Edie Browne's Cottage by the Sea Read online

  I let out a squeak. ‘We’re going all the way up there?’

  ‘It’s not far.’ There’s another barely concealed eye roll. ‘Relax, Edie, you might even enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  There’s a line between Barney’s eyebrows. ‘How are you such a wuss, I thought you jumped out of a plane?’

  Another story that’s too long to tell. ‘That was different, back then I had a lot to prove.’

  Barney’s voice goes up. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I was proving life was wonderful.’ At the time it actually was.

  Barney’s muttering. ‘Let me guess, for your ex’s benefit?’

  Cam’s got his hands on his hips and his cheeks are pink. ‘It’s easy-peasy, Edie, there’s lots of handholds, me and Mia will show you.’

  If it’s a choice between justifying myself to Barney, or following Cam up a cliff-face, give me the scramble every time. It turns out to be a lot less steep than it looks, and a few minutes later, with most of my nails still intact, I’m rolling onto the level ground at the top, with a sea of faces to cheer me to my feet.

  Then a cry goes up. ‘Now for the tree!’

  Not that I’m intending to climb any higher than I am, but as I get up I scour the skyline for branches to be sure, and the highest thing I spot are a clump of bushes.

  ‘So what tree is this?’

  Mia’s waiting as the others dash upstream. ‘It’s further along – it’s a huge one that’s fallen across the creek.’

  She skips ahead, grabs the rucksack from Barney, then clambers onto a massive fallen trunk that spans the stream rushing below. She’s so sure-footed, she doesn’t even hold on or look down at the torrent of water in the gorge underneath; she just springs across the bough, and jumps down on the opposite bank.

  She’s laughing at us from the other side. ‘Anyone who wants chocolate has to come over here.’

  As I watch them all make their way across, for the first time in my life I can see the advantage that I can’t be bribed by cocoa any more.

  Cam and I are the last ones standing by the tree roots and I look down at him. ‘Shall I help you up?’

  Mia’s calling again. ‘Come on, Cam, you can do it, you’re big now.’

  ‘I’m scared.’ As he looks at me the sadness in his eyes makes me want to hug him. ‘But if I don’t go they’ll think I’m a jellyfish.’

  I don’t blame him, that’s the last place I’d want to go. ‘How about we both shuffle over together?’ I really didn’t mean to say that, but I doubt he’ll take me up on it.

  Barney’s calling across. ‘Great idea, let Edie go behind you, and I’ll come and help you from this side.’

  Mia’s calling again. ‘You’re big and brave now, Cam, of course you can do it.’

  As Cam looks up at me his eyes are wide. ‘Okay.’

  It’s the wrong answer, but as I heave him up I’m talking myself through this as much as him. ‘See, the bark’s nice and rough and not slippery at all, we can lie on our tummies and wiggle across. Take as long as we like. The tree’s huge, it’s completely safe.’

  Cam’s horizontal, arms clamped around the trunk, inching forwards.

  As I scramble up behind him, the green streaks I’m picking up on my washed jeans from the mossy bark are the least of my worries. ‘Great, Cam, keep going, we’ve got this.’ We haven’t, it’s bullshit, but somehow I’m following him because his little moans won’t let me do anything else. ‘Hold on tight.’

  It feels more like eternity than the length of a tree, and I can hear Barney coaxing him all the way.

  ‘Half way, Cam, that’s brilliant. You can come a bit faster now, come to me, a little bit more, and you’ll be touching my hand.’

  And then there’s a roar and a whoop, and Cam’s made it to the other side.

  ‘Edie?’

  It’s Barney. I’m not sure if the roaring is coming from the water below or the blood rushing through my ears. All I know is, my eyes are screwed shut and my arms are clamped tight around the tree trunk and my legs feel like they’ve frozen. And I can’t stop shaking.

  ‘Move, Edie.’

  My jaw is juddering, but somehow I force the words out. ‘I’m t-t-too scared.’ Out in the middle over the water, and I can’t go forward, and I can’t go back. I let out a wail. ‘It’s like my life in a microcosm, I’m shit at everything now.’

  ‘That’s not true, Edie. You’re absolutely fine, we’ve totally got this.’

  My mind’s whipping through the possibilities and it’s stopped at a rope and a winch. ‘It might be best to call the air-sea h-h-helicopter?’

  There’s something that sounds like a low laugh, then a creak, and a thud, and when I open my eyes a tiny crack I’m staring at denim. As the view slides into focus, I’m beyond appalled to find what I’m looking at is Barney’s crotch a hand width from my eyes.

  ‘Waaaahhhhh.’

  I couldn’t have woken up faster if I’d had a whiff of smelling salts. Then I’m feeling those broad thumbs wrapping around my forearms and easing up to my shoulders.

  ‘Right, Edie, I’ve got you, you’re not going anywhere, we’re going to take this one tiny push at a time.’ There’s something so reassuring in the low resonance of his voice, it makes five-flower calming essence seem like nothing.

  It’s a shame Bella’s not here, she’d max out on a view like this without her insides curling up with guilt.

  ‘Thanks, panic over.’ As I start to ease my chin across the bark, and my limbs begin to unfreeze, I’m hoping no one thinks this was an attention-seeking stunt. However much we laughed over naked fireman calendars back in the day, being rescued isn’t my thing.

  By the time I’ve reached the safety of the far bank, it’s an embarrassing amount of time later and the kids have eaten all the chocolate. But they give me a huge cheer, I get high fives from everyone, and at least I’ve impressed Cam. Even more embarrassing than what went before is when everyone insists on coming back with me over a footbridge which is no distance at all up the creek. I can’t believe I’m proving to be more of a liability than the children I’m supposed to be taking care of. On the up side, I doubt Barney will be dragging me out of my comfort zone again any time soon.

  *

  I’m not the only one to have had an exciting time. When I finally make it back to Aunty Jo’s garden room it looks like there’s been some kind of fabric eruption, and all the kids who weren’t out on the rock scramble are pulling on their jackets, about to leave. As they rush for the door I join in the tidying, picking up the last of Aunty Jo’s pins.

  ‘So many people – and then it’s just the two of us.’ She gives me a hard stare. ‘Look at you with those roses in your cheeks, Loella said you’d had a noisy afternoon too?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ As I smooth my fingers across the throb in my temples I’m kicking myself for being wet and weedy as well as a jellyfish, but I’m also pleased that’s the only part of the afternoon Aunty Jo’s found out about.

  Her eyes narrow. ‘We should try you with meditation, you’d find it very soothing to let the tension go, and empty your mind.’

  ‘Maybe.’ By which I mean, Totally not. She seems to be overlooking that I’m actually trying to fill my mind up again, not throw stuff out of it.

  As she takes the pin cushion from me and puts it in her work basket, her voice is all warm. ‘Well, that afternoon sewing with the small ones made me feel marvellously artistic and very wanted. It’s a long time since I felt that.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ I smile and give her hand a squeeze. ‘I need you every day, you know that?’ I know she can be sharp, and we both try to pretend it’s the other way around, but I lose count of the times she quietly has my back.

  ‘Thank you, Sweetpea, we make a good team.’ She’s folding the last of her fabric pieces. ‘Did you and Marcus ever think of children, then?’

  ‘Us?’ Her question makes me gulp so hard I almost choke. ‘Not. No. Definitely not.’ Even
if she hadn’t caught me off guard, it’s definitely in the ‘too difficult’ box for now, but I throw out a last thought. ‘I’m not keen.’

  She looks thoughtful. ‘Children have a wonderful way of challenging you. They shake up your thinking and keep you young, when you get to my age, that’s no bad thing.’

  I shrug. ‘I like the ones I know, like Tiddlywink and Wilf, and Cam. And Mia. But if I think of having any of my own it scares the bejesus out of me.’

  She’s patting my hand now. ‘You shouldn’t write them off, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Great. I’ll keep an open mind on that then.’ I’m looking at her. ‘If I ever find another partner.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Edie, I didn’t mean to bring that up.’ Aunty Jo clasps her hands together. ‘Let’s talk about something nicer.’

  ‘Like what?’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Like how much I’m looking forward to life drawing tomorrow.’

  It comes out as a shriek. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘Sorry, I thought you heard. Loella can’t always find a model, but her best one’s unexpectedly available tomorrow, so we have to get easels and sketchpads at the ready.’

  It’s a faint hope, but it’s worth clinging on to. ‘But we don’t have easels.’ I’m not sure they’re essential, but I’m not sure Aunty Jo knows that.

  ‘Don’t worry, Chickpea, I’m sure by tomorrow evening they’ll be here.’

  20

  Day 155: Thursday, 5th April

  At The Deck Gallery

  Epic Achievement: Remembering forsythia is a flower that’s yellow.

  So this is how the conversation went between Aunty Jo and me, as we unpacked the easels …

  Aunty Jo: ‘You don’t look very happy about coming to life drawing, Sweetpea?’

  Me: ‘That’s because I’m not.’

  Aunty Jo: ‘When we lived in Harpenden, Harry wasn’t ever keen on me going. It’s a bit like being a suffragette – when you’ve had to fight for the vote it feels wrong when someone who can take advantage doesn’t seize the opportunity.’

  Me: ‘Sorry?’ I got as far as Harpenden, or maybe Harry.

  Aunty Jo: ‘You need to come, Edie. Simply because you can.’

  Me: ‘Huh?’

  Aunty Jo: ‘If you don’t like it, then next time we go …’

  Me, shuddering: ‘There’s going to be a next time?’

  Aunty Jo: ‘Of course there is, we’ve got the easels now. But if you really don’t want to, then you could always pop along to that Plank Place with Cam and Barney for some of that nice ice cream instead.’

  So this is what I’m dealing with. Sometimes Aunty Jo is a complete treasure, then others she entirely loses her grip on the reality of what I’m thinking. The good thing about this evening is that Barney himself won’t be anywhere near The Deck tonight, because he’ll be safely at home with Cam.

  The trouble for me is that tonight brings up another one of those awful choices. The kind it’s impossible to make, because neither outcome is ideal. Would I rather be home alone … or go along and risk expiring with embarrassment or suffocating with boredom? It’s one thing complaining loudly in my head and kicking up a fuss about not wanting to join in. And another completely when I’m faced with the shudderingly horrible thought of being in the house on my own. Worrying what actually might happen if I start to fit and there’s no one here to help. It’s way worse at the cottage than down in St Aidan, because at least down there it’s never too long before a dog walker comes along.

  But if you take a whole life drawing class, add in chatting at the end, the journey there and back, pausing to gaze at how the moon is half hidden behind a cloud on the way across the harbourside and stopping to look up at how brightly the scattering of stars are shining against a velvet sky above the lane … Well, it all adds up. To way too long for me. There’s actually no contest. I’m going to have to put up and shut up. And go drawing.

  When Loella picks us up on the lane, at least she’s turned off Shania for now. Aunty Jo clambers up into the front seat of the car and I scramble into the back, along with enough gear for a trekking expedition. Loella waits until I’ve pulled on my seat belt, then hands me a bunch of yellow flowers.

  As she sets off down the lane she grins at me. ‘I heard you’re not best pleased about christening your easel drawing naked people, so I bought you daffodils and forsythia to paint instead.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’ There she goes, full of thoughts again. I’ve got my phrase list in my pocket too. If all else fails I’m planning to use my superior artist’s charcoal – as if Aunty Jo would order anything less – to do some writing practice.

  Her laugh is throaty. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t endorse wobbly willies at the St Aidan sessions, our models always keep their boxers on.’

  ‘You draw GUYS?’ I’m embarrassed as much by my unplanned squawk as by sounding like I came out of the ark and have a world view that’s tiny.

  She’s nodding as she wrestles the steering wheel to turn out onto the road. ‘Uh-huh. We mix and match, but most of the artists are women so there is a certain appreciation for the muscular male form, although, obviously, we never objectify.’ Loella nods as she wrestles with the steering wheel. ‘It would be a shame not to use our lovely local collection of firemen and lifeboatmen when so many of them are happy to share their assets.’

  Aunty Jo doesn’t reply to that, but I hear her swallow and can sense her quietly melting into the upholstery.

  When we get down to the gallery, first Loella has to find a road to block with her big red truck and then we’ve got to haul our giraffe-leg easels along the street, so by the time we get to The Deck a lot of the chairs are already taken. There’s a screen for the model to undress behind, but the model is already stripped off, out in the open and sprawled on the floor, while Plum, in her usual paint-splashed boiler suit, directs him into his pose. The way he’s sitting with one leg bent under him, the other stretched out sideways, with his back bent forwards and head bowed to the floor, I can only hope we’re paying him a big supplement for discomfort in the workplace. If anyone’s here looking for a muscle fix, they’ve certainly got them. And then some.

  We wave at a couple of people we recognise, and as Aunty Jo takes off her coat she’s talking in a low voice. ‘Next time we might fit in better if we put some rips in your jeans.’

  It’s only after we’ve sidled into a couple of spare seats in the circle that I remember I had meant to sit as far away from Aunty Jo as possible, but it’s too late to change now. Somehow, we wing it, and manage to erect our easels without looking like we haven’t got the first idea what we’re doing. Then Loella slips past and quietly adjusts all the bits we’ve accidentally put on upside down. The way she carries on a conversation with Plum and Beth over her shoulder all the time she’s fiddling with the wing nuts makes me think she’s the kind of supportive friend who’d adjust your princess crown to the right position without letting the world know it was crooked.

  ‘Masking tape, Edie?’ Aunty Jo dips into the bag she’s brought, which is at least as big as Marcus’s sports bag – in other words, humungous. Then she hands me a ring.

  ‘Why do I want this?’

  ‘You use it to fix your cartridge paper to your back board.’ Her voice drops as she leans closer. ‘I’ve spent the whole afternoon checking it out on YouTube. Do you know, they even have models posing on there? I’ve done so many practice sheets, my portfolio is bulging already.’

  Which kind of begs the question, why are we actually bothering to be here? But whatever. I suppose it’s similar to the difference between clicking on Street View and actually visiting a place; real life is just more, well, real. With more of those dimension things I’ve totally lost track of. I try not to dwell on the fact that my aunty has an expansive yet secret internet life that I am blissfully unaware of. If she were a child, I’d be reaching for the buttons that mums and dads use when they’ve totally got their pants
in a twist about what sites their kids have been clicking onto while they’ve been entirely oblivious cooking fish fingers, or fairy cakes, or whatever it is parents do.

  I watch her stick her paper on the propped-up board, do the same with mine, then, as I look around, Plum comes up. ‘I see you’re well equipped, if there’s anything else you need, just shout.’

  I’m about to ask for my flowers but Aunty Jo gets in first. ‘So how long do you hold each pose for?’

  As I take a moment to get over my surprise, Plum pushes back her dark ponytail.

  ‘This first pose will probably be for about an hour, then we’ll do a few minutes of action sequences, take a rest break, then go back for another couple of shorter ones.’

  Loella checks around the other people, who are getting down to work with biros and pencils and even ink and brushes. Finally she comes over to where we’re still frozen, not knowing where to begin.

  She gives us an encouraging smile. ‘So grab a piece of charcoal and let it make its own way around the paper. Forget about rubbing out, you have an instinctive link between your hand and your eyes, as soon as you start to draw you’ll feel this getting stronger. Don’t worry, just enjoy.’

  I turn to Plum with what I hope is a pleading smile and whisper, ‘Could you possibly pass my flowers over? On top of the bracelet display cabinet would be fine.’

  Plum bobs down at my elbow. ‘Just try this with me first. Look at the wonderful lines of those muscles, the play of light and shade where the ribs sweep down from the spine, the fabulous strength in that back.’ She turns a lump of charcoal on one side and puts it in my hand. Then she closes hers over it, makes a couple of sweeps, then stands back.

  ‘Wow.’ There’s something about the marks on the paper that exactly express what we’re staring at.

  ‘See, you’ve only drawn two lines, but you’ve already captured the feel of the figure.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Except there’s one unexpected problem; in my head it’s not a figure, it’s very definitely a man. For a moment I focus on the soft cotton stripe of the boxers. How they’re looser, yet so much sexier than the tight pants that Marcus used to wear. They had different names on the elastic waist bands as the designers slid in and out of fashion. For the teensiest second I’m imagining pulling that hot stripy cotton out of the tumble dryer, my thongs clinging to the inside. The crackle of the static as I peel them free and put them on my own knicker pile. Then I give myself a good mental telling off because if objectification’s banned, who knows what the punishment for personification is? If they had so much as a fabric conditioner whiff of my washday fantasy they’d probably push me off the end of The Deck balcony, into the oblivion they save for artists with inappropriate thoughts and dirty minds.