Where We Meet
Meetings are held on alternate Thursdays at 7.45 p.m.Turner Room
Harrow Arts Centre
Uxbridge Road
Hatch End
Middlesex
HA5 4EA
Map
Journey Planner
The Gate Keeper
“Hello” said the man at the gate, “How did you get here”?“I don’t know” I replied. “The last thing I remember I was walking down a railway track with this beautiful woman. She was very serene and quiet. She had soft curves in all the right places and a lovely warm smile but I was afraid to look at her”.
“Why was that?” asked the gatekeeper.
“She had this knowing look about her. When she looked into my eyes, it felt she could see right through me, as if I was invisible. I knew she knew what I was thinking. It was a bit scary”.
“You should have run away,” said the man still holding the Iron Gate ajar with his feet enveloped in great white boots. “Women are nothing but trouble, especially those who think they know you”.
“I couldn’t” I replied. “She was holding my hand so firmly and she seemed so familiar. I felt a compulsion to stay until she wanted me to go forward.
Anyhow, there was nowhere to go; we were in the wilderness, just the two of us. The only thing in sight was this straight railway line that went purposefully on and on.
We were walking along it, her on the left and me on the right track. We didn’t talk, there didn’t appear to be any need, we just held hands and felt in perfect harmony. I remember it was peaceful and wildly exciting at the same time.
We walked on into the unknown for a long time, many years in fact. There were times when I was wondering if I could or indeed should go on. I was getting a little tired you see and so weary but my doubt soon melted away when I looked at her from the corner of my eye and I saw her skipping like a child, waving her free arm in the air, laughing. Sometimes she would almost topple and regain her balance by swaying from side to side like a high wire walker. On these occasions she would tighten her grip on my hand for support and I would think to myself, why would I want to let go of such a magical experience?”
“Because matey” said the gatekeeper sternly “we were waiting for you. Even the welcome party has been on standby for ages. We were expecting you much, much sooner. The others couldn’t wait any longer they all went home. I am only here because it is my turn to be on night duty.”
“Shall I tell you something” he continued. “When you applied for admission, almost six or was it eight years ago, your wife told us you only ever did what you wanted and when you wanted. Well you can turn round now and go back to your love on the railway line and let me go back to bed”.
“I can’t do that,” I said feeling rather lost “I don’t know my way back. Anyway you don’t understand, I couldn’t let go until she was ready, I just couldn’t, she needed me”.
“Women” chuckled the gatekeeper as from experience. “They are never ready and they always need you when they want something. They take ages to make up their mind about everything, and then they want it right there and then.
What makes you so sure that this half child half woman, skipping on railway lines of all places, why can’t she use the playground like normal people, is ready to let you go? In my experience once a woman gets her claws into you, they have you for good. Has she got another fellow?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said I rather impatiently wanting to get on with my story. “You see the track I was walking on came to an abrupt end and there was nothing beyond, just total blackness. Her track on the other hand continued in a slight curve to the left, away from the straight and narrow we had traveled together for so long. We didn’t know where it lead because after only a short distance it disappeared, engulfed by the sunny puffy clouds on the horizon.
We were both stunned, and we didn’t know what to do. There was no way I could cross over to her track – I tried but there was a force keeping us firmly apart.”
“Oh man, what did you do? blurted the gatekeeper, “the suspense is killing me”.
“We just stood there rooted to the ground, didn’t move a step. We desperately held on to each other’s hand. It felt as if we were holding on for dear life.”
“Well of course it did, you were holding on to your life. But what did she do?” asked the gatekeeper as he enlarged the opening in the gateway.
“She started crying” I replied.
“They all do that” he retorted.
“No I mean sobbing, howling. I thought she would wake the dead. She dug her fingernails in my hand; look, my palm is still bleeding, and just howled.
While I watched her cry I resigned myself that there was nowhere for me to go, I have literally come to the end of the line. To tell you the truth I was rather glad of it, I was ready to give up, I was so tired.
Finally, she turned those big brown eyes towards me as if she was asking for permission to leave me. “Go on” I said, “Take it, take your chance and see what happens, I will stay here and watch you go”.
“You are sure that’s what you want”? She asked. “Yes”. I tried to reassure her. “It is time for me to find some place where I can lie down and sleep for ever”.
“Was she satisfied with that?” the gatekeeper asked in an inquisitive tone.
“Yes, she seemed to be. She became very calm and radiated an inner glow. Slowly, very, very slowly she released my hand. I could see her pain in doing so and kept thinking, oh no she will grab me back again. But she didn’t, instead she appeared contented and at peace after all the crying.
I watched her turn away and take her first step into the unknown. I waited for her to stumble but after a few hesitant steps, she lifted her head up high and followed the track with confidence”.
“Did she ever look back to see what you were doing?” interrupted the gatekeeper again
“She didn’t have to; she always knew what I was going to do before I did. I stepped into the darkness at the end of my railway track and here I am. Now all I need is a place where I can rest my weary body.”
“At least you are all in one piece, if you don’t mind me saying. Some people who come to us are not, well how shall I put it, not in such good shape” said the Gatekeeper reassuringly whilst fiddling with the gate trying to open it wide enough to let me through.
“You had better come in” he beckoned and closed the Iron Gate behind me.
“I will show you to your quarters at the top of the stairs.” he continued as we made our way up the soft, thick, white stairs. “Once you have rested and settled in, the boss will want to talk with you about your vision for your future.”
“My future, you must be joking.”
“No I am not” he replied in earnest. “Look at it this way; this is the last occupation you are ever going to have. Here you can do whatever you choose whenever you choose for as long as you choose. But the boss likes to make sure everyone makes good use of their time or he won’t let them stay. So what will it be?”
“Oh that is easy.” I responded without giving the question a second thought. “I will turn the softest cloud into my resting-place. I will carve a window in it, through which I will watch the railway track and the girl of my dreams.
I will follow her progress; rejoice in her happiness and when I see her fall,
I will dispatch the brightest of clouds to lift her. I will watch her in wonderment, as she will lift her grateful face to look up at me, acknowledging that it was I who sent her the cloud with the silver lining.”
“That’s good, that’s very good, simple but effective. St Peter will like that.
I think he will grant you your wish,” said the gatekeeper satisfied and he snatched a passing cloud for my pillow.
29/7/10
HARROW WRITER’S CIRCLE - PRESIDENT’S COMPETITION 2010 - THE PLACE FOR ART
Julia Underwood receiving the trophy for winning the 2010 Harrow Writers Circle President's Prize from Cynthia Harrod Eagles---
The morning sunshine pooled on the threshold as Laura opened the door. She waved to Angie, who was setting up her own shop next door; pasties and clotted cream.
Laura surveyed the street. No-one there yet. But it was early. She paused on the doorstep, breathing in the salty air and thinking how pretty the higgledy-piggledy houses looked with their pastel or bright white paint. The steep cobbles led down to the harbour where wheeling, shrieking seagulls were scavenging from the returning fishing boats.
Turning back into her shop, a small art gallery with living rooms above, Laura sighed. It would be idyllic here if only there were more customers. There were virtually no overheads as she had bought it outright with the inheritance from her mother. But still, she had some expenses and she had to eat. Not to mention that she felt guilty when the hopeful artists, whose work she exhibited, popped in to check on their sales and there was nothing except a pottery ash tray last week and a small watercolour of her own.
Laura picked up the feather duster and delicately whisked it around the paintings, the pottery and small sculptures on display. She couldn’t help noticing that this was not really necessary every day. What a contrast to London where drifts of dirt collected whenever you turned your back.
Housework completed, she slumped behind her desk and checked her e-mails, then idly played patience. I should be grateful, she thought, I’m able to slob around in jeans and a tee-shirt rather than a suit and high heels. And there’s no sneering boss goading me every five minutes with his snide sarcasm.
‘Got nothing better to do, Laura? You’ve a target to reach, you know. Get a wiggle on.’
What a relief it was to leave the City with a healthy redundancy package and her mother’s house money and move to Cornwall. It had been her ambition to live in Portcallan
ever since her childhood when summers were spent in Granny Tresithick’s tiny whitewashed cottage.
With her brother Jack, Laura had explored the rock pools and beaches and watched the fishing boats busily chugging out to sea every evening and unpacking their bounty in the morning. Jack was a big success in Australia now and had let her keep all of Mum’s money, for which she was immensely grateful. But it wouldn’t last for ever. She needed to make a success of the gallery or she’d soon be living like a pauper. This recession was hitting the village hard; everyone was suffering.
The doormat’s sensor dinged and a party of tourists trooped in. She recognised holiday-makers immediately. The harassed mother had a sun-burned nose and made futile attempts to control her children.
‘Don’t touch anything, Annie,’ she admonished. ‘Bobby, stop running about.’
The father was wearing those cut-off trousers with pockets on the legs way out of reach of his hands. They didn’t look as if they would be buyers of art, however inexpensive.
They cast a cursory glance at Laura’s watercolours.
‘Pretty,’ said the woman.
‘I’m not paying that,’ said the man.
Laura discreetly steadied one of Brenda’s delicate vases on its stand as Annie and Bobby stampeded past.
Eventually they bought two postcards and left, grumbling that Laura couldn’t sell them stamps. I’d better get some, she thought, if that’s the only thing I’m going to sell.
At lunchtime she pulled a chair out onto the cobbles and joined Angie. They groused about the lack of customers.
‘I’ve never seen it so bad in twenty years.’ said Angie. ‘You’d normally see loads of visitors by now.’
‘Maybe they’re going on cheap packages to Spain.’
‘No. You’d still get plenty coming here. It’s lovely for a family holiday.’
‘So they’re not going anywhere.’
‘Right. Tightening their belts. Have another pasty, Laura, some-one’s got to eat them.’
‘If I do I’ll be the size of a house.’
‘Not likely, love, with your figure.’
Laura stood up. ‘I’ve got to go to the Post Office – buy some stamps. Watch the shop for me, would you, Angie? Not that anyone will come in.’
‘Don’t be so negative. Throngs of art lovers are poised to visit your gallery as we speak. I’ll keep an eye open for them.’
‘Thanks, Ange.’ Laura took her bag and climbed the slope to the general store cum Post Office at the top.
Ten minutes later she returned and Angie popped her head out of her door.
‘There’s a bloke in there,’ she said.
‘Oh. Someone we know?’
‘No. Stranger. You’ll see.’
Laura’s visitor didn’t turn his dark head as she stepped in silently. Laura shuddered. He was wearing a suit. Not a tourist then. She dumped her bag on the desk. The man turned his patrician profile in her direction.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked coolly.
He ignored the question.
‘Did you do these?’ he waved a slim hand towards her watercolours.
‘Yes, I did.’ Laura bridled, but registered the startling good looks of the stranger.
‘Hmm,’ was his only reply, accompanied by a stroke of his chin. After studying the paintings for a few more minutes he left the shop without a word.
‘Pompous prat,’ muttered Laura with little justification.
The following week was little better than the previous one. One of Brenda’s jugs sold and, uniquely, one of Tom’s tortuous but colourful oils. It was the end of the month and Laura was seriously concerned. The bills were due in any minute; the Council Tax, electricity, water, telephone and insurance. She might have to dig into her savings again. When would it end?
Inevitably the bills were deposited on her desk a few days later by Pat, the lady postie.
‘Looks like all bills, lovey, sorry.’
‘No, there’s something else,’ said Laura. ‘A mystery letter.’
She saved it till last, piling the misery post to one side to deal with later. Then she opened the anonymous white envelope.
Dear MissTresithick,
We would be grateful if you could call at this office for an informal discussion about your work, on Wednesday 12th of this month at 10.30 am.
Please confirm that the above date and time will be convenient for you.
There was a scribble at the bottom; no printed name. Laura studied the letterhead – Falmouth Civic Centre, Leisure and Arts Department. Why on earth would they want to discuss her work? Did they mean her paintings? Why? Her heartbeat accelerated.
Laura leant back in her chair. This was very sudden; but it was exciting too. Maybe this was the breakthrough she’d been waiting for. Wednesday the 12th. She’d better write to say she’d be there.
The day was warm enough to wear a pretty cotton dress and as she bundled across the peninsula in her red Mini all the windows were open and music on full blast. She thought she would burst with elation.
Luckily the Civic Centre had its own car park; Falmouth’s street parking was dire during the season. She soon found the office. A woman was waiting for her.
‘Hello, I’m Jane Markham. We’re just waiting for Mr Harrison, then we can talk. Would you like a cup of coffee? Only a machine I’m afraid.’
‘That’s fine. Thank you.’ Laura was bursting with questions and could hardly bear to wait until this Mr Harrison arrived.
He walked in five minutes later.
‘Sorry about that – problem with a venue.’ He held out his hand. ‘Roger Harrison. I think we’ve met.’
Laura gasped. It was the dark-haired man who had visited the gallery.
‘Well, hardly met,’ she stuttered, ‘you didn’t introduce yourself.’
‘Hmm.’ He said. That seemed to be his default ‘can’t be bothered to explain’ reply, thought Laura.
Ms Markham intervened. ‘I should explain. Mr Harrison loves your work. He tells me it evokes the spirit of the Cornish fishing village.’
‘And very well painted, if I may say so.’ interrupted Harrison.
‘… and we would like to display your work as the centrepiece of our Summer Exhibition here in Falmouth, if you’re agreeable.’
Agreeable, thought Laura, it’s the most wonderful offer I’ve ever had! It will put me on the map, get visitors to Portcallan and be really wonderful all round. I might even sell some paintings.
She struggled to get the words out but could only meekly murmur – ‘How kind.’
‘I think you’ve got real talent, Miss Tresithick.’ Harrison said.
‘You should do very well. This is an excellent showcase for new artists, as you must know.’
‘Yes, I went to Falmouth Art College.’
‘Good. You’re a local girl. We like to encourage local artists,’ Ms Markham chirped up.
‘But how did you come to see my gallery. How did you find out about it?’
‘Oh, didn’t I explain?’ said Roger Harrison, ‘I’m a friend of Jack’s. We were at school together.’
‘Jack! But he’s in Australia.’
‘Yes, I know. But we keep in touch. He said I should go and see your gallery. I’m glad I did.’ He grinned at Laura.
Well, thought Laura, God bless Jack. Perhaps Roger wasn’t such a prat after all.
(c) Julia Underwood
Word Count 1500
(Uploaded 17/4/10)
