Page 22 of The Art of Loving You

Jack dodged the question. His parents had divorced a few years ago and they had both moved to opposite ends of the country, as far away from each other as possible, leaving Jack in the middle, bouncing between them. They didn’t understand Jack, nor did they try to. An artist wasn’t a credible career in their disapproving eyes; they had wanted him to be a lawyer, a doctor, anything but a creative. Jack hadn’t told them about his mugging – I don’t know if he was afraid they wouldn’t come, or afraid they would.

‘It’s not like the house is habitable for them to stay in yet. I want them to see it when it’s finished,’ Jack told Mum.

In truth, his parents would be horrified at the enormity of the project we had taken on. ‘Pipe dreams’ was a phrase bandied around whenever Jack had tried to share his plans with them. He genuinely wanted to help the local kids with this centre but deep down he also longed to make his parents proud too.

‘But still … you could havedied.’ Mum’s eyes widened dramatically.

‘I’ll make some drinks.’

It was a relief to escape into the kitchen for a few minutes leaving Jack to deal with my mother. He didn’t mind her. He was our bridge, the structure holding us together.

Balancing a tray laden with mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits I walked as slowly as possible down the hall.

‘I would have come to see you in hospital, of course, if Libby had told me,’ Mum was saying. ‘Not that they make it easy for visitors. Did I tell you that Alan Watkins – he’s the one that likes an apple Danish – visited his neighbour after he’d had his gall bladder removed and his car was clamped in the car park. Alan couldn’t afford to get it released and now …’

I gritted my teeth.

Jack stood as I entered the room. He winced, his hand seeking out his wound.

‘It’s okay.’ I set the tray down on the coffee table and gestured to him to sit. ‘Mum.’ I passed her a mug. As I sat down I sneezed.

‘Still not feeling well?’ Mum asked. ‘Mary Phillips, you know Mary – six chocolate eclairs at a time that she swears aren’t all for her, but we know she lives alone – anyway, she caught a cold and sneezed so hard the blood vessels in her eye burst—’

‘How’s Mabel?’ Jack changed the subject.

Mabel Mackay was Mum’s neighbour. She was nearing eighty-three and lived independently, partly because she had no family telling her she shouldn’t. Since she’d had her hip replaced she hadn’t been quite the same and Mum took her some dinner every day.There was a kindness in Mum, I could see that, it was just that sometimes, selfishly, I longed for that kindness to be centred around me.

‘She’s okay. Knitting bootees; Shona Wilkens across the road is going to become a grandma. Can you imagine?’ She looked hopefully between me and Jack. Perhaps she’ll be pleased with Alice’s news. ‘Shona said—’

‘So, Caroline.’ Jack put a calming hand on my knee. ‘What do you think of the house?’

My shoulders rose with tension. This was the part where she would tell us that one of the customers had a friend who had bought an old house and there was an unexploded bomb or something in the garden. But she surprised me.

‘What you’re planning is really remarkable. I know what it’s like to be a single mother raising children and worrying what they’re up to when you’re out working. If there had been a place like this they could come to, somewhere they could have had a little holiday when I couldn’t afford to take them away, it would have made so much difference.’

‘Mum, that’s lovely.’

‘You’re both very brave for trying to make a difference.’ I basked under the warmth of her unexpected praise. ‘And if you fail, you mustn’t be too hard on yourselves. Most new businesses do. Jenny Ward – her that brought the bread back because the slices weren’t the same width – her son had a start-up and lost all his money and now he lives in a caravan.’ And there it was. Give with one hand and take away with the other, but for once I let it pass over me, exchanging a look of amusement with Jack.

‘But it’s not just you two is it?’ Mum asked. ‘There’s Faith.’

‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘But she’s not putting any money into the project.Some of that will come from Sid and we’ve secured three-year funding from the Lottery as well as some other, smaller, bursaries for both art projects and young people. But Faith’s experience is really valuable. She’ll be great at running workshops and after-school classes as well as helping out with the retreat side of things. That’s the part we’ve secured most of the funding for. Giving underprivileged kids the chance to experience something new.’

‘And you’ll be teaching photography, Libby?’ Mum turned her attention to me.

‘Not straight away. I’ll be involved of course, but we’ll need my income at first. Wedding season starts soon and I’m booked up until the autumn.’

‘That’s not all.’ Jack grinned at me. ‘Tell her your news.’

I looked at my lap. I hadn’t wanted to tell Mum about the exhibition next year. Sometimes she brushed things off and left me feeling hurt – a child flourishing an A* report card, waiting for praise, being ignored or compared to the children of people I had never met.

‘There’s this thing called The Hawley Foundation Prize.’ I hadn’t expected Mum to remember, but she did.

‘The one that keeps turning you down?’

‘Umm. Yes. I’ve been invited to take part next year.’

‘That’s wonderful, Libby.’

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