Pressure Read online

Pressure

  by Maggie Wilkingson

  Copyright 2011 Maggie Wilkingson

  Pressure

  Outside the surgery Michael leant heavily against the iron railings. Despite the warm April sunshine he felt cold. The roar of the London traffic was deadened by the words pounding in his head. ‘Heart attack’. His throat and chest felt tight making it difficult to breathe. A shadow of panic spread through his limbs, his hands were damp. He thrust them deep into his jacket pockets throwing it out of shape. His broad shoulders slumped. His face was pallid behind the neatly clipped beard. The sudden realisation of the doctor's words hit him in one blow. Up until now he had ignored the implications. He knew he'd had a heart attack, but somehow it didn't mean for him, what it inevitably meant for others.

  ‘You need rest now Michael, medical science has done its best, the rest is up to you.’ The doctor had spoken gently. His words had echoed around the sombre wood panelling in the office. ‘A year to live at most, unless you make some critical changes to your life style. You had a mild attack this time Michael, it was a warning, the next one could well kill you.’

  Michael had heard the words, he'd watched them, followed them around the room, but the words had never really attached themselves to him, until now. The doctor must have said those same words a thousand times to a thousand different people. There was no doubting them. You couldn't question words from a specialist of Jeremy Paxtel's standing. He was one of the top people in his field. He was being paid for by Michael's company. They'd insisted he had a complete medical before he returned to work.

  Michael levered himself away from the railings and pushing the feeling of panic away from him, he began to walk towards the park. The doctor had offer to call Michael a taxi, but Michael had refused, preferring the exercise, maybe he should have accepted the offer, maybe the exercise would be too much.

  ‘Come on man, don't be stupid.’ Michael forced himself to take a deep breath. He'd walked to the surgery that morning. Nothing had changed since then. He straightened himself up, aware that several people in a bus queue were looking at him curiously, not really interested enough to ask if he was alright, he was just a diversion until the no. 38 arrived.

  Rest the doctor had said, not immobilisation, he walked slowly past the queue, they'd lost interest now their bus had arrived, they were more intent on the usual pushing and shoving to keep their place.

  Michael found an empty park bench opposite the lake and sat down. I t seemed much longer than two weeks since he'd been taken ill. He'd thought the pain had been indigestion at first; Until he'd collapsed in the office. His secretary had gone with him in the ambulance, he could still hear the sirens as they raced across London.

  How could he change his life style, his life style was his work. He was a senior sales manager with one of the biggest computer software developer in Europe. He’d think nothing of flying halfway across the world for a three hour meeting and back again in time for dinner. Without his work he had nothing, he was nothing. It was easy for the doctor to say. But it meant giving up everything he'd worked for, for the last twenty-five years.

  As he watched the children sailing boats on the lake and heard the cheerful giggles, he felt a sudden surge of regret, and wished, just for a moment that he'd married and had his own family. It was too late now, he'd been too busy making a career for himself, not that he had ever been short of female companionship, he hadn't, but he had never met anyone he couldn’t live with out. He made his way careful to the gate and waited there until he saw a taxi.

  He spent the rest of the week at home locked away in his flat, thinking. Much as he loved his work he loved living more.

  Monday morning he travelled into the office and handed in his resignation. They wouldn't accept it at first. David Schofield the sales director and Paul Richards the M.D. had taken him out to lunch. They told him how the company couldn't survive with out him.

  ‘Take some time off Mike, take as much as you need,’ said David, ‘You'll soon be back to your old self, the company needs you, just think it over, if you want to ease the pressure I'm sure we can work something out.’

  ‘You shouldn't rush decisions now, old chap said Paul ‘You might regret it.’

  Michael took a taxi home feeling very tired and empty. He didn't need to think it, over his mind was made up. He was at a turning point in his life, the old one was finished. If what the doctor had said was true and he had no reason to doubt it. To return to his old life now would be suicidal. His new life started right now.

  Michael never realised how small his flat was before, he'd never spent much time in it. Why not make a complete change, move away somewhere quiet. He had always wanted to go to Wales. He had had several short holidays there as a boy, fishing and scrambling over the hills, he could paint, all his adult life he had wanted to a paint, but apart from the occasional weekend break with a sketch book, he'd never really had the time.

  The emptiness stayed with him all day, but a small light had also started to glimmer. He began to see how thin the city sunshine was and he began to smell the stale air. The clean fresh air of Wales was becoming increasingly attractive.

  Two days later Michael went into the town and called on several estate agents for details of property in Wales. He liked the idea of the peace and the tranquillity. He could paint and walk, do the things he never had the time to do. He had some money invested. With careful management it should fund a modest lifestyle. He found himself almost looking forward to it.

  Within weeks he had put his house on the market and leased, unseen, apart from photographs, a small cottage in north Wales. The village sat in the shadow of Snowdon. A quiet place, about a dozen or so houses, a shop and a church and a pub. A small river meandered through the village complete with ducks and swans. It was truly idyllic

  When he arrived at the cottage he almost had a change of heart. It was early evening and the surrounding country was sleeping, hidden beneath a fine white mist. It seeped through his clothes and trickled down his neck.

  Snowdon was unseen and the cottage defied description. It was dirty and damp and badly needed painting. It had hole in one end of the roof just over the kitchen and two of the panes of glass in the front window were cracked.

  ‘Exchange one sort of stress for another.’ Michael muttered to himself as he unloaded his possessions from the rented van. ‘There must be at least six months worth of work needed just to make it habitable.’

  But by the end of May the painters, decorators and sundry workmen had all finished and gone home. Every paintable surface had been painted in brilliant white gloss and Michael was ready to start his new life.

  He took a trip into the nearby town and bought everything he needed, brushes canvases paint pencils, sketchpads and an easel. He spent the afternoon arranging everything neatly on the bench in the large front room he had allocated for a studio. The next day he woke with a feeling of excitement and anticipation. After breakfast he went into the studio and arranged a canvas on his easel. He was all set, but where did he get his inspiration. The bright sunshine streaming through the window gave him his answer. He would go out and look for it. He would find inspiration in nature.

  He put a sketchbook and a small watercolour box in a canvas bag and set off. He followed a track away from Snowdon. He walked up through the bracken-covered hills the warm smells and soft vibrant colours were a million miles away from London.

  He found a small group of white painted cottages lurking next to three tall dark poplar’s pleased with the contrast they afforded and settled down to work. After one or two false start he began painting in earnest, by the time the light was fading he had made two passable water colour sketches. Slowly he walked home tired but satisfied. Tomorrow he would go into the village he wanted to try
his hand at painting the church.

  Michael spent the days working, gradually falling into a routine of walking and sketching in the mornings and working in the studio in the afternoon in the evening he caught up on the reading he had been putting off for years. As the weeks went by he gained more confidence. He was relaxed and fit. He began to think that getting the heart attack was not such a bad thing after all. He was enjoying his life. He'd made friends with several of the villagers and occasionally went for a lunch time drink and a game of darts in the pub. He'd found a peace and contentment he had never thought possible.

  The summer months brought tourists to the great mountain. Some would stop and talk as he worked. One couple became quiet friendly at the end of their stay they asked if they could buy one of his painting as a reminder of their holiday, he was delighted and gladly gave it to them.

  Over the next few weeks he was asked to sell more which he willingly did and he grew to appreciate the recognition. Late one afternoon he called into the pub for a drink before going home. Mrs Mason the manager suggested he hang some of his work on the wall.

  ‘They'll sell here with the tourist trade, you should do well. You might even become famous.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘I'm not sure I want to become famous,’ Michael said. But he let her hang some of his painting on the wall and sure enough they did sell almost as fast as he could paint them.

  About the end of September, Mrs Mason had some visitors. They showed a very keen interest in the paintings on the wall and asked for Michael's address.

  A couple of weeks later Michael received a letter offering him some space in a London gallery. an exhibition was planned for three weeks after Xmas . He was flattered and mentioned it at the pub that lunchtime.

  ‘Good for you Michael, you deserve it.’ Some one bought him a drink and somehow he found he had agreed to the invitation. A week later he received a letter of confirmation. He had some paintings ready so there wasn’t much work involved, he would only need two or three extra.

  Michael travelled up to London for the occasion. The exhibition was a moderate success and he agreed to show his work in a larger exhibition being planned for the autumn. Michael also found himself accepting several commissions.

  He didn't get to the pub very often these days he didn't do much walking either, he found it quicker to paint from photographs in his studio, usually he worked well into the night.

  One morning in the early spring Michael climbed out of bed feeling just as tired as when he had laid down the night before. He collected his post and opened a letter from London. It was from his agents asking how his work was progressing. They had had several inquiries about his work and they were pleased to say he was starting to get quite an enthusiastic following. Maybe it would be possible to travel up to London some time soon to talk about the arrangements for the exhibition. He thrust the letter down on the table. How could he be expected to find time to paint if he was travelling up to London every five minutes? He made a cup of coffee and took it into the studio, he had no time for breakfast he had to get on with his work. As he picked up his paintbrush he felt a sharp pain in his chest.

  Michael fell backwards and the paintbrush dropped from his fingers leaving a bright viridian green smudge of paint on the floor.