The trunk was planed and smoothed and cut into three sections. I had it lashed to the inside of the truck.
‘You’ve brought your own firewood.’ Sullivan turned to scan the pine-clad hilltops. Pyramids of stripped trees awaited the logging truck. There were fallen twigs and branches. Slices and chunks of manuka and red beech in random piles, the carnage of the chainsaw. And, although it was early summer, neat rows of logs were stashed under the decking. He looked across at Jason. ‘She brought her own firewood?’
I covered my face with my hands and tried to suppress the bubbling volcano threatening to explode from my mouth. Jason was out of control, his body doubled over in a seizure of hysterical wailing. He clutched his stomach and pounded a knee with his fist. Poor Sullivan could only look on, bewildered. It was a while
before either of us could speak. Eventually Jason wiped away his tears with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. He draped an arm over my shoulders.
‘Let me introduce you again. Dad, this is Regan Porter,
the
Regan Porter. Sculptress, artist of the year, darling of the darling crowd. My father doesn’t read the Sunday supplements, do you Dad? And those chunks of wood are her chosen children, selected for their perfection. If we’re going to get them off the truck they have to be handled with the tenderness accorded a newborn infant.’
‘Where can they go? I’ll need somewhere to work that’s dry. This place doesn’t look big enough.’
‘Look, what about the deck here?’ Jason leapt up to pace it out. ‘It’s almost as big as the inside. The roofing’s sound, so if we rig up a cover or something down the side it would make a sort of studio. What do you think?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Actually it would be perfect. I’d be working almost in the open, the lake right in front of me. ‘Is that possible, Mr Sullivan? Could we make some sort of shelter?’
He took off his hat and wiped his head with a grubby handkerchief. ‘I’ll see what I’ve got in the shed.’
Jason and I jumped up and down in a bear hug. Then I remembered why I was there, disentangled myself and went inside.
My treasures of the forest were safely tucked up under a tarpaulin on the deck along with the rest of my equipment; the other stuff was dumped in the kitchen area. Sullivan had driven back to the house with Jason on board and I was alone.
Well, almost alone. Bramble declined the lift back to the house. She was busy checking out my bags and boxes, her nose into every open opportunity. Her claws clicked on the wooden floor and the enthusiasm of her tail sent everything flying. Thank God
Sullivan didn’t go in for china ornaments. I’d never had a dog, didn’t really understand them. But her coat was like dusty velvet and her eyes could melt snow.
‘It’s OK dog, you can leave the unpacking till later. Let’s see where I’ve landed up, shall we?’
This place felt good. There was a calmness about it. After Sullivan’s house I had begun to have serious second thoughts, but no, this was clean and bright. One big room—at one end a huge overstuffed sofa set in front of a wood-burning stove, at the other end a kitchen with a cooker and fridge and a stripped wooden table. Thank God there was electricity. And running water, probably down from some buildings on the slope behind here. Shearing sheds, I thought Sullivan had said. Anyway, there was a huge water tank there and a generator in case the mains power failed. The walls and woodwork were freshly painted, the floors sanded and varnished. The couch was obviously ancient but the cushions and curtains were new. The rug in front of the fire looked homemade.
Bramble jumped on and off the sofa and tried to climb into the kitchen cupboards. Her ears were long and floppy and edged with a dusting of brown. They fell forward over her eyes, like a pair of silk handkerchiefs dipped in cinnamon.
‘What’s through here, girl?’ I opened a door off the kitchen. Bramble led the way, her nose doing a sweep search of the floor. A tiny hallway with a washing machine and a cupboard with a hot-water tank and shelves stuffed with clean sheets and towels. Then another door.
‘Wow, would you look at that!’ The bathroom was huge, all new except for the bath that was ancient and could hold enough water to float a dinghy. And a shower, praise the Lord.
‘I wonder if anyone thought of a bedroom?’ Bramble snuffled her nose in my hand. ‘Come on, let’s look at the other end.’ She set off on a mission, leading me back through the hall and across to where another door looked promising. I turned the knob and
swung it open. Bramble bounded forward, then froze solid.
‘What’s the matter, girl? Just a bedroom, look.’ Yes, that’s all it was. Twin beds, separated by a small table with a bedside lamp, a wardrobe. There were two long windows, creamy muslin curtains tied back and a dressing table placed between them. Yes, just a bedroom. I went in first, waltzing over to the window, my arms spread wide to show how safe it all was.
‘Come on in, girl, it’s OK.’ But Bramble stood rigid in the doorway, tail tucked down beneath her rear, making little whimpering sounds.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ I went back to her, laying a hand on her head. I could feel her trembling. Suddenly she turned and ran, her claws skittering over the floor and across the deck.
‘Well, nice meeting you, do call again.’
Like I said, I’d never had a dog. Didn’t know much about them then. But I knew enough to recognise fear.
And she was terrified.
I
T
had all happened so quickly. I looked at my pile of worldly goods and wondered how the hell I’d landed up there. Jason, of course. Still, I didn’t have to stay, did I? I could just throw the whole lot back onto the truck and drive out. But then it wasn’t just Jason. It was the whole scene, all the parties and press calls, the hangovers and the hangers-on. Oh yes, I’d encouraged it. So what’s wrong with being the centre of attention?
I love it when heads turn as I enter a room, elbows nudge, the little whispers—it’s her! I love seeing my face on the magazine stands. I always look surprised, which I suppose I am. The man from the
Listener
asked all sorts of questions about my motivational integrity and points of reference, or something like that. I got all nervous and just agreed with him. The resulting article was really impressive but I didn’t understand a word of it. I knew better by the time
Cosmopolitan
came to me. I had prepared some pretty inspired quotes, only to find that all they were interested in was my sex life and if I wear a bra. They asked about my nose stud and I said it was about integrating my work by projecting my whole physical self as an art form. That’s not strictly true. What happened was this. I promised Sally a navel ring for her birthday. We did lunch and drank lots and lots
of red wine to build up her courage for the ordeal. Later that evening, after we’d sobered up, I found I had a rivet in my face. Fortunately, once the swelling went down, it didn’t look too bad. So, I decided to keep it.
And then there was the money. I’d always said that money wasn’t important to me. That was, of course, until I got some. All that crap about art being its own reward. That was fine while it was also its
only
reward. Then those big, fat cheques started arriving. Money is an affirmation of my worth. One of the best highs I know is people outbidding each other for my work. You know what I did with the money from my first exhibition sale? I got a tattoo, a little Celtic horse on my shoulder. It’s my testimony. No matter what happens, I’ll always have something to remind me that I made it to the top, if only once. But it wasn’t only once. I just kept on climbing and the money kept rolling in.
The problem was, the better it got the less work I produced. I could never concentrate, my head never seemed to be clear. Being focused is the key, and to do that I have to be alone. I need the freedom to spend hours, days on end if necessary, working with a piece. It’s a relationship between me and the wood. We have to get to know each other, allow a rapport to develop. The wood needs to tell me about itself and I have to be able to listen if we are going to grow together. That’s how it happens.
At least that’s how it was when I was with Andrew. He understood. He would write and I would carve and we would meet for supper and commiserate over our mutual failure. Three years we were together. Then I started to sell and didn’t need consoling any more. He couldn’t take it. I’m making it sound as if he resented my success and I think there was a little of that. But it was more about my not being there for him, being too busy to read his latest chapter. I had left him long before he left me.
In a way it was good being on my own for a while. It gave me a chance to find out who I was. I seemed to be the only one who
didn’t know. And then I met Jason. That was three months before and I hadn’t worked since.
Oh, there were all sorts of excuses. Of course the exhibitions needed supervision. The galleries always demanded a presence, and the publicity was time well invested, they said. Then there was time out for the trip to Europe. Jason was right there with me and, I admit it, I was having a great time. But then that’s what I worked for, to have my art acknowledged. Only, I didn’t know fame was so…so…noisy. I needed space and quiet.
I walked out onto the cottage deck and watched the wind move through the treetops. A bird crossed the sky in frantic flight, heading for the lake. It swooped low, wings rigid as it came in to land, bracing paddled feet to gouge a track in the water’s surface. Then it folded its wings and settled them to rest.
Yes, that’s what I needed, a place to fold my wings.
A sound cut the air, an aggressive whine that shattered the afternoon and scattered the pieces. Then Jason broke through the tree line, a black leather knight on a black oily charger. He skidded the bike to a halt in front of me and revved the engine. I knew he was grinning under that stupid helmet, but I couldn’t help laughing at him. He pulled off the helmet and shook out his golden hair. It was, as always, like seeing him for the first time, and I caught my breath. He had a way of being more alive than anyone else I knew.
He followed me inside and said, ‘Well, what do you think. Neat, eh?’
‘Yes, I have to admit you were right. It’s perfect. Looks like it’s just been renovated. What made your father do that?’
‘Ah well, it was my idea. I love this place. Used to stay here quite often during summer nights, like other kids camp out in the garden. I couldn’t bear to watch it go the same way as the house. So I persuaded the old man to do something with it. I reckoned
it would be good for tourists, you know, backpackers, that sort of thing. Get some people through the place.’
‘He got me instead. He was really put out.’
‘He’ll get over it. And you’ll be alone, if that’s what you really want. But you’ve got the phone. I can be here in a couple of hours.’
‘No, Jason, I don’t want you here. You promised.’
‘I can’t promise not to visit my father. This is my home. But I won’t bother you. Not unless you want me to. You can have all the solitude you want.’
‘Well, I nearly had a house guest.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, Bramble. She seemed to be planning on moving in. Then something spooked her and she ran off. I hope she’s OK, she looked really scared.’
‘That doesn’t sound like her. What was it?’
‘Something in the bedroom. I couldn’t see anything, though.’
Jason walked through and surveyed the room, looking under the bed and behind the curtains.
‘Didn’t your father say something about rats?’
‘No, dogs don’t get scared by rats. Other way round. Bramble’s a catcher.’ He opened and closed the wardrobe. ‘Nothing here. All safe and sound.’ He flopped down on the bed, stretching full length, one hand behind his head, the other stroking the mattress. His voice dropped to a warm whisper: ‘And very comfortable.’ He stretched out his hand out to me. ‘Come here, I’ll show you.’
‘No, Jason. That’s not what this is about.’ I stomped out of the room and back to the deck.
He followed a moment later, hands held up in surrender. ‘OK, OK. It was worth a try.’
‘I think it’s time you left.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ He picked up his helmet and remounted the bike. ‘Come with me.’
‘No, Jason, I—’
‘No, I mean just up the hill. There’s something I want to show you. You can walk back. Besides, you’ve never ridden with me, have you?’
The bike was panther black. Sunbeams spiked off the handlebars.
‘Just a few yards? No tricks, mind.’
‘I promise. Just a few yards. You still don’t trust me, do you?’
‘Did I ever?’ But that was what drew me on—the angel eyes and the devil smile. I never knew which I was dealing with.
The machine roared deep in its throat and sprang forward. I was behind him, clinging tight to his back, my nose buried in the smell of leather. We scooted around the remainder of the lake road and back to where the forest trail started its upward climb through the dark pines. The bike bucked and stumbled, swinging from side to side on the path, Jason’s feet scuffing the dirt. I yelled at the sweet terror of it. Of course he was making it worse for my benefit.
Then he suddenly veered to the right, following a barely discernible path through denser trees. Undergrowth tore at my clothes and caught in the spokes, threatening to pull us down. We screeched to a halt in a clearing and I fell off, rolling in dried grass and laughing with relief and exhilaration. He stood the bike up, reached into the saddle-box and fished out his camera, looping the strap round his neck. It had been strange seeing him without it on the journey.
‘This is a special occasion—calls for a drink. I happen to have just the thing.’ He reached into the box again, then stood over me, waving a bottle in each hand. ‘Bit warm. But it’ll do. Here.’ He was right. Dust clogged my nose and throat and had laid a brown film over my arms.
‘So, what’s so special? You said you wanted to show me something.’
‘That.’
He nodded at some rocks half hidden in the long grass. I wandered over, gratefully upending my bottle. No, they weren’t rocks. As I moved nearer I could see that they were carved and inscribed.
I could hear the familiar click and whirr as he took shots of me. It had become a part of his presence, so familiar that it had moved to a different level of my awareness, like the ticking of a clock.
‘Gravestones?’
‘Meet the family. Regan, this is my grandmother, great-grandmother and, over there, my great-great-grandmother.’
‘No. Really? I thought you were kidding. There really are people under there?’
‘Sure are. Though I don’t suppose there’s much of them left.’
‘Why? I mean why were they buried here? Why aren’t they in a proper graveyard? I didn’t know you were allowed to bury people like this.’
‘I suppose they had to in those days. Too far to move the bodies. Families set up burial plots on their own land. Suppose it made the land more theirs. Generation to generation, that sort of thing.’
‘Isn’t a burial site supposed to be consecrated or something?’
‘I guess it was consecrated at some time.’
I moved between the stones. Not proper monuments even, just flat slabs hewn roughly into shape. They all showed the passing of time, the edges worn and weather cracked. Moss and lichen clogged the chiselled lettering but I could make out the name Sullivan and ‘beloved wife’. One of the stones bore the name Jane but the date was unreadable. I felt sad and very sober, as if a dark cloud had blotted out all the laughter of the afternoon.
‘Why did you bring me here? To these graves, I mean.’
‘I wanted you to see that I’m part of this.’ He looked suddenly older; his eyes, for once, were serious. ‘This land, this place. I came from these people and there were others before them.
I came out of this earth. This land
is
me.’ This was a Jason I hadn’t seen before and I didn’t know what to say or how to be with him.
I put my hand gently over his. ‘It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. I envy you.’
‘Sometimes I need to come back here. It reminds me of who I am.’
‘And your mother, Jason, what happened to her? Is she buried here?’
‘No. No, she’s someplace else.’ He pushed away from me, his arm swinging away. The bottle spun through the air and bounced across the grass. Then Jason was striding back to the bike and pushing the helmet over his head so that when he turned again I couldn’t see his face.
‘Right, I’m out of here. You can find your own way back, can’t you? Just follow the path.’
He kicked the bike pedal and the engine exploded into life as machine and rider crashed through the trees, disappearing in a cloud of dust and fumes. I ran to the edge of the clearing but he was gone. I knew that was the last I would see of him. Well, for a while, anyway.
I gathered up the empty bottles and started back down to the cottage.
It was much cooler under the pines, and darker. Although I knew this forest to be a recent creation, a breeding farm for wood, I felt as if I had strayed into some ancient and forgotten place. The treetops stretched high above me. The branches dipped and swayed in unison, a congregation of giants all chanting in whispers. In their company I was reduced to insignificance. I felt that somehow they were aware of my presence. I could understand why pagans worshipped in such places, why they thought each rock and mountain spring was a living being.
Maybe that was why I was here. I had come to this place knowing I was ready to move into a new phase of my work. Over the past two years I had been exploring the presentation of the human body as a landscape in abstract form. Now, here, I was aware of consciousness in nature. I was beginning to understand why our ancestors believed in wood nymphs and satyrs. Perhaps I could create my own nature spirits.
The wood I carve has its own life energy within, a remnant of the elemental responsiveness of the parent forest from which it was taken. Perhaps, by being in the natural environment, by allowing myself to be a channel between the two, I could express something of the greater, primordial consciousness of its origins.
That was usually how it started. Assign a concept to the subconscious, leave it a day or so to ferment, then it would arrive, permeating my conscious mind in full force, demanding expression.
That’s when the work would begin.
By the time I climbed the deck steps the sun was ready to dip behind the tree line. Now I really was alone. The house was visible across the lake with Sullivan somewhere inside it, maybe, although Jason claimed he spent little time there. I’d try to bother him as little as possible. He seemed a difficult man to be with: not hostile exactly, I could have coped with that, met it as a challenge. It was more like he was somehow absent. In any case, I’d feel more comfortable out of his way.
After all, it wasn’t as if I were completely cut off. I had my cellphone and there were all sorts of friends I could call. The only one I really wanted to talk to was Sally. The other loss I regretted was Bramble. I had hoped that she would have returned during my absence, but I could hear her and Badger barking somewhere in the distance.
What was it about that bedroom? I wandered back in there. Nothing had changed. The covers were still crumpled where Jason had stretched out on the bed. I sat on the edge of the mattress and laid my hand where his head had dented the pillow. That’s just how he had left me, empty and crumpled. A hollow part of me missed him already. I prodded at it, like when I’d had my tooth taken out and I couldn’t leave the hole alone. But anything was better than a raging toothache.