He’d always liked St Ives, particularly in the quiet months. It had changed since his childhood, like everywhere else, but, somehow, its shapeshifting from an artist-invaded fishing village to a resort with restaurants, up-market shops, every other house a holiday let and, oh so many people meandering through its narrow streets, hadn’t ruined it.
So, one fine-ish day he had taken the bus to St Ives to meander like a tourist. The bus took the coast road, a winding, usually narrow, road that hugged the field edges overlooking the sea. He had no plans for the day except to mooch around, maybe have lunch somewhere and then head home. In the event the day stayed fine and he was still in town in the early evening. He knew he should be heading back; the bus could take anything from one hour to nearer two depending on any close encounters it might have with traffic unused to west-Cornwall roads, traffic backed up because one or more visiting drivers felt reverse gear was too great a challenge, cattle crossing, cattle refusing to cross, wild ponies imitating cattle and other eventualities. He’d been to Tate Modern and was wandering back to the bus stop when he saw a notice of the preview at the gallery and thought, ‘Why not?’
He wouldn’t have put himself quite in the philistine class but he was not someone who knew and could talk about art. It didn’t matter; he liked wandering round galleries almost as much as wandering round old churches and there were plenty of both in west-Cornwall.
There was a buzz of conversation as he entered but he felt surprisingly at ease. Judging from the groups scattered around the gallery many of the people there knew each other but the young woman on reception gave him a warm smile and somehow that set the tone; it didn’t feel like an exclusive and excluding do.
He saw the collage first. Hard to miss really; it was the largest piece on show. As soon as he saw the words ‘Armenian Massacre’ he was transported back to the north London bedsit he had shared with the woman he had thought would always be there and the sight of their huge Armenian landlord who only had two topics of conversation; the first was what had become of his ‘beautiful laces’, a pair of net curtains they had assumed were grey until they took them down and realised they were theoretically white. He could almost smell the joss sticks and scented candles of their bed-sit life of oh so long ago. The ‘laces’ had ended up in the cellar, causing the landlord great bewilderment and dismay. The second topic of conversation had been the massacre, which this huge, overweight, always-sweating man, living in a country far from Armenia and too young to have been involved, could never forget or forgive. He must have lost relatives and the killing-inspired flight would be the reason he had found himself making his heavy way around north London and fretting about his ‘laces’.
He had never thought in his younger days that he would find himself alone and buttoned down in middle age. Then, their only problem, apart from never having enough money of course, had been what to tell ‘Mr Jack’ about the curtains. He was surprised at how the feelings flooded back with the memories. ‘I think that’s a good thing’ he thought. In truth he had thought about her almost every day since she had left him, despite the effort he had put into forgetting and particularly into not feeling. Now that it was too late and he was too old, he saw what a fool he had been. But there it was.
A drink seemed like a good idea and he had just located the bar when he saw her. She was leaning casually against one of the uprights supporting the glass roof lights and he placed her immediately – the red hair was a giveaway. He didn’t know whether to say hello. After all they had never spoken or even met. But that cup of coffee had been something of a lifesaver; it had demonstrated when he was at his lowest, that someone, a stranger, cared about him. ‘Small acts of kindness,’ he thought to himself. He was quite a shy man, no longer young and pushy, no longer sure of much at all or of himself. Still, he screwed up his courage. After all he had never thanked her; that was reason enough to speak. The worst that could happen was a rebuff and he surely deserved some of those. As he approached, he saw her stiffen as some remark he didn’t catch from a passing couple touched her. She pushed back from her leaning post and seemed about to speak but he jumped in first, afraid that, if he hesitated, he would lose his courage.
He said the first thing that came into his stupid head, blurted it out and thought immediately that he had made a mistake. “Excuse me, but I think I owe you a cup of coffee.”
She turned startled and puzzled as she tried to place him. “I’m sorry I…..,” then she recognised him and her face changed; she smiled. “It’s you. I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you at first. You look different anyway and you’re in the wrong place; you should be in Penzance not St Ives.”
Relief washed over him as she spoke. It was alright.
“I love St Ives,” he said and then gabbled. “I thought I’d spend the day here for a change and was just about to head for the bus when I happened on this place. It’s a bit special isn’t it?”
She smiled again and then said, “It is a …very special place.” And then, as casually as she could, “What do you think of the show? I’m Trish by the way.”
“Oh well, I don’t know much about art really. I know a little about Armenia though and the near-genocide. So does one of the artists by the look of it. There are three I gather. Are they here? If I’m brave enough to speak to you I might pluck up the courage to talk to them.”
Before she could answer the young woman who had smiled a greeting when he entered came up, looking flustered. She smiled, apologised for interrupting and then said, “Trish, you’ll never guess…Well I know you won’t so I’ll tell you. Someone’s made a ridiculous offer for your centre-piece.”
She frowned a little. ”But it’s not for sale.” Then after a pause, “What kind of ridiculous offer Alicia?”
The young woman whispered in her ear and her eyes widened. “Who is it?”
He watched the dialogue, feeling immeasurably inept. He should have guessed she wasn’t just there to look at the exhibition. As always he had got it all wrong.
Alicia said, “It’s the Tate.”
“Our Tate?”
Alicia nodded.
“Well it’s got to go somewhere I suppose” she said slowly. “Can you tell them I’m flattered, get a name and say I’ll get back to them?”
“Will do,” she said and left them after giving Trish a hug.
She composed herself and turned back to him. He said, “I’m Chris. Chris Enderby. I’m so sorry, I had no idea it was you, that these works were yours and your family’s. I’ll get out of your way. This must be a big night for you so I’ll leave you in peace.” And he turned to go.
She stopped him by saying, “No it’s fine, don’t go. To answer your question, both my parents are dead I’m afraid, so you’re stuck with me.”
For a moment he was non-plussed, then he realised what fragile ground he had blundered onto.
She relented; he hadn’t known and, in truth, she thought and felt very little mostly now about her parents. It was all a long time ago. Was that a twinge of guilt? More like sorrow for two lives blighted and cut short. “It’s alright, you weren’t to know were you? You can top up my wine and we’ll call it quits.”
Izzy and Jonty wandered up as he moved towards the bar.
Jonty gave her a hug. “A good turn-out mum. We’ve been listening to what people are saying.”
“And?” she said.
“Pretty positive. Bits of gossip about our grandparents and real engagement with your stuff,” said Izzy. “Who was that you were talking to?”
“Oh, just a friend,” she said and then, when she saw the glance they exchanged, “No really, just a friend. I’ll introduce you.”
He came back with two Sauvignon Blancs and they widened the circle for him.
“Chris this is Jonty and Izzy, my wonderful children.”
That was how it started. They gave him a lift home and they turned out to live within a quarter of a mile of each other.
She hadn’t reckoned an exhibition in a gallery in St Ives would attract much media attention. She hoped the main focus might be the plight of the dispossessed from Armenia to Gaza and the talent and range of her parents. The gallery had done the usual pre-publicity and a couple of local art correspondents had closed their lap-tops and turned out and both wrote positive columns. One of them though, made a glancing reference to the tragedy of her mother’s death and father’s decline and it was picked up and became a national story; the art scene over the years in St Ives, the ‘mystery’ of her mother’s death and father’s collapse and her own resurgence made a good story. Several refugee charities saw in her work a chance to raise the profile of their cause and, remarkably quickly, she was being asked to appear on local and national radio and TV. She did a couple of radio interviews and worked hard at keeping the focus on her work and the reasons for showing it but was forced to correct assertions and misconceptions about her young life and her parents. And, of course, she was trolled. Trading on her parents’ reputation….immigrant lover….slag….crap artist and much worse. She closed her social media accounts and got angry as well as frightened. She was doorstepped by a very convincing young woman offering sympathy and mining for something titillating to justify her paper’s funding of a trek to Penwith.
She didn’t want to bother the children and so kept most of it from them. Instead, she bothered Chris, spending time at his place off-loading and being supported. She hated being dependent or needy but she had been shocked by the level of abuse from people she had never met and he saw it as a chance to help her as she had helped him.
Over time she discovered he could cook (he loved Tuscan and Moroccan food and actually had a tagine that was used) and he discovered he could run and they both discovered that they liked the other.
Eventually he moved in. He let his place to his cleaner for a rent she could afford. He had come home one day and found her crying as she cleaned. The owner of her rented home had died and the relatives had seen its income stream potential. The house she had lived in for a quarter of a century was to be modernised and turned into a holiday let and she had been given a ‘no fault’ eviction notice, although, surely someone was at fault. He told Trish over a rather nice Tuscan pork dish and they talked about it the two of them, looking for a way to help. Eventually she said, “Maybe you could move in here for a while and let her stay in your place.”
“For a while?” he said. “But then what?”
“It could be quite a long while,“ she answered. “Only….”
“I know, you’d have to ask the children.”
She nodded.
He helped the old lady to move in and wondered whether he was trying to make up for his neglect of his own mother. It didn’t matter really; he was lucky enough to be able to keep the rent low and so he did. Trish checked with the children who, by then, had met him often enough to come to like him and appreciate the difference he made to their mother’s life. The children Trish pretty well constantly worried about, particularly when they were living and working away, found that Chris’s presence meant they didn’t, in turn, have to worry about their mum quite as much.
Eventually the children both came back to Cornwall and built their own lives here. Trish and Chris have stayed together, holding each other and, when things get rough for one or both, holding each other up.
The story, and it is just a story, doesn’t end there of course because life isn’t a story no matter how much we try to order the narrative.
