by Freya North
‘I don’t catch you?’ Ronan looked justifiably perplexed but refused to drop eye contact with her.
Chloë gave a quick laugh through her nose and looked down at her feet, suddenly acutely aware that she had odd socks on.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I just didn’t expect Ronan Brady to look like you.’
‘Oh?’
‘I presumed – ignoramus that I am – that somehow all sculptors were very old.’
Ronan did not respond but kept peering at Chloë as if she were a whole new species to him, perhaps a subject he was about to sketch. Chloë twisted herself into her embarrassment.
‘You know – a shock of grey hair, aquiline features, long bony hands.’
‘Like Rodin?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Chloë who had no idea what Rodin looked like, ‘there again, perhaps short and balding with a kindly, furrowed face and eyebrows of character; hands calloused but strong.’
‘Moore?’ said Ronan, tucking his own hands into his pockets.
‘No,’ said Chloë, ‘that’s as far as my imagination took me.’
‘I meant Henry,’ he explained patiently, ‘but don’t bother your barney.’
‘Hey?’
‘And who are you?’ asked Ronan.
‘Oh, me! I’m just Chloë, Chloë Cadwallader. I’m staying here for a while. Helping out. Till the summer. A couple more months. I must show you to your cottage.’
‘In your socks?’
Chloë scurried into the depths of the house leaving Ronan on the doorstep to breathe in the thin, precise air of the late April morning while considering Chloë Cadwallader. Nice legs, naïvety attractive. While Chloë laced up her trainers, she pondered how she had indeed presumed all men of art to be old and worldly, of weathered physiognomies peculiar to their vocation. Certainly, she had never expected this sculptor to have piercing blue eyes set deep into a finely chiselled face crowned by a shock of black hair, all of which sat atop a body that, despite clothing, was obviously honed from a single block of smooth marble.
‘What are your sculptures like?’ asked Chloë as she led Ronan across the great lawn to a gate in a far corner.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ronan as he vaulted over the gate and waited for Chloë to climb it.
‘Well, I hear they’re sublime,’ she said, as if it were common opinion and not just Gus’s, ‘but what do they look like?’
‘You’ve not seen any?’ Ronan looked a little anxious.
‘No. I’m afraid not,’ said Chloë with a shrug of her shoulders and an apologetic smile.
‘I’m fairly well represented north and south,’ he said, quite intentionally embarrassing Chloë.
‘Well, I’m English,’ she said by way of an excuse as she led him across south field towards a small building nestling against a stretch of beech and rowan.
‘Aye,’ said Ronan, sympathizing.
‘I mean,’ said Chloë, keen to restore herself, ‘are they abstract or figurative?’
Ronan smirked which unnerved her slightly. She marched on, pleased that he had to jig to catch up with her.
‘Without consummate knowledge of the figurative there can be no abstraction,’ he said with a flourish. Chloë waited for him to explain further and frowned slightly to hasten it.
‘My work is an expression of my experience – and yet events or people are often portrayed in a non-figurative way, while my moods and emotions are frequently personified.’ Chloë considered his words. They made sense and, though he spoke them soberly, it was without pretension.
‘Which materials do you use?’ she asked. ‘Apart from Kilkenny limestone,’ she added as an informed aside.
‘I use materials best suited to each work – but I carve rather than model.’
‘I see,’ said Chloë, envisaging Moore over Rodin as she waited for more. Ronan stood still in the middle of the field, and the sheep lumbered away from him – in reverence, he believed; disinterest, decided Chloë. He gazed hard at a point beyond the horizon and obviously beyond Chloë’s field of vision and comprehension.
‘I’ll hack at Purbeck as if it were timber,’ he proclaimed, ‘or I’ll polish wood as if it were marble.’
Chloë watched a lamb give an involuntary buck before it trotted to its mother and demanded milk most impudently.
‘I’ll follow the vein in marble or work against it absolutely.’
‘I see,’ she said, ‘dependent on the mood and subject?’
‘Precisely!’
They walked towards the cottage.
‘What’ll you do with the Kilkenny limestone?’ Chloë asked brightly as she fumbled for the key. Ronan gave a clipped and condescending chuckle. Chloë stared at him, expressionless.
‘However can I know before I’ve seen the stone?’ His smile was patronizing and Chloë did not like it. His smile was also rather attractive and it unnerved her that she’d noticed.
‘However would I know?’ she said flatly, unlocking the cottage and turning on her heels so that his ‘Thanks, see you later’ met nothing but her back.
‘You showed him to the cottage?’ asked Gus.
‘Right to the door,’ Chloë confirmed.
‘And?’
Chloë frowned and cocked her head. Gus closed his eyes momentarily before fixing them on her.
‘He’s only Ireland’s most promising sculptor! Did you welcome him? Settle him? Chat to him, for goodness sake?’
‘Ah,’ said Chloë, ‘the Ballygorm welcome!’ Her tiny note of sarcasm was lost on Gus who seemed pleased instead. ‘I certainly chattered,’ said Chloë. ‘I asked him about his work but found him to be rather intense, somewhat guarded.’
‘Ronan Brady!’ justified Gus, rolling his ‘r’s. ‘I’ve asked him up to the house for lunch.’
‘Lovely,’ said Chloë, who always gave people a second chance.
Lunch was lively; Ronan quite opened out to Gus’s informed questions and opinions, and ate much and fast. Chloë found herself heartened that Ronan gave Gus the same reply when he enquired about the limestone. With a careful glance at Ronan, and another at Gus, Chloë decided Ronan was merely the brooding artist type, of which she had heard much but hitherto never met. Nothing to be wary of, it seemed. She thought of the eccentric, foppish artists Jocelyn had known, but remembered too that they had worked with liberal daubs of bright colour and not immense blocks of blue-black rock.
‘Chloë,’ said Ronan, ‘what do you like?’
I like laughter and affection. Simple things that give deep pleasure.
‘Me?’
I like company and security. To feel wanted, useful and liked.
Gus and Ronan watched her enquiringly.
‘I admit freely to knowing little about sculpture,’ she confessed, laying her knife and fork neatly together on the plate, ‘but I do know that I could stand in front of a Greek statue for days on end, regardless of its ruinous state.’
Ronan raised his glass of apple juice at her. Chloë surged and then told herself to stop it. Gus doffed his head in agreement. Chloë felt encouraged to continue.
‘Pottery!’ she declared with aplomb. The men raised their eyebrows to invite her to elaborate. ‘Er, that it can stand by itself – artistically, I mean. That it is often much more than its function. What’s the word – autonomous.’
‘A vessel to explore and express?’ suggested Ronan. Chloë nodded sagely.
‘They’re musical too, you know,’ she said.
‘Oh yes?’ said Gus. Chloë nodded again, slowly and with conviction.
After lunch, while Gus walked Ronan to his workshop in the barn, Chloë phoned the South Bank Centre in London to request a brochure from the last Christmas exhibition. It arrived the next day.
‘Do you like these?’ she asked Gus, pointing to the humming urns. He took the leaflet from her and observed it carefully and at length over the top of his glasses.
‘Yes I do, Chloë. See if you can find out more about the artist. Have some p
hotos sent here. Ask about prices. They’d look good on the terrace.’
Please, thought Chloë, how about ‘please’.
Chloë takes an early night. She excuses herself from the dinner table even though it means forgoing the Bakewell tart for pudding. She explains that she has a headache but knows she could have said the pox, for all the interest that Gus shows.
‘Good-night, then. Busy day tomorrow,’ he says.
She walks tall from the dining-room but sighs heavily in the great hall; it seems to echo so she clears her throat loudly to cover it. That Gus might catch wind of her unhappiness unsettles her more than the emotion itself.
I’ll get through it. Always have.
In her room, she peels off her clothing and runs a bath; she puts on the radio so that no one can hear her think, and no one can sense that there is anything remotely amiss.
I’m OK. I can cope.
Easing herself gingerly down into the too-hot water, she closes her eyes on the day and remains motionless until beads of perspiration trickle from her forehead to her chest via a run over her nose and cheeks and a tumble off her chin.
Carl. I’ll think of Carl.
But she cannot conjure his face or recall his voice; distorting instead his accent into a vulgar caricature.
Remember! Fantasize!
She wonders why she did not give him her address at Ballygorm. She wonders why he did not ask for it. Why did she not ask for the appropriate poste restante? Why did he not ask her to write? She knows why and though she has been hitherto content with this knowledge, suddenly today she wishes it were not so; that she could contact him, see him, have him comfort and compliment her. She soaps her limbs carefully with her eyes shut, trying to remember how Carl’s touch felt.
I do know that it felt nice. Good old Carl.
As Mrs Andrews had pointed out to her that morning, Carl had repaired Brett’s damage and restored an element of fun and pleasure to Chloë’s life. ‘Life can suck,’ Carl had told her, ‘but if you suck at it for long enough it’s sure to taste sweet!’ He was uncomplicated, unpretentious and unthreatening, moreover he had a specific function. They had come together knowing full well that they would part. And when.
‘Your three months were hermetic and precious,’ Mrs Andrews illumined. ‘The quarrels and other mundanities befalling relationships proper were banned by necessity.’
‘So true,’ Chloë responded mistily. ‘We were happy enough to share a predilection for the common Mars bar and the smell of leather without feeling any obligation to discover more profound points of contact.’
No future rendezvous, no ‘When will I see you again?’, merely a metaphorical leg up for one another on to the next stages of their lives.
Good old Carl, a man for a very certain season. Though she had shared the winter months with him, when it had rained frequently and been very cold too, Chloë recalls Wales as a bright period of energy and laughter. Here she is in Ireland, where it is mild and the spring is maturing steadily, and yet a sombreness pervades. Here the landscape serves only as a view for Chloë to gaze upon, a backdrop against which she goes about each day. Despite its beauty, she does not feel a part of this terrain and cannot find its genius loci. Spring at Ballygorm is a contradiction of sorts for, save for the lambs, the pace is uniformly sedate and controlled. Nature’s young colours and freshness are resolutely kept outside the front door to Ballygorm Manor. There is no hapless reshuffle. There is a point to everything.
And yet Jocelyn couldn’t have known that there would be a Carl in Wales, just as she could not have foreseen Chloë’s reception in Ireland. And Chloë can’t quite see that Jocelyn would have been happy for Fate to colour and describe the route she had mapped out for her god-daughter. Chloë can’t quite see it; not just yet.
Ronan Brady.
There must be a point to Ronan.
Chloë places her toe inside the bath tap and knows now, with some trepidation, why she cannot recall Carl’s face.
Ronan’s has taken its place. She can no longer hear Kiwi inflections for the Irish tongue is dominant.
And she kids herself that she wonders why.
Ronan is different. Behind his beauty lies an arrogance absent from, and anathema to, Carl. Brett was arrogant and, as such, repugnant. Ronan, however, wears his arrogance about himself like a rich velvet cloak braided with gold, and it is somehow compelling. Knowingly, he makes Chloë feel uneasy; small, insecure, unsure, and yet she feels drawn to him too. As happy-go-lucky as Carl was, Ronan is intense. Chloë shudders and then laughs aloud uneasily.
Ronan, it seems, can make her skin crawl, and tingle, simultaneously.
‘Just the brooding artist type,’ she declares to her distorted reflection in the tiles.
‘Ego!’ she says merrily, wondering where hers has gone.
‘A new pair of shoes to try,’ Chloë decides as she wraps herself up in a white cotton towel, ‘to see if this pair might fit.’
30 April
Dear Mr Coombes,
We are setting up a commercial sculpture trail here at Ballygorm Manor. The emphasis is on young artists working in a variety of styles in any medium. We rather like your pots and wonder if you might like to exhibit them at Ballygorm? Perhaps you could send us photographs of any you think suitable.
I look forward to hearing from you and hope that you will wish to be a part of this exciting new project for Northern Ireland.
Yours sincerely,
C. Cadwallader
3 May
Dear Mr Cadwallader,
Thank you for your letter. I would indeed be interested – and delighted – to exhibit at Ballygorm Manor. I enclose photos of a selection of my work – I have chosen the large-scale pieces which I think would be more suitable for your purpose. They are all frost proof and mostly hand built.
I look forward to hearing from you again,
William Coombes
7 May
Dear Mr Coombes,
We were very pleased to receive your letter and the illustrations of your works. We would very much like to exhibit Large Coiled Urns nos. 1–5. Whilst we will insure the works while they are here, transport to and from is to be arranged by the artist.
Please advise when they are likely to arrive – and what price you would like to receive for each.
Best wishes,
Yours sincerely,
C. Cadwallader (Miss)
10 May
Dear Miss Cadwallader,
I am delighted for you to have the five pots on consignment and enclose my price-list for them. I am currently enquiring about transport costs and will inform you of delivery dates as soon as possible.
I have some smaller pieces too, mainly thrown – please let me know if you would like to see some examples.
Yours sincerely,
William Coombes
14 May
Dear Mr Coombes,
We look forward to taking delivery of your pieces at the end of the month and wait to be advised further.
Please could you send a CV for our catalogue?
Unfortunately, all works are to be exhibited out of doors so your smaller pots will probably not be suitable.
Best wishes,
Chloë Cadwallader
20 May
Dear Miss Cadwallader,
The pots are to arrive on 31 May and I will be delivering them myself. I am going to combine it with a short break in the ‘emerald isle’ as I have not had a holiday in three years and have never been to Ireland!
If it is possible, I would very much like to assist in the placing of my pieces – this would also afford me the opportunity to look around the Trail.
I look forward to meeting you at the end of the month.
Best wishes,
William Coombes
22 May
Dear William Coombes,
How lovely that you will deliver your pots in person. We will be happy to show you the Sculpture Trail at Ballygorm and give you lunch too.
<
br /> Let us know of your time of arrival – and any dietary requests.
Best wishes until then,
Chloë
‘Good morning, Ballygorm Sculpture Trail?’
‘Hullo, may I speak to Miss Cadwallader?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Hullo there, good morning, this is William Coombes here. The, er, potter?’
‘Mr Coombes! Hullo!’
‘From Cornwall. About tomorrow –’
‘Tomorrow indeed – we’re looking forward to meeting you and seeing your pots in person, as it were. Do you know what time you’ll be arriving? Do you need directions?’
‘No.’
‘Lovely! What time – ish?
‘No, er – I mean, I can’t come. Unfortunately. Hence the phone call. Hullo?’
‘Oh dear –’
‘My father’s been taken ill. He lives in Wales. I’ve been summonsed.’
‘I see, how ghastly. What a great shame.’
‘Yes. Indeed. The pots are travelling by themselves and I’ve arranged for their collection at Belfast and delivery on to you. They’ll arrive tomorrow. Lunch-time.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘No.’
‘Such a pity.’
‘Yes.’
TWENTY-TWO
‘How is he? I don’t have a car. The train took an age.’
‘We tried to call you.’
‘Oh God!’
‘No, no! To say that he’s made a marvellous recovery! You’d already left – you needn’t have come.’
William wanted to agree with the nurse wholeheartedly but bit back his bluntness.
‘I wish I visited more,’ he lied.
‘Cornwall is a long way away – a different country,’ the nurse said kindly, ‘and your father’s memory is poor. Very poor.’
William found his father pretty much where he had left him; just another figure in a long line of dementia, all slumped in chairs gazing listlessly out of the window deep into their pasts or at absolutely nothing. Mr Coombes was so motionless that, as William approached, his stomach wondered if his father were dead. He stood beside the old man’s chair silently, waiting for a blink, a rise and fall of the chest, a twitch of a skeletal finger. William held his breath while his heart racketed. The air was singed with the sharp, acrid smell of urine and decay. And yet William was not prepared for his father to be dead, not ready for him to die.