The Artist’s Wife
A story from the viewpoint of a child’s memory (Only Julie Andrews and the coat are fact.)
It was the coat that stood out and set her apart. And her hair, red and wild, gathered up in a voluminous bun with curly fronds always escaping and blowing away from her face as she rode through the village. She had a black, heavy framed bicycle with a square wicker basket in front, and a child seat on the back, always empty. Though they had children, the artist and his wife, small children, none yet at the village school like me, and hardly ever seen in the village.
Their house stood alone, across a field. Rented out by the Catholic Church, which also hovered on the outskirts, not quite belonging. It saw a procession of tenants who came and went unknown. A big red house, in need of care, the garden overgrown with wild fronds escaping from captivity like the hair of the artist’s wife.
Our local buses were bright green, not green like the coat of the artist’s wife; that was Loden Green my mother said. With its long sweeping skirt I wondered that it never caught in the chain of her bike, but I took a sly look and there were no black oily marks. It was old, even I could see that, and it had a nipped in waist and a big shawl collar; not at all like the clothes my mother and her friends wore. But I knew there was something not right about it. To me she looked like some beautiful wild princess escaped from her tower, but the women’s eyes narrowed and their lips pursed when they saw her in the street. Something definitely not right. In their book.
Yes, Matthews’s buses were always green. They had those narrow fronts, like snouts, and curved roofs, and a cream stripe down the side We were in the biggest and smartest of them all that day for the annual trip to Birmingham, to the pantomime. It was going to be Cinderella with Julie Andrews, who was already a star and she was only the same age as my sister. I was looking forward to it. She was wonderful, Julie, that is, definitely not my sister.
I sat on my own. My sister and brother went off giggling together to the back. That was the usual way of it then. Those two off on their own, and me by myself, on a short rein, with my mother and father sitting in the seat across the aisle. We were settling in, noisy talk, people calling across to each other, sounds of rummaging in bags starting on the sweets, unwrapping the Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. Did I see her first, running toward us? The bus was ready to go, but she stopped in its path, holding up her arms and then jumped on board.
Silence. The startled driver started to explain. “This is a special bus missus, we’re going to the Panto, you have to book. Have you booked? Have you got a valid ticket?” The bus was so quiet, but I didn’t catch anything of what she said. She was gasping, out of breath from her hurry and there was something more in her voice, even I could tell that. Was she crying? Now I know, but then I just saw her wild and breathless, her hair all over the place. It spoiled my princess image and I didn’t like it. It made me uneasy. It made everyone uneasy. The driver wanted to get going, and agreed to letting her stay on to the nearest town. There was a railway station there, he said, she could get a train there. Why didn’t she have a suitcase?
Everyone was staring at her, just staring. She made her way up the aisle, stumbling, not knowing where she was going. My father, my dear father, stood up and gently sat her down in his seat, then came and sat by me. I was glad he had done that, helped her, my princess.
The bus started to move, but another figure ran into its path. It was the artist. He was just in his shirt sleeves, in December, in the freezing cold. He was calling out and trying to raise his arms. I stood up to see and pulled myself up as high as I could till the backs of my legs hurt. He was standing in the road, calling out, and when he did raise his arms there was red on his shirt, a big red patch. He hadn’t been painting. It wasn’t paint. It was spreading bigger and bigger across his shirt, as he fell forward onto the dirty ground.
Constable Milburn jumped from his seat, and ran to him, and then Mrs. Welsh the District Nurse. There was still hardly a sound. I stretched as high as I could, but all I could see was them bending over him. Then P.C. Milburn took off his coat, in that bitter cold, and laid it over him, even over his face. He stood up stiffly, spoke to the driver through the window, and waived us on. I saw him walk slowly to the telephone box.
Little pools of quiet talk started up as we made our way on. The artist’s wife sat slumped forward her head against the seat in front and her shoulders shaking. My mother sat like a statue in the seat beside her looking straight ahead. My father tried to talk to me. Then I thought of something I could do. I nudged my father. “Ask Mum, ask Mum, she can give her my share of the chocolate. That will make her feel better. Give her my chocolate.” He smiled down at me and shook his head, but he stroked my hair, my straight un-princess hair and said “Good girl, you’re a good girl”. He’d never done that before.
We made it to the town very quickly. Did they have speed limits then? I don’t know. On the river bridge the bus pulled up behind a black car. Three men in big dark coats and hats hats were standing on the pavement. They didn’t want to go to the pantomime, I could see that. One of them climbed on the steps and looked down the bus, frowning. Nobody said anything, but the artist’s wife tried to pull herself up and sank back onto the seat. My father took her arm and helped her to her feet. “I’ll come with you love” he said, and the two of them walked down the aisle, single file, him with his hand on the shoulder of the worn loden green coat.
I looked over at my mother and she patted the seat beside her for me to move across. She didn’t speak the rest of the way, just sat there, angry, I could tell that, sort of bristling with electricity, like she did.
I was so sorry that my Dad missed the Panto. It was brilliant. I still remember Julie Andrews in a white ballerina dress in a pool of white light, her hair fair and straight just like mine, gathered smoothly under a sparkling tiara, singing the “Belle of the Ball”. My new princess.
Years later, thirty something with children of my own I saw a coat, long full skirted, Loden green with a pinched in waist and a big shawl collar. It was in Liberty’s. No way I could afford such an expensive thing, but I had to buy it. It hung and hung in my wardrobe. I never wore it.