‘This was photographed in the park,’ Bex observes, peering over my shoulder. ‘Our park! It looked a lot posher then, didn’t it? Is this Louisa Winter?’
Jake nods. ‘She was seventeen in those shots, I think,’ he tells us. ‘She’s an old lady now, but she’s still a force of nature.’
I run a finger down a wall of black-and-white photographs thick with dust stuck to one of the gently curving walls. There are lots of shots of doe-eyed girls with boyish pixie-cuts and boys in striped tops and donkey jackets with long hair and round, mirrored shades. Are they once-famous faces from long ago? Friends from Louisa’s modelling days? I’d love to know their stories.
‘Wow,’ Happi says in a small voice. ‘What d’you think, Lexie?’
‘Awesome,’ I breathe. ‘There’s more than enough room for us and the equipment … It’s perfect!’
‘Is there electricity?’ Bex is asking, flicking an old Bakelite switch up and down uselessly. Jake says that Sheddie, his stepdad, knows all about electrics and could definitely sort something out.
‘I love it,’ I say.
It’s a time capsule; apart from the decades worth of dust, it’s as if the seventeen-year-old Louisa just walked out moments ago. I reach into my pocket for my mobile, then let it go again; this is too personal, too private for Instagram or Facebook.
I wander along to the end of the living area and sneak a look through the door to the bedroom, the part of the railway carriage Jake’s mum wants to use as a consultation room. It has the same untouched look as the main living space, but there’s something else, something I can’t put my finger on.
The purple op-art coverlet is still smoothed across the double bed, a fun fur rug beside it. A clothes rail still holds a tiny green tartan minidress and an embroidered muslin smock that floats out a little in the draught from the door.
It looks perfect, except that the dressing-table mirror is badly smashed. The sight of it is shocking, as though someone has thrown a brick or a boot or a piece of furniture at the glass in a fit of anger that somehow lingers. Under the dust, ugly zigzags radiate out from a central point, but although big chunks of glass are missing from the mirror, there are no jagged shards, no sharp, bright glint of powdered glass among the bottles of vintage nail polish, the perfume bottle with its little woven diffuser, the muddle of eye pencils and pastel eyeshadows. The mess was cleared away years ago, but a faint aura of violence still hangs in the air.
I feel strangely upset, shaky, but I’m drawn to the dressing table all the same. I open and close a few empty drawers, and in the last drawer I try I find a green fringed shawl and a book of Buddhist meditations. I shiver a little as I touch the embroidered wool and flick through the little book.
Without warning, I’m thinking of my mum again, emotions piling up so strongly I can scarcely breathe. Something sad happened here, something scary. I can feel it, sense it, like a knot of barbed wire in my belly.
It’s as if I can see beyond the shadows, behind the cobwebs and into the past. The images are hazy, but there’s a man and a woman, and the man is angry. I can hear shouting, pleading, crying, shattered glass.
I just don’t understand why it all feels so personal.
17
In the Artist’s Studio
‘Will it do?’ Jake asks, as he closes up the railway carriage again. ‘What d’you think, Lexie?’
Out in the May sunshine, the strange, haunted feeling lifts away as if it never happened at all, and I focus instead on how amazing the old railway carriage is.
‘Tell Louisa Winter we’ll do anything,’ I tell Jake, suddenly desperate for this place to be ours, for a few hours a week at least. ‘We’ll clean it up, paint the walls, box up all her personal stuff. We’ll be respectful; we won’t bother anyone. And the noise shouldn’t be an issue as we’d be so far away from the house …’
‘Tell her yourself,’ Jake says, and, before I can protest, he tugs my arm and I’m walking with him up to the house. Bex and Happi hang back on the path, in theory so as not to overwhelm Miss Winter, but in practice because it’s a slightly weird situation and nobody is quite sure how to approach it.
Jake rings the bell. It echoes through the house, clanging and ominous. Moments later the door swings open and there is Louisa Winter.
She is tiny, a slender figure in a long linen art smock smudged and streaked with oil paint. She’s elderly, of course, with laughter lines around her red lipsticked mouth and feathery crow’s feet radiating out from startling jade-green eyes. Most amazing of all is her hair, a messy tangle of blazing auburn dragged back from her face, secured with a tortoiseshell clip and speared through with a couple of paintbrushes that stick out at alarming angles.
I’ve never seen such a striking woman. She might not be young, but she has style and attitude by the bucketload. She manages to look somehow fierce and other-worldly at the same time.
‘Jake?’ she says, then her gaze moves to me. ‘And … do I know you, young lady? You look very familiar, but I can’t quite place you … Perhaps it’s just that you remind me of someone? Have we met?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, as brightly as I can. ‘My name is Lexie Lawlor. I was born in Scotland, but I’ve lived here since I was nine …’
‘Ah, just my old eyes playing tricks,’ she says. ‘Take no notice of me. So, Jake and Lexie, what can I do for you?’
‘Ms Winter,’ Jake begins politely, ‘I wondered if you could help us? My friends and I are in a band, and we’ve been practising in the meeting room at Bridge Street Library. Lexie here is one of the songwriters … she’s very talented. The others too …’
He gestures vaguely at Happi and Bex, who wave awkwardly from the path.
Jake ploughs on. ‘But now they’re closing the library …’
Louisa Winter frowns. ‘Fools,’ she snaps. ‘I saw it in the newspaper. What are they thinking of? They’ll be burning books next, and we all know where that leads. Anarchy. Chaos. Wickedness. The death of culture!’
I bite my lip, a little alarmed at the thought.
‘I think it’s wrong,’ I blurt out, clumsily. ‘We’re trying to stop them, but I don’t think they’ll listen to us …’
Louisa Winter tilts her head to one side, thoughtful.
‘Look, you’d better come in,’ she says. ‘I was just about to put the kettle on. Come along – all of you. Don’t skulk there on the path!’
Bex and Happi run up the steps and the four of us enter the hallway, closing the heavy door behind us. Louisa Winter strides away, her ancient lace-up boots tap-tapping on the tiled floor. We follow her into a big, cluttered studio, flooded with light and filled with easels, canvases, tables strewn with brushes and tubes of paint. An outsized Swiss cheese plant jostles for space with a giant tribal shield, a huge, age-speckled mirror and a vintage-shop mannequin draped in red velvet; two paint-stained antique sofas are boxed in by stacks of paintings in various stages of completion.
‘Wow,’ I whisper, breathing in the smell of turps and oil paint and linseed oil along with the aura of mystery. ‘Just … wow!’
‘It’s a privilege to see your studio, Ms Winter,’ Happi says, always the most polite. ‘I’ve seen one of your paintings before, in the art gallery in town. It was amazing. The one of the woman holding a fox.’
‘That’s right,’ Louisa Winter says. ‘I’m glad you liked it. And you are?’
‘Happi,’ she says. ‘This is Bex.’
‘Well, let’s get the kettle on and find some mugs, shall we?’ Louisa Winter says. ‘Jake, you’ll find tea and milk and sugar on the counter over there; biscuits too, I think. If you could bring them all over and rinse a few mugs so there’s enough for everyone. Sit down, girls. Make yourselves at home.’
We squash awkwardly on the sofas, balancing mugs of dark brown tea and clutching iced biscuits, our eyes scanning the studio, taking everything in. I’ve never seen the painting in the art gallery, the one Happi mentioned, but I can see half a dozen pain
tings now and they’re incredible. Louisa Winter seems to specialize in big canvases depicting stylized people and animals. The paintings look mystical, timeless; the women doe-eyed and trance-like. Ivy twines round the arms of the woman in the painting closest to me, snaking its way up through her hair.
Louisa Winter perches at the end of one sofa, sipping her tea from a vintage china cup. ‘So,’ she says. ‘Was it just the library you wanted to talk about, or is there something else?’
‘It’s kind of linked,’ Jake explains. ‘Bridge Street Library is shutting early from now on, so our band has nowhere to practise. We’re looking for somewhere big enough; somewhere we won’t get in the way. Sheddie mentioned that you’d asked him to do up the old railway carriage so Mum and Willow could use one of the rooms as a holistic treatment centre …’
‘And you thought you’d use it for band practice too?’ Louisa Winter asks. ‘I see. Are you saying you could share that space? Plan out times to use it?’
Jake shrugs. ‘Mum and Willow only want to use the bedroom bit anyway, for aromatherapy massage and reflexology and stuff. There’s a door at that end too, and a little hallway that could act as a waiting room. The two parts of the railway carriage can be totally separate if we keep the connecting door closed … It’s no problem as long as we don’t practise when they’ve got clients. We could definitely make it work!’
‘Well, if there’s only four of you …’ the old lady muses.
‘Um, twelve, actually,’ I say bravely. ‘It was kind of hard to exclude anyone. And we have an amazing sound – trumpet, violins, cello, keyboard, flute and the usual drums and guitar, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Louisa Winter says. ‘Twelve people? My goodness! It sounds … very interesting. What do you play, Jake?’
‘The triangle,’ he says, deadpan. ‘Well, no … I don’t play anything, I am more of the tech guy, really. Or the publicist. Or the roadie, maybe. We’ll be no trouble, Ms Winter – you’ll hardly know we’ve been there!’
‘Ha! I’ve heard that one before,’ she says. ‘A few people have stayed there on and off over the years … Ked Wilder was here a lot, of course. David hid here for a week to do some songwriting and scandalized the locals by wandering about the park in a maxi dress …’ Her eyes shine, lost in memories of long ago, and then she blinks and shakes her head.
‘Lots of people popped in and out, but not for a while now,’ she muses. ‘I did a favour for a friend’s daughter, ten or fifteen years ago, and … let’s just say it didn’t work out. I suppose you can use it – you seem like nice enough kids. You’ll have to look after it, or the deal is off. It needs clearing out and painting. I’ve talked to Sheddie about that. But why not? It’ll be good to have some young people about the place again, some music.’
‘Would there be a charge?’ Bex asks. ‘A rent?’
‘Of course not! Why would I want to take your money? Always supposing you have any.’
‘We don’t,’ Happi says. ‘That’s the problem.’
‘Not to me,’ the old lady says. ‘Use the place, just don’t wreck it …’
‘Is that a yes?’ I check. ‘Really?’
Louisa Winter laughs. ‘It’s a yes,’ she says.
18
Marley Brings Flowers
Marley Hayes is standing outside the Leaping Llama Cafe with his guitar slung over his shoulder and a bunch of bluebells in his hand. The flowers are wilting a little, the violet-blue blooms bowing their heads sadly, but nobody has ever given me flowers before, not ever, and bluebells are my absolute favourite.
This is my first real date. I spent hours getting ready, trying on every piece of clothing I own in the quest to look cool, careless, confident. In the end I settled for a red swishy skater skirt and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, swiping eyeliner beneath my lashes to create the perfect cat’s eye flick. I wish it were as easy to make sense of my tangled feelings.
I watch Marley for a full five minutes from across the street, half hidden behind a tree, telling myself that, no matter what kind of a bad rep he has, things could still be different for us. Is that optimism or just plain stupidity? When I look at Marley’s blue eyes anxiously scanning the street, I somehow don’t care. I cross the street and say hello.
‘These are for you,’ he says as I approach, holding out the flowers. ‘They’ve gone a bit sad-looking … sorry!’
‘They’re perfect,’ I say.
We head into the Leaping Llama, order hot chocolates and slide into a corner booth. ‘I’m trying to make this a proper date experience,’ Marley says. ‘Flowers and hot chocolate and maybe dinner – you can’t say I’m not trying!’
‘Very trying,’ I quip.
‘Still mad at me?’
I sigh. ‘I wasn’t mad at you, Marley, just … just a bit hurt about the libraries thing and a bit embarrassed at the way you got all bossy in front of my friends.’
He peers at me from beneath his fringe, blue eyes penitent. ‘Look, I’m an idiot sometimes. I know I was a bit full of myself, expecting you to drop everything. I’m too used to getting my own way!’
Marley drops an unlikely three spoonfuls of sugar into his drink, stirring it grimly. ‘Plus … the fight thing. You’re not impressed, are you?’
‘Impressed?’ I echo. ‘No, Marley, I’m not impressed that you get yourself beaten up at regular intervals. It’s kind of weird. Word has it that the fight kicked off because you were flirting with some sixth-form girl …’
‘Are you jealous?’ he asks, eyes alight. ‘Because you don’t need to be, Lexie. She’s just a friend …’
‘I’m not jealous,’ I lie. ‘Why should I care?’
Marley looks hurt then, and I’m the one left feeling bad. It’s kind of awkward, as if both of us are suddenly shy. I wonder again if I want to get involved with a boy who likes fighting and never wins, who flirts with everything in a skirt, who veers dangerously between charming, rude and selfish and unexpectedly vulnerable.
‘Give me a chance, Lexie,’ he says now. ‘I’ll pack in the fighting if that will make you happy. I’ll do whatever you want!’
‘I just want you to be yourself,’ I say, exasperated. ‘Right now I can’t work you out at all!’
‘Be myself? You might not like the real me,’ Marley says. ‘Not many people do. Suppose the real me is rude and vain and ruthless? Or sick, pathetic, disgusting scum? I’ve been called all those things.’
I blink, shocked.
‘Might be some truth in the first few,’ I counter. ‘Rude … sometimes, yes. Vain … probably. Ruthless? I haven’t seen that side of you yet, but I can believe it’s there. I’m not sure about those last labels, though. Who called you those things? An ex girlfriend? You must have been way out of line …’
‘Nah, not an ex,’ he says, his eyes drifting away from me to gaze out of the window. ‘They tend to be kinder, funnily enough. It was my dad. Those are some of the nicer words he has for me … Let’s just say we don’t get on.’
I asked for the real Marley Hayes and I’m getting it now – perhaps more real than I bargained for.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘That sucks.’
‘It does,’ he agrees, still staring into the distance. ‘My dad’s not a nice bloke. A bit too handy with his fists. He has good taste in music – Bob Marley and Bob Dylan, hence the names, but those are the only good things he ever gave us.’
I slide my hands across the table towards Marley, and he holds them tight. His palms feel warm and strong, and his skin is tanned against my own, still winter-pale. My heart is thumping.
‘My dad’s a loser,’ Marley says. ‘If I’m a bit messed up, blame him. Like I said, we’re all a bit lost, right? We all have secrets, stuff we hide.’
Marley is being honest, I know that because I can feel his discomfort at showing so much of himself. He’s trying to be real, but instinct tells me that what I’m seeing is still just the tip of the iceberg.
What else are you hiding, Marley? I wonder, b
ut it’s something I can’t bring myself to ask.
‘I like you, Lexie,’ he says. ‘I know people at school think I’m a user. I have a terrible track record with girls. But I really think we could be different. We could!’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit truthfully. ‘Everybody’s warned me against you …’
‘Do you care?’ he asks, and suddenly it really is that simple. Do I care what other people think? I don’t think I do, not any more.
‘I don’t care,’ I tell him. ‘I just want to know the real you.’
He’s laughing now. ‘You have no idea, Lexie Lawlor, he says. ‘Seriously, you don’t. But I don’t care either, OK? I like you more than I’ve liked anyone in ages. You’re clever and talented and you call me out on stuff when I get too full of myself. I’ll try not to be such a loser the next time I see you with your friends. I was out of order, and I’m sorry. Can you tell?’
‘I think I can …’
‘Well, in case you’re not certain, listen to this,’ he says. ‘I wrote a song for you, and I’ve never actually written a song for a girl before! Want to hear it?’
He takes out his guitar, back in his comfort zone again. Pushing his chair back, he begins to play, a rolling, bittersweet melody that’s managing to break my heart even without any words. It’s wonderful … and it’s mine.
‘Can you write some words for it?’ Marley asks, the moment the last chord dies away. ‘Our song!’
I frown. ‘Sure, only I don’t know the story yet. I only know how it begins, not how it ends.’
‘Who said it was going to end?’ he demands. ‘We could be the greatest love story of the modern age! The Romeo and Juliet of the twenty-first century!’
Love from Lexie Page 8