We Float Upon a Painted Sea

2064. 18 months earlier

Saffron stared at the self-portrait she had just completed. She didn’t recognise the image. She removed the canvas from the easel and walked through the narrowboat trying different angles and shades of natural light. Finally she painted over it and in doing so came to a decision: it was time to transform her life. Saffron regarded her existence in the universe as a journey. A journey which is enhanced by sharing experiences with another human being but not necessarily one she loved physically, as long as they could meet halfway on her spiritual bridge. But love or companionship was not her raison d´être. She would rather continue her journey alone than share it with someone who bridled her aspirations. Saffron considered how, unlike most humans, Bull dealt with basic emotions such as anger or embarrassment or happiness stoically, but jealousy was a more complex emotion for him to contend with. Bull had an inner strength rarely evident in previous subjects of desire, she thought. He had an aura of kindness about him. He was compassionate and had a wonderful, if somewhat immature, sense of humour. She had promised herself not to try and change him, but rather exert a positive influence on him, but she wanted him to be more passionate and observant about the world around him. She had taken him as far as she could. She had to admit to another failure. Her work with him was nearly complete.

The following morning, Saffron found Bull lying on the living room floor, wrapped in her Myakka hand woven rug. She reminded herself of how negative feelings were natural. She understood the concept, for those searching for completeness in their lives, such thoughts should be acknowledged as part of the evolving process. Failings should be accepted as a human trait. Saffron knew it was wrong of her to judge him by her own standards, after all she had identified many failings of her own. Subjecting the same demands she expected from herself was unfair. Examining his inebriated form she discovered a nasty cut to his head.

Saffron stepped into the toilet cubicle and opened the medicine cabinet, stopping only briefly to catch her reflection in the door mirror. She grabbed the first aid kit, opened it and found a bottle of liquid plaster. As she turned, she lost her balance. She slipped on the collateral damage from Bull’s drunken urinal misfire. Struggling to find her feet, she bemoaned the months of persuading him to urinate whilst sitting down. Saffron returned to the living room and walked over his sleeping carcass. She cleaned his wound with a swab and applied the plaster. She placed the swab in a culture tube, placed it in her hemp bag and left for her studio.

Bull went for a walk in the Botanic Gardens, stopping off to see the timber wolves at the sanctuary. He explained his troubles with Saffron to the dumbfounded beasts. When the wolves became antagonised and aggressive an unsympathetic park keeper asked him to move on. He returned home to Maryhill Locks. Stepping onto the narrowboat, he overheard Saffron talking in the galley. He peered through the porthole. He could see an older woman. Perhaps Saffron’s mother he thought. At last he would meet her. He removed his jacket and listened.

“We don’t even have to say much to each other,” said Saffron, “But instinctively we connect on a spiritual level and that is enough.” Bull smirked, deluding himself Saffron was listing some of his virtues, however at odds with yesterday’s outburst. He nodded in agreement when she described the kindness and sensitivity he often aspired to, and even mentally adding a few suggestions of his own to her list. He stepped onto the upper deck and continued to eavesdrop but was overcome with a new found modesty, even questioning some of the perceived qualities regarding his background. Salford was culturally rich and diverse for sure, but he would hardly describe it as mystical. Although he had heard that Eccles Parish Church was haunted by a priest who had hanged himself. Saffron persisted, “You know how I’ve always needed someone like him in my life. Even more so since Aisha has gone. He’s special to me. I only hope Faerrleah will understand. I don’t think he likes the idea of Maurice much.” When Bull heard Maurice’s name, he dropped his jacket onto the deck in disbelief. When Saffron heard the clang she abruptly changed the conversation. “So an infusion of comfrey, burdock and evening primrose may cure his rash.” Saffron left her mother, walked out through the hatch and up the steps to the upper deck. She blinked when she came into the daylight. She watched Bull sitting on the wooden bench, his head in his hands. She waited for him to face her. She wanted to see his expression and gauge his mood. After a moment of silence, she said,

“I didn’t hear you come in. Normally you bang your head on the companionway? How is your head today. I cleaned and plastered it while you were sleeping.” Bull didn’t answer. Saffron looked at his head to examine the wound but the plaster had gone and there was no scaring. Not even a bruise. Continuing to look at his head in disbelief, she continued, “My mother is here if you want to meet her? She has given me an herbal remedy for your eczema.”

“It isn’t eczema,” said Bull churlishly. He fidgeted on the edge of his seat, his mind filled with rambling paranoia and agonising scenarios of Saffron and Maurice in intimate positions. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He stared out onto the algae blooms floating on the water and the multi-coloured rows of narrowboats lining the canal. Saffron tried to explain whatever he thought he had heard, it was part of a conversation and they needed to talk about the context. When Saffron put her hand on his shoulder, he walked out onto the moorings.

“I know you’re confused Faerrleah but we need to talk. There are a few things I need to explain to you. Don’t do this!” wailed Saffron. Bull walked away. Saffron watched him saunter along the canal bank and towards the bridge. Out of sight, she wiped the tears from her face. She sat sobbing until her mother joined her, offering her a comforting arm and a kiss on the cheek. Saffron turned to her mother and said, “I just can’t do this anymore, it’s too hard.”

“I know dear. I understand,” replied Saffron’s mother.

“That’s the problem, you don’t understand. No one does?” Saffron’s mother gave her a handkerchief and then left. Later Saffron went below to the galley. She lit her pipe and made a cup of herbal tea. Saffron heard the sound of a phone ringing out on the deck. She went outside and from Bull’s jacket pocket she retrieved a satellite phone. She picked it up and examined the device. It looked antiquated. I haven’t seen one of these in years, she thought. She blocked the 3D projection and listened to the voicemail: “Hi, it’s Fergus, hope you’re feeling better? I’m sorry but we need you to go back to Svalbard and carry out some more tests on those drill sites. They are not happy with your model results, the ones identifying pipe fatigue in the bearings and sealing systems. It’s going to cost them and you know the industry, always squealing about being under so much financial pressure and constraints. We need you to re-run the model but this time we need more favourable results. Call me when you get this message.” Saffron ended the call.

Later, Bull returned to an empty home. In the morning he left for Svalbard. When he arrived he found a payphone at the airport and called the narrowboat. Saffron answered. She was cold and distant. He was glad the visual display on the payphone wasn’t working. He didn’t want to see if the tone of her voice matched her face. She said,

“This isn’t working out the way I had imagined it would. We’re not the people we think we are. I’ve realised that subconsciously I’ve been trying to change you. I have no right to expect you to change.” A bubble of panic rose up within Bull’s stomach. He felt sick but somehow still managed to speak. His words were laced with anxiety.

“I’m sorry. I’ve being childish but I see that now. I was jealous and foolish. Look, I need to go. I’ve got more ice bores samples to analyse. I’ll see you at the Naked Bike Ride for Climate Change at Kelvingrove Park tomorrow tonight and we can talk then, if you like? I love you Saffron.”

The line went dead. During the conversation with Saffron he had noticed a young girl sitting beside him and listening into his conversation. He winked at her but to save himself any further embarrassment, he continued talking into the communicator. “Yes, well, I’ve tried to be fair but enough is enough. I’m not a man to be trifled with. I’ll say no more on the subject.” Bull pretended to hang up the communicator and turning to the girl said, “That’s women for you. Don’t you grow up to be like her?” The girl looked up and in perfect English, replied,

“She hung up on you, a while ago, didn’t she? You can tell by the light on the top of the com changing from green to red. Call her back, I want to see her 3D projection – I bet she’s ugly, if you’re anything to go by.” Bull frowned at the young girl and said,

“She’s beautiful if you must know but more importantly she’s a good person.” The little girl smiled and said,

“Why is she with you then? You lied.”

“I didn’t lie.” The little girl pointed to the com and said,

“You did, you pretended she was listening and she wasn’t. You’re not a nice man.”

“Neither are you!”

“Ha, ha you think I’m a man. You can’t tell the difference between boys and girls. You’re a big freak.” Tears began to well up in Bull’s eyes. The girl continued,

“Ha, ha and now you’re starting to cry. You can’t even beat an eleven year old in an argument.” Finally Bull said, “Didn’t your parents teach you not to eavesdrop on adults conversations?” The girl’s father approached and led her away by the hand. Then she stopped and turned back, repeatedly jerking her fist. Bull sunk his head into his hands. He wondered if his secret was out.

The following day Bull returned to Glasgow from Svalbard. Thinking of Saffron’s lecture on using low emission transport, he took the Sky Tran from the airport to the Salt Market and picked up a rented bicycle. An air quality warning had been issued, so he put his respirator on and wheeled the short distance down to Glasgow Green. The Naked Bike Ride for Climate Change was already under way when he arrived. Bull stuffed all his clothes in a plastic bag and placed it on the wet ground. He was naked apart from his respirator mask. It started to rain. He mounted his rented bike and waited for Saffron amongst the hundreds of nude cyclists. He waited for over an hour. Saffron failed to appear. The last cyclist departed and he was alone. He felt like an abandoned child at a fun park. He wanted to go home, hoping Saffron would be there. He decided to dress but his bag of clothes were gone. Bull approached a police officer and asked if he had come across a plastic bag containing his belongings. The police officer snorted,

“I saw a gang of neds kicking a bag around like a football, about twenty minutes ago.”

“What’s a NED?” asked Bull.

“A Non Educated Delinquent. One of them kicked the bag skyward and into the river.”

“And you just stood there and watched the little scrotes steel my clothes?”

“It’s not in my job description to jump into rivers to retrieve garments discarded by their civilian owners.”

Bull cycled naked along the Kelvin Walkway, in the opposite direction of the other cyclists and back towards Maryhill Locks. When he arrived home he opened the hatch to the narrowboat, taking care not to bang his head on the companionway. It took a while for him to realise Saffron had left. It wasn’t immediately obvious. Most of her furniture was still there but her easel, paints and canvases were all gone. Still naked, he stood for a while, alone in the lounge area, marinated in the Glasgow rain. The bunch of weeds, he had picked for her on the way home, filled the air with a mousey aroma, and he was convinced the sap from one of the plants was burning his fingers. He threw the flowers on the floor and walked through the galley and into the sleeping quarters. The drawers and wardrobes were emptied of her clothes. Turning back towards the lounge, he sensed something was missing. It wasn’t the embroidered Boho cushions, the totem or the patchwork Batik tassel throw from the sofa. He realised their pet terrapin, Boris was gone from his cage. He had failed the worthy father test, Patrick had told him about. A handwritten note lay on the coffee table, weighted down by one of the glass pebble wishing stones he had bought her from a Svalbard market. The stone was inscribed, trust. She had returned it, and the Kama Sutra book he had given her for her birthday.