My Favourite Muse

CHAPTER FOUR

  Back home, I stood before my art, working. Mother had softened me a bit with her preaching, and the ill work I intended to do on the painting was curbed. Mr Glasgow’s final words got me very much electrified though, that even as I went ahead to do a good work on the painting; my mind was intent on getting the strange wild girl.

  There are six swans in the water; the girl sits in the gray boat feeding them. Trees took most of the background; that means I'll use more of white, grey and green. But I like the fact that the picture was sketched in the open and therefore, will have an even distribution of light all through. So I first made a grisaille by applying shades of grey to bring out the lines and tones.

  I prefer a one sided illumination of an object, when the lights are more intense and sharp on one side leaving the other side darker. That kind of concept always casts my mind to the works of one of my favourite genre artists: Johannes Vermeer of Delft.

  Vermeer was renown by his scrupulous and delicate treatment of light in his paintings. Most of his decorative masterpieces portrayed faces smeared with gentle natural illuminations mostly coming from a window. He had a clever method of painting that gave his works the splendour and solidity they now bear.

  Dead colouring worked good for him, he worked delicately, at first, using either shades of gray and or browns to make out the tones, and then glaze with other lighter colours so that objects appear kind of transparent.

  The positions of his compositions were so precise it has created contention amongst art historians on whether or not he used some special positioning instruments such as a camera obscura to project images of his objects onto the canvas with their colours preserved. But no such devices were found in his belongings after his death. Most of his paintings were portraits of people standing or sitting close to a window; the illumination from the window makes vivid the warm interior colours. He probably worked from a darker corner while the objects were displayed on a brighter perspective.

  I have two counterfeits of Vermeer’s exquisite works on my wall; they are my favourites and I always look at them for inspirations. The first is 'The Girl with a Pearl Earring, 1665.' The painting is universally considered as his masterpiece, like Leonardo's Mona Lisa. Next to it is 'The Geographer, 1669'; a painting of a young man in the study peering out the window. There's an air of elegance and strong spirit in those two paintings that I find moving. The colours are warm; Vermeer loved brown and yellow ochre which are indoor colours; and he seemed to have had an exceptional love for ultramarine as it appears very often in his works. Most importantly, both paintings have that peculiar style of the artist: the masterly use of light.

  Unfortunately for me, I couldn't use such style at the moment.

  So I worked, maintaining the picture of the girl I had in my head. The position of her face being casted down to the swans made my job easier, that I don't have to stay glued to resemblance. The concept is good for unanimity. But then, I still had to do something about her face; I made it paler and grim. And since the hat and her hair have shielded a greater part of her face especially from the forehead and by the sides, little work is needed to construct her face. I did that; and two hours later, I was done with the girl.

  Just when I put down the brush, mother busted into my room; already wearing her apron. She must have entered the house while I was working and couldn't hear the door because of the headphones on my ear. I took them off at once when she came in.

  "Whoa! That was cute. I like this."

  "Thanks mother. I had no idea you were back."

  "How could you. You had these huge speakers blasting music into your ears." She walked to the painting. "This is nice. Who is she?"

  I know where she's getting at. "I don't know her name. Just saw her at the Park."

  "She'll love this painting if she sees it. I promise."

  "I don't think so."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "I don't think that mother, I know that."

  She took off her eyes from the painting and dropped them on me. I wasn't looking at her actually, but I felt the eyes.

  "Is it something you want to talk about?"

  "No, there's nothing to talk about."

  She was silent for some seconds, and then she said "Ok." She returned to the painting. I know she knew my reaction the previous night could have some connection with the painting.

  "So what's your inspiration here? Her face looks unpleasant." I sighed. Her questions are becoming difficult to answer. "Never mind”. She said dismissively. There was a little smile on her face. "Dinner." She said and walked out. The smile lingered on.

  We ate, talking about mother's job. She spoke carefully, trying not to wade into the part I didn't want to talk about. Even with that I knew curiosity was eating her up inside that it glowed in her eyes every time she looks at me. I thought she wanted me to feel guilty; so guilty that I would someday, beg her to hear me out. And when that day comes (which it usually does), she would either fold her arms or put her hands on her waist and give me the usual 'Look-at-your-self' look.

  The phone rang and she got it; poke a few words and came back to the table a little worried.

  “Is everything alright?”

  “It’s the hospital.” She sighed. "Bradley, I would like you to accompany me to the hospital in the evening tomorrow. The doctor called."

  "But it's going to be Saturday."

  "I know you do go out sketching, but won't you do that in the morning? Sweetheart, I really need you there for emotional support. It's scary this; the doctor's tone doesn't sound like something is wrong; still it's unpredictable."

  Mother had a breast lump excision last year. She recovered well; her Doctor recommended a yearly mammography and she had this year's just two days ago.

  "I think you shouldn't worry. Everything would be fine." I said. "I mean, you had no major pain again since after recovery right?"

  "No, I didn't." She said. "It's still unpredictable and I have a bad feeling about this." She sighed.

  I reached for her hand and squeezed it; the phone rang at the same moment. "I'll get it.” I said.

  "Hello."

  "Now listen, you won't believe this butty but I got some info about our girl. Don't ask me how, just listen." Phil's excitement was melded in his voice.

  "How did you..."

  "I said don't ask me."

  "Hold on one second." Mother was looking at me; I wouldn't want her to know what's up, so I excuse myself and walked out of the room with the receiver. Her gaze followed me; I disappeared up the stairs.

  "Ok, what did you get about her?" I shut my door

  "Her name is Pamela Graham. Sixteen years old and..."

  "Sixteen? She's older than me."

  "Surprising right? Well she's older than me too."

  "Bloody Hell. Address?." I asked.

  "That's another interesting part, she lives just fifteen minutes walk away from you. That probably could be the reason she's at the park, it's closer to her. Much closer than your house is. She's also...."

  "This also means there's a high probability of seeing her there more often, great."

  "I say yes to that. Anyway, her father Jeremy Graham is Metro Pol, a superintendent or something, so he's big shot in the force."

  "So if we do anything bad, we might end up behind bars for centuries."

  "Yeah right. And please don't interrupt me again in the middle of a point; else I'll stop telling you what I've found."

  "Sorry."

  "She plays the piano well, very well; and she's taking lessons in ballet and acting and kick boxing. She came to Cathay’s just last year from a school in London and wishes to become an actress someday. That's all. Now you talk."

  "Kick boxing eh?" I remembered her clenched fist when she advanced towards me. "Wicked! That's why she appeared fearless. And she was fast too, snatching up my sketchbook with a speed of light."

  "Ow man; you were worse than a girl. Anyway, let's rendezvous at the par
k in err... one hour?"

  "No, not today man. I got works to do."

  "Looking for Pam is work too. And we are set to do it aren't we?"

  "Listen Phil, we'll look for her, in park, school, wherever, but not today, not tomorrow. Maybe Sunday."

  "I can't wait till Sunday buddy; let's make time for it tomorrow if not today. It's a mare confrontation, not a fight."

  "Phil I can't. I had to work in the morning and take mother the hospital in the afternoon. Besides, I have Mr Glasgow’s book to read. So it must be Sunday."

  "Ok man, whatever you say. I don't have anything to do so I guess I'll walk to the park and take a look."

  "What? You will not do that."

  "I will Brad, and don't worry about how she looks like; I've gotten a pic already. Will call you tomorrow. Bye now."

  "Phil you cannot...." I stopped when I discovered how useless my statement would be. Phil had left me with a dialling tone to listen to. "Shit!"

  I slumped on my bed and faced up, thinking how pathetic my situation was. When Phil says he'd do something, I always consider it done in time and space.

  From then on, billows of awful possibilities enshrouded my mind with regards to the future outcome of Phil's possible meeting with Pam. And from what I could make of those thoughts, I settled for the worse. I turned my head towards the painting, and for the first time, pitied Pamela Graham.

  The next morning was Saturday. The previous night wasn't too pleasant being disturbed by non-coordinated dreams filled with violence and hostility. I woke up twice in the middle of the night, not with sweat or scream though, but disturbed. I'm sure I made many verbal utterances while I was sleeping because I felt somehow I did.

  I woke up early that morning, which was very unlike me on most Saturdays; I usually had extra sleep.

  "Hey sleeping beauty. You are early today." Mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of orange juice before her. "Juice?"

  She poured me a glass, but I stood where I was for a moment looking at her. The last two days were hard for me, I must confess. When you are living in a house with a curious and observant mother as the only parent, it'd be useless to hide some things from her. You can only do that, if she's not the type that doesn't make you feel guilty by her simple rhetorical actions that are difficult to bear. Sadly my mother is one such person; so I have two options; continue to bear the agony of guilt or open up and be free.

  "Come on, don't keep standing there. Come and sit."

  I walked to the table and sat; my eyes on hers. She said nothing; just handed me the glass of juice and I took it from her before placing it back on the table. For the moment I thought, I should relieve myself of the burden.

  "I had a fight with a strange girl at the Park the other day. And since then, I've not been myself." I stopped there, expecting to hear a winning giggle from her but surprisingly, it didn't come; neither did the look-at-yourself pose. Instead, her eyes narrowed with worry and concern. She didn't say a word, neither did I.

  A moment of silence and of rare emotion befell us all. I have no idea what effected that emotion on mother, but I know it shelved away my ego about self defence and reliance. And when mother reached out her hand and smoother my hair and shoulder, I felt as weak as a child

  Two things made me go to the park that day; the first was to read Mr Glasgow’s book. This idea was strengthened by the second reason: which was to see Pam and possibly prevent the eminent catastrophe that could happen if Phil sees her first.

  So when I set out, I had a 'rushy' feeling in me that involuntarily quickened my steps. I walked as if I was on the first date of my life and would never want to miss it. I got there in sixteen minutes and a few seconds; that was a record. The fasted I once made was nineteen.

  I came to the park through the Wild Gardens; a little walk forth would bring me to the lake where I saw Pam in the canoe. But I wasn't sure she'd be there, that's if at all she's in the park. And besides, I wasn't inclined to wonder through the whole of the thirty acre property looking for a blond to settle a score. So I concluded to go to the lake, find a place to sit and read. Reassuringly, Phil would also have to work harder on his own cause.

  I sat by the lake side outside the bars. The iron bars encircling it stood before me; I can only see what's beyond through the spacing between the bars. Somewhere in the middle of the lake stood Captain Scott's Lighthouse; I looked at it and thoughts of little Mary Steel's poem came to mind, especially the last line: 'Oh England, Land of the brave.' I smiled at my predicament. I am English, I must be brave.

  "Pam is just a girl, Bradley; be brave." That was what my mother said (among other things) when I told her the rest of my story much later on. I know I don't look like a dumb boy because I'm not one; and my inability to stand women isn't fear at all. But I understand losing my grip on that emotion makes it culminates to fear. This has to stop.

  I felt the intensity of my silent vows on my face. My facial lines creased a bit to reveal the deepness of my thoughts on my future actions and reactions when dealing with girls. I even felt a little anger rising, as well as a new urge to exhibit the new me to Pam. Then something hit me on the back and my state of mind reacted accordingly by turning violently towards what had hit me.

  "Oops! Sorry." A kid stood there looking at me with a mischievous face. He obviously was playing football and somehow kicked the ball towards me. I immediately calmed, told him it's ok and to be careful. He ran off with his ball. That little display had deflated what I inflated myself with: anger. I felt myself taking deep breaths. So I adjusted myself on the grass, closed my eyes for ten seconds, opened them and the book. Somehow, I felt thankful to the kid for bringing me back. Well, at least for the moment.

  Everything changed again three minutes later when I heard the familiar voice barking unexpectedly at me.

  "Must you always be here?"

  I tuned sharply and saw Pamela Graham with a war face looking down at me. I must admit here; my heart pounded for seconds and I became tongue-tied for a minute.

  "Don't you have something better to do, like playing soccer or watching it? It's better than mooching around every day at the park like a girl and sketching pictures of people illegally. Oh you're reading a book now? Well, that's better; at least no one would notice you."

  Surprisingly, the little moment of silence I had while listening to her blabber sort of calmed me down. I turned my head from her, looked at the Captain's Lighthouse and heard little Meryl Steel's voice screaming the last line of her poem in my head, like a war cry. Then I heard mother reminding me Pam is just a girl. Strength and guts got stimulated in me; I didn't know how but I just discovered my words instantly got organized and already thought out.

  "Well, in the first place, I don't want to be noticed. Even if I do, it's none of your business. Besides, I don't walk around the place looking for trouble; tearing off people's sketches, calling them idiots, armature or unpleasant things. "

  "I made it my business because you were sketching me without my permission."

  "You still complained now, even after you've already torn it off and burnt it? Oh God! What kind of a person are you?" I shook my head.

  "The sketch deserved to be burnt that's why I burnt it. And I'm happy I did."

  "Well, congratulations then. You've just proven yourself as a hater of artworks. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a book to read."

  With that, I got back to my book.

  "I'm not done with you yet." She took a step closer. "It seems like you have not been raised well, that's why you talk to me like that. I'm not bringing myself from the roof to your level on the floor just to argue on a stupid sketch with you. But know this; I burnt your sketch with pleasure. I enjoyed every part of the act and wished it never ended. It's a job self-accomplished and there’s nothing you can do about it, sucker!"

  Now that hurts; a whole lt!

  I didn't say a word for a moment. I stood up and began to walk away from her in order not to provoke
a violent reaction (the type I did with my table.)

  "Come back here if you have to balls."

  I stopped, turned and walked back towards her, teeth gritted; fingers moulded into a feast, brows joint and face dark. I bet the change in my reaction fazed her by the way she froze a little.

  "Let me ask you something." I said, "Has it occurred to you your unreasonable bitterness and sarcasm will make your life miserable and endangered? Do you think I can't harm you if I wish to or make your bitchy life more miserable from what it is right now? You are lucky, Pam, because you are a girl. But hear me this; you may not be so lucky next time."

  She froze again when she heard her name from my lips.

  "Surprised I know you name right? Well, you shouldn't be; especially that we started on the wrong footing; you angered me and that already put you in harm’s way― my way. You should be careful."

  With that, I walked away. Pam kept standing there like a statue. I didn't turn back, I had no idea whether or not she kept standing there or had walked away; I didn't care.

  As for me, the deed was done and I'm happy; mission accomplished (even though I ended up sweating about fifty metres away from the spot). When I approached the Wild Gardens, I was smiling and thankful for Captain Scott's place in history, Steel's poem and mother's tip. I thought about Phil, though preventing a possible fiasco between him and Pam was one of my earlier motives for going to the park, I felt I didn't care anymore. Let them scream at each other and jump into the Lake afterwards.

  "A woman was created to support the man, you know why? Because the man is weak. This means a woman is like a walking stick to a crippled; a woman is the gentle soul that touches a man’s heart and quenches all troubles in him. A woman is an angel, a support, a partner and a friend; a dear friend for all."

  That was Reverend Terry Goodman's words; Pastor of the Christ Family Church of Wales.

  A few years ago, I attended the funeral service of Mrs Jane Gibson, one of the oldest members of our church at that time. She was seventy eight when she died and had served with the church more than five decades. I heard her mother was German and father from Wales.

  It was really a sad day for the Gibson’s. Mr Cunningham Gibson, her husband sat hunched in a wheelchair while his sons and grandsons sat behind him as they listened to the Reverend.

  I observed mother nodding her head affirmatively to the Reverend's words. I looked around the funeral ground and observed most of the ones crying were women; I then wondered who is weaker between women and men. To my right, was Mr Write Thomas, cuddling Mrs Thomas as she shook in her cries. To my left was Mrs Anderson leaning her head on a bearded man I've not seen before in our neighbourhood. The grip Mother had on my hand became tighter by the second, which I knew, was an effort to curb the tears threatening to come out of her already misty eyes. So I looked back at the Reverend and felt tempted to ask him to define 'weakness'.

  Coming back to the reason for my reflection, I still wonder what was the basis for the comparison. I sat next to mother in one of the waiting rooms of the Heath hospital, waiting for her doctor. She dissipated nervousness as she spoke to me about things not related to what we came for. It was just a futile effort to relieve her nervousness; to think that everything is going to be fine; and that in case of bad news, be able to manage the shock fairly.

  As she spoke, I waded into my own thoughts while looking at her troubled face. At that time, mother looked helpless; I saw the age instantly coming out from her; and coupled with her current state of mind, looked strange.

  "Oh, there you are." Molly walked briskly in and sat down by her side. "Sorry I was working. How are you?" She asked mother

  "Fine; I guess." Mother replied, looking at Molly with a kind of face that would make someone knows she was lying.

  "Ok, good. Don't worry; it's going to be fine, Mary. And how are you Brad?"

  "I'm ok, thank you. Wow, I almost forgot my mother has a name." I said with a chuckle, looking at Molly.

  "That's because you've been calling her mother since when you were a toddler." She laughed. Mother laughed too, hers was curt though.

  Molly is a nurse at Heath and has been working there for years. Mother once worked there as a secretary before moving to take the same kind job for a private physician. But they've been very good friends. I like their friendship, except of course, for their annoying ritual of laughter whenever they are having tea in our house when Molly come visiting.

  My funny comment with regards to mother's name kind of set stage for the unpleasant attitude again, they talked and they laughed. I found it unpleasant even though I know mother could use some mirth. But I was thankful to the heavens when the doctor rushed and rendered his sincere apologies for keeping mother waiting. The reason for coming late to attend to her sort of added salt to injury for I saw mother flinched. He said he did an emergency lump excision on a woman. He shouldn't have said that, because three seconds after, the colour drained out of my mother's face.

  "Please come in." He said to mother. "Hey Molly, how are you doing today."

  "Fine doctor." She replied.

  He nodded at me before disappearing into his office with mother. "Here we go." I said.

  "Don't worry Brad, she's going to be just fine. I gotta go now, but I’ll be b...” She stopped on the sound of ambulance sirens. "Oh uh, I gotta go now." She stood up.

  I watched her ran out and for the first time, thought different of her agility. In spite of her age and grey hair, she ran beautifully like that's what she does for a living. I smiled on the thought. Then I looked at the doctors’ door where mother was in and envisioned the growth of nervousness as the doctor lashed her with some scary medical blabber before telling her she probably has a lump.

  I stood up and walked out towards the door which Molly had followed. I should wonder a little, I thought. I won't like mother to come out crying on me, if she doesn't see me, I know she'll hold herself until she sees me and we'll be out before she breaks down again. Though I hope the situation won't be that grave.

  So I wondered through the corridors of the hospital, hands in my pockets. There was a sound of a helicopter somewhere, probably another emergency. I once heard Molly said on the average, they attend to over seven hundred emergency cases every weekend at Heath. So I made a little calculation at that moment and came to a conclusion that from Friday to Sunday, about 230 plus patients get through the door of the A&E Unit of the hospital. To see for my eye and satisfy my curiosity, I walked to the Unit and leaned on a wall about five metres to the doors.

  It was horrible. One after the other, people are been rushed in and out on gurneys, some smeared with blood, unconscious. Others were even dead when they brought them. It was a moment I saw raw blood and images of mortality. I didn't know what made me stayed glued to the place, and the horror.

  Just when I was about to go away, a girl was rushed in on a gurney, something looked familiar about her even though the medics where all over her that I couldn’t get to see her face. But my suspicion was confirmed five seconds before she was taking through those doors. One of the Medics said the girl's name was Pamela Graham and she was found unconscious at Roath Park close to the Lake.

  Everything stood still for me. So was my heart.