Page 61 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
‘I foolishly thought that only my grandson Jake and my best friend Arthur had access to the account,’ Atticus began. ‘Jake set it up for me and called my account ‘The Travelling Grandad’. Now, I realise that anyone can see my posts, and I seem to have gathered many followers.’
‘What fun!’ Britta clapped her hands. ‘You have a collection of cyber friends!’
‘Aye, something like that.’
Their main course arrived, and Britta spooned colourful salad, prawns, and spicy potatoes onto their plates, alongside lightly grilled halibut in a buttery sauce.
Deciding that he was talking too much, Atticus asked Britta about her life. She told him she had worked at the café for almost a year since arriving in Spain and finding the cottage. It suited her to have a modest income from the café, which allowed her time to paint on the rare occasion that inspiration struck.
‘Have you family?’ Atticus asked as he munched on the last of the potatoes.
‘I was married,’ she replied. ‘I have no children.’
‘You’re a free spirit. Were you married for long?’
‘Yes, too long. My husband wasn’t a good man, and he…’ Britta had finished her meal and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. She thanked the server as the table was cleared. ‘Let me say that he dominated me, and I had to get away.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Atticus said, not wanting to pry too deeply. ‘Tell me about your art. Have you always painted?’
‘I hadn’t painted for years before I came here,’ Britta said. ‘It was a passion when I was younger, but life got in the way.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Well, there’s not much to tell.’ Britta dismissed an offer of dessert and nodded when Atticus ordered coffee before continuing. ‘I grew up on a farm in the countryside around Utrecht. We farmed wheat, barley, and maize. It was a smallholding, and, as an only child, my parents wanted me to marry a boy from a neighbouring farm.’
‘But you wanted to paint?’
‘Yes, and I worked hard to gain a place at the Rijksakademie, a renowned institution in Amsterdam that supports emerging artists through a residency program.’ Their coffee arrived, and Britta smiled when she tasted the café Belmonte. ‘I like this.’
‘Me too,’ Atticus agreed. ‘But what did you do when you finished the program?’
‘I was told I had talent and was even offered studio space in Amsterdam, close to the gallery where I’d managed to get a job.’ Britta sighed. ‘My parents objected; they didn’t want me to work in the big city and they asked me to come home.’ She continued, ‘I went against them, and I loved my job and being with creatives, immersed in the art world. Every day was exciting, and I had thefreedom to paint alongside others in the studio. But when my mother announced that she was dying, I had no choice but to return.’
‘So, your mother died?’
‘Oh no.’ Britta shook her head and gazed thoughtfully out to the sea. ‘Not for a long time, but she took to her bed to keep me there.’
Atticus struggled to fathom why a young, talented girl would stay in an environment she disliked when her dreams lay elsewhere. He thought of Mary and knew that wild horses would never have prevented his daughter from following her dream when she decided to stay in Ireland and marry Conor. As a parent, he would never have stopped her from doing so.
‘You wonder why I stayed?’ Britta asked, and when Atticus nodded, she continued. ‘The boy on the neighbouring farm began to call, and soon we were dating. He said that if we married, he would let me paint to my heart’s content.’
‘So that pleased both you and your parents?’
‘Not exactly. My mother had anxiety, an illness. She was, how do you say… hypo…chond…?’
‘Hypochondriac,’ Atticus helped.
‘Yes, that. Then she really did become ill, and I nursed her until she died. My father seemed to give up on life. He died not long after.’ Britta shrugged.
Atticus thought of his own circumstances and how he’d given up when Clara died. Listening to Britta, he silently thanked Mary, Jake, and Arthur for shaking him out of his self-imposed shell. Remembering his earlierguilt, he began to feel that Clarawouldapprove of Britta now that he was getting to know her.
‘I’m so sorry for the loss of your parents, but if you married, were you happy?’
Britta smiled. ‘Well, I married the boy, and our farms became one.’
‘Ah, and there wasn’t a happy ending?’ Atticus was anxious to hear about her husband.
Britta looked away and stared out at the sea again with a slight tilt of her head. Her gaze was unwavering, as though she was weighing up her answer. In the silence that enveloped them, neither spoke.
