by Dillon, Lucy
She couldn’t finish the sentence, and Rudy sighed, as if to underline the urgency.
Lorna didn’t want a dog, but her conscience wouldn’t let her say ‘yes, please’ to Betty’s George Medal, the talisman for the rest of her new life, and abandon poor Rudy.
Maybe it was better that he’d already given his heart to someone else. He’d never love her like he’d loved Betty, and she didn’t have to be that One Person for him.
Oh Betty, you wily woman, she thought. You planned this good and proper.
Chapter Three
It was dark by the time the final box of Lorna’s possessions was unloaded and stacked in the big room overlooking the town that she’d earmarked as hers. The street outside the gallery was grey and uninspiring, stripped of the remaining Christmas lights that had given the shop fronts a few traces of party colour last time she’d visited, and there weren’t many shoppers left browsing the desperate ‘Final Reductions!!!’ sales. Those that were seemed keen to get home.
The gallery downstairs was still open. Mary had bustled upstairs while Lorna was directing the removal men – bearing a carton of milk, tea and biscuits ‘to help you settle in!’ – but even though she was itching to unwrap her own treasures from bubble wrap and start working out how best to display them, Lorna couldn’t stop herself going straight down to see what a Saturday afternoon in her own art gallery would be like.
Very quiet, as it turned out. There was a single customer browsing the back room when Lorna came in, and she left soon after Lorna arrived, without buying anything. She did smile apologetically, though.
‘How’s it been today?’ Lorna asked Mary as she turned the Open sign to Closed at six o’clock and locked the door.
‘Not too bad … for January.’ Mary always appeared upbeat; it was partly down to her jazzy glasses. ‘It gets better towards Valentine’s Day – I try to encourage our artists to do something heart-based at least once a year. Some of them get a bit huffy about debasing their art, but a sale’s a sale.’
She was going through her end-of-day routine, turning lights off in the displays and closing cabinets; Lorna watched, wondering if she should be making a list. As of Monday, this was her responsibility. It gave her a shiver.
Mary stopped, and turned to Lorna with a smile. ‘I was thinking, shall we go through the admin and what have you now? Then you’ll have tomorrow free to get unpacked, and hit the ground running on Monday.’
‘Don’t you want to get home?’
Mary flapped her hand. ‘Keith’s in Lytham St Anne’s playing golf this weekend – it’s just me and a Marks and Sparks ready meal. It won’t take long; we’re not a complicated business.’
‘If you’re sure …’ Lorna half wanted to get back upstairs, to start playing around with the big spare room she’d marked out as her ‘creative space’, but at the same time, her gaze was wandering around the walls. A few of the exhibits had biographies next to them, written by the artists, and Lorna wanted to study them properly now. Who were these artists? What did they create? And why?
‘I’ll make us a cup of tea,’ said Mary. ‘That’s the first rule of owning a place like this, by the way. Get a reliable kettle and some decent biscuits.’
The back office was small, and nowhere near as messy as Lorna had expected. Shelves ran up one wall, lined with boxes labelled with the artists’ names, and opposite them was a white desk with an ancient Mac, and a filing system that suggested IKEA had moved into the area since Lorna was last there. The only unusual thing she spotted was the stack of biscuit tins in one corner. It was at least fifteen tins high.
She retrieved Rudy from the flat upstairs while Mary made them tea, and watched from one of the orange office chairs as Mary talked her through a typical week in the Maiden Gallery. Filing, bank runs, opening times, rates, ‘nice’ teenagers who came in during holiday times to help out … The admin at least sounded straightforward.
‘… and this is our database of local artists and artisan craftsmen and -women. You can say craftsperson if you like, but they never do … Wait, not that one. Oh, heavens!’ Mary clicked several times on a mouse mat in the shape of a cookie before she managed to open a spreadsheet.
‘Is everyone detailed on the computer?’ Lorna had her own ideas about finding new talent but she didn’t want to upset any established gallery regulars.
‘Yes, but … Oh dear.’ Mary kept clicking unsuccessfully until the right screen appeared. ‘To be honest, I keep everything written down here.’ She pulled a drawer open and removed a tatty A4 desk diary, full of Post-it notes and held together with elastic bands. ‘I kept getting mixed up with the spreadsheets, and you know what artists are like – you don’t want to be telling them someone else’s sales details and who wants what. They’re terribly competitive, some of them.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Lorna, making a mental note not to do that. Mum had never bothered too much about what other people sold, but then she’d been in her own world when she was in her studio. She didn’t care how much her work fetched, or who bought it – but then she was lucky that Dad dealt with the mundane realities of life, leaving her free to wander round her imagination, untroubled by VAT or recycling. ‘And do you have a mailing list? And regular customers?’
‘Of course, here, look. We hold four exhibitions a year, and I suppose we could have more … Oh dear, you’re going to think me very lazy … But, as you can see, some events are more successful than others. Just you try getting people out here during January. We even tried bribing them with wine. No joy.’
Lorna scanned the spreadsheet. She’d examined the accounts when the estate agent sent her the details of the gallery’s turnover, but now she saw the numbers in human terms. What kind of paintings brought people out on cold nights, which artists had a following, who created art that touched people’s souls. She’d always known no one needed a painting the way they needed loo roll; every individual item had to make someone fall in love with it. It was her challenge to find the art, then find its home.
‘This exhibition looks popular,’ she said, pointing to one event that had five times the attendees of the next – and a hugely profitable sales total. All the paintings sold, and a reserve list of customers who hadn’t managed to secure what they wanted.
‘Ah, yes. That was our last Joyce Rothery night.’ Mary sighed and put on her glasses. She opened the desk diary at a page filled with business cards and handwritten Post-its. ‘That was a tremendously fun evening. Gracious! Nearly five years ago now. How time flies … Yes, that makes our other events look a bit flat.’
‘Who’s Joyce Rothery?’ It wasn’t a name Lorna had heard before; she felt she should have.
Mary peered at her over the edge of her spectacles. ‘She’s probably the best artist we have round here. Haven’t you come across her?’
Lorna almost said, But what about Cathy Larkham, but didn’t. She wasn’t sure why.
‘Um, no, I haven’t, actually. What’s her style?’ Was Joyce Rothery responsible for the herd of close-up farm animals in the main gallery?
‘Oh, she’s extraordinary – she paints the most beautiful oils. Huge following, locally and further afield. Let me find the pamphlet for her last event …’ Mary flipped through the diary. ‘Here, but this doesn’t do her justice!’
Lorna scanned the brochure, wondering if it would feature something she remembered from her early teens, maybe one of the magical collages that had lodged in her imagination for so long, but it didn’t. Joyce Rothery’s work would probably have passed her by as a teenager; she painted landscapes, but so rich and heavy with energy they felt almost human in their emotions. According to the copy, Rothery worked on a variety of scales, and each composition lured the viewer straight into the frame; colours growled in one thunderous study of a cornfield, then hummed with tranquillity in another.
‘Wow.’ Lorna made a mental note to tell her boss at the art charity about these. What an impact these would have in a featureless atrium, or a tense
waiting room. ‘I bet these are incredible in real life.’
Mary nodded. ‘Keith and I bought one of Joyce’s seascapes years and years ago, before I even thought of taking on the gallery, and it was the best investment I ever made. Not because of how much it’s worth now, but because it’s given me so much pleasure every day, just looking at it as I make my morning coffee. It’s as if I’m right there, on the seafront in a gale. I’ve always felt she should be more well known than she is, but there you go.’
Lorna scanned the biography. Born in Worcestershire in 1938 to a prominent local brewing family … trained at the Slade … exhibited at the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition … several important exhibitions … lives in the Yarley valley …
She started to ask a question about prices, then looked up and saw Mary was staring down at the diary with a horror-struck expression. ‘Mary?’
She slammed the book shut, then looked shamefaced, and opened it. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Oh dear, what?’
Mary pressed her lips together in a gesture that Lorna had already spotted as a nervous tic. ‘I’ve got a confession to make. There are a few things I should have done which I haven’t, because I didn’t know what was happening with the Maiden.’
Lorna’s heart began to sink; she knew too much about what might happen if you let ‘a few things’ slide with the Inland Revenue. ‘Financial … things?’
Mary extracted a letter from the file, and when Lorna took it off her she could see there were several pages stapled together. ‘It’s from the Art Week organiser at the council. I had it in my head that this was happening in August, as usual, but I see now they’ve moved it forward into March.’
‘Oh, I read about the town’s Art Week – what a great idea.’ Lorna’s pulse returned to normal as she took the messy pages and flipped through the correspondence. Mary obviously liked buying filing equipment more than she liked using it. ‘I take it the gallery’s a regular venue?’
‘Yes. The main Art Week is in the summer – well, it used to be – and then there’s a pre-Christmas spin-off. It attracts a lot of people to the town, and the council’s got this new Arts Director who’s quite … um, keen to expand the whole shebang. I should have answered these when they arrived but Keith didn’t want me to commit and, well …’
The tone of the letters was certainly very slick; Calum Hardy, Head of Communications, was no stranger to a mission statement. The headed paper had a logo and everything – LAW represented in various artistic styles – and one of the attachments featured photos from previous years’ projects. Six-foot-high apples dotted around town, Make and Do tents in the town square. Lorna squinted. That looked like the famous installation of naked human beings, except in the Longhampton version the volunteers were clothed in army surplus gear.
‘I expect you can miss it, if you explain it’s too short notice?’ Mary asked, anxiously. ‘It’s quite a lot of work …’
‘No, honestly, Mary, it’s a brilliant way to relaunch!’ Lorna opened her notebook to a new page and wrote: Organise Art Week exhibition . ‘What’s the theme this year?’
‘The same as every year, I suppose. Celebrating local art.’
Local art? For a split second, Lorna considered a Cathy Larkham retrospective. What could be closer to home than her mother? That would be a major splash: boxes of Mum’s work were still in Jess’s storage unit: same unseen. Dad had kept nearly everything, and Lorna could easily request loans from long-standing collectors. The dark shadows and sharp lines of her mum’s illustrations would look incredible against the white walls of the Maiden Gallery. She could see it in her mind’s eye: people admiring the work, moving slowly around the room, glasses chinking, conversation bubbling. A childhood memory of peeping from behind a door with Jess when Mum had a rare exhibition in London mingled with her own memories of openings she’d been to as an adult, except this time she’d be the one in charge, making the speech, hosting the event, listening to stories she hadn’t heard before …
Then her natural stubbornness swept it away. No. She had to establish herself on her own terms, as her own person. Lorna wanted artists to trust her because she had taste, not because she had a famous artist for a mother.
‘Well, that’s easy,’ she said, clicking her pen. ‘We’ll get Joyce Rothery on board – her first exhibition in five years!’
Perfect. Local, profitable, respected. Tick, tick, tick.
She wrote it down, then looked up to see Mary fiddling with her spectacle chain. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know if you can, dear. We haven’t been able to get in touch with Joyce for a while.’
Lorna’s enthusiasm dipped as she glanced at the biography on the brochure. Oh no. Joyce was … what, eighty? ‘How do you mean? Is she …’ How best to ask this tactfully? ‘… still with us?’
Mary rolled her eyes. ‘She’s still got all her faculties, if that’s what you’re hinting at. And then some. No, she lives out in Much Yarley, but she never answers the phone and won’t reply to letters. It was better when her husband was alive – he was a very nice chap, always answered the phone – but he died a few years ago now.’
‘Oh. And you haven’t seen her about?’
‘I visited. Once.’ The accompanying expression added, And never again . ‘She’s not a “do drop in” kind of person. But you could always try writing. Maybe if you told her you’d just taken over the gallery? She’s …’ Mary stopped herself and her cheeks went pink. ‘Do you know, I was going to say she’s a very nice lady, but I have to be honest, she’s not. Joyce is … forthright in her opinions. It’s not like we didn’t try to stay in touch with her. She made it clear she didn’t want to be in touch with us .’
‘Well, there’s nothing to say artists have to be sociable.’ Lorna was sure she could persuade her. Already her mind was jumping with ideas – maybe getting the primary school involved, or holding classes in the gallery? Or some event in the town itself? Live-action pottery, or a huge Jackson Pollock-style splatter fest in the park? If she put together a strong programme, Joyce would want to be involved. Surely?
‘Your best bet is to appreciate her work. But don’t try soft-soaping her, whatever you do.’ Mary helped herself to a biscuit and put the lid firmly on the tin. ‘I must stop eating these. They’re so moreish. Yes, she’ll either help you or she won’t, but I honestly can’t tell you which. Mind you, if you manage it, then you’re a better woman than me.’
The effort of being truthful and diplomatic was written plainly over Mary’s round face. Lorna wondered if that was one of the reasons the long-suffering Keith was keen for her to give up the gallery.
Meanwhile, there was still a whole wall of other artists to get through.
‘I’ll put the kettle on again, shall I?’ Lorna suggested. If all the Maiden’s creatives required as much delicate handling as Joyce Rothery, it would be a two-pot job.
Lorna woke up on Sunday morning, and took a moment to remember where she was.
The room smelled different – of packing boxes and cleaner air and dust and … dog.
She rolled over and saw Rudy curled up in his basket by the window, his eyes squeezed shut even though Lorna wasn’t convinced he was asleep. She’d considered putting his basket in the kitchen – start as you mean to go on, and all that – but he’d whimpered and looked so frightened that Lorna had relented. She felt the grip of responsibility for him, and she didn’t like it. His anxiety made her anxious, and, to her shame, also irritated.
Because of Rudy’s many and various phobias as listed in Betty’s letter – and because Lorna wasn’t confident about her own dog-wrangling skills should he encounter some or all of them – she decided to take him out before breakfast. Longhampton town centre was deserted first thing on Sunday morning. The signs on the shops were turned to Closed, the pavements were empty, and chairs were stacked on café tables; Lorna hadn’t expected it to be bustling, but there were literally no other souls around other than her and Rudy, scuttling along the p
avement as the first light appeared in the leaden sky.
I don’t remember it being this grim, she thought, and shuddered.
Lorna tucked her spare hand into the warm depths of her parka pocket and glanced down at the little dachshund, waddling by her side on his short legs, his eyes darting left and right for any approaching hazards. Rudy’s world was a dark and fearful place – black dogs, big dogs, aggressive dogs, police cars, bicycles, joggers, brooms and shopping trolleys. And men. Betty’s RudyCare list didn’t cover solutions to his phobias, just descriptions of them.
They followed the signs pointing towards the park, and Lorna peered into the windows of her business neighbours. A few were familiar – the WHSmith was still there, the family jewellers where starry-eyed local couples had always bought their engagement rings – but her eye sought out the freshly painted frontages, as well as traces of her past. There were signs that Longhampton’s independent business scene was starting to blossom on the high street, with a deli, some new cafés and a bookstore breaking up the charity shops and chains.
She paused to admire a display of soft lambswool blankets in a homeware shop, and was mentally calculating whether she could afford one when she felt the abrupt tension on the lead.
Rudy was straining at the end of it, his whole body trembling with fear. Then he barked twice, and ran behind her legs, twisting the lead round her knee.
‘Ow!’ Lorna hopped in pain, and turned to see what he was reacting to: at the end of the street, a long way in the distance by the pub, was another dog owner with two black Labradors walking by his side. The man raised his hand in acknowledgement but the dogs didn’t even look up. Even so, Rudy seemed terrified.
He barked again, a snippy, scared noise, then panted hard. His eyes were wide and his tail whipped furiously back and forth. Lorna was surprised to feel her own muscles clench with tension.