farewell to a friend

51º 10’ north

4º  40’ west

wind, sea, farewell to a friend

They walked the length of the island.

They walked south to north

...and...

They listened to the wind

Didn't talk much

Listened to the sound of their boots on the granite gravel

Listened to their boots on the close cropped grass

Lost in the world around them

Lost in the world within

There were sheep

Lots of sheep

There was wind

Lots of wind

The wind was fierce but not cold

Sheep and wind

And boots on the ground and each other

They were listening for the sound of her voice on the wind

Where was she they thought...

...’I have a yellow flower’, he said, ‘and a white one’, he said...

‘White's good, yellow's pretty, too tiny to last the whole walk’...

‘I have a black pebble’, she said, ‘slate, and a white one, granite, another flat black and a piece of terracotta, rounded by the wind and the rain and the countless sheep that walk one after the other, away from the wind...

She picked a sprig of heather and put it in her pocket.

The quarter wall was behind them, the ruins of the old cottages of men and women of the quarry still held against the wind, granite windows and hearths where once fires  danced and warmed, gate shut, a raven rose in front of them to rest on the wall, wind ruffled feathers, beautiful black , shimmer of purple in the sun, a bird with a huge beak, a mourning bird, a mourning bird for Sandra.

...Sandra who left her body to be free...

The track filled with water, brown, peaty water , healthy to drink but not with sheep’s pee in it...the half way wall behind them, gate shut, she found a feather and some wool, ignored the bracken, adored the bracken, golden brown and fading purple heather and the yellow of the gorse, granite rocks and the deep blue sea....’bracken’...on the edge of the wind...

‘I have a feather’, she said...

‘Feather is good’, he said

‘I found some wool’...

...she wants me to pick bracken, she loves bracken...

‘I have picked some bracken’, she said, ‘pretty, curly, furly, perhaps she loved the colour’...

The ruin of the old hospital eastward, stark against the blue sky, the sun is warm on their cheeks. Crows flap across their path, Souay sheep graze westward into the wind, raucous call of the crows, three of them and the song of the wind...

 Their feet are heavy and their walk is slow, steady, and soon the three quarter wall is behind them, gate shut, muddy path and wild goats grazing eastwards upwind, startled as they approach them and they jump like gazelles over the tussocks...magnificent horns...an old lookout on our right where someone lives, they are high up on the island and the end is in sight...a deer ahead, shy, it disappears fast. She feels the gifts for Sandra in her pocket, dry dust on her fingers...as nature had left them...as she had found them...the wind blew hard , sea and sky were one, but for the sun that painted stars upon the teal blue water, sky holding...endless...holding...they walked on pure granite and at the end in the lee of towering rocks they stopped on soft grass and found just the right place that felt good, a gateway in the cliffs...

...where the sky met the sea and the sea met the land and spayed white foam on black rocks...

 Sandra, she called very quiet, barely audible on the wind, Sandra...

‘I have a flower’, said he

And she cast it to the wind

They stood close, together, aware...alive...reaching out...

‘Wool for the warmth of your clothing’...

‘Yarrow’, she called into the roar of the sea and the wind, ‘Yarrow for all the pain you have suffered, heal, it's now forever gone’!

‘Flat black’, she called out, ‘for all that ever hurt you, for all that you endured.’

‘Terracotta for all earthly things and two pebbles I found, one in black and the other in white, the yin and the yang, the yes and the no, the no and the yes, the yang and the yin’, and she hurled them into the gate of the sun and the wind and the sea...

‘Bracken’, she called,’ for all your wishes’...

...and...

...she cast the purple heather to the wind, ‘for the quest to find your truth’!

...and...

She let the wind take the feather...’angels by your side’...

‘Thank you for sharing a part of your gentle spirit with me, thank you for sharing a part of your life's path with me...may sea and wind carry you into the arms of the goddess...

...and...

...they stood still a moment more and then they turned, close...and she noticed her foot was hurting and it was a long way back...

...they left a white rock on a standing stone...

...and...

...walked on...

...they didn't talk much...

...they listened to the sound of their boots on the granite gravel...

...they listened to their boots on the close cropped grass...

lost in the world around them

lost in the world within

...they walked north to south...

.

somewhere

Matilda Brown had always lived here.

The little terrace cottage suited her just fine.

Neighbours had come and gone over the years

...but not she...

...this is where she saw the first light of day when mum cradled her in her arms some sixty years ago and she felt no need to be anywhere but where she was...

...this is where she belonged...

Mum said: this is your home our Tilly, this is where you belong...

...and that is how it was...

...no need to go into the town even when she could get all she wanted in the village , no need to venture far, she had the knack for growing cabbages in the flower border along with leeks for spiky foliage and lettuce for soft edges, carrot tops for frondyness where it looked right. She was quite an artist in her garden, small as it was, and there was always a patch of sun to sit in to warm her bones.. when the sun would shine, that was...

...no need for anything other than what she had already...

...What with Roger and Maureen living next door, very interesting when they moved in after Ma Hockin was found in her bed, a little smile on her lips and eyes tightly closed and her house was sold. She could hear them sometimes through the wall when all was quiet everywhere. Night noises she could hear, snoring, moaning, Maureen did an awful lot of moaning, Matilda suspected nightmares, poor thing, and little screams as well and she was such a cheerful soul every time she saw her pegging out the wash and singing or when they bumped into each other in the post office and then walked home together.

Alf lived on the other side. Alf was an artist and he hadn't lived there very long.

'I could paint you,’ he suggested to her one day not so very long after he had parked his little Austin in front of his red door when he moved in, ‘or draw you.’

'I'd like that’ he said, ‘we could even go out if you like, have a cream tea...’

Out? Cream tea? He hadn't been here long enough to ask her out! The nerve of it, she thought out loud, the nerve of it! But she felt flattered all the same and all warm inside as her breasts expanded, still got it she thought...but then she pulled herself up very sharp, she could not be doing with that. Mum and Dad had long gone and she remembered mum's warnings to her to this day: don't let any boy kiss you Tilly my lover or you might...you know...get in the family way...whatever she meant by that and she could not forget the look that went along with that statement, or the nod, emphatic, only one nod...couldn't do that, no, no boys for her and no kisses, no touching or nothing, no, nothing like that.

Across the road a young couple moved in, never drew the curtains, they, and she could watch when her lights were out and see inside, a lot went on that she could see...no need to go away, her street was exciting enough for her... but she wondered what it was like to have her bottom stroked and him kissing her throat to her breasts...

Alf might not only want to draw her, she thought...no, no, it wasn't safe, a cream tea was all very well and a very nice thought, but what could it lead to! Unmentionable, that, she’d seen it on the telly and it was NOT for her! Kisses weren't allowed, mum had said so, kisses weren't safe, mum knew that and had told her. She was far too good for that...

Alf could take her for a drive, he said, Tarr Steps had a little place for a cream tea in the sunshine and then a walk through the woods by the river, listen to the chatter of the rushing water, the whispering of the trees, watch for the purple hairstreak butterflies....so rare and one of the only places in all of England is where they were, right here, right on their doorstep...and then a little sit down on the soft moss among the bluebells, share a box of Roses, did she like the pink ones? Strawberry...

...Bluebells? Chocolates? Soft moss? All very well and a very nice thought, but what could it lead to! Mum, what could it lead to!

Tilly Brown had other things to think about she told herself...she was a crone by now and her beauty had faded, though her skin was still soft, smooth and her hair still a crown of gold even if it was streaked with a little silver by now. Alfie said he liked it that way, it made her very interesting, very attractive, if she knew what he meant...

...knew what he meant? She knew alright but she never thought about it and what had her streaks to do with him! Nothing, mum would have said...nothing!

‘I must paint you Matilda,’ Alf urged, ‘before the gold turns to white. I must draw you...and then he took to giving her flowers. He picked daisies, hawthorn blossoms, sometimes a wild daffodil, the first bold burst of yellow of the spring ‘We must go out,’ he said, ‘go for a drive, Tarr Steps for a cream tea, you'll love it Tilly, we both will love it, COME ON Tilly, he tempted...

...’no no,’ she said, ‘where will it lead to? What if there's a mist rising and we can't find the way home? What then Alfie dear?’...

...nothing, dear Tilly, well just park and we'll sit close hugged together till the mist  clears and then we drive home.’...

...’and what will Maureen say if she hears us this late? And what of Roger Alfie? What will they think? What will they say? Maureen does not sleep at night Alf, I can't do it to her...she moans in her sleep Alf and Roger is a noisy sleeper too...mum would have said that I must not do it dear Alf. Mum would have told me to stay put in my house and not go for a drive and not be drawn or be painted. Mum would have said no bluebells for you and no moss, no tea or misty hugs or sitting close...mum knew about these things...

I'm happy as I am, I am, she thought,

I'm happy in my little cottage...

...and...

...it suits me just fine...

...and...

...I don't need to go anywhere else at all...

...everything I want is right here in the post office...

...but...

..when she hears the sound of Alfie humming a tune as he works at his easel there is a change in her that is quite new, her body churning and she wants to stand close to him, like the girl across the road, tight against him, feel his hands and taste his kisses...but Mum would have said...mum would have said...to hell with what you would have said mum thought Tilly Brown, defiant, I'll go for that drive to Tarr Steps and see the butterflies and hope that the mist comes down!

...and like a glorious sunrise bursting through the dawn her joy rose  in her body, her love for him, her longing and desire, and she ran into the garden to reach out to him at last and she called out his name...Alfie!

...’Alfie!’, she called out to him over the fence, ‘let us go for that ride! Let us have tea and some scones and raspberry jam and clotted cream on the top, let us walk and listen to the riverchatter, feel the soft moss Alfie, with bare feet and watch for the butterflies!...Alfie!’, she called...

...but...

there was no answer from him,

he joy was lost in hollow silence

...and...

the silence embraced her...

...his little car was gone...

...on her doorstep she found a painting...

...a beautiful woman,

smiling...

...and...

...pale,

her eyes closed,

sitting on the soft green moss,

in the bluebell wood by the river,

alone

in a patch of golden sun,

with her crown of hair in silver...

.

...madame...

...she stood out in the crowd...

...slender and tall, straight and still...sure of herself...complete in all that she was...in all she thought herself to be...is when they met and fell in love...

...life was lived, unfolded in joys and in sadness as peoples’ lives do...

                                                            

...it wasn’t that she’d not been happy, she had...

...it wasn’t that her life had not been an easy one, it had...

but

...her life began late, very late...

..she was never married ...not really married, but she bore him five children and she did love them all...Henri, the first, named after his Papa to bond and to show how much she loved them, then came Michelle and Claude and Benoit, the blessed one,  and last  came little Aude who was old and wise the moment she looked straight at you, even as a tiny infant...the special one who knew all...no need to speak and she never spoke...

...a woman before her time, is what they said about madame and for the sake of the young ones she was known as madame Matisse, ...she did love him dearly, of course she did but being a mistress was hard ... not so uncommon to be someone’s paramour in the south of France...which was always a comfort...

...it wasn’t that her life wasn’t right, it was...

but

...it didn’t always feel right in spite of les enfants, it often seemed hollow somehow, there was always something missing and although it did not matter to her at the start, it nagged when they were growing up  and she began to seek out solitude,  an oasis of peace when he had gone to meet up with his friends at le Café  Max, drinking vin rouge, reading poetry and playing chess...

and

...that was the time she would get out her paints and her brushes, small bits of paper and card she had saved to paint on...she painted in bits so he would not know it but he did always tell her that he was not unaware...in spite of the lavender she had sprayed to lessen the smell of the turps...

I know it , you show what you did, he would say, triumphant his smile and glittering eyes which were usually so gentle...too much lavender, see? And I can still smell the turps! Let me see what you did and she showed him, caught, guilty before him and he dismissed her scrap of card or the paper still wet with the paint with a wave of his hand...he had writing to do and illustrate the new book for all to look at and perhaps to read...

 Ah, just a scrap, is what it is he said, you paint scrap madame. Why is it you do that still? We had agreed that I was the only painter around here, that was the contract , remember the contract! Your place is with les enfants and in the kitchen and not over scraps! 

‘I do not distinguish between the construction of a book and that of a painting,’ he had told her often enough,’ I always proceed from the complex to the simple,’ is what he said...

...she nodded agreement, it was so irrelevant to her when she needed a hug rather than a lecture again...

 and

...for the sake of his fragile ego she nodded and for the sake of peace...

...she proceeded from the complex to the simple...

But he was not really threatened by her daubs, to him they were quite meaningless, scraps with red squares and green, blue circles and yellow, useless daubing, she just wanted to smell the paint and the turps and remember that she was once of some worth... She became the butt of  many a joke among his circle of friends...madame Matisse,  la peintre du ferraille... the scrap painter...

...she packed the scaps away in an old leather trunk left to her by maman  for her precious things, she laid them one on top of the other with great care when they had dried, like treasures, jewels, hers to look at when the days were long and she needed solace...the comfort of  the order of the colours in her mind and the knowledge of having dared to put them there...

                                                            

...it’s after he died that she began at last to live...

...after he died she packed up her things and his easels and brushes and she moved them to paint in the clear light of the Atlantic in the north of the county of Devon where the land was wild and the sea and the moors called her to paint and to draw. Her stone cottage on the edge of the cliffs was a tiny fortress and the walls kept her safe from the winds and the storms...she began to lose herself in dreamtime and understanding again the sense of time and timelessness...she took the time to BE and she was and she did. She painted and she sang, she worked to recapture all the lost years, she was the wind and the gulls, the deer on the heather...she remembered the life she had had in Nice with her man and her children who had all left to build lives of their own...Aud had left too soon... as angels do...a great sadness for her...

...it’s not that he had not loved her, he had, of course, he had painted her often enough but had delighted in the charms of  Madame la femme,  as age weakened his life and his sight and his breath grew shallow...

...the invitation lay there for all to see and she knew that she would go to the big city, she wanted to be a part of it all, making up for time lost, opportunities gone in her younger days...

...she loved the buzz, she loved the attention and dressed in slate silks and her nipples still pointed high...tres gentile, and she knew it, not bad, she thought, for 85 as she sensed her host losing himself in the shape of her tiny breasts as they talked...

...‘fascinating’, is what he said...

‘what would you call it’? ...

...stands out on its own, never seen any the like, must get the prize, the best piece of all in the show, amazing, original, wonderful, is what they mouthed with Paloma red lips as they passed , armed with bubbles in glasses, trailing chiffon and feathers,  wafts of scent as they floated away, leaning just lightly on black suited arms with black shirts and no collars....smart, oh, so smart, so light and so happy, so her and so, so deserving of it! She loved it, all...but so glad to get home to the wild of the moors and the sea in the end...

...she stood out in the crowd...

...slender and tall, straight  and still...

..she wore a Dior silk turban to match, adorned with a lavender sprig from her garden...

...the biggest painting of them all, a very fine work,  a collage of  colourful scraps, the purest lines, colour in splendour... and they proclaimed her the first woman cubist painter in the land,  without doubt a woman of her day, the woman of the moment and she was magnificent as she stood there, smiling in her slate silks in front of a wall of explosion of colour...her picture of a lady that everyone loved ..    

                                             

                                                             ...madame Matisse...

Red

..it wasn’t meant to be a problem but right now it was.

..it wasn’t too much of a problem

and

it could be solved quite easily.

I only had to make up my mind as to what I wanted...

..which one was just right...

..the one for me..

..which colour red...

..simple!

..there were just so many..

..vermillion and crimson..magenta..reds into orange. purply reds or bluey reds..sparkly..glossy...tasty reds...yummy sweet grapes with black pepper, strawberry and cherrybrandy...mocha...double chocolate and champagne delight...see the problem? So many to choose from and I could not have them all! Just one, one only and that was the problem today...

The camisole was pretty, knickers that matched with just the right amount of satin and lace...just have to make up my mind about the colour, which red did I want and not the black....passe that was now, old hat, no, not black, red’s what I want...quite lovely these were, soft in my hands...feel good, on top of the world stuff, stuff to impress...mind blowing, gorgeous! Can’t wait to get it all on! It will turn my own head! Turn my own head!

Black’s boring now and not really sexy anymore, been overdone for years, black. I’m all blacked out and I don’t want the pink, don’t want the puple or the frosted mint, no, red’s what I want, what I’ll go for today...

...and...

it’s reduced in the sale...

...half price...

...and...

...very, very naughty, the scarlet, just what I need. Yes, I’ll get this for the naughtiness! So bright, so bad, so bad, bad, bad! Scarlet woman stuff! I’ll be a scarlet woman for the day...

..and..

I’ll get the fishnets too!

..and..

here I am,  now on my way home with my shiny little bag of plain French navy  and no one knows what’s in it!! Not one soul could guess the naughtiness factor! Not one!

Just the lippie to buy.

I’ll get scarlet to match, Paloma Picasso’s the one I must have, glossy and moist and quite luscious...plumps up the lips and in a lovely gold case...lippy to die for...for me!

New lashes for eyes, smokey grey for the lids but there’s no hurry for that, it’s the lipstick I want, in the red of all reds...

...and..

then I am home

unpack my bag

reverent,

slow

and

lay it all out on the bed

like a treasure

..oh joy upon joy, purest luxury thisl! And a perfume to set it all off! Malabah, I choose, by Penhaligon, the luscious, evocative experience from their scent library in Bond Street, no less...

He looked in the mirror

He lifted the golden case to his lips...

...Paloma’s kiss...

...he mouthed to the mirror...

..and..

..he liked what he saw

..and..

... stroked his beard...

..perfect, he said...

.