Chapter 6
Six
French Impressionist. Wracked by lack of self-confidence. One of only a few female painters at the time. Teaching point: why? Examine social mores, barriers to women becoming successful artists – then and now.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
‘You a painter then, me duck?’
The comment was the fifth Callie had received since taking up position with her easel and paints at the far end of the harbour wall. Hoping this would be out of the way from most tourists, she’d presumed incorrectly. It seemed a woman sitting innocuously painting was fair game.
‘I am, yes,’ she replied, through gritted teeth.
‘You any good, then?’ The middle-aged man in checked shorts and no T-shirt bent over her, his large brick red stomach threatening to dislodge the canvas.
Her self-restraint fled. Waving her brush at him, she responded, ‘I don’t know, what do you think?
A budding Renoir, an embryonic Turner, a Georgia O’Keeffe?
Have you a degree in art history, or maybe you work at one of the top London fine art galleries?
If so, do tell me if I’m good enough to exhibit. ’
‘All right, love, keep yer hair on. Only showing an interest, like.’ He huffed and wiped a hand over his sweaty brow.
‘Vernon, come away.’ A woman, possibly his wife, emerged from behind the mountain of crab pots, phone in one hand, holding her nose with the other.
‘Blimey, these pot thingies stink. Leave the woman alone, V. She’s trying to work.
Come on, I’ve got my photo now. I’m gasping for a cider; you can grab a pint and a nice ploughman’s at the pub over there.
’ She put an arm through his. ‘I need to phone the kids an’ all. ’
Vernon allowed himself to be led away, grumbling indignantly.
Callie felt her shoulders drop. She shouldn’t let herself be irritated.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been the victim of interest, and it wouldn’t be the last. People were naturally drawn to an artist working but Vernon had been the last straw.
Interestingly, all today’s comments had been from men; they just hadn’t been able to resist saying something, anything.
One had even suggested she might find it easier to simply take photographs and paint indoors. After Vernon she was inclined to agree.
Always insecure about her art, it had taken all her courage to set herself up on the harbour this afternoon. People’s interest, however well-meaning, just put her on edge and made her horribly self-conscious.
Putting down her brush, she shoved her curls up into the sweaty headband of her sun hat.
It was hot. In so many ways this was possibly not the best time or place to position herself.
Her day had been filled with a leisurely breakfast and the visit to the Art School, so she’d missed the quiet dawn light.
Her fingers had itched too much with a longing to capture the seductive curve of the cliffs which stretched to the east of Lullbury Bay, tumbling down to the little fishing village of Charmouth, rising in ginger biscuit perfection to West Bay and lurching out to Portland shimmering in the far distance.
So she’d collected her gear anyway and set out along the harbour.
It seemed an almost impossible task to capture the hard glittering light, the sparkling dances on the rich blue sea, the scudding ever-changing clouds but she was desperate to try.
For too long she’d limited her subject matter to the few plants which grew in her tiny back garden, limited by time and head space.
She wanted to stretch herself like the cliffs rolling out to the east, wanted to dance like the diamonds on the waves.
Picking up her brush again, and ignoring the little voice inside which screamed Imposter!
she swept on a long line of French ultramarine.
Then she put the brush down again. It was no good.
It wasn’t the heat or the nosey passersby putting her off.
She suspected it wasn’t even her possible lack of skill.
She still hadn’t heard from Frida. Even Vernon and his wife didn’t seem to have problems contacting their kids.
Ignoring Avril’s advice to leave Frida well alone, she’d fired off a few texts.
She’d also rung, only to be forced to leave a faltering voicemail.
Callie winced now, recalling the attempt to sound breezy and unconcerned but also determined that her daughter should get in touch.
She imagined Frida, lying on her sunbed, rolling her eyes at Leah slumbering prone next to her.
Oh it’s Mum again. Why won’t she leave me alone to have a good time?
Except she couldn’t imagine Frida ever being that cruel. So why hadn’t she answered?
Leaving her painting gear, Callie went to sit on the low stone wall which bordered the harbour.
Near enough to keep an eye on her easel but in the thankful shade.
Half in earnest she began searching for flights to Ibiza.
Maybe there was something wrong with Frida?
If so, she needed to get out there. Her phone buzzed causing her to almost drop it.
Wonder of wonders, a text from her daughter vibrated through.
Soz mum. Phone out of juice. Lost charger. All good.
As a message to a mother from a daughter a thousand miles away it wasn’t informative and it certainly wasn’t reassuring. Callie’s thumb hovered over the phone. Should she reply? What could she say? Frowning down at the screen and biting her bottom lip, Callie considered what to do.
This just wasn’t like Frida. Usually texts flew between them. Frida wasn’t keen on actually phoning people but she was an obsessive texter.
A seagull landed on the cobbles next to her. It peered down doing a strange little hopping dance and then eyed her avidly, its yellow eye knowing. Leave the girl alone, it seemed to say. She’s young and having fun.
Was the sun getting to her? Callie blinked slowly and then glared at it.
It did the trick as, with a dirty look, the gull opened its wings majestically wide and took to the sky.
She felt the air brush her head as it flew over her and tried not to duck.
They had seagulls in Worcester but they weren’t this enormous and they certainly didn’t talk.
A spurt of laughter escaped. She needed to get out of the sun, grab a cool drink and take a break.
The stress of the academic year and especially the last term must be getting to her.
Glancing at the easel she thought she might have enough ‘notes’ for a bigger painting.
The stench of old fish wafted over from the crab pots.
It stuck in her throat, making her eyes water.
Vernon’s other half had been right; they did stink.
Definitely time to cut her losses and move.
She was supposed to be on holiday, after all.
Gathering her stuff, she made her way slowly along the harbour wall, picking her way over the rough cobbles.
The chink of glasses and the sound of happy tourists met her as The Old Harbour Inn loomed, its beer garden brimming.
Vernon and partner had scored a table right next to the harbour and its bobbing boats.
Vernon, still shirtless, drank deep from his pint of beer, gave a loud burp and then began chewing on a pork pie from his ploughman’s.
His wife appeared to be immersed in a phone call and was gesticulating around her, only pausing to pick up her pint of cider.
A wave of something like envy passed over Callie and she bit down on it.
They seemed a content pair, but she’d rather be happily on her own and independent than put up with a man like Vernon.
As she passed them, she heard him yell to the unfortunate waitress, ‘Oi, me duck. Another two pints out here, luv, and be quick about it. I’ve got a throat on me like the bottom of a parrot’s bird cage.’ Giggling, Callie turned to attempt the climb up God Almighty Hill.
Deciding to go into Sea Haven House via the garden, Callie turned the salt air stiffened handle of the garden gate, picked up her painting gear and made her way to the French windows.
Disappointment flooded through her as she saw they were open.
The hope that she’d have the house to herself died as she saw her housemate was in.