Where the Light Gets In

by Lucy Dillon

  Lorna found it impossible to tear her gaze from the painted garden; something about it snagged a half-buried memory, hooking it out from her subconscious the same way the clifftop cottage had. Joyce’s sweeping brushstrokes outlined the landscape around Rooks Hall – the trees, the fields, the sky looming outside – but within the brick walls, the world tilted and sharpened, the same tender focus on every leaf and flower as in the bandstand painting Joyce had created for Ronan. It was a big canvas, and every centimetre was layered with thought.

  Lorna glanced towards the fireplace to check the clifftop cottage she thought of as ‘hers’ was still there and saw it was. But the three lino prints that hung in an ochre column had gone, their absence marked by ghostly rectangles on the wall. That was why she felt the room was different. The sharp shards of colour were missing.

  ‘Are you reviewing your collection?’ she asked. ‘Let me know if you’d like me to give you a hand moving paintings around.’

  Joyce put her knitting down on her lap. She pressed her lips together, as if gathering the words for a complicated speech.

  ‘Joyce? Is everything … all right?’ Lorna faltered as the dogs went quiet outside.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Lorna, there’s something we need to talk about.’

  The blood rushed from her stomach. ‘Of course … Should I make some tea?’

  ‘No, no tea.’ Joyce straightened up in the armchair. ‘And I want you to hear me out before you say anything one way or another.’

  Bernard and Rudy slunk back into the room, as if they sensed something was coming, something they needed to chase away.

  Joyce spoke calmly. ‘I have to leave this house.’

  What? Lorna’s mind raced. The letter she’d seen on the side. It must have been about the tenancy. The Osbornes hadn’t bothered to wait for her ‘conversation’ with Joyce after all.

  ‘Oh no. Really? Why?’

  Joyce shrugged. When her shoulders dropped, the brooch on her cardigan drooped a bit more than usual; there seemed to be less of her filling the fabric than before.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I have to move out. And I would rather seize the decision to leave here myself, rather than be dragged, kicking and screaming. Dignity, you know. No, don’t, let me finish …’ Joyce held up a hand to stop Lorna’s protests. ‘It’s left me with a dilemma. I’m limited in where I can go with Bernard.’ She gestured towards the loyal dog standing guard at her feet. ‘There’s sheltered accommodation, but with a waiting list, naturally. Keir is keen to shuttle me off to that old folks’ mausoleum, but I can’t take the hound, so that’s out. He’s been with me his whole life, asked for nothing but my company. I’m not putting him up for rehoming at his age.’

  ‘No, of course not. Poor Bernard. He would miss you. Rudy still misses Betty, don’t you, Rudy?’

  Lorna bent down to stroke Rudy’s scruffy beard; the idea of Bernard in a concrete kennel was awful. Not quite as awful as Joyce packing up the house she loved, though. A furious chill shivered down her spine. How could Sam let this happen? How could he go through the charade of putting in those handrails if all the time he meant to get Joyce out, like a … squatter. Surely she had rights?

  She sat up, and tried to look positive. ‘Well, you never need worry about Bernard. There’ll always be a spot for him with me and Rudy, whatever happens.’

  ‘I was rather hoping we could both come.’

  ‘To my flat? Above the gallery?’

  ‘Until I find somewhere else.’ Joyce folded her hands in her lap. A neat, submissive gesture, one that Lorna didn’t associate with Joyce at all.

  ‘Oh.’ Something about the way she’d come out with that made Lorna wonder if this had been rehearsed. ‘I mean, you’re very welcome, of course but … are you sure you wouldn’t be happier somewhere more peaceful?’

  Joyce glanced over at the garden canvas. Her chest rose and fell with two, three deep breaths, as if she was communing with it, then she said, ‘If I’m honest with you, Lorna, that week I spent with you and your friends – it seems to have shaken something inside me. I’ve woken in the night with ideas, for the first time in years. I feel as if there’s something stirring, something I want to get out while I still can. Before …’

  She made a stiff gesture towards her face. Lorna guessed she meant her eyesight.

  ‘Are you being polite?’ she said. ‘I thought we’d driven you half mad.’

  Joyce laughed drily, and turned her head towards the window. ‘There’s an apple tree in the corner,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed it – well, you won’t have done. Bernard planted it for me the year Ronan was born. I thought it was dead. There’s been no fruit on it for years. I could never bring myself to dig it out, though. This spring, for some reason I don’t understand, there was a little blossom. I thought it had blown off something else, but no. It was the apple tree. A little pink blossom.’

  Lorna leaned forward.

  ‘I would like to create one last beautiful thing,’ said Joyce. ‘There’s one last beautiful thing inside me, and I need to be somewhere with conversation and colour and people.’

  ‘All right …’

  ‘And I will strike a deal with you. A painting for each month I stay. How about that? I thought … perhaps the first one could be the garden. What do you think? Do you like it?’

  ‘Of course I like it – it’s stunning, but Joyce, I can’t take that. It’s far too personal.’

  ‘Why not? You’re the only person I know who knows the story of it. To anyone else, it’s just a garden. In fact, to anyone else, it’s a rather odd deviation from my usual style. Probably not worth as much.’

  Lorna gazed at the defiant old lady in the chair. She didn’t know what to say: the emotions swirling in her were too messy and important for words.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Joyce. ‘You’re embarrassed.’

  ‘I’m not embarrassed, I’m just … surprised.’ Lorna struggled. ‘Of course you can come to stay. Of course. It’s just …’ She looked around the room. It was full of a life; how hard would it be for Joyce to dismantle this? ‘When do you have to move?’

  ‘Fairly soon.’

  Lorna bit back her outrage. How could the Osbornes treat Joyce like this? A marriage lived out here, a son grieved for, a husband lost, a lifetime’s work dreamed and created and waved off. And in the end, a matter of days to pack it up.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We can’t let this happen. Joyce, whatever anyone’s said to you, you don’t have to leave this house. It’s wrong to make you leave. Keir must be able to help; surely there are protections …’

  Bernard jumped up at the angst in Lorna’s voice, and began barking and bouncing.

  Joyce raised a hand. Pride made her sharp. ‘Please, Lorna. You’re the only person in my limited circle who doesn’t treat me like a senile old fool, so don’t start now. If I take you seriously, then kindly take me seriously too. One of the first privileges you lose as you get older is the chance to make your own decisions. I’m not at that stage yet.’

  Lorna flinched.

  ‘Would you mind taking Bernard for a walk?’ Joyce asked. ‘Have a think and let me know what you’ve decided when you come back.’

  Lorna harnessed up both dogs and headed down the path, along the road and up the footpath that ran alongside fields that were now springing with green grass.

  Thoughts pushed into her head, one replaced by another before she had the chance to examine them properly. The paintings. Joyce’s steely eyes. The spaces on the walls. Her space, invaded. Joyce’s space, lost. An elusive feeling that this wasn’t the whole story was driven out by her indignation on Joyce’s behalf – how could Sam let this happen?

  As Lorna rounded the corner she saw a quad bike bouncing down the field. She waved it down before she could even think. If that was Sam, perfect – she could tell him exactly what she thought about this, without marching round to the farmhouse and making a scene in front of his family. Although right now, she wa
s quite prepared to do that.

  Bernard and Rudy both barked and strained on their leads as the bike approached, and Lorna saw that the figure on it was bigger than Sam. It was Gabe, a baseball hat rammed on his head. Irrationally, the baseball hat made Lorna dislike him even more than she already did.

  He spoke before she could. ‘What are you doing on here?’ he yelled. ‘Livestock in the field.’

  ‘I’m walking the dogs, and they’re on leads, and this is a public footpath,’ she yelled back.

  He pulled up a few metres from her and nodded at Bernard. ‘You want to watch that one. Old Ma Rothery’s, isn’t it? Little bastard. He’s lucky not to have been picked off by Simon; out of control round animals.’

  Simon, sneaky Simon, must have told them she’d lost Bernard. Gabriel smirked, as though he was remembering a good joke, and Lorna hated him even more. If Sam was going back to London, Gabriel would be in charge of everything. It was a horrible thought.

  ‘That’s not going to be a problem for much longer, though, is it?’ she snapped.

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘That you’ll soon have Rooks Hall to do up for tourists. I hear Joyce is moving out.’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a disgrace.’ She lifted her chin. ‘It’s not easy for an old person to find somewhere new to live, especially with a dog.’

  Gabriel dropped the smirk. ‘Yeah, you think we’re just looking after ourselves, do you? Evil farmers, only caring about the bottom line.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  He made a dismissive noise. ‘You want to take it up with Sam, not me. Sam’s the one who’s making the decisions around here these days. We just jump to his tune, don’t we? If Sam says we need them cottages making more money, then that’s what happens. No point getting uppity with me.’

  Lorna’s words evaporated on the white heat of her anger, and she felt a surge of energy run through her body, bigger and stronger than anything she’d felt before. It was all she could do to stop herself slapping the smug grin off Gabriel’s face. She clenched her fists by her sides, and the dogs yapped at her ankles, sensing her tension through the leads.

  ‘What?’ He looked at her from his quad bike. ‘Going to hit me?’

  Lorna shook her head and forced the words out. ‘I think it’s disgusting. And you can tell Sam that. Since he’s your boss.’

  And as she turned, Lorna was already deciding how best to rearrange her flat to move Joyce into it. As soon as she wanted.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lorna’s idea came to her unexpectedly, when she was thinking more about the woeful state of her toenails than how she might wow Calum Hardy and the art judges.

  It was Tuesday evening. Tiff had gone out to do some cash-in-hand babysitting for Keir’s boss, and Lorna was taking advantage of the empty flat to do some yoga. Her creative thinking room was now a bit of a mess, with easels folded up against the walls and spare bed linen stacked by the door, but she managed to unroll her mat and was stretching out her hamstrings, letting the sounds of Longhampton’s evening drift through the room.

  The weather had been unusually hot for April and Lorna could smell grilled meat, and the wet greenness of the town’s hanging baskets as they were watered by a man from the council on a cherry picker outside her window. Somewhere a dog was barking – a dog was always barking somewhere – and her mind wandered to Joyce’s painted garden, propped up against the fireplace behind her.

  Joyce had wrapped it up while she was walking the dogs and when Lorna stormed back full of Gabriel-inspired rage and said yes, Joyce could come and stay in the flat, Joyce had nodded, and then insisted on Lorna loading the painting into the back of the car.

  The deal was done.

  Lorna hauled herself into a shoulder stand, locking her gaze on to the fireplace to stop herself wobbling. Viewed from this angle, the painting had quite a spooky feel: the broad battleship-grey strokes of the sky took on a blunt menace against the tender detail of the garden – there was so much detail it seemed to be alive. The delicately petalled roses; the glint of the cat’s eye as it hid in the bushes, spying on the nest of pink-beaked chicks squawking in the apple tree. Everything in the garden was bright and pulsing; everything outside was looming and dark, held at bay by the meticulous care of the gardeners.

  But it wasn’t just the dark skies that were spooky, Lorna thought. The garden was spooky too. When you looked closer, you saw red tulips blooming next to pearly mistletoe next to blowsy peonies next to lion’s mane chrysanthemums next to wintry snowdrops, tortoiseshell butterflies enamel-bright against the frost – all the seasons at once, clamouring for the light. Time and nature rearranged by the painter until it fitted her requirements, guided by an invisible gardener advising on beds and soil and sunlight.

  Lorna flopped down and sat cross-legged, staring into the garden. It was bright and clever but there was a discord she couldn’t put her finger on. What was the key, the clue that would unlock this garden’s secret? And then, in the corner, she saw it: a tiny tree that had glossy fruit and blossom and shady leaves. It was the apple tree Joyce had talked about, the one that had bloomed unexpectedly this year.

  Her heart skipped as she realised what it represented. There it was: the secret grief in the garden’s exploding cornucopia of lushness; a desperate need to make time stand still with constant motion.

  As if two people were determined never to let winter’s darkness come to their doorstep again. As if two grieving parents were determined to defy time and sadness and darkness with colour and scent and fruit and berries, always popping, blooming, reaching for the sun.

  That motion. It ticked in Lorna’s head like the mantel clock in Rooks Hall. Flowers constantly budding. Berries always bursting. Needles clicking. Wool winding and knotting. Emotions, clouds, rain, sounds, love – Joyce plucked those fleeting sensations out of the air, pinned them down, owned them. She could stop time with her eye and her brush, flip memories, make roses bloom in snow, turn single strings of yarn into wings and ears.

  And then it appeared in Lorna’s head as clearly as if someone had just pushed it in front of her. How she could make the community art project something truly incredible.

  The idea spread out across her imagination, unrolling the details and images by itself, each one answering a question before she could even ask it, and her heart sped up. She felt a powerful urge, a need , to see it right now, finished. Before anything could spoil the perfection of its potential.

  Lorna lay flat for a moment, savouring this unexpected euphoria, feeling the pressure of the floorboards against her spine, savouring the scent of the evening air, hearing the slam of car doors and chatter out in the street: herself, in this moment, at the top of a wave.

  Then she rolled herself back to sitting, and scrambled to her feet, reaching for her laptop to start making it happen.

  ‘Obviously, it won’t look like that when it’s done properly.’ Lorna adjusted the flower on the desk. The petals were different sizes and you could see the paintbrush inside the green stem, but the general idea was there. ‘It’ll be neater too,’ she added. ‘Although part of the charm will be that they’re all different.’

  ‘And how many of them will you need?’ asked Tiffany.

  ‘As many as it takes.’ Lorna turned to Caitlin, the yarnbomber who’d made a special trip over to Longhampton after a series of excitable emails exchanged over the past few days. Caitlin’s enthusiasm had gone a long way to convincing Lorna that her concept might work. She also kept helpfully late hours. ‘How many do you reckon, Cait? For a really dramatic display?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Caitlin shoved a hand into her curly lion’s mane of hair and scratched her head. ‘A thousand? Five thousand? I’ve never actually done anything like this before. I’ve just read about it.’

  ‘Oh, I think more ,’ said Joyce. ‘Why not? Ten thousand!’

  Tiffany made a gurgling noise.

  Joyce gave
her a nod of encouragement. Lorna had asked if she could run the idea past her first, but Joyce had insisted she present it to all of them at the same time. ‘You must own the idea,’ she’d told her, more or less holding her hands over her ears to stop Lorna telling her. ‘You must believe in it. Art by committee is egregious.’

  ‘They won’t all be like this,’ Lorna continued. ‘We’d knit lots of different types – flowers from every season. Roses, daisies, poppies, sunflowers. And apples! We could make stuffed apples and pears and hang them from trees.’

  ‘And pineapples,’ said Joyce. ‘And bananas.’

  ‘Bananas? In Longhampton?’ Tiffany frowned. ‘And it’ll be winter. Won’t it? Shouldn’t you do something Christmassy? Like … a partridge in a pear tree?’

  ‘No, that’s the point. No seasons, no limits. We’ll be turning the whole of Longhampton into a secret garden for one day, in the depths of winter. Like magic! Can you imagine the high street going to bed all grey and dull and wintry, then the next morning everyone wakes up and wow! It’s the Chelsea Flower Show!’

  ‘But ten thousand flowers …’

  ‘It’s for the whole town. Everyone will be able to join in – we’ll run workshops here, and hand out knitting patterns, and wool, and go into schools and maybe get them to knit a special easy flower, or make metres of stems with those knitting dollies? And we can tap into the knitting talent in the local residential homes … It’s something everyone can do, and it’s quick and it’s easy and it’s … it’s …’ Lorna ran out of breath, and out of words to convey how excited she was.

  No one spoke. Behind them a customer came into the gallery and headed for the display of silver jewellery. Everyone liked the silver jewellery.

  Joyce finished the sentence Lorna had left hanging in the air. ‘It’s art ,’ she said, and put down her knitting to clap. She held her hands elegantly, high and vertical, as if she were applauding a virtuoso musician.

  Lorna smiled so hard her cheeks ached. Art. She felt light, light and floating on the possibilities spreading out before her.