Naturally, the theme of the sculpture was mother and child. Given the theme, Holly had been reluctant to take on the commission, which would take at least six months to complete, but the money was too good to turn down.
She had set out her sketch pads in the study that morning, full of good intentions but with a distinct lack of inspiration. Money alone wasn’t incentive enough to get her creative juices flowing. She just didn’t have that same depth of feeling she usually had to draw upon. She knew nothing about the miraculous bond between mother and child that everyone else seemed to drone on about.
Holly couldn’t recall a single memory of her childhood where she had felt that kind of bond. She had spent most of her formative years feeling either alone or afraid. Her mother had been in her teens when she had discovered she was pregnant. A hasty marriage and an unwanted child had come as a nasty shock to her and she hadn’t been prepared or willing to give up her freedom.
With a young child to care for, her mother’s social life had been severely restricted, so she often brought the party lifestyle she craved into the house. Holly had vivid memories of a house full of hangers-on, either recovering from the last party or waiting for the next. Her mum was always centre of attention, dancing barefoot through the house whether there was music playing or not. She always looked her happiest when she was dancing and everyone was drawn to her, even Holly, like a moth to the flame, eager to share her mother’s excitement. She could remember one time when her mum had picked her up and twirled her around the room to squeals of delight from her daughter, but Holly was never sure whether that had actually happened. She suspected it was merely a false memory of a longed-for dream. The memories Holly could rely on were those where her mum would stop dancing and point an accusing finger at her daughter before proclaiming to everyone that this was the creature who had ruined her life. The look on her mother’s face was one of pure loathing, and that was the image that Holly recalled when she thought of motherhood.
Until Tom, Holly hadn’t even managed to witness responsible parenting second-hand. In her early years, she had been isolated from other children, their parents having already labelled Holly as a problem child because of her family life. As a teenager, she had been naturally drawn to the other orphaned fledglings that had been pushed out of the nest too soon.
Her art had been her saviour in more ways than one. It had been a form of escapism, a part of her life she could control and succeed in and, in hindsight, it had also been an effective form of therapy. She had put a lot of anger into her earlier work and it was only after meeting Tom that she found she could express positive emotion in her art too. The love between a man and a woman she now understood; the love between a mother and a child she didn’t. She was drawing a blank, literally.
She had spent two hours going through the motions of sketching images, but still hadn’t come up with any ideas that were sufficiently original or thought-provoking. She’d sketched out some obvious images of a mother holding her child, a mother nursing her child, a mother kissing her child. Desperate for a new perspective, she’d even sketched out an image of the moment of birth. Possibly not the kind of statue Mrs Bronson would want greeting her guests in the entrance to her home.
Holly had a meeting scheduled with Mrs Bronson in less than a week’s time and she was starting to debate whether or not to cancel the commission altogether. If she went ahead and produced a sub-standard piece of work then that would damage her reputation, which was still in its embryonic stages. On the other hand, reneging on a deal would be equally damaging to her career.
Putting down her sketch pad, Holly headed into the kitchen. The room was large, with enough space for a dining table at its centre. It might have been the outbuilding which had drawn Holly to the property, but it was the kitchen that had sold the place to both her and Tom. The wooden units were painted white, the walls were green and the terracotta floor tiles extended out through the back door and across to a small terrace, which led onto the immense if slightly untamed garden and the countryside beyond.
Holly peered out of the kitchen window, searching for Tom. She couldn’t see him through the tangle of shrubs and trees, but she knew where he was from the sounds of snapping branches and occasional expletives. Ignoring the urge to go and investigate, she started chopping up vegetables – locally grown produce, of course – and set to work making a large pan of soup to try out on Tom and the builders.
‘And what do you think you’re up to?’
Holly jumped, narrowly avoiding chopping a finger rather than a carrot. A pair of arms closed around her waist. Tom had spied her from the garden and crept into the house.
‘Don’t you know better than to frighten a woman when she’s armed and dangerous?’ warned Holly, brandishing her kitchen knife.
‘You’re always dangerous. You can cut me to the wick, knife or not.’ He leaned down and kissed the back of her neck.
‘Don’t go getting sidetracked. I want that garden looking spick and span before you disappear off into the sunset.’
‘Look, woman!’ gasped Tom in amazement, pointing towards the garden. ‘Can’t you see the transformation already?’
Holly peered towards the garden, putting a hand up to shade her eyes for effect. ‘No, not at all,’ she laughed.
‘I’ve practically made a small mountain from all the bracken and deadwood I’ve cleared. I’ve even trimmed your bush.’
‘A man renowned for his literary prowess and he still lowers the tone with childish innuendo,’ remarked Holly. ‘And the garden looks like a heap to me.’
‘Well, it’ll look better when all the garden waste’s been cleared,’ Tom replied sulkily. ‘I just need someone to use their womanly charms on the builders to see if they’ll help me get rid of it.’
‘Well, I’m busy, in case you hadn’t noticed. Go use your own womanly charms on them, I’m sure they’ll be impressed.’
Holly let Tom beg a little longer before giving in. She was secretly happy to have an excuse to check on the building work. The outbuilding was set back and to the side of the house and looked like it had been used as a workshop at some point in the past. It was a one-storey brick building about the size of a double garage. Thanks to Billy the foreman, they had made a good start in the last week and had already filled two skips gutting the place. Thankfully the roof hadn’t needed to be completely replaced, but Velux roof windows were being installed to add more light. Interior walls had been knocked through and new windows knocked out of the outer walls. Each time Holly checked on their progress, the studio seemed to be getting lighter and lighter.
The studio was a hive of activity and Holly found Billy piling rubble into a wheelbarrow. The foreman was probably nearing retirement but showed no signs of acting his age as he picked up huge blocks of cement with ease. He had round features that did their best to hide the wrinkles on his weathered face and he still had a good head of hair which was quite possibly grey, although Holly could only guess at this because he always seemed to wear a permanent layer of dust that made his hair almost white.
‘How’s it going, Billy?’ Holly shouted over the din of power tools.
‘The electrician is coming over tomorrow, so I’d say we’ll be plastering the walls by early next week and putting the final touches to the job.’
‘You’re a miracle worker, you really are.’
Billy beamed a smile at her. ‘Glad to be of service. You can always count on me,’ he told her. ‘Not like that husband of yours. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, he shouldn’t be leaving you on your own to fend for yourself.’