by Helen Chambers

Tangled in a knot of aching limbs on the wooden bench, Beth hunches her shoulders, sighs and dabs more slate-grey onto the painting. Meg would say it was overworked and then pinch the bridge of her nose in that way she has.

In front of Beth, the gunmetal sea churns and writhes; above her, smoky clouds chase. On the prom behind her, dogs scamper and their nosy owners don’t understand Beth’s glares and tuts. Painters need emotional and physical distance, says Meg’s voice in her head.

Beth is adding micro-dots to the minute detail (miniatures are your thing, Bethany) when something snickers and whimpers, breathing hot, smelly breath down her neck.

She swears, spills water over the tiny block of overpriced paper she could ill-afford (buying the best quality demonstrates your commitment to your art).

“Please don’t, George,” says an earnest voice. Beth turns, finds herself nose to damp nose with an ugly creature: an outsized sheep with long neck, wiry hair and grinning teeth smeared with half-chewed grass.

George is an alpaca. 

Speechless and shaking, Beth takes the ruined painting, tips it from side to side, watches the greys blend into a shapeless blob of pewter. Never give up, snaps the Meg in her head. 

“Sorry. Abstract painting, eh?” says George’s human, tugging his reins. Beth imagines Meg’s sarcastic – and slightly hysterical – laugh. 

George tips his head to one side and considers Beth with unblinking eyes. Behind him are seven more alpacas, golden and warm browns, yellows, creams – all restrained on short leads by frowning acolytes wearing unsuitable shoes.

“Sorry. George likes this bench. Always stops here,” says the woman. Her lanyard reads: Mindful Alpaca Walks. 

George lunges at Beth and chomps her ridiculously expensive paintbrush (Meg’s recommendation) and then spits it out in disgust, drooling. 

“So sorry,” mumbles the leader, dragging George away. Beth stares, immobile. 

Another alpaca ambles up, trailed by a woman who shrugs. “S’posed to be good for your mental health. My blood pressure’s going up.” 

The procession winds along the coast path towards town and the gift shops. Beth meditates on the lumbering alpacas, and the warmth in George’s eyes. 

Eventually, she grabs a pencil and her damp sketchbook, and dashes off loose impressions: the Alpaca Walker dragging George away, George eating her paintbrush, George’s expressive eyes. Her pencil strokes glide and skid across the page, expansive and free. 

Soon, the therapy alpacas return, framed by the bluest sky now the sun has burned away the cloud. This time, they’re led around her. Yet without realising, Beth’s smiling at these gently whickering animals. Their murmurs sound so comforting. 

“Sorry about George,” says the leader. “And your paintbrush.” She produces a bunch of flowers from behind her back and offers them to Beth. 

Only the stalks remain; tattered and askew. George’s wide mouth is a riot of crimson carnations – just like the red lipstick so often smudged on Meg’s teeth. Beth reaches for her paints with a grin of her own.

Helen Chambers writes flash and short stories and loves walking and daydreaming. Last summer she directed Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, worried about the stage direction “Exit, pursued by a bear”. Next year, she’s directing Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance, which thankfully features no animals.