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Halfway along Market Lane I stop in front of an old building. And when I say old, I meanmedievalold. I can’t help but wonder how some of these places are still standing.
A tall woman with bright red lipstick and straight black hair cut into a sleek bob is standing just inside the doorway taking shelter from the drizzling rain.
‘Hi, I’m here to see about renting the space?’ I look at her nervously. My stomach is full of butterflies. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.
‘Yes, you must be Leyna,’ she says, handing me one of the printed brochures that estate agencies like to give out to prospective clients. I’m not sure why they even bother, everything is online.
‘Thank you,’ I say politely, taking the leaflet from her even though I’ve already looked at the advert a million times. I’m here so that I can walk around, to feel the space in real life. I’m desperate to see how it feels to be inside the building itself.
She unlocks the door and steps inside and I follow behind her.
‘Have a look around. It would make a great space for a number of different ventures. I believe it was a furniture shop at one time, even a doctor’s surgery. But certainly, as you can see, there are so many things you could do with a place like this. Can I ask what you had in mind?’
She’s smiling at me again and I absolutely don’t want to answer her question. To speak it aloud would make it real. I don’t know what my problem is because I’m already here looking at it. I’ve taken the first step, even though I know I don’t have enough money yet.
‘I’m looking for a central location to turn it into a small art gallery,’ I say the words with a bravado and confidence I don’t feel.
‘That’s an interesting idea,’ she says. ‘I think something like that would work well here. It’s a fantastic spot, not far from the centre of town and a bit quieter as well with it being off the main roads. The upstairs is fab, too. Lots of space, lots of storage.’
Desperate to see more of the building I point along the hallway, ‘Can I have a look?’
‘Of course! I’m Cara, by the way. Take your time, have a good nosey around. If you have any questions I’ll be right here.’ The estate agent smiles warmly at me.
As I begin to walk around, I get a great feeling for the place. It’s a bit on the dark side, but that can be fixed with lighting, I tell myself. The ceilings are high with beautiful coving around the top. The floors are hardwood, a bit beaten up but that can be polished, too.
These old places are like a rabbit’s warren. They look deceptively small from the outside, but once inside, with the high ceilings and maze of rooms, you can imagine yourself getting lost going from one end of the property to the other.
I have a million ideas rushing through my head. All the different kinds of displays I could put on. A section for this, a section for that. Established artists, up and coming artists, local artists—my mind teems with possibilities.
The views from the first floor are amazing. Big wooden sash windows, some of which might need replacing, line one end of the wall looking out onto the street. My mind is already imagining how I could turn this place into a lovely little independent art gallery. The upstairs would be great to host an artist in residence. The downstairs would make the perfect venue for entertaining visitors and displaying the art—and, eventually, hosting my very first show.
I walk back down the stairs and towards the back of the building. There is a kitchen area and I imagine turning it into a small café. Not exactly a café. More like an inviting spot to have a warm drink and talk about art, or philosophy, or literature. My heart is swelling and it’s bittersweet. Why do I do this to myself? It felt like smelling a lovely bit of chocolate you’re not allowed to taste. Or thinking about a man you’re not allowed to have...
I should never have come. To see something that’s out of my grasp and out of my price range. A dream within view but, nevertheless, completely out of reach. My heart contracts.
I can hear the clickety-clack of the estate agent’s high heels. She finds me staring out of one of the tall windows in the back kitchen.
‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’
I fucking love it so much my insides hurt. I want to scream at herI’ll take it now, but I can’t. Sheepishly I reply, ‘I’ll have to think about it if that’s alright.’
She smiles at me, kindly and knowing. This is prime real estate. We both know that it won’t be on the market for long. At this moment, I have no choice but to walk away. I simply don’t have enough money saved. Not yet, but I am getting closer.
I thank the estate agent and walk out. Then I do the one thing that always makes me feel better—I spend the next half hour wandering around the town centre. Castle Eden was built around a grand Norman-era Castle which overlooks the town and dominates the skyline. I walk around the winding streets, looking into shop windows, daydreaming. Recently, I’ve started to spend more time at some of the coffee shops in town that display works of art by local artists. It’s a great way to see some of the talent in the community.
I order a coffee and sit down where I have a great view—not of the outside but of the art inside. The café owner seems to pick a theme and welcomes local artists to display their works. I stare at one in particular. My eyes are drawn to the colour palette. Vibrant pinks and peaches. It’s a portrait, finely zoomed in on the left side of a woman’s face. Soft and glowing but strong at the same time. It’s mesmerizing.
Then I look at the price tag just below the frame.
Eight Hundred Pounds.
Maybe it’s worth it, maybe it isn’t. I’m certainly not in a position to buy it. I finish my coffee, noticing that every single one of these painting is well out of my price range. That’s what this town is like. One world for some and a completely different world for others, it all depends on the size of your bank account. I gather up my things and walk out. I continue my stroll around the town, letting my mind and thoughts carry me along the cobbled roads. Hoping that the mindless wandering will soothe my aching heart and take my mind off those things that I have pined after for so long.
As I turn the corner near the riverwalk, I see a charity shop I’ve never gone into before. Everything is about to close soon and I decide to go in since I’ve never been here before. I’m not looking for anything in particular. Just looking. Another distraction before I head home.
My curiosity is piqued when I see a few paintings at the back, hidden amongst a plastic box filled with shoes and children’s jigsaw puzzles. There are four but only one speaks to me. It’s unusual and I can’t believe it’s sitting here, sadly, at the back of the shop. It’s a portrait of a woman, dressed in ratty clothing and standing in what looks like an old factory. My heart starts to beat faster as I study it closely, now on my hands and knees at the back of the shop, tenderly sweeping my gaze from one brush stroke to the next. If it is Victorian, and that is a big if, then it would have great significance. But even it isn’t worth anything monetarily, I still love it for a couple of reasons. First, the number of working-class women from this time period featured in paintings is low—very low. It is so rare to find working women, in their environments and even more so as subjects in British art, in their own right. The sheer fact that there is a painting featuring a working-class woman from what looks like the Victorian era, if it is from that time period, is exciting in itself. It is historic. Or possibly,herstoric, I think caustically. But it is her expression that fascinates me. A mixture of fatigue, resignation, and pride. My heart pounds with excitement.
I flip the frame over and I have to stop myself from taking in an audible gasp.
