Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

‘But you didn’t tell him.’

‘No.’

‘Was that fair, do you think?’

‘I couldn’t care less.’

Victor gave a little hum. ‘And how about you? Were you relieved?’

‘I don’t know.’ There was a very long silence. I picked the paint from the creases of my knuckles. ‘I can’t say I wasn’t at the time. But I don’t feel that way about it now.’

‘Where did you get the pennyroyal?’

‘From Dulcie.’

‘Yes, but where did she get it?’

‘She said from a Chinese woman somewhere. Portobello, I think.’

‘I see.’ Victor inched forward, setting down his notepad. ‘Do you think you’d like to have children in the future?’

I shrugged. ‘I can live without them. I’ve lived without other things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Love, I suppose. Intimacy. Affection.’

‘It’s not too late for that. You’re young.’

‘Yes, but I’ve chosen this instead.’

‘Therapy?’

‘ No ,’ I said. ‘Art.’

Session after session, we talked this way. Every Tuesday afternoon, I would put down my paintbrush, throw on my coat, and hail a cab to Harley Street. I would traipse up the stairs to Victor’s office, nod hello to his secretary, and wait for him to come and wave me in. And he would sit me down in my regular chair with my regular blue cushion to pick up our discussion from the session before. We talked a great deal about my apathy towards the new paintings. He wanted to know about every stage of their creation. For a time, it almost seemed that we were painting them together.

Then, one day, I arrived at Victor’s practice to find it adorned in Christmas tinsel. He was standing at the apex of a ladder in the waiting area, hanging a white paper snowflake from the light fixture. ‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘What do you think of the decorations?’

‘They’ll do.’

‘Jonathan made this one at school.’ The snowflake swung and hit his cheek. ‘Good to know they aren’t wasting any class time on algebra and elocution.’

‘It might help his geometry a bit,’ I said.

Victor laughed. He stepped down from the ladder and passed his secretary the roll of tape he had been using. Looking up at the snowflake, he said, ‘That should just about hold, I think.’ And he turned to me, patting his sides. ‘All right, Miss Conroy. Shall we?’

As soon as we got settled in the consulting room, I began to tell him all about the painting I had started working on that morning — how I knew that Dulcie was going to think it was the best piece in the show. ‘It’s just three old women sitting on a bench with a few pigeons streaking past them in a blur,’ I said. ‘It’s about the most boring thing I’ve ever done, but obviously that means Dulcie’s going to love it.’

‘I wonder sometimes if you’re being a little hard on her.’

This surprised me. ‘Hmm.’ I pretended to scribble a note on the armrest. ‘Would you care to qualify that for me, Victor?’

His face twitched in acknowledgement of my clever-cleverness, but he did not smile. ‘You know I’m not Dulcie’s biggest supporter, but she’s really come through for you in the last few years. Don’t forget that.’

I stayed quiet, heeding his sermon.

Victor got up and went to his bookshelves. ‘What are your plans for Christmas?’ he asked, his back to me. ‘Will you be visiting your parents?’

‘They want me to,’ I said. ‘But I’m not sure I can face the journey.’

‘How long is it on the train?’

‘About six hours.’

‘Well, if you can’t put yourself out for your parents, then who can you do it for? I’d like to think Jonathan will make the effort for me when I’m in my dotage.’

‘I take it you’ll be visiting your folks this year, then?’

‘I’ll put some flowers on their graves, no doubt.’

‘Oh, I’m — sorry about that.’

He did not give this any further credence. Instead, he came and stood beside my chair with a set of magazines. As he dropped them on the coffee table, the pieces on his fancy chessboard rattled. ‘We’re going to start you on an exercise today,’ he said, peering down at me. ‘It’s something I’d like you to keep working on over the holidays, until I get back.’

The thought of him leaving brought me a jolt of panic. ‘You’re going somewhere?’

‘Just for a couple of weeks. Seeing relatives in Kent, then back to the States again. I’m delivering a paper.’

‘So I won’t see you until the new year?’

He shook his head. ‘Let’s not worry about that for now. This exercise will help. You’ll hardly miss me.’ On the coffee table, he fanned out the magazines. The covers were marigold-yellow with decorated borders: National Geographic. ‘Every time I’m in the States, they have these in my hotel room. I must have a full set by now. Take a look.’

I picked up a copy. June 1957. The inside pages were mostly colour photographs of strange foreign landscapes: the Grand Canal in Venice; tourists camping in the Black Forest; rhododendron pastures in Roan Mountain, Tennessee. The November 1958 issue featured illustrated articles— The Booming Sport of Water Skiing, The Emperor’s Private Garden: Kashmir —and maps with accompanying images: The Arab World: A Story in Pictures . I had seen a magazine just like it in the first-class lounge when I was sailing to New York.

‘The pictures are wonderful, aren’t they?’ Victor said.

I nodded.

‘My favourite is January ’57—an expedition through the fjords in Norway. The stillness is incredible. I find myself going back to that one now and again, when things get hectic. Helps me relax.’

‘You should go and see it for yourself,’ I said. ‘Take a trip.’

‘I almost went with Mandy a few years ago. But, quite honestly, I prefer to look at the pictures. If I actually went there, I think I would spoil it.’ He moved back to his armchair, leaving me to browse the covers of other editions. There were so many articles, so many places I had never seen before:

Year of Discovery Opens in Antarctica

Across the Frozen Desert to Byrd Station

The Heart of the Princes’ Islands

Lafayette’s Homeland, Auvergne

Jerusalem, the Divided City

Seychelles: Tropic Isles of Eden

‘Choosing one is really the challenge,’ he said. ‘I want you to take a few away with you and really have a proper look. Study the photographs. Find a place that does for you what the fjords do for me.’

I was not sure that a photograph could ever calm me. ‘I don’t know, Victor. That seems a bit pointless.’

There was an expression he always brought out when I was not taking him seriously — lips pulled in, eyes rounded — and he was showing it to me now. ‘We’ve been at this for quite a while, haven’t we?’ he said. ‘I’ve sat here listening to you for months and, honestly, I’m not sure that we’re any further forward than we were the day I met you. Aside from you being on a lot of tricyclics and getting more paintings done — most of which you seem to detest. We’ve reached a point where we have to find a strategy for you to cope with your anxieties or they’re going to seriously affect your future. Eventually, you’re going to work yourself into a depression I can’t help you with. That’s why you need to try your best with this exercise. It’s just a visualisation technique — not a cure — but I think it will benefit you.’

At once, the spread of magazines on the table began to seem further away. ‘I will,’ I said. ‘I’ll try.’

‘Good.’ He took off his glasses and breathed on the lenses. ‘We all need a place that’s ours and ours alone. The fjords are mine — you have to choose somewhere else.’