Lady with Edelweiss

By Steph Newham

Human ashes in a tea caddy, a baby delivered in a snowstorm, worm pie, a priest with a passion for airbrushing. How much do we know about our friends, our families, or even ourselves? This debut collection exposes the strangeness of everyday lives, embracing the light and the dark sides of human nature.

Uncomfortably honest and direct, these stories reveal the fears and passions of the mind through their characters, places and situations, an exploration of the boundaries between fantasy and reality. These are people we all know. 

A rich potpourri of character and plot in this intriguing (and sometimes dark) collection of tales from a talented storyteller.

Angela Locke. Author of Dreams of the Blue Poppy (Robert Hale) etc

Steph Newham has empathy with all her characters so presents her stories as rounded pieces for her readers’ enjoyment. Where she takes on characters from history her research is careful and enriches her stories, which range across many subjects.

Vivien Jones. Poet, author. Co-editor Southlight Magazine

Short but not sweet, Steph Newham writes vignettes that blaze out, illuminated briefly by the photo-flash of her pen. And when the light blinks out, you are left wondering as the scene presents itself again like the complexity of good wine, each time leaving a different taste.

Tony Walker. Author of A Christmas Ghost, etc and The Classic Ghost Story podcast.

These stories are atmospheric, the characters well-drawn. In ‘Unwise Words’, I felt the young mother’s regret and shivered in fear as the bonfire was lit. The sights and smell in the four Spanish stories took me to that country and I laughed out loud at the manuring of the roses in The Sand Walk. Something here for everyone.

Gwen Kirkwood. Author of sixteen Scottish novels and novellas (Joffee Books)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398451285

Steph Newham

Steph Newham has spent many years mentoring developing writers, running workshops and creative writing groups. Her work has been published in newspapers, anthologies and e-zines. Steph came to writing later in life after a career in the NHS and counselling. At the age of sixty, she did a master’s in creative writing, determined to overcome her fears of the stigma attached to dyslexia. Now she writes for pleasure at her home in south-west Scotland, where she lives with her husband Godfrey, and a collection of severed dolls’ heads.

Book preview

About the Author

Steph Newham has spent many years mentoring developing writers, running workshops and creative writing groups. Her work has been published in newspapers, anthologies and e-zines. Steph came to writing later in life after a career in the NHS and counselling. At the age of sixty, she did a master’s in creative writing, determined to overcome her fears of the stigma attached to dyslexia. Now she writes for pleasure at her home in south-west Scotland, where she lives with her husband Godfrey, and a collection of severed dolls’ heads.

Dedication

Dedicated to my husband and family who have put up with my grasshopper mind and off-the-wall ideas over so many years.

Copyright Information ©

Steph Newham 2022

The right of Steph Newham to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398451278 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398451285 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

My sincere thanks to Professor Ludmilla Jordanova, who encouraged me to free myself from a prison of my own imagining; and to Sarah Maitland, my tutor at Lancaster, who patiently nurtured my dyslexic mind into experimenting with writing styles beyond first person. Also, to the Island of Iona, where the embryos of one or two of these stories were originated during writing retreats and where I left part of my heart.

Thanks to my first readers, whose responses encouraged me to do that last edit, and to Kerrie McKinnel, Paula Gilfillan, Carol Price, David Linwood, Claire Clarke, Frank McGregor, Lesley Bradley and Frank Walker, members of ‘A Novel Approach’ creative writing group, whose support and advice have helped me complete this first collection.

Finally, my loving and grateful thanks to my husband G., who edits my work, reads to me and who has given me the confidence to express myself in those dratted ‘words’.

Egon’s Wife

Egon is a sad creature. So sure he owns me. Ha, he has no idea that these long hours of sitting give me more freedom than he will ever experience. Treats me as a slave, but he’s the slave – a miserable slave trapped by his desire for adulation. Thinks himself clever, can’t possibly conceive how wrong he is. Bend this way, dear; turn that, don’t blink, obey me. How unthinkable that I should have a mind of my own. A mind that is free to fly from this body which I leave empty here for him to paint.

Between sittings I manage his house. Pah. Is he grateful? No, he begrudges me every penny. I cook for him. I mend his shirts, trim his hair, ugh filthy slug that he is. I know him so well; any moment now he will ask me to invite Gustav for dinner. He will order me ever so nicely to cook a rich stew, get out the best claret, wear the gold dress Gustav admires so much. I have to be patient and compliant, yet sharp as a razor as I encourage the old fool’s wittering.

My dear, no, don’t move, hold it – there. Now, I was just wondering…

If Marlies could manage an extra mouth for supper?

If Marlies could manage an extra mouth for supper. Gustav so likes a rich stew.

I’m sick of this life. Paint, paint and more paint, it stinks, he stinks. Even in our own room I smell turpentine. I still spread my legs for him, loose my skirts and tease him. It is well to keep him happy. But I’ll never bear him children. Stupid man, he thinks vinegar is for cooking and sponges for daubing paint onto canvas. He has no idea I scour out his sperm while he snores. Breed more like him? Never. Ugh, the idea revolts me, just as his touch revolts me. No, I’d rather sit like this, get cramps but have my mind free to wander. Free to explore the square and alleyways. Free to spy on old Marius. And I know what I’d see. I’d see him wanking over that whore Rosa he paid Egon to paint for him. Does he think I’m stupid?

Can you manage a while longer, my dear?

As long as you like, dearest Egon, as long as you like.

Yes, as long as you like, you old fool. I’ve nothing else to do until Marlies has finished shopping and prepared supper. Then while you sleep, she and I will meander down in the water meadows, lifting our skirts high. Giggling as horse grass tickles our shins. We will pick purple orchids for the table, then sit beside the stream. There I will remove the white froth of a collar I tatted for her; stroke her soft skin and play with the umber tendrils of hair clinging to her neck.

Later, much later Egon, we will return happy. Then I will be dutiful. I will put on the gold dress, pull its heaviness down over my body. Dab perfume under my breasts, in my armpits. And during dinner I will laugh delightfully for Gustav, while Marlies ladles stew onto his platter and smiles wickedly at me over your shoulder. And you, sweet innocent, will ensnare Gustav with talk of brush strokes creating velvety skin with enticing hollows. You will select a peach from the bowl, rub your thumb against its nap; describe the subtlety of moist crevices. You will linger over details: how you use blends of mauve and blue and umber to create subtle flesh tones…so hard to achieve unless lapis is used. But there, he knows that, and he knows how costly lapis is these days. He won’t demur when you tell him the painting will not be cheap.

****

Egon. Egon, can we stop now? Marlies has returned from market, I can hear her below.

One moment…let me finish this…ah, good. Now what were you saying, my dear?

Marlies has returned and if Gustav is to come to supper…

All right dearest, go if there is so much to be done. I can finish the neckline of your dress without your…

Aah, Egon, my bones creak. Look, I am so pale. I need fresh air and sunshine. I’ll take a stroll, Marlies shall chaperone me. You take your nap, rest easy, sleep a while, we shall be safe, Egon. I believe the bee orchids are blooming in the water meadows. We may bring some home for the supper table if you think Gustav would like them. Or we may not; there are so many distractions down in the meadows.

Lady with Edelweiss

I’m a painter. Unless I’ve sold a canvas. Then I indulge myself, call myself an artist; questionable I know, but it gives me pleasure to say it. Artist. I’ve not sold much lately, so just now I’m a painter. I stopped, waiting for her to comment but she didn’t.

You comfortable? I asked. I watched her shift on the couch.

We don’t own our bodies.

I heard my voice, insistent, patiently repeating the words. We don’t own our bodies. I knew if I raised my eyes, I’d meet her stare, see her refusal to let her mind follow the idea I was suggesting. Was it too painful to imagine? Did she think I’d bought her body, not just the right to paint her?

Here, catch.

It was so bloody cold that first day. Winds gale force. A big fucking draughty window. Put the robe on, he said. So soft, it had to be real silk; who else had worn it?

****

Sometimes I still catch a flash of speculation in her eyes. Seven months she’s been sitting and still doesn’t trust me. Wonders why I want to paint her. Wonders just what am I paying for. Wonders why the tattooed edelweiss attracted me. If I gave it a bit of thought, I’d be able to answer her, but why waste time thinking about gut feelings – when I need to paint.

No matter. I feel a twitch in both palms as I study her. Mounds of flesh; armpit flesh merging with boob flesh always stirs me. It takes a lot of calming breath to get into the work; long moments of empty staring before I add new splurges onto the gessoed surface. I work on, contemplate the curves and angles as she grows on the canvas. I’m tempted to say, Chill, I don’t go for women with kids and history. But I don’t; I hand over £20 and call it a day.

So now you come each morning, 11 a.m. till I’m done. You bathe in the light flooding through the studio skylights. It makes you pallid – pallid but not ugly. Each layer of paint I apply strips you bare to the bone; creates tension, like the tension that grows the longer one delays making love. I get spiteful; if I feel grumpy, I tell her the crusty mole on her pubes has no business there, it’s some sort of strange sign that only a lover should see. Mostly I work in silence.

She thinks I’m ignoring her. Fuck. I’m working. Working on finding out what she’s made of. She’s more than that indigo tattoo. Edelweiss. Why edelweiss? She’s faux leather and eyeliner, she smells of incense, sandalwood and jasmine…she’s pale, indoors too much, grey shadows under her eyes; dehydrated? Drinks?

Concentrate, fathead…flesh tones, mmm, cadmium yellow, ultramarine, crimson lake. I wonder if she knows I mix her skin tone, no squeezing a tube to exude a shitty pink. Skin’s hard, difficult to get it right. I build it up, layer by layer, each layer a sliver of mind. My mind, her mind, our minds. A tattoo of minds. Interleaved. Nowhere to hide. God she’s good, I knew she would be. What if I can do this? Expose her to the world. And herself; does she know why she wanted an edelweiss? It’s not really the tattoo; it’s her, a jewel under all that flesh. I love this feeling of insinuating myself under her skin; my mind sinking into her, through the epidermis, down a follicle. Every day’s a fresh exploration. New tubes of paint strangulated to flesh out her flesh. Build the bulk of her until she’s yielding into the canvas. Scan her soul. Rape her with paint, find out why: why that indigo edelweiss?

Enough, sun’s too low, you’re turning gold. Tomorrow? Elevenish?

He’s crazy but I like coming now. I like the inner peace