regarded as the matriarch of the local artistic community even though her fortunes as a painter and sculptor had fallen dramatically in recent years, had totally failed to recognise my existence. I was actually quite relieved by this since, although I tried not to let on to Carl in case he thought I really was a complete and utter wimp, the bloody woman scared me to death â particularly when she was drunk, which seemed to be most of the time nowadays.
Fenella walked straight up to Carl, ignoring me as usual, and flung her arms round him, possibly to ensure she remained upright. Nonetheless it annoyed me.
âAnd so howâs our new bright young thing,â she bellowed, slurring her words only slightly. Fenella had only one level of speech â full volume.
âFenella, Iâm neither new nor young, Iâm forty years old, Iâve lived in St Ives for six years and, although you and I may think Iâm bright, the rest of the art world is showing no sign of catching on,â said Carl in a tone of exaggerated patience.
Fennella was probably only in her late fifties but had been playing the part of cynical elder for many years, certainly ever since we had moved to Cornwall. She leered at Carl. Maybe it was supposed to be a smile, I really didnât know. She carried with her a strong stench of beer and whisky, and her hair looked as if it could do with a wash. She dyed it a mid-brown colour but not nearly often enough. A grimy yellowish grey displayed itself in a two-inch wedge at the roots. Come to think of it, her face looked as if it could do with a wash too. She wore heavy black eye make-up which had become badly smudged. Her skin was pale and blotchy. I suppose you had to admit it was all a bit of a shame, really, because Fenella still had striking dark-brown eyes and the remains of what must once have been a formidable high-cheeked bone structure. We had seen a sharp deterioration in her looks even in the few years we had been in St Ives.
The local perception was that she was killing herself with drink. She also smoked like a chimney and if one didnât get her before her time it seemed inevitable that the other would.
âYouâre just a lad to me, Carl, sweetheart,â continued Fenella in that deep, throaty voice which was the product of her sixty-fag-a-day habit.
She was, as usual, overplaying her hand â literally as well as metaphorically, as it happened. Her right hand had closed itself around Carlâs left buttock. I watched as her fingers squeezed him.
He winced and removed the offending hand smartly from its target. âIf I did that to you it would be sexual harassment,â he said, lightly but unwisely.
âHarass away, darling,â invited Fenella, as Carl managed to manoeuvre his way past her. âI can hardly wait . . .â
Having lost her support she staggered dangerously and for one lovely moment I thought she was going to fall over. She didnât, of course.
âDonât turn her down for me, Carl,â I whispered in his ear as we hurried along the promenade to the steps.
âD-do me a favour,â muttered Carl. The slight stammer meant that the woman had definitely got to him. Certainly he was no longer amused. I suppose you couldnât blame him. She was a pest.
He took my hand as we jumped from the quite high bottom step on to the beach. The tide was out and the sun had almost dropped from the sky and hovered deeply golden now, glowing the last of its fire just above the horizon, bathing the entire bay in a truly wonderful light. I was a Londoner born and bred but I had grown to feel a sense of belonging in Cornwall greater than anything I had known before. Its past and its present both suited me. I liked to imagine the harbour in the great days of pilchard fishing when the whole town was kept alive by its one industry. The huge shoals of pilchards that used regularly to frequent the north Cornwall coast in the
Fenella walked straight up to Carl, ignoring me as usual, and flung her arms round him, possibly to ensure she remained upright. Nonetheless it annoyed me.
âAnd so howâs our new bright young thing,â she bellowed, slurring her words only slightly. Fenella had only one level of speech â full volume.
âFenella, Iâm neither new nor young, Iâm forty years old, Iâve lived in St Ives for six years and, although you and I may think Iâm bright, the rest of the art world is showing no sign of catching on,â said Carl in a tone of exaggerated patience.
Fennella was probably only in her late fifties but had been playing the part of cynical elder for many years, certainly ever since we had moved to Cornwall. She leered at Carl. Maybe it was supposed to be a smile, I really didnât know. She carried with her a strong stench of beer and whisky, and her hair looked as if it could do with a wash. She dyed it a mid-brown colour but not nearly often enough. A grimy yellowish grey displayed itself in a two-inch wedge at the roots. Come to think of it, her face looked as if it could do with a wash too. She wore heavy black eye make-up which had become badly smudged. Her skin was pale and blotchy. I suppose you had to admit it was all a bit of a shame, really, because Fenella still had striking dark-brown eyes and the remains of what must once have been a formidable high-cheeked bone structure. We had seen a sharp deterioration in her looks even in the few years we had been in St Ives.
The local perception was that she was killing herself with drink. She also smoked like a chimney and if one didnât get her before her time it seemed inevitable that the other would.
âYouâre just a lad to me, Carl, sweetheart,â continued Fenella in that deep, throaty voice which was the product of her sixty-fag-a-day habit.
She was, as usual, overplaying her hand â literally as well as metaphorically, as it happened. Her right hand had closed itself around Carlâs left buttock. I watched as her fingers squeezed him.
He winced and removed the offending hand smartly from its target. âIf I did that to you it would be sexual harassment,â he said, lightly but unwisely.
âHarass away, darling,â invited Fenella, as Carl managed to manoeuvre his way past her. âI can hardly wait . . .â
Having lost her support she staggered dangerously and for one lovely moment I thought she was going to fall over. She didnât, of course.
âDonât turn her down for me, Carl,â I whispered in his ear as we hurried along the promenade to the steps.
âD-do me a favour,â muttered Carl. The slight stammer meant that the woman had definitely got to him. Certainly he was no longer amused. I suppose you couldnât blame him. She was a pest.
He took my hand as we jumped from the quite high bottom step on to the beach. The tide was out and the sun had almost dropped from the sky and hovered deeply golden now, glowing the last of its fire just above the horizon, bathing the entire bay in a truly wonderful light. I was a Londoner born and bred but I had grown to feel a sense of belonging in Cornwall greater than anything I had known before. Its past and its present both suited me. I liked to imagine the harbour in the great days of pilchard fishing when the whole town was kept alive by its one industry. The huge shoals of pilchards that used regularly to frequent the north Cornwall coast in the
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