Colours

‘Who are they?’ I asked.

Bethan, too busy to reply at once, went on painting and I was surprised, as always, by the way her art work mirrored her general development. Last year at four, her paintings were dominated by those round heads that children of that age seem to prefer. But now at five, she was drawing complete figures—round heads, round bodies and spindly arms and legs. Her choice of colours had changed too. The pale,   watery colours she’d used earlier were replaced by bold primary colours and strange mixtures of shades that, quite frankly, verged on the garish.  

Bethan put down her brush ‘That one is Mags,’ she pointed to the smallest of three figures in her     painting.

‘And who is Mags?’ I said brightly.

‘She’s my best friend, of course.’ 

‘Are the others your friends too?’

‘No, silly,’ she said with a cheeky grin. ‘The big one is Mags’ mummy and the boy is her brother.’

‘Do I know them?’

‘No, you don’t.’ 

I wondered if Grandma had met Bethan’s friend. She sometimes picked my daughter up after school if I couldn’t get there.

Often, when Bethan is alone in her room, I hear her talking. It sounds like a two-way dialogue and I think she’s speaking to her teddy bear or perhaps one of her dolls. Two or three weeks ago, while in the kitchen preparing food, I overheard her talking to someone in the next room but when I took some sandwiches in for our lunch I could see no toys other than her paints and easel.  I put a plate on the table where Bethan usually sits but she moved it to the other side.

‘Bethan—’ I began.

‘No, Mummy, that’s Mags’ place,’ she said. ‘We need another plate.’

‘But darling, Mags isn’t here.’

‘She will be, soon. You’ll see.’

The sandwich on the extra plate remained uneaten.

Hurrying to the school a few days later I arrived, a little breathless, just as the other children were coming out with their friends. But my efforts to be there on time proved to be needless. My daughter was last out and all by herself. 

‘Isn’t your friend here, today?’ I asked

‘She’s gone home.’  Bethan’s straight fair hair swung from side to side as she skipped away from me. Pursuing the matter of Mags was impossible. Keeping up with my daughter was more important.

Andy, Bethan’s dad, examined the paintings that were hanging to dry in the utility room.  He made sure she was out of earshot, ‘Aren’t these a bit lurid?’ he said in a loud whisper. ’Don’t little girls like pink these days?’

‘They are meant to be pictures of her friends, darling. I haven’t figured out yet why she chooses such strange colours.’

I didn’t tell him that Mags, seemingly the most important character in Bethan’s life, had taken up residence in our house and while he might not have noticed the addition to our family, Mags is quite visible to me. Her round body is dressed in shades of purple and red, her smile reaches from ear to ear, her eyes drip black tears and her hair needs combing. I wish she’d go away.

At school I asked Bethan’s teacher, Mrs Ferguson, about Mags.

’Oh,’ she laughed. ‘You must mean Magenta. That’s Bethan’s imaginary friend. They always sit together.  We know all about Magenta and her family.’

‘Her family?’ I was surprised

‘Well, there’s Magenta’s brother. He’s called Moss Green and her mother is Ruby Red. We’ve met them all through your daughter’s paintings.’

The teacher laughed at my astonishment. ‘Don’t worry Mrs Grainger; your daughter is just a wee girl with a good imagination.’  

 At home, some days later, Andy was not amused. ‘You’ll have to face up to it,’ he said. ‘A line needs to be drawn somewhere. There’s hardly room for me to sit at the table nowadays.’

I had to admit things had become a bit crowded. Ruby and the baby along with Moss Green had joined Magenta and I wasn’t sure if the baby was a girl or a boy because its clothes were an intense shade of yellow. It didn’t seem to have a name and I had to stop myself from calling it Jaundice. I realised the situation should be dealt with but was at a loss to know how.

While waiting my turn at the doctor’s clinic I talked to Rita Wellburn. Her children have all had imaginary friends at one time or another and she assured me that it is a phenomenon that eventually—and often suddenly—comes to an end. I couldn’t wait for the day. In the meantime I tried to interest Bethan in the paler shades and Andy helped by giving her an enormous scrapbook into which she could stick the pictures when they were dry.  Bethan called it The Family Album.

‘Compromise,’ Andy said. ‘After all that’s what family life is all about.’

 I hoped our new baby, when it arrived, might be slightly less imaginative. 

Mags accompanied us to the shops last week The trouble is that I tend to forget she’s there. Twice I hustled Bethan on to the escalator and left her friend waiting at the bottom. On that occasion a fellow shopper sized up the situation and kindly accompanied Mags to the first floor but the next time I had to resort to calling to the child—drawing—apparition, whatever she is, to make her own way to the top.

‘Her mum won’t be pleased,’ Bethan said. ‘You’re supposed to look after my friend when you take her shopping.’

When I told Andy he said, ‘Don’t you think it is about time we put an end to all this nonsense?’

On the morning I went into labour Bethan was not painting. Instead she was fashioning a small pet bed from a shoebox. It crossed my mind that more than one new arrival was imminent. Grandma came to stay with Bethan while Andy and I went to the maternity hospital. 

Our little boy arrived at teatime and in the evening Bethan came in with Grandma to see him. She was carrying a rolled up piece of sugar paper and I shuddered to think what might be depicted there.

‘It’s a picture for my new brother,’ she said. 

In the cot by my bed the baby opened his eyes as his big sister unrolled the scroll and held it above him. Andy hovered nearby, ready to protect his son from brightly coloured marauders. 

‘They’re only teddy bears,’ Bethan said defensively. ‘And they’re crayoned because Grandma said paint was too messy.’

One of the nurses fixed the drawing to the wall where we could all see it.

At home on Wednesday there was no evidence of the Spectrum family, as Andy calls them.  While I was in hospital Grandma had tidied the house and cleared out everything she considered to be to be rubbish.

‘She put my pet bed in the bin,’ Bethan said.

‘Never mind, darling,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll find another box for you.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Mummy. I haven’t got a pet, have I?’ she whispered.

Now, a week later, there are still no signs of Mags and company. Bethan is very interested in our new baby and eager to help at all times. Andy and I are careful to give her lots of attention and Grandma makes a fuss of her whenever she can. We don’t want our daughter to feel left out of things so try to include her in any decisions that have to be made. Until today, not wanting to disturb the equilibrium, I have avoided the subject of imaginary friends but this afternoon, when she returned from school I cautiously asked her what had happened to Mags. Bethan’s blue eyes opened wide and there was the tiniest hint of disdain in her reply. ‘She wasn’t real, you know. Just pretend.’ 

Breathing a little more easily I changed the subject.

After supper Andy said he was going to register the baby the next morning. Bethan asked why and he explained.  ‘Your brother has to have a name. We can’t go on calling him Baby forever. Mummy and I have a list of names and we thought maybe you would like to choose one.’ He showed her the list of three or four names, written out in capitals and lower case letters so she could read it herself.

Bethan studied the list. ‘Jo-el—’ she spelt the name out slowly. ‘James—Ben—Mark.’ She looked up. ‘I don’t like any of those names.’

Andy was patient. ‘So what names do you like, Miss? What is your favourite name for your little brother?’

She glanced up at him and I would swear the devil was in her eyes.

‘I like Moss,’ she said fervently. ‘Moss is a very nice name for a brother.’