Page 5 of Suddenly Beck

I watch Ursula bound ahead of me enthusiastically, climbing the craggy incline winding up to the top of the small bluff and letting out a series of barks, and I’m almost certain she’s accusing me of being too slow. I glance up, and a small smile of contentment tugs at my lips as I see my house.

It’s a faded silvery blue two storey sea cottage with a slate tiled roof and slightly wonky chimney. It’s old and a bit shabby with a kind of rugged beauty to it that I love. I bought it a couple of years ago, and I still get a little thrill every time I see it standing on the bluff overlooking the bay.

I climb the incline slowly, following my dog up to the top of the bluff, pausing for a moment to watch the turbulent sea curving around the headland. My stomach clenches at the sight of the pounding surf, and once again, my mind snaps back to the pretty young man. I find myself wondering if he did head up to the B&B to see Molly or if he decided to just move on.

He’s a bit of an enigma. His clothes may have been plain and casual, but they weren’t exactly cheap and looked brand new, his accent a little posh. In fact, he didn’t seem anything like a drifter. He was clean shaven, and his hair neatly cut. He looked a little too… well-kept, and yet, he’d rocked up in our quiet little town with nothing more than a backpack, not a small one either. It was the kind you could pack up your entire life in.

But it wasn’t just his clothes that were a bit of a contradiction, it was him. One moment he was sassy and sarcastic and the next his cheeks would flush with uncertainty. It was almost like there was another person lurking beneath the surface waiting to break free, and for a second, I’d caught a glimpse, and it fascinated me.

Ursula’s impatient bark shakes me from my thoughts, and I head for the cottage. The shrubs either side of the gate are overgrown, and as I shove at the low gate, it sticks firmly, the wood swollen from days of late spring rain. Jesus, I can’t wait for summer, I want to feel the warmth on my skin and see the sunlight glittering off the deep blue waves.

Shaking my head, I vault easily over the gate and make a mental note to fix it and trim the hedge at the first break in the weather, but even as the thought occurs to me, I know I’ll forget as soon as I’m inside.

Letting myself in, I drop my shoes unceremoniously on the floor by the door and hang up my wet jacket, despite the fact it’s still covered in sand, knowing it’ll dust off easy enough once it’s dry. If there’s one thing you get used to growing up in the bay, it’s sand on everything. Honestly, I barely even notice it anymore.

Heading toward the kitchen and leaving sodden footprints across the flagstone floor, I pad contemplatively through to the older part of the house. When I bought the place, I replaced the windows, repaired the roof, and shored up any structural issues, but I’ve yet to bother decorating any of the rooms. They’re all in varying degrees of cracked paint and peeling floral wallpaper courtesy of the previous owners. The bathroom is a vomit inducing shade of avocado and the kitchen is an unsightly mismatch of broken cupboard doors, drawer’s half off their runners and a very unappealing beige Formica work surface, which was probably installed back in the seventies.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this place, and I know it might seem like I’m neglecting it on purpose, but I’m really not. They’re all things I know I’ll get to eventually, I’ve just had other priorities.

I open the door to the mud room, which doubles as a laundry. Stripping off my filthy socks, wet jeans and dirty t-shirt, I stuff them unceremoniously into the washer, and after a second of internal debate, I lose the boxers too. Rummaging in the dryer, I yank out a pair of sweatpants and pull them on sans underwear, and grabbing a clean towel, I scrub my damp hair. Flicking off the light, I exit the room forgetting to switch the washer on, an idea already beginning to form in my mind.

I absently scoop up a tin of dog food and empty it into Ursula’s bowl, checking to make sure she has enough water and then head into the new extension I’d had built onto the side of the cottage, and as soon as I step inside, the scent of paints and linseed oil mingled with a dozen other familiar scents immediately relaxes me.

This is my space, my pride and joy. I’ve sunk every penny I have into it; the massive windows stretch from floor to ceiling and dominate one whole wall giving an unparalleled view of the ocean stretching for miles in either direction. Two big skylights let in the natural light filling the room on bright sunny days and at night shrouding me with starlight.

A huge moss-green sofa hugs another wall, deeply cushioned, and so comfortable I can sink into it and not come up for days. In fact, more often than not, it doubles as my bed when I don’t make it up the stairs to my room. Knowing I’d be sleeping on it, I made sure I picked something descent, but I consider it a necessity. It’s also my only faint concession to any kind of interior design. The rest of the room is devoted entirely to my art. There are dozens of shelving racks filled with supplies, brushes and paints. There’s a huge easel and stacks of canvases against every wall, some blank, some not and sketchbooks slung over every available surface. I love working in several different mediums, but I’m a very tactile artist, painting and sketching aren’t my primary passion. I’m first and foremost, a sculptor. I love the feel of it taking shape beneath my fingers. I love the scent and texture of the clay, but what I love most of all is casting my pieces in bronze.

Toward the back of the studio is a large worktable and lining the back wall, row upon row of shelving housing containers of clay, wax, liquid rubber, and various other items. Beside the racking is another doorway, this one leads to a smaller room that houses a gas fired crucible furnace and my tools.

Working in clay is only the first step to creating a bronze and is why I’ve sunk every penny I’ve earned over the last few years into building this space for me to work in. Although it costs a small fortune to fuel the furnace, I’ve been lucky that I’ve done really well with the pieces I’ve sold so far.

I can easily accommodate small and medium size pieces in the set up I’ve got. If I want to do something larger, I use a foundry further inland, but that doesn’t happen often. I actually prefer smaller and more intricate art. The kind where the longer you stare at it, the more secret details it reveals, and slowly, I’m beginning to make a name for myself in the art world.

Usually, I’d sketch out ideas and designs for a new piece before I get started, but not today. I can feel the idea burning in the back of my mind insistently, and I know I won’t find any peace until I give in. I’m already preoccupied and impatient, my fingers restless to feel the damp press of the clay.

I toss the towel onto the sofa as I pass by and grab a hairband which is resting on top of one of my sketchbooks. Raking my hands through my damp hair, I wind it into a messy top knot and head over to the worktable. By the time I’ve retrieved my tools and clay, the picture is almost fully formed in my mind. The scent of the clay is ripe and earthy, and the only sound in the room is my quiet breath and the light drumming of the rain against the sky light.

Slowly, I sink into the headspace where nothing and no one else exists except the feel and texture of the clay beneath my fingers. Gradually, the shadows in the room begin to lengthen, the hours ticking by unnoticed. I barely even register the growling of my stomach as I focus on the piece taking shape, and when I finally surface, it’s to find myself staring down at a beautiful male face tilted up to the sky as if bathed in raindrops.

Chapter Three

Nat

Welcome to Ms Molly’s home away from home for the discerning gentleman traveller… PS beware the cougar, shebitesnibbles.

I find myself staring up at the white building at the top of the steep hill, situated rather pleasantly on the corner of a curving road. Across the street, I spot the bus driver from earlier as he exits the cafe and heads toward the parked bus.

I hesitate, glancing first at the quaint little B&B and then back to the bus, indecision warring and churning in my belly. I hear the growl of the engine and turn to look as the bus pulls away. For a moment, it seems that the choice has been taken out of my hands, but suddenly, the bus breaks hard beside me, hissing loudly as the doors open.

‘You coming then, lad?’ the driver calls out, eyeing my drenched clothes and dishevelled appearance surreptitiously and obviously wondering what on earth I’d been doing for the past hour.

I hesitate again, torn as I glance at the pretty white building. I think back to moments ago when I’d almost accidentally drowned myself. It’s clear that I’m patently bad at making decisions or rather, making good decisions I should say.

I should get on the damn bus, it’s the sensible thing to do. I can head back to Truro and from there to Penzance, which is a lot larger and probably more my speed. A place where I can get lost in the bustle of tourists, just another face in the crowd, not some tiny isolated coastal town which feels entirely too quiet.

I open my mouth to reply, almost certain I’m heading back to Truro, but when the words tumble out, I surprise myself. ‘Actually, I think I’m going to stay, but thanks anyway.’

The driver nods with a small friendly smile. ‘Good luck, lad.’ He eyes my soaking wet clothes and wildly windswept hair once more. ‘You look like you’re going to need it.’