‘Are you cold Constance?’ Isabel asked, leaning over the chair once more, having just seen her shiver.
‘No, I’m fine.’ Constance turned away from the craft. It was nearly to the beach now. The hovercraft’s first-time passengers would be keen to tell their friends they’d “flown” to Wight as was the correct terminology for crossing the Solent in the amphibious machine. Her hands tightened around the handbag perched on her lap as she focussed her attention determinedly on the bustling pavement ahead of them.
It was a powerful tool, a wheelchair, she decided beginning to enjoy how it gave them the automatic right of way. People sidestepped apologetically to let them through. She felt like Moses parting the red sea. Even the traffic came to a standstill to let them cross as Isabel pushed her across the road to the line of shops on the other side of the Esplanade.
It was either the chair or Isabel’s hair that was stopping traffic, she thought upon catching sight of them both in a shop window. It always startled her to be confronted by this new self, a woman with candy floss hair whiter than the cliffs at Freshwater.
Now, as Isabel pushed her around the bend and Pier View House came into sight, Constance felt a tightening in her chest. It never got easier seeing her home and knowing she’d never live in it again. Still, there was some comfort to be found in the fact such a nice young man had brought it from her.
‘I told Rhodri we’d call in, Constance. Then I thought we’d have a wander up Union Street and say hello to Delwyn at The Natural Way. How does that sound?’
‘Good,’ Constance said, with a regal bow of her head. ‘I enjoyed my conversation with her yesterday.’
Rhodri had just finished hanging a new canvas on the wall when Isabel tapped on the door. She’d given up on trying to figure out how to open the door and hold onto the wheelchair at the same time. He opened the door and seeing her predicament held the door open wide for her to come in.
‘Thanks, Rhodri. Constance and I are having a girls’ day out,’ Isabel said, wheeling the chair over his foot as she entered the shop. ‘Ooh sorry, I probably should have a license to drive this thing.’
Rhodri flexed his foot and grinned. ‘I don’t think it’s broken.’ Then, shutting the door behind them to ward off the keen sea breeze he focussed his attention on Constance.
‘Hello there. It's lovely to see you again. Do you know Constance, not a day passes that someone doesn’t pop their head in and ask me where you and your shop have gone.’
It took Constance a second or two to decipher what he’d said. ‘I’d forgotten how thick your accent is.’
Rhodri laughed. ‘Well now, a Welsh accent never leaves you, no matter how many years you might leave Wales.’
Constance smiled then and allowed herself a moment to look around her. She liked what he’d done with the old place. It was light and airy with no hint of the dust that had once haunted it. The artworks on the walls were in contrast to the plainness of the room; their bold colours showcased like a rainbow against a grey sky. Constance had always preferred modernist art; she liked the brashness of it. She wasn’t one for the fiddly brushwork of fine art or the wishy-washiness of a watercolor, and the print that had caught her eye was right up her alley.
‘That’s stunning,’ Isabel said following her gaze and beginning to push Constance in the direction of the canvas Rhodri had just hung on the wall.
‘I can walk Isabel; I’m not an invalid.’
Duly chastened but not in the least offended, Isabel helped her out of the chair. Constance allowed her to take her arm and lead her over for a closer look. She wasn’t aware she’d clutched Isabel’s arm tighter as she gazed up at it. Art spoke to you, she’d heard it said and this big, bold painting, had shouted out to her.
Isabel peered at the white card on the wall beneath it. ‘It’s called Quarr, Constance but the artist’s name’s not printed below. That’s a bit strange. Isn’t Quarr the name of the big abbey where all those monks still live near Fishbourne? I think I went there once with mum and dad.’
Constance nodded. The name of the artwork had not surprised her. She’d known at once that the painting depicted the ruins on the road between Ryde and Newport in the grounds of Quarr Abbey. She closed her eyes seeing the main abbey building with its imposing towers and expanse of orange and red, sometimes pink bricks, which made her think of a mellow sunset. The light at certain times of the day seemed to dance across those bricks. For her, when she was a girl, the abbey had symbolised peace at a time when the rest of the world seemed to have gone mad.
