Using dozens of photographs as reference points and asking a friend to sit for me, I sculpted Gran’s portrait in the round, creating a 360-degree bust out of clay. But when I cast her, I left out certain sections, sculpting them as though the missing parts had broken off and were blowing away on the wind. I was trying to capture my feelings of loss and of life being fleeting.
‘You areunbelievablytalented,’ Finn declares, turning to look at me.
His words and expression ramp up my internal heat lamp.
‘It reminds me of the statue at Tintagel,’ he adds. ‘Do you know the one I mean? It looks like King Arthur holding Excalibur.’
I nod. The sculpture Finn is referring to is an eight-foot-tall bronze of a king holding a sword, standing right out on a rocky, windswept cliff edge. The king’s head, shoulders and arms are complete, as is his sword, but his cloak falls raggedly to the ground and part of his body is hollow, so you can seethe Atlantic Ocean beyond. It’s otherworldly and striking – I’m pleased by the comparison.
‘I’d love to have this recast in bronze one day, if I can afford it,’ I tell Finn.
Bronze is an alloy of copper and tin, metals that have been mined here since the Bronze Age. Gran lived in Cornwall for her entire life, so it feels fitting.
‘It’s really good, Liv,’ he says seriously.
I still have the torch from my phone pressed against the glass door of the greenhouse, the reflection of the light illuminating his features in the otherwise dark night.
‘It scared the shit out of you,’ I reply with a grin.
He smirks. ‘I’ll admit she took me by surprise. She’s kind of ethereal, isn’t she?’
‘She’s supposed to be.’
‘It must have hurt to create her.’
‘Yeah,’ I say quietly. ‘I could hardly speak to introduce her at my graduate show. My mum was in bits.’
I’m distracted by the glow of a light turning on in an upstairs window.
‘Speaking of my mum, I think she’s awake,’ I whisper, quickly shutting off my phone torch.
‘I should go,’ Finn says.
I walk him to the gate and open it as quietly as I can.
‘See you around?’ he asks over his shoulder.
‘Definitely.’
He turns to face me and hesitates, as though he wants to say more, but then he backs up and walks away. I watch for a moment and then close the gate behind him.
I feel like I’m floating as I go inside via the back door, butmy mum brings me down to earth with a bump. She’s standing in the hallway.
‘Who wasthat?’ she asks.
‘A friend.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Finn.’
‘Finn who?’
‘Mum,’ I snap, before indulging her. ‘His surname is Finnegan. We went to school together.’
‘Danny Finnegan?’ she asks with surprise.
Now I’m the one who’s caught off guard. ‘You know him?’
