by Bea Green
12
At eleven o’clock the next morning, after doing some grocery shopping, they ambled along a country path to Barbara Bligh’s home. Leo knew all the paths within ten square miles of his home. Elinor had realised shortly after arriving in Cornwall that living in one place all your life had its advantages.
She wasn’t keen to walk across a field full of cows, but to Leo this was second nature. He made his way nimbly over the tussocks, walking through a wooden gate into the field of cows without a backward glance.
The ground was squelchy and gloopy after the storm, so Elinor was glad she’d put on her wellington boots. The Cornish hedge encircling the field was covered in long grass and plants, which hung limply in the dank air.
Their breath left little puffs of condensation as they walked.
This wasn’t the Cornwall Elinor was used to seeing. She’d always visited as a child in the spring and summer months, when the countryside was covered in flowers and the ground baked by the sun until it was hard as a stone.
Today, a wet mist seemed to have descended, coating everything in transparent water beads. Little droplets hung loosely on their hair, their jackets and trousers. The stalks of grass all around them were covered in miniature silver beading, as were the delicate cobwebs stretched across patches of grass.
Even the cows looked miserable. Huddled together at one end of the field, they lifted their noses with interest when Leo and Elinor walked past, their curious, warm brown eyes following their every move. But they didn’t seem to have the energy to investigate further on such a gloomy day, much to Elinor’s relief.
Within a short space of time, after walking up a narrow gravel driveway, they reached an old stone building, all on one floor, with a tidy garden at the front of it. There didn’t appear to be any lights on.
Leo rang the doorbell and waited patiently for a minute or two. Then he tried again.
It didn’t seem Barbara Bligh was at home.
Elinor groaned inwardly. She’d been hoping for a hot cup of tea before they set off again back through the mist.
‘She must be in the studio,’ Leo muttered, making his way round to the side of the house.
Elinor followed docilely behind him.
They walked along a narrow path lined with holly bushes, which Elinor thought was pretty inconvenient for people visiting. She felt the prickly leaves dig into her arms and legs as she walked past, the little barbed stings as unwelcoming as you could get.
At the bottom of the garden, they discovered a curiously constructed building. It was almost oval in shape. The walls were seemingly made of sandstone but there was no roof to it, just a cone created by fitting together triangular pieces of glass. It looked not unlike a glasshouse, but it was so oddly shaped it certainly caught one’s attention.
Elinor started to feel a little more sympathetic towards the farmer who’d complained about the structure. It didn’t remotely blend in with the surrounding landscape. This studio was garish and eye-catching. Maybe that was the point... Either way, Barbara Bligh must be quite a character, she thought.
Leo knocked with his fist on the door.
‘Come in!’ said a croaky voice.
They opened the door and walked into the studio.
The first thing that caught Elinor’s eye was a three-bar heater attached to a socket in the wall. However, it seemed particularly futile. The temperature in the studio wasn’t much warmer than outside.
A tall lady with a mass of curly hair, whom Elinor assumed must be Barbara, was standing before an easel with a couple of paintbrushes in her mouth.
Elinor inhaled deeply. The smell of white spirit and turpentine was awakening a long forgotten yearning in her.
She remembered how, not so long ago, her hands were red and raw because of the strength of the white spirit she used when painting. She began to recall how she often used her fingers to smudge and blend when painting, loosening the oil paint on her canvas with a mixture of turpentine and white spirit.
Elinor looked across at Barbara, suddenly realising that while she’d been reminiscing Barbara had been studying her with interest.
Barbara slowly removed the paintbrushes from her mouth and put them down.
She came forward to politely shake hands with Leo and Elinor, leaving little dabs of yellow oil paint on their hands.
Barbara was dressed in what looked to be a bright purple overall, but it was hard to tell given the sheer volume of colourful oil paint stains on it.
Thinking back to the past again, Elinor recalled how, often when cleaning up after working on a painting, she’d find paint stains in the most unlikely of places. Sometimes there’d be oil paint smudged across her eyelids, where she’d unconsciously rubbed her eyes. Other times, she’d discover flecks of paint stuck to her hair, or her legs and shoes.
Back then, nothing she owned seemed to be safe, or immune, from the oil paint’s insidious reach. Even to this day, her watchstrap still carried vivid paint marks on it. Mark used to tease her about her clothing expenditure, convinced she was unable to paint without destroying her wardrobe at the same time...
Elinor shook off the sharp pain of her memories and smiled engagingly at the eccentric woman in front of her.
Barbara had pink streaks scattered throughout her white hair, in what looked to be a professionally done, expensive hairstyle. Elinor couldn’t pinpoint her age. She seemed to have one of those faces that never gets older, with only very fine lines etched around the eyes.
‘Hello, and welcome to my studio,’ Barbara said with a flourish, bowing like an elderly courtier from the 17th century. ‘I take it this is your niece, Leo?’
‘Yes, indeed. This is Elinor and she’s visiting from Glasgow.’
‘Glasgow? My, that’s a long way away. From what I’ve heard, they’ve a great art scene in Glasgow, and the art college there has a fantastic reputation too. It’s so sad the building’s been decimated twice.’
Elinor nodded politely but didn’t comment. To have a famous, iconic building destroyed by fire twice was devastating to most people in Glasgow.
‘And Leo says you paint.’
Elinor looked pleadingly at Leo who was, annoyingly, avoiding looking at her.
‘Well, not any more really. I used to,’ she said reluctantly.
Barbara looked confused.
‘What do you mean “you used to”? I think if you’re an artist once, you’re always an artist. It’s in your bones, surely?’
Elinor felt taken aback by her bluntness.
‘I’ve lost interest in doing it these days, I guess.’
Barbara looked utterly shocked, as though Elinor had just spoken a profanity or done something sacrilegious.
Elinor turned to look at the canvases stacked against the wall.
‘Are those your paintings? I’d love to see them,’ she said, trying to move the conversation to less sensitive subjects.
‘Yes, yes. Let me show you them. Some are still barely sketches in oil, as I like to work on more than one project at once.’
Elinor nodded in wholehearted agreement with her statement, because she could see this energetic woman would thrive by flitting from one painting to the next.
Elinor herself had tended to work slowly on just one painting at a time, waiting for each layer of oil to dry out before moulding it into the picture she wanted. Her landscape paintings had been different. She needed to work quickly then, and with more spontaneity, polishing them off later in her studio.
She wasn’t sure which subject matter she preferred more: landscape or still life. She’d been master of both. Art critics had described Elinor’s artwork as ‘versatile’ and ‘innovative’ due to the variety of both her subject matter and brushwork.
Now, though, since her fiancé’s death, she felt as though her artwork had happened in a different life or in another w
orld. These days, she seemed to see everything through a panel of glass, strangely emotionally detached and divorced from her surroundings, whereas before she’d been fully immersed in her subject matter.
13
Later on that afternoon, Elinor was given an opportunity to scrutinise Barbara’s kitchen. After Barbara had happily shown them her paintings, she’d invited them into her house for a cup of tea. Elinor was thankful for the hospitable offer, as, after spending an hour in the cold studio, her toes were feeling decidedly numb.
Barbara’s kitchen was as brightly coloured as her artwork. The paintings in the studio were mostly still life renditions, although some were also folkloric, depicting characters from old Cornish fairy tales. Barbara compensated for the stark realism of her still life paintings by using an unusual palette of bright colours, often blending them into abstract forms in the background.
Her folkloric paintings, meanwhile, were surreal depictions and nightmarish in quality. Elinor felt you definitely needed an acquired taste to appreciate these unusual paintings.
Barbara’s kitchen was as unusual as she was herself. The thick walls had been coated with bright yellow paint. The kitchen units and dining table were very modern but the dresser belonged in an old farmhouse. Hanging on the hooks, and leaning on the shelves, there were ceramic plates and mugs that had clearly been hand-painted in a warmer climate. Each was different from its neighbour; it looked as though Barbara had bought them all at random, on her travels.
The floor was made up of old terracotta tiles, worn with age.
Elinor shivered. Clearly Barbara was accustomed to the cold. The temperature in the kitchen wasn’t much different to that of the studio outside. Barbara, noting her shivers, stood up and threw two pieces of wood into the wood burner in the kitchen. She then lit the crumpled newspaper underneath the wood with a match.
‘It won’t take long to warm up the room,’ Barbara reassured her.
Elinor could sense Leo silently mocking her for being a city girl. Of course, he’d always see her as someone who was softened by having every available comfort at her disposal. His attitude made sense when you realised he’d spent his entire life living right next to the Atlantic Ocean.
She hugged her mug of tea to her body, in a hopeless effort to keep warm, and tried to focus her mind on the conversation taking place between Leo and Barbara. Leo was telling Barbara about their unexpected visitors from two nights ago.
Barbara had bent forward, eagerly listening to Leo, seemingly both intrigued and concerned in equal measure. She pulled her bright pink glasses down from her head and put them on as if she wanted to observe Leo a little more closely. After Leo had finished talking, Barbara put down her mug of tea.
‘I’ve heard an interesting story from a neighbour of yours, Leo. She lives in a cottage right next to Treyarnon Bay, at the bottom of the road. What’s she called again?’
Barbara put her hand to her forehead, in dismay at her forgetfulness. Leo and Elinor waited patiently for her to continue.
‘Sheila Burns... That’s right! Anyway, Sheila says she was woken up one night with the noise of a dirty white van parking next to the wheat field. She doesn’t sleep well and she’s heard, and seen, this same van arriving late at night, maybe four or five times since the summer. She says she’s overheard people speaking a foreign language too, the nights when the van’s been there.’
Elinor and Leo stared blankly at her for a moment, struggling to comprehend what Barbara was trying to imply. Was she suggesting there was a people-smuggling operation taking place at the bottom of their road? Leo rubbed his eyes as if all this conversation was wearing him out.
‘I don’t understand, Barbara. Are you assuming there’s a connection between those young men arriving on our doorstep and this white van?’ asked Leo caustically. ‘I have to say, it sounds like a fantastic “fake news”, right-wing conspiracy theory to me. From what I can make out, the boats these young men are using aren’t equipped to travel far. Most of them seem to be aiming for Kent.’
Barbara didn’t say anything in response to Leo’s scathing rebuttal of what she’d told him. She looked slightly abashed at having propounded such a wacky assumption. Elinor couldn’t help reluctantly agreeing with Leo, even though she didn’t want to disparage Barbara’s theory as Leo seemed to have done without a second thought.
‘Barbara, are you originally from Cornwall?’ Elinor asked at last, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
‘Yes, I am. Although I did spend five years travelling around the south of Spain in a camper van. In the interests of my art, of course,’ she said, smiling wryly. ‘I was in my early twenties when I did that. I’m too old for that kind of caper now. My mother left me this steading and I’ve been here ever since. Not very adventurous, maybe, but I escape to other places, mentally, with my art.’
‘I just wondered where you got these gorgeous plates and mugs.’
Barbara stretched her neck back so she could look up at her dresser.
‘Oh, those... I do still go on short holidays to Italy, Spain or Portugal. Usually with friends. I’ve got into the habit of bringing back anything that catches my eye. I’ve built up quite a collection over the years. There are worse vices one could have, I guess.’
Barbara shrugged and turned her piercing black eyes back to Elinor.
‘What about you? Where did you train to be an artist?’
‘Me?’ asked Elinor, taken aback.
Leo and Barbara laughed raucously at the inanity of her question. Elinor watched the pair of them as they sat smitten with laughter, and thought they reminded her of Tweedledum and Tweedledee in the Alice in Wonderland stories. If they carried on like this they’d soon be finishing off each other’s sentences.
‘Well, let me see. I did a foundation course at Manchester and then I studied Fine Art at Edinburgh College of Art.’
‘What made you choose Manchester?’ asked Barbara, going straight for the jugular in her questioning.
‘A boyfriend.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. I used to be a hopeless romantic, I’m afraid.’
‘But not any more?’ pressed Barbara, clearly fascinated with the thought of someone allowing romantic feelings to dictate their future career path.
There was suddenly an uncomfortable pause in the conversation. Barbara, catching sight of the look Elinor gave Leo, groaned.
‘I’m sorry, Elinor. I’m always putting my size eight boots into every conversation. I’m lucky I’ve any friends left at all. Please, don’t take my questions personally. I’m genuinely interested in people and I don’t mean to cross the line.’
Elinor smiled ruefully at Barbara and put a reassuring hand on her arm.
‘It’s not your fault, Barbara, really it isn’t. I appreciate your interest in me. I’m just carrying a lot of baggage. But I need to get over it all. That’s partly why I’m here now, staying with Leo.’
Barbara nodded, with understanding and compassion in her eyes.
‘Then I hope you won’t mind me suggesting something?’ asked Barbara tentatively.
Elinor shook her head cautiously.
Barbara was like a firecracker; you never knew where, or when, she was going to go off on one. She’s absolutely irrepressible, thought Elinor, waiting to hear what she had to say next.
Barbara looked down and started to smooth down the sleeve of her cherry red blouse, letting her fingers slowly follow its creases.
‘I’ve no idea what you’ve been through, or what the problem is, obviously...’ Barbara said, cautiously feeling her way forward. ‘But art? That’s a fundamental form of human expression. It’s what elevates us from the animal to the human. And it’s a totally freeing, spiritual exercise. Why don’t you at least drop by, just once a week maybe, and try dabbling with some paint? You’d provide me with some much-needed company at the same time.’
Elinor thought back to the cravings that had surged in her when she’d smelt the mix of oil paint, turpentine and white spirit.
She nodded.
‘Sure. I’ll be delighted to comply with that.’
‘Fantastic,’ said Barbara, beaming at her with pleasure.
Elinor looked across to Leo, and caught a singularly foolish smile on his face. She could read him like a book. That smile confirmed he felt progress was being made.
14
Elinor stood in the shallows at Constantine Bay snapping the surfers with her camera. She kept a close eye on the seawater lapping around her wellington boots, watching carefully as the water ebbed and flowed.
She felt the icy tingle of sea spray, and the rain pelting her face mercilessly.
Apart from the surfers the beach was, unsurprisingly, deserted. A strong offshore wind had ensured perfect surfing conditions.
Elinor had spent the night wide awake, wondering what subject she could paint when she went back to Barbara’s studio.
All she could think of were the adrenaline-fuelled surfers, riding the waves with reckless abandon. She decided they should be her subject matter. That’s what she wanted to feel, free and reckless. Not trapped in an endless, tiring cycle of anxiety and stress.
She was already starting to understand the natural rhythm of surfing, and was able to quickly pick out the more skilful surfers. She was also learning to read the waves as they formed.
To Elinor, watching surfers was like watching a fight at the Colosseum. The sound of the waves was like that of a lion’s deep roar, the white plumes on the waves looked like fiery manes racing to the shore. Watching the surfers risk damage to their bodies, as they tried to harness the power of the waves, left her breathless with excitement.
As she put down her camera after taking a shot, she was suddenly electrified with fear. An accident was unfolding out at sea. She could feel the thudding of her quickened pulse echoing loudly in her ears. Her hands, in a now familiar routine, started to shake with adrenaline.
