‘I’d rather check they’ve all arrived, if you don’t mind.’ She eyed his jaunty red beret and the one strap on his dungarees left artfully undone. Was he yet another Lullbury Bay character?
‘Completely understand.’ He winked. ‘You want to check your babies got here safely. This way.’ He opened a door off the corridor and led her into an enormous room.
It was beyond all preconceptions Callie had formed from the tatty outside. ‘This is glorious,’ she breathed, gazing around. Double height, the room was painted white. Strong summerlight streamed in through huge windows at one end, and the room was further lit by roof windows. It was the perfect backdrop for art. She was envious; her display space at school possessed nothing as professional.
‘We’re pleased with how it’s turned out.’ Dave gave her a mischievous look. ‘I’d rather sacrifice a few bust tyres in the car park and spend the money where it’s really needed. After you’ve checked on your paintings, I’ll show you the rest of the place.’
Callie spotted her work, already hung, dominating one wall.
‘We’ve got your stuff up. As they were so big we thought it best to give you a wall to yourself.’ He gestured to the vast empty space in the middle of the room. ‘We’ll have display stands with other entries here but haven’t sorted that yet. Wanted to get yours up out of harm’s way. Looks the bizz, don’t it?’
A breath caught in Callie’s throat. On ridiculously shaky legs she made her way to stand in front of her artwork. The competition had been a series of steps racing fast out of her comfort zone. From making time for herself to paint, to having the confidence to enter and then shipping her precious paintings off, via a courier, to an unknown destination.
She gazed up at her three paintings, dashing away a quick tear. Pride swelled. They were the result of all those snatched Sundays and evenings. Of putting herself first for once. She’d spent the last twenty odd years putting the needs of the young people she taught, and of Frida, first. It had been a huge act of courage, maybe defiance, to do this. She was grateful to see the three large canvasses, inspired by the patterns and colours of lavender and Japanese anemone, had been hung with care.
A small photograph of herself (how she and Frida had sweated over creating the exact right image!) with a short biography was placed near the largest.
‘I reckons you got a good chance of being placed, my lovely,’ Dave said, interrupting her reverie. ‘I’m not usually an abstractman but I dig these. Delicate, ethereal, love the way you’ve compressed paper into them to give texture.’
‘Thank you. I make the paper myself. I incorporate flowers from the garden.’
He nodded. ‘I can see. Highly feminine and influenced by natural colours. They’re superb. But commercial too. The sort of thing people want to buy and live with.’
Callie laughed. The relief that her work had arrived in one piece and was displayed so beautifully made her giddy. ‘Wish you were judging.’
He snatched off his beret and scrubbed his hand over his greying head. ‘Me too. I had a hand in guiding the school board committee to choose what we included but that was it. Adya Blanca and a panel of three will make the final decisions. And just as well, girl. Left to the committee we’d have wall to wall Constable landscape rip-offs. Good to see work in mixed media and I really rate your stuff. Seen enough? Want to have a look-see at the rest of the place?’
Callie nodded eagerly. ‘Could I take a few photos first?’
‘No probs. Knock yourself out.’ He gave her a knowing look. ‘Never gets old, does it? Seeing your hard work on a wall for all to set eyes on.’
He waited patiently while she took a few photos on her phone and then escorted her out. Callie gave one lingering glance over her shoulder. The next time she’d be in here would be for the awards presentation. Trying not to get her hopes up, she followed Dave.
He showed her the tutorial rooms, several large art studios, a pottery room complete with kiln – all impressive – and finally the staffroom. ‘Sit yourself down, my lovely,’ he said, throwing his beret onto the large circular table in the middle of the room. ‘I’ll make a brew. Need an excuse to take a break. Been a hecticmorning.’ He pulled a face. ‘Paperwork. Wrangling money out of folk isn’t my strength.’
Callie pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Is that how the school is funded?’ She took in her surroundings while Dave bustled about, making tea. It was a utilitarian space, white-painted, with a small kitchen area along one wall and dominated by an enormous corkboard. It displayed notices familiar from every staffroom she’d ever been in: a milk buying rota, a reminder to wash up, a pizza takeaway menu. She felt even more at home.
Dave nodded. ‘Grants mostly. One from Dorset Council, smaller one from the town council who are very supportive.’ He shrugged, filling the kettle. ‘But you know what it’s like. Everyone’s strapped for cash, and the first casualty is always the arts.’ He gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘If only they could see the good it does. My graffiti art classes are always popular, and the pottery evening class has a waiting list.’
‘I met some boys on the way here. Had to ask them for directions. I got a bit lost. They’d not long done the graffiti class. They’d loved it. Wish some of my students were half so enthusiastic.’
‘Well, there you go, see. Kids like that need encouragement. I mean, a painting class isn’t going to change their world but it’s something.’
‘It’severything.I’m a teacher, don’t forget. I believe in the power of education, otherwise I’d find myself an easier way of making a living.’ She smiled warmly at Dave. He was a nice man with his heart very much in the right place.
He laughed. ‘Ain’t that the truth. We’re not just about education, here, though. We use the big space for town events, workshops for children which we charge for and the Christmas Craft Fayre. We’ve just begun to charge sellers per table. Didn’t want to as it’ll put off some craftspeople, but it’ll be another revenue source.’ He snorted. ‘Income stream they calls it.’Reaching into a cupboard for mugs and a packet of digestives, he added, ‘I wanted to spruce up the outside, first impressions and all that, but put security lights in instead. Some of the artists who rent space here have expensive kit, especially my glass guy, Jago.’
He poured boiling water onto teabags and brought them over to the table. Slumping down, he added gloomily, ‘And, to make matters even more complicated, my fine arts tutor has got herself preggers, which is fine and dandy and I couldn’t be happier for her, but it means she’ll leave at Christmas. Not coming back. Wants to spend the time with the baby. You can see her point.’ He dunked the teabags unceremoniously and put them on a saucer. ‘Milk?’
‘Thanks.’
Getting up again, he went to the fridge. ‘Should be a pint in here. Ah!’ Bringing it back he slammed the carton down. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to trot out my woes. Biscuit?’
Callie shook her head. ‘Have you thought of sponsorship?’
‘What, from big business, like?’
‘Yes.’
