landscape was that he loved painting it.
Someone he’d once met on the island, an Englishman, someone who had admired his work when he was painting down at the Old Harbour one afternoon, had mentioned West Dorset; it was as simple as that. ‘You should go thereone day,’ he’d said. ‘Amazing cliffs – the Jurassic coast, millions of years old, a bit like this place y’know.’ And so – finding himself in England, the land, so they said, of opportunity – Andrés had come here to see. He had wanted, he supposed, despite everything that had happened, to find a small piece of home.
He had put a postcard in the local post office advertising his services. He had done painting and decorating in Ricoroque too – just on a casual basis until he’d decided what he wanted to do, until he made his name as an artist perhaps. And he’d worked on some of the building sites springing up all over the island in order to meet the demands of tourism.
Rather to his surprise, the advert had only been in the window for two days when the postmistress employed him to paint the outside of her house. And that was how it had started. When you were painting the outside of a house, people stopped and talked to you. When you were employed by the village postmistress, people found out about you. Word spread. Andrés Marin was of the old school. He was old-fashioned and reliable and his rates were fair; he did a good job and he could be trusted to be left in an empty house. Andrés had got more work. He could make a living here. And so he’d stayed.
He earned more than enough to live on and began to put money by. He bought a pick-up truck, found a better place to live. In the years since he had left the island, he had built up a small business of his own. He had been right to come here. Here he could make enough money to live as he wishedto live and he could paint too – without his father breathing down his neck. He had lived here now for seventeen years. He had studied the English language at his island school and now after so long in England, he was fluent. Andrés watched the waves wash on to the shore, frothing around the tiny pebbles that made up Chesil Beach. Mile upon mile of it, stretching from Weymouth to Lyme Regis. Now, England held fewer surprises. It was a kind of home.
His childhood had been nothing but painting. It was practically all he remembered. Canvases filled not only his father’s studio, but overflowed into the rest of the blue and white stone house on the island. That was all there was. And now … Andrés had finished work early today and he had a purpose in mind. He wanted to do some preliminary sketches for a big seascape he was planning. The art group he belonged to – all linked to the Barn Studios in Pride Bay where Andrés had a small unit to work in – were planning an exhibition for later this summer and he wanted to get as many pieces finished as possible.
Unlike his father, Andrés had to fit his art in with his other work – in the evenings, if he wasn’t too tired, and at weekends. His father … Andrés pulled out his sketch pad and a pencil. He hated to think of him and yet the man was never far from his mind.
When Andrés was a boy, his father used to go out to play dominos in the Bar Acorralado – that was his distraction; what took him away from his work. And when he did … Andrés used to creep up the stone steps to his father’s sanctuary,inhale the rich, dry scent of turpentine and unused paper, touch the stiff newness of canvas and card standing upright in the open cupboard, peer beneath dusty sheets and cloths draped over wooden easels. And dream.
It was the colours. Andrés took in the colours surrounding him now. Not dissimilar, no. English colours were normally subtle and grey. But here on Hide Beach they were also bright – the high cliffs stacked like bricks of honey; Chesil Beach itself rising up and flowing out along the coastline like the mane of a golden
Someone he’d once met on the island, an Englishman, someone who had admired his work when he was painting down at the Old Harbour one afternoon, had mentioned West Dorset; it was as simple as that. ‘You should go thereone day,’ he’d said. ‘Amazing cliffs – the Jurassic coast, millions of years old, a bit like this place y’know.’ And so – finding himself in England, the land, so they said, of opportunity – Andrés had come here to see. He had wanted, he supposed, despite everything that had happened, to find a small piece of home.
He had put a postcard in the local post office advertising his services. He had done painting and decorating in Ricoroque too – just on a casual basis until he’d decided what he wanted to do, until he made his name as an artist perhaps. And he’d worked on some of the building sites springing up all over the island in order to meet the demands of tourism.
Rather to his surprise, the advert had only been in the window for two days when the postmistress employed him to paint the outside of her house. And that was how it had started. When you were painting the outside of a house, people stopped and talked to you. When you were employed by the village postmistress, people found out about you. Word spread. Andrés Marin was of the old school. He was old-fashioned and reliable and his rates were fair; he did a good job and he could be trusted to be left in an empty house. Andrés had got more work. He could make a living here. And so he’d stayed.
He earned more than enough to live on and began to put money by. He bought a pick-up truck, found a better place to live. In the years since he had left the island, he had built up a small business of his own. He had been right to come here. Here he could make enough money to live as he wishedto live and he could paint too – without his father breathing down his neck. He had lived here now for seventeen years. He had studied the English language at his island school and now after so long in England, he was fluent. Andrés watched the waves wash on to the shore, frothing around the tiny pebbles that made up Chesil Beach. Mile upon mile of it, stretching from Weymouth to Lyme Regis. Now, England held fewer surprises. It was a kind of home.
His childhood had been nothing but painting. It was practically all he remembered. Canvases filled not only his father’s studio, but overflowed into the rest of the blue and white stone house on the island. That was all there was. And now … Andrés had finished work early today and he had a purpose in mind. He wanted to do some preliminary sketches for a big seascape he was planning. The art group he belonged to – all linked to the Barn Studios in Pride Bay where Andrés had a small unit to work in – were planning an exhibition for later this summer and he wanted to get as many pieces finished as possible.
Unlike his father, Andrés had to fit his art in with his other work – in the evenings, if he wasn’t too tired, and at weekends. His father … Andrés pulled out his sketch pad and a pencil. He hated to think of him and yet the man was never far from his mind.
When Andrés was a boy, his father used to go out to play dominos in the Bar Acorralado – that was his distraction; what took him away from his work. And when he did … Andrés used to creep up the stone steps to his father’s sanctuary,inhale the rich, dry scent of turpentine and unused paper, touch the stiff newness of canvas and card standing upright in the open cupboard, peer beneath dusty sheets and cloths draped over wooden easels. And dream.
It was the colours. Andrés took in the colours surrounding him now. Not dissimilar, no. English colours were normally subtle and grey. But here on Hide Beach they were also bright – the high cliffs stacked like bricks of honey; Chesil Beach itself rising up and flowing out along the coastline like the mane of a golden
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