Page 48 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

I suppose life never goes truly smoothly all the time.

Some people don’t seem to need much of an excuse to take against you.

I dared to ask about the possibility of joining The Rowan Bay Artists’ Society and almost had my nose taken off. I was told in no uncertain terms that it was full to capacity at the moment and couldn’t accommodate anyone else. I find that very hard to believe, for a town this size. Talk about not very encouraging!

Oh well. I suppose it’s to be expected to come across folks who you don’t like as much as others.

I frowned. Who was this person who my grandma seemingly had issues with? She’d never mentioned anyone like that before. Grandma Tilda had rubbed along fine with most people throughout her life, so for her to refer to it wasn’t like her.

Oh well. Probably some old local gossip who my grandma had taken exception to.

* * *

That night, I lay in bed thinking, with the water rolling under the chipped stars and the lighthouse glancing across the top of the waves.

My grandmother had been so talented and yet she’d stifled her own ambition. She’d harboured regret, as it turned out, and doubted her own capabilities so much she’d refused to even try to release her artwork into the world. I had no idea she’d been engaged to Reece and also hadn’t known that, underneath it all, she’d wanted to try and get her artwork noticed, despite her insistence over the years to the contrary. I believed Reece’s parents had a part to play in this. They’d crushed her confidence. They’d made her think she wasn’t worthy.

As I continued to lie there, huddled under my beige and cream duvet for warmth, my mind turned to the stack of paintings in the art studio.

They deserved to be seen. They were sitting there, propped up against one another, only glimpsing the light of day if I hitched the studio blind up. Grandma Tilda’s talents should be appreciated. But how?

After a few more moments of frustrated thoughts, I finally fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

I woke up the following morning, with my grandma’s melancholic words still whirling around my head. Perhaps I’m not as talented as I think I am.

I remembered her as a stoic woman, who could be a tigress when she needed to be, especially where her family were concerned.

And she was still all those things to me.

But after seeing her journals and digesting her innermost hurt and feelings, I realised there was a fallibility to her, underneath the perpetual smile and joviality.

Reece breaking off their engagement had affected her. It had made her question her own value and that had stayed with her for years.

Despite longing to make it as a serious artist, she had never felt able to reach those heights.

And Mum and I had no idea she’d been carrying this weight around with her. She’d never mentioned her dreams to us. Not once. She just kept them locked up inside herself, allowing them to slumber away and ignoring them whenever they happened to stir and threaten to wake up.

Grandma Tilda was gone. She wasn’t coming back.

But her legacy of artwork was still here.

I pushed myself upright in bed, suddenly oblivious to the chilly November temperature. The central heating had gone off, and through the gap in my bedroom curtains I could see shreds of ominous grey clouds scudding across the sky.

My mind swirled, taking my thoughts down the hallway to Grandma’s studio.

Could I help achieve my late grandmother’s dream? Even though she was no longer here, could I fulfil something for her?

I shoved off the bedcovers and tugged on my towelling dressing gown from where it was draped over the chair in the corner.

I’d call Reece first and discuss my idea with him.

He might think it was a silly proposal, but there was only one way to find out.