by Amanda James
‘They must have had a rare and beautiful thing.’
What the hell am I on about? I sound like a line from one of my mother’s pink-covered novel creations. Not that she created the cover, of course. She hasn’t an artistic bone in her body. But then thinking about some of the covers, neither did the person who designed them. Why are women attracted to pink covers with girls in high-heeled shoes swooning against burly male chests? Or women in silhouette drinking wine and eating chocolate with lots of hearts swirling about? I can only surmise its pure escapism with a smattering of hope that their life will soon follow suit.
‘Yes, they were a match made in heaven, alright,’ Suzie says.
Before I feel the desire to answer in flowery verse or a similar a cliché, I tell her I’m off to paint and hurry back to the cottage.
Louisa is in the kitchen making lunch and asks me to finish making the salad while she goes off to collect some acrylics for me. She thinks they’re in one of the spare bedrooms. I look through the big kitchen window out over the valley and chop some tomatoes. We will have smoked mackerel with it and some hard-boiled eggs collected this morning from the chickens that roam about the place. Then, without warning or invite, into the little warm place in my chest that’s been getting larger ever since I arrived here, a cold wisp of a memory snakes…
Me chopping tomatoes, making a surprise sandwich for mother because I thought she looked tired, her taking the knife away telling me I was doing it all wrong, making a mess – a mess that she’d no doubt have to clean up when I got bored of playing the good daughter…
Me upstairs under the duvet with a pin raking my arms until they bled. Worthless, that’s what I am, no good… superfluous to requirement. I’d read that in a book somewhere and looked up what it meant. ‘More than is needed, required, or desired.’ It described me very well.
Damn my mother. Why has she got to come poking her venom into my head when I’m happy? I chop cucumber and decide it’s do with the fact that I wish Louisa was my mother and my real one has to make her presence felt to remind me that she’s not.
Remember when I had trouble painting a few months ago because of all the crap happening in my life – even the calico cat had to wait ages for its second eye? And then more recently the odds and ends of sketches from my walk incomplete, half-hearted? Well, I am pleased to announce my painting muse is alive and well and living in a box of acrylics.
After lunch I took two-fold-up chairs, one to serve as an easel, and painted the view from the top of the slope I mentioned earlier. I didn’t stop for four hours, though I was so engrossed in my work I didn’t know that so much time had passed, and do you know, it’s the best painting I have ever done. Yes, I like the calico cat, but it isn’t complete yet, and this painting shows… well, it shows my true style, I think.
Hitherto (I love that word), I didn’t really have a style because I was just learning, experimenting. But this afternoon I just let go, let my intuition guide my hand. It was as if I was being led by something inside that I didn’t know was there. Don’t ask me to tell you what it was, because I can’t put it into words. If I try, it will be flowery and clichéd, I expect, and I don’t want that. Whatever it was it just flowed out of me and onto the canvas until something told me it was finished, complete, and pretty bloody awesome.
Louisa came to find me just after I’d put my brush down and she gasped, she actually gasped. She had moist eyes, too, and she pulled me into a hug. She said that the painting was breathtaking, and she’d like to buy it. I said I wouldn’t hear of it and made her accept it as a thank you for everything she’s done for me. At first, she said no, but then I convinced her that she should put it up in the shop but not for sale. In that way it might help me get known and she’d remember me every time she went in there. She said that would be perfect and why didn’t I paint some more for sale? Louisa also said that she wouldn’t have to look at the painting to remember me either, because we’d see each other often. I liked the idea of that more than the painting, and as you know, I liked that a lot.
It’s after supper now and I’m sitting on the terrace at a white wrought-iron table with a cluster of scented candles in the centre of it. It isn’t dark yet, but the last few pink fingers of sunset are reaching into the navy blue and peace is settling across the valley. I can’t remember the last time I felt so content. I think I felt something a bit like this after me and Caleb had slept together the first time but pushing at the edges of that was always the worry about what our relationship would become.
I think I can see a bat swooping through the vines a little way off and perhaps hear the faint call of an owl somewhere in the far distance. There’s no wind, the warmth of the day is imprinted on the evening, and once again I can imagine I’m somewhere in the Mediterranean. Not that I wish I was, because as I’ve said, Cornwall is my favourite place in the world, but it’s nice to be transported elsewhere for a while, even though you’re not.
By ’eck, as Gwendoline used to say, this sparkling wine has a nice kick. I could get very used to this way of life. Painting by day, sitting on balmy terraces by night, sipping wine made from the vines all around me and eating cashew nuts. The thing is, I can’t, can I? Because I will have to return to my flat sooner or later, but right now my old life seems distant and ephemeral. When I reach my mind out to remember the way it looks, smells, feels, it’s as if the memory is just out of focus, you know? It’s like when you’ve woken from a dream and try to relive it a few moments later.
It isn’t my old life either, is it, really? It’s my new old life. My old life would be my teaching days. The second turning point day ended that, and I’m still very pleased about it. It was totally the right decision. And I do want to return to my new old life because it’s exciting and holds lots of possibilities, the art shop being the most exciting, I think. I’ve had a third turning point since then, though, haven’t I? After me and Caleb finished. I’m still sad about that, more than sad if I’m honest, which I try not to be too often because what’s the point? I just get sadder and confused and there’s never a solution, anyway. Better not to think about it too often.
The third turning point set me off on my own to cross paths with Louisa. I have learned lots about life and people since I did and somehow, I feel stronger inside because of it. More grown up, if that makes sense. She’s coming back across the terrace now with more nibbles and what looks like a shawl over her arm. It’s two shawls, actually, and she puts one over her shoulders and hands the other to me. I’m not chilly yet but thank her for her kindness.
‘I’ve just been chatting to Suzie on the phone,’ she says, topping up my glass. ‘Apparently four people asked if your painting was for sale and it only was on display for an hour.’
Warm pride fills my belly. ‘I had no idea you’d put it in there, yet.’
‘Yes, I got Ronan to put it up on the top shelf out of reach as it’s still damp. Needs a frame, too.’
‘That’s fantastic. It’s encouraging to know that strangers think it’s good.’
‘It’s more than good. You have a unique style, but if I had to say, I’d liken it to impressionism.’
I feel a little tickle of excitement in my chest. ‘Oh yes, a regular Monet, that’s me.’ I can’t quite carry off the flippant tone.
‘You may scoff, but that’s the artist I was thinking of, but I didn’t say it in case you thought I was just flattering you. Your painting today reminds me of his wonderful landscapes. He captures the shifting light so well, and so do you, Lottie.’
An embarrassed chortle conceals my delight and I take too big a mouthful of wine. The bubbles go up my nose and the next minute wine shoots out of my nostrils and I double over in a coughing fit. That’s one way of avoiding saying the wrong thing, I suppose. Louisa laughs so much I think she’ll cry and I join in after I’ve got my breath back.
Night bleeds into the scene and softens the edges of the world. Louisa lights the candles and the heady scent of roses idles i
nto the air through the flickering flames. I say that the scent is very relaxing, and she says roses are her favourite flower, yellow ones in particular because they’re so cheerful. I make a mental note to buy her some before I leave. We sip wine and eat the spicy Japanese crackers she’s just brought out, and the moment feels right for me to tell her about what happened when I was thirteen.
I need to be sure though, so I say, ‘You know I told you that Caleb had betrayed my trust by going to a family member behind my back?’
‘Yes, about something that happened when you were thirteen.’
‘Yes… well, I think I’d like to tell you what that was, if you want to hear it of course.’
She says she does if I’m ready and I decide I am and tell her. The whole thing takes about ten minutes and Louisa sits with her eyes closed and is silent throughout. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s fallen asleep and feel a little foolish, so I slip the shawl around my shoulders and shift about in my chair.
Louisa opened her eyes and exhales as if she’s been holding her breath for the ten minutes I’ve been talking; she hasn’t, of course, that’s impossible, for a human anyway. ‘My poor Lottie,’ she says, and her voice catches on Lottie.
I can’t look at her face because I’m worried that her expression would encourage my eyes to allow tears. I look at a moth crawling along the chair opposite instead and wonder how something that flimsy and papery thinks it can fly to the moon. When I’m sure my voice will come out sounding like mine I say to the moth, ‘Yes, it was a tough few years. Luckily, I had Gwendoline, or…’ I let the rest hang unspoken in the delicate air.
‘It’s a good job you had someone, because your bloody mother is a disgrace!’
The fury in her voice snaps my head to her face and I hardly recognised the calm, wise Louisa that I’ve grown so fond of. Her eyes burn brighter than the candles but without the warmth and she grips the arms of her chair so tightly that each knuckle is plain to see.
‘That’s something we can agree on,’ I say, and give little laugh. I don’t like to see her so upset.
‘Your dad seems a bit of a wimp, too, why the hell didn’t he do anything?’
I shrug because I don’t have an answer.
‘When I think of how much I… how much Jagger and I wanted a child and couldn’t have one and then your mother makes you feel worthless, drives you to do what you did… and the self-harming, too.’ Louisa sighs again and shakes her head in bewilderment. ‘My God, I wish I could have been there, taken you away from them.’
‘Me too. I would have loved growing up here, such fun!’ There’s a flippant tone in my voice again; why am I trying to make light of it all?
Louisa pours the last of the wine and downs hers in one. Then she tucks her hands under her armpits and shivers, though I know that it’s not because of the temperature. Neither of us says anything for a while and I wonder if I should suggest that we go inside, then I nearly jump out of my seat when Louisa slaps her hand on the table.
‘Damn it all! I don’t see why she should get away with this. James obviously wants to meet you, from what Caleb told you, and I think you bloody well should. I imagine your mother would hate it if you two got on – be worried that you’d discuss her and find her wanting. Well, he would, you already do.’
‘Oh no,’ I hold my palm up to her and say what I said to Caleb. ‘I couldn’t meet him. It would dredge all the old feelings up and remind me how my parents feel about him and how they feel about me. Besides, it was her that wanted us to meet, don’t forget.’
‘Yes, but that was then, before you… did what you did to her. You said she was reluctant to let James have your number about ten years ago – no wonder. I can’t imagine that James would condone what they did back then.’
‘No, I don’t suppose he would, but I think it’s a bit late to try and play happy families.’
Louisa is silent for a few moments and then she says, ‘I was wrong just now. I let anger get the better of me. You should meet James, give him a chance, but not because it will annoy your mother. You should do it because it will make you feel better – make him feel better. You have to swallow down the bitter taste of traumas in your past, let it go… because if you don’t, it will swallow you. Consume everything that you are. Remember I said a similar thing to you about accepting things and moving on after I told you about losing Celandine?’
I nod.
‘Then trust me. I know about these things… in fact when I lost Jagger – well, I wasn’t sure if I could carry on for a while there.’
‘If only it was that simple—’
‘Oh, my dear. I didn’t say it was simple, far from it.’ She lifts her glass and then realises it’s empty. ‘Look, let’s go inside and have another drink and we’ll talk no more about it tonight. Just promise me that you’ll at least consider meeting your brother.’
Can I promise that? I don’t see why not. It isn’t as if I’m committing to doing anything, is it? No. I’m just considering it. ‘Okay, I promise,’ I say, and am rewarded with one of her huge smiles.
As I follow her into the bright warmth of the cottage I wonder if my brother still wants to meet me. I shouldn’t think so. He’s probably decided it will be far more trouble than it’s worth.
20
Desperado
Louisa wonders if carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits down to the river is one of her better ideas. There is a wash of hot coffee in one corner, and if she doesn’t keep it tilted away from her it will spill over and make a mess on her white trousers. Why she decided to wear white trousers she has no idea. She found them at the back of the wardrobe the other day when she was looking for the acrylics for Lottie. They’d slipped off the hanger – she’d completely forgotten that she owned them. They are silky and impractical, but Jagger used to love her in them, and so there’s the answer to why she put them on after all.
Lottie’s wearing one of Louisa’s big floppy floral-print hats from the seventies and she looks like a painting herself as she sits engrossed in her work in the sun-dappled clearing at the end of the vines. As Louisa gets nearer she looks up from her easel, smiles and waves, her eyes in her heart-shaped face almost feline. She thinks of Celandine, tries to imagine what she would look like now, and feels the familiar kick of loss in her gut, but as she smiles back she is comforted by the idea that Lottie is now her borrowed daughter.
Borrowed was not a word that Lottie appreciated when Louisa said it in that context last night, so for now she’ll just use it in her head. Louisa can’t allow herself to imagine that she really is her daughter, even though that is her heart’s desire. She can’t allow it because Lottie has a biological mother, and who knows? They might eventually bury the past, which would be a good thing for them, but would be very bad for Louisa. Her heart couldn’t cope with another loss, so Lottie will remain borrowed and she will make the most of the time they have together.
‘You brought coffee and biscuits all the way down here? That’s so kind.’
‘It’s either kindness or madness. Half the coffee is on the tray, and – oh dear. I think we have at least one soggy biscuit.’
Louisa hands a half-full mug to Lottie and takes a peep at her work. My God, this girl is good. When she saw her sketch of Mermaid Cove she’d been impressed, but this is… masterly. ‘I feel like I could just step into that river, it’s so realistic, Lottie.’
Lottie looks up and wrinkles her nose, which makes her look much younger than her years. ‘Do you think so? Oh, I am pleased, because everything else just flowed, apart from the river – which was the whole point, really,’ she says with a self-conscious laugh.
‘You must be seeing it with typical artist’s critical eyes because it is stunning, truly.’
The peaceful scene is interrupted by Lottie’s phone ringing. Lottie frowns and pulls it out of her pocket. ‘Oh, hi, Anna. This is a surprise.’ She mouths ‘a friend from school’ at Louisa.
Louisa sips her coffee and tries to tune into the
buzz of bees on the clover and the trickle of the river, rather than Lottie’s conversation, because she doesn’t want to eavesdrop. She thinks that might be easier said than done.
Lottie ends the call and pushes the floppy hat back on her head. ‘I expect you heard that?’
‘Only bits, I tried not to listen.’
‘She rang out of the blue to see if I’d go for a drink with her tonight. I haven’t even heard from Anna since I left teaching… most odd.’
‘I heard you say no to her. You don’t have to worry about me, you know, if you want to go out.’
‘I know, but I really don’t. She sounded a bit weird, asked me what I’d been doing lately and was I on holiday? I told her I’d had a little walking holiday and that I was staying here with you for a while. As soon as I’d said that, she said she must go as she’d just remembered that she had to meet her sister in town, and that was it.’
‘Hm, oh well. There’s no accounting for some folk.’
Lottie agrees and looks back to her painting. The inclusion of a person from Lottie’s life outside theirs makes Louisa think that she has to broach the subject of her leaving. Much as she loves having her here, she would hate to think Lottie’s spending her days with her because she thinks she’s lonely or something. Besides, she’s been here nearly a week and Louisa knows she wants to get on with the business of buying her art studio and filling it with her lovely work.
‘Lottie, if you think it’s time for you to go I won’t be upset, you know. I know you can’t stay here forever and it won’t be long before I see you again…’ Her voice mustn’t have noticed the bit when it just said, ‘I won’t be upset’. She swallows and thinks of cheerful things.
Lottie’s mouth twists to the side and she nods. Louisa can tell she’s having similar feelings to hers. ‘I know. I’ve been thinking that it’s probably time, but I have so loved being here. You’re so good for me.’