To the Moon and Back

Chapter 13




It was Monday afternoon, a balmy summer’s day, and all human life was out here on Primrose Hill.

Well, not all human life. But enough to keep you entertained for hours. Following a morning of press interviews, Tony was enjoying being able to give his voice a rest. From his position on this south-facing bench, possibly the most spectacular view in London was stretched out in front of him. The sun blazed down from an almost cloudless sky. There were dog walkers out in force, and parents with small children playing games on the grass. There was a group of adults practicing t’ai chi. Sunbathers stripped down to essentials were stretched out on the ground, soaking up as many rays as humanly possible. Toddlers ate ice lollies and investigated daisies, teenagers played football, and a grandfather was gamely attempting to teach his grandson how to fly a kite.

Grandchildren. Tony, who would now never experience that particular joy, was speared with fresh grief. He watched the man try and fail to coax the kite up into the still air.

Don’t think about it.

A Rollerblader swooshed past with a Labrador on an extendable lead. On a bench further down the hill an old man was feeding the birds with a carrier bag of seed. Straight-backed and lost in concentration, a woman sat at an easel, painting the view. Her hair was very short, her skin was coffee-brown, and she was wearing a long geranium-red cotton dress that covered a generously curved body. Tony watched as her brush moved confidently across the paper, her bare arm almost dancing as she added color to the sky. One minute she was leaning forward concentrating on intricate detail, the next she was sitting back to survey the results. At one stage she smiled with satisfaction and he found himself smiling too, because the pleasure she was taking in creating the picture was infectious. From forty feet away he couldn’t be sure, but he thought she might be singing to herself.

Over the hill behind her came a teenager pushing a buggy and attempting to kick a soccer ball for the preschool boy with her. The baby in the buggy was crying, the small boy running ahead.

‘Kick it! Kick it to me!’ he yelled.

Distracted, the teenage girl managed to get the ball over to the boy and he aimed a wild kick at it, sending it sailing through the air. In a flash Tony saw what was going to happen next. The ball followed its inevitable trajectory, the boy chased after it, the teenage girl had already turned back to attend to the wailing baby… and with a thud the ball hit the woman in red squarely in the back.

Oh dear. Even from this distance Tony saw the paintbrush go splat against the painting and fly out of the woman’s hand. The boy, realizing he could be in trouble, abruptly stopped running and looked scared.

But when the woman turned to identify the culprit, she broke into a wonderful smile and bent to retrieve the ball from its position under her folding chair. Beckoning the boy over, she handed the ball back to him then rested a hand lightly on his shoulder as together they discussed the painting. Within seconds the boy was giggling and gazing up at her as if she were his favorite teacher.

As Tony sat and watched them, a gray cloud passed over and the temperature dropped. A couple of minutes later, the first drops of rain began to fall. The teenager called to the boy and he ran back to her with his ball, stopping to wave at the woman in red before they disappeared back over the hill. The woman waved and called out, ‘Bye, darling.’

The shower grew heavier as the cloud moved overhead. The woman had already flipped the easel over to protect her painting from the rain. But she wasn’t packing up her things or running for cover. Getting to his feet, Tony headed for the shelter of an oak tree. As he passed her, he said, ‘Would you like a hand with your things?’

‘No thank you, darling, it’s fine. This rain isn’t going to last long.’

Her voice was beautiful, velvety, and lilting. Tony said, ‘You’re going to get wet.’

Her smile broadened, lighting up her face. Running her hand over her bare arm, she replied easily, ‘No worries, I’m waterproof.’

She was soon proved right; within five minutes the cloud had passed over, the rain had stopped, and the sun was back out. Everyone who had taken shelter re-emerged onto the hill. As soon as the woman in red had tilted her easel back into position and opened the lid on her paintbox, Tony made his way over.

Up close, her close-cropped dark hair glittered with water. At a guess, she was in her late forties, but her good Afro-Caribbean bone structure and unlined complexion made it difficult to tell for sure. She was wearing no makeup. Her eyes were an amazing color, the light golden brown of maple syrup.

Not that she’d actually turned to look at him yet. All her attention was currently concentrated on the painting in front of her. Or, more likely, on the crimson splat courtesy of the ball landing in the small of her back.

The rest of the painting was a joy, executed with verve and style, depicting not just the wider view over London but the individual stories of the various characters spread across the hill. Tony smiled, spotting the ancient t’ai chi enthusiasts, the jogger, and the Rollerblader with his excitable Labrador, the pair of them colliding as the dog’s extendable lead wrapped itself around one of the ornamental lamp posts along the path.

‘Did he ruin it?’

‘The little boy? Bless him, he was almost in tears.’ The woman shook her head. ‘I told him it didn’t matter a jot, and that it might even make the painting better.’ Taking out a pencil, she deftly sketched around the splat for a minute or two. Then she sat back. ‘There, see? How about that?’

Tony leaned closer. In the lower left quadrant of the painting, a plump lady had materialized, sitting in front of an easel. She was gazing in dismay at her own painting, which now sported the red splodge, whilst overhead a guilty-looking seagull flew past clutching a tipped-up pot of paint.

‘Clever.’ There was something about the painting that just drew you in. Utterly drawn, Tony said, ‘Do you sell your work?’

‘Sometimes. Why, are you interested?’

‘Could be. I like a picture that tells a story. How much?’

‘One hundred and fifty pounds.’

Tony nodded. ‘I’d like to buy it.’

‘Really? That’s very sweet of you.’ Smiling, she continued adding detail. ‘In that case, you don’t have to buy it. You may have the painting.’

‘What does that mean?’ He was taken aback.

‘Tell me, have you ever been given a present you didn’t like?’

Tony hesitated. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s a horrible feeling, isn’t it? But have you ever given someone else a present and known for sure that they absolutely loved it?’

‘Well… yes.’ He nodded.

‘And doesn’t it feel fantastic?’

‘There’s no other sensation quite like it.’

Turning at last to look at him, her golden eyes danced. ‘Which is why it gives me pleasure to give you my painting. If you enjoy it enough to pay for it, it’s yours. On the house. A little gift to you from me. When it’s finished, of course.’

There had been no flicker of recognition when she’d looked at him. Years of practice enabled Tony to be able to tell when people were pretending not to know who he was. This woman, with her guileless smile and easy manner, wasn’t playing any kind of game.

‘That’s incredibly generous of you. Thank you.’ Tony shook his head. ‘But you’re never going to make the shortlist for Businesswoman of the Year.’

‘Ah, but I know my painting’s going to a good home. It’ll be properly appreciated.’ She loaded a fine brush with topaz yellow. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

‘Do you always give them away?’

‘Only when the mood takes me.’

‘Where do you exhibit your work?’

‘Nowhere fancy. Just the occasional art fair. And online.’ Leaning closer to the easel, she painted a child’s sundress.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Martha.’

‘I’m going to need more than that,’ said Tony, ‘if I’m going to look you up on the Internet.’

She burst out laughing. ‘Sorry, I’m a hopeless case. I’m Martha Daines. Now, are you local? Could you be here tomorrow afternoon?’

‘After two, no problem.’ He had an interview at twelve thirty.

‘See you tomorrow, then. I’ll bring it with me. And your name is?’

‘Tony.’ She didn’t have a clue.

‘Tony. It’s been lovely to meet you. Thank you for liking my work.’ Bracelets jangled on her wrist as she waved her paintbrush at him. ‘Bye!’