re-build, even his beloved painting ws put
on hold. New friends arrived, Healey buffs, circling round the old car,
clicking their teeth, holding their breath, shaking their heads,
"You've got a job on there mate!"
To my father who'd never held a spanner in his life.
Unexpectwdly, late one night, Ken arrived and refused to leave, he
stayed for months, the two of them working side by side. My father
treated him like he was Augustus John. His first language was car, his
age indeterminable, but well into his fifties, short and squat with
permed hair, Farah slacks, Pringle jumper and a deep, deep aversion to
soap and water.
My mother felt sorry for him, as she put it,
"He really doesn't seem to have a life other than,Car!"
One morning, after consuming a gigantic breakfast, he announced he had
to go, a mate in Cardiff was stuck over an engine. Before leaving, he
took me to one side,
"He's a good sort your dad, don't worry he'll be ok he's a natural,
besides I've taught him all I know."
Two years to the day, two-tone, blue over cream, she was wheeled out of
the garage, exact in every detail. Described as the best by those who
knew, outright winner at the national Healey day, Concurs D'
Elegance.
"My proudest moment," he said.
"But dad," I protested, you've written four books on art and three of
your paintings hang in the Tate!"
"Oh that's nothing," running his hand along the body work, then he made
another confession, the year the car had sat in the garage, he'd
tracked down the missing engine, organised the re-build military style
and passed his driving test. Could he drive, only one way fast!
Hurtling across the earth and green!
Addicted to speed, but terrified of flying our holidays were by sea and
land. One year we eventually made it to Goa, taking two weeks to get
there we arrived hot and exhausted.
"Spain in India," my moher called it and couldn't understand with all
those Gods why they had so much strife. He acquired instant Hippy,
kicked off his shoes and wore a bandanna. We rented Honda Kinetics,
twist and go scooters, at sixteen I loved it, losing count how many
times I hit the road, my legs and arms covered in bloody scabs, we
christened them Goan tattoos. I watched them on the beach, walking
along the sand, his arm round her shoulders, the turquoise Arabian sea,
hot in the sun, still in love. Then they disappeared or three days,
they'd gone to Hampi, nine hours away. An ancient city of hundreds of
sacred temples dating from the 14th century, shines old market places,
royal chambers,
"Your father, he made me sleep under the stars. He's quite mad!"
By that time I'd met Lisa, blonde, six years my senior. No longer
innocent. My mother remarked that God was good sometimes.

I went off to university, every holiday without fail we'd have huge
summer parties, unforgettable, with magic lanterns shinning through the
trees. My friends woul beg m for invites, family and friends, artists,
it was to welcome me home and it did.
I went into law and became a barrister. I look like my father almost as
tall my hair not yet grey. In court I'm formidable and have certain
reputation where fools are concerned. Eventually I moved to London
going down to see them as often as I could, watching them grow old. My
father once told me, that you're only young once and old for ever and
to take the |Healey, that it would be mine soon enough. I said but dad
I don't drive, it felt like history repeating itself.
My mother accepted old age with resignation, they still painted like
demons. Once Icame home and found them asleep in the studio, on the bed
in each others arms, paint streaked hair, three empty wine bottles on
the table, I covered them ith a blanket and waited in the house for
them to wake.

Rebecca went first, quietly in her sleep, she was seventy-six, two
grown men crying inconsolably. We went for long slow walks through the
trees, his sight failing, no longer needing to paint, his wonderful car
un-driven, no more parties, a year later at eighty-two he died. He's
with Pink now.
I decided to move back to Sussex, back to the farmhouse and take
driving lessons.

Legend has it that Swans carry the souls of our ancesters. My mothers
last painting:
A courting pair of Whistling Swans facing each other, curved and
fluffed necks, their wings slightly raised, both white in purity
characterised by good spirit. It would be unlucky to harm them. She'd
called it,
ONLY THE SWANS STAY TOGETHER
I hadn't found my Swan yet, but I was still looking, you learn by
example, who ever she is, has ahard act to follow.