Winter

When my daughter was younger I would paint her. She liked to sit for me. She was one of the best models I ever had. She was so good at sitting still, and this was one of the reasons my wife allowed me to do it so much: it taught her to be quiet. As an only child she could be quite demanding. But when it was summer, and the garden was warm, Helen would sit on the long grass looking right into my eyes as I painted her. Sandra didn’t really like to look at the paintings, but Helen loved to; she would beam when she saw herself painted in colours she particularly liked, and some said those paintings were my best works.

Sandra also didn’t like hanging these paintings in exhibitions. She thought that our daughter was too young to be looked at like that by strangers, but I told her that they weren’t pictures of Helen – they were paintings by me, and that was a completely different thing. Using Helen as a model was something that Sandra would never be able to understand. She couldn’t comprehend the reasons for the things I painted, and the only way that she could accept what I did was by arranging my exhibitions.

It was different with Helen. Most of the time I can see a painting immediately; I can feel its whole, immediately, from the initial idea. But with the paintings of Helen there was nothing at first.

*

I was still slightly worried that Sandra would not have included the painting. It was equally important that it was exhibited as it was that I painted it, and I was sure that Sandra would be able to see that. But that also meant that she would be able to see what I saw in it, what I saw in the scene of our living room. I had to have that shock of it, seeing it there in amongst all the others, the final painting, the culmination of all the others which it was so similar to. It was my whole life, in one painting.

The exhibition space was bigger than I had expected, almost three rooms, though half of one was taken up by the bar. Most of the people were in this room, drinks newly in hand and looking vaguely at my paintings. I watched them all as I had my photograph taken. Sandra stood at the other end of the room from it, and I knew that she had seen it as soon as she came in, though I noticed that she never went closer to it during the whole evening. I went over to her after the photographer had finished, when she was still staring at the painting from across the room.

“What is it, darling?” I asked her.

“I think that the lilies look dead”, she said, “and they were not like that when you painted them”.

“How do you know when I painted them? Maybe they were dying when I painted them”.

“I know when you painted them”, she said spitefully, “and they were not dead then.” There was a pause. I began to walk away.

“What does it mean that you painted them like that?” she asked, now looking directly at me. “Why did you do this?”

I walked away from her then to the other end of the room, and joined a group of the younger guests who had grouped together. They were discussing my work. I realised too late that my daughter was one of them. She had also seen the painting and when she saw me walking towards the group, working to join it, she moved away. That night I felt that I didn’t care. I wanted to drink too much champagne and be fawned over, to go home with one of these young journalists. But the whole evening I could see them both standing together out of the corner of my eye, Helen’s arm constantly around her mother’s waist, her hand caressing her shoulders. I could hardly look at them. My family could only see themselves in everything I did.

*

The next morning was not like all of the others. My daughter was waiting at the door when this girl’s doorbell rang in slow, long buzzes.

“Come on,” she said, her face flat.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her, “just go away”.

“Get in the car. I’m sure she won’t mind if you don’t say goodbye,” she said flatly.

Helen was about the same age as Cassie, and as much as I wanted to shout at her I put on some trousers and collected my wallet, shirt and jacket from the floor and left the house without saying goodbye. Maybe Helen and Cassie knew each other. I got in the car.

“Why are you here?” I asked her, “There isn’t anything you can do about your Mum and me, you can’t help her”.

“I want to talk to you. And I’m not taking you home to Mum”, she said.

“You can’t just drive me around like a child, I’m your father. You can’t make me do anything.” I paused. “There isn’t anything you can do about our relationship. I like the way my life is, it isn’t anything to do with you”.

“I know that you think that”, she said, pulling into a small lane, “And that isn’t what I want to talk to you about. I know that you don’t have feelings for Mum anymore”.

“Look Helen, we’ve been married a long time, my life is changing -”

“No, I mean that I know you don’t care about how Mum’s feeling”, she said.

I sat in the passenger seat, without my seatbelt on, looking across at her. I hadn’t really looked at her for a while before that, and she did look different to me. She looked straight ahead, eyes on the road. She turned into a dirt car park which I had never been to before. It was next to a large pond filled with tall reeds which backed onto a park. I could hear voices coming from there, muffled by the car windows. There were about four other parked cars, mostly all empty. Helen stopped the car so that it was facing the pond, and turned off the ignition. I put my jacket on.

“I wanted to talk to you”, she said again.

“What about? What is all this about?” I asked, irritated. She sat still, staring at the pond. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” she said, turning to face me with an expression I had never seen before. “You know, it’s funny, but I think that’s the first time you’ve ever asked me that.” She turned away again.  “I wanted to talk to you about Mum, yes, but also about some other things. About your behaviour, I suppose,” she said. “I don’t really know.”

“Look, I don’t really have time for this. I have work to do, and I imagine you probably do too. Why don’t you just drive me home, and we can talk another time,” I said, shrugging. “I’m not really in the mood.”

She sighed, and laughed slightly. “I really can’t believe how little you care about us.” She looked over at me. “I’m sorry, but sometimes it really shocks me, I don’t know why, you’ve always acted like this, but I always imagine that one day you’ll change.”

Helen never spoke like that, even as a child. I pulled the silver lever on the car door, but it was locked.

“What are you playing at?” I said, raising my voice, “Let me out.”

“I said that I wanted to talk to you. And this is the only time that I have ever told you that, and the only time I have ever asked you to listen to me. But I know that you don’t want to listen, so I’m going to make you,” she said.

“You can’t make me do anything,” I said.

“Sylvia’s pregnant.”

She still was not looking at me, still staring at the pond.

“I know that it’s yours. And Mum knows as well. Sylvia didn’t want to tell you, and she was going to get rid of it, but it’s been too long now. She needs money from you, but she was going to do it through us so that you didn’t find out.”

“Well why did you tell me then?” I shouted, “Now let me out of the car”.

I reached across her to open my door, but she forced my arm back. She looked right into my eyes then, and I could see what she saw when she looked at my paintings.  

“She’s eighteen, that’s four years younger than me. If Martin ever found out what you had been doing with his little girl he would treat you much more harshly than we will. She didn’t even know what she was doing with you, and now the rest of her life has been destroyed because of your mid-life crisis! I know that you don’t care; all you care about is your ugly paintings. And we all see how you use them to mock your life with us. But you will never be great,” she said, some spit coming out with her words. Her hand was still holding my arm fast.

“Fine,” I said after a pause, shifting in my seat, away from her stare. “Say what you want about me. But I like my life, and my art. That you think it is ugly just makes it all the more meaningful. You can’t stop me from doing anything. Give that girl as much money for it as you want, but make sure you let her think that I don’t know anything about it. Now open the damn door.”

Helen pulled the release lever. I opened the door and swung out, walking quickly away. The gravel crunched under my feet, the water from the pond making it a bright yellow paste. I walked out to the main road. There was no way that I could work today; I was too angry.

I stopped at the curb to wait for a break in the traffic. I heard a door slam behind me and footsteps marching towards the road. I turned around, to see Helen coming towards me. I felt complete frustration with the whole conversation, and I didn’t want to talk to her again.

“What now? Just go away, go home!” I shouted across the car park at her. At that, she stopped in her tracks. Her arms hung limply at her sides, and she looked exhausted.

Suddenly, she turned around and walked quickly back to her car. It was a small old blue thing, second hand from a friend, I think. She seemed to open the door, get in and slam it closed in one movement, all of her action decided. I can see now that there was no way to have stopped her after she had reached that final point: she did the only thing she thought she could. She started the engine and reversed in a wide semi-circle, swinging the wheel so that she faced the entrance to the main road, and me. I turned away from her and walked down the road a little way. I could feel Helen following me in the car, and I was fearful of what she would do. But she only sped past me, the windscreen wipers wildly batting away the icy rain, leaving me alone at the side of the road.

                                                          *                                                                           

It took me nearly two hours to walk home from that car park. I wasn’t sure really where I was at first, and so I just followed the road in the direction Helen had driven off in. The winter darkness fell slowly around me, the cloudy white sky spotting into an inky blue, and I hardly noticed what time it was. By the time I got home it was completely dark. I had to search in my pockets for my keys, but eventually I found them in the small zip pocket of my wallet. I could have rung the doorbell but I wanted to keep out of Sandra’s way – I didn’t know how much Helen had told her. As I opened the door and stepped inside, I realised that all the lights in the house were off. Sandra usually worked until quite late in the evening, and she always planned far in advance if she was having an evening out. But it was completely quiet: not even the radiators were warm.

I turned on the hall light as I shut the front door. Something made me want to put the safety latch on, but I thought that then Sandra would not be able to get back in. I hung my coat on the banister and went into the kitchen, thinking I would have a drink of water. Sandra was sitting at the kitchen table, both hands outstretched in front of her, like the judge at some imaginary trial.

“Sandra?” I asked, surprised at her being there, sitting alone in the dark. “Sandra?” I asked again, more gently this time.

It took a few seconds for me to notice the pills in front of her, all the little white bottles lined up neatly. She slowly lifted up her head to me: I expected her to be crying, but her face was dry, although her eyes were red and swollen.

“David.” She said, her voice quiet but strong: it didn’t waver when she spoke. It made me feel frightened. “Where have you been?”

It didn’t seem to be a question which needed an answer, so I stayed where I was, staring at her from the doorway.

“I couldn’t do it,” she said. “I was trying to be like you. Not to care about anyone else. But I suppose I just couldn’t do it. That’s what it comes down to.”

“You couldn’t do what?” I asked, and I could tell that my voice was not as strong as hers. “What’s the matter?”

“I think that you should go to see Sylvia,” she said, “I think that you should talk to her.”

“Why? What should I talk to her about?” I said.

She sighed, and moved her head back in exhaustion.

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore. And you know just what you need to talk to her about,” she said, resting her head on her palm.

“What have you been doing? Have you taken anything?”

“You never look at me,” she said “and now, I actually can’t look at you.”

“Sandra! What’s wrong with you? What have you taken?” I pulled her up out of the chair so that I could see her face more clearly, but she just fell limply against me. Her mouth open in a wide O, she gawped at my concerned face. I kept my arm around her.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”