The First Kiss

from The Tears of a Painter

I sulked a little about Mark taking off only a day after he’d arrived home for the Christmas holidays, but it didn’t last very long. I was too excited about setting up the easel. I took it up to the farm that year (despite everyone’s protests of there not being enough space in the Land Rover). In the end Tim tied it to the roof rack along with the timber for the canvas frames.

There was a giant cedar tree near the north fields where the Arabica bushes grew that I was dying to paint. Its great branches arched up and out into the air, each one with a life of its own it seemed. I’d seen it there year after year but had never worked up enough courage to ask my mother to let me go up to the fields and spend the day painting it. And anyway, I couldn’t have; I didn’t have an easel to stand my canvas on. But this year was different. I had an excuse. On our first night there, after our welcome dinner at the long table and after we’d gathered in the living-room around the fireplace for brandy and hot cocoa, just before I turned my light off for the night, I went back downstairs to find Mark’s grandma. I wanted to catch her on her own for a moment, to ask whether, in the morning, she would drive me to the Cedar. I waited until the last minute to bring up the question, afraid she might say no, I couldn’t spend the morning alone in the fields; the tree was at least a ten-minute drive uphill from the house and it wasn’t safe to be there on my own or something stupid like that.

You can just drop me off, I said, speaking quickly, in case she disagreed. I’ll be fine. The pickers will be working there the whole day anyway.

Until then I’d forgotten the coffee pickers. In my head, I had seen only the tree, but now more ideas came flooding in. I could add in the pickers as points of colour.

Do you know, Mark’s grandma broke into my thoughts, The cedar tree used to once upon a time be part of a whole cedar forest? Before we excavated the trees to make place for the coffee bushes. She shook her head and sighed. I still think it was a sin; one of many. The Juniperus Procera. You can still find their forests in the river valleys on the other side of the mountain. But who knows for how long more.

I didn’t know that.

It’s a brilliant idea, she declared. If you get up early enough, I’ll be leaving for the lodge at 6:30.

So I set the alarm on my wrist watch.

Mark’s grandma was the only one awake at that hour. We had marmalade over toast and a mug of fresh coffee together. It had rained through the night. The air was cool.

Take one of the walkie-talkies, and radio me when you’re done, she said. And take River with you, she’ll love being out there for the morning. In the end Sandy insisted on coming along too, so both the German Shepherds hopped into the back seat.

The early light stole my breath. This was a light we didn’t find in Mombasa. The Mombasa  mornings came with plum undertones. The ones here had a sparkling blue that travelled through sky, forest and the smell of fresh mud, to land on the dew sitting on each leaf crest. No wonder the coffee tasted amazing. The bushes ran on for as far as the eye could see. Camphor trees lined the side of the road, picking up the soil’s red ochre tone so that all that distinguished their trunks was the shadow and the early light dancing on their bark. This was a painter’s light. In my head, I took a photograph. This was the light I would paint.

In front of me, in the middle of the field of ripe coffee bushes, stood the greatest of them all, the Cedar tree. Beside me Sandy and River played and then later lay down, panting, and rested their heads on the earth. The coffee pickers arrived for work with baskets on their backs and coloured scarves twisted around their heads, and I was overjoyed for the colour they added. Yet despite the vast indescribable beauty and the freedom it gave my heart, I couldn’t escape the rigidity of painting the scene as it appeared. Something inside me was screaming: make it as your heart wants it; play with the strokes, the colour, the light.  But no—I stuck to what was there before me.

And neither did I paint the thick impasto I had first envisioned; in the end the canvas would look smooth. True to life. Although the Cedar Tree painting ended up looking spectacular, technically top notch, brushstrokes hardly distinguishable—I gave it as a Christmas present to Mark’s grandma, and it hangs in the lodge’s dining room even today—it looks like a photograph.

Quite a bit later, the sun was in the middle of the sky, and the smell of rain had disappeared—I’d put on my cap to keep my skin from burning—I heard the Land Rover approach. Sandy and River heard the engine too, and their ears pricked up. I looked at my watch; time had run ahead. Mark’s grandma was probably on her way back to the house and coming to fetch me. I wouldn’t be able to finish the layer I was working on—it was almost done, but I couldn’t keep her waiting. The Land Rover stopped down by the road.

I was about to wave and start putting away the brushes, when the door opened and out stepped Mark. What was he doing here? He’d told me he wouldn’t be coming up until the twenty-third.

You came early, I called down and waved out.

The dogs bounded towards him, leapt on him without restraint. Even at their age, they still did this with him. And he calmed them with ruffles all over their head and their necks. They loved him.

In lazy strides he reached where my easel stood. You came early, I said again.

All Grandpa’s doing. He seems to think I need the extra time on the farm.

He nudged his head to the easel. You’re using it.

I nodded with a grin. Did you arrive just now?

About an hour ago. We pulled an all-nighter.

You’re crazy.

I’m bloody tired, that’s what I am.

What about Lamu?

We’ll go again when I get back. I’m leaving on the 26th.

You’re not doing New Year’s Eve in Nairobi?

Nah.

He must have noticed the disappointment on my face. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine without me, he said.

I know I will. Why wouldn’t I be?

You ready? he asked. I’m supposed to get you for lunch.

Can you wait a few minutes? I need to finish this part. I waved my brush vaguely over the canvas.

He squatted and Sandy nudged her way beside him. Are you ferrying the whole thing back with you now?

Yes. And I’m coming out again tomorrow. It’ll take me a few days to finish. Probably until the end of the holidays. Maybe even longer, but I have to get it done by then.

Can’t you just paint the whole thing up at the house.

It wouldn’t be the same.

Now who’s crazy? he said.

He wrestled with the dogs on the ground for a bit while I worked, then stood and threw sticks for them to fetch. At first his presence distracted me, but soon I lost myself again, trying to block in the first layer of the road—which I started with a burnt umber. Just a little strip would be visible to the left of the painting, even that I had to fight for. Because it wasn’t in my line of vision; technically, if I was being accurate, the road couldn’t be seen at all from here, within the boundaries of the canvas. It was much further away from the tree. But I was itching to put it in, just a sliver on the edge of the canvas to throw the equilibrium off kilter.

Do you miss me when I’m in England? Mark asked. I’d been so busy painting, I’d forgotten he was there. I looked over my shoulder.

He was a little ways behind me now, raising a stick up high so Sandy could leap for it.

Of course not! Whatever makes you think that?

He chuckled. You’re such a baby; you don’t lie well.

I’m not lying. I never think about you.

D’you have a boyfriend yet?

Sandy caught the stick and ran off. Now it was River’s turn.

Yes. I didn’t.

Who?

Madsen… It was a lie, the first name that came to mind.

He laughed. Nice try. You’re not going out with Madsen. No way. I would have heard about it.

We are going out. Ask Roopa if you don’t believe me.

Yeah, yeah, like she’d give anything away. Maybe I’ll ask Madsen himself.

Do that. He wouldn’t bother. He’d probably forget the moment he got back to Mombasa.

So, have you kissed him yet then?

I looked down. I had to fib well or he’d see through me in an instant. But just at that damn moment my throat closed up, and I had to take a visible swallow to let a single word out. Trying to sound as casual as possible, I said, of course we’ve kissed.

He grinned and propelled the stick sideways through the air. Both dogs sprinted after. You’re lying.

It was a real one, I said. He used his tongue and all.

Mark chuckled. I could tell, he didn’t believe a word. You want me to show you a real one?

I was too stunned to answer. Probably he was too by what he’d just asked because suddenly the air about us changed. Things went quiet.

He came over me, his usual cocky expression gone.

No one forgets their first kiss. I didn’t.

He stopped first. For a few moments, there was not a movement on the hill. Even the line of ants by our feet had stopped in their tracks. Our bodies were still pressed against each other, and I could hear the inhalation and exhalation of our breaths.

Then Mark stepped back, still not saying anything. But in the next instant his expression changed, and the cockiness seeped back in.

Now go tell Madsen, that’s what a real kiss feels like.

I looked at the ochre soil that had settled on my sneakers, giving myself a moment to find my voice and for my thought process to reappear.

In silence, I gathered up all my paints, folded up the easel, and we carried it down to the car. Sandy and River hopped in, and we drove back to the house, and all the way Mark yapped on as though nothing big had happened. After, I didn’t see much of him around the farm, just for the Christmas dinner, and, as he’d said he would, he left on Boxing Day.

As for me, I went to the Cedar tree morning after morning. And by the end of the holidays the painting was done. Just as I had expected, my mother looked at it and said, it’s lovely, but why would you have painted a road over here? It makes the tree appear a little off centre and unbalanced, don’t you think?

That road was the little leeway I’d allowed my soul.

Nonsense, Mark’s grandma cut in bluntly. You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s wonderful. This is what you call dedication. And to me: if the painting is for sale, Anna, I want to buy it. It’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for, for the big stone wall in the dining room. Mark my words, you’re going to make a name for yourself one day.

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Thank you so much for reading. This piece is part of a longer work of fiction which starts here. I had the joy of making up all the characters and events. If you’d like to find out what happens next, please subscribe and you’ll get the next chapter delivered straight into your inbox.