Tin Man(9)

She would suddenly stop in front of that painting, and whatever she was saying or doing at that precise moment came to an abrupt halt in the presence of the colour yellow. It was her solace. Her inspiration and confessional.

One afternoon, not long after Michael had come to live in Oxford, they came back to the house together and it was the first time his mother, Dora, and Michael had met. He remembered how charmed they were by one another, how engaged they were in conversation almost immediately, how Michael manoeuvred her seamlessly into the space his own mother had vacated.

He remembered how Michael stood in front of the painting of the Sunflowers with his mouth wide open and said, Is that an original, Mrs Judd?

And his mother said, No! Good Lord no – how I wish it was! No. I won it in a raffle.

I was just going to say that had it been an original, then it might be of considerable value.

His mother stared at him and said, How funny you are.

She brought sandwiches in from the kitchen and placed the plate down in front of them and said, D’you know who painted it?

Van Gogh, said Michael.

Dora looked at her son and laughed. You told him.

I didn’t! he protested.

He didn’t, said Michael. I know quite a lot.

Eat, she said, and the boys reached for the plate.

He cut his ear off, said Michael.

That’s right, said Dora.

With a razor, said Michael.

Why’d he do that? asked Ellis.

Who knows? said his mother.

Madness, said Michael.

You don’t say? said Ellis.

I would’ve cut off something more discreet, said Michael. Like a toe.

All right, all right, said Dora. Enough now. D’you know where Van Gogh came from, Michael?

Yes. Holland. Same as Vermeer.

See – he really does know a lot, said Ellis.

You’re right, said Dora. Holland. And the colours he was familiar with there were earth colours, dark colours, you know, browns and greys. Dark greens. And the light was like here, flat and uninspiring. And he wrote to his brother Theo that he had a great desire to go south – to Provence in France, that is – to search for something different, a different way of painting. To become a better artist.

I like to imagine how it would have been for him, stepping out of the train station at Arles into such an intense yellow light. It changed him. How could it not? How could it not change anyone?

Would you like to go south, Mrs Judd? asked Michael.

And his mother laughed and said, I’d like to go anywhere!

Where’s Arles? said Ellis.

Shall we see, said his mother, and she went to the dresser and pulled out an atlas.

The pages fell open heavily at North America, and a cloud of dust rose. Ellis leant forward as countries and continents and oceans flicked by. His mother slowed at Europe, stopped at France.

Here we are, she said. Near Avignon. Saint-Rémy and Arles. That’s where he painted. He searched for light and sun, and found both. And he did what he set out to do. Painted using primary colours, and their complements, too.

What’s a complement? Ellis asked.

Complementing colours are ones that make the other stand out. Like blue and orange, said his mother, as if reciting off the page.

Like me and Ellis, said Michael.

Yes, she smiled. Like you two. And primary colours are?

Yellow, blue and red, said Ellis.

That’s it, said Dora.

And the composites are orange, green, and purple, said Michael.

Bingo! said Dora. So who wants cake?

We haven’t got to the Sunflowers yet, said Michael.

No, we haven’t, she said. You’re right. OK, so Vincent hoped to set up an artists’ studio down there in the South because he was keen to have friends and like-minded people around him.

I think he was probably lonely, said Michael. What with the ear thing and the darkness.

I think he was, too, said Dora. 1888 was the year, and he was waiting for another artist to join him, a man called Paul Gauguin. People say that, in all probability, he painted the Sunflowers as decoration for Gauguin’s room. Did lots of versions of them too, not just this. It’s a lovely thought, though, isn’t it? Some people say it’s not true but I like to think it is. Painting flowers as a sign of friendship and welcome. Men and boys should be capable of beautiful things. Never forget that, you two, she said, and she disappeared into the kitchen.

They listened to the sound of a cake being brought to a plate, a cutlery drawer opened, Dora’s happiness in a song.

And look how he painted! said Dora, suddenly propelled back into the room by a new thought. Look at the brushstrokes, you can see them. Thick and robust. Whoever copied this, copied his style too because he liked to paint fast, as if he was in the grip of something. And when it all comes together – the light, the colour, the passion, it’s— The sound of a key in the lock made her fall silent. His father strode past them into the kitchen. He said nothing but made noise. Kettle heavy on the stove, cups, drawers opening, banging shut.

I’m out tonight, said his father.

Fine, said Dora, and she watched him leave the room with a mug of tea.

And when it all comes together? asked Ellis.

It’s life, said his mother.

The following Sunday, snow had fallen hard and had settled well, and his mother drove them out to Brill with the toboggan. It was the first of many memories he had, of how Michael sought Dora’s attention in those early days, how he clung to her every word as if they were handholds up a cliff face. He said he had to sit in the front on account of car sickness, and he spent the entire journey complimenting Dora on her driving and her style, steering the conversation back to the Sunflowers and the South, back to colour and light. Had he been able to change gears for her, Ellis firmly believed he would have.