I first saw the dragon with the sun at its back. It was silhouetted black surrounded with a halo of light like an eclipse. Its wings stuck out and looked as if a massive cormorant rested on the wall of the Old Piggery garden. I’d been rouge-ing wild oats in the bottom field under the power lines. They grew thick in sheaves dwarfing the malting barley. I tugged them out and carefully bending the stems, folded them; pregnant heads first, into the mouth of the nearly-filled sack.
Straightening my back I saw a red tanker slicing up the firth. On the shore a cluster of kids swinging florescent buckets hunched peering into a rock pool. Mr Bennett came slowly along the golf course track with his arthritic whippet. I waved but he walked on head bent as if looking for dropped coins. I picked a few pebbles from the ground and flung them up at the pigeons shitting next years weeds from the high wires. They flapped away towards the east and I watched as they wove out towards the renovated farm building. A whirly gig washing line birled in the July breeze; shirts and socks flapping; flying the flag of new inhabitants.
The black beast curved over the wall, straddling the variegated ivy; one fat leg resting in the rockery. It was still as if sunning itself like the black beetles that scuttled from my foot steps in the field as I disturbed their siesta - uncovering their hiding places with my walk. But the dragon rested on, its shadow dark and long across the gravel. I watched it for a while, frightened to blink in case it vanished. I glanced down and back, it hadn’t moved but the sun now poked over it’s shoulder rendering it more of a slate grey colour. I had to squint to see through the glare of bright light. Deciding to finish for the day, I stamped a wellie into the sack, flattening down the wild oats. I twisted a lug into the corner of the sack and swung it over my shoulder. Cutting down a tractor wheel track Mr Bennett’s whippet saw me and trotted across stiff-legged.
The dog’s blued eyes stared into mine as I scratched its neck and called to its owner,
“Have you seen the dragon on the Old Piggery wall?”
Mr Bennett looked up confused, turned to the Old Piggery and then laughing he said, “Oh, you know what these arty folks are like, all showing off and attention seeking. Best to ignore them , or you’ll only encourage them.”
The whippet nudged my hand with his snout so I stroked his velvet ears and walked out of the field with him trotting at my heels.
“When did they move in?” I ask.
“Last week. Three removal vans and a lot of comings and goings. They’ve spent a fortune on it. Been cheaper knocking the whole shebang over and starting from scratch. No one knows anything about them, apart from the fact they’ve spent silly money.”
“Oh, well. It’s nice to see it lived in instead of tumbling down, I suppose.” I gave the dog a farewell pat and set off down the track. The nearer I got to the dragon the lighter it became. Within a few yards I realised the dragon was a bleached trunk of a tree that had been weathered by waves; it had retained a few twisted branches that jutted out like legs. What I’d seen as out-stretched umbrella wings - its tangled roots. The light played over its smooth whiteness. The dark crevices of shadow gave it a weightiness - a permanence. I wanted to touch it - stroke its contours, run my fingers over its length and explore its creases. I looked about and saw no one: no vehicle, so I dropped the sack and clambered over the dry-stane dyke. Crunching across the gravel path feeling furtive, my heart pounding, I glanced through the French windows and watched a woman standing watching me. I stopped, blushed and give her a wave. She stared arms folded, mouth pursed. “Sorry”, I said as she opened the door. “I wanted to touch the dragon.”
The woman wore paint spattered jeans and fisherman’s smock. She lifted a tanned thin hand to tuck escaping hair back into a loose bun. She had on many gold rings; even one on her thumb, “What dragon?” She asked slowly as if I am a mad woman and I may do something unpredictable - violent.
I pointed to the driftwood propped against the far wall, and said as normally as I could, “It looks just like a dragon from a distance. See those bits,” I walked towards it and gestured at the mass of curling roots, “those look like its unfurled wings.” she looked non-plussed. I pointed at the thick branch that dipped into the rockery and newly planted alpines, “and that’s one of its legs.”
She refolded her arms and asked, “Are you taking the piss? You locals have some quaint ways.” Her voice cultured, educated - posh.
I looked down at my Wellingtons to give me thinking time and a tall man stepped through the opened glass doors. He stretched out a hand towards me, “Gerald”, he announced, “and you are?”
“Sandy,” I answered and then offered my grubby hand which he gripped firmly. His hand felt cool against my sweaty palm. “Miranda, let’s all have a drink,” he rubbed his hands together and motioned for me to follow him inside. I took off my boots and stepped into a long room: oak floors with oriental rugs and dark, expensive looking furniture. He said, “Please be seated.”
All the chairs and a chaise-long upholstered in pale blue linen. I looked at my grass stained jeans, and said, “I’m a bit manky. Can I have a newspaper to sit on?”
He pulled a broadsheet from a pile of papers on the desk and straightened it across the seat of an armchair that faced the garden and the sea beyond. He disappeared through a doorway and I looked down at all the barley chaff and grit I’d deposited on the floor. I knelt down and with my hands brushed the mess under the rug, and then wiped my hands on the thick pile. When I sat back down Miranda was staring at me through the opened doorway, she came in asking, “Looking for Pixies perchance? Find any of the wee folk down there?”
I squirmed rustling against the newspaper and started to mumble when Gerald appeared back with a tray, glasses and a frosted bottle of wine. We sat sipping, Gerald asking me questions, his wife smiling at me as if I’m mentally retarded. I made to go and slid my wellies back on in the doorway. Miranda said, “You must come for dinner. Saturday, 7.15 for 7.30.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, unable to look at her.
When I got home, I fed the cats, took a bath, ate the second half of yesterday’s pie and sat trying to read the previous weekend’s paper. Two-Stroke kneaded my lap; pummelling me with jaggy claws and rubbing his jaw against my hand to scent me. He made reading impossible. Rumpling his striped fur I found an engorged sheep tick, twisted it off and popped it between my thumb nails. I gathered him up and put him down beside his purring sister - the mother of his brood. I and go and wash my hands. The phone rang so I dried my hands on my jeans as I walked back into the living room to answer it.
“Gerald here. Wondered if you’d care to pop round tomorrow? I’d like to paint you.”
I held the phone away from my ear looked into the receiver confused. I’m ex-directory.
“Well, I work,” is all I could manage to say.
“What time do you finish?” He asked in the tone of voice that I’d been programmed to respect: a headmaster’s, a doctor’s - a professional’s.
“Five O, Clock.”
“Come then. I’ll feed you.”
“I’ll be mucky.” I made a mental note to do some assertiveness training the next time they run them down at the community centre.
“You can have a shower if you want, but it doesn’t matter really.”
“O.K.” I mumble before placing the phone down. Shit. I went and made a mug of drinking chocolate, poured milk from the carton into the cat’s bowl before setting a pan of it on the ring of the cooker. It boiled over as I stared into the frothing mass.
It stank.
The next day I spent in the old hanger on the top field sorting out last year’s hay: re-bailing melted bales. I uncovered nests of rats, the farmer’s Jack Russell snapped their necks as they sprang out into the dusty light. Rat babies lay curled pink and bug-eyed, as I imagine foetuses look. Fly caught each rat as it shot from a lifted bale in mid-flight by its scruff. The dog shook it once violently. He ate the first few and then boaked felted grey bodies onto the concrete floor.
At 3 o,clock I went out into the fresh air, my lungs heavy with dust and drink a coffee from my thermos. I glanced across the field and saw a figure moving about the garden at the Old Piggery. I regretted agreeing to go there. It had dulled my day - nagging away in the background.
I found extra jobs to do around the farm - ones that could wait and arrived at Gerald’s and Miranda’s at 6 o,clock; the dragon still straddling the wall looking magnificent.
Miranda showed me into a bathroom, handed me a towel. I swung round to face her.
“I can’t stay.” I almost shouted.
“What?” She looked me up and down.
“I only came to say that I won‘t be able to come. I don’t really want to be painted.” I exhaled audibly.
“Why not?” she tucked the towel under her arm and leant on the door post.
“Coz I…I don’t that’s all.” I felt an anger welling up inside and I thought she could detect it.
“Come have a drink. Gerald will be disappointed,” she walked down the hallway shouting, “Gerald, we have no model, no portrait to paint.”
He opened wine and we all sat around sipping; Gerald making idle conversation, his wife watching me with clear lizard-like eyes.
“We don’t want you to undress or anything sordid. It’s your bone structure: your quiet arrogance we wish to capture. We can pay you?” He said topping up my glass.
“Okay,” I mumbled my defences feeble.
We all ate a meal Miranda had prepared. My eyes flitted around the polished dining room taking in the décor, the paintings, the antiques.
Miranda, studying me between forkfuls of foreign food, said, “We each use different mediums and express ourselves dissimilar,” she waves her fork at the paintings on the wall. Gerald is more of a classicist. I’m into abstract- realism.”
“Nice,” I said nodding, my mouth full.
I offered to help with the washing up, but they both said “No,” together.
Miranda asked me if I wouldn’t mind changing into a dress she'd laid out in the spare room. I shook my head slowly, but said “ yes” wondering what I’d let myself in for.
The dress, fanned on the bed, was heavily embroidered. The material glinted in the light. There were slits in the sleeves and the skirt is opened down the front. These openings revealed an under dress of ivory damask. It seemed from another time and faraway place: a pre-raphelite painting by Millais perhaps. It’s weight astounded me, it’s colours shimmering as I moved it. It folded like a rug across my arm. Miranda helped me get it over my head and I stood in front of the wardrobe mirror as she fussed with my hair.
It’d been decided that I was to kneel beside the dragon in the garden. They gave me a book to read so I could concentrate - remain still. The midsummer sun still strong: the barley beyond the wall gently bent in the breeze making a field of spun silk. Golfers passed in pastel pullovers, pushing trolleys. When I looked towards the beach I saw children scrabbling over skellies carrying bright buckets and bamboo canes with a pocket of green net on the end. They held them upright and looked like squat dodgems from a distance; the way they go this way and that and then back-track; coming together, then off in different directions.
I tried to read the paperback, but it was heavy going: long words and too many characters. I leant against the warm wall - the print blurring on the page into a haze of grey, the rich fabric of dress pooling out across the gravel.
“Grand evening,” Mr Bennett peered over the far wall. I looked up flustered at first and said, “Hello.” He grinned across taking it all in - Miranda and Gerald standing oblivious at their easels deep in their work. Turning back to me he said chuckling, “Well, I never.”
I reached up and touched the smooth trunk; lazily stroked my hand along the dragon’s body and said, “You don’t know what you’re missing.”