The Turner Painting, IvyBridge 1813 by Barbara Hill

‘He’s gone from the picture in the museum too.’ Sally spluttered the words as she rushed in through the door.

It had all started when I got up this morning. Because Sally had gone to school at Ivybridge and it was her old stamping ground I wanted to show her the picture and question her about both the building and the scene generally. I studied the picture before she arrived and like most people who live alone I started to talk about it out loud. I kept feeling this was a purely commercial piece and Turner had not really painted it from the heart.

‘And you, little man’ I said, pointing at the figure on the bridge ‘you never existed, you’re just a figment of Turner’s imagination. You’ve just been put there to balance the composition.’ As I uttered these words the catalogue jumped up and down on the table and from the edge of the picture emerged a little man no bigger than a my thumb nail.

‘I’m not imaginary.’ He stamped his foot. ‘I’m me, I’m real.’

To my horror I saw little tears run down his little cheeks.

‘I was getting into the coach with Sarah. We were off to London to start a new life together; when this painter chap made me go and stand on the bridge. The coach went off without me and I never saw Sarah again. And, I’ve been stuck on this dreadful bridge for 197 years. Well no more I tell you.’ And with that he just vanished.

Sally didn’t believe me at first. I could almost hear her thinking that I’d finally gone completely senile. But, when I showed her the picture on the Tate’s website she was forced to accept my bizarre story.

We finally decided the only course of action was to actually go to Ivybridge and see if we could find out what had happened to Sarah. Whilst there we found a very old man living in a cottage near the bridge who was something of a local historian.

‘There was a story,’ he said ‘of a young woman called Sarah. She had been getting on the coach bound for London when she saw her fiancé  Davey fall off the bridge. It is said she ran back onto the bridge and jumped in the water to try and save him. She managed to save Davey but her body was swept away.’

Back at my kitchen table I related this story out loud, hoping little Davey was nearby and listening. At the end of the story he came out and nestled in the palm of my hand. This time tears flowing freely.

‘She really did love me, didn’t she?’ he said.

I nodded dumbly. There was nothing I could say.

‘Maybe she didn’t drown,’ he said hopefully. ‘Maybe she’s still in the river. If I go back to the bridge and reach out to her perhaps I can save her.

With that, he jumped off my hand and back in the painting. If you look carefully you will see that though he’s pointing to the coach his eyes are fixed on the water.

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