Move Over Darling (20 page)

‘I suppose it will go on the market, will it?’ Coralie asked casually.

Alys, who’d picked up a pot of Happy Hands, removed her glasses to give her a close inspection, making Coralie feel she’d rather revealed her less-than-happy hand. If there was any chance of running into Gethin she wanted to be prepared.

‘It doesn’t look like the same place now, that’s all I can tell you,’ Alys replied. ‘Mind you, it should never have been allowed to get so run-down. Nothing to do with Gethin, by the way,’ she added, reading Coralie’s expression. ‘He did his best for Gwyn, even though the old boy could be so stubborn and difficult.’

Maybe it was a family trait. Coralie pretended to tidy her greetings card display, something she’d taken on trial because she felt sorry for the artist. If Alys couldn’t see her face, maybe they’d stay on safer ground.

Coralie blew out a long breath and, omitting the details, explained that Gethin was planning to substitute the portrait with one of his existing works.

‘Oh, that’s all right!’ Alys laughed. ‘I’m sorry that it was a wasted exercise for you, although –’ she shot Coralie a quick smile – ‘I hope you
did
manage to enjoy yourself. And I daresay there’ll be a few comments about lowering the tone, but the point is that an original work by Gethin Lewis, however, erm, racy, will sell for an awful lot of money! Besides, there’s nothing the rest of the Hall Management Committee can do but grumble. ACORN have already approved the loan.’

Coralie folded her arms. According to what she’d read online, the reason Gethin’s work had sold for such extravagant sums was mainly due to investors hoping to make money from another
Last Samba before Sunset
. Everyone loved a winner, but how would they feel about an artist whose work had so dramatically fallen out of favour?

Gethin’s shoulders were burning, but at least his stomach had stopped complaining. His back ached from standing for so long and his throbbing brain was warning him that he was going to have one hell of a tension headache when this was all over. But still it wasn’t fucking right. He swiped at the canvas again, frustrated that his hands just couldn’t translate what was in his head, repeatedly reverting to the cynically sensual crowd-pleasing oeuvre that had swollen his bank account and left him emotionally bankrupt.

He’d painted through sunset, oblivious to the glass windows turning to gold in the late light. The neon signs above the bars and clubs winked unnoticed by him as the last commuters hurried home and the first pleasure-seekers arrived in search of something to take their cares away. He’d been painting too urgently to think about food. As for drink? He’d had such a bad taste in his mouth for so long he wondered if there was anything that could ever wash it away, although his imagination was telling him he could smell coffee.

‘She’s worth it, you know.’ Ruby, a cardboard cup in each hand, kicked the door shut behind her and looked round for a flat surface that had escaped the worst of the paint.

‘Hi, Rubes, what are you doing here? Haven’t you got work to do? There’s a big exhibition ahead, you know.’

She shook her head. ‘I still can’t believe I was shortlisted! “Brave New Artists: Rising Stars”. And one of them’s me! Oh, man!’ She slid down the wall and sat cross-legged on the floor, as if the weight of everything that had happened in such a short space of time was too much for her.

‘It’s great news, Rubes.’ He passed her a coffee and then sat down beside her to rest his aching shoulders. ‘I want to see you get the prize for the best painting, too.’

‘I feel bad,’ she said, plucking at the silver dog tag round her neck. ‘It should have been you getting all the attention.’

‘Oh, I’m not short of attention.’ He patted her knee. ‘And I couldn’t be happier for you. So the judges approved of the digital image then? That’s terrific.’

‘Yes, now I have to submit the physical painting for judging. ’

Ruby gave him a rueful smile and he shoved gently against her shoulder. ‘You should get out of here now then, before someone spots you hanging around with a loser. I’m finished here, you know that.’

She pulled a face. ‘I owe you. You were the one who took me on when I had nowhere to go. I would have had to leave school if you hadn’t paid my fees and found me somewhere to live.’

He rose stiffly to his feet. ‘I was shrewd enough to spot talent, that’s all.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, none of the other applicants ticked the boxes about being able to lift five gallons of paint or work off ladders. For a tiny girl, you punch way above your weight.’

‘People should be more loyal,’ she said, getting up and shoving her hands in her pockets. She stared moodily out of the black windows at her reflection. ‘This isn’t about fashion, it’s about an artist creating something fresh and original.’

Gethin raised his brows at her. ‘So tell me, when did I last do that? The fact is, Rubes, I’ve been playing the system for too long, rote-producing stuff with no heart and soul. I’ve been found out.’

She lifted her eyes to him, meeting his in the glass. They both knew it was true. ‘So take your chance and make the most of it. Don’t go down the same route as me.’

‘At least you’ll always have
Last Samba before Sunset
,’ she said, trying to cheer him up. ‘That’ll keep you off the streets.’

Yeah, maybe, but what did that painting mean to him now? The royalties from shelves full of
Samba
merchandise – the prints, coasters, mugs and mouse mats – had enabled him to set up in New York. They’d also helped to keep the old man in comfort in an expensive private nursing home where he could be certain that the well-trained staff could cope kindly with the frailties of his failing mind and body. For where was the good in making a dying man suffer for past hurts he struggled to remember?

And even if the administrators for his art publishers paid up, as he was assured they would shortly, sales had to be reaching saturation point. He’d even watched a documentary programme about supposedly lost tribes, where one of the elders was wearing a
Samba
tee shirt with his loin cloth in a startling ancient world meets modern combo. Yup,
Samba
had been so huge he’d almost choked on it. No wonder he’d lost his appetite for producing new work when all the public was looking for was more of the same. Getting that hunger back made him feel nervous and excited all at once; a bit like falling in love.

‘Go on, Rubes, it’s late,’ he told her, eager to get on. ‘Your girlfriend’ll be waiting for you.’

‘Yeah.’ She grinned. ‘It’s good to have her back. Not having her around when Coralie was there made me appreciate her more.’

‘That’s the way it goes,’ he agreed. ‘You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.’

She shuffled up to him and, uncaring of the paint on his shirt, wrapped her arms stiffly around him. From someone who’d been so badly used by her mother’s partner it was a huge deal. Ruby had come a long way from the scarred, scared, borderline dropout she’d been when he’d first noticed her potential.

‘When are you leaving,’ she muttered into his chest.

‘The unveiling ceremony’s next week and I’m running out of time. So hop it.’ He dropped a kiss on her fluffy blonde head and she stepped away.

‘Oh man!’ she said, looking at the canvas for the first time. ‘You’ve really done it now.’

‘Promise me you’ll bring your children up at Penmorfa.’

His father’s final words. This from the man who’d been so quick to banish him from the place. And Gethin had been happy enough to agree if it meant the old man had one fewer burden on his conscience when he closed his eyes for the last time. The voice was suddenly so clear in his head that Gethin could almost imagine his father was up at the cottage waiting.

The hired Mondeo he was driving past the garden centre and up the rutted track towards his father’s cottage wasn’t nearly as luxurious as the Land Rover he’d used last time, or as much fun. But it would stop any rumblings about him flashing his cash and he hoped any villagers catching sight of him the day before he was due to hand over his painting would approve of his frugal choice and feel more generously disposed towards him.

Behind him the green tracery of the overlapping trees gradually closed a veil over the little village and it was easy to forget it was there. But for the intrusive arrival of PVC windows and the occasional plastic door squatting brutishly in the once-humble terraced houses, nothing much ever seemed to change. Penmorfa was everything he’d been glad to leave and yet – maybe he had a touch of
hiraeth
? – he was almost glad to see the place again.

He could, of course, have stayed in the States, but it was time to make decisions about his father’s cottage. It was as good a place as any to let the fuss about his latest exhibition blow over, which, he was confident, it would. And Coralie? Maybe this was his chance to show that he was willing to do all he could to make amends.

‘What’s that you’re driving there, boy?’ he could imagine his father saying, leaning out of the window of his ancient Land Rover. ‘Some sort of girl’s car, is it?’

For a moment he was reminded of the old man’s cutting sense of humour, sharpened and honed by a quick and clever mind. Mam, bless her, hadn’t been the brightest tool in the box, lovely as she was, and hadn’t always kept up with Gwyn’s voracious reading and lively curiosity. No wonder the old man had lost his rag at times, hemmed in by his land, his cattle, and with no outlet for that keen mind – and yet he’d been eager for his own son to perpetuate the misery.

‘Don’t think you’ve won,’ he muttered out loud, ‘this is only temporary. The whole idea of me staying here is preposterous.’

His father’s aspirations for him had always been narrow: the farm or nothing. Qualifications were a waste of time; university a waste of money. ‘Watch me, boy, and you’ll learn everything you need to know.’

So he’d watched his parents struggling to earn a living wage, seen them buckle under concerns about BSE, Foot and Mouth disease, the withdrawal of subsidies and the rising cost of feed and fuel. What he’d learned was that he’d be better off following his passion, pursuing his artistic ambitions, instead. His father had accused him of treachery, of walking away from the fight to rejuvenate the industry and keep the local community alive. And, later, even of being the cause of his mother’s early death.

The old man had never given in and admitted that he might have been right to leave. Not even after the sale of the old farmhouse, when the monies, as he’d later found out once his father had been too ill to refuse help, had barely been enough to keep him once outstanding debts had been paid. Well, it was too late to resurrect the family farm, but maybe he could do his bit for the community?

A sickly farmyard odour that he always associated with his father wafted into the car. Gethin waited to hear his dry snicker behind him and glanced up into the mirror. His harshest critics would have agreed with his father’s assessment: that he’d overreached his ambition and should have stayed on the farm. But they hadn’t seen anything yet. This time, he’d thrown out all the artifice and pretension and returned to first principles to paint what really moved him. At long last he could look himself in the eye and know that the work he was about to unveil came straight from the heart.

The thin smile he’d found, against the odds, was replaced by sheer amazement when he reached the cottage and wondered if he was at the right place. The practical brown-framed replacement windows his father had been forced to install when the originals had gone beyond repair, had been swapped for something far more sympathetic to the character of the building. The ugly rendering had been painted a sunny cream, the front door given a heritage paint makeover in a powdery seaside blue and a new slate roof sat snugly against the weather.

Inside, the mephitic stink of mildew mixed with plague pit had been ousted by the smell of fresh paint and new carpets. Plastered walls and new ceilings gave the rooms a clean, modern feel. Cream units and oak worktops gave the kitchen what the magazines would have described as a classic country feel, though not one that his father would ever have recognised, and the ghastly avocado bathroom – a so-called improvement installed in the seventies which his father insisted was ‘good enough for me, boy; it’ll get me clean, won’t it?’– had been replaced with a modern white suite and a power shower. All he was missing, he thought, as it suddenly occurred to him, was some furniture. At least he’d had the sense to stop off at what he thought of as Penmorfa’s shoddy goods store, where you were nearly beaten back by the smell of cheap plastic before you’d got through the door, to buy a sleeping bag and some basics.

He trudged back to the car just in time to be snarled at by a wire-haired Jack Russell as it leapt off the back of a quad bike before heading off on important business in the undergrowth. Huw Bowen, his hair sticking up from the breeze in an ‘owner most like dog’ moment, looked just as gruff.

‘Alys saw you go past. She was worried that you might be hungry so she sent you up some lunch.’ Regarding him suspiciously, Huw handed him a thin cotton bag that was heavy with a couple of foil-wrapped packages and a flask. His expression suggested that the gesture was nothing to do with him and he sincerely hoped that Alys had laced it with laxatives.

‘Alys is a thoughtful woman,’ he said. ‘You’re a very lucky man, Huw.’

Huw flushed, as if he’d hit a nerve, and glared at him. ‘Just don’t let her down, will you? She’s worked hard trying to persuade her committee that you’re genuinely trying to help the village, which is no easy task considering how many people still think that
Samba
painting was a bit of a piss-take. Mair’s been going around telling everyone you’re about to present them with another painting of a scantily-clad floozy on the beach and turn Penmorfa into the laughingstock of Wales again.’

Gethin shook his head. Nothing had changed. And he was trying to help these people? He took a deep breath. Not these people. One person: himself.

The clouds, which were almost as dark as Huw’s face, let loose an April shower that threatened to soak them in seconds. Gethin beckoned to the cottage and Huw and Edith hurried after him.

‘Tell Alys not to worry,’ he shouted above the sound of the rain echoing in the bare hall. ‘It’s an entirely new work, that hasn’t been created for an exhibition or gallery. I hope it will have resonance for everyone who comes into contact with it.’

Huw nodded, not looking completely convinced. ‘So, everything all right here?’

‘As far as I can tell the builders you recommended did a good job. Trying to oversee it at a distance, I was afraid I would come in to wet plaster and wires dangling out the ceiling, but they were as good as their word. I’m grateful to you, Huw.’

Huw’s expression softened and he relaxed enough for Edith to leap out of his arms and skedaddle upstairs to take herself off on a tour.

‘But you’ve got no furniture!’ Huw said, slightly out of breath from chasing after her, as he returned with Edith squirming in his arms. ‘You can’t stay here, boy. Where are you going to sleep? Young Kitty’s in the holiday cottage – and that’s another story, I can tell you. There’s The Cabin at Abersaith, though it’s pricey, mind you, although I daresay if anyone can afford it, you can.’

Gethin waved his hand, slightly too close to Edith who tried to take a couple of fingers off in passing.

‘Thanks, I’ll be all right here.’

Huw positively beamed. ‘Getting a feel of the old place again, eh, boy? That’s the spirit! I wouldn’t want to be away from it for a moment longer than I had to be if it was mine, either. Maybe you’ll decide to return to the village, after all, then no one will be able to say that you think you’re too good for us.’

Gethin refrained from saying anything to darken his mood again. He still couldn’t make up his mind where he stood with Huw, but that was true of so many people in the village. And one woman in particular. ‘And in the meantime,’ he said instead, ‘your good wife has packed more food than I can possibly eat. Would you care to share some lunch?’ He opened one parcel and handed a chicken salad sandwich in good, thick granary bread over to the older man who, with Edith slavering in his arms, took a huge appreciative bite.