The red paint looked angry and vivid on the canvas, but Ella kept going, dogged and furious. She’d woken from a dream at the ridiculous hour of five o’clock, her head full of a startling image of her falling in the canal and crawling her way out with blood flooding down her legs instead of water. She gradually came to, unravelling herself from the dream, disorientated and dazed with furious emotion, tears streaming down her face.
She’d come straight up here, knowing the exact shade of colour she needed. It oozed into the china palette, her wide flat brush dipping in with haste to smear the canvas. Without thought or planning she dived in, covering a section with instinct driven strokes, the thick paint glistening with horrible reality. Like a bloody pool, the overladen area began to run, drips slipping down the white in horrible mockery, but she carried on, feeling the pain again. Anger and outrage filled her, like a cup under a running tap, overflowing over and over again, as she remembered the cramping sensation low in her belly and the vicious disembowelling sense of being utterly on her own in this. Her hand translated with slashing rips at the canvas, the helpless anguish at the unfairness of it, that awful sensation of having something wrenched away. She added another colour, oxygen-rich red, deeper and darker, to shadow the oval shape that had emerged. Grabbing another shade, rusty-tinged brown, she added that too and then another and another.
Finally, exhausted and angry, she pulled back to look at the painting. Except it wasn’t a painting – it was nothing more than a childish, fury-fuelled daub that left her feeling shaky and shocked. Pure emotion and nothing else; no finesse, no style. It was a mess. She closed her eyes, her shoulders slumping. Numbness filled her limbs, heavy with the adrenaline hangover.
With shaky hands she laid down her brush and looked critically at the picture. It summed things up rather too well. A cruel parallel with her life. Utterly crap. It had been a terrible mistake coming out here. But she couldn’t go back either.
With a loathing look at the painting, she left the studio.
As soon as she opened the kitchen door, the idiotic animal bounced around her legs with delight, her excitement translated in the feverish wag of her tail.
‘Blimey, Dog, you’d think you’d been locked away for fifty years instead of overnight.’
The dog carried on weaving around her, as if to say where’ve you been? I really, really, really missed you. It’s so lovely to see you.
‘OK, OK, calm down.’ Despite her gentle chiding, Ella’s heart lifted, the furious explosive emotion somehow starting to dissipate. She opened the back door and the dog dived out, a blur of speed, careered around the garden like a lunatic, weed several times and then came charging back to nuzzle at Ella’s legs.
‘You’re wet,’ she said, brushing the dew that clung to the dog’s coat. Tess’s tail flapped furiously, beating Ella’s legs as she wove round and round as if she just couldn’t contain her sheer happiness.
Ella bent to stroke her head. ‘You are daft,’ she said with a rueful smile as the dog continued to dance around her.
‘Starving, are you? No wonder I’ve got a rock star’s welcome this morning. And listen to me. I’m talking to a dog.’
With sudden resolution, Ella pushed her shoulders back and gave herself a shake. ‘Come on, then. Let’s feed you. What do you fancy? Lovely smelly biscuits or lovely smelly biscuits?’
This almost felt normal, getting the biscuits out, filling the bowl, putting water in the other one.
‘Honestly, calm down. I can’t see what you’re getting so excited about. I’m glad I’m not a dog.’ She laughed as Tess almost knocked her over, jumping and nosing at the bowl as she tried to lower it, biscuits spilling over the side to rain and bounce all over the floor, which Tess thought was a great game.
Before she’d even made her coffee, the dog had inhaled the biscuits like a turbo-charged hoover and then started nosing around the floor sucking up the stray crumbs until her paw slipped on something on the floor. Ella frowned. That bloody card had a mind of its own.
With a clatter Tess gave the empty bowl another hopeful once-over with her tongue and then tilted her head, looking at Ella with a beseeching expression.
‘That’s your lot, Tess, and you know it.’
The dog gave a mournful sigh, still gazing at her with hopeful longing.
‘Now I know what puppy dog eyes are . . . and it’s still a no from me.’ She gave the dog another stroke on the head, the blue card still in her other hand. A shaft of sunlight slanted in through the French doors, warming her hand where she stroked the soft silky texture of the dog’s short fur. It was rather hypnotic and she felt her breathing calm. After the earlier fierce burst of emotion she felt a little wrung out. Something drew her eyes to the words on the card. With a self-conscious glance around the room, which was completely crazy as there was no one there to see, she stepped outside and headed for the little stone bench in the garden.
Several bluebells had burst into flower overnight and the buds on the tree had unfurled into leaves. She studied the vivid blues. The rich deep colours stirred something in her brain.
Sinking down onto the stone bench, she looked around the gorgeous garden with its profusion of colour, light and shape. The bright morning sunshine touched her skin and something inside blossomed, that earlier pinching tension seeping away like a thief in the night taking its leave. It was rather lovely to be able to sit and daydream for a while. She closed her eyes and tilted her face upwards like a sunflower. An image drifted into her head and she let it settle, her mind’s eye wandering across it, lightly touching here and there.
The sweet notes of a blackbird pierced the air and she opened her eyes, her heart thudding with sudden excitement. With a sudden warning cry the bird on the tree opposite took flight as Ella jumped up.
She raced up both flights of stairs. There it was: Magda’s box. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. Actually, yes she could. She never painted with watercolours – it hadn’t occurred to her to use them, but maybe they were right for this. It certainly couldn’t hurt to try.
Without any of her usual prevarication, she grabbed a sheet of cartridge paper and a selection of paints, oozing them hastily onto a dinner plate. Misty blue first. Her fingers tingled with impatience. She dived in, the colour bleeding into the paper.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of colour, desire and emotion as the images began to appear. Seamless, the picture came together, layer by layer, the shadows beyond the trees hinting at secrets, the willowy branches redolent with the movement of dancers in the foreground and the dappled light trickling through behind.
At some point she was aware of Tess getting up, yawning and wandering away, her paws pitter-pattering down the wooden stairs. Later, she registered the birds under the eaves of the south side of the house cheeping furiously.
It was the searing pain cramping the muscle in the back of her shoulders that finally brought her back to earth and the hunger pangs that rattled her stomach. Standing and stretching to release the pain, she glanced at her watch. Bloody hell. Two o’clock. She’d been painting non-stop since this morning. The dog had long since abandoned her post and gone downstairs.
Ella forced herself to put the brush down, turn around and walk five paces back. She stopped and steeling herself as if she were in a duel, she took a breath and turned.
Her heart almost stopped. It was perfect. Quite simply perfect. A sense of absolute satisfaction and wonder filled her. The secretive warmth of the trees, the glittering water, the shadowed trunks and the texture of the bark had all been captured to perfection. So much and so little. Her heart almost burst.
Giving into the growl of her stomach, she headed down to the kitchen to make herself a drink. A flash of mustard outside caught her eye as she stood drinking her coffee, feeling drained but happy and she raised a hand to wave to George. He looked a little stooped and stiff when he returned the wave. What had Devon said? George was lonely? Without thinking she opened the window.
‘Hi George, would you like a coffee?’
Before she had time to regret her spur of the moment invitation, George was ensconced in the kitchen, Tess’s head resting on his knee with a look of adoration on her face.
‘Here you go, one cappuccino.’ She placed the mug in front of him.
‘That looks grand, love. So how are you finding life in the village? Quite different to what you’re used to, I expect. Must be a bit of a relief after London.’
‘A relief?’ It was a funny way to put it, but he was right. She hadn’t realised how much effort she’d put into keeping up a façade all the time. She might not like it here, but yes, it was a relief.
‘I can’t bear the place. Everyone’s always in a hurry. No one ever talks to you.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I can tell you’re going to fit in just fine here.’
Ella had no idea how he’d come to that conclusion. Ready to deny it, she asked curiously, ‘Why do you think that?’ He clearly hadn’t seen her dripping her way home yesterday.
She was pleased to see he looked a bit nonplussed. ‘Well,’ he blustered. ‘Once you’ve settled, there’s so much going on, you won’t have a minute to call your own. The Spring Fayre’s coming up and it’s all hands on deck. I’ve got to put some posters up around the village. I’ve just had them from the printers. And a lovely banner.’ His face brightened and he sat up as if he’d just had a light bulb moment. ‘Next year you can design the posters, with you being an artist.’
Ella gave a tight polite smile. ‘I don’t think I’ll be here then.’
‘Course you will, Magda said so. Now, you’ve got to take this handsome hound out, so why don’t we kill two birds with one stone and you can give me a hand with putting some of these posters up. And I’ll round up a few chaps for the banner.’
He drained his cappuccino, leaving a milky moustache around his mouth. ‘That was grand. Thank you very much. Now I’ll just get my coat.’ He beamed at her, his face wreathed in wrinkles as his faded eyes twinkled. ‘Not often an old codger like me gets to escort a beautiful young lady.’
She had to turn away to hide the sudden sheen in her eyes. He really was rather sweet.
When she returned from a surprisingly brisk walk – George had twice the energy of most people half his age – it was very easy to slip back up to the studio and get some work done on her mice pictures, sneaking the occasional glance at her new painting. She was completely absorbed in inking in the colour of Cuthbert’s bright red fez, of which he was inordinately proud, when her mobile buzzed into life.
‘Hey, doll! How’s it hanging?’
‘Britta.’ Ella tried to hold her surprise in check. Britta had always been Patrick’s friend rather than hers.
‘So you’re still alive, then. Not atrophied yet.’
‘I’m just about managing.’ Ella tucked the phone under her ear. Giving Cuthbert a satisfied nod, she got up and wandered downstairs through to the kitchen where Tess dozed in the corner, one eye opening and shutting as if to double check she wasn’t missing anything.
‘With all that time on your hands I’d have thought you’d have rattled off another six of your little fluffy bunny books by now, babe.’
Ella frowned. She should be used to Britta’s casual dismissal but this time it stung. She stared out of the kitchen window, her attention caught by a flurry of activity on the green. There was George with a couple of other men, two of them unfurling the large banner, which he’d been very pleased with, and another banging in a big fence post.
‘I do put quite a lot of effort into them,’ she quietly rebuked.
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. So are you bored out of your brains? What on earth do you do all day?’
‘Well . . . ’ Actually, the days were flying past.
‘Want me to come and cheer you up?’
Ella almost dropped the phone.
‘What? You come here?’
‘No, babe,’ Britta drawled. ‘Send a hologram in my stead. Of course come there, you dumb broad. Everyone’s going to the Saatchi reopening and I didn’t get an invite.’
‘Didn’t get an invite?’ She frowned, realising she was paying too much attention to the activity outside. How many men did it take to put up a banner? Oh dear, yes, it needed a design overhaul. That shade of yellow was horrible.
‘Yes, me. Didn’t get an invite to the Saatchi gig. I always get invited to everything.’
‘Oh.’
‘I pissed off Giles, the curator of that dumb Noodle in a Field installation. For crying out loud, it was unadulterated A1 audience porn. Crowd-pleasing crap.’
Britta here in the cottage. Ella’s stomach clenched in sudden nerves. Was that a good idea?
‘A quick break will do me the power of good. I can fill you in on all the latest goss including the lowdown on Patrick. Much as I think you’re crazy burying yourself in the sticks, I think the treat him mean, keep him keen strategy is working.’
Ella’s lips twisted in wry disbelief. When she’d left London, she hadn’t had enough energy to plan a trip to the toilet, let alone a strategy. All she’d wanted to do was hide from view, lick her wounds and avoid having to do anything or make any decisions.
Tess opened both eyes, lifted her head and watched her with uncanny intensity, eyes zeroing in on her movements as if she was worried about Ella. It was funny how in tune the dog seemed to be with her, almost as if Tess could read her emotions. ‘It’s OK,’ Ella murmured in reassurance. The dog blinked owlishly, yawned and rested her head back on her front paws.
‘What?’ asked Britta.
‘Sorry, B, I was . . . I was thinking out loud.’ Britta would think she’d gone barking, talking to the dog or even thinking the dog understood her thoughts.
‘Yeah, I think he’s really missing you. Seems what they say about absence is paying off.’
‘Oh.’ Ella didn’t know what to say. ‘I’ve not heard from him.’
George was talking to someone else on the green now as he hung onto his end of the banner. Oh, hell, it was Devon. The heat of yesterday’s embarrassment flooded over her again.
‘Well, duh! Isn’t that the whole point of being on a break?’
‘What?’ She prayed Devon wouldn’t turn around and see her.
‘That’s the whole point, I said.’
‘Oh, yes, I guess so.’
Patrick wasn’t known for his patience but she had said she’d be in touch. She was surprised he’d managed to respect her wishes this long. Had he put Britta up to this?
‘Shit. I’ve . . . ’ Devon had suddenly materialised at the bottom of the front garden. He gave her a wave. Damn, she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t seen him. ‘I’ve just seen the time. I must go.’
‘Go! Go where? Don’t tell me you’ve got a hot date with a couple of cows, a few horses, a sheep and a pig.’
‘An . . . er . . . appointment. Dentist.’ That was it. ‘Toothache. Bad toothache.’
‘Off you pop, then. I’ll look up some trains. Let you know when I can make it.’
‘Right, fine.’ Typical B, to assume that Ella would have no other plans.
‘What’s the name of the station in this one-horse place you’re in?’
‘Tring is the nearest station.’ Ella was already in the hall, ready for the knock at the door.
‘Tring? OMG, seriously. Sounds horribly quaint. Do they still have steam trains? Will it take six years to get there?’
‘No, it’s a commuter line from Euston. Quite a lot of people round here work in London. You’ll be just fine. Believe it or not, they run pretty frequently.’ Ella didn’t understand why she needed to defend the place. ‘Look, I’m going to be late. Text me when you’re coming and I’ll pick you up. Gotta run.’
Tess stared balefully at her. Ella pulled a face. ‘So I’m a liar, sue me.’ With a decisive click, she switched the phone off, shaking her head.
In the meantime, she had to face Devon. What on earth did he want? She yanked open the front door.
As usual he had that ruddy healthy outdoors glow about him and his unruly hair was well and truly windblown.
‘Hi, I came to see if you were OK. I . . . er . . . felt a bit bad about leaving you yesterday. You seemed a bit . . . ’
She blushed, the tide of heat sweeping right down to her toes.
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ What else was there to say? She’d made a complete fool of herself.
‘I’m really sorry.’
She looked up at his sincere tone. ‘For what? It’s not like you pushed me in.’
‘Well, for not being more sympathetic.’ He shifted on the spot, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans.
She raised a candid eyebrow. ‘For laughing, you mean.’
‘Yeah. That.’ He did look rather contrite. ‘I shouldn’t have laughed. I wasn’t laughing at you, it was the situation, but it wasn’t very nice of me. You were clearly upset and I should have . . . ’ He shrugged helplessly.
It was quite endearing.
‘Should have . . . ?’
‘I don’t know. Been more . . . ?’ Again that little shrug. He was nothing if not honest.
Honesty won the day. In truth, perhaps she could have handed the whole situation with a little more dignity. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to block out the memory. It didn’t work. The words toddler, temper and tantrum all came to mind.
‘Apart from the laughing,’ she fixed him with a stern look, ‘there wasn’t much you could have done.’ She paused, took a deep breath and then said in a rush, ‘I didn’t give you a chance. I’m sorry, too. It was just so embarrassing. I took it out on you when you were trying to help, sort of, and thank you for cleaning up Tess, and feeding her and wiping up after her.’
The dimple in his left cheek gave him away. She’d seen it before when he was trying not to smile.
‘It was the least I could do. So no ill effects. No pond fever.’
‘Is that even a thing?’
‘Probably not,’ he said gravely.
She nodded.
‘Right then. I’ll be off.’
‘Right.’
They stood looking at each other.
‘Right,’ he said again. ‘Bye.’
For a moment she was almost tempted to offer him a drink. Just to say thank you.
He turned to go.
‘Bye.’
He turned back, the dimple loitering. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy going for another walk sometime? One that doesn’t require water wings. There’s a nice one up the Beacon, well away from any body of water.’
She smiled, she couldn’t help herself. ‘OK.’