by Dillon, Lucy
It was so far out of everything she knew about her big sister, the academic achiever, the smart, ambitious one whom everyone consulted when it came to directions and school rules. Or was it? Had that been Jess’s way of making herself the centre of her own family?
Jess wasn’t saying anything. She was gazing out into the park, where the moon was starting to glow in the navy sky, and her face was lost in thought, as if retracing her own steps through the past.
‘Jess? ’ This put a very different slant on things.
‘What? Of course I didn’t,’ said Jess. ‘I think it’s time we got back, I need to text the kids before bed.’ And she pushed herself off the bench and wobbled down the bandstand steps.
Back at the flat, Hattie and Joyce were sitting at opposite ends of the kitchen sofa, knitting, when Jess and Lorna walked back in. The dogs had curled up between them, and there was a pot of tea on the table, the remains of the cake Jess had brought and a gift bag.
The pair of them were engrossed in their work and, for a second, Lorna had a glimpse of what her mum and Hattie might have looked like, sharing their skills. But Mum would never have helped Hattie the way Joyce did, Lorna realised; her art had been very personal.
Somewhere in the flat, an animated conversation was taking place between Tiffany and a familiar woman’s voice.
Hattie put a finger up to her lips. ‘Shh.’
‘We have a bet,’ Joyce said drily. ‘Tiffany asked us to count how many times her mum said … what was it, Hattie?’
‘Tiffany, you’ve lost your mind,’ repeated Hattie in a perfect TOWIE accent.
‘We’re up to … seven. And she’s only just told her that she’s not going back to the agency.’
So the moment of truth had arrived. Lorna helped herself to cake, cut another slice for Tiffany, and followed the sound of the argument into the sitting room.
Mrs Harris was ranting on Tiffany’s iPad, which was propped up against the window. She was tanned from her cruise, but any Zen calm had gone, washed away by a tidal wave of incredulity at her daughter’s crazy behaviour.
‘Mum,’ Tiffany was pleading, ‘would you listen? I’m working on an important charity project, while I build my CV …’
‘You have thrown away the chance of a lifetime! You had a career! You had openings!’
‘I had dangerously high blood pressure, Mum. I’ve made my mind up. This is my new career. I will pay you back for the course and—’
‘You’ve broken our hearts, Tiff. I could have got you so many jobs on this cruise, with some smashing families.’
‘I don’t want to work for people who basically avoid their kids, Mum, I want to help people who actually want my help.’
‘You. Have. Lost. Your. Mind! ’
Mrs Harris looked as if she was going to explode and Tiffany made the imperceptible gesture that was their agreed sign to facilitate ‘an unexpected Wi-Fi problem’.
Behind the iPad, Lorna pulled the lead out of the router and Tiff’s mother’s face froze, mouth wide like a letterbox.
‘Well, that’s done.’ Tiffany’s bright smile didn’t completely cover her strained expression. ‘Can’t say it was a popular decision but … I’ve told her.’
‘Good on you,’ said Lorna, offering her the plate of cake. ‘How long till she gets here with the sack to put over your head to bring you home?’
‘Long enough for a drink. Did you get the parcel from Sam?’
‘Oh? The gift bag’s from Sam?’ Casual. Be casual.
‘He dropped it off on his way past – said he was sorry to miss you. He’s off to London tonight, got an interview on Monday.’ Tiff wandered back into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on as she went. ‘Didn’t say where. Or what. More tea, everyone?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Joyce and Hattie from the sofa.
Lorna tried not to think about the interview as she opened the bag and took out the parcel, wrapped in the expensive handmade paper they sold downstairs. It felt like a small painting, and part of her dreaded what Sam might have decided an appropriate painting was. Would it be another pointed verdict on What Was Art? At least he’d spent a good tenner in the gallery, just on the card and wrapping, she thought, undoing the Sellotape carefully.
‘What’s he given you?’ Jess asked.
Lorna stared at the present in her hands. Sam had given her a home-burned CD, framed in one of Archibald’s archive frames. His neat adolescent writing was all over it in Sharpie, a list of the tracks he’d downloaded and burned on to what she realised was a mix CD, exactly like the ones they’d played in Ryan’s Renault while they’d driven all over Longhampton – she, Sam, Ryan and Jess, back in 2001 before … Before.
I burned this for your birthday years ago , he’d written in the card, and now the writing was older, less careful. I never gave you it, so here it is now – I thought you’d appreciate it more if I put it in a frame and made it Art. Love, Sam x .
Had he found this at home, in his old room? The thought of him taking time to choose the songs from their own favourites, make the CD, write every track so meticulously on it – it touched Lorna, and made her teenage self wriggle inside.
Each one brought a taste of that summer back: ‘Teenage Dirtbag’, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, ‘I’m Free’, ‘Pure Shores’.
She turned the card over. It had a cow on it, with a party hat. Not one of the better ones in the shop, but still.
Lorna looked up; Tiffany was grinning at her. She waved the card in a ‘you did this?’ way, and Tiff gave her a thumbs-up.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘Happy birthday,’ said Tiffany.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lorna didn’t have time to dwell too much on either her birthday, or Jess’s evasiveness, or who Sam’s interview in London might be with, because first thing on Monday morning, a graduate from the art college arrived with his work for a mini-exhibition she’d arranged, in time for any summer tourists: pastiche paint charts, but for selecting emotions. A hundred shades of green ran the spectrum from Disinterest to Envy, while Lorna’s own favourite piece calibrated Delight in shades of metallic gold.
And, as Tiffany reminded her when Lorna came into the back office for a tea break after hanging the framed cards, the deadline for their yarnbomb trial was practically there.
‘Four more daisies by lunchtime,’ she said, shoving her unicorn needles into her hands. ‘Go go go.’
There was only one day left before the meeting with Calum, where they’d present the yarnbomb trial, and – if he liked it – he would transfer the funding for the mountain of wool required to create a townful of flowers. According to Lorna’s spreadsheet, they were still thirty daisies and two and a half sunflowers short, and all their finished petals needed to be sewn on to the big crocheted net, so they could cover a whole brick wall with a trellis of tumbling sweet peas.
All hands were now on deck. Caitlin had come round to help with the final push, and the sight of her, Tiffany, Joyce, Mary and Lorna sitting in a circle, chatting and knitting as fast as their needles could move, was drawing people into the gallery to watch. Lorna felt proud of the camaraderie buzzing throughout the gallery. All day she made tea, passed around Mary’s biscuit tin, and took Spotify requests to keep everyone’s spirits up – who knew, she reflected, that Joyce would be such a fan of the Supremes? The conversation ebbed and flowed, according to how complicated a stage people were at in their patterns, but the atmosphere was friendly and – the part that made Lorna’s heart hum with happiness – it felt creative.
This is exactly what I wanted my gallery to be, she thought as Caitlin triumphantly waved the newest pattern, Joyce’s bold trumpet lily. It had taken nearly seven months to get going, but something was happening at last. Whether it would be enough for her to stay for another year …
Lorna didn’t want to think about that just yet.
Next morning, Lorna and Tiffany packed the flowers and their assembly kit into boxes and loaded them into the car,
along with the instructions Caitlin had found on the internet about installing them securely. Calum was meeting them at eleven, and the idea was that they should transform the space they’d chosen to yarnbomb as stealthily and quickly as possible, for maximum impact. Mary was left in the gallery, with strict instructions not to accept any offers of pottery or felted clothes.
Joyce hadn’t appeared for breakfast, but she surprised Lorna by appearing at the door with her handbag on her arm, and Bernard on his short lead. ‘May I come too? I want to see how my flower designs work outside,’ she said. ‘Plus, Bernard needs to get out.’
Bernard wagged his tail. Unlike dachshunds, Border terriers always seemed keen, regardless of the plans.
It was more noticeable downstairs in the grey-walled gallery, but Lorna thought Joyce was looking paler than she had for a while. The colour had come back into her cheeks when she’d started working on the flowers, but now her brow was creased, as if she was worried what she’d designed wouldn’t be right. It was a warm day, forecast to get hotter. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘We can take pictures if you want?’
‘It’s not the same as seeing it in real life!’ said Joyce. ‘I need to be able to make changes before we finalise anything …’ She paused. ‘I don’t want it to fail because my initial designs aren’t quite right.’
Lorna admired Joyce’s stubborn perfectionism but she also noticed the way she was sharing her concerns with her. They were collaborators. ‘Then please do come.’
‘Just don’t make me go up that stepladder.’ Joyce swept out of the gallery. ‘Come on, Bernard.’
‘They’re watching us,’ panted Tiffany as she balanced on Lorna’s shoulder to fix the net of flowers to the top of the wall outside the council-office car park. ‘Up there, they’re trying to work out what we’re doing.’
From the back of the air-conditioned car, Joyce indicated that the netting wasn’t straight.
‘Don’t look at them, just get the bloody clips in.’ Lorna gave Joyce a fixed grin and nodded. ‘You’d better speed up. The guide book says yarnbombers have to work fast and in black clothes. For the surprise factor.’
Tiff yelped in derision. ‘Seeing all the lamp posts from here to the town hall dressed as sunflowers is going to be a surprise enough. They’re going to think they’ve put something in the water. Done! You can let me down.’
They staggered backwards to admire their handiwork. The concrete courtyard was now a knobbly florist’s shop: double-size sunflowers stretching up between the lower windows, blood-red poppies climbing the corrugated sixties façade, and a trellis of tendrils and pink petals. It was a joyful riot of colour and Lorna’s heart swelled with pride that they’d knitted every stitch. They’d turned plain wool into … magic. And every flower had a distinctive Joyce Rotheryish boldness in its shape. It was special. Proper art.
Joyce buzzed down her window. ‘It looks marvellous,’ she said. ‘But I think I know what’s missing. Butterflies!’
‘Here’s your man.’ Tiffany nodded to the doors.
‘Can I look?’ Calum came bouncing out of the main doors and took a step back when he saw what they’d done. His expression registered pure amazement. ‘Lorna Larkham !’
‘You like it?’ Lorna smiled till her cheeks ached.
‘Like it? I love it! I really, really love it! Come here! I’m sorry, but come here.’ And without warning, Calum threw his arms round her and pulled her to his chest.
He was slight but strong, and he gave her a proper hug, not the social clasp she’d been anticipating. She wasn’t expecting the affection in it.
‘And me?’ Tiffany put herself forward, and Calum hugged her too, but not, Lorna noticed, quite as tightly.
‘Amazing. I am just … blown away. And Joyce too? Hello, there …’ He stepped towards the car and Bernard warned him off with a sharp yap.
‘Do not embrace me,’ said Joyce. ‘Or my dog.’
Calum raised his hands and backed off. ‘Congratulations, Joyce, it’s a triumph. I hear you’ll be exhibiting the original designs?’
‘If I may.’
‘Oh, I’m seeing a separate installation in the town hall,’ he reassured her.
‘So we can go ahead?’ Lorna needed to hear him say it.
‘Full speed ahead. I’ll get the grant paid to you today. Just tell me how you’d like us to organise the schools’ involvement we discussed, and how we can co-ordinate the other volunteer groups and … Do you mind if I …?’ Calum touched a petal wonderingly. ‘You knitted this?’
Lorna turned to Joyce and smiled. ‘Yup. We knitted every last petal.’
Her art collective, in her gallery. She wanted to press this moment into a painted image, to hold it for ever.
If Mum could see this, she started to think, and for the first time, in a council car park, so many years after her mother had died, Lorna felt a stab of realisation: she never would. Mum would never know she’d done this.
The pain reverberated through her like a gong, and Lorna floated above herself as Calum rattled on about mailing lists and drop-off points. She’d come to terms with her mother’s death, of course, and she’d grieved, but she’d never believed there’d be a moment when they could have connected like this. Finally, Lorna had made something she considered art, as worthy as the beauty her mother created, and she couldn’t share it with her, or talk about how it felt to create something no one else could.
My mum’s gone, thought Lorna in shock, and her soul twisted. She’s gone and I’m still here, and she’ll never know that I finally found something that made me happy.
Lorna stared blindly at the flowers, bright and static on the brick wall, and tears pricked the back of her throat. Not just for her mother, but for the knowledge that this was the first time in so long that she had been happy. Truly, unconditionally happy with herself.
Calum was as good as his word, and by the end of the week, the grant for the knitting project arrived in the gallery’s account, along with a link to the colourful web page the council web geek had created for volunteers to sign up, and an invitation to lunch, to liaise with the press team. And Calum, obviously. We need to get the ball (of wool!!) rolling! he emailed.
‘It’s at Ferrari’s,’ Tiff observed. ‘He either wants to impress you, or the press officer.’
Lorna launched into her action plan.
The first stage was to publicise the daily knitting workshops in the back room, to give away free needles and balls of wool to volunteer groups, and to drop into schools, hospitals, coffee shops and craft groups to explain her project and get local people inspired by the possibilities of turning the town into a woolly paradise.
It meant a lot to Lorna to feel she was creating art in places where before she’d only distributed other people’s. The first time she carried a box of wool, needles and poppy patterns up to the hospital, she remembered every ward she’d walked through with her art catalogue, deciding what paintings would cheer up sterile waiting rooms, matching tranquil pieces to bleaker places. Now, not only was she bringing that art to the patients in the beds, she was helping them create it for themselves.
‘It passes the time,’ confided one old lady, tethered to a bed with tubes and drips. Like Joyce, she knitted rapidly without looking, and had finished a lily by the time Lorna was ready to leave. It lay on the green blanket, perfect, and the old lady smiled.
Joyce kept drawing flowers for Caitlin to turn into patterns, and sometimes drew the dogs, for her own amusement. Her inspiration sometimes ran ahead of her eyesight, and the detail wasn’t always precise, but Joyce could capture mood in a few pencil strokes. Little sketches were left on the kitchen table: Rudy, asleep and dreaming; Bernard staring out of the window, shaggy paws up on the windowsill. Nothing was said, but Lorna knew they were left for her to find.
‘Would you like these to go in our summer exhibition?’ Lorna asked her very casually one morning.
‘No, they’re just silly things.’ Joyce waved her hand, her stiff
‘no, no’ gesture, but Lorna detected the glimmer of satisfaction, and secretly sent them to Archibald for framing. When Joyce’s pencil dogs came back from the workshop in matt black frames, Lorna caught her admiring them, and she fought back her instinct to tell Joyce how proud it made her to be part of this Indian summer of creativity.
But she didn’t. That was their agreement. And on the first of September, Joyce left Lorna another rental payment – the fourth picture. It was a pencil sketch of a chubby toddler in denim dungarees napping in the corner of a sofa: Ronan, drawn by his mother. The detail in his tiny fingers and downy hair was exquisite, a masterpiece of love controlled with precision. The emotion here, in its quiet tenderness, was just as powerful as Joyce’s huge oils, and it made Lorna’s heart ache.
It was too much.
She knocked on the bedroom door, and when Joyce opened it, she said, ‘I can’t take this. You can’t give it away.’
‘I can, and I want you to have it,’ she replied firmly, and closed her bedroom door.
Lorna stood there for a moment. It felt almost as if someone had put a real live baby in her hands. Then the door reopened, just a crack.
‘Mothers don’t always show their love in words.’ Joyce’s face wasn’t visible. ‘But it is eternal. And I think you will appreciate that picture more than anyone I know.’ And the door closed.
The weather stayed warm, and the humid nights didn’t help Lorna’s insomnia. Her dreams about boxes started again; always the same one – that she was searching through boxes and boxes, looking for something as a clock ticked in the background, but every time she opened a box, she forgot what she was looking for.
She had a good idea what was causing them: her brain was looping in circles that never resolved, before moving on to the next dilemma. How to help Jess, but what help did Jess need? How to let Sam know how she felt, but how did she feel? And all the time, she felt herself getting nearer to the end of her year, to the time when she’d have to be realistic about carrying on. Time was driving forward, but she was still circling, a little boat caught in a whirling stream heading for the waterfall.