Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

Dulcie must have said something to Amanda Yail about my being in the hospital bay, or else the news must have found its way to Victor by some other means. Because, not long after breakfast on the last day of the voyage, he appeared at the fringes of my cubicle with his briefcase. ‘Present for you,’ he said, setting an envelope on my table. The flap was not stuck down and I could already tell what was inside. ‘You don’t have to open it now,’ he said, but I did.

It was a home-made card with get well soon! scribbled in dark blue crayon. There was a muddy picture of what looked like Kull-Ex flying over a New York skyscraper. And, on the reverse, in adult writing, it said: Your super friend, Jonathan.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That’s very sweet of you.’

‘Not my idea,’ said Victor. ‘Actually, I thought you might find it a little insensitive. I wasn’t sure if I should bring it or not.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

‘Well, the lad wouldn’t take no for an answer. Mandy’s taken him down to the pool to keep him occupied — he was begging to come with me, but I thought I’d spare you that, at least.’

In fact, the thought of talking to the boy again about his comics was as close as I had felt to happiness in days. ‘I really wouldn’t have minded,’ I said.

‘He’ll be very glad you liked the card. Took him ages to draw. May I—?’ He gestured at the empty chair beside the bed and did not wait for my approval, sitting with his briefcase on his lap. ‘I hope you don’t mind me visiting you like this, but I heard you weren’t in the best of spirits, and I just — well, I wanted to make sure you were OK. Only natural to get depressed, considering.’

‘I appreciate the thought,’ I said, and looked away — anywhere but into those sympathetic eyes. I did not deserve them.

‘Look,’ Victor said cagily, ‘you can tell me if I’m overstepping the mark here, but something’s been nagging me all afternoon.’

I did not respond, just rolled my head in his direction.

‘You were taking pennyroyal,’ he said, with a querying tone. ‘For the seasickness.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Hmm.’ He drummed his briefcase. ‘And how much of that were you taking?’

‘God, I don’t know, Victor. What does it matter?’ I hoped to sound just the right amount offended.

‘It’s been known to have certain side effects, that’s all, in large doses.’ His fingers pushed at the leather, rippling it. ‘I wondered if Dulcie was aware of that when she recommended it.’

‘I’m sure she wasn’t.’

‘No, of course not. I wasn’t suggesting — never mind.’ He looked around the hospital bay, studying the decor. ‘This place seems very well equipped.’

‘It’s a hospital. They’re all the same.’

‘Oh, not true. You should see some of the wards I had to train in.’ We were completely alone in the room. Victor was the only person I had seen besides Dulcie, the physician, and the nurse for the past twelve hours or so, and I suspected he knew it.

‘Look, if you don’t mind, Victor, I’m getting rather tired.’

But he would not be hurried or distracted. ‘It’s an abortifacient, that’s my point. Well, supposedly it is. No medical proof for it, as such, but, anyway — there you are.’ Pushing up his glasses with his little finger, he stood, and lingered by my bedside for so long I thought he was about to kiss my forehead. ‘Like I said, it’s been nagging me all day. Why would you be taking penny royal? I should have spotted it sooner.’ And he gave a disbelieving chuckle. ‘That number I gave you,’ he said. ‘Throw it out. The chap I recommended won’t be right for you. Too Freudian.’

‘What?’

‘I’m serious.’ He set down his briefcase on the foot of my bed, unclipped it, and began rummaging underneath the files. ‘I want you to come and see me once you get back to London. It might take a bit of time, but I think I can help you.’

‘With what?’

‘Your anxiety depression.’ He glanced up from his case. ‘I don’t mean what happened yesterday — I mean what came before. Those are the issues you need to confront, or you’ll never come to terms with what you’ve lost. And I won’t just stand aside and watch that happen to you.’ He went back to rooting for whatever he was searching for. It was as though I was still on the grubby banquette in Henry Holden’s office.

‘I told you, I don’t need a psychiatrist,’ I said. ‘I have painting.’

‘Is that so?’

‘I’m sorry if that puts you out of a job, but it’s how I’ve always dealt with things.’

‘And how would you say that’s been working for you so far?’

‘Don’t patronise me, Victor.’

He gave a surrendering nod. ‘It’s just, I heard you didn’t really do much painting these days, or finish anything, at least. Isn’t that what you told me?’ At last, he gave up rummaging in his briefcase and shut the lid. ‘Look, I’m afraid I’ve run out of cards. So this’ll have to do—’ He tore off the top page of a white prescription pad and handed it to me. ‘I really hope you’ll take me seriously.’

DR VICTOR YAIL, M.D., F.R.C.P, D.P.M.

‘Can’t trust a man with letters after his name,’ I said. ‘That’s what my father used to say.’

‘I tell you what—’ Victor clipped his case shut. ‘If you can make it through the next few days without leaping off any skyscrapers, I’ll let you know what they all stand for. Now, can I bank on you to make an appointment?’

At the factory, my mother punched her timecard every morning, then counted down the hours before she got to punch it out again. From the year she left school into her middle fifties, she kept exactly the same job, and if the amount a person complains about her work is an adequate barometer of her satisfaction, then she must have found great joy in it.

At the John Brown & Company yard, my father scorched the skin right off his knuckles daily, caulking ships with men he looked upon as brothers, some of whom he brought back home to share our dinner, some of whom he lent our rainy-day money. He wore down every rung of cartilage in his spine, broke several ribs, developed shin splints, and laboured through the agony, one shift at a time, for measly pay and no assurance of a future.

I admired the doggedness of my parents more than I was ever able to express to them. They grafted to accomplish things for other people, knowing all their hard work would go unseen. My father never felt what it was like to cross the ocean on a vessel he constructed with his friends, nor did he really care to — in his mind, every ship died when it left the yard. My mother never walked the aisles of the department stores that stocked her sewing machines, though she brought home boxes of the reject needles to stitch our curtains and communion dresses for the neighbours’ children.

I cannot say how much of their resolve I managed to inherit. Some days, it felt as though I had been gifted with my father’s vim, and I could stand up at my easel for long periods, forgetting where I was. Other times, I was steeled by my mother’s uncomplaining attitude, and would not let a good idea escape my grasp, even if it took me several weeks to tame it.

But doggedness in art is no substitute for inspiration. The thrill of painting turns so quickly to bewilderment if you let it, and nobody can help you to regain your bearings afterwards. Talent sinks into the lightless depths like so much rope unless you keep firm hold on it, but squeeze too tight and it will just as surely drag you under.

By the summer of 1960, I was unable to determine a clear reason to continue making pictures, aside from the dim hopefulness that kept lifting me from bed at 6 a.m. to try again. The only way to shake off failure, I thought, was by perseverance and hard work, and if I did not rise to paint each morning at my usual hour then I was denying myself another chance to succeed. And so I carried on through the soreness, as my father would have done, without protest, even though my hands no longer had the skill to translate what I asked of them. I approached each canvas as I always did — with no preconceived ideas, just a willingness to paint — and proceeded to get nowhere.