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‘Aw, enough. We’ll get together again soon, hey?’
I walk with her onto the terrace. She turns to give me a hug and kiss on the cheek. Then she stands back, fiddles with her bag strap, awkward for once. ‘I let you down, Pat, I’m sorry.’
‘I said I don’t blame you for Don’s letter.’
‘No, I mean with Gethin, over the years.’ She looks up at me, worry lines around her violet swirled eyes.
‘You let Gethin down.’ I start rearranging the pastels on the table.
‘Yes,’ she says simply. ‘I see that now. I allowed it to get to me, not having a child of my own.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about that.’
A couple of breaths of silence between us. Then Karen shrugs and steps forward for another hug before turning to go.
She looks back at me from the top of the stairs; her face its beaming self again.
‘Message her!’ she commands.
I watch her go, then look over to the gardens backing onto the yard, stretching on up the hill. Birds singing their mid-summer business – you wouldn’t think you were in a city. It’s like being abroad on a warm evening, the sounds somehow softened: a passing motorbike, murmur of neighbours with their doors open. I take a deep breath, try to calm the bubbling restlessness.
I turn to the sketch book lying blank page open on the little table. I arrange the pastels back in the box and look up at the gardens. Deep red umbrella of the Japanese Acer offset by the white globe of Mock Orange behind it, framed on the other side by cascades of yellow Laburnum, triangles of conifers leading upwards. I sketch out the shapes, trying not to think.
Something has lifted in me. A slight shift in the weight of depression so heavy it almost hurt to breathe. It feels fragile: I’ve had a good cry, some tea and sympathy. The comfort of reconnecting with Karen. Nothing has actually changed, has it? Gethin has taken himself away from me, hurtling into adulthood but so ill prepared. The blame still falls on me.
I feel the familiar stomach lurch at this thought. I grab the dark green pastel and fill the shapes of the conifers bearing down. The sun goes behind a cloud, dulling the contrasts. I take the yellow, jab the spikes of Laburnum.
My phone, I’ve left it inside. I wander back in. I could send Gethin a message, just to say I’m sorry, hope he’s OK. I find the phone, my heart jumping as I see I have a Facebook message.
Pat, so glad to be fb friends. Wanted to say how excited I was by your installation. I’m into political collage too – rare to see something as finely executed as yours. Would love to meet, share ideas, ART, etc. Best, Gabriella.
Wow. She really does like my work. Oh my God.
I wander about the flat in a rise of jittery excitement. Into my bedroom where the Gethin collage has tortured me with the terrible blank space at the end. I lie back on the unmade bed, feel the lumpy edge of the pillow, the smell of unwashed sheets. How much time have I spent here weeping for the loss of Gethin, the crashing disappointment of the exhibition, for the mess of my future?
I’m in no fit state to meet up with some artist who’s obviously established and confident.
Karen’s voice in my head: Message her.
I sit up and open my phone to another Facebook message. My God, this woman doesn’t hang about.
Hey, hope you don’t think I’m being pushy, but just occurred to let you know about an exhibition at the gallery attached to my studios. I’m not in it but will be there tomorrow eve for opening – promises to be good. Let me know and I’ll look out for you (eagerly!) G
Blood-dee hell. Tomorrow evening?
I get up and look in the mirror. My face looks drawn, my eyes still puffy from crying. How did I get to be so old? Not that she’s that young, come on. With a bit of make-up, the right clothes…Who am I kidding? I’ve got nothing to wear, I feel about as sexy as a dishcloth. Who said anything about sex? Oh, for God’s sake. I move away, sick of the endless inane internal dialogue.
Back on the terrace I look at the sketch and take the purple pastel for the line of Acer intersecting the Mock Orange. My heart’s thumping insanely and my focus drifts to the phone. I look again at her message and notice there’s a link to the exhibition. I skim read the blurb: four artists responding to a post-industrial northern city. Oh, why on earth not? I type my response: Exhibition sounds tempting. Thanks. Send before I have a chance to change my mind.
The reply comes straight back. Jesus, is she really that keen? Great, I’ll be there from about 7. See you soon G.
I take a few deep breaths, pick up the pastel and finish the Acer just as the sun breaks through with a shaft of light through the conifers. I take the yellow and draw in a bright triangle piercing the dull green tree shapes. Lay down the pastel and nod my satisfaction.
Then I pick up the phone and send Gethin a simple message.
A Midsummer Night – Gethin
Durness beach shines psychedelic as the tide goes out, reflecting lemon sun in violet sky, the jagged rocks casting long purple shadows over the sand. I take a photo to prove I’m not tripping.
