Where the Light Gets In

by Lucy Dillon

  ‘None of this could have happened without you,’ said Lorna. ‘You, and your beautiful bandstand painting.’

  Joyce turned to the painting, displayed proudly in the corner of the marquee. Two children were gazing in wonder at it, pointing out details to their dad with stubby fingers. Lorna suddenly felt the depth of Joyce’s sacrifice: to give Lorna a project, this private woman had opened herself up to a public examination of her most precious memories.

  ‘I think … I think Ronan would have enjoyed this, Joyce,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so.’

  Lorna’s words hung in the warm, grassy air: intimate, brave. Much braver than just starting a painting.

  Joyce turned. ‘And, if you don’t mind my saying,’ she replied, ‘your mother would be proud of your vision.’

  Lorna caught her breath: what would Mum have made of today? In her mind, her favourite memory rolled like Super-8 film, her mother turning from her tilted drawing desk, detaching from her work for a moment to smile down at Lorna, praising her choice of crayon, the neatness of her colouring. She’d looked like a bright goddess, her dark hair messy and her face alive with energy. How much Lorna had longed to be like that. Alive with energy, inspired with other-worldly power.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I think that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.’

  The park started to empty at teatime. Tiffany and Hattie helped Lorna stack the materials into plastic crates to be taken back to the gallery. There was just the marquee to be taken down; Sam texted to say he’d be there as soon as he’d finished at the farm. She wasn’t to start without him, apparently.

  ‘You two go home,’ Lorna said as they loaded the final piece into the back of her car – Joyce’s painting. ‘I’ll wait for Sam; he won’t be long.’

  ‘Mum and Dad are coming back at six,’ said Hattie. ‘Please don’t be late.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Lorna patted her arm; she looked apprehensive, and Lorna couldn’t blame her. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘There he is now.’ Tiff nodded at the Land Rover pulling up by the gates. Sam was on his own in the front. ‘I’ll see you back at the gallery.’

  Lorna waved them off, and squinted into the late afternoon sun as Sam jumped out of the Land Rover and strode across the grass towards her. He looked as if he’d driven over in a rush; he was wearing rough jeans and his dark hair was a mess.

  ‘Right.’ He pointed at the marquee. ‘Let’s get this thing down. Start with this bit here …’

  They worked together well, and it didn’t take long before the marquee lay in pieces around them. Lorna enjoyed the methodical way they peeled it apart, stacking the components in neat lines, talking without having to look at each other.

  ‘This saved the day, you know,’ she said. ‘Apart from keeping everything dry, everyone loves a marquee. It’s intriguing.’

  ‘Glad to help.’ Sam heaved the rolled-up tarpaulin into the back of the Land Rover with a grunt. ‘Not pretending I understand what on earth painting sound is, but it looked fun. I hear you had queues around the block.’

  ‘Well, people wanted to keep dry.’ She was disappointed Sam hadn’t seen it for himself. But maybe the farm had been busy, Lorna told herself. It didn’t mean he thought it was pretentious bollocks, not necessarily.

  He turned, and gave her an appraising look. ‘I think it was more than that.’

  Lorna clanged the final tent peg into the bag. She didn’t want to go back to the flat, to deal with Jess and Ryan’s simmering drama. Not just yet. ‘We’ve got some cake left over and I could do with a sit down.’ She nodded at the bandstand. ‘Can I tempt you?’

  ‘With cake?’ Sam patted his stomach. ‘Sadly, yes.’

  By now the park had returned to normal, the dog walkers appearing on the paths and a few joggers weaving around them. Lorna had half a flask of coffee left, and they shared it on the bandstand steps with some squashed Victoria sponge.

  ‘Your mum would have loved your event, you know,’ said Sam out of nowhere.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Sam had only met her mother once or twice; Mum had been shy, and their house hadn’t been one of the teen hang-outs. Maybe it was the Teacher Dad vibes.

  ‘Of course. What artist wouldn’t love something like that? And the way you got everyone involved, even people who wouldn’t normally do something so wacky. Can I call it wacky?’ He lifted his eyebrows, then turned more serious. ‘That’s much harder. Creative and practical – that’s you.’

  Lorna almost said, it was Joyce, really, but stopped herself. Pride fluttered in her chest. ‘Thanks. But Mum was a proper artist …’

  ‘What’s proper?’ He made a dismissive noise. ‘So were those pretentious tossers in London who scammed you of your inheritance.’

  Lorna flinched, and Sam looked repentant. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I just get angry sometimes, thinking about it. Sorry.’ He stretched out his legs on the bandstand steps. ‘Let’s not go there again.’

  He got angry ? Lorna stared at him, surprised. He’d never told her that. But then they’d never talked about it; she’d never wanted to see Sam again when his advice had turned out to be spot on. Not to mention the rest … ‘I thought you just thought I’d been stupid.’

  ‘That too. But that wasn’t art, Lorna. I know nothing about it, but what you did today – that’s worth a million times more.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So when did you see the finished paintings? I thought you were tied up on the farm all day.’

  Sam brushed cake crumbs off his jeans. Lorna didn’t know why: they were already paint-spattered. ‘I, um, I popped back. Just briefly.’

  ‘You should have said!’ She nudged him. ‘Were you afraid we’d make you paint?’

  Their eyes locked, and then very slowly, as if two magnets were drawing them together, Lorna felt herself leaning closer. She wasn’t conscious of making any decision at all; it was just happening. Nothing else was touching, no hands, no knees, no other connection, apart from the electricity sparking in the space between their faces which was closing, closing, until Sam’s lips, soft and firm at the same time, were on hers and he was kissing her.

  She was kissing him. And it was exactly like she’d imagined, a normal kiss multiplied by a sense of time absolutely stopping. He tasted of coffee and a strange familiarity; he smelled of warm skin and damp jackets. Lorna’s heart expanded inside her, a perfect rose gold behind her eyelids, and she wanted to stay in this bubble for ever.

  And then she became aware of a ringing noise, by her feet. Her phone, in her bag. Lorna pulled away, automatically, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  ‘Your phone.’ Sam pointed at her bag.

  ‘I don’t have to answer it,’ she said. But the moment had broken. Now they’d have to discuss it, with awkward words.

  ‘What if it’s Jess? Are you meant to be somewhere?’

  ‘Dinner, with the family. You want to come?’ Lorna dug half-heartedly in her bag. Her heart was still hammering. Way to destroy the moment. She didn’t really want to talk to Jess right now.

  ‘I would.’ Sam’s voice sounded different. ‘But I’ve got a call at home later. About work.’

  ‘Pigeon fancier? Or holidaymaker?’

  Sam didn’t answer at once. Lorna turned to see him fidgeting with his own phone.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘With a mate who’s a headhunter, if you must know. I’ve got a few options lined up.’

  A headhunter? That wasn’t what she’d expected. ‘What sort of options?’

  ‘In London.’ He tried to shrug it off. ‘I’ve got the diversification plans set up now; Gabe knows what he’s doing. Well, more or less. I was only ever going to come back in the short term, just to get things turned around,’ Sam added defensively.

  She stared at him. ‘Do your parents know that?’ It wasn’t the impression she’d got over the dinner table. They seemed pretty happy, the farm safe for another generation.
/>
  ‘Yes.’ Sam stared back, but his gaze faltered. ‘Oh, Lorna, come on. Neither of us suits this sort of small town life. I bet you if you got offered a job running a gallery in Manchester or somewhere, you’d be off like a shot.’

  ‘Would I?’ I don’t know this man at all, she thought. He’s just kissed me, knowing how much I’ve wanted it for so long, but he’s already planning on leaving. Leaving me here. She pushed herself off the bench and grabbed her bag. Her skin was rippling with panic, just like Rudy’s. ‘I need to get back to the flat. Thanks for the marquee, Sam.’

  ‘Lorna!’

  She heard him calling her, but she didn’t want to turn back and see him. She just kept marching and marching until she was out of the park, and back on the high street.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘So …’ Calum Hardy leaned forward on his elbows and fixed Lorna with his most art-dealery look. ‘Here’s where we are. Devolved creative autonomy – it’s in our hands. Or rather … your hands.’

  As he said that he turned his own hands round, raised his forefingers and pointed at her.

  On the other side of the restaurant table, Lorna bit back a smile and tried to arrange the words in an order that made sense. Calum Hardy began every sentence with the word ‘So …’ It was like a red flag to announce the importance of what was to follow, but it had stopped being irritating once she’d decided to imagine him as he probably imagined himself: as a man constantly being interviewed by the BBC’s Culture Editor. A man single-handedly bringing art to the outposts of civilisation, one community event at a time.

  They were having lunch again, at Calum’s invitation, this time at Longhampton’s second most popular establishment, the gourmet burger bar known as Crazy Patty’s. Lorna and Tiffany had found it impossible to get in on the three occasions they’d tried. It was always rammed with luminous teenagers wrestling juicy handfuls of beef and brioche, then taking selfies of themselves next to the neon Crazy signs.

  Lorna moved her plate away. Her burger had been perfect, although it had made her think of the cows outside the farmhouse. Thanks, Gabe.

  ‘Everyone in the office is still buzzing about the bandstand,’ Calum went on. ‘It worked on so many levels – bringing people together, sharing a communal experience, and making art in the process. All the feels.’

  Lorna nodded. All the feels. Meaning? She’d have to check with Hattie that that was a good thing. ‘I had no idea it would go that well, to be honest.’

  ‘But it did!’ Calum beamed at her, and the realness of his smile warmed her. His positivity was nice to be around and he seemed genuinely interested in her ideas. ‘You went for it, everyone raised their game … you made the sun come out!’

  ‘It helped that we had a marquee.’

  ‘Marquee was great. Love that you can just rustle up a marquee. So. Where do we go next?’

  ‘We? ’ said Lorna. ‘I thought that was it for Art Week.’

  He twinkled at her. ‘I’ve been tasked with co-ordinating the regional entry for a national community art prize.’ His voice dropped to indicate how serious he was being. ‘The submission has to reflect the place we live in, it has to bring people together, and if we hadn’t already done your Paint the Music project, that would have been exactly what they were looking for.’

  ‘Can’t we do it again?’ she asked. ‘With, er, dogs or something? We could make the dogs run around to music on canvases!’

  ‘No, it’s got to be fresh.’ He signalled to the waitress for another milkshake, then pointed at her empty coffee cup. Lorna nodded. Why not? There wasn’t enough caffeine in the world to keep up with Calum’s mile-a-minute conversation.

  ‘I can tell you what hasn’t worked,’ he went on. ‘Film projects, nope – people get shy or weird. Or, in one case, obscene – but, you know, in an interesting way … Murals, nope – you can’t stick a wall on a truck and take it to an awards dinner. Community poetry, nope – God, don’t even start me. Don’t even. The things people think! And the rhymes!’

  What was she supposed to say? Lorna could already imagine how Joyce would be rolling her eyes at this.

  Calum pointed at her again. ‘I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking, this is going to take up a lot of my time.’ He tilted his head. ‘I hear that. But, apart from the satisfaction of making a difference to a town that, let’s face it, needs a bit of help to locate its creative side, there is a prize, to be spent on art facilities, obviously, plus some fantastic publicity for your gallery. The council will pay any out-of-pocket expenses – within reason, of course.’

  The coffee and the milkshake arrived. Calum thanked the waitress, then, as an afterthought, ordered some chocolate truffles too. Truffles, obviously, were a reasonable expense.

  Lorna was conscious that she wasn’t saying very much. ‘But isn’t this something you’ve done before?’

  ‘It is, but I want to tap into your experience here. This is right up your street.’ Finally, Calum sounded natural. ‘I understand you used to work with art in hospitals? I’ve read the brief and I reckon the key to it is seeing art as something that makes the world happier.’

  He’d researched her: how flattering. ‘It’s a strong idea. Art can be healing in ways we don’t fully understand, but my experience is really in distributing it, rather than actually making it.’

  ‘Get out of here.’ Calum boggled, as if she were being modest. ‘You made the bandstand art. And it won’t just be you, it’ll be the whole town.’

  ‘So I can blame them if it goes wrong?’

  ‘Ha ha!’ Calum pointed at her again, with a cheeky wink. ‘So, the deadline for the project is the end of the year. We’d need to announce whatever it is you’re planning to do in a couple of months – that will give us six months to complete it.’ He raised his hands. ‘Over to you, Lorna.’

  The truffles arrived. She put two of them in her mouth at once without even thinking about it, before he could change his mind.

  ‘I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about,’ said Lorna. ‘Even if I wasn’t completely out of ideas.’

  ‘I doubt Mr Hardy has the first idea either,’ said Joyce. ‘And that’s exactly why he’s passed the buck to you. Forgive the jargon. So much jargon these days. Ugh.’

  ‘He wants me to give him some ideas to “bounce around” by the end of next week.’ Lorna leaned back in her chair and Rudy jerked awake from where he’d been lying at her feet, but she barely noticed. She couldn’t work out if the sinking sensation in her stomach was dread or excitement. Calum had looked at her as if she was someone who could organise mass art events. He had no idea that she couldn’t.

  ‘I’m sure something will come to you,’ Joyce went on, her needles slipping and clicking as she knitted. These days she never seemed to stop knitting. Every time Lorna called in, she’d started a new item. ‘Something always pops up.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Inspiration is a funny thing. Sometimes it refuses to come for months; sometimes it hears an alarm clock you can’t.’

  ‘I thought you said it had to come from here.’ Lorna patted her chest, above her heart.

  Joyce gave her an inscrutable glance, then returned to her needles. ‘I didn’t say that it’s the only place it can come from. This Calum Hardy … you’re quite keen to impress him, aren’t you?’

  Lorna concentrated on her own knitting: a dog jumper for Rudy, which was not progressing as fast as Joyce’s. ‘Well, yes. He’s got a lot of useful connections – Calum knows some of the big artists working in Birmingham and London. I could do with a few of their paintings in the gallery. I know it’s nice to keep things local, but I’m not exactly going to be retiring on what we’re making on felt brooches.’

  That was putting it mildly. Monday’s takings hadn’t even covered Mary’s bulk-buying of biscuits for the month, and the bandstand materials had gone on Lorna’s own credit card. It was nearly April, almost a third of the way through her year.

  Jo
yce turned her row over. ‘He has a high opinion of you, evidently. You could be the golden art couple of the West Midlands.’

  ‘I’m not trying to impress him like that ,’ Lorna insisted. She put her knitting down. ‘I don’t have time to get distracted with men. I’d rather get the gallery established.’

  Although … Her mind slid sideways to Calum’s smile across the table, the genuine enthusiasm once you got past the hipster exterior. The thing about Calum was that he didn’t actually know her – he just knew the Lorna she was now, the gallery owner, straightforward and competent. He didn’t know she’d failed as an artist, that her degree was really in Sociology.

  Which made her think of Sam. He hadn’t called since the weekend, and she hadn’t called him. Not even to report on the strained family supper she’d had with Jess and Ryan.

  Bernard raced to the window and barked so hard his fur vibrated; the postman was making his way up the path, shooting narrow glances towards the house as he went.

  ‘Have you got any ideas?’ Lorna asked Joyce. She tried to make it sound casual.

  ‘My mind’s a perfect blank. I’m afraid I always shied away from those collectives people used to go in for. I prefer to work alone.’

  Lorna wasn’t sure what to make of Joyce’s neutral tone. Didn’t she want to help? Was she asking too much now?

  She looked around the room, and her eye fell on the canvas leaning against the low coffee table. She’d noticed it when she’d arrived but had been so caught up in telling Joyce about her meeting with Calum that she hadn’t asked why it was there.

  ‘Is that your garden?’ Lorna gestured towards the canvas; it had to be the painting Joyce and Bernie had designed together to map out their year-round cottage flower festival.

  Joyce nodded. ‘I painted, my husband planted. Of course, there’s a little artistic licence …’

  The letterbox rattled and Bernard and Rudy scooted out into the hall, their barks overlapping, deep and sharp.