‘We haven’t broken up.’ Ella’s words sound terse and defensive. They hadn’t broken up. Not officially. They were officially taking some time apart.
‘I met Patrick straight out of Art College. He’s a bit older than me. I met him at the end of year show which was a big deal. He loved my work. He’d just opened a gallery and he wanted to show my pictures.’ Ella flinched, remembering the golden promise of those early days, both of them poised for take-off, the world theirs for the taking.
‘Wow, you must be really good.’
Ella shrugged, kicking at a sod of mud on the kitchen floor. ‘I was OK. The first show went well.’ It had been a sell-out. She’d been critically acclaimed. Patrick had fallen in love with her. ‘After that I lost my mojo and had to get a proper job.’
‘But you do those brilliant books. The illustrations are gorgeous.’
Ella blushed. ‘Thank you. The books are just a bit of a sideline. Not exactly what I had in mind when I was going to be an artist.’
‘No way, Jose! They’re so clever.’
‘Clever?’ Ella stared at Bets. ‘No one’s ever said that to me.’
‘Well, you’ve been talking to the wrong people, then. The expressions you manage to convey on their faces. I love them. This is a bit cheeky but I was wondering if you might donate a picture for the silent auction at the Spring Fayre. For the new roof for the village hall.’ She twisted her hands nervously. ‘I mean it’s a big ask because I know you could sell something instead of giving it to us. You can say no.’ Bets screwed up her face. ‘I’m sorry. I always do this. Devon’s always telling me I’m too impetuous. I just thought of it.’
Ella was amused by Bets’ sudden discomfort. ‘Bets, it’s fine. Of course you can have one.’ She smiled. It was quite flattering. ‘I’ve got enough of the bloody things, although they’re all in storage. It’s not going to raise much, though.’
Bets snorted, ‘Yeah, right.’
Ella shrugged. ‘They’re just drawings. Not even technically that good, if I’m honest.’
‘Blimey, I dread to think how much they’d go for if they were,’ Bets bookmarked quotes with her fingers, ‘“technically good”.’
‘They’re just not what I thought I’d be doing.’
‘So what were your real pictures like?’
‘Not like Cuthbert, that’s for sure. I did urban abstracts. The city in decay.’ Ella gave a half-laugh. ‘Gloomy. Miserable.Angsty. Ironic really. I come from a nice middle class family. I think Patrick would have preferred it if I’d come from a migrant family living in a grim northern town.’
As she gazed across to the field out of the window, thinking back to some of those early abstracts, the elusive tail of a thought darted through her mind.
‘Earth to Ella. Are you listening?’ asked Bets nudging her.
‘I don’t suppose you know where I might get some barbed wire?’ asked Ella. ‘I’ve had an idea. I need to get some tulips from Magda’s garden too.’
Chapter Twelve
Ella took a step back. The finished arrangement looked a bit of a dog’s dinner. No, it was a complete dog’s dinner. Make it a four-course extravaganza of a dinner.
‘Shit, this is a disaster.’ The coil of barbed wire which she’d thought might add an edgy touch looked like what it was, a bit of abandoned wire fence, upon which drifting blossom had caught without great effect.
It was supposed to represent the dichotomy of nature, fresh and pretty on the surface and its darker undercurrents with the deep red tulips symbolising the blood of innocents. Unfortunately, that idea hadn’t panned out.
Bets tipped her head to one side. ‘It’s not that bad . . . ’ She wrinkled her nose, her freckles dancing. ‘It’s not that great either. What if you . . . ’
Ella waited hopefully.
‘Nope.’ Bets plunked down into the front pew. ‘I can’t think of a single thing you can do.’
Ella sat down next to her.
‘In fact,’ said Bets, her cheeks moving as if she were working really hard to keep a straight face, ‘it looks bloody awful.’
Ella winced. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Y-yes,’ said Bets still trying to look serious but starting to lose the battle. ‘I suppose you c-could say it’s quite . . . quite, um . . . eye-catching.’
