Writing for Fun
September 2015
Artist At Work - Jenni Bowers
Desmond was getting cold, he'd been standing here painting the view of the harbour for hours, absorbed in the wonderful scenery, colours bouncing around, boats, the sun on the water, ripples of the gentle waves as they crashed on the shore, seagulls wheeling overhead. Capturing all this was such a pleasure, but now his hands shook so much he could hardly hold the wonderful horsehair brush.
What was that they'd said? 'Parkinson's disease? What, at my age? I'm only 61, still have all my hair, although of course it's white and there seem to be a few wrinkles, age spots on these once so nimble hands – oh no, this meant future 'art' holidays were soon to be curtailed, unless he could find a way to stop the tremors.
Painting and drawing had been his life's work, a gifted amateur as a youngster, his doodling caught the attention of the art master who'd persuaded him to do a degree. This had led to an interesting career, moving from cartoonist on a local paper then into film work designing sets and holding his own exhibitions.
Fine work, his landscapes were especially beautiful, executed rapidly as sketches or watercolours whilst travelling around the Scottish highlands and other picturesque parts of the UK, also other parts of the world. So many views captured with his brushes, steady hands turning sunlit hills or reflections on lakes or snow on mountains into images people would enjoy – during the colder winter months, working in the cosy studio at the back of his cottage, oil paints became his medium of choice and commissions arrived thick and fast from his admiring public.
As he stood trying to calm his breathing and ease the trembling fingers he could hear a woman screaming – well, shouting!
'Help don't leave me here I'm so scared – all these people I'm lost!' He turned to see a middle aged lady with long blonde hair, wearing a leopard skin coat and striped leggings, feet shod in red high heels with lipstick to match. She had begun to cry and people were staring at her and walking away, assuming perhaps that she was mentally challenged. But Des (as his family and friends called him) held out his hand and she took it. Gently he sat her on the wall next to his easel and began to tell her about his painting and the diagnosis which had so devastated him a week ago.
She began to calm down and dried her eyes, 'My husband has disappeared with a lady from our group, we're on a coach tour and I don't have any idea where I am, where they are and what to do,' she whispered.
'But I do know about Parkinson's because my dad also suffered with it and it is not the end of the world, Des – your hands are not shaking now.' He looked down, sure enough, since he had shown concern for this lady, no tremors!
Des packed his gear into the large rucksack he carried everywhere and escorted Lucinda to where he guessed the coach party might be meeting, but en-route they stopped at a small bistro and had coffee and cake and exchanged email addresses. Once she was reunited with her friends they parted company and Des continued on his way to his hotel, looking forward to meeting her again in England and the painting she'd agreed to sit for.
Two years later, on their wedding day, he managed to get the ring on her finger without shaking and she held his hand tightly whispering, 'You saved me that day in Wales, and I found the courage to leave my errant husband at last – I'm never losing sight of you, I'll hold you tightly whenever you feel shaky my love.'
