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Authors: Freya North
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the oils would probably still permeate. She could make out three people towards the back of the gallery, grouped deep in conversation around a plinth on which was a smaller version of the birdman fish. Oriana stepped inside quietly and went straight over to the landscapes. They were captivating and yes, they did indeed smell wonderful. She stood and looked and inhaled and forgot she was thirsty and forgot about Windward. Instead, she was out there, on the dales, reconnecting with the comforting solitude she’d always found there and it alleviated her prior agitation and grounded her. Yes, she thought to herself, I’ll just stand here awhile and get my breath back.
Malachy was too busy on the verge of a sale to notice much about the person who’d just come in. Lots of people came in to admire the landscapes by Natalie Fox. He didn’t mind. Art gladdens the heart. He liked it that people thought of the White Peak Art Space as not exclusively a commercial enterprise. It was good that passers-by came in to look at paintings, to stand awhile and consider them before leaving somehow nourished. This couple, looking at
Swoop II
, had been in the previous weekend and they were back and they liked it, they really liked it, but it was a lot of money and they weren’t sure what to do.
‘I offer financing,’ Malachy told them. And this sounded like an excellent idea because it was nought per cent and it meant that the artist had his money, Malachy had his commission and this nice couple could own their art on an affordable basis. He went to his desk to prepare the paperwork and noted the woman very close to the paintings, apparently sniffing them. He didn’t mind at all. When he’d finished the paperwork, however, he saw that she had gone. One day, he thought, one day someone will come in and buy all three. It sometimes happened like that; the unlikeliest of people suddenly turning up.
Oriana walked on and there, like an oasis in the yawing march of her memory, the small newsagent’s still stood. The only thing that had changed was that the
Daily Mail
now sponsored the shop sign, not the
Daily Mirror
, but from what Oriana had deduced since her return, this switch from left to right was par for the course nationwide. She bought water and Cadbury’s chocolate and possibly their only copy of the
Guardian
. The shopkeepers were new to her and had put their mark on the place with a tabletop unit containing exotic-looking pasties as well as a vending machine for coffee, tea and hot chocolate. Coffee. Coffee was a good idea. Even if it wasn’t good coffee, she suddenly craved something caffeinated and hot.
Slowly she walked, so as not to spill her drink and to give herself the chance to look up and around. Blenthrop, she was back in Blenthrop and it was no big deal. The town didn’t know her and the town was welcoming. With her coffee finished, she sent Cat a text, hoping to call in on her way back to Hathersage. Oriana decided to have one last look around the gallery before making tracks. The gallery, though, appeared to be empty, closed even. But Oriana thought I wonder if those people bought that sculpture? And it became a really provocative thought. How much was it? Who is the artist? But did they
buy
it? Just as she’d bought a paper and some chocolate and a coffee – had they come out on a Saturday and
bought some art
? She had to know. She tried the door and it opened.
In she went, her nose now finely tuned to the oily fragrance emanating from the landscapes. The gallery was Tardis-like; it was deceptively large and went back some way. She walked quickly over to the sculpture. A little red sticker – they did buy it! She felt peculiarly vindicated. It didn’t have a price on it but the artist was called Yuki McDonald. McDonald. Maybe the form was inspired by a slippery otter playing mercurially on a Scottish loch, or salmon leaping at Pitlochry. Yuki. Perhaps the form was linked with something more symbolic from Asia
Malachy was too busy on the verge of a sale to notice much about the person who’d just come in. Lots of people came in to admire the landscapes by Natalie Fox. He didn’t mind. Art gladdens the heart. He liked it that people thought of the White Peak Art Space as not exclusively a commercial enterprise. It was good that passers-by came in to look at paintings, to stand awhile and consider them before leaving somehow nourished. This couple, looking at
Swoop II
, had been in the previous weekend and they were back and they liked it, they really liked it, but it was a lot of money and they weren’t sure what to do.
‘I offer financing,’ Malachy told them. And this sounded like an excellent idea because it was nought per cent and it meant that the artist had his money, Malachy had his commission and this nice couple could own their art on an affordable basis. He went to his desk to prepare the paperwork and noted the woman very close to the paintings, apparently sniffing them. He didn’t mind at all. When he’d finished the paperwork, however, he saw that she had gone. One day, he thought, one day someone will come in and buy all three. It sometimes happened like that; the unlikeliest of people suddenly turning up.
Oriana walked on and there, like an oasis in the yawing march of her memory, the small newsagent’s still stood. The only thing that had changed was that the
Daily Mail
now sponsored the shop sign, not the
Daily Mirror
, but from what Oriana had deduced since her return, this switch from left to right was par for the course nationwide. She bought water and Cadbury’s chocolate and possibly their only copy of the
Guardian
. The shopkeepers were new to her and had put their mark on the place with a tabletop unit containing exotic-looking pasties as well as a vending machine for coffee, tea and hot chocolate. Coffee. Coffee was a good idea. Even if it wasn’t good coffee, she suddenly craved something caffeinated and hot.
Slowly she walked, so as not to spill her drink and to give herself the chance to look up and around. Blenthrop, she was back in Blenthrop and it was no big deal. The town didn’t know her and the town was welcoming. With her coffee finished, she sent Cat a text, hoping to call in on her way back to Hathersage. Oriana decided to have one last look around the gallery before making tracks. The gallery, though, appeared to be empty, closed even. But Oriana thought I wonder if those people bought that sculpture? And it became a really provocative thought. How much was it? Who is the artist? But did they
buy
it? Just as she’d bought a paper and some chocolate and a coffee – had they come out on a Saturday and
bought some art
? She had to know. She tried the door and it opened.
In she went, her nose now finely tuned to the oily fragrance emanating from the landscapes. The gallery was Tardis-like; it was deceptively large and went back some way. She walked quickly over to the sculpture. A little red sticker – they did buy it! She felt peculiarly vindicated. It didn’t have a price on it but the artist was called Yuki McDonald. McDonald. Maybe the form was inspired by a slippery otter playing mercurially on a Scottish loch, or salmon leaping at Pitlochry. Yuki. Perhaps the form was linked with something more symbolic from Asia
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