by Jane Linfoot
As I pull out a chair Loella comes across. ‘So, I expect you’re ready for your first project?’
‘What?’ I did not see that one coming and my lurch of shock leaves my coffee wobbling wildly. I can’t tell her I’m mostly here for tips on hot decorators, and I was counting on at least another week writing lines of letters – or, in my case, not – because anything more will mean spelling. I know I can still officially write, but it usually comes out as a jumble all over the paper. I have no clue how many mistakes are in there, but I can tell from Mum’s zigzaggy eyebrows it’s not brilliant. And, at a guess, for calligraphy the spelling has to be spot on.
I swallow hard and try to forget my mouth’s gone dry with nerves. ‘A p-p-p-project?’ At least I’ve got that out for once.
‘There’s no need to look so terrified.’ Loella’s laughing.
‘Maybe next week?’ When Aunty Jo’s here to help me.
‘We’re here for fun, not perfection. Our plan is, if you get a taste for creating, you won’t be able to stay away.’ Loella’s got a little piece of blue paper in her hand. ‘If you write the word “beach” you’ll be using all the letters you practised last week, and you can add in a little arrow and some decoration and make it look like a sign.’
She seems to be overlooking how shit the few letters I wrote last week were.
‘Beach?’ I’m staring out through the gallery windows, across the deck to the grey swirls of the sea in the distance and the clouds whipping across the sky above as I try to think how the hell to spell that. Inside my polo neck jumper, there’s sweat running down my back.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll write it down first so you have something to copy from.’ As she rules some faint pencil guidelines on the paper there’s something about the kindness in her smile that’s not pity, more understanding. Whatever, it’s a huge giveaway.
‘Did someone tell you about my writing? About my head?’
‘Actually Cam mentioned it on the school run this morning.’
Damn. ‘To everyone?’ I’m guessing the car was rammed, it usually is.
‘Yes, I’m sorry, it was most of the kids, and Beth was there too. Are you okay with that?’ Her eyes are anxious as she waits for my reply.
I shrug, try to ignore that my stomach just hit the floor and tell myself to breathe. ‘It’s …’ really not that big a problem. When you’re passing through, things matter less. It’s no big deal, it’s actually completely ‘… fine.’ So another six people know, and the sky hasn’t fallen in yet. In any case, it’s only for now. In a few weeks it’s all going to come together again. I mean, realistically, I’m looking at getting back to my job so I’ll have to reconnect with those old skills soon. I was never the world’s best speller, in any case.
Loella’s frown is apologetic. ‘It’s hard to keep a secret around here.’
I’m not even sure why I wanted to keep it secret. Maybe because I didn’t want people to pity me, I didn’t want people to be watching out for all the things I still can’t do. Maybe even because not being able to read and write and talk and use my hand properly makes me feel inadequate. I want to hide the things I can’t do so people don’t find out and start to treat me like I’m stupid. Maybe because so long as I can hide my problems from people, I can almost pretend they’re not there.
Beth slides onto the chair next to mine. ‘Although, I have to say, secret-keeping in St Aidan improved a lot when the doctors’ surgery stopped phoning out the pregnancy test and STI results from the reception desk in full earshot of the entire waiting room.’
Loella rolls her eyes. ‘Unbelievable, but it did used to happen. When my mum had me, my dad was literally the last person in St Aidan to find out I was on the way.’ She pauses to laugh then her tone changes. ‘We were actually thrilled, because it’s the first time Cam’s ever told us anything without us prising it out of him. Cam’s had a rough time the last couple of years, but he’s really taken to you and Jo.’ She’s writing words on a piece of scrap paper. ‘There you go – “Beach” and “At the beach … Back when summer’s over”, in case you feel like a real challenge. Unless there’s something else you’d rather have?’ She cocks her head.
With patches of my memories wiped out, my head feels less full and more floaty than it used to at the best of times, but when I try to think of something – anything – witty or sassy to write, there’s spectacular nothing there.
‘No, that’s good.’ I’m smiling at how well the ‘I’ll be back when summer’s done’ one would fit as an ironic sign on my empty desk at work. At least that way they’d know I hadn’t lost my sense of you know what. I’d send them it, but by the time I get it written the better weather will be here and it might piss everyone off. It’s fine to be having some leave-by-the-sea when there’s sleet lashing against the office window. Being away to play when the pavements are baking and Bath’s honey-coloured sandstone crescents are all wiggly with the heat haze, not so much.
Loella’s missed that I’m daydreaming. ‘Once you start, you’ll find the letters link themselves. Rough it out on a practice sheet a few times first, then, once you’re happy with how it’s looking, go for the real thing.’ She sends me a wink. ‘And remember, it’s the same for calligraphy as hair, “messy” is well on trend, everyone’s trying for that “less than perfect” look.’
In which case, I should be well ahead.
Beth comes in closer. ‘It’s not like the city – we do like to know things in St Aidan, but only because we care.’
Loella joins in again. ‘A lot of people like it here because it’s an easy place to be different. We’re laid-back and accepting, we don’t judge.’ Her eyes widen. ‘Not that we’re saying …’
Beth’s touch is light on my arm. ‘What she means is, no one here is going to mind what you were before or how you are now.’ She laughs. ‘You just carry on being your amazing self, and we’ll all be happy you’re here.’
‘Thanks, it’s sweet of you to say.’ I’m finding it hard to swallow and my chest has clamped up just because they’re being so kind. That’s the thing though, right now I’m not entirely sure who I am, or what that self is. I’m a lot like the calligraphy – a work in progress that should get a lot better soon, once I start putting the time in.
Loella rolls her eyes again. ‘You’ll soon get the picture. Everyone’s cool that Beth’s other half, Morgan, is a wife not a husband, and that three of my four are my partner Jack’s, not mine. And no one minds that we never have any cash because our online shops are in crisis, or that we’re always running late and get confused about where our kids are. We all live in hope that one day our art and craftwork might accidentally become saleable and our lives will work like clockwork.’
Beth nods. ‘But, until that happens, we’re all just muddling through.’
‘We probably always will be.’ Loella laughs.
‘So welcome to the chaos club.’ Beth’s eyes are shining as she looks into mine. ‘We’ve got some little boxes of watercolours here if you feel like adding some extra colour when you’ve finished your word.’ She’s acting like she’s already forgotten what she knew. And, realistically, I can tell from the rundown they just gave me – people are busy, they have complicated lives. If anyone else finds out, they’ll have a few seconds of surprise then get back to their own stuff. For the time being I’m going to have to get over myself.
‘Fab.’ I always loved messing with my paint box, so for once my enthusiasm is genuine. When I was a teenager, art homework was what I spent most of my time on, so long as there wasn’t a party. As I beam back at her I’m waiting for Loella to say more about Cam. But then someone else waves her over, and Beth goes off too, and I’m back to my piece of empty blue paper.
It’s exactly as Loella promised. I might be writing different letters, but so long as I keep a close eye on which one I’m supposed to be doing, they’re joining up on their own. Even when I’ve done a big pile of practices and finally written the word ‘beach’ in my best w
riting, I’ve definitely hit the messy target, but the blue paper still looks very empty. So I add in the arrow that Loella suggested, then get a twisty shell out of my bag, and load up a brush with cream paint. Strokes of the brush are way easier than working with the pen, a couple of splodges and I’ve got what looks like a cockle shell, a few more and I’ve done a row. It’s higgledy, but it doesn’t look bad. And while I leave them to dry I go to the pile of papers in the centre of the table and choose another bigger one, and a whole load more scrap pieces, and set to work on the longer sign.
I’m working so hard putting blue blots all around the edge of the paper, before I realise Aunty Jo is tapping me on the back and looking over my shoulder.
‘“At the beach … ” That’s nice, Edie. I like the dove sitting on the fence.’
Don’t they have birds in Harpenden? She has no idea about wildlife. ‘It’s actually a seagull.’
Loella wanders over. ‘Whatever it is, it’s easy to tell you’re creative.’
‘Has Cam been filling you in again?’
‘Sorry, no, the interior designer bit came from Barney, he knows we want to hear when any artistic talent arrives.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, I do site work, not design.’ It’s funny how we make our choices. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve passed the designers in the office and kicked myself for missing out. As a minimalist eighteen-year-old I opted for the management course, not the design one, because it looked easier. I laugh. ‘I’m open for orders any time.’ It’s funny how the words come out without thinking when I’m all softened up from the painting. I turn to Aunty Jo. ‘Why not try a p-p-p …?’ Damn, I spoke too soon there – the ‘p’ word’s gone again.
‘It’s much too late to start a project, the children will be back any minute.’ Her voice is even more clipped than usual and as she checks her watch her mouth is puckered with tension.
‘So how was it?’
An inch closer, she’d have bitten my head off. ‘George was fine, but the pension pot and nest egg are up the creek. Out the window. Christmas crackered, or whatever it is those bloody men say. As a stuff-up, it couldn’t be any more hideous or disastrous. Truly, Edie, there are no words.’ As she leans across to look at the paint box, despite the Hollywood Highlights, her cheeks are grey and she’s still snapping. ‘If those are Windsor and Newton watercolours, we must put in an order the minute we get home.’
If she’s a ‘bad news’ compulsive buyer, all I can say is heaven help her bank balance. And if she was in any way hoping to keep this quiet, well, if she’s announced it to the table of St Aidan grapevine central, she just blew that one too.
14
Day 146: Tuesday, 27th March
At Periwinkle Cottage
Epic Achievement: Holding it together for Aunty Jo.
I get the full story of Aunty Jo’s financial crash on the way home. And, because it’s so devastating, we make a detour via that place made from planks where I persuade her that a salted caramel sundae is savoury enough for a weekday, while still offering the amount of emotional rescue she needs. Which is a lot. Then, while we look out at the empty beach and watch the frill of the water sliding in and out up the beach, between spoonfuls of ice cream she tells me what’s been going on. For the past year George has been trying to track down Harry’s missing pensions. However clueless Aunty Jo is with money, she knew there should be more than she had. But it now turns out the reason they couldn’t find them was because Harry had cashed them all in to buy the barns and the cottage.
George went out of his way to say that Harry’s over-stretching was temporary, that he’d have been fine as soon as he’d got the holiday lets up and running. The only flaw in the plan was him dying when he did, and no one could have foreseen that. Considering what she’d been told, Aunty Jo did very well to hold her shit together and turn up at Calligraphy acting like it was just another Tuesday afternoon. Had it been me in her position, I’d probably have run around the quayside screaming. I can only think she was too stunned by what she’d heard to react.
Realistically, even if it’s delicious – and she assured me it was – it’s going to take a lot more than all the toppings and one tall glass of fancy ice cream to get Aunty Jo over the shock that the income she was relying on for the rest of her life isn’t actually there at all. For me it means it’s more important than ever to get the cottage sorted out, on the market and sold, before she goes broke. No pressure there then. We ring Jake from Zinc Inc, who’s happy to help out, and Aunty Jo emails him some plans of the stables so he can do some rough costings.
I was right about her spending spree too. With every penny counting, I tried to direct her towards the items we’d be buying anyway, like decorating supplies. Sadly, we didn’t order paint, because our visions on that were so far apart. Realistically, if she’s going to insist on bilious apricot, or the sky-blue with sponged pink clouds that Harry once denied her back in nineteen eighty, we might as well save ourselves the trouble and stick with the monkeys. Then, to make up for losing out on the paint argument, despite already having enough hardly-worn Christmas painting pyjamas to clothe a small army of Santa’s helpers, she went on to buy an entire box of disposable overalls.
‘We might be paupers, Edie, but at least we’ll be appropriately dressed for decorating.’ That’s if we ever agree on colours, which seems unlikely. Then she gives a little cough. ‘I think we might need to give the classes a miss, just until the fuss dies down.’
I give her arm a pat. ‘We’ll see.’ We definitely can’t stay at home until we’ve found some decent workmen with reasonable rates. Suddenly this isn’t just about throwing cash at the job and making everything okay. The areas are vast; if we’re on a tight budget heaven knows how we’ll ever afford to fit out all those flats.
There’s a knock and I open the French window to Loella, who presses a DVD into my hand.
‘I’m not coming in, but this is Mia’s Swan Lake for Josie.’ She comes close enough to hiss in my ear, ‘Same music, a few extra characters, I thought you could use a happy ending today.’
I’m opening and closing my mouth for all kinds of reasons. ‘It’s her favourite, but how on earth did you know?’
She’s staring at me like I’m the silly one. ‘We only hear it every morning, wafting on the breeze when we pick Cam up.’ Her grin spreads. ‘I reckon Jo must be even more obsessed than Mia, and she’s worn out two DVDs already.’
Shit. ‘Thanks, but I promise we’ll keep it down in future.’
‘One more thing – those little pictures of yours?’ Her hand’s on my wrist. ‘From one struggling artist to another, pop them in little frames at Plum’s and they’ll sell like hot cakes once the season gets going.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘For money?’
‘That’s what we’re all short of.’ Her laugh is husky and her tartan coat tails are flapping round her head in the gale. ‘The trick is to build up your stock in winter then it’s like cash in the bank. Seriously, you should think about it.’
If I didn’t know better I’d swear that was a travelling rug she was wearing. I’m thinking so hard I miss that she’s turned and is back on the lane. Mostly that she’s very thoughtful, but if she thinks there’s a market for some scraps of paper with scribble on, she’s super deluded.
So tonight as we watch Mia’s DVD, even though I’m certain Loella was only being kind because we’d had such a shit day, I trawl my brain for beachy or inspiring words to put on pictures and Aunty Jo jots them down for me. Nothing too twee – they have to make me smile, not reach for the vomit bucket and, most important, they have to be short.
‘Beach ready’ – ‘sparkle’ – ‘make waves’ – ‘sun, sand, salt’ – etc etc.
We all know a wedding isn’t the only route for women to get a happy ending, and having a husband isn’t always a walk in the park. But for one evening only I’m happy to overlook that with Mia’s version. By the time Odette gets married to a prince cal
led Derek (yes, really, and it still has us dabbing our eyes as the final curtain comes down), I have a lovely sea of daisies waiting for the words ‘Be Awesome’, which I’ll obviously add later.
If Aunty Jo hadn’t dropped off I might have got her to add I heart art to the list too. But she can’t have been that tired because I heard her along the corridor upstairs, Skyping my mum late into the night.
15
Day 147: Wednesday, 28th March
The Deck Gallery
Epic Achievement: Being epic – at football.
Despite forcing Aunty Jo along to Loella’s fabric fest on Wednesday, we don’t come across any friendly builders on the way down. If a tiny part of me was secretly hoping for someone – okay, Barney – to come along again and give me an ‘out’ from the class, it was only because it’s indescribably tedious watching people chop up material and stitch it back together again when I’m so bad at it myself. I’m starting to feel silly for putting so much effort into polishing my get-out clause too. But at least this time I’ve come with my own alternative activity, so I spend the afternoon with the paint box that arrived this morning. I’m planning to write love flamingoes at some point down the line, but for now I’m filling the paper with exactly what it says on the tin, even though their legs and necks end up a bit wobbly. When Loella comes over to ask what I’m up to, I say, ‘Being awesome, doing my project,’ which makes us both laugh. And she doesn’t have to know that I won’t actually be finishing the projects and getting around to all the writing until much later.
By the time everyone’s clearing away I’ve given up glancing around every time the tall glass door by the entrance swings open. So when a shadow falls across the pink birds I’m wafting around to help them dry, and I peer down at the floor and spot a pair of scuffed Timberlands, I’m muttering silent curses, not what I’ve been practising.
‘Edie, just the woman I’m looking for.’