Lynne Pemberton - Marilyn’s Child

Silently he does so, blinking as a beam of sunlight pierces his eyes. They are the most unusual colour I’ve ever come across: dark blue with grey flecks, framed with curling eyelashes and straight eyebrows, thick and coal black. As I study his face I can’t help wondering if he’s got furry legs and chest. I’m not sure I like hairy chests. The only hairy chest I’ve seen up close, close enough to touch, belonged to Liam Flatley, the father of a friend from school who’d taken me to the swimming baths last summer. Mr Flatley’s chest and back were covered in red hair, matted and horrible like an orange bearskin.

The skin on the curate’s face is smooth, a dark cream colour with random freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his nose and temples. His mouth, in my opinion, is his best feature. I could, quite simply, look at it all day long. The bottom lip is deep, the top less so, yet fuller than most. It’s a sensitive mouth; Bridget, I’m sure, would call it sexy. I thought it just plain beautiful.

I pull a high-backed wooden chair from the corner of the room and stand it a few feet from the curate. Sitting down, I place the canvas on my lap and begin to sketch. The pencil takes on a life of its own; I’ve entered another world, the one I inhabit when I draw or paint, the place where I feel at my best. Since I was old enough to hold a pencil, I’ve drawn. Even Mother Thomas, faced with a painting of the orphanage executed when I was twelve, had been forced to admit I had talent. A natural talent that Mother Superior, Mother Peter and Mr Lilley had nurtured.

The silence that follows is broken only by the sound of pencil skimming paper, the rustle of Father Steele’s soutane when he moves slightly, and our breathing, mine soft and shallow, his deep, with the occasional sigh. After about twenty minutes I stop drawing and say, ‘Can you move your head a little to the right?’ I want to add, ‘And sit still,’ but daren’t. Instead I say, ‘Please.’

He does as I ask, gazing out of the window across the garden to where his cat Angelus is stalking a field mouse.

Now the light on his face is perfect. It’s half in shade, gold and burnished copper lights spark from his crown. Now I have him, and draw his high brow and rounded skull perfectly.

After almost half an hour he starts to fidget, his left foot beginning to tap out a little rhythm. ‘How much longer do I have to sit like this? To be honest, I’m getting a stiff neck.’

‘Not much longer, Father. Please, I’m nearly there.’

With a deep sigh he directs his eyes out of the window again. But he’s changed his pose.

‘Sorry, Father, but you’re not right – lift your head a little.’

He does so.

‘A little higher.’ He’s getting impatient, his left foot is tapping faster, and he’s got that expression on his face again.

I drop my pad and pencil and cross the few feet that separate us. I say, ‘Excuse me, Father,’ in a very gentle voice, then lean forward and with my fingertips I lift his chin and place it in the right position. I smile. ‘Just a few more minutes, then we’re finished.’

‘If anyone had told me sitting still could be so difficult I would never have believed them.’

I move back to the chair. ‘It’s not the sitting still so much as the concentrating on sitting still.’

He nods. ‘You’re right, Kate. Sitting still for hours reading is no problem, but you ask me to do it for twenty minutes and it feels like for ever. I’ve got a crick in my neck as if I’d been working at my desk on a row of figures all day.’

It’s my turn to be impatient, but I quickly remember I’m with a priest and say in a pleading voice, ‘Please, Father, can you find it in your heart to sit still, very still, for a few more minutes?’

Without another word he holds the pose for a further six or seven minutes before I stop sketching. ‘All done for today.’

The curate lets out a long sigh of obvious relief and stands up. He stretches his torso and I can see his chest muscles rippling against the cloth of his robe. Walking over to me, Father Steele directs his eye towards the canvas in my arms. ‘Can I see it?’

‘Not until it’s finished.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s bad luck.’

‘Stuff and nonsense, Kate. Who said it was bad luck?’

I’m cradling the canvas like a baby to my breast. ‘No one in particular, just a feeling I have, Father. It’s the same as when people say they are going to do something, then for some reason or another they don’t. It makes them look foolish, specially after they’ve told the whole world and her grandmother about it. Me, I never say I’m going to do something unless I’m certain I will. I don’t let anyone see any of my work until it’s finished.’

The curate gives me the odd look again, the one I don’t understand. ‘You are an unusual girl, Kate.’

I blush, feeling hot and foolish. I’ve been called a lot of things in my life but never unusual. ‘I am?’

He takes a step closer to me. ‘You’re an extraordinary young woman, Kate O’Sullivan, don’t let anyone ever tell you different.’

Now my cheeks are on fire, and I imagine what a fright I must look, as red as a lobster fresh out of the pot. Again I’m struggling for words, and all I can think of is hiding my embarrassment and getting out of the curate’s sitting room quickly.

I fumble with the zip of my bag, and when I look up Father Steele is waiting at the door. He’s holding it open. I slide past him, grateful for the darkness of the hall. I head for the door, his footsteps echoing behind me. As he opens the door his hand glances the side of my head; I jump as if bitten. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what is the matter with you, I ask myself. Pull yourself together, Kate O’Sullivan.

A blast of fresh air hits me full in the face. I breathe deeply before turning to face Father Steele. ‘Thank you for being so patient and all, Father. It’s not easy to be sitting for such a long time, and so still.’

‘I hope it’s going to be worth it, after all the bullying I’ve had from Father O’Neill.’ He smiles.

Sure, his smile could warm the cockles of the coldest heart, and I think how happy I’d be, just standing on the spot being warmed by it all day long. ‘I know it will be a most perfect likeness, the most beautiful painting I’ve ever done. When I’m long gone, Father, you’ll be still around, hanging in the Louvre.’ I grin. ‘To be sure, that’s confidence for you.’

I pause, hesitant, toying with my next words, playing and replaying them in my head.

‘Would you believe me, Father, if I was to say you are the most handsome person I’ve ever had the pleasure of drawing in my entire life?’ I’m blushing, I can’t believe I’ve just said that to a priest. I wait for his rebuke, my heart banging hard against my chest. I study his face, searching for a response, and, like wind on water, his expression changes from a sort of awkwardness that seems to me boyish to a look of deep tenderness, the like of which I’d rarely seen. One particular time sticks firmly in my memory. Lizzy Molloy had fallen and broken her wrist and I’d watched her father cradle Lizzy in his arms. With an intense pain in my chest I’d listened to his soothing words, and had felt my own tears pricking the back of my eyes when he’d ever so gently kissed away those of his daughter. The curate’s expression is very similar. All my life I’ve longed for a father, and it makes me wonder if he feels parental towards me. I feel weird again, only this time it’s different. I’ve got a terrible hunger, yet I’m not hungry.

My hands are shaking. I grip the strap of my bag tight, tighter as they shake more, and still I watch his face.

It’s my turn to smile when he says, ‘I’m not sure about the handsome part, Kate, but I’m beginning to believe you when you say the portrait will be good.’