Copyright Oggbashan November 2013
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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I was sitting at my small easel, painting yet another watercolour of the Essex countryside. I produce several pictures a week, send them to my dealer in London, and make enough money to add a few luxuries to my bachelor existence. This might be my last one painted outdoors this year, as the autumn colours were fading. The next strong wind would strip the trees.
I might have a problem painting during the winter months. The room I called my studio was piled with completed work. My dealer had refused to take any more of my paintings for the time being. Although they sold, they moved slowly and he had too many. So had I. If someone important noticed me, wrote about me, praised my work. I could dream.
I remembered talking to Jonas Smith, our local blacksmith about his unused barn. It was the old monastery stable, built to last a thousand years, stone-walled and the roof is tiled. It would be far too large for me but if I might be able to persuade other artists to rent space there, we could be a local community of artists. In the short term it would solve my storage problem -- if I could afford it.
I had explained what I might want to the blacksmith. We had walked round to the barn. We opened a small access door in the large main doors. The space inside was enormous but clear, except for a grey painted wooden partition cutting off a third.
"I could sweep the chimneys," he suggested. "They haven't been used for years and there could be birds' nests in them. But this is the soundest building in the village, and on the highest ground except for the church. It has never flooded even when most of the village was awash." "I remember the floods. When was the last major one? 1897? I was in South Africa then."
"Yes, Major Jones. You're right. 1897 was the worst one in living memory. I get worried sometimes about the new houses built on land that flooded then. I was just taking over from my father as the village smith. The worst part was the thirst."
"Thirst?"
"Yes, thirst. We were surrounded by water, flooded with water, but it was sea water. It got into all the wells and made the water undrinkable. We survived by collecting rainwater. After 1897 many people added tanks to their houses to collect and store rainwater but I think many folk have begun to forget to use them. If it floods again..."
"Let's hope it doesn't."
I admired the massive space, lit by a clerestory. Some of the panes in that were missing and boarded over. Most were still glazed but very dirty. If the missing glass were to be replaced and the existing panes cleaned, it would be well-lit during the day.
"What's beyond there?" I asked, pointing at the grey paint.
"That? The army put a lot of stuff in there in 1917. They were going to use this barn for troops but never did. They offered the contents to me in 1919 for a few pounds. I bought it but that was a mistake. I should have asked them to take it away."
"What did you buy?"
"Tables, chairs, beds, bedding and field rations I think. I haven't looked."
"Tables and chairs could be useful. What are they like?"
"As I said. I haven't looked."
"Could we?"
"I suppose so."
Through an unlocked door there was a massive pile of equipment, tons of it. I recognised several items -- a field kitchen, hand-pulled water carts even chemical toilets. The tables and chairs were metal framed. Everything was unused, just dusty. There was enough for several hundred men.
Jonas and I had agreed on a rent for the barn, if I wanted it. I might just be able to afford it. It would be easier if someone else shared the building. I told him that I would let him have a final yes or no by the New Year. If I sold a few more paintings?
I stopped day-dreaming and added more details to the current painting, destined to join the growing pile in my cottage.
I heard faint footsteps on the gravel path that was once the tow path when this part of the river was navigable. They came closer and stopped. I turned round to see who was coming, before returning to paint.
"Hello," she said from behind me. "Do you mind if I watch you for a while?"
"Of course not, Mary," I said. I kept painting. This light wouldn't last much longer and I would have to stop for today.
"I'm not Mary," she replied slowly. "I'm Magda."
"Mary," I repeated. "I knew your parents. They called you Mary. I knew your husband Michael. He was in my regiment. He called you Mary. He was a good man."
"He was, wasn't he? I miss him. But the entire village calls me Magda now."
"I know. It's cruel of them."
"True. In public you call me Mrs Hughes." Mary's voice was sad. "The women call me Magdalene, after the reformed prostitute. But I'm unreformed."
"To me, Mary, you are a woman who has had a hard time. You've lost your parents and your husband. Yet you support yourself and help others, even if you do it discreetly. You're my comrade's widow. Michael Hughes was my friend..."
"...but he died at Passchendale."
I couldn't help a shiver as she spoke that name so lightly. I had lost so many of my men there.
"...and you were a regular officer, Major Jones, in the army by choice. Michael was a corporal, called up to serve and die, whether he wanted to or not."
"So were so many. He did his best for his regiment, for King and Country. You should be proud of him."
"I am. But being proud of him didn't pay the rent nor put food on my table. What I am does far more than that."
"I know. You own your own cottage and have the only inside bathroom in the village, with hot water on tap."
Mary laughed.
"That's a capital investment for my professional life. I insist that all my customers have a bath first. I think for some of them the attraction of a hot bath is more than their need of me. But you never come."
"No Mary. I didn't die during the War, but I lost the part that..."
"...would interest me? I know. I helped nurse you when you came back. I know your body as well as or better than those of my customers. You weren't aware of me at the time, too full of painkillers to know where you were or who was looking after you. You look much better now."
"Thank you, Mary. Your care of me helped. I knew you had been a voluntary nurse during the War, but I hadn't known you had nursed me."
"Some of the nurses wouldn't touch that area. They were ladies. I wasn't and aren't. I'm a woman."
"A good woman," I insisted.
That made Mary laugh again.
"Tell that to the Mothers' Union -- or the Marines. You must be the only person who thinks I'm 'good'. I know what I am."
Mary came to my shoulder and peered at my painting.
"You're no Constable, are you, Major Jones?"
