Pictures

A careful stroke of brown and a large blob of green, softened by a circular motion of hand and a tall tree stood in a sunlit meadow. The touch of red, purple and yellow populated the green grass with wild flowers. Finally using a yellow piece of chalk the pavement artist added a warm, glowing sun.

Jake stood back and admired his latest piece of work carefully encaptured on the paving stone. Yes, he thought to himself, that will do for my memory of my favourite glade.

Jake was remembering when he and his wife Lydia would picnic in the large Alderton forest during the summer months. They would shelter under the large spreading oaks and sycamores and drink gallons of sweet tea and danish pastries. They often turned on their little radio and listened to Radio One with all the pop hits. Life was good in the Sixties, the music exceptional and the world bathed in a golden hue.

“Here’s a cup of coffee for you,” a friendly voice called out to him. It was Maisie, the owner of a small café on the main street of Ganburgh. She looked out for old Jake, who was one of the town’s worthies. His pavement pictures attracted a lot of trade to Maisie’s café and it provided the tourists with something to photograph and admire.

“Thanks Maisie,” said Jake gratefully accepting the mug of coffee. “I’m hoping that the rain stays off today and I don’t have to start from scratch, tomorrow.”

Maisie looked up at the dark clouds that were sweeping over the town. It had been exceptionally cool for the last few days, often heralding the arrival of rain. Sadly the downpour washed all Jake’s pictures away in streams of coloured water, where it gathered, to rather unceremoniously disappear down the roadside drain.

Jake settled back into his chair and cupped his hands round the warming beverage. He had been on the street for about a year now, ever since he was made redundant from Dawsons, a large engineering factory on the outskirts of the town. Lost his house when he failed to meet the payments on the mortgage and had to sell all his possessions just to be able to buy food for himself. Now he lived in a bed sitting room in one of the houses on Gerson Street. During the day he would sit at the side of the road by his pavement pictures and watch the passing traffic. A bowl lay at his feet and he recited the same litany whenever someone passed.

“Nice day isn’t it? Are you here on holiday? Well, I hope you like our town. What do you think of my pictures? All hand drawn by your’s truly.”

Jake collected just enough to keep himself alive and of course Maisie would often come over the road from her café and hand him a bacon sandwich or something else to eat.

“He reminds me of my granddad,” Maisie often replied to people who asked her why she gave him all the handouts. “Grandad Fred was a very kind man to me and I feel a warmth inside me when I help Jake.”

One stormy day, as the rain fell in torrents. Maisie got Jake to sit inside her café out of the wet. She hung his old coat in front of a heater to try and dry it while the old man drank a cup of coffee. As she spread the coat out, she looked across at the old man. He was gazing sadly out of the café’s window watching what remained of his pictures being washed off the paving stones.

“Sad, isn’t it? “ Maisie said. “All your hard work vanishing in front of you eyes.”

“Dad and Mum wanted me to be a teacher, you know?” Jake murmured, seemingly recalling past events. His eyes had a faraway look in them.

“So what happened, then?” Maisie asked gently.

“Oh I went to Uni and studied for three years, but when I received my degree, they were looking for engineers. Dad had died the year previous and I was suddenly forced to get earning, so when Dawsons advertised for possible applicants, I just applied.”

“And what would you have liked to do, given the choice?”

“Oh, it’s all water under the bridge now, but I would like to have been an artist and studied art at college. I was quite an able artist back at school and I always imagined pottering around with oils and paintbrushes. Capturing raging torrents in waterfalls or blood red sunsets with horizons which stretched to infinity.” Jake sat back and took a deep breath. His impassioned reply had left him quite breathless.

“But you have it now,” said Maisie quietly. “Canvasses galore and the ability to give the public a window into a much happier and colourful world.”

The day did not improve weather-wise and late in the afternoon, Maisie helped the old man on with his now dried coat. When he had buttoned up she handed him a large golf umbrella.

“Now you get home and take it easy for the rest of the evening. You can bring the umbrella back tomorrow, God willing that the rain has stopped,” she said looking out of the window onto the wet road.

As Jake left the cosy interior of the café he looked sadly at his pitch, now only showing streaks and blobs of colour. He knew that tomorrow, if it was dry, he would have empty canvasses to exhibit his pictures on, so with a shrug he made his way home.

The next day dawned with blue skies, fluffy white clouds and a light breeze. Jake was up early and after eating a couple pieces of toast with marmalade and drinking a cup of coffee, he left the house and made for the high street.

As he approached the area he liked to think of as his own, he was gratified to see that the paving stones were dry and clean. He could visualise mentally what he would put on them and getting his set of coloured chalks out of his pocket, began to sketch lightly on the stones. Images flew into his mind and transmitted through his hands onto the grey cement.

Soon a circus scene began to appear, with clowns, trapeze artists and lions. Balloons flew gaily in the picture complete with little children holding their strings. A fat ring master suddenly materialised in the middle of the scene holding a whip in his hand.

Next stone displayed a large ocean liner with four big funnels, belching smoke into the sky. Jake drew people on the deck waving flags and with the seagulls rising and falling in the great ship’s wake, the whole picture seemed to come alive.

Jake worked steadily through the morning and was so intent on his work that he didn’t hear Maisie coming up and standing behind him. His first clue to her presence was the delicious smell of bacon that was emanating from two bacon rolls that Maisie had made up for him.

“Aw Maisie, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” Jake said, although his mouth was watering at the sight of the food.

“You’ve got to eat Jake,” laughed Maisie, “if you are busy creating all these wonderful pictures.” She gazed in wonder at Jake’s work.

“I still have my favourite to do,” said Jake with a smile. “It’s always in the centre of the others. It is my ‘Mona Lisa’.”

When Jake arrived back at his pitch the next morning, he found all the pictures as he had left them. The night had been warm and dry, so after collecting any bits of litter that were lying about, Jake sank into his chair with a satisfied grunt.

The tourist buses arrived at ten o’clock and soon the high street was bustling with grown ups and children all eager to see the delights of Gansburgh.

The town was on the site of a major Roman camp and this attracted the amateur and more serious archaeologists. A castle had been built near the remains of the camp by King Alfred and it was a classic ruin with partially complete turrets and a crenulated wall. Lots of ‘touristy stuff’ for the visitors to see and photograph. And of course Jake’s pictures drew their own crowds and all you could hear at times were the clicking of camera shutters and the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of an admiring audience.

The day wore on and the buses began to leave with their loads of satisfied tourists, assured that they had seen all Gansburgh had to offer. Jake drowsed in the warm late afternoon sun and imagined what he had collected in his bowl. Maybe he could afford a fish supper tonight, he thought, after he had paid Maisie for the bacon rolls and countless cups of coffee. She really was a gem.

“Why have you drawn the picture of a lady in your picture?” a small voice piped up, shaking Jake out of his reverie.

A little girl sat in a wheelchair was looking puzzled at him. Behind the chair stood a weary looking woman. She looked as if she had all the cares in the world on her shoulders.

“I sorry,” said Jake. “What did you say?”

“I asked why you had drawn a lady standing in the picture with the trees and the flowers?” repeated the girl. “Is she someone special to you?”

“Jennifer,” cautioned the tired looking woman. “It might be something private to the man.”

Jake turned round and looked at his woodland glade picture and realised that a large drop of water had fallen on it and caused the colours to run and merge. It did look like a woman. A woman wearing an emerald green jacket and a brown skirt, just like Lydia wore the last time he and his wife had gone picnicking. No, thought Jake, it can’t be, it must be a trick of the light.

“It does look like a lady, doesn’t it,” chuckled Jake and he leant over and added a couple of strokes with his piece of yellow chalk. “Now I’ve given her long blonde hair.”

Just like Lydia had, thought Jake to himself, long blonde hair that smelt of the sunshine and ripe fields of corn.

“I think you have a beautiful picture there,” said the little girl. “Would you draw me into it too?”

“Jennifer, you can’t ask the man to do that,” warned the lady who Jake assumed was Jennifer’s mother or guardian.

Picking up his piece of pink chalk, Jake firstly wiped away a part of the one of the trees as close to the accidental depiction of the woman and next carefully sketched in little Jennifer.

“I don’t want to be sitting in my chair,” Jennifer cried out. “I want to be standing.”

“Jennifer, Jennifer. You ask too much of the man. I am sorry sir for her rudeness.” Jennifer’s mother gasped.

“No need to apologise,” whispered Jake as he gazed at the little girl in the wheelchair. Her thin bony arms, her pallid sunken face and her poor twisted legs. “I will picture you as I see you.”

Jennifer watched entranced as Jake drew her as a petite, beautiful girl with health gleaming from her face. She stood hand in hand with the ‘accidental’ inclusion and as Jake put more and more detail into the picture, he elaborated the woman to complete his image of Lydia.

Then he stood back allowing Jennifer to see the finished product and Jake was delighted to see a contented smile play over Jennifer’s face.

“You are a real artist,” she said. “Thank you.”

Long after Jennifer had left, Jake sat looking at the picture and wondered what he had experienced that afternoon. A drop of water coming out of a clear sky. A little crippled girl seeing something that her brain had recognised as the shape of a woman and finally the image being transmitted to him allowing by a few strokes of chalk, it to capture the likeness of his dear wife. A miracle, thought Jake, as he made his way home.

The next morning dawned and as Jake pulled back his curtains he could see that it was going to be another dry day. He put bread in his toaster and after filling the kettle, thought about the events of the previous day. It seemed incredible, but he knew that everything had actually happened.

As he arrived at his site he saw that some of his pictures would need ‘touching up’ before the tourist buses arrived. So using different chalks he darkened some lines and to others heightened the colour.

As Jake finished he turned towards his favourite picture and was charmed to see that it still held its previous vibrancy. The colour of the trees and the wild flowers stood out and seemed to frame the two people in their midst. He smiled at the two ladies and then moved across towards his chair.

The lady, who had been pushing the wheelchair that Jennifer had been sitting in, stood at the side of the road. Her face looked more dejected than ever and Jake could see tears in her eyes.

“What is it?” Jake asked, knowing the answer would not be good.

“She has left us,” blurted out the lady. “Jennifer died this morning.”

Carefully Jake took the lady into his arms and allowed her to weep. He held her tightly until her sobbing quietened.

“Come over and have a coffee,” suggested Jake and carefully led her across to Maisie’s café.

Jennifer, they learnt from the lady who was indeed her mother, had been suffering from a muscle wasting disease and as Jennifer was very close to passing away, her mother had decided to give her daughter a little ‘treat’ by taking her to Gansburgh.

“I just wanted to thank you for your kindness yesterday,” said the lady. “Jennifer went to bed last night a happy and contented girl. I am sure your goodness was with her at the end.” Jennifer’s mother broke down and Maisie comforted her

Over the following months tourists flocked to Gansburgh to see Jake’s pictures. An astute news reporter had heard the story and had written an article that had been picked up by the media. Jennifer’s mother gave permission for her daughter’s story to be told as various charities benefited from the publicity in the form of large amounts of money.

Jake kept the picture as it was, as long as he could. Thanks to a long dry spell it was late into the autumn before the skies began to darken and large black clouds began to advance on Gansburgh.

Maisie opened her café door and looked over to Jake’s pitch, but he wasn’t there. Worrying a little, she rang Jake’s boarding house, but got no answer. Oh well, she thought, he’s probably decided to give today a miss, considering the approaching bad weather.

It was about eleven o’clock when the first flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed closely by a large rumble of thunder.

As if on cue Maisie’s phone rang and she went across to answer it. As she picked it up she recognised the voice of Jake’s landlady. She seemed very upset.

“I can’t seem to waken Jake,” she wailed. “I think he’s passed away.”

Just at that moment the skies opened and a torrent of rain fell on Gansburgh. It gurgled down the rone pipes, it splashed off the roves and it cascaded down the gutters.

Jake’s pictures gradually disappeared in a gaudy hue of colour, but if someone who knew, had been looking at the picture of the woodland scene, they would have been surprised to see that there were now three figures standing in the wood and as the image faded it seemed as if they all turned away and vanished into the sunlit, leafy fronds.

………………………………….+……………………………………….Nov2014