Крис Бекетт - Spring Tide

And she knew that, when that day came, and her mild, bewildered, boyish husband, the professor, stumbled downstairs in his dressing gown to find out what was going on, it would be her standing outside there with her head hanging in shame, her between the policemen, her in the black dress drenched by the lake, with her hair all tangled and mud between her painted toes. The only shadow she’d have would be the one beside the professor, cast by the low sun, and stretching in from her own muddy feet across the threshold and the hallway floor, to zigzag away up the stairs.

It was still not dawn. Yet from far off to the east she could already hear the tide of clamouring birds.

It’s April, the air is mild as cream and I’m sitting at my front window in a suburban street, tapping the keyboard of my laptop.

Right opposite me is a primary school. Children are running about behind a spiked iron fence. And in the middle of the playground, between the fence and the school, is a magnificent flowering cherry tree.

Masses of white blossom! Pure and bright as heaven!

The pleasant purr of a passing car.

You are here too. A few houses along from me, waiting in your front room for a taxi, looking out at the sunny street.

And walking past your window on the opposite side of the road, Julian Smart appears, the Artist, slender, amused and clean-shaven, in a neat brown coat. To your surprise you discover you can see his thoughts, displayed in a bubble over his head.

‘Must get going again,’ thinks Julian. ‘It’s been too long!’

And then another bubble appears.

‘Wow, look at that !’

They are face to face. On one side of the school railings the Artist looking in. On the other the cherry tree in all its pure white brilliance.

Again you see Julian’s thoughts:

‘Cherry blossom?! What am I? Alfred Sisley? ’

Whoosh. Another car.

Mr Veronwy Roberts, the headmaster (a short, plump Welshmen with a round head and bushy eyebrows), is passing the time of day at the front of the school with a pretty young supply teacher named Wendy.

They notice the man in the raincoat looking in over the railing.

‘Well, why not though?’ Julian is thinking. ‘When you come to think about it, why not? Just a question of finding a different angle .’

But though you can see his thoughts, Mr Roberts and Wendy can’t.

‘?’ thinks Mr Roberts.

‘I’ll sort this,’ says Wendy, striding firmly over.

‘Excuse me. Can I help you in any way?’

Julian gives her a dazzling smile.

‘You can, I’m sure, in at least a hundred ways. But listen, listen . I’ve fallen in love with that tree!’

‘And I with you,’ thinks Wendy with a sigh. ‘And I with you.’

Back in his studio Julian Smart gets to work on the phone.

‘Hello, Liz! Julian here.’ He’s standing by the window. ‘It’s about that grant money . I think I’ve got an idea…’

‘Hello, Julian here…’ (Now he’s sitting at a desk.)

‘Hello, is this Acme Tree Surgery?’ He’s standing again, in another room, lighting a cigarette, with the phone propped under his chin. ‘My name is Julian Smart. I wonder if you can give me some advice ?’

Somewhere across the city, a Gnarled Woodman stands leaning on his van: ‘No, you’d need a specialist contractor for that. It’s a big job. Very tricky.’

The Artist passes his hand over his hair.

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘my name is Julian Smart…’

He’s interrupted by the doorbell, and goes to open it with the phone still tucked under his chin. It’s Wendy standing outside, looking even prettier than before. He signals to her to come right in and pour herself a drink.

Later, while she reclines naked on his bed looking through a catalogue of his work, he picks up the phone again.

‘Hello, is this St Philip’s School? Mr Roberts? You’re still at work! The teacher’s life, eh? This is Julian Smart. The artist? We spoke briefly this morning?…’

A year goes by.

In an Art Gallery, people are gathered for a new exhibition. There are canapés, champagne flutes, catalogues. An Elegant Woman is speaking to an Academic of some kind, who wears John Lennon glasses and a leather jacket.

‘I just had a peek in the main gallery,’ she says. ‘Julian’s piece is just fantastic !’

Behind them an Eminent Critic is inspecting a small work labelled: ‘Susan Finchley. Unfinished Story (7) .’ We see the back of the Critic’s head, the outside edge of the frame, and the label beside it.

‘Hmm,’ say his thoughts in the bubble above his head. ‘Narrative yet to begin or narrative strangled at birth? Not very original but I’d better be careful, because knowing Susan that’s probably the point .’

The Elegant Woman stands face to face with another of Susan Finchley’s works. Behind, in the distance, framed on one side by the Elegant Woman’s profile and on the other by the frame of Finchley’s piece, stand two members of the Metropolitan Elite, a man and a woman, each holding a champagne glass.

‘Ingenious, I suppose,’ the Elegant Woman is thinking, ‘but a bit B list, really. Like all of Susan’s stuff.’

‘With her usual acerbic wit…’ The Eminent Critic is already drafting his review in his mind as he moves from one artwork to the next. ‘…Finchley subverts our received assumptions about originality, about seriousness . And yet…’

Through the door of the next room an Admiring Group, champagne flutes in hand, can be seen standing in front of a large exhibit, which itself remains hidden from our sight.

‘Absolutely breath-taking!’ mutters a Man with a Beard.

‘Quite extraordinary!’ exclaims a Very Thin Woman.

Well, so it should be! Because – look! – it’s nothing less than the cherry tree itself, its roots contained in an enormous hemisphere of earth, its branches laden with thick clouds of pure white blossom.

‘Julian Smart,’ reads the label on the stand in front of it. ‘ Creation .’

Julian and the Elegant Woman stand nearby. He wears a fetching but slightly rumpled suit and a very satisfied expression.

‘Talk about upstaged,’ the Elegant Woman remarks, with a small acidic smile. ‘Susan must be livid .’

He laughs. ‘I hope so. You wouldn’t believe how much effort went into this. And the idiots I’ve had to deal with!’

Standing to Julian’s left and two or three paces behind him, is Wendy, looking very attractive and a little nervous. She is talking to the Academic in John Lennon glasses.

‘Oh I can believe it,’ says the Elegant Woman, ‘I assure you of that. You don’t work in arts administration without learning what it’s like to deal with idiots. But tell me more about it. I’m fascinated by the process.’

Julian glances back at Wendy, sees she’s busy talking.

‘Well, if you’re really interested, why don’t you come over sometime and I’ll tell you the whole story.’

Over against the wall is a small group of other teachers from the school, clustered for protection around the diminutive figure of Mr Veronwy Roberts. They look dowdy and uncomfortable in this place, clutching their glasses of champagne.

But here comes the Eminent Critic.

He sees the tree, looks across at Julian, and smiles, getting the joke at once .

Julian strides across to meet him. Laughing as they arrive at the same idea together, they shake hands in front of the tree like Livingstone and Stanley.