I buried myself in my course work.
After leaving school at eighteen, I’d had a number of jobs but never really stuck at anything. Finally, at the age of twenty-eight, I’d decided to follow in Mum’s footsteps and study nursing. But after she died, I wondered if I’d made the right choice. I’d been inspired by Mum and all those people she’d helped during her career. But was I really cut out to be a nurse myself? I wasn’t sure. And that uncertainty, combined with not wanting to leave the house, meant I got into the bad habit of skipping the day’s lectures and telling myself I could learn the stuff at home instead.
I watched Dad like a hawk and did everything I could to make sure he was okay. But some days, I felt so down, there were mornings I couldn’t even drag myself out of bed.
I suppose life would have continued on in that vein, but then something happened that brought a sliver of hope into our lives, Dad’s in particular.
He met a woman called Eleanor.
He started mentioning her a few weeks after joining the golf club, where she was a member, and at first it was just as part of a new group of friends he’d made. But one November night, he came home and called me down to the living room, saying he had something he needed my advice about. When I got down there, he’d already made hot chocolate for us. He’d used hot water and cold milk so it wasn’t great, but I sensed this was something important and it gave me an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
When he said he’d met a woman he quite liked and that she’d asked him to go to the theatre with her, I finally understood. He was worried it was too soon after Mum to be thinking about dating, and he thought I’d disapprove. But I didn’t. I got up and hugged him, which I think surprised him, and after that, he and Eleanor started seeing each other regularly, going out for dinner or to the cinema.
She made him happy. I could tell that from the way his step was lighter, and he smiled and joked more often. And for a while, it had a knock-on effect on me. I was happy he was happy. The weight of making sure he was okay had rolled off my shoulders because I could see he was okay. It was a different story for me, but at least one of us was moving on…
A month after their first outing, a few weeks before Christmas, Dad brought Eleanor home to meet me.
She was younger than Dad – forty-one to his fifty-nine – and she was as lovely as he’d described in a cool blonde, Grace Kelly movie star kind of a way. Immaculately dressed, she favoured understated, neutral-coloured layers from stylish designers. Being very slim, she looked chic in whatever she wore. (Dad joked that Eleanor could wear a garden waste bag and look like she was red-carpet-ready.)
That first time she came over, I cooked dinner for the three of us. We sat and talked about Eleanor’s love of art. We had that in common. I’d loved art at school and a few years earlier, I’d started to paint again. I tried oils and acrylic, but in the end, I’d settled on watercolours. I loved the unpredictability of the medium, the way it could surprise you, sometimes creating glorious effects that you didn’t expect. Watercolour paint dried fast so you had to work quickly, and this added an extra dimension to my enjoyment of it.
Mum and Dad heaped praise on my efforts, and Dad hung his favourite, a watercolour I painted of the harbour at Lyme Regis, on the living room wall. I took their compliments with a pinch of salt. They were bound to love anything I painted!
It turned out that Eleanor was quite an accomplished painter and had even had her work displayed in various local exhibitions. After dinner, Dad suggested I show Eleanor my watercolours. So, feeling a little awkward, I did. I’d no idea if I had any real talent, and I welcomed Eleanor’s opinion. I’d actually thought that being an artist would be something I’d love to do, but it was hardly realistic as a career. There were so many artists doing it better than I was, I was certain, and was it even possible to make a living from doing something like that?
We went out to the camper van in the garage, where I stored my paintings, and I felt more than a little nervous as Eleanor studied my efforts. She kept stepping forward to look at a detail and then standing back for the full effect.
At last, she turned and smiled. ‘They’re lovely, Lucy. Really lovely. Especially as you’ve only been painting seriously for a few years.’
‘Really? You think so?’ I remember feeling over the moon that an artist with Eleanor’s talent should think my work ‘lovely.’
She nodded. ‘I do. And I think you should definitely continue to develop your technique. Painting is so relaxing, I find. There’s no better way to pass the time.’
‘Do you think painting can be learned?’ I asked.
She frowned. ‘Well, up to a point. But I always think there’s a huge gulf between a painter who is technically competent and someone who has a real talent for art.’
I looked at her, wondering which category she would put me in, and suspecting the former. ‘My dream would be to sell my paintings one day – but I know I’ll probably never be good enough for that.’
I hadn’t told anyone else about this dream of mine, not even Dad. But I was eager for Eleanor’s opinion. As an artist herself and totally unbiased, she’d be able to judge my work and tell me the truth.
She tipped her head to one side to study my watercolour of boats in a harbour, screwing up her eyes slightly. Then she nodded. ‘Yes. Very nice.’ She turned to me with a smile. ‘You should keep painting, Lucy.’
‘Thank you.’ I flushed with pleasure.
‘Best to keep your art as a hobby, though.’ She patted my cheek. ‘You’re technically good, but it’s difficult to compete in the art world unless you have that special something all successful creative people have.’
I came away from that conversation with a much more realistic picture of myself as an amateur painter. My technique was good, but I’d be foolish to think I could ever make a living from it.
I felt a little sad, but Eleanor was right. As long as I enjoyed painting, did it really matter how good they were?
Mum’s birthday was looming, and I assumed Dad and I would spend it together. But when I suggested we spend a quiet evening, just the two of us, he hesitated. Apparently Eleanor – not realising the significance of the day - had already bought tickets for a play that night, and I could tell Dad was torn. He said he’d talk to Eleanor and see if they could swap the tickets for another performance, and the upshot was that we got to spend the evening of Mum’s birthday together, not doing anything special, just being together and watching TV.
Eleanor didn’t appear for a while after that. I kept expecting her to arrive, but when, after three days, I casually asked Dad how she was, he frowned and said they’d had an argument – he wouldn’t say what about - and had decided to go their separate ways. When I questioned this, saying I thought she’d brought some sunshine into his life, he looked at me sadly and said he wasn’t ready for another relationship. It was too soon.
I was sad for him. I liked Eleanor a lot and I could see in Dad’s eyes that he was devastated by this turn of events, so after a week or so, I gently suggested he get back in touch with her.
‘You two were so good together,’ I said. ‘I bet she’s missing you.’
He shrugged and admitted he was missing her, too.