‘Yes.’
‘I’m waiting for somebody.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘It’s interesting. But I don’t know enough about it.’
‘I can tell you,’ he said. I looked at him in amazement.
‘What do you want to know? Go on, ask me.’ He must have been desperate to talk to me. It turned out he knew loads and was so enthusiastic about his subject he captured my attention. He told me about the geology of slate, the different types of quarry scattered over North Wales, how slate was ‘dressed’ and ‘split’, and about the hard and dangerous lives of the quarry men. I found that the most interesting. He said there was an underground slate quarry in Llechwedd in Snowdonia where visitors could go underground. He recommended that, told me I’d be fascinated. It was hard to stop him.
Finally I interrupted him by saying, ‘So, you’re a historian?’
‘No,’ he said as if I should wash my mouth out. ‘I’m not a historian. I’m an industrial archaeologist.’
I didn’t dare ask what the difference was because we’d be there forever, but I did ask why he’d chosen slate quarries as his subject. He said he’d discovered that on his father’s side going back to the early and mid-nineteenth century some of them had been quarry men and he’d got interested in tracing their lives. He said, ‘I’m a descendant of the quarry men, and they were tough.’
I asked him his name. It was Kieran Lloyd. I noticed he hadn’t asked for my name and I didn’t offer to tell him because I was getting more and more sick of people’s reaction to my first name. I looked at my watch and said I’d best be off as I had to meet someone down the bottom and it was a long way down.
He was still on his mission to inform. ‘Before you go, don’t you want to know about these buildings?’
‘Yes, go ahead.’ In for a penny, I thought, in for a pound.
He told me they were called ‘barracks’ and were built by the mine owners for the quarry men. Some of them had to travel so far to get to the mines, they’d have a five-mile walk up into the mountains so they’d stay for the week; four men in each unit, with minimal facilities.
I said, ‘That’s awful, they must have been freezing, open to the cold and rain, how did they survive?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘they had a strong sense of camaraderie and each quarry had a meeting place for the men, called a “Caban”. They’d discuss politics, work, and their lives and in one quarry the men got together to write and produce a magazine which they called “The Caban”. It was read all over North Wales. They were highly literate, you know.’
I stared at him, ‘“Caban”. That’s sounds familiar. I’ve seen that magazine somewhere.’
That got his total attention and just for a change he was listening to me. He waited while I searched through my mind until I got there.
‘My uncle lives in Liverpool and he’s got connections with Wales. We visited him when I was little, he’s got a load of stuff in his house that he hangs on to because he’s got OCD. He’s my mum’s older brother but they fell out. He’s got copies of that magazine, but they’re in Welsh.’
He looked at me as if I was now the most interesting person on the planet. He said, ‘Can you contact him? I have to see them. I’d be so grateful. They’d be fantastic. For my research. I’d walk my Viva.’
I thought he was going to swoon and although I didn’t know what a Viva was, I wasn’t about to ask otherwise we’d be there until darkness fell.
‘Well, I probably could, but do you speak Welsh? They’re in Welsh.’
‘No problem. I’ll get them translated.’
I looked at the time. It was getting late. ‘I have to go.’
‘Give me your number and promise you’ll contact me? I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘How?’ I was immediately interested.
‘I don’t know, but I will, what’s your name?’
‘Echo Morgan.’ I waited for the inevitable but none came. He went up in my estimation. I gave Kieran my number, took his, and flew down the mountain. It was quicker going down than going up.
Gareth was already there, sitting in his car, listening to music, waiting for me. I’d half-expected him not to be, because that would be true to my experience. I’d got the idea that although men may come and go, in my case, it was mainly go. I asked if he’d been waiting long. He said about fifteen minutes.
He added, ‘I was just about to get out and start looking for you.’
I was astonished. ‘Aren’t you still mad at me? Don’t you want to kill me?’
‘I did but not now. Negative emotions are a waste of time and energy. Besides you’re entitled to your view even if it’s hard for me to hear.’
He looked serious. No one had ever been so reasonable and respectful of me. My mother always spoke to me as if she was the Pope’s emissary and treated me like a sinner about to be cast into hell. In fact I was so shocked I was stunned into silence. He started the car and drove off. Then he said, ‘I’m going to stop for tea in a minute. I’d like you to come with me.’ I replied, ‘Of course.’
I was all sweetness and light now. After a few miles, he pulled off the road into one of those farm outlets with a café attached and led the way in. We sat down. I asked how his day had gone and whether he’d been pleased with the ‘mock up’. I noticed he looked rather apprehensively at me but must have decided it was a straight question. ‘I’m very pleased,’ he said.
‘So what’s it look like? Will you show me?’ I paused before saying, ‘I promise I won’t sound off at you.’
He had a black canvas courier bag which he opened. He passed over the artist’s design. I looked at it carefully. Painted in strong colours, it showed a picture of a young woman on a swing wearing a dress like the one I’d seen Amy wearing in the forest the other night, the one with the full skirt. She was leaning back to get momentum as she swung away and her skirt was billowing out. Standing behind her ready to catch her and then push her was a man. Gareth, I presumed. I looked at it for a long time. I wanted to understand what the picture meant and what was going on between them.
‘I like it very much. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. Is that your lover, the one I saw you with?’
‘It’s not her.’
‘But it could be. Couldn’t it?’ I looked in his eyes, searching for the tell-tale signs of evasion, the avoidance of direct eye contact.
‘I suppose it could. I wanted the artist to capture her.’ He stopped.
I knew he was wondering how much he could say, so to encourage him, I said, ‘Capture what?’
He said, ‘Her erotic innocence.’
Gareth certainly had a way with words, but then he was a protégé of John Donne. I didn’t reply because I didn’t know what it meant. Perhaps it meant what it said. But still I couldn’t understand. Erotic innocence. Was that how I’d felt for Ifan by the river? I filed it away at the back of mind for future reference. For some reason it made me feel sad but I don’t know why. I thanked him for showing me and carefully handed it back to him.
Gareth picked up my mood. He asked what I was thinking but I couldn’t say. He said again, ‘She doesn’t exist, she’s not real, you know.’
I think now that as far he was concerned, she had the most mystical and imagined qualities of the most beautiful woman in the world but at the time I didn’t understand that. I wasn’t going to fight anymore. Once I understood that, I knew why I was sad. It was like what they’d said that about Ifan, that I’d made him up but if I believed them, it meant I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. It felt as if I was being driven mad.
Gareth cut across my reverie. ‘How did you find the slate quarry?’ I looked at him for a split second and almost began playing head games with him about what was real and what wasn’t, but it wouldn’t have been fair. He was trying his best.
‘It was good, once I found it, but why did you just dump me? You left me in the middle of nowhere!’
‘I’m sorry. I was angry. But I’ve thought about what you said and it’s true. But it is a very difficult situation. I’ll make it up to you.’
I said, ‘That’s the second time someone’s said that to me today. I met a student at the quarry called Kieran, an industrial archaeologist and he was a mine of information.’ I looked at him to see if he got it. He had.
‘Okay, Echo, very funny, tell me what you found out.’
I told him. He seemed genuinely interested and it was like how it used to be before the river and before the forest and when life seemed more straightforward.
By the time we got back it was late. Gareth said he had work to do and as soon as he parked, he disappeared without even saying hello to the others. I planned to go straight to my room but I had to pass through the kitchen.
The three women were sitting round the table but there was somebody new, a man I hadn’t seen before. As usual they were very noisy and looked and sounded like they were enjoying themselves. Philomena asked if we’d had a good day and what I’d done. She always made me feel welcome. I briefly told them about the slate quarry and Kieran, but I left out the row with Gareth and how he’d dumped me on the mountain.
It seemed nobody was going to introduce me to the man so I smiled at him and when he saw that he sprang up, walked round the kitchen table and stretched out his hand to me. He said, ‘Forgive me, my name’s Tarquin.’
I couldn’t believe anyone could have a name like that or speak like that. It was like being in some kind of radio drama or listening to the news about the Tories’ latest escapade. His name was almost as stupid as mine. I choked back a quip.
He was sophisticated looking with an olive complexion and gorgeous honey-brown eyes. Dressed in black; black cords, black polo sweater, black leather jacket which he’d carefully hung over the back of his chair. His dark hair was long and swept back from his face. Maybe he was Welsh or he could have been French or Italian but he had a deep voice and a Welsh accent. I suddenly felt shy. He wasn’t the usual type I saw at the farm.
I said imitating his ultra-polite manner, ‘So good to meet you, my name’s Echo.’ With a name like Tarquin there was no way he’d think my name strange and I was right. It didn’t register with him.
My mother asked if I wanted some supper. I said I did but I’d take it to my room. I wanted to finish reading my book. She went to the fridge, got some lasagne out, heated it in the microwave and put it on a tray. Then she said, ‘Remember to put some parmesan on your lasagne, Echo, before you go up.’ I knew she was putting on a show of the caring mother probably for the benefit of Tarquin and I wondered if she fancied him. I could have told her, forget it, he’s gay, you’re wasting your time.
The next day I came down for breakfast, expecting and hoping to see Gareth, but he wasn’t there. Gaby appeared. She sat down next to me to eat her cereal and I found out from her who Tarquin was and why he was there. She told me he was the curator of Chepstow Art Gallery and they’d been planning a forthcoming exhibition together. The one they called ‘Women and Surrealism’. I was interested and wanted to know more and I asked lots of questions.
Gaby told me. For fifteen minutes I couldn’t get a word in. Her enthusiasm reminded me of Kieran in the slate quarry. All teachers have this tendency; they never stop talking. They assume the listener is hanging on to their every word. It’s like someone has wound them up and there’s no stop button. After ten minutes I felt my eyes glaze over and my attention wander.
She said they wanted an art exhibition that would show women’s experiences of the world and subvert the familiar male-dominated notions of femininity and sexuality as well as conventional ideas of art. That’s how she put it. I said to her, ‘What’s that mean?’
To this Gaby said, ‘When the exhibition opens you’ll understand.’ It wasn’t just the work of the three of them, because Tarquin was arranging to borrow other surrealist works from private collections and art galleries.
Gaby showed me some post cards of an artist’s work called Frida Kahlo who’d lived in Mexico. When I saw her paintings I was knocked out by the colours. Some were self-portraits, showing how she dressed, everything in vivid pinks, vibrant oranges, electrifying blues. Her black hair was pulled back from her face and she had deep brown eyes under heavy eyebrows which stared out at me. She was beautiful but her face showed suffering.
I asked, ‘Will you be going to Chepstow to meet Tarquin again?’
‘We’re going tomorrow. You’re welcome to come.’
‘Is Gareth coming, and my mum?’
‘Gareth’s too busy but yes, your mum’s coming, and Philomena…but does that matter to you, your mum coming?’ I pretended I hadn’t heard but she knew I was avoiding answering and carried on with what she would have said, if
I had answered.
‘Echo, I’ve noticed you and your mum don’t get on. What’s that about?’
I laughed gaily as if it was a preposterous idea. I had no intention of talking to Gaby. I’d noticed how friendly she was with my mother so if I talked, it would all be fed back to her. So she dropped the subject and said to be ready first thing tomorrow.
The following day, as we were going to Chepstow Art Gallery, I thought I’d make an effort with what I wore. Tarquin had made an impression on me and I wanted to be cool like him. I contemplated whether to wear a skirt for a change but I only had one. It was stone-washed denim and very short. I’d got it cheap on eBay but it was an original ‘Fat Face’ and a bargain.
I tried it on and looked critically at myself in the mirror. The magazines say you should know what are your worst and your best features so I gave myself a thorough going over. The skirt showed off my legs. They weren’t bad, but I wished they were longer, browner, more rounded. They were skinny. Like a young girl’s legs. I liked my face, it was oval shaped and my eyes deep brown. I took a hand mirror and brought it close to look at my mouth. I decided my mouth was my best feature. I think it’s what a poet would call sensuous, full and well shaped. My hair was thick, glossy and straight. I practised swinging my head round so it swished, like that woman in the ad but I decided against that because I’d look stupid.
I took off my top and looked at my breasts. Even if Ifan had liked them, I didn’t. They were a girl’s breasts. Too small. Maybe they were the right size for the rest of my body, but I just didn’t like them. I wanted the full breasts of a woman. I wondered if Gareth would think the same if he ever saw me naked.
I stood and pondered. Should I cover up my small size with something slouchy or should I show them off with something tight, or should I wear something in between? I just didn’t know. I got them all out, every top I’d brought to Ffridd and lined them up on my bed in colour order, and then I tried them on. Eventually I came across one I’d forgotten about. I’d begged my mother to buy it. I’d gone on and on at her and in the end she’d bought it. But I’d never worn it. I liked it too much. It was too good to wear. It had a hood, was over large, had widely spaced pale blue stripes but the logo across the front was fab. It said, ‘Let’s find a beautiful place and get lost’. I decided that had to be the one. It was perfect because that’s what I’d like to do with Gareth.
I lay on my bed and began daydreaming about him. How he’d rescued me, watching him dance, seeing him in the forest, driving to North Wales with him. He was my number one and, for the moment, had usurped Ifan. Did I feel bad about that? Not really, because Gareth was here and Ifan wasn’t.
But thinking that wasn’t so cool. A flame of anger surged through me. Ifan had abandoned me. He wasn’t dead, I just knew, and, I thought, Gareth knew more than he was letting on. That’s why he was so nice to me.
Maybe, if I got him on his own he’d tell me. I wished he was coming to Chepstow and we could go somewhere else and leave the rest. P
erhaps he wasn’t coming because there were four of us. He was a poet after all and interested in passion, sex and love, not an artist like the rest of them, fascinated with surrealism.
I made my way downstairs to the kitchen. It was nine o’clock and as I walked into the room I noticed my mother giving me the once over. Her eyes raked over me. I waited for the ‘put down’. She’d choke rather than pay me a compliment but she restrained herself that morning. She just said, ‘I haven’t seen you wear that for a long time.’ She must have been looking forward to seeing Tarquin.
It wasn’t far to Chepstow. Gaby drove. We found the car park near the art gallery and bundled out. Even Philomena had made an effort that morning; she was wearing an outfit I’d not seen her in before. She’d discarded her baggy trousers and her Birkenstocks and wore some well-cut linen trousers in dark red with a vintage-style white blouse, and beautiful drop earrings art deco style. But she still had her favourite dark pink paisley scarf wrapped round her hair. She looked suitably arty and interesting. When she saw me looking at her, she smiled and said, ‘Alright then, Echo?’ I nodded and told her I liked her outfit. Then we climbed up the stone steps to the Art Gallery.
As we entered Tarquin came forward to greet us. Everything about him was style, including his office. It was large, painted white with a few modern abstract paintings on the wall. It was minimally furnished and had a stunning view of the River Wye. In the middle of the room was a huge mahogany table with varying sizes of paper placed along its length. He said, ‘Do sit down,’ and with an expansive gesture indicated where he wanted us to sit.
He began talking immediately, first about his difficulties in getting funding for the exhibition. Despite this, he said he’d managed to track down a little-known foundation which financially supported the development of new surrealist artists. He proposed to change the name of the exhibition from ‘Women and Surrealism’ to ‘Women Surrealists: Then and Now’. I glanced at the women. They looked transfixed. Nobody objected or said anything.
He turned to the paper placed on the big table. These represented the art work, how they’d be arranged on the walls. The various forms of sculpture, including ‘found objects’ were to be displayed in a separate gallery. He asked for questions and comments and everybody became very animated, and started cutting across each other as they spoke. He held up his hand in an imperious way as if quelling an unruly mob of toddlers fighting for the last piece of chocolate and announced in a loud voice, that his assistant had been working on themes and after coffee she would talk us through ‘her thinking’.
My Name Is Echo Page 8