Page 87 of A Christmas Celebration
‘It’s true,’ he laughed, patting my hand with his free one and then letting mine go. ‘Let me seize this moment and tell my story.’
Catherine and Angus had listened to our exchange and Angus’s eyes were shining with excitement as he waited to hear what Albert had to say.
‘I would very much like to tell you about the thing that sets my soul on fire,’ my friend then began, ‘but it’s quite a long story.’
‘Well, we would be honoured to hear it,’ Catherine said kindly and Angus nodded in enthusiastic agreement.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we’re not going anywhere, Albert.’
‘All right,’ he said, pulling in a breath. ‘In that case, I’ll start right at the beginning.’
I felt every bit as intrigued as my godparents sounded, but I was nervous for Albert too. This was obviously a massive step he was about to take.
‘There are huge parts of my entire life,’ he bravely began, ‘which have been twisted out of shape by the bullying of my father and his inability to let me be the person I always wanted to be.’
You could have heard a pin drop. Even the dogs had stopped snoring.
‘I never wanted to be a stone carver,’ Albert carried on. ‘My illustrious career came about as a result of the compromise I made the summer I left school in order to keep a roof over my head and my father in good temper.’
His head dropped for a moment and I felt my heart contract.
‘Oh, Albert,’ I whispered, my breath catching.
‘You see,’ he carried on, looking up again. ‘You see,’ he then more loudly said, ‘I was born with a paintbrush in my hand, not a chisel.’
‘You’re the artist,’ I whispered, although I already knew and he nodded.
‘An artist?’ Angus echoed.
‘All I ever wanted to do was paint,’ Albert added, ‘but my father wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Whyever not?’ Catherine quietly asked, sounding as affected by the emotion in Albert’s tone as I was.
‘Basically because of his bigoted views,’ Albert said distastefully. ‘He wouldn’t entertain the idea of a son who wanted to be an artist. He said he’d be a laughing stock among his friends and that I would be labelled… well… I won’t use any of his foul words, but I’m sure you get the gist.’
‘I see,’ Angus sighed.
‘His homophobia was shocking,’ Albert continued, ‘but sadly not unique. There were plenty of people around here with similar views at that time and as a result my father flagged up the apprenticeship, as a sop to my creativity, I suppose, and I took it to keep the peace.’
‘Did you ever think about leaving?’ I asked. ‘Weren’t you tempted to move away?’
‘I couldn’t,’ he said, sounding sad. ‘I promised my mother before she died that I’d look after Stella, who was younger than me and that I’d help Dad as best I could, too. Not that I could stand him. He was a cruel man and I wouldn’t have abandoned Stella to his tyranny for every easel in the world. So, I kept the vow I’d made to Mum and I stayed.’
‘And in doing so,’ Catherine said, ‘sacrificed your paintbrushes.’
‘Yes,’ Albert confirmed. ‘I swapped the few brushes I had managed to keep hidden from him for chisels and I didn’t set them down again until the day I retired.’
‘My goodness,’ Angus sighed, ‘half a lifetime spent working at something you didn’t enjoy.’
‘Oh, I did enjoy it,’ Albert said. ‘That was why I carried on with it after Dad had gone. The carving became adequate,although it was never enough to replace what I thought I’d lost.’
‘So, the studio in your garden,’ I said. ‘All those paintings…’
‘What studio is this?’ Angus asked, sitting up. ‘What paintings?’
‘Well, now you know they’re not my sister’s work.’ Albert chuckled. ‘She couldn’t paint for toffee. Her skill was with a needle and thread. Her embroidery was exquisite.’
‘My goodness, Albert,’ I said, it finally properly sinking in that he was the one responsible for creating the vibrantly filled canvases. ‘This is incredible.’
