by Alex Monroe
So there I have my plan for the V&A commission: a single lovebird sitting on its perch, locked up inside a fantastically ornate filigree locket. It will be bigger than usual, its heart shape fatter and less pointed than a stereotypical locket, slightly closer to the shape of a human heart. I know there will be plenty of technical challenges in realising this design, but that makes it all the more fun to work on. And I quickly decide to hang the cost. To pay due homage to the Victorian obsession with the ornate means I can’t afford to scrimp.
First there is the filigree, inspired by the sketches I’ve made in the museum’s metalwork galleries: Gothic Revival choir screens and chancel gates made by Francis Skidmore for George Gilbert Scott. They are ideal for my purpose, which is to reveal as well as conceal. There is invitation in their mystery. Recreating that fretwork in miniature and constructing the specialist hinges and catches needed for the locket will be demanding, but not impossible. But I want to encrust the lovebird in a cascade of colour, tiny gemstones sparkling from red through to green. I know that setting such a rainbow of stones on the tiny creature is way beyond my ability. I will have to work with a highly skilled specialist setter. There will be a few small stones on the outside of the cage too, a glimmer of colour and sparkle to tempt anyone who sees it to look closer, to look within.
It was almost birthday season when the boatyard owner lifted Swallow into the hoist and towed her down the hard at low water to wait for the tide to come up and float her off. Nobody had ever remembered the actual date of my birth so family tradition was to celebrate it at the same time as Roddy’s, towards the end of June. Later I realised that it was both unusual and inconvenient not to know your birth date, so I applied for a copy of my birth certificate, and in fact we hadn’t been far off. But by then the tradition was set.
Late June produces the best kind of days, when the sun shines brightly but it’s never too hot and nothing is tired yet. Tom and I spent that first night on board, dropping off to the soporific lullaby of water rippling against the clinker-built hull, and waking early to a clear blue midsummer morning, and the prospect of Swallow’s maiden voyage. Roddy was soon to be married, and about ten of us boys were setting out for a few days of maritime exploration, sailing out to Harwich and round up the Stour. We made an eye-catching little flotilla: Swallow, Victoria and a sleek sloop called Rainbow, skippered by our old friend and go-carter extraordinaire, Joff Hudson.
Swallow was the slowest but the biggest of the fleet, an Edwardian gaff-rigged cutter, with a bowsprit half the length of Victoria’s. Now she was newly painted in Dover grey, with a sliver of white to separate the topside from rust-red anti-foul below. Her bulwarks, the low rail around her decks, were rebuilt and painted white too. We painted little white caps on the end of her newly varnished spars. Cat’s-paws, they’re called. Roddy’s boat Victoria really was Victorian. Painted white with a cream deck, her mainsail was cut from brick-red canvas, and looked splendid against a white staysail and a red jib. But Rainbow was the boat that drew all eyes. Another late-Victorian vessel, she was built as a gentleman’s racing yacht, with a single mast and a single foresail. Pure white and fast as a dart, she was the epitome of elegance.
Everything was ready. I sent Tom for’ard to prepare to cast off and we hauled the headsails. I had it meticulously planned: haul in the jibs and pull her head round, then Tom could walk the mooring buoy aft, throwing it over the stern so we didn’t snag on the rudder. Once we were off, we could hoist the main.
Don’t let her off yet! I called out to Tom. Wait till she swings round!
But Tom was standing beside me.
Too late for that! We’re already off!
I quickly pulled in both headsails as tight as they’d go to catch the breeze. We pitched to one side as she took up the wind, Swallow’s head came round gracefully and when I called for the mainsail to be hoisted, it filled like a soft cushion. We gently lurched forward against the tide, between the lines of moored boats and out into the channel. We were off, tugging our dinghy behind like a playful duckling. Shrouds creaked, ropes stretched and water broke babbling against her bow. Everything seemed to be holding. I leaned forward and tightened a running back stay, while Tom ran about the decks checking the rigging. We leaned with Swallow into the wind at a jaunty angle, rejoicing in the familiar clank of tin cups rolling off the cabin table and onto the floor. Tom stood proud on the aft-deck, brown-skinned, wearing only a pair of paint-splattered cut-off jeans, and we both whooped with joy.
Mine isn’t the only new commission to commemorate the reopening of the V&A galleries. Grayson Perry is also making some pieces, but since he has no experience of jewellery-making, the museum asks me to help out. So from time to time Grayson pops over on his motorbike and I sort out any technical problems for him. He is making a series of little dolls, cast in silver and articulated like puppets. It is a simple enough job, cleaning up castings and fixing things together. I look forward to seeing him because he is such a regular bloke, incredibly intelligent but completely unpretentious: an Essex boy who’d hung out in the same London clubs as I had. I’m fascinated by the way he bridges the gap between Craft and Art, and Fashion too. And I am impressed by his down-to-earth approach and the accessibility of his work. I confide that I am nervous and not terribly looking forward to the private view at the V&A. He jokes that I should try wearing a dress if I want to get attention.
At the opening party I sip champagne and stand around awkwardly. The locket has worked beautifully and gone down well, and it is exciting to see it on display at the V&A at last, but still, I’m not feeling quite at home. I’m relieved to see Grayson when he appears, dressed – as I should have guessed – as his alter ego, Claire. But he doesn’t seem to recognise me when I approach. It makes me feel a little foolish – like an overenthusiastic puppy, rebuffed. It’s silly of me to react like that. Grayson is working and I’ve never seen him before in this persona – in a sense, Claire and Alex have never met. But still I’m disconcerted and duck out early, escaping off down into the underpass to South Kensington underground station and plonking myself down on the first east-bound train. I feel a bit of a failure. Why hadn’t I mingled and chatted as I should have? The buzz of excitement on a busy tube train full of people on their way out for the evening makes me feel worse than ever. Then I glance across at the passengers sitting opposite me and I see something that steals my breath away.
A young woman is wearing one of my feather necklaces. The little feather, which I had once pulled out of my pillow, is suspended horizontally on a gold chain, just below her collarbone. It is the only piece of jewellery she is wearing. Attentive to his every word, she looks up at the handsome young man on her right and seems to laugh at a joke he’s made. She has a glow about her, and he is beaming with pride, but they aren’t touching. I guess they are on a second or third date. I imagine her getting ready for the evening, piling her blonde hair up on her head, doing her make-up with extra care, slipping on the simple silk oatmeal dress, and finally deciding on that tiny, delicate, golden necklace to bring it all to life. She looks perfect. And at that moment I realise that while the whole V&A thing has been great fun and exciting and flattering, actually this is what it my life is all about. I sit on the district line train to Upminster, and all the pride that I had expected to feel in the museum an hour or so earlier surfaces in me at this moment instead, at the sight of a stranger wearing my necklace.
With both wind and tide on our side, Swallow galloped along like a frisky pony. Past Pin Mill, along Butterman’s Bay and Long Reach, we rounded Collimer Point, hugging the shore as closely as we dared, and then turned south down towards Shotley Point. Tom took the helm and Jason went below to brew some tea. The smell of gas and steam wafted up from the galley. Tom and I couldn’t stop grinning at each other. After nearly a year of back-breaking work, our Swallow was a joy.
The river narrows slightly towards its mouth, the open landscape flattens and the wind sweeps across it. Everything becomes a litt
le harsher. Swallow began slipping sideways, trying to turn into the wind and fighting us as we pulled against her on the tiller with both hands. A heavy-weather helm, we discovered. Out in the deep, wide water of Harwich harbour, she ploughed through the swell bravely, waves breaking over her bow. Rainbow and Victoria were already well out of sight.
Passing Shotley Point, we carried on out into the harbour before cutting just inside the Shotley Horse, a yellow buoy which marks the start of the deep-water channel into the Stour, the boundary river between Essex and Suffolk. The tide was falling fast now, so the going was slow as we worked our way upriver, keeping close to the northern shore. Once we had rounded Erwarton Ness, we could see Johnny All Alone Creek, sluicing through mudflats and saltmarsh into the estuary. This was a shoreline of tree trunks whitened by the elements and emerald-green samphire, curlew calls and oyster shells.
By the time we rounded Harkstead Point, Victoria and Rainbow were visible again in Holbrook Bay, neatly anchored, side by side,
ready for the night. It takes a good hour to put a boat to bed properly. You have to prepare for any eventuality. We furled canvas and cheesed down Swallow’s ropes into perfect flat coils. We propped the boom on its crutches and mopped down the decks and just as the sun started to dip, we called over to the other boats and invited everybody for cocktails.
By sunset we were ready for a trip ashore. Three dinghies ferried crew and supplies to a thin strip of sandy shingle on the western shore of Holbrook Bay, where a few tents were pitched and Tom and I lit a huge driftwood bonfire. We wrapped potatoes, sweetcorn, chops and sausages in tinfoil and chucked them into the heart of the fire before setting off for the pub. Along the beach and up a narrow footpath to Shore Lane and then on up to the Baker’s Arms, we took over the back room and drank beer until they chucked us out.
Our weekend sailing trip before Roddy got married. The flotilla consisted of Victoria, Rainbow and Swallow. We anchored at Harkstead on the river Stour.
Back on the beach our fire had died down to a soft bed of glowing embers, cut precisely in half by the creeping tide. Little wavelets hissed against the semicircle of red-hot ashes. We fished around with sticks and pulled out some tinfoil parcels. The food was burned and smoky but utterly delicious. Then we talked into the small hours. The vast Suffolk sky always seems even bigger at night, and this was a balmy one. We lay on our backs under the Milky Way and guessed at the names of unknown constellations. The occasional satellite pottered by and every so often a cry of excitement went up when someone spotted a shooting star. It must have been about three o’clock when we decided to call it quits. Shore crews crawled into their tents. Boat crews rowed back to the boats.
Tom and I quickly regretted not hoisting a riding light. I sat in the stern, peering into the blackness, hoping to spot Swallow somewhere out there in the bay. As Tom rowed, I trailed my hand behind in the cool black water. About a hundred yards out, something in the water caught my attention. Tom paused his rowing and rested his oars. It was absolutely flat calm and almost silent as we glided through the inky black, both of us peering over the side. There it was again, not a reflection as I’d thought, but a shimmer in the bow-wave. I reached into the deep and as I did so the water around my hand glowed. I scooped up a handful. Sparkles of light danced on the surface as it dripped and splashed.
We had rowed into a patch of phosphorescence, and it was getting more concentrated. As we drifted on we swirled our arms in the dark water and the tiny bioluminescent organisms lit up like aquatic sparklers, greenish-white light bursting out from our fingertips. We shouted to the shore and threw up great sprays of flashing light. Then Tom and I pulled off our T-shirts and dived overboard. I was dazzled as I hit the water and burst to the surface with an incandescent cry to Tom. We swam and splashed and shouted in liquid fireworks, brighter and more blazing than sunlight. After a while we just floated on our backs looking up at the stars, completely in awe of the beauty of the moment, the occasional ripple of light lapping around us. It was almost unbearable.
I woke at dawn to find the floorboards floating. I got up and worked the pump for a while, emptying out the bilges. There was still no sign of life from Tom or anyone else by the time I’d finished, so I stripped off and swam a wide lazy lap of Swallow, stopping occasionally to look at her lovingly, taking in the sheen of her paintwork, the glow of her varnish, the warmth of her neatly furled sails. We’d had a full year of sawing and sanding, scraping and screwing, painting and varnishing, and she’d proved worth every minute of work. She was a beauty. I climbed back on board by the bowsprit, sun on my salted shoulders, and stretched out on the aft-deck to dry. A wader cried from the opposite shore, its call carrying 2 miles across water that was still millpond-calm. No use trying to sail against the tide on a day like this, I thought to myself. May as well hang about here until it turns, and we can drift back downstream on the ebb.
What a day it would be. And then I remembered I had something else to look forward to, another kind of future. A few days earlier, I’d spotted a girl at a party in a vodka bar on Blackfriars Bridge Road. A red-haired pale-skinned freckly model. And I began to hatch a plan. Lying there under a cloudless sky, warmth slowly seeping into my skin, I thought at last that everything might be coming out all right after all.
An hour or so later, the smell of frying bacon drifted across from Victoria, and voices with it.
Butterfly
My heart slightly sank when Sara Dappiano left Liberty. Soon afterwards she phoned me, though. Would I like to make a small collection for the shop she was working at now, Coco de Mer? I was immediately intrigued, and we arranged to meet.
Coco de Mer takes its name from a rare double coconut that grows in the Seychelles, which looks so much like a woman’s bottom that it’s also known as a coco fesse, or sometimes a love nut. Even the palm tree’s catkins are suggestive. On Monmouth Street, the shop is demurely but appropriately positioned next door to London’s oldest French restaurant, Mon Plaisir, whose pewter bar first saw life in a Lyonnaise brothel.
Coco de Mer is a sex shop, and an extremely upmarket one, with glossy burgundy paintwork on the shop front, diaphanous purple silk and satin inside. When you’ve got yourself through the door, you’re surrounded by busts dressed in exotic lingerie and racks of dainty undergarments with delicate straps and unexpected spaces. Jewellery displays sparkle against pink walls. There are also glass cabinets full of shiny chrome things, which I don’t examine too closely.
And there’s Sara with her long dark hair and olive skin, a provocative twinkle in her eyes and dimples showing with her smile. She’s womanly, in a full-figured, sensual, Italian sort of way that goes with her low-cut flowing dresses. I understand exactly why she had moved.
They’re after a range of sensuous, erotic jewellery for the shop. I love the idea. It fits perfectly into my philosophy of anti-snobbery in design, but also my belief that sex is something to be celebrated and enjoyed. I had wasted far too many years in my youth being overly timid, both sexually and emotionally. Now I find myself quite taken by this invitation to explore eroticism through my work.
The girl who had caught my eye just before Swallow’s maiden voyage was Denise, but at first the extent to which she would change me was far from obvious. I discovered she was a friend of Roddy’s new wife Jo, and this meant that a meeting could be arranged: a dinner at Roddy’s council flat in Waterloo.
Denise realised immediately that it was a set-up. She spent the meal with her back to me. It was all rather awkward, with the four of us squeezed around the table in their tiny sitting room. Every time I tried to talk to her, she became more hostile. I retreated into the kitchen to help Roddy with the food, and he raised his eyebrows and blew out through puffed cheeks like a car mechanic looking at a hopeless case.
Don’t fancy your chances there, mate. He shook his head as he scraped the plates.
But when Denise slipped out onto the balcony for a smoke, I quickly joined her. Even under the broken fluores
cent half-light of that council block veranda, she managed to look breath-catching. Her scruffy black leather biker’s jacket was slung across her shoulder, over a baggy jumper, jeans and Converse. She was rather boyish altogether, tall and thin with short-cropped auburn hair, big eyes and a wide mouth. Her skin was as white as snow and covered with freckles and she wore no make-up at all. I thought she was just about the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The flare in her eye, fierce and feral, reminded me of a wild animal. It excited me.
Seduction had never been my strong point. I lit two cigarettes, and as I handed one to Denise, she flashed me a furious look and muttered Oh, for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t exactly Now, Voyager, and Denise was certainly no Charlotte Vale, but at least she took the cigarette. We turned to lean on the concrete wall of the balcony. We watched some drunks arguing and the homeless men shuffling about in the dark street below, and I thought I definitely wasn’t going to make do with the stars this time. I was after the moon too.
Despite Denise’s fury with Roddy and Jo for landing her in it, I persisted. I’d had enough of backing off, and friendship was something I knew I could do. I wore her down in the end. I left messages, persisted, convinced her I was serious. There were more dates. Galleries and pubs. I cooked for her, fish kebabs on the barbecue. On my thirtieth birthday, a few months after our first meeting, she came to a party in a pub in Kennington and met all my friends. Miraculously, she didn’t seem to mind when I introduced her as my girlfriend.