Chapter 20 Bardy
BARDY
What hast thou done?
“Good God, Lou, what have you done to your ear?!”
Lou now not only has a graze on his cheek—admittedly healing nicely—but a bulbous bandage adorning his right ear.
Lou winces as he touches the bandage. “Tricky catch, shot off like a bullet. Half the bowl I was making split away.”
“What about the new visor?”
“Well, obviously it doesn’t cover my ears,” Lou replies testily. He continues huffily, “I’ve got some ear defenders coming from .”
They are in the art gallery, laying out chairs for this evening’s group.
The gallery is closed, but the manager, Nathan, said Bardy could use the area that acts as both a classroom and a spare exhibition space.
“And if you could spread the word, Mr. Shakespeare . . . uh . . . Bardy . . . we need to make the gallery work harder for us.”
“Funding?” Bardy had replied, feeling guilty that Nathan was letting him use the space for free. On the other hand, he reflected, he had got the lad through his GCSEs, then persuaded him to take A-levels and go to college.
Sometimes, praise worked with these lads. And Nathan had certainly been one of “these lads.” But Bardy knew direct praise rarely worked. Nathan’s friends would have made fun of him. So, you approached it differently, just dropped it into conversation: “When you’re at university . . .”
“I ain’t going to no university.”
“Oh, aren’t you?” Vague, as if you’re not really interested. “Why wouldn’t you want to do that?” Then move on. Not expecting or even wanting a reply. Just planting a seed.
Nathan had gone on to get a degree in archeology and museum studies.
Sometimes they still had the power to surprise you.
“Where do you want these chairs?” Lou is asking.
“Those are fine in a circle, and then we’ll arrange a couple on that raised bit for the model.”
“Who’ve you got coming?” Lou asks uneasily.
“Not sure. Some bloke Colin knows. Colin’s going to come about half an hour after the others arrive, so we can have a catch-up first.”
Leonard, Linda, Pia, and Kate all arrive together. Linda and Kate are deep in conversation. Linda hands a cake tin to Bardy. “Ginger and spiced orange loaf.”
“Thanks, Linda.” Bardy looks around, lost. He had remembered drawing boards, art pads, pencils, and erasers, but he hadn’t really thought about refreshments.
Lou takes the tin from him. “Come on, Linda, there must be a kitchen round here somewhere.” As they wander off together, Bardy can hear Lou asking, “Now, do you spice your own oranges?”
“This is a lovely space.” Pia is walking down one side of the room, looking at a small exhibition of watercolors that is hanging there. Against a backdrop of coastal images, Bardy once more thinks of a curlew. Bright-eyed. Beautiful. Hidden.
“Leonard, you should look at these. Some of them remind me of your first painting,” Pia suggests.
Kate is on the other side of the room at a long line of windows that look over the park.
A few people are there strolling and walking their dogs.
It is mid-April, and the weather has turned warmer.
She glances back to the dais set up for the model.
“Shall I close the blinds on the first few windows so they won’t be seen from the park? ” she asks.
“Good idea.”
Linda and Lou are back, carrying trays loaded with mugs and slices of cake. Lou’s bandage looks considerably neater. Nurse Linda has been doing her stuff.
Bardy glances at the door. Will Tay come?
It was her idea. But you never knew. He hasn’t seen her since last week, and she hasn’t replied to any of his texts.
That isn’t that unusual. Then why is he worried that something is wrong between them?
That he is missing something. Lou said that work isn’t going so well. Is that it?
It is only as they are settled in a circle, drinking coffee and complimenting Linda on her cake, that the door opens and Satya rushes in. “Am I late?”
He had completely forgotten about Satya.
She is met by calls of welcome, and she takes the empty chair next to Kate. They are all so busy offering her coffee and cake that it is a moment before Bardy realizes that the door has opened again, and Tay is pulling up a chair beside him.
“You came!”
“No. This is my twin sister.”
The group turns its focus on Tay, and he can feel her stiffen beside him, uncomfortable with all the attention. However, she does take a slice of cake from Linda. She also draws a well-used art pad from her bag.
So the girl means business.
“Right,” Bardy starts, “my friend Colin, who used to teach art, is coming along in”—he glances at his phone—“about fifteen minutes to guide us through this drawing session. But to begin with, why don’t we go round and say how we’ve been getting on since we last met? Who wants to start?”
“I will,” Pia volunteers. “Mainly,” she says, “because I have so little to say. It is very frustrating.” Bardy thinks she sounds angry with herself. “I have been quilting . . . but . . .”
Kate prompts, “Don’t you like it?”
Pia makes a sharp ttching sound. “It is a quilt. Or the beginnings of one. But it is no more than that. It certainly isn’t art.” Now she definitely sounds cross.
“Kate?” Bardy asks.
“I know how Pia is feeling. I think I have watched every single YouTube video on oil painting, but it’s so . . . oh, I don’t know . . . I just don’t seem able to crack it. Everything from the blending to the color palette isn’t really working.”
“Tell me about it,” Linda joins in. “Pen and wash. It’s more like pen and awash. The paper is curling up, and the colors are running everywhere. I tried to paint a bookshop, and it just looks like they’ve had a flood. I’m not sure pen and wash is my thing.”
“How about you, Satya?”
Satya pulls some images from her bag, black-and-white shots taken in the kitchen of Jack and three boys, aged somewhere between eight and twelve.
“I printed these out so I could really study them. I mean, they’re not awful, but they don’t really tell a story.
Apart from the fact that all the boys like to eat a lot. ”
Like father, like son, Bardy reflects.
As she hands around the images, they make encouraging noises.
Bardy thinks the photos are nicely composed—he likes the one of all four figures in front of an open fridge; maybe it reminds him of all the times Jack was staying. But Satya is right, they are missing something.
“I like the one by the fridge,” Kate comments. “I remember what it was like when my girls’ boyfriends came to stay.”
“Eat you out of house and home,” Satya laughs, “and the mess! And will they ever keep anything tidy? Or realize things need to get done on time? The four of them are a nightmare.”
“Jack . . .” Kate starts.
“He’s the absolute worst,” Satya exclaims.
Blue and green should never be seen. He hears his mother’s voice in his head again. Followed by, The boys are going to kill her. And if they don’t, I will. Bardy shifts uneasily in his chair.
“Leonard, are you still painting in acrylic?” Pia asks, glancing at the paintings on the walls.
Leonard shakes his head. “Not going well, I’m afraid. I’m not sure I like acrylics. I think I might go back to watercolors.” He looks toward the paintings on the wall, “Or maybe I will just give up. Perhaps one artist in the family is enough.”
“How about you, Lou?” Kate asks.
Lou shrugs and points at his bandage. “Not so good ear either.”
They all laugh, apart from Leonard, who demands of Linda, “What did he say?”
Linda sighs.
This is not going well. Even his smiler has stopped smiling.
“Tay?” he asks in desperation.
“Nah. Too much going on. What about you, Bardy?” she demands back.
What can he say? That he’s struggling to write stories? That he’s not ready—if he ever will be—to share his color poems. Like the colors that flood his mind, the poems just seem to come to him.
In an attempt to calm himself, he lets the red ocher wash over him.
At least she came. He’ll take that as a win.
But is the red ocher fading slightly? Is something seeping away?
“Well?” Tay says, and he realizes they are all looking at him.
More than anything, he doesn’t want to let Tay down. So he says, “I’ve written a short story.”
“What’s it about?” Linda asks. A bit of a smile.
He is lying, of course. But the slight smile makes him keep going.
“It’s about a baker,” he replies, looking at his best friend.
“Go on,” Lou, the wood-turning baker says warily.
Bardy sits back in his chair and crosses his legs at the ankles.
He looks up at the ceiling for inspiration.
“It is the story of a baker who made the most wonderful cakes and pastries. His madeleines were so light that people compared them to clouds, and his Florentines were exactly the right combination of chewy and crispy. And as for his fruit tarts, well, they were famous all over the kingdom.”
“Ah, a fairy story,” Kate murmurs.
Maybe it will be. He’s winging it here.
He looks around at them all. “The king heard of the baker’s great skill, and he called him to the palace. The baker traveled three days across the kingdom to meet him, and the king said, Come and cook for me. But the baker replied, Thank you, Your Majesty, but I like my little shop . . .”
Bardy pauses.
“I like where I live. I don’t really want to travel.”
Bardy sees Lou watching him. He wonders if he sees what he has just seen.
Hana had always wanted to travel. She was a golden yellow wanderer.
Bardy was not. They may have met teaching in Botswana, but at heart, he is a home bird.
Had that initial meeting fooled her into thinking he wanted more?
He does not ache with the rhythm of migration; he wants to stay among the creeks and marshes and the breathtaking, ever-changing skies.
How could he have thought he would ever move to New Zealand? But Hana would.
It was her home.
How could he not have seen this?
He had thought she was talking about more exotic holidays.