The Artist and The Yeti

by James Hemmington

  JAMES HEMMINGTON

  First published 2018

  Copyright © James Hemmington 2018

  The right of James Hemmington to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  Published under licence by Brown Dog Books and The Self-Publishing Partnership, 7 Green Park Station, Bath BA1 1JB

  www.selfpublishingpartnership.co.uk

  ISBN printed book: 978-1-78545-345-8

  ISBN e-book: 978-1-78545-346-5

  Cover illustration by Aaron Thomas

  Cover design by Kevin Rylands

  Internal design by Andrew Easton

  Printed and bound in the UK

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  1

  “I hate cornflakes,” said Paris’s mum. Paris stared at her mum while holding a full spoon of cornflakes, poised just a tip-of-the-tongue’s distance from her mouth.

  “Don’t fuss mum, it was worth a go at the painting competition,” said Paris, crunching on her cornflakes. “Darling, I don’t understand it, your painting is magnificent; it should’ve won the stupid competition. You’re a brilliant artist!”

  Mum was very irritated; she flung a letter from the cornflakes company with great contempt onto the kitchen table and basically just fumed. “Anyway, what do cornflake people know about art?”

  Paris looked down at the table and reread the letter. It was very friendly, but the last sentence simply said, “Thank you for your interest but on this occasion your painting has not met the standard for our competition.” It was disappointing, but Paris didn’t seem that bothered.

  She carried on munching but the now quiet of the kitchen was interrupted by her younger brother Albie. He stormed in with a red cape wrapped around his shoulders, and a tennis ball concealed in each arm of his blue pyjama top. They almost looked like muscles, which of course was the desired effect! “I am Albie man,” he shouted in as deep a voice as he could muster, “saviour of people and destroyer of big sisters.”

  With that he struck a superhero pose, pointed a finger towards his sister and made what he considered to be the penetrating noise of a deathly ray, which was apparently coming from the end of his finger.

  Paris raised her eyes. Mum was in no mood for comedy; she pointed to a chair and said firmly, “Sit Albie and be quiet while you eat your breakfast! Please. Anyway superheroes have jet black hair, not white-blond like yours.”

  Albie sat down, a little dejected, but insisted he was a superhero. Indeed, he was convinced he was. He would wear his well-worn red cape around his shoulders and play superheroes whenever he could. He considered that if he wanted it enough he would develop super human powers; it was just a matter of time.

  Paris finished her breakfast and left her mum and brother in the kitchen, with mum muttering about changing their cereal brand.

  Actually, Paris was excited today. It was the last day of school and they were heading for a skiing holiday in the morning. Every summer holiday started with skiing, that was the family tradition. Her dad would say, “We start summer in the cold, clears the head!”

  Paris loved it, four days in Switzerland, showing-off her now impressive skiing skills and beating seven-year-old Albie down the nursery slopes; as he tried to fly like a superhero.

  Back in her bedroom it was time to start getting ready for school. A quick but thorough regime, hair straightening, spot squeezing, carefully placed concealer and the hint of mascara. Neither school nor her parents were great fans of make-up for 13-year-olds. But today she added a bit more than usual, hoping to sit next to Toby Smith. He was lovely, even though he was at least five centimetres shorter than her.

  Paris hoped he might be her boyfriend. That of course just meant hanging around the park and strolling up and down the high street sharing a milkshake. That was deep and meaningful for Paris, especially the thought of sharing a drink. Separate straws maybe!

  Paris stared into her mirror. Her long light brown shoulder length hair was now perfectly straight, her brown eyes dark and piercing. She wondered if she was as pretty as her parents constantly told her. Her nose was too small and her cheeks were too rounded for her liking. But Toby Smith thought she was beautiful.

  As she finished her make-up, Paris thought again about the letter from the cornflakes company. She was perhaps more disappointed than she would admit. Around Paris’s room on every wall were her paintings, paintings from when she was four and every year since. Her room was like a gallery with the paintings sectioned into groups. Above her bed were animal paintings, penguins - her favourite, lions, tigers, elephants and a massive oil painting of an elegant giraffe.

  Over by her wardrobe were paintings of people. The early ones were matchstick-like with big wide smiles, but some of her recent stuff was stunning portraits. These included her mum, dad and even that annoying brother, Albie. But what she considered to be her best work was a watercolour portrait of Shawn Mendez, her heartthrob.

  Shards of sunlight poured through the bedroom window onto the most populated wall of paintings and drawings, all of detailed landscapes. One day, Paris thought, her parents’ dream may come true and she’ll become a famous artist like Tracey Emin. Paris herself wasn’t yet sure what she wanted to do when she left school.

  She left her bedroom, satisfied she was now as preened as she could be. On the hall landing was Albie in yet another pose. He had both arms outstretched holding his cape; it looked like one big wing above his head. He was gazing at his mum’s bunch of keys splayed on the table at the top of the stairs.

  “What are you doing Albie?” said Paris, sighing disapprovingly. “I’m using my mind to move mum’s keys; be quiet Paris, I need to focus. That’s the right word isn’t it ‘focus?’” He turned to his sister for reassurance. “Might be,” she said, dismissively. As Paris passed Albie, she jumped onto the staircase with a heavy thud, and ran down the stairs. The keys rattled as she did and Albie gasped, his eyes widening, “I can do it,” he squealed, “I have powers.” Albie followed on the heels of his sister to break the news to mum. Paris was smiling as she gathered her stuff. Their mum humoured Albie, telling him that he now needed to practise x-ray vision.

  Paris remembered she had left her make-up bag in her bedroom. That would be needed today; Toby Smith was at stake. As she entered her room she noticed a sizeable crack in her mirror. “Strange,” she said to herself, “Why didn’t I notice that earlier?”

  As she examined the mirror more closely, the shards of light filling her room suddenly disappeared, darkness fell and there was a loud clap of thunder.

  Paris felt a little scared, as if something terrible was going to happen. She shivered, before convincing herself not to be silly. Unfortunately for Paris, this may have been a warning of something very nasty soon to come.

&
nbsp; 2

  It was a great last day of term for Paris. Not only did she get to sit next to Toby Smith, but during the morning break he made her a daisy chain as they sat together on the sports field, sharing a Snickers bar.

  What more could she want, Paris thought to herself. OK, Toby had eaten more than half the Snickers bar and her chain wasn’t quite a daisy chain. The field had been recently mowed, so it was made mostly of grass cuttings, with the odd squashed daisy. Apart from these small discrepancies all was perfect.

  Paris promised to keep the chain through the summer break to remind her of Toby. She was sure he was the one and could almost picture the wedding day. It was the same Greek island where her parents got married; a romantic sunset, plenty of Greek dancing and headache-making Greek wine. How exciting!

  She wondered whether Toby was a good dancer. He had the hair for it, fine and blond, with a side parting and a long fringe that he kept brushing away from his deep blue eyes. She was certain the hair would bounce with great rhythm as Toby went through his moves. Paris reflected on this and concluded that there was a possibility he might be bald when they married.

  As the school bell rang to signal the end of the last lesson of the last day of school, there was a great rush from the classrooms into the playground and adjacent field. A huge swarm of black uniforms swirled around the grounds, as groups of friends seeking each other out came together for final goodbyes before the summer-break.

  Paris waved at Toby from afar as he made his way quickly to the school gates; he was off with his dad for a special friendly football match between West Ham and a team of celebrities for a charity event. Unlike his dad he was a take-it-or-leave-it fan of West Ham, not least because every time he went to see them they lost.

  When Paris finished waving to Toby she didn’t notice the daisy chain slip off her wrist and fall onto playground, where it was quickly mashed under much excited feet.

  As the friends gathered in their groups, it was time for the tradition of ripping and drawing on school uniforms. Everyone tried to be as artistic and creative as possible, in designing the best transformed uniform.

  With her artistic skills Paris was always in demand for drawing cartoons and absurd pictures. She was well equipped with her school bag packed to the brim with many shades from her mum’s vast lipstick collection. Lipsticks were great crayons. Her mum was a beautician and had enough lipsticks that if placed end to end would almost certainly reach the moon.

  Paris and her close group of friends, Skyla, her best friend, Stacey, Molly and Beth were hanging around in the playground while they took turns drawing on their white school shirts and turning their blazers into waistcoats by ripping off the sleeves.

  Paris drew on the back of Molly’s shirt a huge drawing of the Eiffel Tower in red and purple. Molly was holidaying in France over summer. Paris herself covered her shirt in splodges of every colour, with not a patch of white showing. Skyla, on the other-hand, had crafted intricately coloured stars and hearts, her favourite shapes, plus a hockey stick. Skyla was known for being quite sporty.

  With the artistry complete the girls took selfies galore, sat on the school wall and shared M&Ms while discussing boys and the best way to curl eyelashes.

  When Paris returned home she found her mum with several other mums in the garden enjoying cocktails and snacks. It was a hot sunny afternoon and Paris could tell by the pitch of laughter from the garden that the cocktails had been on the go for a while.

  Meanwhile, Albie was playing superheroes with two other seven-year-olds. Their mums were merry enough to be oblivious to their antics, as they scaled trees and tested their superhero strength in breaking-off flower heads from shrubs in the neat borders, squashing pansies as they went.

  Paris decided to head for her room and start packing. Dad would be home soon and she predicted words would be had, as she passed her mum coming into the kitchen to prepare another huge batch of pina coladas. Packing was the last thing on her mind!

  When Paris returned to her room the crack in her mirror was worse. How could it be, she thought. She worried about things like that, things that didn’t have an obvious explanation.

  She took from her school bag a small orange notebook, no bigger than a pack of playing cards. It was well worn; the edges were frayed. Each day she drew a little picture in it, it was a kind of diary, sketching an illustration of something that was the big thing of her day. This would be a good distraction from the mirror.

  Paris sat on the edge of her bed and opened the notebook to the next blank page. There were just a few pages left. She made a mental note that she would soon need another, perhaps a silver cover this time. She was getting into glitz. From a Zoella mug on her dresser, Paris selected one of the many pencils jammed into it and began to draw.

  No need to think hard about today’s subject, it was obvious. She started with the hair, and the neat side parting. Then she drew eyes, intense looking, but very friendly, a slightly pointy nose and then lips, puckered as though they were poised for a kiss. She quickly completed the portrait with soft shading and strong lines to contrast the features. It was as if Toby Smith were staring up at her ready for their first kiss.

  Downstairs, the front door opened; Paris heard her dad announce, in a chirpy voice, he was home. She started to count and got to twenty before hearing the expected raised voices downstairs. She knew the party in the garden would irritate dad. They were leaving early tomorrow and mum’s singing was getting bad. She had started her rendition of I will always love you by Whitney Houston. It literary hurt your ears!

  Tomorrow’s early start was going to be a frosty one, and that was well before they would hit the snow of Switzerland.

  3

  It was dark when the alarm went off, very dark. All Paris could see was the numbers in bright red, 3:30 as bold as anything, screaming at her, accompanied by a soft but determined rendition of Black Magic, by Little Mix , playing from the clock’s speaker. At that moment there was nothing else in the world except those bright lights and that irritating sound! Her hand moved with lightning speed, whacking the top of the clock that immediately gave way to that most wonderful thing - SILENCE!

  Then her irritation suddenly gave way to excitement. It was hollibobs time and travelling to the airport in the dark of night was more exciting than Toby Smith glancing at her during double maths.

  The whole house began to stir, there was an excited buzz throughout every room, as packing was concluded, coffee was drunk in copious amounts and mum and dad finished their negotiations on what and what not to pack in the little remaining space of their suitcases. Mum was insistent that Paris’s mobile phone would be left at home. That was going to be really tough, especially as Paris was hoping to text Toby every day.

  Albie had no interest in packing; that was for grown-ups and big sisters. He was more interested in practising his superpowers. The red cape was already on and he sat at the kitchen table with his cornflakes and a pack of playing cards. He attempted to predict the next card as he slowly turned over each one from the top of the deck. X-ray vision was proving hard to master.

  Albie decided he was obviously not fully awake. After turning more than half the pack he failed to make any accurate predictions. This was going to be his training for the ski trip. He was sure that before they returned home he would have cracked predicting cards, just like he had mastered moving keys.

  When they arrived at the airport the sky was a beautiful deep red, as the sun climbed above the horizon. It was going to be a good day in every way; Paris could sense it.

  The shops at the airport offered many temptations. Paris spotted a little notebook, with a silver cover, like she wanted. She bought it immediately.

  Albie managed to persuade mum to buy him a huge bar of Toblerone chocolate; that was sure to give him a sugar fix on a scale to be envied! He had two enormous triangles of chocolate, as he sat quietly in the departures lounge. He was still going through his deck of cards, trying hard to predict the next one,
as he slowly peeled it from the deck.

  As the family settled down for a quiet drink before their flight, dad revealed the details of this year’s resort. He proudly, and a bit smugly, waved the brochure as they waited to be called for their flight.

  They were off to a very exclusive resort in the Swiss Alps; a small but ultra-luxurious hotel perched high up in the Alps at a place called Zermatt. Dad explained that the hotel was normally full of celebrities and Olympic skiers, with a beautiful view of the Matterhorn.

  He could see from their faces that none of them had a clue what the Matterhorn was and seemed completely unimpressed. “You know,” said dad, now almost squealing with excitement, “that triangular mountain on the Toblerone bar that Albie won’t share!” Dad pointed to the little gold mountain at the end of the wrapper under Albie’s close guard.

  “Oh,” they said in unison, “is it made of chocolate?” asked Albie. Dad ignored that comment and offered the brochure to his family, “Why don’t you have a read?” Mum snatched it, to Paris’s surprise, and immediately hunted out the beauty treatments in the hotel spa.

  Their plane left on time and Paris found herself able to doze on the flight. She must have dozed more deeply than expected, as the plane had already started its descent when she woke with a start.

  The sun was on her face, her face was squashed against the window and there was mascara smudged down her cheek. She needed to pull herself together quickly. There was a nice young steward on the flight and she needed to look her best, at all times.

  Now she was happy with the reflection in her make-up mirror, Paris turned her attention to the view outside. There was Geneva, perhaps the best known city of Switzerland, looking impressive in the sunshine. She could see the huge lake Geneva around which the city was built. It looked like a giant mirror reflecting the blue sky and wispy clouds above.

  No doubt about it, this view was going to be her sketch today. She took from her bag her new pocket sized silver notebook and one of the many pencils that dwelled at the bottom of her bag, and started sketching the amazing scene.