Tableau & Old Company by Niamh Wood
Tableau
We meet each other’s gaze, her desperation clear as her attacker looms over her. She pleads with me to step through three hundred years of paint, to intervene. Encased in a gold frame, her hair is perpetually askew, her gaze searching always, surely, for mine.
The audio guide plays on, whispers in my ears, and tells me now to observe the next painting. Beside me, another tourist lifts her camera to capture the woman without pausing to meet her eye. The audio guide prompts me onward again.
I move on, slowly, footsteps echoing across the polished floor. As I wander around the gallery’s perimeter, I feel the painting’s gaze upon my back, stuck in eternal alarm, millions of witnesses yet no rescue.
On a bench, I look up at a port scene in oil, the people gathering, the boats upon the water. The audio guide tells me that a self-portrait is hidden amongst the crowd. The artist stands between a lady with a parasol and a school child, but I can’t find him. My feet ache. So far from home, I can’t help planning my return to the mundane. When I get home, I’m going to experiment with all the ways here, where what’s normal is so different: I’ll cook new foods, wear new clothes, be somebody shiny and brand new.
I watch the other tourists file past, some with matching borrowed headphones, others wandering unguided. Sitting up straight, I return to the port scene and force myself to be amazed by it. In this part of the world, upon cobbled streets and within old buildings, I feel guilty for resting, for being lazy, for falling asleep in the afternoon. There’s a self-imposed pressure to make my time here matter, to experience something profound – to be some better than who I am at home.
Unable to resist, I turn back to find her watching, braced constantly for an attack that’s fated always to loom and never strike.
I don’t know how to help you, I tell her. I want to tear her from the wall and let her rest.
Some part of me still hasn’t grasped how far from home I am. Some part of me is always here – in a hot summer, in linen, in a hotel room that resets each day, on a careless budget and with a glass of wine. Some days I have a new friend, others I’m all alone, forced to socialise, or on my third straight day without conversing with another person.
I miss home because I miss the ease at which I can do nothing there. I miss letting my time drip away unvalued.
We hold each other's gaze from across the room. People move between and around us. I can’t leave her to face the blade alone. If I sit here long enough, maybe I’ll turn to stone, to be gazed upon and photographed, and to keep her company.
Old Company
A woman in a raincoat is searching for her dog. It took some negotiation to establish this. I promise her that I’ll keep an eye out for him, but I haven’t moved to do so. Dogs roam. He’ll be okay, I assure her, but I will keep an eye out. On the walk home, I’ll call his name.
There is a hum and murmur, of quiet conversation, and knives and forks against plates. Glasses touch, and feet shuffle against gravel and grass. There is a hum and murmur, all the while, of the water. Its surface, green and illuminated beneath a bright, white sky. The wind and trees share a gentle dance, a bend and sway, the low babble of twigs and leaves a whispered word beneath the music.
Some part of me thinks it’d be exciting to find the dog and be the hero. With half a glass of wine remaining, I wait.
Boats navigate in and out of the lock. On the bow, a young boy with a long pole avoids collision with the walls. Up above, his brother turns the wheel, and ties a rope.
Nearby, swans drift through. A family of four.
Mains are served. Bon Appetit. Bumping cutlery, bumping elbows. I forgot to tell you– Did you see–?
Sometimes, in a place far from home, I laugh to myself at the drawl of familiar words. The tourists - my peers - with their maps and mistranslations. Not me. I am at ease, I have been here two and a half days, and I am collected. But other times, when I’m brand new and scared, I take comfort in their foolishness, because at least then, I am not a fool alone.
If water travels the earth, and is shared, and recycled through clouds and rain, then I think that air must have a home. The air here is sweet. It’s something entirely different. I’m sure, now, that I could breathe in home with a blindfold and recognise old company.
The cygnet kicks its foot and shakes free its feathers. Ripples drift outward. The gates close, and the lock fills with water.
On the other side of the river, a dog trots along the path. He’s unaware he’s missing. He’s having a nice day out, same as us. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the sunlight, I scan for the woman in the raincoat. Her search has carried her out of sight
There is chirping: from the trees, the water, the restaurant. Water slips through the gates. The boat lifts. The swan lifts its head to the sky, then dips below the water.
I’ve been thinking of my grandma, who never saw this river. I’ve been wondering how it can be possible to see nice things and have peace and joy – how beautiful places can continue to exist at all – when people die.
At the end of my glass, I start downstream, toward the bridge. The dog leaps into the air and snaps at butterflies and bees.
I wanted to send Grandma a postcard. I wanted to bring home chocolates and share pictures. She and I had a conversation in a dream. It was our last chance to speak, unless I dream of her again. If there’s a heaven, then she must have been visiting. If there’s a heaven, she’s seen the pictures, and the river.
The dog and I meet on the bridge. Down below, beyond the lock, the woman in the raincoat makes her way back toward us. I take hold of the dog’s collar, then raise my hand to her and wave. She doesn’t see us yet.
The air here is sweet. The lock has filled. Both boat and swan carry onward, each pausing to collect the children.
Producers
Amelia Smits
Executive Producers
Hayley Scrivenor
