L.S. Lowry 1887–1976
‘Naïve’ painter of scenes of industrial working life. In later life painted seascapes. Contrast Lowry’s industrial images to his later, less well-known paintings. Discussion point: do we change as we age?
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
She threw open the bedroom door to be faced with Frida’s rigid back. Her daughter was sorting through some T-shirts.
Scowling, Frida twisted round. ‘You could at least knock.’
‘Can I remind you this is my bedroom?’
‘Well, if you shacked up with Mr Silver Fox we’d all be happier. And have a lot more room.’
Callie perched on the edge of the bed, anger firing through her. ‘I will ignore that comment,’ she said tightly, ‘seeing as you’re supposed to be in Ibiza and I’m supposed to be here enjoying some me-time.’
Frida sloped over to the chair in the window and sank onto it. She stared out at the view. ‘From what I can see, you havingsome time to chill doesn’t suit. You’re more worked up here than at home.’
‘I was having a lovely time–’
‘Until I arrived and spoiled everything.’ Frida huffed and crossed her arms.
Callie stared at her daughter. What was going on with her? ‘To be honest, to be really honest with you, Frida, yes I was. I was painting, relaxing, getting to know Johnny.’
‘Fine. I’ll move out then and find a room.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, that’s not what I meant. And you won’t find anywhere, anyway. It’s coming up to the August Bank Holiday. The town’s rammed. It’s why Johnny and I ended up sharing in the first place. Use your brain, Frida, you’ve got a good one.’
Her daughter glared, bottom lip jutting out. ‘Which is why I want to leave Price’s and go back to uni!’
Callie took several deep breaths. This needed sorting out. ‘And I’m all for that, I really am,’ she said with deliberate calm. ‘In theory. But I want you to think it through. Consider your options. Not rush into anything.’
‘I haven’t got the luxury of time. I’ll miss the clearing window.’
‘In which case, apply next year.’
‘But I don’t want to wait a whole year. I want to do it now. Now I’ve made my mind up.’
‘Frida, can’t you see my point of view? This is all very sudden. Where’s this idea come from? You’ve never mentioned anything about journalism before.’
‘I’ve been thinking about doing something with my writing for ages.’ She glanced up at her mother from under dark lashes. ‘You know I liked that creative writing course I did.’
‘Writing short stories and poetry is very different to journalism,’ Callie said, crisply. ‘And how are you going to fund it?’
Frida threw up her hands. ‘It all comes back to money, doesn’t it? It’s always money, money, money.’
‘Money’s pretty important,’ Callie said, struggling to rein in her temper again. ‘Without it you’d not have a roof over your head, nor food on the table.’
‘But you can manage without a lot of it.’
‘Try paying a mortgage on nothing.’
Frida picked at a thread in her expensive jeans. ‘Tracey travelled the world picking up jobs here and there and she managed fine.’
‘And is working in a seaside café, renting somewhere temporary to live. What’s she going to do when she’s older and picking up casual jobs isn’t so easy?’
‘But she’s happynow.’ Frida leaned forward, her hair swinging. ‘Look at you, Mum. You work all the hours you can and does it make you happy?’
Callie was struck silent. Her daughter’s words were too close to her own thoughts of late but the ingratitude smarted. ‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ she snapped. ‘You’ve had everything you wanted all your life because I sacrificed my desires and wishes to provide it.’
