Painted Ghosts, page 2
The unfinished painting Tommy had done of her was sketchy, but accurate. She liked how he had used white to make the outlines blurred and misty, and to mellow the harsh tones to pastel pinks and blues and greens. It made her shiver to reflect on his talent, and how much she loved him.
When she got back home from college several days later Daphne’s mum and dad were sitting at the kitchen table looking up at her silently.
‘Sit down, Daphne.’ Her mother gestured. A tall woman with her hair in short curls, her skin was always pale, as though she never went outside. Daphne often tried to get her to put on more make up, to rouge her cheeks, make herself less ghost-like.
‘What’s happened? Has somebody died?’
Her father sat motionless, his shoulders hunched. Today he did not seem to have that sparkle about him that charmed her. Whereas her mother sat upright, her body stiff, his shoulders slouched forward. She wore tight fitting blouses and skirts to the office; he had on jeans and a paint-flecked T-shirt.
Daphne had often wondered how such opposites had come together. And beyond that, how they had rubbed their bodies together and created her. Perhaps they had only ever done it once.
Perhaps too, what Tommy had said about her dad was right, that he could find nothing in Daphne’s mother’s arms, and looked for love and acceptance in other places.
‘No, don’t be silly now,’ mum continued. ‘This is good news. Your father is starting up a business.’
‘But he’s an artist, and he’s getting a name.’ Daphne looked at her father expecting him to resist her mother, but as she stared at him he turned his eyes away. Daphne had a sinking feeling of sadness filled with anger. She knew the artist in her father, felt the meaning of every brushstroke he made. They were the same. She took in the contrasting body language of both. Then she looked at her mother. It was obvious to Daphne now: her mum had found out about his affairs with models. That was it.
‘Tell her, Arnold.’ Mum tapped the table impatiently. He would not look up. She was distant and unknown to Daphne, her façade solid and impenetrable; you had to work out what she thought and felt, and the sound her words made was sometimes hard and brittle. ‘Dad and I have decided it would be better and more financially viable to run a shop selling art materials. You know I’ve had this dream for ages, Daphne and I’ve been looking into it. There’s lots of opportunities in the High Street — I’ve found an empty shop that’s just right. Behind the scenes I’ve had help and advice and looked at the viability. Now that my mum and dad have gone and I have some money to invest, it makes sense and will be better all round.’
Daphne was speechless for a moment, looking to her father for a response, but he showed no emotion and said nothing. ‘You can’t give up now, dad.’
Mum cut in, ‘Once one shop is successful we can open more.’
‘You can’t sell dad out, not now.’ Daphne found herself screeching, but he kept looking down.
‘My money will not last forever, Daphne. Your father can’t live on one painting sold a month, we need something else. I’ll keep on at the office until things are up and running. We’ll see how well it all goes, then think of broadening the business. Tell her the rest, Arnold. Arnold—’
Her father brought his hands together and rubbed them a little. He always had cold hands, had to warm them over a candle or even the gas ring in the mornings to get them going ready for painting. ‘For me to open and run a business and concentrate on a bit of landscape painting on the side — which we can sell there, I’m going to need some help.’
Daphne let the words sink in for a moment. ‘I’m going to be an artist, dad. You always said.’
Her mother faced her again. ‘You are going to be needed in the business and running the shop. There’ll be time after work for you to dabble—’
‘Dabble? I have to give up because of him?’ Daphne left the question rhetorical as she glared at her father.
‘Tell her the rest Arnold. And mean it.’ Daphne’s mother said with quiet urgency.
‘You have to give up lessons—‘ he started, and for a long moment she felt her own grief at the coming loss, followed by pity for her father and anger at his weakness.
‘You can’t make me.’
‘You can’t go back to him, Daphne,’ her dad said.
‘You’ve got no conviction,’ her mother scoffed at her father. ‘None at all. You two were always as thick as thieves.’ Mum drew breath. ‘You think, Daphne, I don’t know what goes on. Tommy’s wife Jenny has just joined my office. She knows all about what you artists get up to when you’re not painting masterpieces. You can forget ideas of running away with your fancy man. You’re a business woman now.’
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘I already have. Your father and your uncle went round to warn him off. And you know what he said, the cheeky bugger. How much was it worth? He’d stay away for cash. That’s what you were worth to him, Daphne. No galavanting in the south of France, he’d rather have the money.’
‘He wouldn’t do that.’ Daphne stood up and stormed out.
‘Grow up, Daphne,’ her mother called after her.
2
‘These are the caves, Ben. This is Ajanta,’ Daphne yelled to Ben with delight. ‘Come on.’ It was early morning and the caves were in shadow, but the cliffs on the other side of the valley were lit bright ochre by sun beams. Daphne looked down at the dusty river bed winding its way in a great crescent, as though some great god like Shiva had carved the valley from above with his sword out of parched land. ‘The only known Buddhist paintings.’
She urged her slower photo-taking partner on. Of slender build and in his mid twenties, he had long dark hair and dark eyes. The family’s art shop — Paint Clever — was doing well and she had met him while he was working in a company supplying art materials to them. She liked it that his eyes lit up when he smiled. And mum knew him well, had introduced them to each other, and liked him. The match was a good one. She was happy.
It seemed an age ago that she had run round to Tommy’s place and found that he and his family had left. And although she disbelieved Tommy thought so little of her he would demand payment not to see her again, feelings of unease about him and the quality of her relationship remained. But she could not dismiss memories of the fondness she had for him.
Daphne was arrested a moment by the view of the carved ravine of Ajanta, the cliff face on her side of the valley dotted with cave-temple entrances linked by a precarious path.
The flight had been arduous so they had stayed overnight in Delhi before heading for the railway station. The train to Bombay had been packed to the rooftops with travellers. Before she got on board she had watched numbers of men, some with their heads in loosely wrapped turbans and carrying belongings in cloth bags, climbing up on the roof of the train. When they got going the black old engine ahead blasted out heaps of steam that filtered into the carriage through open barred windows where children gathered, boys in white kurta and girls in shalwar kameez, while parents talked, shared food in tiffin carriers and admired the world passing outside. Laughing youths gathered around open carriage doorways joking as the world passed them. The married women wore their best brightest saris, the range of colours and designs fascinating Daphne, while the unmarried wore plain but bright shalwar kameez.
Life on board was full of noise and joy. Excitement rose when the train chugged slowly past a Mandir — a Hindu temple — people pointing at the pastel colours of the Gopuram, the central tower painted in bright ochre. A family man told Daphne and Ben it was a temple to Shiva, a god in charge of death and rebirth. He introduced his wife and they chatted, Daphne and Ben answering questions about where they were from, what work they did, how much they earned. And when the family discovered they had just got married and they were celebrating Daphne’s birthday, the whole carriage got to know with many people clinging to the door of their compartment, smiling, giving sweets and titbits. Sometimes Daphne managed to doze off, but each time she shook herself, not wanting to miss anything: the noise, the bustle, the movement of the bright colours of the saris and shalwar kameez.
They spent two nights in a hotel in Aurangabad, a busy city in the state of Maharashtra and the following afternoon toured the Taj of the Deccan, a small version of the Taj Mahal constructed mainly of white marble. Only two or three other people were wandering around the grounds baked by the merciless sun. The Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan had built the Taj Mahal for his wife Mumtaz, mother of Aurangzeb who had built his own version here in the town named after him for his wife who had died in childbirth. A brilliant white mausoleum, its onion domes shimmered in the morning heat as they traipsed taking photos around the gardens and mirror lakes.
The following day they had been introduced to a taxi driver by a hotel receptionist, who drove them for nearly three hours over bumpy roads and tracks to Ajanta. They had little option but to stay in the only hotel they could find there, it was a small building with fans but no mosquito nets.
With mixed emotions, still looking along the dry river bed of Ajanta, Daphne was in reach of the place she had yearned to see for years. Half a kilometre ahead a group of women in saris and shalwar kameez bright against the dark rock caught her eye as they glided along the track and disappeared in a cave entrance. A family were sitting on a blanket outside around tins and plates, about to eat. The rock face varied from dark ochre to umber.
She pulled Ben along, jerking him away from the scenes he was photographing. ‘Inside,’ she said, pulling him to the first cave, its archway covered with carvings of the young Buddha and his devotees.
The darkness enthralled her. It was clear from Ben’s whispering that he was awed by the sanctity of the place as well. ‘Carved out of solid rock.’
She whispered back, ‘Can you imagine the dedication, the sheer work.’
As their eyes became accustomed to the dark and images began to appear on the walls and ceiling, Ben pulled a torch from his pocket and switched it on.
‘This is it.’ Ben gestured. ‘What you wanted. Not bad for a twentieth birthday present, not bad eh?’ He searched her face through the gloom for praise.
‘It’s wonderful, Ben, so wonderful.’ She hugged him and they embraced under the eyes of two painted Buddhas, one on either side of a gateway.
‘You’re not sorry then?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You married me?’ He laughed, but she picked up the sense of insecurity in his tone. She kissed him again for reassurance, but couldn’t keep thoughts of Tommy at bay.
‘Hah,’ he laughed. ‘I managed to pry you away from your mother’s business for long enough.’
‘She’s always fallen for your charms,’ Daphne said. ‘All that stuff about my birthday and an amazing honeymoon. Who knows? Maybe she thought she owed me something. Anyway, she wants me back before you — jammy sod.’
‘Your mum owed you something — What do you mean?’ He was distracted from the wall paintings by her words.
Mum had reassured Daphne and her dad that they could paint in their free time — evenings, weekends and holidays — and that when the business was thriving Daphne would have lots of free time. But it had not worked out that way. Paint Clever took off. It was a full time head on business. They had offered framing which they had started at a small level. Mum had sent Daphne on training courses so she could do framing while the shop was empty. This side of the business was so profitable it enabled them to open another two shops in north London and they had set up a framing business of their own to supply all three. There was little time to paint — she did a few sketches sometimes, but there was never enough opportunity to develop her skills and push herself, so with Ben joining the business and the plans he had, her artistic drive evaporated.
It had been worse for her father. Not only was he involved in the framing too, in one of the bigger shops they had set up a small gallery selling local art as well as visiting national artists. He had more time off than Daphne, but the spark had gone for him and disillusioned he found solace in alcohol. Never that worse for wear that he could not turn up for work every day, he sucked peppermints to hide the smell on his breath, and left more and more of the work to Daphne.
‘Nothing. Just stuff in the past.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, she likes you all right — you get extra time to go off to see your mate in Goa while poor old me has to go home and bail out my dad.’
‘My mate Jagar’ll take me to his cousin’s gallery in Kerala — it’s a link, Daphne. You never know what’ll come out of it.’
Ben had enterprising ideas and was always on the lookout for new areas for expansion, so she went along with his ventures. His old friend Jagar from school was visiting family in the south of India and Ben had assured her that if he went down to see him they might link up ideas on art materials, framing, galleries. Ben could go and check out what the art scene was in India.
She took his hand and led him to the two young Buddhas. The one to the left, his shapely androgynous torso bared to the waist, held a lotus flower in his right hand. He wore a tall pointed ceremonial hat, necklace, a ring on his little finger and a bracelet. Casting his view downwards, his head leaning to his left, he exuded an aura of contentment. His half smiling lips in particular were finely drawn reflecting something of his confidence in his inner knowledge.
The other Buddha was scowling, his mouth open in rebuke it seemed, or as if he were singing, or shouting even. Although this Buddha clutched a lotus flower it was not a portrayal of inner calm; this was a Buddha of fury. He held a thunderbolt in his hand, frowning downwards at some unseen force. His head was covered in an intricate gold crown with arches and curlicues linked with tiny hanging golden chains.
‘The two paths,’ she told Ben, ‘represent the two paths in life, or the two sides: the gentle compassionate Buddha, and the Buddha angry at the injustice, cruelty, revenge and hatred he sees in the world. Amazing.’
‘The two coexisting natures of human beings,’ he added.
She nodded, still looking in awe at paintings that had survived over fifteen hundred years. Parts had disintegrated through time leaving blank spaces, but the faces and bodies of most figures remained intact. Some had been vandalised, but defacers could not reach the roof which also blazoned with the lives of the gods and buddhas along with animals and birds.
She stood in awe for a time as Ben eased away exploring other images and was met by a man wearing a dhoti and pink shirt who insisted on being his guide. Daphne watched them as the man turned on a small torch and pointed the beam at the painted face of the compassionate Buddha and talked.
Daphne was about to join them when she saw quick movement through ripples of light and shade to her left. A young Indian woman appeared to be beckoning her. The face and body were in darkness, but the fingers and hand fluttered like a dancer’s in a flash of torchlight. Daphne stepped forward as the woman continued her gestures and shuffled ahead, her face suddenly visible for a second in a beam of light from the entrance. The figure moved with haste and was lost, her shape being dissolved in the deep shadows of the sanctum.
Daphne noticed the echoing mumbles of Ben and the guide and dismissing the phantom as an aspect of her imagination was about to join them. She noticed then a painted figure some way from the two buddhas.
Daphne tried to remember what Tommy had called this image. A lightly clad young woman was depicted entwined round a sapling, her curving shape echoing the branches, her breasts full of milk, her hips ready for childbearing, her shape enticing, drawing you in to her earthy sensuality.
Tommy would have run away with her; he would have never taken the money and run on his own. She should have pushed harder to find him. That life would have been — risky — but exciting.
She was mesmerised by the painted woman and could imagine her dancing erotically in and around the tree as though in some fertility rite.
If they had come here together — how would that have turned out? They would have followed their instincts, been true to themselves. Yakshi. That’s it. Tommy called her a Yakshi tree spirit.
Ben wanted to drag her to the other cave-temples, urging her to see the one with the reclining Buddha, but she was reluctant, wanting to pay full homage to the two Indian Princesses which she had only glanced at. She gave in, telling herself she would go back to the princesses later, and they spent the next two hours touring most of the rest, ending with the cave cut temple with the huge stone-cut statue of the reclining Buddha. Some seven metres long the Buddha was lying on his right side, resting his head on a carved pillow. Portrayed with his body covered in a thin shroud, he lay relaxed, a contemplative smile on his lips and eyes half closed in meditation.
‘The Buddha achieves nirvana,’ Ben said. ‘Look at all the disciples lined up along the plinth — in lotus position — lamenting their loss, I reckon.’
‘And the spirits above, welcoming him —‘ she added. Each cave-temple had its own exciting secrets, but none for her as spectacular as the first painted one.
The brightness hit them as they left the cave and wandered back down the path with tired legs, exhausted minds and hot bodies to the exit of the complex. As Ben went ahead of her taking more photos of the valley, Daphne was accosted by a man selling small icons and souvenirs. She had become accustomed to giving casual vendors a polite, ‘no thank you,’ but this time she spied a small metal image in the bundle of bracelets, ankle chains and other jewellery he held in a bundle.
He immediately picked out a shining trinket of Shiva dancing in a circle of flame and held it up for her. ‘This is good, very good,’ he said. In his forties with a thin face, he had short black hair streaked with silver, lined skin and a smile under his moustache that betrayed charm. ‘And here is Buddha.’ He held out another small icon.
‘Yes,’ Daphne said. ‘But who is this?’ She teased out the tiny metal figure of a lone woman.’
