Despite the Angels (42 page)

“So I’m ahead of you on this. Don’t rain on my parade. I’m going to enjoy it, starting with going to listen to her tell everyone about me,” Trynor jumped across the road and followed Lucy into the building.

“Best of luck, Trynor” said Jotin.

Lucy followed a hand-painted notice indicating ‘Art Therapy, two flights up, on your right’ and creaked up the old stairs. She mused for a moment on the changes these stairs must have seen since they were built in the reign of King George-whenever exactly that was. Must look it up, she thought. Live in a city built by the Georgians and don’t even know when they lived. Though I’m not as bad as that woman who wrote to the Irish Times once who seemed to think that Dublin was built by people from Georgia in the USSR. I hope she was joking.

Lucy was smiling to herself as she reached the first floor and entered the room labelled Art Therapy. A plump woman of about fifty bustled over to her.

“Come in, come in! You’re welcome to playtime. And you are?” she ran her finger down a list on her scruffy clipboard.

“Lucy Fitzger - No. Lucy Browne. You probably have my old name.”

“Good girl Lucy Browne. Welcome back. Stick with it kid.”

“I’ve a Lucy Fitzgerald here, is that you?”

“It was,” said Lucy. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. She’d just shocked herself to the core. What would Martin think?

“So I’ll change you to Browne, will I? With or without the E?”

“With, please,” said Lucy Browne. She stood looking through the woman and her clipboard, realising she had just taken a step to somewhere. The woman was talking again.  “So just pick your cushion in the circle, we’re waiting for two more, I think, then we’ll introduce ourselves.”

Lucy walked over to the circle and picked a large purple cushion beside a younger woman with dyed red hair and huge earrings. She sat down, crossed her legs and tried to quiet herself inside, taking breaths deep into her tummy as instructed by her yoga teacher.

“Hi, I’m Ciara. I’m really excited about this course, are you? I think it’s great to sort of get to the real you through painting, y’know?  I do a bit at home, but, like, I never seem to really reach myself, y’know? What d’you suppose got Miriam into this, doesn’t really look the type?” Lucy looked over at the woman with the clipboard.

“Is that her name? What should an art therapy teacher look like, I wonder?”

“Well, more interesting, I suppose? She looks kinda ordinary, don’t you think?”

“Yes, nice and ordinary.” Reassuring, thought Lucy. Not so individual as Ciara, anyway, imagine being able to wear flipflops in March.

“I’m ordinary, too. Lucy, by the way.”

“You can’t be too ordinary,” said Ciara “or you wouldn’t be here. The ordinary people are all learning Spanish, or beginner’s computing.”

Lucy laughed. Ciara was right, it was a bit unusual to give up your Saturday to paint just to find out who you were. Maybe the ordinary people know already, or maybe they’re all content with their lives and don’t care. Anyway, I’m obviously meant to be here, or I wouldn’t have got that space.

“I’m meant to be here,” said Lucy. Why had she said that? Wasn’t ordinary good enough?

“Sure, we all are,” said Ciara. “but how do you know?”

“Well, I stupidly came in the car and then I couldn’t find a space, but I went round the Green again and there were three cars just leaving and I got a space just opposite, so I reckon someone arranged for me to be here.”   Ciara nodded knowingly.

“Yes, your angel knows what’s best for you. It’ll be a great day for you, just wait and see.”

Trynor sighed. Jotin was right, he thought. I don’t think it matters whether Lucy is here or not. They’ve got the wrong end of the stick entirely.

“I only did it so that you’d realise you’ve got ‘an angel’, Lucy. So that you’d listen to me more and pay attention when you do hear me.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Ciara’s guide piped up. “This kid is the pits. Dear sweet well meaning thing, spends hours choosing crystals and wafting incense around - just as well I’m not allergic now like I was when I last had a body - but she never really listens. Just makes up her mind to the most romantic alternative and goes with it. I’ve struggled with packs of Tarot cards and tea leaves, I’ve enlisted help from the guides of suggestible fortune-tellers, but none of my real messages seem to get through. It’s exhausting sometimes, but you have to keep trying. At least your girl seems to stay quiet sometimes. Ciara never shuts up.”

“What do you need her to know?” asked Trynor. “Maybe Lucy and I can help.”

“I need her to stick at something. To stay in her job. She feels edgy and keeps moving to ‘something better’, but actually, if she could stay where she is for long enough, she’ll be noticed and trained for public relations work. She’s a natural, look how quickly she made your Lucy laugh, but she doesn’t know it yet. And she’s thinking of resigning this week.”

“So we need to stop her. That’s the hardest, isn’t it? Let me think about it.”

Miriam was ushering the final two participants to their places in the circle. She sat down herself and smiled brightly.

“Welcome, everybody, to the first day of this Art Therapy course. I’m Miriam Collins, and I’m a member of the Round the Corner centre for life enhancement.” She went on to describe her qualifications as an art therapist and then after asking each person to introduce themselves and say why they had come, she handed out sheets of paper and put big pots of coloured paint and large brushes at each place.

“Art therapy is not about painting beautiful pictures, but about unlocking something within ourselves and listening with new ears to our inner voice.”

“Sometimes that’s me, Lucy,” said Trynor.

“So now, choose a colour and paint an animal on your sheet. Don’t talk, this is in silence.”  Lucy chose brown and tried to produce a reindeer on her piece of paper. It looked nothing like one, more like a culinary accident, she thought.

“Now stop. Put your brush back. Now everyone stand up and move one place to their right. No, Peter, leave your paper- it’s not yours anymore.” There were squeals of protest and of mock embarrassment that private attempts were now public property.

“OK? Now, no talking, no telling what it’s meant to be. The art speaks for itself. Choose another colour and add something to the picture in front of you.”  Lucy looked at Ciara’s work. Probably a kangaroo, she thought, despite being blue. She chose green and started to paint a gum tree. Eight paintings and a lot of laughter later, she got back to her own deer, now nearly obliterated by everyone else’s additions and improvements.

“Who put a tree beside my dolphin?” said Ciara.

“Maybe it’s seaweed,” said Lucy, deciding not to confess. “It’s hard to tell what other people mean things to be, isn’t it?”

“It was a perfectly good dolphin,” said Ciara, “The right colour and everything.”

“Are dolphins blue? I thought they were black,” said Lucy.
Trynor whispered in her ear.
“It was moving on so fast that was the problem. It would have been easy to tell if you’d been there long enough to put a fish in with it. We didn’t have enough time to make it a proper picture. Look at my reindeer. I don’t know what Brendan thought it was.”

“So, anyone any thoughts about that?” asked Miriam.

“Everyone has hugely different eyes,” said Lucy a bit timidly, “they see what I didn’t paint.”

Everyone laughed. “Yes, if you want your picture to end up your picture, you’ve got to stick with it,” said someone, “this way, you lose control.”

“Same with life,” said another voice.

“If you had it just a little longer it might work,” said Lucy. “If I’d had time to put Santa in Brendan would have known what it was.”

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” asked Miriam “The pictures are all interesting.”

“But meaningless,” said Brendan, “I mean. It’s OK for a painting course, but you wouldn’t want to go on like that all the time, would you?”  Ciara was looking thoughtful. “Yea,” she said slowly “we really were rolling stones, weren’t we?”

“I think that’s enough,” said Ciara’s guide, “to be going on with, anyway. Thanks Trynor. Let me know if we can return the compliment.” 

At half five Lucy was crossing the road to her car with an armload of rolled paper and a lump of clay. Great to be parked so close, not to have to lug all my masterpieces and sculpture half way round town. She put them on the back seat and sat back into the driver’s seat, taking a moment out before heading out into the traffic. Well, Lucy Browne, pleased to meet you. Long time no see. Can I let you out more often, I wonder? Lucy Browne does fun things anyway, not like Lucy Fitzgerald. She just does the dull stuff. Like survive. Like earn the money for Lucy Browne to squander on courses. Not squander, why shouldn’t I do pointless stuff? It was fun and the visualisation was great, imagine Nelson Mandela giving me three oranges. But the painting of it is silly. Looks like a pawnbroker’s sign. Still, it means something to me, isn’t that what Miriam said was important?  Lucy started up the car and edged carefully out into the evening traffic. 

Lucy came out of the building society with a
small feeling of satisfaction. She was keeping up with the monthly repayments and had at last cleared the debt left by nearly a year of paying nothing when Martin had been doing the course. The manager had been really decent about it, allowing such a long gap with no threat of repossession. She walked back home slowly, not in any hurry to get there, trying to take pleasure in the soft autumn sunshine and the stiff breeze detaching the first brown leaves from the little trees in the front gardens. All the self-help books suggested finding pleasure in small things, making each day good, not worrying about the bigger picture. That was obviously the answer, everybody else must find it easier. Maybe I’m just an ungrateful wretch. Look at all I have, two great kids, bright and not ever sick. A husband. Maybe it’s not his fault everything has always gone wrong for him, he is trying. A house that I can nearly afford. A car.

“Oh, hello Brian.  How’s the garden?” Lucy walked a couple of paces into Br
ian’s garden and looked round. “Are you planting more bulbs? I wouldn’t have thought you needed to. Your daffodils were lovely in the spring.”

“Thanks,
Lucy.  They did well this year. I’m adding in some extra narcissi. Fancy ones, with double centres. And some crocuses. How’re things in your garden? Martin should plant those tulips I suggested, if he hasn’t already. Here, have a narcissus, he can put it in with the tulips,” Brian handed Lucy a bulb. “How is Martin keeping? Difficult times for a business, have to keep busy, I suppose. Don’t see him round much these days, always rushing off somewhere?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, “always busy.”

“Well, that’s good to see. A man has to get out in the big world, hunt the mammoth, bring it home to the cave.” He struck a pose. “Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!”

“That’s what they say,” said Lucy.

“Hear you’re keeping up the little job, too. That’s great, Lucy. Keep your hand in, don’t get rusty. Shame to see women wasting good qualifications. Lovely to see you getting to do good, helping people.”

“Yes” said Lucy “the pay is nice, too.”

“But in your situation, the money can’t be important. Surely it’s more for the interest of it?” Brian stuck his spade into the ground and leant back against his car, smiling at her.

Complacent bastard, thought Lucy.  The whole world works according t
o how it’s worked out for you. Your wife never had to go out to work. You probably wouldn’t let her, it would have made you look small. You didn’t have a difficult spouse to deal with. You didn’t have to walk the world in a foreign language, everyone was speaking the same settled family-values speak that you are. You got recognition for what you achieved. You didn’t have to smile sweetly and pretend it was Marie who made all your money, paid for your life. You got support from everyone. Dammit, you were a man with an at-home wife. Standard issue.  Nothing to explain. Just weed your bloody garden again and go in for tea. Oh shit.

Lucy looked at Brian.
She saw a nice, gentle, well-meaning man. He didn’t mean it to hurt. None of them meant anything to hurt so much. Maybe not even Martin, he just doesn’t ever think about anything outside himself. The World According To Martin, that’s what I’m living in. And this is a subsection, the world as seen through Brian’s eyes. Well, here goes, let’s introduce just one of them to the world as experienced by Lucy. I can’t be part of this lie any more.

“Well, not really, Brian,” s
aid Lucy, “the money is vital. I’m paying the mortgage, the bills, the school ‘voluntary contribution’ and extras and for the admittedly very small mammoth,” She raised the hand holding a supermarket bag. “So I don’t have much time to wonder whether I’m interested in my job, or helping anyone.  Just my kids.  Better go and cook the mammoth. Thank you for the bulb.” She smiled what she hoped was a hugely confident smile and set off up the road home, pretending not to notice Brian’s puzzled face.

It was a lie I was helping to propagate. I’ve been being dishonest to myself too, by doing it. But I wonder, will being honest make things work out any easier. Do I have the energy for honesty all the time? It’s easier just to go with the flow.