by Vawn Cassidy
Toward the back of the studio is a large worktable and lining the back wall, row upon row of shelving housing containers of clay, wax, liquid rubber, and various other items. Beside the racking is another doorway, this one leads to a smaller room that houses a gas fired crucible furnace and my tools.
Working in clay is only the first step to creating a bronze and is why I’ve sunk every penny I’ve earned over the last few years into building this space for me to work in. Although it costs a small fortune to fuel the furnace, I’ve been lucky that I’ve done really well with the pieces I’ve sold so far.
I can easily accommodate small and medium size pieces in the set up I’ve got. If I want to do something larger, I use a foundry further inland, but that doesn’t happen often. I actually prefer smaller and more intricate art. The kind where the longer you stare at it, the more secret details it reveals, and slowly, I’m beginning to make a name for myself in the art world.
Usually, I’d sketch out ideas and designs for a new piece before I get started, but not today. I can feel the idea burning in the back of my mind insistently, and I know I won’t find any peace until I give in. I’m already preoccupied and impatient, my fingers restless to feel the damp press of the clay.
I toss the towel onto the sofa as I pass by and grab a hairband which is resting on top of one of my sketchbooks. Raking my hands through my damp hair, I wind it into a messy top knot and head over to the worktable. By the time I’ve retrieved my tools and clay, the picture is almost fully formed in my mind. The scent of the clay is ripe and earthy, and the only sound in the room is my quiet breath and the light drumming of the rain against the sky light.
Slowly, I sink into the headspace where nothing and no one else exists except the feel and texture of the clay beneath my fingers. Gradually, the shadows in the room begin to lengthen, the hours ticking by unnoticed. I barely even register the growling of my stomach as I focus on the piece taking shape, and when I finally surface, it’s to find myself staring down at a beautiful male face tilted up to the sky as if bathed in raindrops.
Chapter Three
Nat
Welcome to Ms Molly’s home away from home for the discerning gentleman traveller… PS beware the cougar, she bites nibbles.
I find myself staring up at the white building at the top of the steep hill, situated rather pleasantly on the corner of a curving road. Across the street, I spot the bus driver from earlier as he exits the cafe and heads toward the parked bus.
I hesitate, glancing first at the quaint little B&B and then back to the bus, indecision warring and churning in my belly. I hear the growl of the engine and turn to look as the bus pulls away. For a moment, it seems that the choice has been taken out of my hands, but suddenly, the bus breaks hard beside me, hissing loudly as the doors open.
‘You coming then, lad?’ the driver calls out, eyeing my drenched clothes and dishevelled appearance surreptitiously and obviously wondering what on earth I’d been doing for the past hour.
I hesitate again, torn as I glance at the pretty white building. I think back to moments ago when I’d almost accidentally drowned myself. It’s clear that I’m patently bad at making decisions or rather, making good decisions I should say.
I should get on the damn bus, it’s the sensible thing to do. I can head back to Truro and from there to Penzance, which is a lot larger and probably more my speed. A place where I can get lost in the bustle of tourists, just another face in the crowd, not some tiny isolated coastal town which feels entirely too quiet.
I open my mouth to reply, almost certain I’m heading back to Truro, but when the words tumble out, I surprise myself. ‘Actually, I think I’m going to stay, but thanks anyway.’
The driver nods with a small friendly smile. ‘Good luck, lad.’ He eyes my soaking wet clothes and wildly windswept hair once more. ‘You look like you’re going to need it.’
The doors close, and the bus pulls away, spraying me with muddy water as the tyres roll through a wide puddle along the edge of the road.
I stare down at the mud spattered up my jeans and roll my eyes, sighing loudly. Turning towards the B&B I suck in a breath. It’s a three storey Victorian house with what looks like a loft conversion on the topmost floor with little window boxes peeking out and facing the sea view. It’s painted a blinding white and softened around the edges with pale grey trims, and beneath each of the charming, almost Tudor-esque, diamond shaped panes of glass sits a flower box spilling over with meticulously kept and brightly coloured blooms.
Heading up to the wide front entrance, I open the door, making sure to wipe my feet on the welcome mat on the way in, although I don’t know how much good it will do. I can still feel the seawater from my impromptu swim draining down my clothes and pooling in my shoes until I can feel an unpleasant squelch with each step.
I step into a brightly lit foyer where a reception desk is situated directly opposite and dressed with a welcome sign and a cheerful vase of tulips. Glancing around, I can’t seem to see anyone. As I approach the desk, I see a bell, not a small brass dome that would emit a small merry tinkle to alert the staff of a new arrival, no, this is a small white button like a doorbell and wouldn’t have looked out of place on a council estate front door. It doesn’t exactly match the décor and seems woefully out of place in the charming little B&B. My fingers twitch nervously as I reach out and press the button.
I jolt suddenly at the rather loud, plinky plunky version of ‘Ode to Joy’ that rings out brazenly.
A surprised laugh bubbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. It’s so delightfully bonkers, and not at all what I expected to hear. I’ve stayed at the Plaza in New York, the Ritz in London, and the Hotel de Crillôn in Paris, and yet, none have given me the sheer jolt of ridiculous pleasure that little council estate doorbell playing Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, did.
Shit… I think to myself, maybe I am having some sort of breakdown, or maybe I inhaled too much seawater.
I wait for the bell to finish and glance around again, rocking back on my heels patiently and a little curious. I wait a few moments more, but still, no one materialises. A mischievous smile twists at the corner of my lips, but just as I’m reaching for the button again a head pokes around a door marked staff directly behind the desk.
‘That bloody bell,’ the woman mutters sourly.
I snatch my hand back innocently, pasting a polite smile on my face. Seeing me hovering by the desk, her frown clears. She edges out from the doorway and smooths down her gray knee length skirt. She’s possibly in her forties, wearing sensible no nonsense heels, and a cream-coloured silk blouse tucked neatly into the waistband of her skirt. Her hair is a bark-coloured, chin length wedge, and her mouth is fixed in a solid customer service smile.
‘Good afternoon,’ she says pleasantly. ‘And how may I help you…’ her voice trails off slowly as her eyes track down my soaking wet body to my mud-spattered jeans and finally landing on the small lake of sand and water accumulating beneath my ruined converse.
‘Ah… it’s raining,’ I offer lamely not really wanting to admit that I just tripped headfirst into the ocean and like a damsel in distress had required saving. It was just too lowering.
‘So I see.’ Her neatly plucked brows rise. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I’d like a room, please, if one’s available. I was told to ask for Molly, are you Molly?’ I can’t help but ask.
She snorts under her breath. ‘No, thank God.’ She looks up at me and once again smiles. ‘I’m Beatrice, her daughter. This is mum’s B&B. She opened it back in seventy-five, and she’s still lurking around. She has a room up on the third floor. I run the B&B now, but she does still like to keep her hand in.’
‘The bell?’ I smile.
She glances at me and for a moment the fake customer service smile slips, and she lets loose a genuine laugh. ‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘The bell, that’s all her. She thinks it’s sophisticated.’ She shakes her head. ‘Don’t ask... anyway, you’d like a
room then?’
‘Please.’ I nod.
‘Street or sea view?’ She clicks at the keyboard and stares at the screen on the desk.
‘Sea.’
‘These are our room rates.’ She taps her neatly trimmed, unpainted nail against a framed price list. ‘We have standard rooms each with a double bed and we also have a couple of rooms with en suite bathrooms.’
I glance down at my muddy body. ‘I’d prefer an en suite if you have one.’
‘Uh huh.’ She taps a few more keys. ‘And how long will you be staying with us?’
‘I’m really not sure yet.’ I frown.
‘Well, you just be sure and let me know once you decide.’ She nods. ‘Do you want breakfast included?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Alright then.’ She glances up from the screen. ‘Name?’
‘Nathan Elliott,’ I reply.
‘I’m going to need a credit or debit card.’ She continues to tap away at the keys.
‘Oh, sure.’ I reach into the pocket of my jacket and retrieve my wallet, handing over my card.
‘Beatrice!’ A delighted and husky feminine voice purrs from the doorway to the left. ‘You didn’t tell me we had company.’
I turn and see a much older woman leaning against the door, one arm trailing along the frame and the other on her hip, a pose that wouldn’t have looked out of place had she been wearing Caribou feathers and chiffon.
‘Uh…’ I turn back to Beatrice.
Molly, she mouths, raising her brows in tandem as if that one word explained everything.
‘My, my.’ Molly pushes away from the doorframe, crossing the foyer slowly. ‘Aren’t you a pretty one. I’m Ms Molly, and this is my fine establishment.’ She offers her hand to me.
Given no other choice, I reach out intending a quick obligatory handshake out of pure politeness, but she places her palm in mine, presenting the back of her hand, which I’m sure she’s intending for me to kiss.
‘Um, Nathan Elliott,’ I mutter giving her hand a kind of awkward jiggle before letting go.
Unperturbed, she continues to smile at me. The woman must be seventy if she’s a day. Her ash blonde hair is coifed to within an inch of its life and liberally sprayed into place. It doesn’t even move as she turns her head, and I’m pretty confident it could withstand a category five hurricane.
Her make up is expertly applied in flattering pastel shades, but her foundation is so thick it could double as a Kabuki mask. A double strand of pearls is nestled at her throat, and she’s wearing a bright yellow blazer with navy blue piping around the cuffs and collar. Beneath it is a pleated cream coloured skirt, which drapes demurely to mid calve and floats when she moves. On her feet are a pair of kitten heel sling backs, so pointy in front, I find myself idly wondering if she’d had to have a couple of toes removed so she could fit her feet in them.
‘Oh, goodness, look at you.’ She presses a hand to her chest as her gaze slowly travels the length of my body, and then back up to my eyes. ‘We should get you out of those wet things,’ she mutters.
‘Mother!’ Beatrice hisses.
‘What?’ Molly replied innocently. ‘I merely meant we should show him to his room so he can clean up.’ She turns to her daughter and glances at her choice of wardrobe. ‘You know it wouldn’t kill you to wear a little colour, Beatrice.’
‘At least I don’t look like an extra from Hi-de-Hi,’ Beatrice mutters sourly as she hands me back my card, and I shove it into my pocket.
‘What room did you put Mr Elliott in, darling,’ Molly purrs as she edges closer to me. ‘I could show him…’
‘No, it’s quite alright, Mother,’ Beatrice says firmly. ‘I’ll show him to his room.’
I pick up my backpack, holding it in front of me like a shield as Molly presses closer, and my back meets the wall behind me.
‘Uh…’
‘If you’d like to come with me, Mr Elliott.’ Beatrice picks up a key card and rounds the desk heading toward the staircase. ‘I’ll show you to your room.’
‘I’d love to,’ I squeak as I slide slowly along the wall out of Ms Molly’s reach, but as I turn toward Beatrice, I yelp, feeling a sudden pinch on my bum cheek.
Ms Molly just smiles innocently as I cross the foyer hurriedly.
‘And don’t worry,’ Beatrice turns to face me as I join her on the stairs. ‘Your room locks.’ She glances at her mother, who smiles and lifts her fingers wiggling them at me in farewell as she winks with both eyes… ‘From the inside.’
I wonder if she’s joking as I climb the stairs behind her. We almost make it up two flights of stairs when suddenly another door opens and slams, and a young woman of perhaps eighteen years appears in front of us, dressed in the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen.
‘And where do you think you’re going dressed like that?’ Beatrice frowns, one hand on her hip.
‘To meet Juni and Joss,’ she replies. ‘We’re going into Newquay.’
‘Not dressed like that you’re not.’
‘What?’ She glances down at herself.
‘That skirt is so short you can see what you had for breakfast.’ Beatrice’s lips pucker in disapproval.
‘But their brother Quinn is going to be there,’ the girl whines.
‘I don’t care, Lila.’ Beatrice shakes her head. ‘He’s too old for you anyway.’
‘He’s only twenty, Mum.’ Lila frowns.
‘Go and get changed,’ Beatrice tells her flatly. ‘I don’t mind you going into Newquay with the girls, and I don’t even mind you meeting up with Quinn, but you aren’t doing it dressed like that.’
‘Ah, Mum,’ she whines again.
‘Don’t “ah mum” me, Lila… changed… now…’ she replies firmly.
Lila lets loose a growl and turns abruptly on her heel as we continue up the next flight of stairs. I follow along behind Beatrice, leaning over the bannister to see the girl hovering innocently, but as soon as Beatrice is out of sight, she shoots me a cheeky wink and holds her finger to her lips before heading downstairs, clearly having no intention of changing her clothes.
Shaking my head in amusement, I hurry to catch up with Beatrice, who is once again muttering to herself.
‘Sometimes I swear this place is like a mad house,’ she sighs as we reach the top floor.
I was right, it has a loft conversion which created a fourth floor. Beatrice leads me to a door and slots the key card in.
‘Don’t worry about Mother though,’ Beatrice informs me as we enter the room, and she flips on the light. Even though it’s still daylight outside, the rain is making the room dim and gloomy. ‘Mother is harmless.’ She hands me the key card.
It didn’t feel harmless when she had her fingers on my arse cheek I muse and idly wonder if they should think about offering complimentary chastity belts along with the coffee and biscuits.
‘Bathroom’s through there, and there are plenty of towels in the cupboard.’ Beatrice smiles. ‘Don’t be afraid to come down and ask if there’s anything you need.’
‘Thank you, Beatrice.’ I stifle a yawn, suddenly feeling absolutely exhausted.
‘Call me Bea.’ She nods. ‘Dinner’s at seven if you’re brave enough to face my mother again.’
I chuckle lightly and shake my head. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Why don’t I bring you up a sandwich?’ she offers kindly.
‘That would be amazing, thank you,’ I reply gratefully.
‘Is there anything you don’t like?’
I shake my head. ‘Anything’s good.’
‘Well, alright then.’ She crosses the room and lets herself out, leaving me to study my new surroundings.
I’m pleased to find she’s right, the room locks from the inside making me feel a little more comfortable. There’s a decent iron framed double bed, a light oak chest of drawers and matching wardrobe. A small floral armchair sits beneath the window and being right at the top of the house gives an incredible view of th
e bay.
In the corner, there’s a small table with a kettle, a couple of cups, a jar of coffee and a small basket of assorted teabags and sugar. Beside it is a small fridge, and a closer inspection reveals a pint of milk and a couple of complimentary bottles of water.
I duck my head into the en suite bathroom to find a freestanding white porcelain sink splits the room. A large, framed mirror sits above it, to the right is the toilet and to the left is a sweet little Victorian claw foot bath with a shower pole and white shower curtain with ducks on it. I stare at the shower suspended over the bathtub speculatively. It might be a little cramped for a man of my height, but it’ll wash all the important parts I suppose.
Stepping back into the bedroom, I peel off my soaked jacket and hang it over the bathroom door to dry. Kicking off my shoes, I wonder if they’re at all salvageable. The once pristine black canvas now stained and covered in a grainy film of wet sand. I tuck them neatly into a corner, deciding to wait until their dry to see if I can get the worst of the sand off. Thankfully, I bought a second pair in grey.
Hauling my enormous backpack onto the chair, I start unpacking, but after placing my toiletry bag on the sink in the bathroom and stacking the neatly folded spare clothes in the chest of drawers, which are barely enough to fill half a drawer, I’m left with nothing to do. Folding the backpack as neatly as I can, I wedge it in the bottom of the wardrobe along with my spare shoes. Placing my paperback novel on the bedside table and my wallet on top of the dresser, I find myself wandering a bit aimlessly. I’m too tired to read, and yet, too wired to sleep. I blame the hideous rail service coffee for that.
Stripping off my filthy jeans, along with the rest of my clothes, I retrieve a pair of sleeping shorts and a T-shirt. I’m not in the mood to wrestle with the tiny shower just yet, but it feels good to at least be in clean dry clothes. After a short while, Beatrice returns with a freshly made ploughman's roll and an extra bottle of water, and seeing my wet clothes in a crumpled heap, she whisks them away to wash against my objections, insisting that it’s no trouble.
