Crow finished a few days ago. Mum's already given it a semi-approving look.
She puts her head to one side, non-committally.
‘And she can draw.’ I take a piece of paper out of my bag and unfold it. It's covered in Crow's sketches ofdancing girls. Suddenly, Mum looks quite excited. She knows big talent when she sees it.
‘And she's been asked to make clothes to sell in Portobello Road market and she needs some space to make them because she lives in a tiny flat with her aunt and she's from Africa and there's hardly any money and all the stuff is piled up everywhere and she's hardly got room to sew and I think she could be a great designer,’ I finish in a rush. ‘If we helped her.’
There's a silence while we look at each other. Then Mum does something entirely unexpected. She bends down and takes my cheeks (with their rubbish cheekbones) in her hands and kisses the top of my head. I am SO small.
This is nice, but I'm not sure what it means. I gabble on.
‘I mean, you help your artists all the time, so I'm sort of copying you, really, and we've got that room downstairs that Granny uses sometimes to stay in but it's usually empty and I know your artists need it sometimes if they're staying in London but it probably wouldn't be for very long and it would really help Crow and she's so nice and Harry's met her,’ I finish, rather lamely. I'm not sure why this should make any difference, but it might.
Mum takes the drawings from me and admires them for a long time.
‘They're good. How old is she?’
‘Twelve.’
Mum sucks in her breath as if she's just tried a scalding cappuccino. Then she swears in French. One of the words I Tipp-Exed on my Converses, in fact. French swear-words are a leftover from her modelling days. Her eyes keep scanning the drawings.
‘So?’ I ask at last.
‘Certainly,’ she says, smiling. ‘She can have Granny's room.’
I wait for the ‘but’. This has all been far too easy. But there isn't one. Maybe I'm better at managing my mother than I thought. Maybe Crow just really is that talented.
Two days later, we invite Crow and Florence round for tea. Mum takes to Crow straight away and can't help going on about how fabulous her drawings are. Then we take her downstairs to our basement room, which Mum converted years ago for visitors.
We've had great fun creating space for a big worktable and finding pieces that Crow might like to be surrounded by when she's working: the squashy purple velvet armchair from my room, a quirky antique lamp from the sitting room, even a tailor's dummy that Mum found in an antique shop in Paris when she was modelling and has lived in our spare room ever since. The bed has been turned into a sort of sofa, with lots of colourful cushions. And there are three hatstands and a rail for hanging finished clothes.
When Florence sees the room, both her long-fingeredhands fly to her face and then they flutter, like butterflies, as she stands transfixed in the doorway and tries to think of something to say. Crow marches straight up to the tailor's dummy and strokes her hands over it. Then she goes to the French doors that lead to steps up to the back garden and peers up at the sky. Finally, she sits on the sofa-bed thing and puts her hands out beside her, while she admires the worktable. She nods calmly. It will do.
She doesn't say thank you for the room. Or for anything else we try and do for her. She's not big on emotional outbursts. But within hours she's returned from her tiny flat and filled the space with her treasures. Her little black sewing machine is set up on the work-table. Her finished clothes are already filling up the rail and the hatstands. Her favourite designs and inspirations are in a tall pile of paper, ready to be stuck on the large pinboards on the walls. A half-finished dress is draped on the dummy. Paper patterns cover the bed and the floor. When I pop in to check how she's getting on, she can't help smiling.
Phase Two complete.
O n
She puts her head to one side, non-committally.
‘And she can draw.’ I take a piece of paper out of my bag and unfold it. It's covered in Crow's sketches ofdancing girls. Suddenly, Mum looks quite excited. She knows big talent when she sees it.
‘And she's been asked to make clothes to sell in Portobello Road market and she needs some space to make them because she lives in a tiny flat with her aunt and she's from Africa and there's hardly any money and all the stuff is piled up everywhere and she's hardly got room to sew and I think she could be a great designer,’ I finish in a rush. ‘If we helped her.’
There's a silence while we look at each other. Then Mum does something entirely unexpected. She bends down and takes my cheeks (with their rubbish cheekbones) in her hands and kisses the top of my head. I am SO small.
This is nice, but I'm not sure what it means. I gabble on.
‘I mean, you help your artists all the time, so I'm sort of copying you, really, and we've got that room downstairs that Granny uses sometimes to stay in but it's usually empty and I know your artists need it sometimes if they're staying in London but it probably wouldn't be for very long and it would really help Crow and she's so nice and Harry's met her,’ I finish, rather lamely. I'm not sure why this should make any difference, but it might.
Mum takes the drawings from me and admires them for a long time.
‘They're good. How old is she?’
‘Twelve.’
Mum sucks in her breath as if she's just tried a scalding cappuccino. Then she swears in French. One of the words I Tipp-Exed on my Converses, in fact. French swear-words are a leftover from her modelling days. Her eyes keep scanning the drawings.
‘So?’ I ask at last.
‘Certainly,’ she says, smiling. ‘She can have Granny's room.’
I wait for the ‘but’. This has all been far too easy. But there isn't one. Maybe I'm better at managing my mother than I thought. Maybe Crow just really is that talented.
Two days later, we invite Crow and Florence round for tea. Mum takes to Crow straight away and can't help going on about how fabulous her drawings are. Then we take her downstairs to our basement room, which Mum converted years ago for visitors.
We've had great fun creating space for a big worktable and finding pieces that Crow might like to be surrounded by when she's working: the squashy purple velvet armchair from my room, a quirky antique lamp from the sitting room, even a tailor's dummy that Mum found in an antique shop in Paris when she was modelling and has lived in our spare room ever since. The bed has been turned into a sort of sofa, with lots of colourful cushions. And there are three hatstands and a rail for hanging finished clothes.
When Florence sees the room, both her long-fingeredhands fly to her face and then they flutter, like butterflies, as she stands transfixed in the doorway and tries to think of something to say. Crow marches straight up to the tailor's dummy and strokes her hands over it. Then she goes to the French doors that lead to steps up to the back garden and peers up at the sky. Finally, she sits on the sofa-bed thing and puts her hands out beside her, while she admires the worktable. She nods calmly. It will do.
She doesn't say thank you for the room. Or for anything else we try and do for her. She's not big on emotional outbursts. But within hours she's returned from her tiny flat and filled the space with her treasures. Her little black sewing machine is set up on the work-table. Her finished clothes are already filling up the rail and the hatstands. Her favourite designs and inspirations are in a tall pile of paper, ready to be stuck on the large pinboards on the walls. A half-finished dress is draped on the dummy. Paper patterns cover the bed and the floor. When I pop in to check how she's getting on, she can't help smiling.
Phase Two complete.
O n
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