Outside I could hear shouts and laughter as a group of loud drinkers went past. I put the pillow over my head. What kind of weirdos stayed out so late in the pissing rain? I thought. Clearly they were up to no good. Probably they were heading to Tall Trees to write rude slogans on the wall I’d painted over earlier.
With my head still under the pillow, I gasped. The wall at Tall Trees! I pulled my head free then sat up, hugging the pillow to my chest, and feeling my heart beating a little bit faster. The bloody wall. It was easily seen from the road, so it was definitely public. And it was like a blank canvas, just waiting to be painted over – as the local graffiti “artists” kept proving. Could I use that for a community art project? Paint a huge mural perhaps? I loved working on a big scale, though my usual style was more abstract.
I thought for a moment, frowning in concentration and thinking about the phrase “Presents from the Past”. It was like one of those advertising slogans that didn’t mean anything, but perhaps I could design something based on the history of Tall Trees? I’d never been very interested in historical stuff but hadn’t Mr Yin said Tall Trees was a hospital during the war? That was something. I could paint some poppies on the wall or a few soldiers. I leaned back against my headboard and closed my eyes. It would have to be more inventive than that, I knew; a £10,000grant wasn’t just going to be handed out to the first person who applied for it. And there was no guarantee Tall Trees would let someone like me scribble all over their property anyway. But perhaps I had the very beginning of an idea.
Despite the sound of the rain and the shouts that were now fading into the distance, I felt sleep creeping up on me. I wasn’t working at Tall Trees tomorrow, but I thought I might go round anyway. I could see Nan, and have a look at the wall. Maybe once I was there, inspiration would strike.
*
And so, the next morning, I got on my bike and cycled through the quiet streets to Tall Trees. I didn’t go inside at first. Instead, I stopped on the pavement outside. The home was behind a low wall, just a bit higher than my waist. It was easily jumped over, which was why the tempting white gable end got daubed in graffiti so often. Now I leaned my bike against the wall, put my hands on the top, and with a bit of effort, clumsily pulled myself up so I was sitting on it. Then I stood up and studied the gable end. It was the perfect place for a mural, I thought. It really was a blank canvas. It was visible from the street, and from every bus and car that went along the busy road. I stood on top of the wall with my hands on my hips and took it in. It was perfect. And also absolutely impossible. It was such a big space to fill – way bigger than the canvases I used to paint – and I had no ideas. Not one.
‘Are you breaking in?’
I gasped at the interruption, wobbling on my perch, and luckily managed to keep my balance. Annoyed, I turned and looked down to see the floppy-haired man I’d seen in reception, grinning up at me. ‘Are you casing the joint?’
‘Busted,’ I said. ‘I’m planning on nicking a load of bed pans and flogging them down the Queen’s Head.’
The floppy-haired man laughed loudly. ‘You work here, don’t you? I saw you the other day.’
‘I do,’ I admitted.
‘But you’re not working now?’
‘I’m not.’
Fed up with balancing. I sat down with my legs dangling into the grounds of Tall Trees. To my surprise, the man clambered up on to the wall next to me and sat with his legs astride the wall.
‘So what are you doing?’
In the face of such enthusiastic questioning, I could only tell the truth. ‘I’m thinking about painting a mural,’ I said.
‘Brilliant,’ He took his bike helmet off and ran his fingers through his hair, studying the gable end. ‘It’s the perfect place for a mural.’
‘I know.’ I was pleased by his approval.
‘What will you paint?’
‘Now that I’m less sure about,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘There’s a community art grant up for grabs but I need some ideas. I thought if I came here and looked at the space then inspiration would strike.’
‘Has it?’
‘Nope.’
‘I always think you have to let an idea settle into your mind,’ he said. ‘Don’t think about it, and let it take root, and something will come to you when you least expect it.’
He rested his bike helmet on the top of the wall and leaned on it, his eyes still fixed on the gable end, and nodded in appreciation. ‘It’s definitely a good spot.’
‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘The only trouble is that it gets graffitied all the time. This wall is easy enough to climb over, as you can see.’
The floppy-haired man bit his lip thoughtfully, staring at the wall and the ground beneath, where there was an overgrown flowerbed that was always trampled under the feet of the graffiti artists. ‘You need to plant some prickly bushes,’ he said. ‘The pricklier and bushier the better. That would stop people standing there.’
It was so simple that I couldn’t believe no one had thought of it before. ‘That’s amazing,’ I said. ‘You’re right.’
He smiled again, showing dimples in both his cheeks. ‘Is that what you do here, then? Are you an art teacher? Or a therapist?’
‘I’m a carer,’ I said, feeling oddly like I’d let him down. So I added: ‘I did teach art for a while, adult education classes. And I’ve thought about training to be an art therapist.’
‘You should teach classes here,’ he said, tilting his head towards Tall Trees. ‘I reckon they’d love it.’
