Paddington to Penzance, five hours, twenty-seven minutes. A lot of time to think. Too much. Thoughts churning round and round. Whatever her intentions, Kate had come within – what? – an inch, an hour of taking her own life. And why? Because she was depressed? Because she’d been out of her head on booze and worse? Because of – what had she called it? – a thing? Because a thing with a man she’d become involved with, a relationship, had gone wrong.
Relationships end. You know that better than me. You and Mum.
He walked down to the buffet car and bought two minibar-sized bottles of whisky, drank one there, two swallows, the burning at the back of his throat, took the other to his seat. At first the Wi-Fi wasn’t working and then it was.
The Wikipedia page for Anthony Winter was nicely succinct. British artist, born March 1966, Salisbury, Wilts. Best known initially as a painter of urban landscapes and, latterly, portraits, his work often mixes figuration with symbolism, ultra-realism with elements of the surreal. He studied at the Slade School of Fine Art (1984–87), briefly at Goldsmiths College (1987–88) and at the Royal College of Art (1988–90). After taking part in several group shows, including one in the British Pavilion at the Venice Biennale (1998), his first solo exhibition was at Abernathy Fine Art in 1999. Solo exhibitions since then include the National Gallery of Scotland (2004), the Museum Brandhorst in Munich (2009), the Irish Museum of Modern Art (2011) and the Serpentine Gallery (2015).
His marriage to the painter Susannah Fielding (b. 1969, Beccles, Suffolk) ended in divorce. They have one son, Matthew (b. 1992) and a daughter, Melissa (b. 1994).
His photograph showed a strong face, a quite prominent, chiselled nose; the mouth set, the barest suggestion of a smile; blue eyes, dark blue, unfettered and clear. The head close-shaven and smooth. Nothing to suggest, as he stared back into the camera’s lens, anything less than absolute confidence, self-belief.
No big deal.
Elder could picture him, picture the scene.
No big deal, Kate, okay? And smiling. Even as he turned away. Job done. No big deal.
Not for him anyway. But it was for me.
Kate’s words became lost in the broken rhythm of the train. Bristol Temple Meads. Exeter St Davids. By the lock gates of a canal, a heron stared down into the water with perfect concentration. Glimpsed then gone.
Dad, it’s what happens.
Is it? Did it have to be? And was there nothing he could do?
He finished the second whisky, closed his eyes.