1

‘This is the book I wanted you to have.’ Tommy pushed strands of brown hair away from his forehead. ‘This is what I wanted to show you.’

‘Wow.’ She threw the gold wrapping aside.

‘You only get one sixteenth birthday.’ He was tall, always wore jeans in the studio, tight fitting round the waist but widely flared at the ankles. His dark green shirt with rounded collar had smudges of paint across the front. ‘I signed it, look — ’ He flipped open the front and she could just make out his scrawl: ‘To Daphne from Tommy. Enjoy. My best student. And paint loads more. June 73.’

‘Indian Art. It’s wonderful, Tommy.’

Daphne watched his grey eyes as he enthusiastically flicked through. He was more of a friend than someone her father had selected to teach her how to paint; he had talents she wanted for herself.

His little studio was a rickety conservatory which he constantly apologised about, saying when he sold more work he would get somewhere much more flashy. Sitting together on the divan with worn purple covering near a couple of easels, they laughed about him becoming famous and he joked about being too old. A small table was overflowing with brushes, tubes of paint, pallets and bottles of Turps. The abstract shapes of used paint on old pallets fascinated her — how the colours had come together randomly to form images to explore.

‘You’re only in your thirties,’ she said and he laughed louder. ‘It’s still young enough.’ She had on her new blue flower patterned skirt and cream coloured cotton top.

‘Even you think I’m ancient, Daph.’ He was still laughing, his grey eyes searching her face. His nose was long and straight and his shoulder length light brown hair hung in straggly waves. His smile seemed genuine to her, lit up his eyes, and it was that that drew her to him. ‘But it’s this, look at this.’ He took the book gently from her and flicked the pages. ‘This—’ He opened out a page to reveal a photograph of a wall painting of two Indian women. ‘Indian princesses. Just look at their eyes, so sensuously done.’

Each was adorned with gold necklaces, intricate tiaras with diamonds and pearls, and lotus flowers seemed to flutter round the younger one like butterflies. They had been posed naturally, both with hair tightly wound in a bun with flowers at the back of the head. The woman to the left, who seemed to Daphne to be the younger, was staring over to the right passed her sister who was looking downwards coyly, her breasts uncovered.

‘But the eyes don’t follow you as you move around.’ Daphne was excited. ‘They are both looking outwardly,’ she paused, ’but strangely, mysteriously, looking inwardly as well.’

‘Yes, you’ve got it,’ he said, ‘you’ve seen the melancholy in the elder girl’s expression.’

‘Is it melancholy? Or is she looking down respectfully, with a kind of reverence or something.’

‘Or doesn’t she really fancy that prince that’s lined up for her.’

They laughed.

‘There’s more to it than that though,’ she said, studying them. ‘Their eyes do tell a story. They have seen a lot and know many things. Things they cannot talk about — not in their society anyway.’

‘That’s what I like about you, you see art how it should be seen. This is Ajanta, Daph. We’ve got to go. The only known Buddhist cave paintings, before they got into sculpture big time. Some of the caves were temples, others monasteries. It says look, they were created over a long period: around 200 BC to 650 AD. Can you imagine them preparing the surface with a thick layer of clay and then a lime coating. Then painting in fresco on the wet surface. Aren’t they just, I mean — the images of animals and plants on the ceilings. And there, the images of the Buddha, youthful and slim, with fantastic head dresses. They used a limited pallet: red and yellow from ochres; green from volcanic rocks; white was kaolin or gypsum based; lapis lazuli blue from central Asia. And lamp-black. How they could make such beautiful images. Not just of stories of the young Buddha, but pictures of the courts of the time. The two princesses: the detail, the gold earrings, bracelets, anklets—’

‘That’s how we want to paint, isn’t it?’ She laughed looking in his eyes a moment. ‘Can we go there? Can we see it? Together?’

He quietened, letting a finger slide through the hair hanging over her cheek and drew it back. ‘That little nose of yours. Those large meaningful pupils of yours, dark brown to almost black — just like the young princesses. Perfectly aligned eyebrows. Silky light brown hair, almost blond. That’s why I wanted to paint you. Yes, that was it. Like the younger princess in the photo.’

She liked the gentle way he played with her hair. She was growing to know life, to know her body and its attractions to him; he already knew the world and could take her places and she was glad.

‘I’m nothing like them,’ she laughed. ‘I can’t compare to them.’

He leaned closer to her. ‘What I see in you is as special as those princesses.’ He brought her chin to him with a delicate touch and pecked her lips.

Trembling, she fell away chattering. ‘This is the inside of the temple?’

‘Buddhist temples cut in caves in the cliff face along a river.’

‘Look at this figure.’ She was confused, pushing back a longing for him and frightened and embarrassed by it. ‘At the back, as though she is actually part of the tree.’ A young woman with full breasts had coiled her left leg and left arm around a sturdy sapling, while her right hand reached overhead holding a branch. Her long black hair hung in a single braid below her waist and she wore a wide gold necklace and strips of bangles above her wrists and her ankles. Like the princesses, she gazed aside, although to Daphne she appeared more deliberately sensual than them. ‘It’s like she reminds me of somebody. Like—’

‘Beautiful,’ he almost whispered now. ‘Like you. Maybe.’ He laughed then. ‘A past life.’ She watched him without smiling. ‘You were a courtesan in the court of a great king, a Raja,’ he went on, gesticulating, ‘or you were a model for a painter so he could make a depiction on the wall.’ He paused deliberately. ‘Perhaps you were his lover.’

‘You—’ she pushed him playfully, keeping her eyes on the young woman caught erotically around the tree with a faint alluring smile. ‘She’s got a smile like the Mona Lisa. You know, the high cheek bones. I’m sure I’ve seen her before.’

‘And you know, like the smile of Hendrickje Stoffels in Rembrandt’s A Woman Bathing. Yes, just like that. It’s in the National, I will take you. It’s a place we can always meet, by the woman bathing.’ Tommy drew her into a kiss, pressing his tongue inside her mouth. She leaned back slightly, taking him in, enjoying the sensation. An artist, he would be in demand from many women, but he wanted her and she was ready to go further.

The muffled sounds of children’s laughter and yells echoed through the place, followed by the richer tones of a female voice.

He ended the kiss abruptly and she was shocked by the break, trying to control her emotions, wanting more. Looking down at the picture she wondered whether the young woman would leap from the tree and sing and dance. Or, would she bring a warning of some kind? She was a ghost, this figure on the tree, some sort of painted ghost.

‘Jenny’s home with the kids,’ he smiled as though nothing had happened. ‘Lesson is over—’

 

*****

 

The long divan they made love on was covered in a purple fabric dominated by rich paisley patterns that swirled like constellations. He showed her moves, made her shine, but first he would arrange her naked in pose, paint until he could not resist touch, then he would come to her slowly, embracing her and kissing her face, her neck, her breasts, her body and as she gasped for him, he came to her, flowing into her and through her. So she rode on in wave after wave, finding herself rising to a plateau of completion, and yelling and gasping, and laughing with the joy of it.

‘We can run together,’ he told her as they lay close under a blanket. Their easels stood ahead of them, their tripod legs spread so they appeared like strangers watching them. ‘Off to the south of France. See Arles where Van Gogh painted, and Collioure where Matisse went while the First World War raged—’

‘But India, the painted ghosts—‘ Daphne stroked his cheek. ‘Like in the book. Those strange and beautiful men and women, the gods. It’s so different from anything we know in the west.’

‘Painted Ghosts.’ He turned the expression over. ‘I like that.’

She watched his lips as he mouthed the words, his chin rising and falling, questioning to herself whether he would leave his wife and daughters.

‘We’ll run, Daphne.’ He seemed not to notice the worries in her expression. ‘We won’t take anything. We can buy paints and canvases wherever we go.’

‘Run, run,’ she laughed. ‘Run, and run, and run—’

‘Yes—‘

The world would open out for her, she would paint and draw with him and travel. She would meet her ghosts and pay homage. One day she would paint like the ancient craftsmen at Ajanta over a millennium and a half ago, she would have skills others would covet. She would learn and so would become known and valued. Tommy would guide her.

‘Enjoy this moment,’ Tommy told her. ‘Enjoy every sensation. We can be whoever we want to be.’

She laughed. They kissed. In him, his body and mind, she had everything. She laughed again.

‘You should be grateful to your father,’ he laughed with her. ‘He sent you to me. He thinks he’s a good painter, but he’s not that special you know.’

‘He is.’ Riled, she pulled the blanket to her chin. ‘I know all his work: landscapes and figures. He’s famous for his Life studies — and he’s starting to sell some. He tells my mum he’s going to make it. My mum’s aunt left her a lot of money so she lets him get on with it while they can afford it. And she says she’ll carry on working in the office until he’s got there. There’s no need to be jealous of him—’

Tommy ignored her challenge. ‘Why doesn’t he teach you himself?’

‘He’s busy, he hasn’t got the time,’ she defended him. ‘Anyway, he knows you’re a good painter and you’re a teacher. He’s got no patience, he would be shouting at me all the time.’

‘Or maybe you’d get in the way of all his glamorous models.’ Tommy leaned back and she loathed his arrogant manner. ‘There’s lots of things you don’t know about your sweet daddy. Are you spoiled by him? Is he the bestest daddy in the world?’ He smirked at her, his breath on her cheek.

‘Stop it, you.’

‘It gets around, you know.’

She was aware again of the easels around them. Beyond, the little table overflowed with paints and pots.

‘I don’t think you’re so innocent as you look, Daphne. You surely can’t be completely ignorant of what your sweet daddy gets up to with his models.’

‘Like you?’ She poked his nose. She defended her father because she thought she had to but they weren’t close. He was a figure who appeared at meal times, talked incessantly about his achievements, showing little interest in her art, and when cornered by her mum turned on the charm.

‘He’s not as good as you,’ he said.

‘What on canvas, or in bed?’ Laughing nervously, she hid her feelings of anger and confusion as she tried to work out why Tommy was attacking her father.

‘Now you’re being sordid,’ he laughed.

‘How do you know all this anyway?’

‘Samantha told me.’

‘She’s one of yours, is she?’ she said, still on edge.

‘Daphne. Now you’re showing your age. It’s all round the local Arts Society, everyone knows.’

‘Samantha comes round here and takes her clothes off for you, and you tell me I’m special?’

‘I’ve told you, we’ll run.’ He smiled. ‘That makes you very special indeed.’ He paused, took up a packet of cigarettes, eased one out and lit it. ‘But your daddy is a very naughty man—’

‘And you’re different?’ She concluded it was a clash of male egos.

‘My wife and I don’t see eye to eye. Never did really. We met too young and bang, suddenly you’ve got a kid. It’s not like I’m cheating on her, like your dad’s cheating on your mum. I’m going to be honest, tell Jenny we’re together, and off we go—’

‘You make it sound like she won’t mind.’

‘She knows it’s over. We just don’t connect anymore. For your dad, it’s different, he’s not going to give up your mum — not with that big inheritance — he depends on her.’

She played out a scene at home, mum doing everything for dad. He painted and did nothing else and Daphne wondered whether her mother had the strength to stand up to him. Daphne had not made a secret of that to Tommy. But she felt the conflict of loving a father with flaws.

The unfinished painting Tommy had done of her was sketchy, but accurate. She liked how he had used white to make the outlines blurred and misty, and to mellow the harsh tones to pastel pinks and blues and greens. It made her shiver to reflect on his talent, and how much she loved him.

When she got back home from college several days later Daphne’s mum and dad were sitting at the kitchen table looking up at her silently.

‘Sit down, Daphne.’ Her mother gestured. A tall woman with her hair in short curls, her skin was always pale, as though she never went outside. Daphne often tried to get her to put on more make up, to rouge her cheeks, make herself less ghost-like.

‘What’s happened? Has somebody died?’

Her father sat motionless, his shoulders hunched. Today he did not seem to have that sparkle about him that charmed her. Whereas her mother sat upright, her body stiff, his shoulders slouched forward. She wore tight fitting blouses and skirts to the office; he had on jeans and a paint-flecked T-shirt.

Daphne had often wondered how such opposites had come together. And beyond that, how they had rubbed their bodies together and created her. Perhaps they had only ever done it once.

Perhaps too, what Tommy had said about her dad was right, that he could find nothing in Daphne’s mother’s arms, and looked for love and acceptance in other places.

‘No, don’t be silly now,’ mum continued. ‘This is good news. Your father is starting up a business.’

‘But he’s an artist, and he’s getting a name.’ Daphne looked at her father expecting him to resist her mother, but as she stared at him he turned his eyes away. Daphne had a sinking feeling of sadness filled with anger. She knew the artist in her father, felt the meaning of every brushstroke he made. They were the same. She took in the contrasting body language of both. Then she looked at her mother. It was obvious to Daphne now: her mum had found out about his affairs with models. That was it.

‘Tell her, Arnold.’ Mum tapped the table impatiently. He would not look up. She was distant and unknown to Daphne, her façade solid and impenetrable; you had to work out what she thought and felt, and the sound her words made was sometimes hard and brittle. ‘Dad and I have decided it would be better and more financially viable to run a shop selling art materials. You know I’ve had this dream for ages, Daphne and I’ve been looking into it. There’s lots of opportunities in the High Street — I’ve found an empty shop that’s just right. Behind the scenes I’ve had help and advice and looked at the viability. Now that my mum and dad have gone and I have some money to invest, it makes sense and will be better all round.’

Daphne was speechless for a moment, looking to her father for a response, but he showed no emotion and said nothing. ‘You can’t give up now, dad.’

Mum cut in, ‘Once one shop is successful we can open more.’

‘You can’t sell dad out, not now.’ Daphne found herself screeching, but he kept looking down.

‘My money will not last forever, Daphne. Your father can’t live on one painting sold a month, we need something else. I’ll keep on at the office until things are up and running. We’ll see how well it all goes, then think of broadening the business. Tell her the rest, Arnold. Arnold—’

Her father brought his hands together and rubbed them a little. He always had cold hands, had to warm them over a candle or even the gas ring in the mornings to get them going ready for painting. ‘For me to open and run a business and concentrate on a bit of landscape painting on the side — which we can sell there, I’m going to need some help.’

Daphne let the words sink in for a moment. ‘I’m going to be an artist, dad. You always said.’

Her mother faced her again. ‘You are going to be needed in the business and running the shop. There’ll be time after work for you to dabble—’

‘Dabble? I have to give up because of him?’ Daphne left the question rhetorical as she glared at her father.

‘Tell her the rest Arnold. And mean it.’ Daphne’s mother said with quiet urgency.

‘You have to give up lessons—‘ he started, and for a long moment she felt her own grief at the coming loss, followed by pity for her father and anger at his weakness.

‘You can’t make me.’

‘You can’t go back to him, Daphne,’ her dad said.

‘You’ve got no conviction,’ her mother scoffed at her father. ‘None at all. You two were always as thick as thieves.’ Mum drew breath. ‘You think, Daphne, I don’t know what goes on. Tommy’s wife Jenny has just joined my office. She knows all about what you artists get up to when you’re not painting masterpieces. You can forget ideas of running away with your fancy man. You’re a business woman now.’

‘You can’t stop me.’

‘I already have. Your father and your uncle went round to warn him off. And you know what he said, the cheeky bugger. How much was it worth? He’d stay away for cash. That’s what you were worth to him, Daphne. No galavanting in the south of France, he’d rather have the money.’

‘He wouldn’t do that.’ Daphne stood up and stormed out.

‘Grow up, Daphne,’ her mother called after her.