Summer in a Cornish Cove

by Kate Ryder

  Cara almost chokes. When did they become we?

  ‘Yes. I have several works that haven’t been entered for competitions.’

  ‘You are aware of the enormity of this prize?’ Greg continues. ‘If you win, besides being awarded twenty thousand pounds in prize money you will be granted a solo exhibition. It would put you on the map.’

  Twenty thousand pounds! She could have the studio roof properly repaired, take Beth and Sky on holiday and replace the car.

  ‘Yes, I am aware.’

  Greg laughs. ‘Cara, you astound me. You are so cool.’

  She smiles, but then frowns. If he thinks she’s cool, then why does he seem to find her so amusing?

  ‘Anyway, back to business. The exhibition runs from the thirty first of January to the seventeenth of February next year at the Mall Galleries, in central London. We need to register and submit your works online for pre-selection. Only if your works are pre-selected will they go forward to the final selection process.’

  ‘What does that involve?’ Cara asks.

  ‘You will be invited to hand in your pre-selected works for a distinguished panel of selectors to decide whether or not to select them for the exhibition.’

  ‘And if my paintings are selected, what then?’

  ‘You will be asked to provide some biographical information for the exhibition catalogue together with a portrait photograph.’ Greg smiles at Cara. ‘All shortlisted artists are expected to attend a special awards dinner when the winner of the Threadneedle Prize is announced.’

  Cara looks out of the window at the rain-lashed beach. Until now, her life has been Cornwall and she is happy with that. She has never questioned it. Although aware of the larger art world, she is content to remain on its periphery.

  But life changed forever two years ago…

  Perhaps that’s what last night’s dream meant. The past no longer exists. Perhaps Christo was guiding her to be open to new opportunities. Cara turns back to find Greg studying her.

  ‘So, Cara, what do you say?’

  She doesn’t know what to say. She’s still grappling with the finality of Christo.

  But Greg doesn’t wait for Cara to answer. ‘If I go through your catalogue of works I can select six paintings that I think will be acceptable to the judges.’

  She gazes up at the face on the surfboard. You no longer exist…

  ‘Are all your paintings displayed on the gallery website, Cara?’

  ‘Most of them,’ she says, dragging her attention back to the present. ‘There are a few in the studio that haven’t been included.’

  ‘Well, shall we take a look?’

  Cara finds herself leading Greg into her inner sanctum and, over the next hour, they discuss her paintings. Having made his selection, Greg instructs Cara to photograph and email them to him.

  ‘And now I must depart,’ he says, glancing at his watch.

  Following her downstairs, he retrieves his jacket from the coat rack and turns to Cara. She looks exhausted.

  ‘Cara, I realise this is a lot to take in but your talent deserves to be seen on a wider stage. Your brushstrokes possess a brilliance and depth of emotion similar to the Old Masters. It’s unfair of you to hide your light under a stone.’

  Unfair?

  ‘Trust me; I know what I’m talking about. You do trust me, don’t you?’

  She nods, unsure whether he’s talking about his experience in the art world or something else.

  ‘I will take you to places you haven’t even dreamed of, and, Cara…’ his eyes hold her gaze for a long moment ‘…I promise to never let you down.’

  All at once the hallway feels too small. As Greg takes a step towards her Cara thinks he’s going to kiss her again but, as if reading her mind, he simply reaches above her to retrieve his hat off the shelf. She looks out at the bay and tries to draw some comfort from the familiar scene. Things are moving too fast.

  ‘I’ll phone you once I’ve studied the gallery website and then we can discuss my final selection,’ Greg says. Seeing the look on her face, he swiftly adds, ‘To see if it fits in with your ideas too, you understand. Goodbye, Cara.’

  ‘Bye, Greg.’ She watches as he, once again, places the hat on his head at a jaunty angle. Opening the porch door, without further ado, he walks briskly away through the heavy mizzle.

  Greg confuses, yet excites, with his constant teasing of the world he inhabits. She knows he understands and appreciates her art in a way no one else does, but he also makes her feel inadequate and out of her depth, only to then retrieve the situation by offering support and guidance. It’s just too much to analyse. She’s exhausted by him.

  Cara shuts the door on the world according to Greg.

  *

  Oliver rolls over. The digital alarm clock displays 04:05. Why the hell is the phone ringing at this early hour? It must be some emergency! Brutally wide awake, he throws off the bed covers.

  Deanna stirs. ‘What is it?’ she asks, peering at the clock.

  ‘The phone. All the kids are in, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dear God, not the parents!

  Oliver switches on the bedside light and gets out of bed. Grabbing a dressing gown from the back of the door, he quickly makes his way downstairs, aware of the flicker of fear in the pit of his stomach. His father lives alone in the north of England and Deanna’s parents are in deepest, darkest Norfolk. Switching on the hall light, he answers the phone, noting the caller has withheld their number, and braces himself for the worst. Silence. He speaks again. The silence is oppressive but he can sense someone listening. What the hell are they playing at?

  ‘Speak now or hang up and give us all some peace,’ Oliver says angrily. He waits. ‘OK, this is how we’re going to do this. If you have something to say, say it now or I will end the call. What’s it to be?’ Oliver’s stomach is in knots. ‘You’ve had your chance.’

  He waits for a response. Nothing. Firmly, he presses the ‘off’ button. How did they obtain this number? Maybe it’s just some drunken crank with nothing better to do at four in the morning than phone random numbers and annoy total strangers. Oliver waits a while longer then turns towards the stairs, the warmth of his bed calling. He’s reached the half-landing when the phone rings again. Bounding down the stairs, two at a time, he snatches the phone from its cradle. Frenzied breathing, followed by silence. Creepy. His scalp crawls as he remembers the last time he experienced such powerful, tumultuous disquiet directed at him. After what seems an eternity, Oliver replaces the phone.

  ‘Who was it?’ Deanna asks, leaning over the banister.

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s no emergency.’

  ‘But who was it, Ollie?’

  ‘Don’t know. Probably just some crank.’ Rattled, he adds, ‘Why you refuse to have a phone in the bedroom is beyond me.’

  Deanna frowns, but chooses not to respond. ‘Should we call the police?’

  Shit! No! If his suspicions are correct that would open a can of worms.

  ‘I think that’s being a bit overdramatic, Dee,’ Oliver says, glancing up at his wife and hoping he sounds calmer than he feels.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ Deanna says.

  ‘In a moment. I just want to check something.’

  ‘Well, don’t be long.’ Deanna regards her husband a while longer before turning away.

  It’s quiet and peaceful in the hallway, but Oliver is no longer at peace. This solid and substantial eighteenth century lodge house has always represented a place of sanctuary, away from the eyes of a prying world, but now it doesn’t feel quite so secure. The maelstrom on the other end of the telephone makes Oliver appraise his surroundings with fresh eyes. If the caller is who he thinks it is, just how secure is the house? How safe is his family? And how did she get his number? He walks from room to room, switching on lights, checking windows and external doors, making sure they are locked. Maybe they should get a dog. Even though Deanna has always baulked at the suggestion of pe
ts, believing they contribute little to their lives, perhaps a guard dog would be a good idea. Having checked the ground floor, Oliver enters his study and sits at his desk just as the phone rings again. He snatches it up.

  ‘Sylvie?’

  A sharp intake of breath. Then silence.

  ‘Sylvie, don’t do this.’ Opening the top drawer of his desk, Oliver removes her note. He should have phoned her. ‘Why are you awake at this hour?’ he asks, his voice as soothing as a lover’s. ‘You must be tired. Why don’t you try and get some sleep? You will feel so much better in the morning.’

  ‘I will if you promise to come to me,’ Sylvie says, marvelling at her bravery.

  It is her! Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes as a piercing headache takes hold. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘My flat.’

  ‘And where is that? You only gave me your mobile number.’

  ‘My address is…’ Sylvie stops. Is he trying to outsmart her? What if he sends someone else like the big, hairy driver of that Jeep? She wouldn’t want him to visit. ‘Oh, very clever, Oliver. I don’t want the other man. I want you!’

  Oliver’s eyes fly open. ‘What other man?’ he asks, bemused.

  ‘The driver,’ she says.

  ‘What driver?’

  ‘The driver of that big bollocks black Jeep.’ She giggles at her description.

  Good God, she’s talking about Tas!

  Oliver’s heart pounds. Taking a deep breath, he keeps his voice steady. ‘How do you know about him?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what I know,’ she says, breaking into manic laughter.

  Oliver glances up at the painting above the mantelpiece and something in its brushstrokes soothes his soul. He remembers the adorable young girl who told him how the cormorants flapped their wings when no one was looking and he studies them now, but their wings are still.

  Oh, to be on that beach in Cornwall with those kids.

  Surprised at where his thoughts have taken him, Oliver drags himself back to the immediate predicament. ‘Sylvie, the driver’s not here. I’m not going to send him to you.’

  ‘Will you come to me?’ she purrs.

  ‘No. What passed between us in Scotland should never have happened.’

  ‘But it did.’

  ‘It was wrong,’ he says, his stomach churning at the memory.

  ‘I love you!’

  ‘Sylvie, you don’t even know me.’

  ‘But I want to,’ she shouts.

  How’s he going to get rid of her? If he doesn’t get back to bed soon Deanna will come looking for him and if she hears him talking to Sylvie like this… That doesn’t even bear thinking about!

  ‘I have a hectic work schedule coming up and I won’t be around very much,’ Oliver says. ‘What if I give you a ring from time to time?’

  Perhaps this will fob her off.

  Oh, how he loves to keep her on the brink! A thrill of excitement courses through Sylvie. If they only talk on the phone, maybe he will grow tired of the distance between them and come to her more quickly of his own free will. Yes, they will talk on the phone. She can wait a little longer. After all, she’s waited all her life.

  ‘All right,’ she says submissively.

  Oliver lets out a long, silent breath. ‘Then goodnight, Sylvie.’

  ‘Goodnight, Oliver Foxley. I love you.’

  He waits until he hears her disconnect before replacing the handset. First thing in the morning he will have the number changed. But, if she’s managed to get that, what else has she discovered? She said, herself, he’d be surprised to learn what she knows. Does that mean she knows where he lives? She must do! Her note was left on his car in town. He thought it was just a dreadful coincidence but after this latest development he’s not so sure. And she knows about Tas.

  ‘Shit!’

  A wave of nausea hits him. She’s obviously mentally unhinged. Just what is she capable of? When the ‘grey mist’ claims him his thoughts become very dark, and if Sylvie’s mental illness is anything like that… Oliver shivers. Perhaps he should contact the woman who accompanied her to Holy Isle. But if he does that what else will come out? Hell! Every which way he turns, he’s caught.

  Oliver glances up at the painting of the Minack. Once again, it soothes his troubled mind. Something about it draws him in and it’s not just that he will soon be performing on its stage. His thoughts turn to the cheeky, blond boy with the Labrador and his sister with the angelic face, and their pretty grandma who gets so flustered whenever they meet. Such different lives. It could be a world away. It is a world away. Momentarily Oliver forgets his troubles. He will soon be there – for the whole of the summer – and there it is again, that fluttering, all-consuming excitement building slowly and deeply within. He thinks of Tania and laughs. She’s so obvious and brazen. No fudged areas there!

  Oliver destroys the note - it wouldn’t do for Deanna to find it - but not before he’s transferred Sylvie’s number to his mobile. Just in case…

  Chapter Sixteen

  The view across Mount’s Bay in the early morning light is breathtaking. A sun-kissed, shimmering St Michael’s Mount rises out of a sparkling sea; just like the magical Isle of Avalon rising from the mists. Should she paint the Mount in a similarly mystical fashion, representing it as something from the Arthurian legend?

  ‘Mum!’ Sky’s voice from the back of the car brings Cara back to earth. ‘You’ve missed Grandma and Grandpa’s road.’

  Damn! She’s driven straight past the turning; such is the draw of that magnificent view. Cara pulls into a gateway and waits for a couple of cars to pass before executing a U-turn. As she drives towards the lane on the brow of the hill, the glittering, tidal island beckons to her in the rear-view mirror. Yes, she will definitely paint it with a mystical feel.

  After a seemingly endless winter the countryside is, at last, coming to life and the Cornish hedgerows are a patchwork of yellow. The celandine and primroses are wonderful this year and clusters of daffodils sway in the breeze, shouting from the hedge tops. Cara smiles. There’s a hint of a promise in the air. She follows the lane for half a mile and, as fields give way to housing, turns into a driveway. Her father stands at the open front door. As soon as the car comes to a halt, Sky rushes up to his grandpa and gives him a hug, and then runs back to the car to let Barnaby out of the boot. In the rear-view mirror Cara catches her daughter roll her eyes.

  ‘Come on, Beth, let’s go and see Grandpa. Go gently with the eggs.’

  Bethany climbs out of the car, carefully holding a wicker basket packed with some of Bobkin’s straw. Nestled in the centre are a dozen painted eggs. As an Easter present for her grandparents she has blown the eggs and decorated them in varying pastel shades, adorning each with flowers, birds, dots, circles and swirls. They are so pretty Cara thinks she could easily sell them in the gallery, though she doubts she could survive the complete take-over of her kitchen and the general mayhem that ensued while her daughter created her masterpieces.

  ‘Happy Easter, Dad,’ Cara calls out, as they walk towards him.

  ‘And what have you got there, young Beth?’ Ken asks. He gives his daughter and granddaughter a kiss.

  ‘An Easter present for you and Grandma.’ Proudly, Bethany holds out the basket. ‘I painted them myself.’

  ‘Well then, you’d best go and find your grandma,’ Ken says, smiling affectionately at the young girl.

  Cara hugs her daughter, taking care not to upset the basket. ‘Enjoy yourself with Grandma and Grandpa and make sure Sky behaves himself! I’ll join you tomorrow for lunch.’

  ‘Bye, Mum,’ Bethany says, entering the cottage.

  Gruffly, Ken clears his throat. ‘Have a good evening and don’t worry about your children.’ Noting the catch in his voice, Cara glances at her father, touched by his show of emotion. ‘Your mother has planned a full day in addition to the Easter egg hunt. I only hope I can keep up!’

  Cara laughs. ‘Thanks for having them.’


  ‘My dear girl, no thanks are necessary. It’s an absolute pleasure. And I shall look forward to getting some exercise with that dog of yours.’

  Cara checks her watch – almost time to open the gallery. She peers through the open doorway but there’s no sign of her mother.

  ‘Bye, Dad.’ She hugs Ken and walks towards the car but, hearing an upstairs window opening, turns back to the cottage.

  ‘Cara, darling, have fun tonight.’ Her mother and Sky lean out of the window. With his paws on the window sill, Barnaby looks out of the fixed pane next to them. Cara laughs.

  ‘Dad, just look at that dog. I swear he thinks he’s one of my children!’

  Glancing up at the bedroom window, Ken’s heart swells. This is what he loves best; days with family.

  ‘Happy Easter, Mum,’ Cara calls, ‘and, Sky, try not to be too cheeky. Be helpful.’

  The young boy gives her a wide, disarming smile and Cara falters. Quickly, she turns away and heads towards her car. Having reversed out of the driveway, she glances back at the cottage. Her mother is no longer at the window but Sky is still there. He waves and Cara smiles at her son – the embodiment of Christo at that age.

  *

  Late afternoon, Easter Saturday, and Tas looks across the line of actors as they take their final bow. The Tasmanian Devil Theatre Company has pulled off its opening performance to an appreciative audience, unusually swelled by the huge London and local press interest present. The car park is overflowing and the pub over the road thriving from the additional custom. Tas silently congratulates himself on having brought together a multifarious troupe of performers. He knows his casting is inspired, and Oliver is no exception. He likes to spring surprises and is more than satisfied with the audience’s reaction when Oliver first breaks into song. Accustomed to him playing the romantic lead or strong action man, few people have any idea of Oliver’s pitch-perfect, baritone singing voice. A collective intake of breath reverberated around the theatre.

  As Oliver comes off stage Tas slaps him on the back. ‘A fine performance, Mr Fox. If you carry on like this, by the time we get to the Minack you may be word perfect!’