An Enormous Yes (22 page)

‘Felix, why not call it a day? It’s already ten past eight, and you’ve been slaving since the moment you arrived.’

‘It’s almost finished – this stage, anyway. I’ll paint the frame tomorrow, once the putty’s dry. Tell you what, though – be an angel and open that bottle of wine I bought. This is thirsty work and I’m dying for a drink.’

Once he’d washed and changed, they settled themselves on the sofa, with the bottle of Shiraz and the home-made venison pie Carole had delivered earlier, to save them cooking supper.

‘It’s not often I eat venison,’ Felix said, appreciatively. ‘Carole’s certainly done us proud.’

‘Well, a friend of hers shoots roe deer on his land and keeps her well supplied and she makes pies for him in return, as well as for herself, of course. She had this one in the freezer, so she only had to defrost it. But, listen, Felix, however busy we are tomorrow, I insist on showing you
something
of the countryside. The forecast’s surprisingly good. This wind should
drop tonight, they say, and there’ll even be some sunshine. So what I suggest is we start out on the Pennine Way, go up to the top of Hareshaw – where there’s a really wonderful view – then make our way back down Hareshaw Linn. The landscape’s pretty impressive, so I’m hoping it’ll inspire you. You might want to make some sketches to develop into a full-scale work in London.’

‘I’m already inspired by what I’ve seen so far, on the train from Newcastle and driving back from Hexham just now. The rape-fields looked as thick and yellow as butter, and there were swathes of unripe barley rippling in the wind, like an expanse of cool green sea. I was so absorbed in the play of light and shadow, I almost crashed the car! It felt rather weird to be driving again, at all.’

‘I know you sold your car when you moved to your present flat, but where did you actually move from?’ He was always extremely cagey about his past, and she was curious to discover more.

‘Scotland.’

‘Really? Which part? We’re only twenty-odd miles from the Scottish border here, so perhaps you knew this area?’

‘No, I was very much a townie. I need my fix of culture, so I deliberately chose to live near Edinburgh.’

‘Was that with your ex-wife?’

With the briefest of nods, he began demolishing his slice of pie, as if to excuse himself from saying any more.

‘So did your daughter grow up there?’

‘Partly.’

Perhaps his marriage had been so dire, he preferred to blank it out. Nonetheless, she persevered. It seemed wrong to know so little about a man who had just declared his love for her. ‘So when did you move away – as a family, I mean?’

He finished his mouthful, slowly. ‘Well, I never felt I quite belonged in Scotland, so I was the one who left first. I was keen to return to London, you see, and I’d already been there a good few years, when my daughter also decided to relocate. She was offered a job in New York, which was her idea of heaven! But, going back to landscape painting, I wondered if it might interest
you
at all?’

‘Not at the moment,’ she said, noting the change of subject but finally accepting his reluctance to confide. ‘I’d rather stick with abstraction for a while. I’m becoming quite high on shape and colour alone! Although I wanted to ask you, Felix, whether you think my colours are getting too theatrical and I ought to tone them down?’

‘Absolutely not. You were forced to tone your
self
down, and I see your art as a way of getting through to your true, authentic self. I’ve noted recently that you’re revealing much more turmoil in your work, symbolized by that raw, convulsive colour. Those paintings don’t lie, I assure you. They show you breaking out of the straitjacket you’ve been encased in far too long. You were born
wild
, Maria, I’m sure of it, but you let yourself be tamed by your mother and the Church and—’

‘You mustn’t keep blaming my mother. Some grandmas
killed
their daughters’ bastard babies rather than have them shame the family, yet Mama—’

‘In the bad old days, maybe,’ he interrupted, ‘but we’ve moved on since then, thank God. And, as for the Church, it’s always stressed pain and suffering, glorified its martyrs and—’

‘I longed to be a martyr,’ she said, interrupting him, for a change. ‘It seemed the perfect form of death.’

‘Well, there you are – proof of what I’m saying. If you’d grown up in a different culture, you might have focused less on pain and more on pleasure. I mean, that awful story you told me about the nuns replacing the windows in your classrooms with opaque, clouded glass to prevent you seeing out. That’s abuse, in my book – all the more so for a would-be artist who should be using her eyes and looking at things in detail.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid they knew more about St Augustine than they ever did about art, and
he
came down very hard on any sort of curiosity. He called it “lust of the eyes” – something sinful that had to be strictly curbed.’

Felix gave a grimace of distaste. ‘It really bugs me that girls should be taught such rubbish, and taught by women who hide their bodies, shave their heads, deny themselves all pleasure and take a vow of chastity. What sort of training is
that
, I’d like to know. If you’d been free to develop your natural instincts, and been presented with a more positive view of life, I’m sure you’d have avoided a lot of misery.’

As she topped up both their glasses, in an attempt to lighten the mood, she wished they had never become entangled in so controversial a subject. As she knew from past discussions, Felix could be as intransigent as Silas when on his hobbyhorse.

‘Tantra, for example,’ he continued, ignoring his glass in his
determination
to influence her views, ‘regards sex as a gateway to the divine. Yet, for your nuns, it was the gateway to Hell.’

She tensed at another mention of sex. Despite the wine, she still felt strangely sober – sober in all senses – as if she had become, again, the chaste, submissive Catholic of the old days.

‘So, because of their indoctrination, you were forced to live a narrow, celibate life. In fact, I find it hard to believe that a sensuous woman like you had to shun all other men after the Silas disaster.’

‘That’s nonsense!’ she retorted, suddenly losing her cool. ‘When I was working in the gallery, I mixed with men all the time. And I actually went out with a couple – one in the late seventies, and one four or five years later. Unfortunately, I eventually discovered both were married and had children.’

‘And so your Church forbade you to see them, of course.’

‘I’m not an automaton, Felix.’ Angrily, she banged down her glass. ‘I do have my own opinions and I personally feel it’s gravely wrong to break up a marriage and maybe leave the kids without a live-in father.’

‘OK, I respect your view. But, as for priests or Popes, they know next to nothing about marriage or relationships. The only thing they’re good at appears to be child abuse.’

‘That’s a bit sweeping, isn’t it? Why damn every churchman because of a few bad eggs?’

‘A few!’ he expostulated. ‘Literally thousands were implicated, but, conveniently, it was all swept under the carpet. And some elements in the Church still try to make out that the whole thing was just a media conspiracy.’

‘Look, I agree it’s an appalling scandal, but …’

‘And what bugs me even more is that those “bad eggs”, as you call them, still assume they have a hotline to one infallible truth. However bafflingly complex the questions,
they
have the answers off pat. And it’s been the same for centuries, of course. Anyone with an original idea was censored,
excommunicated
or tortured, even the most brilliant minds. Copernicus, Galileo, Spinoza, Voltaire, Kant … the list goes on and on. That kind of
thought-control
is worse than anything in Orwell.’

‘Felix, I understand how strongly you feel, but now’s hardly the time to …’

The sentence petered out and he, too, said nothing further; just finished his last mouthful of pie and sat, shoulders hunched, shredding his paper napkin between his fingers. A gulf had opened up between them, which she had to admit was her fault as much as his. She was the one who had riled him by shouting at him so fiercely, whereas any normal woman would be profoundly grateful that he had devoted the last twelve hours to helping and supporting her. And he must be disappointed, if not seriously
frustrated
, that she had resisted all his sexual overtures. Here they were, away together, with nothing more to do now but make the ‘glorious love’ he’d proposed, yet she had given him no encouragement, shown no glimmer of
desire. For pity’s sake, couldn’t she stop agonizing, put her arms around him and just let what happened happen?

No, apparently not, because she continued to sit in tense, uneasy silence, watching the small stretch of sky, framed by the cottage window. The clouds were scudding along in an agitated fashion, chivvied by the restless wind – a turbulence echoed by the turmoil in her mind.

Suddenly, her mobile shrilled and, glad of the distraction, she jumped up to answer it.

Carole’s cheery voice helped her relax a little. At least it wasn’t Silas with an ultimatum, or Amy reporting a pregnancy scare or some further
complications
in the court case.

‘Sorry to bother you two lovebirds.’ Carole gave a throaty guffaw. ‘But Pam’s just rung and she’s really chuffed to hear you’re back. It’s her birthday tomorrow, so she’s suggesting we all get together for a pre-lunch drink at the Black Bull.’

Pam, a local farmer’s wife, was something of a gossip-monger, so was probably less interested in celebrating her birthday than in laying eyes on the ‘lovebirds’ and relaying any spicy titbits to anyone who’d listen. However, she could hardly hide Felix from the village, so she told Carole to hold on, while she asked him what he thought.

‘Great idea. I’d love to meet your friends. And tell Carole that’s the best venison pie I’ve eaten in my life – although I can’t say I’ve had very many!’

Once she’d rung off, he got up to join her, cupping her face in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I’ve been a bit tense this evening, and that anti-Church rant was totally mistimed. I’m so tired, I guess, I’m forgetting what you’ve been through today.’

He had put her to shame by apologizing. It was she who should be making overtures. Instead, she seized on his word ‘tired’, longing to say, let’s have an early night and go to bed to
sleep
. He might even suggest it himself, although the still radiant daylight outside countered thoughts of sleep. The longest day was less than a fortnight away, so there was no sign of dusk, as yet, let alone full darkness.

He slipped his hand between the buttons of her blouse and gently stroked her breast, feathering the nipple with his thumb. ‘I know just the thing to rejuvenate us,’ he whispered, ‘some slow, sensuous Tantric sex. Tantra’s perfect when you’re tired, because it takes the stress off
performance
. There’s no rush to reach a climax, and no need to prove yourself as the greatest lay since Cleopatra! In fact, you can prolong the whole thing endlessly; spin it out in a meditative sort of way, and that’s incredibly erotic.’

How, she thought, dismayed, could she respond to endlessly protracted sex, when all she wanted was to become a leaf or cloud – something with no body and no mind?

‘H
APPY BIRTHDAY
, P
AM
!

‘Many happy returns!’

The twelve of them crammed around the corner table clinked glasses in a toast.

‘You don’t look a day over seventy!’ Dave, her husband, joked, taking a large gulp of his Scotch.

Pam gave him a friendly punch. ‘If I’m fraying at the edges, whose fault is that, I’d like to know? Anyone marrying a farmer needs their head
examined
.’

Yes, Maria reflected, many farmers’ wives up here seemed to be still living in the 1950s, expected to cook substantial meals and do all the
house-work
and childcare, as well as helping with the outside work, such as haymaking and lambing.

‘I hope he’s taking you out to dinner tonight,’ Angie said, through a mouthful of nuts.

‘Fat chance! I’m amazed he’s torn himself away even for half an hour. Anyway, enough of me. I’m more interested in Felix.’ Pam swivelled round to face him. ‘It’s an unusual name, isn’t it? I’ve never met a Felix before.’

‘Well, it means happy, fertile, fortunate and blessed, so perhaps most parents are scared their kids won’t live up to all of that.’

‘And did
you
?’ Carole asked, raising her voice above the raucous group at the adjoining table.

‘Oh, absolutely – well, except for the “fertile”. I only managed one daughter, I’m afraid.’

‘And is she an artist, too?’ enquired Alistair, a Forestry Commission worker Dave had brought along, and the only one of the party Maria didn’t know. Apparently, he had moved to the village only in the last few months, whereas most of this crowd had, like her, all been born and bred here.

‘No, she works in advertising and, anyway, she, er …’

‘Talking of art,’ Maria interjected, noting Felix’s usual hesitation on the subject of his family, ‘I’m taking Felix up Hareshaw this afternoon. He’s hoping to get ideas for some new paintings.’

‘I know nothing about art,’ declared Alan, the small, sinewy fellow who ran the local shop, with his taller, well-upholstered wife, Louise. ‘I was always bottom of the class at school and, to be perfectly frank, I can’t see why people should go to all that trouble trying to put something on paper when they could just as soon take a photograph.’

‘Yes, I tend to agree,’ Felix said, jovially. ‘But, you see, the only reason we’re artists at all is because we’re often pretty useless at any other line of work!’

As everybody laughed, Maria felt for his hand beneath the table and gave it a grateful squeeze. After a brief initial wariness, her friends had all accepted him; warming to his easy, jokey manner. She, too, felt distinctly better than when she had woken up this morning, disoriented, half-drugged from sleep, and alone in her mother’s bed. The Tantric sex hadn’t gone quite as planned; its techniques so relaxing that Felix had actually drifted off to sleep after only fifteen minutes.
She
, however, had lain awake,
uncomfortably
jammed against his body, in the narrow single bed, and becoming increasingly restless as the long, lonely night wore on. Fearing she might wake him, she had crept out of bed at 2 a.m. and slipped into her mother’s room. There, she continued to lie sleepless for another couple of hours, vowing they would make love in the morning, however tired or disinclined she might feel. Yet, when she finally drifted off, she had slept so long and deeply it was almost noon before she surfaced – and nearly time to leave for the pub. So the sex had been postponed, again, till tonight. And, thank God, her former doubts and fears had abated, along with yesterday’s gale; her mood today as sunny as the weather.

Pam was still quizzing Felix, clearly determined to find out all she could. ‘So how did you two meet?’ she asked,

Maria took her time in answering, wary of mentioning the life class in front of prudish Louise. But Felix came to the rescue, taking a jokey line again.

‘Oh, I stood on her toe in the tube and you should have heard the fuss she made! So I more or less
had
to invite her out.’

More laughter. Maria knew that, if she brought Felix here in future, he would soon be part of their crowd. And, suddenly, it struck her that perhaps she could persuade him to move to Northumberland, rather than to Cornwall. After all, it was equally beautiful, in its own distinctive way; equally inspiring for a painter. He would still be miles away from London,
of course, but at least not at the opposite end of the country from what, for her, was home.

‘My round,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘Same again for everyone?’

‘Count me out,’ said Dave, also getting up. ‘I really must get off now. One of my cows is poorly and I need to keep an eye on her.’

‘See, what did I tell you?’ Pam sighed histrionically. ‘The cows come first, as usual. And, birthday or no birthday, he’ll expect his lunch on the table on the dot of one o’clock. Which it certainly
won’t
be,’ she added, checking her watch with a shrug.

‘Well, in that case, hadn’t you better leave, as well?’ Jacqueline gave Pam a sly nudge. ‘Or the beef will be raw, the potatoes unpeeled, and
you’ll
be in the doghouse.’

‘No way!’ Pam retorted, joining in the chorus of goodbyes, as her husband moved towards the door.

‘Knowing Pam,’ Sonia observed, ‘she’ll already have the joint in the oven, the potatoes in the roasting tin and the apple pie just waiting to be browned.’

‘Same as me,’ Angie nodded. ‘It’s no real hardship cooking Sunday lunch, so long as you’re well organized.’

‘Well, if you moved to London,’ Maria put in, ‘you wouldn’t need to bother. From what I’ve seen so far, most Londoners eat out at weekends, almost as a matter of course. If I suggest to Amy and Hugo that I’ll make them Sunday lunch, they always seem to be meeting friends in some wine bar or restaurant or other.’

‘Frankly, I’d rather cook a million Sunday lunches,’ Louise said,
emphatically
, ‘than have to move to London. All that knife-crime and violence, for heaven’s sake! And the noise and grime and traffic, and everyone pushing and shoving. I reckon if you were handicapped or blind, you’d be trampled underfoot.’

‘Come off it, Louise, it’s not that bad.’ Maria ripped open a packet of crisps, making up for her lack of breakfast. ‘Although I have to say I do miss the peace, and the sense of space and general friendliness. And, when I look at Amy and Hugo, I’m appalled by how hard they work and all the
pressures
on them – having to keep up with the latest trends and go to the right hair salon and all that sort of stuff.’

‘I cut my own hair this morning,’ Carole admitted, airily, ‘and I don’t think it looks that bad.’

Maria refrained from comment. Cutting one’s own hair would be
considered
an unthinkable barbarity among London’s smarter set. ‘And I also miss little things like hanging out the washing. Yesterday, while Felix was in
Hexham, I washed all the fusty sheets and got quite a kick from seeing them billowing on the line. Amy has this state-of-the-art tumble drier but, in my opinion, it can’t beat a boisterous south-west wind.’

‘On the other hand,’ Alan pointed out, ‘it’s mid-summer now, so things are at their best. It’s a different story when you’re faced with snowdrifts ten foot deep or lanes ankle-deep in mud.’

‘True,’ Maria agreed, also aware that, since her move to London, she would jib at the sense of living on the boundary of things, far removed from the pulse and pith of life. And, as she glanced around the crowded pub, she couldn’t help but notice that the clientele was uniformly white; the nearest thing to an ethnic minority was a redhead at the bar. And there was none of London’s vibrant mix of types – everything from Goths to drag-queens, with exotic outfits to match. Here, the standard uniform was jeans and a work-shirt, or cords and a fleece, mostly in drab colours.

‘Sorry I was so long.’ Felix returned to the table with a loaded tray of drinks. ‘There was quite a crush at the bar.’

Sonia, current star of the local Amateur Dramatic Society, took her glass from him, clinging to his wrist with a decidedly coquettish air. ‘You must come and see our production,’ she coaxed. ‘This evening’s the last night of the run, so this is your only chance. One of the characters happens to be a painter, so it would be fantastic to have a real live artist in the audience.’

‘I doubt,’ Felix quipped, putting down his own glass, ‘if I’ll be either real or live if I drink much more of this! It’s really got a kick to it. Is it a local beer?’

‘Yes, it’s made by Wylam Brewery,’ Jacqueline informed him, ‘which is getting quite a name for producing potent beers. Two of these and I’m under the table!’

‘Do come to the show,’ Sonia persisted. ‘I can easily get you a couple of tickets. Are you busy this evening?’

‘Yes, ’fraid so,’ Felix said, much to Maria’s relief. With so much to sort out – Hanna’s headstone, probate, all the new security measures – it was only fair to Felix to keep their evenings free. She knew he would much prefer to be in bed with her than sit through some half-baked production performed in a draughty church hall.

‘Maria!’ a voice called from the door. ‘Great to have you back!’

She swung round to see Desmond, now retired and nearly ninety, who had been something of a father to her when she was growing up. She dashed across to greet him and, as he pressed his whiskery face against her cheek, she inhaled his faint, familiar smell of diesel and old dog. The warmth of her welcome – not just from him, but from half this small community –
made her realize how deeply rooted she was here. She might have certain reservations about living in the sticks, but when she had first set foot in the pub, there had been greetings on all sides, drinks on the house and a touching sense of pleasure at her return.

‘Let me buy you a beer,’ Desmond offered, linking his arm through hers, as he made his doddery way across the room.

‘Desmond, if I drink any more I’ll be legless. And, anyway, I’m with a friend from London. He’s keen to see the countryside, so we’re about to make a move.’

Although not strictly true, she decided to make it so, suddenly wanting Felix to herself. Besides, they ought to set out on their walk before the fickle sunshine disappeared, and they still had to return to the cottage to change their clothes and make a picnic lunch. So, ushering Desmond towards their table, she informed the others that she and Felix were now departing for their walk.

‘Be good!’ Carole called, with a conspiratorial wink.

‘Are you
sure
it’s just a walk?’ Eddie added, with a grin.

‘I don’t know what you’re insinuating,’ Felix retorted, with mock
indignation
. ‘But I’ll have you know Maria and I are just good friends and if anyone says different they’ll have me to reckon with!’

‘It’s a stunning view,’ Felix observed, shading his eyes against the fierce
mid-summer
light.

‘Yes, you can see as far as Cheviot, and even Carter Bar – the border with Scotland. Oh, I know it’s very bleak up here, but I like that, in a way.’

‘Me too. I prefer a hint of menace in my landscapes rather than
pretty-pretty
scenery.’

‘There used to be a village near here, but that was years ago. There’s almost no trace of it now and the whole area seems deserted.’

‘And it’s so amazingly quiet.’

‘Apart from the skylarks. And we should hear curlews, too. I must bring you here in the autumn, when it looks as if nature’s on fire, with everything flaming and flaring.’

‘D’you mind if we rest our bones? My muscles are beginning to complain. Anyway, I want to do a few sketches of these huge outcrops of rock.’ He squatted on his haunches to examine the nearest one, rearing up, bare and rugged, not far short of his own height. ‘In fact, I think I’ll do a series of paintings, just on these alone. The textures are so interesting and I like their jagged shadows.’

She stood watching him a while. ‘What I notice, Felix, is the way you look so intently at things, as if you’re trying to devour them and digest them. I realize I’ve been looking only superficially, in comparison with you.’

‘Well, for me it’s a way of capturing the truth of a subject, by getting right to its core. On the other hand, when I’m actually painting, I like to move beyond that reality and trust much more to instinct. I suppose, as a painter, one’s constantly trying to strike a balance between abandon and control.’

‘A bit like in my life.’

‘Oh, you’re not there yet – still too much control and not enough abandon!’

‘Well,’ she laughed, ‘it’s ages since we stopped for lunch, so why don’t we have a tea break and you can watch me abandon myself disgustingly to those lovely squidgy flapjacks you brought! But let’s walk down to that dip. It’ll be more sheltered there. Even on a calm day, there’s always a breeze on these hills.’

Once they reached the dip, she spread the picnic rug across the springy bed of heather, and unpacked the flapjacks and the flask of tea. As they ate, she saw Felix’s gaze travel slowly across the vista of greens and golds and browns, absorbing every detail. She, too, looked up, trying to see the
landscape
through his eyes: dappled swathes of sun and shadow, gradually melding into a bluish, blurry heat-haze on the horizon.

‘I love these gently rounded hills,’ he said. ‘They remind me of your body – soft, voluptuous curves.’ He pushed her gently back on the rug, knelt astride her, moved his lips towards hers.

The long, slow, smouldering kiss was like a switch, turning on every cell and organ of her body, yet she couldn’t help but worry when he began unbuttoning her blouse. If some hiker or climber should come here, they would be open to public view. However, the thought of making love outside had always seemed enticingly erotic, although she had never actually done it, except in fantasy. Alone in the cottage, she had imagined being Manet’s model for ‘
Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe
’; the artist so aroused, he had
interrupted
his work to ravish her on the dewy grass. Or she had been Botticelli’s Venus, frolicking with the painter amidst playfully caressing waves, or seduced by a brazen Byron on some moonlit Grecian strand.