THE DISAPPEARANCE

I peered at the empty space. ‘The Birth of St David’, a painting inspired by his birthplace at St. Non’s on the Pembrokeshire coast, wasn’t in its usual place, above the mantle shelf in my son’s room. There was just a grimy smudged outline of where the frame had been. I made a mental note of the wall needing painting .Perhaps my husband who’d painted the picture, would know. It was n’t like his usual style. It was dark like most of his work, but more semi-abstract than his usual landscapes with splashes of jade green and cobalt blue. A distant glimmer of white light had lifted it, giving it a sense of mystery, of the spiritual. When he’d first painted it I thought it was based on the temples of Angkor Wat that we had recently visited; tropical lush, roots and branches weaving their limbs around the ancient remains. But no, he wasn’t aware of that he’d said. It was the place itself that had inspired him. Yes, Madoc must have moved it.

        But on questioning he denied all knowledge of moving the painting. He rarely goes into our son’s room since the accident. Whereas me, I spend a lot of time there, laying on Dewi’s bed, gazing at the painting, thinking about him as he was, as an active little boy.  I went back up to the room, and checked the wardrobe, the drawers, even under the bed. Then I scoured the other rooms in our tiny terraced house. I looked out into the back yard.  I had become forgetful since the accident, but surely I would have remembered putting it in the outside cwtch. Not there. Not in the garage.  I went out further into the garden, stalked through the unmown wet grass and into the shed which was my husband’s studio. At first glance, nothing.  I felt my throat dry and the back of my neck shiver. I was starting to panic, flipping through his canvases stacked up for his next exhibition, rummaging through his prints, pulling out drawers. Nothing. I had a thought. Perhaps there’s been a burglary? Has anything else gone missing? I rushed out of the studio, and back up the garden into the house.

    ‘Find it?’ Madoc yawned.

    ‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s very weird. Is there anything else missing? Perhaps we’ve had a burglary?’ 

   ‘Yeah, and perhaps it was an art thief.’

   ‘Don’t mock me, Madoc.’

       I always use his full name if I want to get the upper hand. He hates it. But the shortened version irritates him too. I turned and ran back upstairs checking our bedroom, my jewellery box, not that I had much that was valuable, more sentimental; Mother’s wedding ring, my engagement ring, an old pearl and emerald necklace given to me by my late aunt, Non.  All there. Lap top, i pad, a small wad of cash in an envelope for emergencies in a tin hidden up in the fireplace. All present and correct. Perhaps Mad was right. I’d just read Donna Tartt’s novel, ‘The Goldfinch’, which involved the theft of a painting by the Dutch artist, a student of Rembrandt. What was his name? Fab, fab, Fabritius, that’s it. Carel Fabritius.  

    ‘I’m flattered, but I hardly think we’re in the same league, do you? ‘ my husband said, as he yawned again and turned on the TV.  ‘I’m sure It will turn up. There must be an entirely rational explanation. Can we watch the news now?’

     ‘You’re probably right,’ I said, sitting down on the sofa, as Huw Edwards appeared on the screen.

     ‘There’s news just breaking. The spring that is said to be the birthplace of St David, born in a thunderstorm in the sixth century, has disappeared suddenly, overnight. The ground around the spot is barren and dry as if the spring never existed. Experts are puzzled and looking for scientific explanations. Local people are asking whether this is work of the devil, trying to deny the existence of the saint, and are afraid of the consequences for their city. We will bring you further news once we have it.       Now, onto the rest of today’s news…’

 

 

Janet Daniel, November 3 2014.