The Artist
The only thing remarkable about that first evening was the sunset. She had been to that cinema, with those people, and walked up that hill many times before. It hadn't been such an impressive film, although she and her friends chatted about it excitedly as they walked up to the university for cheap drinks. It was a fairly ordinary Wednesday night. But that sunset! It was one of those gorgeous pale June evenings, before the summer had become stale and humid and you longed to see the plump blackberries and auburn leaves of September. The sun which had shone pleasantly all day had finally sunk beneath the trees, striping the ground with shadows and catching the small indigo clouds above, blushing them with pink and gold. The moon was already visible and hung about with some of the brighter stars in the rapidly fading blue, waiting for night. It lit her from the inside. Yes, this was the promised land, all right. This was what she had hoped for when she'd left home - the new friends, the new freedom, the new life. She smiled to herself as they struggled up the hill, past an old woman sitting with an easel, painting. She was a little tempted to go back and take a peek at the woman's work after they had passed. After all, it was the most incredible sunset. Why shouldn't somebody take the initiative and see if they could capture it on paper? She wished that she could paint. Maybe she should learn. It wasn't until they were at the bar that it occurred to her that the old woman had not been looking at the sunset, but at her.
There was nothing glorious or wonderful about the second time she saw the painter sitting with her easel. It was March, and she was walking down the hill in a filthy mood. She was late, and the rain made the pathway slippy, so she had to judge her speed carefully - fast enough to make up some lost time yet slow enough to stay upright. Strong winds caught her bag, heavy as it was, and tried to fling it from her shoulder. She cursed and struggled with it. She had already given up on an umbrella that morning, but bowed her head against the onslaught which messed up her hair and streaked her makeup. It was not as though there was anything to see, the trees were still dark skeletons against an unrelenting slate sky and there was nobody else about save a few seagulls who were braving the torrent to dance for worms. And the small, huddled figure sat next to the path. She stared as she walked past. The old woman watched back and painted furiously, holding a plastic sheet carefully over the easel. It took her a moment to recognise the old woman as the one she'd seen that summer evening two years before. She wanted to go back. She wanted to see if the woman really was painting her. And if she was, she wanted to know why. Why her? And why now, on such a miserable day? She wanted to go back. But she was late. Besides, she thought, as she watched the dank station pull away from her through the steamed up train window and brushed the knots from her soaking hair, if the old woman was painting her, she'd be sure to see her again some day.
It was another few years before that day came, and she was finally left in no doubt as to the nature of the mysterious artist. She was several hundred miles from the hill and her home, and standing in a car park in the snow. She watched the old woman painting her from the other side of the road quite calmly. There were more important things to be upset about now. She took a drag on her cigarette and pulled a face. She didn't know why she had bought them in the first place. She had used the excuse that she was stressed, but it had been years since she'd needed to smoke. Perhaps it reminded her of her teens, of simpler times, of her parents. Perhaps it was because her father had always disapproved of them and she wanted to get back at him one last time, get back at him for all of this. Perhaps she just needed to smell something other than tears. For whatever reason, she was determined to finish this one. She leaned against the low wall of the hospital car park and smoked and watched the old woman and thought about what the picture would be. A lone figure, dark clothed, crimson eyed, unmoving against the sea of white upon white upon white, out of place, out of time, made strange by the snow and the grief. She knew now that the painter could not be of this world. How could she have followed her hundreds of miles to be there at that moment, unless she was some kind of ghost, or angel? She still wondered why the painter had chosen her. But she didn't go over and ask. She had spoken to the dead quite enough for that day. She crunched the cigarette butt under her shoe. It sizzled in the snow and her foot slid on the ice underneath. She threw the rest of the packet away and went back inside.
She was not at all suprised to see the painter at her wedding, sitting over the road as she got into her wedding car. She was actually quite pleased. She wondered if this painting might be a commission for her Dad. She gave her a little wave. The old woman, unfazed, gave her a cheerful wave back. They smiled at each other for a moment before the car started up and drove off. She laughed to herself and shook her head. She finally understood. It didn't make a bit of sense but at least she understood.
"Oh, Nan!" exclaimed Rose, standing back in admiration, "they're
beautiful!"
"
I'm glad you like them," smiled her grandmother, "I couldn't
have done them without such a generous gift from my family."
Rose shrugged. "Time Passports aren't too expensive these days, Nan.
And you'll only turn eighty once in your life. I was just sorry we could
only stretch to the four."
"
It was plenty," replied her grandmother, "I wanted to paint
good times and bad, ordinary and strange. That makes four. Besides, I
was starting to recognise myself by the last one."
Rose went over to the first picture for a closer look. "But how?
I mean, back then nobody could have imagined you'd be able to buy tickets
to watch moments of the past... ever, let alone in your lifetime."
"
I was smart," answered her grandmother.
"
You were pretty, too" said Rose.
The old woman stroked the picture gently.
"
Not as pretty as that sunset," she replied.