Page 24 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Eighteen

I read on, oblivious to the darkness smothering everything outside and the time slipping by.

The journals mentioned my parents, my grandpa, me and her artwork.

The first few notebooks, from what I could make out, covered the last twenty years. Beside some other entries were random sketches and little drawings: thistles, small fishing boats, daisies and her beloved butterflies.

But what jumped out at me from the pages again and again, was the edge of disappointment at not having tried to have her work displayed; or more to the point, taking a risk and putting her paintings out there.

I continued to read.

13 September 1999

I’ve finally finished my sunflower and gardening tools painting. I’m pleased with it. A tiny part of me even suggested it might be good enough to exhibit but I’m not deluding myself. I’m not prepared to take the risk and be rejected. I’ve had enough of that feeling.

Hmmm. Rejection. Was she referring to Reece there?

Settling back in the desk chair, with Bronte snoring by my feet and the glimpse of the lighthouse beam drizzling through the blinds, I returned my attention back to Grandma’s journals. The years fell away as I turned the pages.

There were some days when she hadn’t written anything. Others were more mundane. Some consisted of a couple of sentences, whilst in other entries she expressed her frustration at not being more ambitious or was far too hard on herself.

Bloody shadows are all wrong , she’d grumbled on 3January 1982. I don’t know what I’m doing with this damned piece!

I eased over a few more pages, my grandmother’s handwriting and the faint scent of fusty vanilla emanating from the paper.

I put the notebook I was holding down on the desk and picked up another. This journal appeared older than the others. The pages were much more yellowed and it had a faded, suede, baby pink cover. Crikey! How many were there?! I’d no idea Grandma Tilda had been such a prolific journaler.

I opened it up. The first entry was 10 June 1963.

I love Reece so much, but I’m not sure it’s enough.

His family disapprove of me. No matter what I do or what I say, they treat me like I’m a nobody.

I can see it in their eyes. They think I’m beneath him.

I keep mentioning it to Reece, but he says they just haven’t got to know me properly yet and just brushes it off.

He insists that once they do, they’ll fall in love with me like he has. I won’t hold my breath!

Even though Reece had already alluded to this, anger lit up inside of me. My grandmother had been the most loving and compassionate woman. She was kind and considerate. How dare Reece’s jumped-up family be so judgemental?

I turned over the next few pages, my heart going out to my grandmother. It must’ve been awful for her.

There were details of dates that she and Reece had been on.

Descriptions of the music they loved at a dance hall in Edinburgh; her saying how much Reece loved The Four Seasons and The Ronettes.

My grandmother had written how she’d watched the movie Cleopatra in the cinema with Reece, and that he had teased her that the next choice of film they went to see would be The Great Escape .

Then there were more frustrated comments about her art and also annoyance at her job in a picture framers in Edinburgh.

I know some of my paintings aren’t as good as the ones we sell in here, but others are.

I skipped over a few more entries until I arrived at Christmas Eve 1963.

Reece proposed to me tonight– and I said yes!

We were admiring the huge Norwegian Christmas tree just off Princes Street, when he suddenly dropped down onto one knee.

Stupid me, for one moment, I thought he was tying his shoelaces, but then he plucked this small, glossy box from out of his coat pocket.

I opened it up and there was the most gorgeous yellow diamond ring.

I’m so, so happy! I honestly could cry right now. I did when he proposed. But his parents keep looming in my head. I know they aren’t going to be at all pleased about this. Reece still insists I’ll win them over, but why should I have to? I’m a good person and I love their son deeply.

I lowered the journal, a mixture of fury and sadness battling it out inside of me on behalf of my grandma. You could sense her fear and apprehension underneath her happiness and delight at her engagement to Reece.

I looked over several more entries and then stopped. Under the date 16 April 1964 was scribbled just a few, frantic sentences.

It’s over. Reece has called off the engagement. I love him so, so much but it’s not enough. I’m not enough. I knew I wouldn’t be. I’m not enough for him, as it turns out, and certainly not enough for his parents.

I shook my head.

Outside, the stars blinked over the bay and the lighthouse was beaming its protective eye across the boats it was guiding in the rough swell.

The journal had no more entries for a long time after that last one, just more random sketches of pieces of fruit and birds.

In fact, there were no more diary entries for another six months, until 30 October 1964.

The thought of Reece still hurts but perhaps, on reflection, he did the right thing by ending our engagement. His parents would never have allowed us to be happy anyway.

I’m trying to move on. It’s still difficult. I loved him more than life itself. But I’ll get there. I have to.

I’ll get there. I have to.

I traced one finger over these particular words. I just wished I could believe them for myself.

More dates were missing– no more new entries for ten days, until 10 November. Then my grandmother had written.

Whilst I was working in the shop today, a young man came in, asking about having a picture framed for his grandfather for his birthday.

The picture was a painting of the older man in his younger years whilst serving in the army. Whoever had painted it had captured a determined, steely spark in his eyes.

Anyway, the young gent kept staring at me, going red and smiling.

He was attractive in a kind, boyish sort of way. When Ms Townsend disappeared into the back office and I’d taken the measurements of his picture and processed his order, he thanked me for my help and said his name was Howard Michaels.

I let out a delighted, stunned little gasp that made Bronte jerk her head up to look at me.

My grandpa. That was the day she’d met him. The day she’d recounted again and again over the years, describing him blushing furiously across the counter and smiling at her. I rubbed at my eyes. They were beginning to feel gritty. I’d done far more sorting and reading than I’d intended.

Weariness was tugging at my bones. Even Bronte let out a very unladylike yawn, as she rested by my feet.

But I couldn’t resist. I decided to push on with reading just a few more pages, before calling it a night.

Details of their subsequent dates– meeting for coffee; going dancing and ten-pin bowling; strolling through Princes Street Gardens; catching a concert by The Hollies– followed. My grandmother’s happiness at their blossoming romance wafted from the pages.

Howard is trying to encourage me to display my work or sell it.

He says I have great talent. But then he would, wouldn’t he?

I’ve had comments like that before. I’m happy for the first time in a long time and I’m not prepared to risk that.

Perhaps I’m not meant to have my work seen by a lot of people.

Maybe my painting is just meant to give me happiness and contentment– which it does.

So, so much. Perhaps I’m not as talented as I think I am, or those around me believe me to be.

Still, I do dream about having an exhibition of my work, people in the arts admiring my brush strokes and sketching abilities, appreciating what I’m trying to do.

Art makes me feel alive, and thinking that my paintings could make other people feel the emotion I do is almost too wonderful to imagine.

I know my darling Howard means well, but for me to take that further step and try to get my paintings exhibited somewhere… well, I just can’t. I’ll hold that dream in my heart though. Always.

Fascinated, I flicked through more entries: my grandparents’ meeting, falling in love, marrying and then eventually leaving Edinburgh to move to Rowan Bay.

31 May 1985

Leaving Edinburgh behind was difficult, but both Howard and I have decided we wanted a change of scene and Rowan Bay is certainly that!

Tessa has gone travelling with a few friends in Europe, before she begins her English degree at the University of York, so it seemed like the perfect time to start a new chapter.

Rowan Bay is breathtaking, with the majestic waves, rippling cliff faces and even a lighthouse just across from our cottage and up on the opposite cliff! It will certainly be an inspirational setting for my art.

The lighthouse keeper is a flirty, funny gent about the same age as Howard and me, called Barclay Hogan. He’s promising to lead Howard astray by taking him on a tour of some of the local hostelries. I don’t think my dear Howard will take much persuading!

The locals, just like Barclay, seem welcoming and friendly. Or at least, most of them are…

I frowned. I wonder what Grandma meant by that? I resumed reading.

There’s even an art gallery here, called the Lumiere Gallery, which I’ve heard so many wonderful things about.

Apparently, almost every famous Scottish artist you can think of has had paintings exhibited there at one time or another.

Oh, to have a piece of my own work hanging on its famed walls! What a dream that would be.

Anyway, it’s been another busy chaotic day, unpacking more boxes after we arrived earlier in the week.

I hope to go and check out more of Rowan Bay and its inhabitants tomorrow.

I smiled fondly at Grandma’s dancing handwriting and her mention of meeting Barclay for the first time. I turned over the next page.

3 June 1985

I suppose life never goes truly smoothly all the time.

Some people don’t seem to need much of an excuse to take against you.

I dared to ask about the possibility of joining The Rowan Bay Artists’ Society and almost had my nose taken off.

I was told in no uncertain terms that it was full to capacity at the moment and couldn’t accommodate anyone else.

I find that very hard to believe, for a town this size. Talk about not very encouraging!

Oh well. I suppose it’s to be expected to come across folks who you don’t like as much as others.

I frowned. Who was this person who my grandma seemingly had issues with? She’d never mentioned anyone like that before. Grandma Tilda had rubbed along fine with most people throughout her life, so for her to refer to it wasn’t like her.

Oh well. Probably some old local gossip who my grandma had taken exception to.

* * *

That night, I lay in bed thinking, with the water rolling under the chipped stars and the lighthouse glancing across the top of the waves.

My grandmother had been so talented and yet she’d stifled her own ambition.

She’d harboured regret, as it turned out, and doubted her own capabilities so much she’d refused to even try to release her artwork into the world.

I had no idea she’d been engaged to Reece and also hadn’t known that, underneath it all, she’d wanted to try and get her artwork noticed, despite her insistence over the years to the contrary.

I believed Reece’s parents had a part to play in this.

They’d crushed her confidence. They’d made her think she wasn’t worthy.

As I continued to lie there, huddled under my beige and cream duvet for warmth, my mind turned to the stack of paintings in the art studio.

They deserved to be seen. They were sitting there, propped up against one another, only glimpsing the light of day if I hitched the studio blind up. Grandma Tilda’s talents should be appreciated. But how?

After a few more moments of frustrated thoughts, I finally fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

I woke up the following morning, with my grandma’s melancholic words still whirling around my head. Perhaps I’m not as talented as I think I am.

I remembered her as a stoic woman, who could be a tigress when she needed to be, especially where her family were concerned.

And she was still all those things to me.

But after seeing her journals and digesting her innermost hurt and feelings, I realised there was a fallibility to her, underneath the perpetual smile and joviality.

Reece breaking off their engagement had affected her. It had made her question her own value and that had stayed with her for years.

Despite longing to make it as a serious artist, she had never felt able to reach those heights.

And Mum and I had no idea she’d been carrying this weight around with her. She’d never mentioned her dreams to us. Not once. She just kept them locked up inside herself, allowing them to slumber away and ignoring them whenever they happened to stir and threaten to wake up.

Grandma Tilda was gone. She wasn’t coming back.

But her legacy of artwork was still here.

I pushed myself upright in bed, suddenly oblivious to the chilly November temperature. The central heating had gone off, and through the gap in my bedroom curtains I could see shreds of ominous grey clouds scudding across the sky.

My mind swirled, taking my thoughts down the hallway to Grandma’s studio.

Could I help achieve my late grandmother’s dream? Even though she was no longer here, could I fulfil something for her?

I shoved off the bedcovers and tugged on my towelling dressing gown from where it was draped over the chair in the corner.

I’d call Reece first and discuss my idea with him.

He might think it was a silly proposal, but there was only one way to find out.