Summer in Provence

by Coleman, Lucy

  I join the other three people standing around him watching in awe. Taylor slices into a huge offcut of tree trunk, stripping off the bark as if he’s cutting into butter. Within just a couple of minutes, he’s stripped the top two thirds and has carved the outline of what looks like an animal’s head. He releases the handle and silence reigns. We all start clapping as that’s quite a feat.

  ‘Okay, folks. Demonstration over. Let’s head into the back area and get you started with a chunk of wood and some chisels. Feel free to pick something out of the wood bin. Think about what you’d like to create, then focus on the shape. So, for a bird, you will need a stocky offcut. If you’re gonna do a decorative spindle on the lathe, then think elongated.’

  As everyone wanders off in search of the perfect piece of wood, Taylor places the chainsaw back on the rack and turns to walk over to me.

  ‘Hey, Fern. How you doin’?’

  He’s such a laid-back, friendly guy but the sort who, unless he’s teaching, only speaks when spoken to. He has powerful arms and he’s really tall. He looks down at me, smiling.

  ‘Good, thank you. That was quite something,’ I add.

  ‘Like anything else, it’s all about practice. I learnt it from my Pa.’

  ‘Well, it was very impressive. But I’ve come to ask a favour, actually. Kellie noticed a guitar in the day room and she was wondering if anyone here played. I talked to Nico and he suggested I have a word with you.’

  He puts his head back and laughs. ‘Well, I only do country and western, but, yep, I strum. So, little Kellie is into music, then?’

  ‘Yes. I think she already plays guitar but maybe would benefit from a little encouragement.’

  His hand travels up towards his chin and he rubs his fingers down his jawline, taking a moment to think about it. I try hard not to look at the scar that extends across his right cheek from below his eyebrow to just above his earlobe. It’s an old wound that, I’m guessing, for whatever reason, wasn’t attended to properly. It’s jagged and raised, adding a ruggedness to what is a very handsome face.

  ‘Well, I ain’t no tutor when it comes to music, but we could have a session or two. I’ll crack out my guitar and Kellie can grab Nico’s. Yeah. Why not. Set something up for this evening, okay?’

  I give him a grateful nod. ‘Thank you, Taylor. That’s really good of you and I know Kellie will really appreciate it.’

  ‘The lyrics of some songs hold a lot more sense than the words a lot of people spout, I’ve found.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘I think I can agree with you there. Enjoy your morning session and I’ll catch up with you at lunch.’

  ‘Will do, m’am.’ For a young man he certainly has a charming way about him. He’s smart, but his charm lies in his little ’ole American, small-town country style. I think Kellie will be safe in his care because I’m guessing he’s travelled around and seen a fair few things.

  As I leave him to it and walk back out into the open, a slight breeze catches my hair and I stop for a moment to take it all in. This is my life now for the next year unless I tire of it and decide to move on, and already the newness is wearing off and I’m settling in.

  Knowing that each batch of visitors will only be here for a week, I have to guard against getting too close to anyone. However, Kellie reminds me a little of Hannah, who is now determined to demonstrate she can cope perfectly well on her own. But we need other people or risk isolating ourselves and becoming withdrawn. Kellie, I fear, at some point chose to withdraw and my aim this week is to ensure she has fun without her knowing I’m keeping a close watch.

  ‘Hey, Kellie. Wow, you two work fast.’ I sidle up next to her, surveying the now neatly hoed, weed-free expanse.

  ‘It’s easy once you settle into a pattern. And the smell is great.’ She turns, wrinkling her nose and smiling. The air is filled with the heavy scent of mint and thyme as her hoe continues to work along the top layer of soil in a succession of little stabs.

  ‘I wondered if you fancied having a guitar session with Taylor this evening? He’s into country music and is up for it. He has his own guitar and you could use Nico’s, the one you spotted in the day room.’

  She stops what she’s doing and stands upright.

  ‘Seriously? That would be awesome. Thanks, Fern, I appreciate it.’

  My eyes wander over the red dragon as it clings to her arm and she follows my gaze.

  ‘He’s called Laoch.’ She pronounces it as ‘Laok’.

  ‘I’m presuming that’s a Gaelic term. What does it mean?’

  ‘Warrior.’

  ‘I like that. The artistry of the ink is incredible. Simple, yet he has great character.’

  She nods, staring down at him and when she raises her head back up to look at me, her gaze is forthright.

  ‘I’m a survivor,’ she says firmly. ‘I always will be, but I doubted it for a while. Never again.’

  I reach out and place my hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Some secrets aren’t easy to share and I understand that.

  ‘I’ll tell Taylor you’re up for a session tonight after the evening meal. I think you’ll both enjoy it. It beats playing cards,’ I add, and that makes her smile.

  ‘It was a bit boring, wasn’t it?’

  I bite my lip and she laughs. It’s genuine and rises up in her without summoning. Even in the last twenty-four hours I’m seeing a change, like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders.

  ‘Time I grabbed a hoe, I think, and joined you. Those weeds certainly flourish in the sunshine.’

  8

  A Day of Discovery

  There are five of us seated in front of the easels, all anxiously looking at Nico as he talks in length about techniques and brushstrokes. He has a small stack of canvases leaning up against a wall and when he’s finished talking, he begins hanging them from hooks on the rough stone wall behind him. The riot of colour against the stark whitewash is dramatic. The theme is nature, but there are a wide variety of differing styles.

  ‘This first painting is by a professional artist friend of mine whose work sells for tens of thousands of pounds. Fortunately, I purchased it at the very start of his career when he was struggling to afford to buy paint and on the verge of giving up. Everything else here has been painted by people sitting where you’re sitting, some of whom were picking up a brush for the very first time.’

  I can see we’re all impressed by that. All of the canvases are interesting; admittedly, two are in a style that is quite traditional and although they are very good, they’re not something I’d hang on my wall at home. But the others are good in a different way, more thought-provoking.

  ‘The point I’m making,’ Nico says with gusto, ‘is that there is no right or wrong when it comes to art. There is only what is in the eye of the artist and once you commit to that, what will flow from your fingertips will be what is in your heart. You cannot – and must not – concern yourself with the eye of the beholder.

  ‘The role of the artist is to express what is within. Like reading a book, the beholder who engages with your vision as the creator will appreciate and understand it. Others won’t, but some artists perceive that as a failing. However, one school of thought is that pain is a necessity, anyway, when it comes to producing great art. That is true in some cases and with great talent often comes a great burden, which, as we all know, isn’t specific to this form of self-expression. Look at Kurt Cobain, or John Belushi, for instance. Both very talented in their respective fields, unique yet troubled.’

  He smiles and looks at each of us in turn. I find myself holding my breath, captivated by the strength of the emotion in his words.

  ‘When you pick up the brush, I don’t want you to hesitate. Take that sense of uniqueness lying deep within and go with it. The fear is always “Will I be good enough? What will other people around me think of my work?” and that very natural reaction is what will hold you back. It will stifle your creativity if you let it.

  ‘You wil
l notice that the positioning of your easel doesn’t allow you to see anyone else’s work. If, after this afternoon’s session, you don’t want to share what you’ve done with the group, then that’s fine. Simply unclip your painting and take it back to your room.

  ‘Some of you might be picking up a brush for the first time, only to discover that paint isn’t your medium. But what I’d like you to do is to trust me. Don’t think about what you’re doing, just do it. Today we are working with acrylic paint and heavyweight paper. It’s water-soluble. You will obtain the best finish if you apply a thin coat of primer first. Drying time is about ten minutes for it to be touch-dry.’

  Nico walks over to the nearest easel and grabs one of the pots, holding it up.

  ‘It helps stop the paper warping with the moisture content in the paint and also makes the surface a little smoother. However, if you want that slightly gritty texture, then skip the primer. If you need to start over again, there is a pile of fresh paper over on the table in the corner, but try not to give up on a painting too soon. And, most of all, have fun, guys!’

  Suddenly I can’t wait to get started, and even though I’m happier with a pencil in my hand and a little sketch pad, that bowl of fruit is so fresh and colourful I’m going to give it a go.

  I look around at the other visitors and when Nico turns back to the wall to begin taking down the canvases, one of the guys catches my eye. He grimaces, picking up his brush and holding it awkwardly aloft, and I almost burst out laughing. Well, here goes!

  * * *

  The day unfolds in many different ways – interesting, challenging and rewarding. Unexpected. So many different emotions and new experiences are coming at me from every angle. In the rush of new things, my problems have been parked to one side and I’m now fully invested in what’s going on around me. And that’s the biggest surprise of all.

  This evening I introduced Kellie to Taylor and left them to their own devices as they headed off into the courtyard to find a quiet room, guitars in hand. Patricia is still on the edge of everything, not really approaching anyone unless they talk to her first, so I spent most of the evening with her. It turns out she’s a chess player and while I need to think quite hard about what the various pieces do, we managed to have a few light-hearted games.

  Throwing open my bedroom window, I look out, not realising how late it is and no idea why my brain doesn’t seem to want to switch off tonight. I spin around to look at the painting I brought back to my room this afternoon.

  Glancing up at the wall and that vibrant forest scene, I try to compare the two. When I first walked into the room, the painting captivated me. And even now, it’s still catching me unawares and drawing my eye. I’m a detail person but the crude brushstrokes are so clever, so inspiring, that it is a revelation.

  Staring down at my own painting, I’m rather shocked at myself. It isn’t at all what I expected to create. The picture looks colourful but a little obscure. I grab a pillow off the bed and place it on the chaise longue, jamming it upright against the wall. Then I carry the sheet of paper across and lay it against the angled surface so it doesn’t slip off. I turn and walk across the room, almost fearful of turning back around. But when I do, what I see fills me with a feeling of elation. Up close, I saw rough blocks of colour, but stepping back it’s clearly a bowl of fruit. I’m happy. In fact, I’m amazed and feeling rather proud of myself.

  A sudden noise outside draws me back to the window and I peer out into the gloom. Something, or someone, has fallen over and I can just about make out a shape next to one of the garden tables.

  Quietly, I tiptoe down the two flights of stairs, trying to remember which of the treads creak the loudest. Being careful where I step, I keep the noise to a minimum to avoid waking anyone up until I know what’s going on. If it turns out to be an intruder, then I’ll be screaming at the top of my lungs.

  The front door is locked and I head through into the kitchen to find that the back door is wide open. Rushing over and stepping outside, I hear a loud groaning sound, but the mound on the floor doesn’t move. As I approach, I see that it’s Nico and I kneel down next to him.

  ‘What’s happened? Nico, it’s Fern. Can you stand?’

  After a moment, he opens his eyes. ‘Ah, Fern. I missed my footing.’

  The smell of alcohol is so strong that I recoil a little.

  ‘Nico, you need to stand up. Let me help you back inside.’

  He lifts his head and I pick up his left arm, placing it around my shoulders so I can help lever him up. It’s not easy and it takes several minutes to get him back onto his feet. Nico leans quite heavily on me and it’s difficult steering him back towards the château.

  ‘It’s a night for reflection,’ he slurs the words.

  ‘Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. I’m not sure I can hold you up for very long, Nico. You have to work with me.’

  We shuffle forwards rather perilously, but I grit my teeth and keep going. Once we’re inside, I’m not sure where I’m heading.

  ‘Nico, where is your bedroom?’

  He grunts, lifting his arm and pointing, but that sends his body into a tilt and we end up teetering sideways and crashing into the wall. The sound echoes around the hallway. I hold my breath, listening out for any sounds, but there’s nothing. Only Nico’s raspy, drunken breathing. He shifts his position and I yank him back into a standing position.

  ‘Walk, Nico. Walk. You have to help me because you’re too heavy and I don’t want you to fall.’

  He rallies a little.

  ‘Mi hermosa, Fern. You are my beautiful angel.’

  I shush him, surprised to hear him speaking in Spanish and calling me beautiful.

  ‘Quietly, Nico. Everyone is asleep. Here, lean against the wall while I open the door.’

  ‘My muse left me, but now you’re here. She said you would save me.’

  ‘Shush!! You must be quiet, Nico. Please.’

  I hope he doesn’t slide to the floor, because if he does, then I’m going to have to get some help. However, he takes a deep breath to compose himself and, as I throw the door open wide, he starts to stagger through without my assistance. I follow close behind.

  He manages to get over to the bed and collapses onto it, face down. I can’t possibly leave him like that and I kneel beside him to slip off his shoes. Almost instantly he’s snoring softly and I feel a little panicky. I can’t sit here watching him all night, so I try to get him to roll on his side and, after a few minutes of arm flinging and resistance, he’s in a safer position.

  Grabbing two pillows, I put one behind his back and one alongside his front, hoping it will anchor him. He’s too drunk to know what he’s doing and I hesitate for a moment, not quite sure what else to do. Then I remember the recovery position from the first-aid course I did at work and I push one of his legs up, so it’s bent. Reasonably happy that he’s in a safe enough position until he’s slept some of the alcohol off and is more aware, I make my way back upstairs.

  When I walk into the room, I see my partially dry painting must have been top-heavy because it has folded over upon itself. As I scrabble to gently open the fold, it appears to be stuck together. A gentle tug confirms that it’s too late to save it, and for some silly reason I feel tearful.

  * * *

  Nico isn’t at breakfast and I’m not sure what to do. I can hardly go to his room to check on him, so instead I go in search of Ceana.

  ‘Have you seen Nico, this morning?’ I ask, breezily.

  ‘Yes. Briefly. If there’s anything you need, it will have to wait, I’m afraid. He’s dropping the van off at the garage as the new exhaust has arrived. He’s getting a lift back, but he’ll be about an hour. I’m heading out to set-up his class this morning.’

  ‘Oh, no problem, then. It’s not urgent.’

  I can’t tell from her expression if she knows what state he was in last night, but I’d guess not. I don’t know whether I should mention it, but I don’t feel it’s my
place to do so, even though something tells me that Ceana looks out for Nico. Not because he’s in charge, but because she knows him rather well.

  ‘You had your first lesson with him yesterday, how did it go?’ she asks.

  I raise the corners of my mouth, a satisfied smile beginning to creep over my face, unbidden. ‘Surprising,’ I say before I turn and walk away.

  This morning I have very mixed feelings. Having a longing to create is one thing, but then suddenly being able to tap into that is a rather scary thing. I’d accepted that I’d have to wait a long time to be able to indulge myself in my little daydream. The one where I imagined myself in a field of flowers, sitting in front of an easel. And it isn’t just a lottery win that has made this happen. The irony is that this is only happening because of Aiden. Yesterday’s session unleashed the desire I’ve had to push away for so long and now… I’m nervous. What if I don’t have any real talent?

  ‘You’re deep in thought,’ Patricia falls in line with me as I head down towards the gardening shed.

  ‘Oh, hi, Patricia. How did you sleep?’

  ‘Well, thank you. The best I have in a long while. Have you seen Kellie? She’s in good spirits this morning too. I think that little session with Taylor went well last night.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad. And relieved. It’s funny, Ceana did say that on a retreat like this, people tend to be drawn together for many different reasons. A love of music is a wonderful reason for a connection and hopefully they’ll share it with us all at some point.’

  Patricia purses her lips. ‘Now, wouldn’t that be something!’

  I’m still puzzling over what it is that would help Patricia get the most out of her week here. She hasn’t really connected with anyone except me, although she has a soft spot for Kellie.

  ‘What’s on your agenda for this afternoon?’ I ask.