Chapter Ten #2
Ivy closed her eyes to the sunrise and breathed in deeply. It felt like real life could be suspended here, with all her worries and cares left somewhere far below. And for just now, she didn’t want to go back.
At last, they headed down the path and then Brooke and Trip went out to see one of the nearby fortresses, continuing Brooke’s itinerary. Back at the shop, Ivy was soon swept up in work, and the hours sped past.
When it was time for her break, she checked her WhatsApp with caution and saw that debate was raging furiously over Trip’s appointment as director.
Wait. You’re putting a tourist in charge?
He’s not even Cornish. He won’t understand half of the references.
Give him a chance. Maybe fresh eyes will be good?
No. We need someone with experience. The show is too important.
Too important? It’s a kids’ show for god’s sake. I vote we cancel it.
Yeah. We’ve only got two weeks and I can’t even figure out what the script says. Half of it seems to be in another language …
Ivy bit her lip. There was a rehearsal tonight and she was worried that Trip would innocently be walking into the lion’s den. He was too sweet-natured and would be no match for the Fox Bay show committee. At least she would be there, she thought, to offer him some protection.
The rehearsal was at six. Josie vanished at four to teach a breathwork seminar in her friend’s barn. After the last customer had drifted out, Ivy flipped the sign to Closed and slung her MOMA tote over one shoulder.
Trip was waiting outside in the dusk, checking his phone, beanie pushed back over his hair.
‘Ready for your directorial debut?’ Ivy asked, as she locked up.
‘Absolutely,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Because you can still back out, you know. Tell Mr Hargreaves you’re allergic to face paint and dust. And children.
And hiking shorts, of which there will be many in the PTA.
Seriously, it’s going to be hairy. It already sounds pretty tense on the WhatsApp.
My advice? Quit now, before they know who you are. ’
Trip only laughed. ‘No way, I’m not a quitter. Besides, I don’t know what you’re so worried about. It’ll be fun.’
‘I look forward to seeing your impenetrable optimism crushed,’ said Ivy, as they headed along the high street.
He ignored her and nodded at her bag. ‘That’s a cool quote.’
She glanced down at her tote. ‘Yeah. It’s Jack Whitten. The purpose of art is to expand consciousness. He’s an American painter and sculptor from the—’
‘I know who Jack Whitten is,’ Trip said.
‘Oh, right,’ said Ivy. Unconsciously, she had formed the opinion that Trip’s idea of culture involved surfing and green juice.
‘I used to go to MOMA a lot. One of my gran’s family friends is an artist in the West Village and she was always taking us on what she called artistic expeditions. She knew half of the modern artists that exhibited there.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Ivy enviously. Yet more evidence of Trip’s charmed life that she could only dream of.
‘Expand consciousness. It’s a big aim,’ he said.
‘Yeah.’ Ivy sighed. ‘And someone like Jack Whitten had stuff to say, you know? All the greats did. What have I got to say? Not much.’
‘You’re worried about that big piece of coursework?’ He caught her surprised look. ‘What? You mentioned it the other night. I was just paying attention.’
‘Yeah, I notice you do that,’ Ivy said. ‘If you must know, yes, I am worried. I haven’t got much to hand in so far.’
‘How much is not much?’ he asked.
‘Oh,’ she said evasively, ‘a few sketches.’ She met his clear gaze and groaned.
‘Well, half a sketch, to be exact. The thing is, I don’t know what I want to say.
I’ve tried making art that reflects social change.
I’ve tried considering political themes.
I feel like my brain is going to explode. Everything I try just feels … rubbish.’
‘I’m sure it’s not rubbish,’ Trip said. ‘It sounds like you’re thinking too hard. Thought is the enemy of flow.’
‘Okay,’ said Ivy. ‘That sounds very zen.’
‘Vinnie Colaiuta said that. A famous drummer. He should know, right? Drumming is all about flow.’
‘Another old family friend?’ she teased.
‘Actually, we did go see him once,’ he admitted. ‘At a jazz club.’
They passed Fin’s bakery, now dark except for the soft lamplight in the flat above, where Ivy knew that Josie would now be making dinner – a concoction of strange ingredients that shouldn’t go together and yet, somehow, would prove to be utterly delicious.
The window in the bakery was slightly fogged, a silhouette moving inside.
Fin prepping for the next day’s bread, like he did every night.
The streetlights came on, as they also did at the same time every night.
Old Bill was there as always on the harbour, tapping out his pipe, ready to head home.
Simi was lighting the candles in the windows of the Mariner’s Arms, preparing for the evening shift.
Lou was stoking her pizza oven. Kate was locking up the surf shed …
Everything here in Fox Bay was the same as always, Ivy thought, night after night – routine and cosy and small.
And what’s wrong with that? a little voice asked. It wasn’t like the outside world had been so great. She had only made it as far as Truro before she’d come scurrying back.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Trip said, bringing her out of her thoughts.
‘Sure.’
‘Do you ever draw Fox Bay?’
She glanced at him. ‘What?’
‘Your art,’ he said. ‘You said you were exploring all those big themes and ideas, but you’ve never mentioned anything to do with this place. Your home. It’s a lot of material right under your nose.’
Ivy considered his question as they walked on, passing the old stone buildings, the fairy lights strung along the windows of Tamsin’s crystal shop, the familiar red door of the post office.
She thought of the pieces she had done in Sixth Form that her teacher had loved.
Large-scale, moody charcoal pieces of the Great Pyramid at Giza, Machu Picchu at dawn, the Great Wall being lashed by a storm.
The Taj Mahal, the Statue of Zeus. Places she had never been to except in her imagination; wonders she had never seen except online or in books.
‘I don’t know,’ Ivy said eventually. ‘I guess when I think of art, I think of something big and amazing. Why would I focus on something small and unimportant like this?’
Trip was quiet for a moment, then he said, ‘If you had something you really wanted to say, right now, something urgent and important – would it be this hard to put your finger on what that is?’
Ivy opened her mouth to argue and he hurried on.
‘And don’t you think the things you see every day are important?
Worth noticing? I mean, look at this place.
’ He waved his arms around at the darkened cobbled streets.
‘It’s magical. Weird, sure. But full of stories.
Half the people in town seem like they’ve stepped out of a novel.
And I bet not all those stories are simple or easy.
’ He shrugged. ‘Look, I’m not suggesting you draw Fox Bay for the rest of your life.
But if you’re stuck for the next step, maybe this could be your way in.
Draw what you see in front of you. It’s like Monet said, Nature is the source of my inspiration. ’
‘How many inspirational quotes do you have up your sleeve?’ Ivy muttered.
‘Just because something is small, doesn’t make it unimportant,’ Trip said firmly. ‘Look at Cassatt, Morisot, Emin. Kids in the bath, an unmade bed. That’s life too, isn’t it?’
This time, Ivy stayed quiet. Just because something is small, doesn’t make it unimportant. She could feel something – a prickle of interest that said this was worth investigating.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said at last. They walked on. She imagined sketching these cobbled streets, shining under the streetlights. Old Bill folding up the rope that would never be used. Fin’s silhouette as he moved around his silent bakery …
Her phone beeped and she fumbled for it.
‘It’s your sister,’ she said, reading the curt text.
‘She’s hell bent on us seeing Seal Island tomorrow morning and she’s persuaded Kate to take us out before work on Old Bill’s boat.
’ She sighed. ‘Why the sudden interest in the meagre sights of Fox Bay and why is it always so early? Is Brooke’s approach to every holiday so organised? ’
‘I think she’s just enthusiastic about Cornwall,’ said Trip, but she noticed he didn’t meet her eye. ‘Hey, is that the hall?’
The glow of the town hall lights appeared ahead, and the unmistakable sound of small children shrieking drifted towards them.
‘Brace yourself,’ Ivy said. ‘If you think Fox Bay is magical and idyllic, you’re in for a rude awakening. Things are going to get real, fast. And by real I mean feral and maybe a bit scary.’ She thought for a moment. ‘We should have a signal.’
‘A signal?’ said Trip, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile.
‘Yeah, like if you can’t take it any more and you need me to get you out of there, stat. I can fake an emergency with the best of them. Or trigger the fire alarm.’ She thought. ‘How about lighthouse. You say that and I know it’s time to scram.’
Trip beamed. ‘Excellent. Lighthouse it is. Not that I’ll need it. Come on Ivy, have some faith.’ He nudged her. ‘Let’s make theatre.’