The Break of Dawn, page 4
Somehow, I made it to bed.
A loud, chattering crow woke me just after dawn. I hurried to the window, hungover, to ascertain the colours of the day—grey, red, and orange. I was superstitious. Each colour signalled a warning of what lay ahead during the day. A mix of colours indicated I would have to be careful. All kinds of trouble lay in wait when orange, grey, and red mingled. Orange was bad, really bad.
Nobody but Jenny knew about my trusty system, which she’d gotten out of me through days of nagging. “What are you staring at Cora?”
I regretted telling her to avoid the colour orange at all costs, even though she’d never betray me, I was sure.
A note on the kitchen table instructed me to join two men and a woman in moving equipment from the college to a green space near the river. Breakfast goods had been arranged, along with coffee and juice. Clearly, someone had already gotten up, eaten, and left, thinking about me as they went.
I quickly dressed in the clothes Sky’s assistant had left in the cupboards, glad of their warmth but sad about their lack of shape. In prison, I’d worried endlessly about what I looked like. Have you seen what Cora’s wearing?
A telling tightness gripped my stomach. Although the work wouldn’t be so different from inside, I was terrified of saying the wrong thing, taking offence at nothing, behaving like an ex-con. I wasn’t ashamed of my past exactly, but I yearned for a period of peace, to relax for a few weeks without the need for explanations or confessions. Just, peace. It hadn’t been possible in prison, where there were too many broken hearts. Even Jenny had fallen into regular spats. Like the others, I’d become used to living with my instincts in overdrive mode, fists clenched, ready to hurl an insult or a punch. It would be challenging to switch off even though I yearned to.
So, I threw open the storeroom, ready to do battle, expecting trouble despite my uplifting experiences of the park so far. “Good morning. My name is Cora Richards. I’m here to work.”
Three people leapt backwards. “Bloody hell, love, we’re not going to war,” one said, laughing, a tall Black man with long hair and an easy smile.
I eyed him warily, expecting nothing in common, but it soon became apparent the opposite was true.
“I’m Jez, the site boss. Follow me, love, and don’t worry about a thing. We’ll take a tea break at eleven, lunch at one, and another break at three. But you let me know if you need aught. Okay? It’ll take you a few days to get your bearings.”
He knew everything about the structures and the history of the park. Straight away, I enjoyed working with him.
The other two proved okay too. Eloise, a student on work experience, was barely more than a kid. I might have hated her because of the chances she’d have in life I’d never received; however, she was too clumsy to hate. She dropped everything and seemed incapable of walking without bashing into things. Obviously, she knew where I’d come from because she threw frightened looks my way when I glared at her. Why else would she scamper away like a hare? No doubt she smelled prison and crime on me. I didn’t know how to handle her, so I avoided her.
Chris, a trans man, was a ranger. He pointed out the names of trees and greenery, speaking with such passion it was impossible not to admire him too. “I’m in charge of the environmental aspect of the project. See this? I planted it a year ago, and it’s about ready for this project. It takes a while, you see.” He stroked a potted plant carefully with long, careful fingers.
I never knew whether he was talking about the plants or something else. But it didn’t seem to matter.
“Right. Nice to meet you all.” I about stopped myself from saying I’d respect them as long as long as they kept away from me. Partly, I longed to slip back into my old habits since they had long protected me, but to do so would have been to betray the art and the park.
Although it was barely 7:00 a.m., we started work immediately.
Jez indicated wheelbarrows for each of us. “Let’s start by moving the bricks and heavyweights. Go slowly, and don’t risk your back. This is a tough project.” He emphasised ‘tough’ by rolling the word on his teeth.
I followed the others. Fortunately, the rain had stopped. The park rang with early spring, with birds swooping and ducks calling, the fragrant smell of blossom and life, the rawness of existence.
I’d always loved working outside. Being with nature calmed me like little else. As a child, I ran away from the many care homes and foster placements to walk by the rivers or fields, fighting angrily when they dragged me back. I’d been a wild child, looking for sense among the reeds and wildlife when it did not exist in the people who had deserted me.
By the first break, ten years of stress had evaporated, falling away each time a sheep approached until I could no longer prevent the happy loss. I sipped my tea with the others, risking the odd question or two about the park.
“How often do you receive new exhibits? Does the art live here always?”
The only changes in prison were releases and new sentences. It was wonderful to be in a place where change was part of the natural landscape and the art. You could almost taste it. The day before had tasted of winter and decay; today, the breeze offered the freshness of spring.
Jez laughed. “Depends on the artists. You know the Barbara Hepworths?—saw you falling in love with them when you arrived. They’ve been here since 1980. Some of the big sculptures are scheduled years in advance, from all over the world. But the director likes to move with the times and keep us on our feet. Chris and me go with Sky, wherever she goes. We’re guests here, you might say. Last month, we were in Iceland.”
He winked at Chris, who smiled. It was clear they knew each other well. And they had witnessed my arrival, scowling, glaring at Sky’s assistant even as I’d gawped at the art.
I didn’t mean to ask about Sky Sunday so soon, but I wanted to know more, anything, everything, about the woman who’d cherry-picked me from so many others. “What’s she like? When will I meet her?” Yuck. My needy questions made me sound like a stupid kid crushing on a teacher.
Jez and Chris exchanged looks. I might have been wrong, but it seemed my question amused them.
Eloise piped up from behind the safety of her teacup. “Inspirational and amazing. She doesn’t care about anything but art and getting it right. God only knows what she’s on about, but we don’t care. I find if I don’t look at her face when she talks, she makes more sense.” She blushed and sighed dreamily while Jez and Chris laughed affably. I began to feel left out.
“What do you mean? She doesn’t speak English?”
Jez sniffed cryptically. “Meet her? Not sure I ever have, fully, if you get my meaning. She’s, er, elusive. You know—she’s all there, deep inside. Don’t look too hard, and you’ll find her.”
Chris laughed. “Exactly.”
I had no idea what Jez was referring to. Did he mean Sky was a loner like me? The information they’d offered was not much to go on, but still, I dreamed the day away, imagining the mysterious Sky travelling the globe in pursuit of criminals like me.
“Right. Okay. What about this project? What’s it supposed to be? Have we got a final picture?” I held my hand out, expecting Jez to hand over a sketch or design.
Chris laughed. “No, no, love. There’s no brief—you can’t direct or predict Sky’s art. It must grow and find its feet before you can spot a theme. Sometimes—I’m never sure—right until the last moment, and I’ve been with Sky for years. You’ll see.” He patted my shoulder. “Expect it sounds like bollocks. All we do is what she tells us and what’s in our hearts. You don’t need more. Trust Sky.”
Jez snorted gleefully. “We’ve learned not to judge. Just go with, if you can. Depends what kind of person you are.” He massaged Chris’s shoulders. Their easy affection for each other initiated a spark I hadn’t experienced for many years: a yearning for a touch I could trust.
Actually, I loved the brief’s mysteriousness. It was clear my colleagues all adored Sky, even though she never appeared.
Jez was right. From day one, predicting the shape or form of the art we helped build was impossible. We each transported bricks and tiles as well as copious brackets I assumed would be used to support a structure. I imagined a tall palace filled with Easter eggs or a swimming pool for the ducks. The white, grey, and azure bricks made me think of water. Each one was a slightly different shape and had clearly been handcrafted. I couldn’t stop examining them, sometimes almost caressing their curves and whirls.
Jez told us to position the bricks and tiles in a large circle on the field. “So they don’t become eroded before we know what we’re doing. No piling. Don’t worry about the weather. Sky says they can cope.”
It was exhausting work. By the end of our first morning, I was physically drained and exhilarated. Maybe it was down to being in my favourite place instead of cooped up inside, or perhaps it was an effect of handling the white bricks, which I guessed had been mined from a precious crystal.
When I asked Jez what they were made of, he shrugged. “I dunno. Moonshine and dreams?”
Not very helpful.
Chris advised me to hold a brick up to the wintry sunshine. “What do you see? Sky loves the light. Her art almost always has to do with the way sunlight reacts with chemicals and materials. That’s where I come in, see—plants need light. Sky and I don’t understand a word we say to each other, except when we talk of electromagnetic radiation.”
Thinking they were laughing at me, I refused. “Right. No thanks. You can’t see through a brick.”
I returned to work, waiting until everyone had their backs to me. When they did, I grabbed a brick, trying to ignore the shooting stars shooting through my hand. It was the strangest thing, but the brick grew warmer as soon as I touched it. The white colour turned translucent until it resembled an oyster I’d once seen in a market. Of course, I did as Chris had said and held the brick against my eyes while looking up at the sun. An image appeared of dots on the horizon coming together. Although the vision was hazy and unclear, I gained an impression of birds flying high. Yet as soon as I withdrew the brick from my eyes, the horizon remained unchanged, with trees and a few birds.
My hand began to ache. When I brought my other hand to clasp the brick, an incredible explosion of light appeared at the illusion’s centre.
I tried closing my eyes, blinking, and turning the brick upside down before I gave up and threw it onto the grass. “What is it? Like a shell effect? Does it respond to touch?”
Weird. Fascinating. Compelling. The end.
Jez, Chris, and Eloise had stopped working to watch me. Chris smiled, not unkindly, lifting his brick to his eyes. “Odd, isn’t it? Sky refuses to tell us what the bricks are made of until the thing is finished. She’s been working on them for years. She reckons the art is about trust and hope in the absence of information—for us and her. All we know is these bricks are very important to her, and she won’t bring them out until she’s ready. She’s at a kind of T-junction, I reckon.” He looked to Jez for help. “You explain it better than me.”
Eloise sighed dramatically. “What’s to explain? She’s a genius.”
Oh my god, I loved the unashamed artiness of Sky’s vision, but I was afraid they were laughing at me. “Sounds like kid’s stuff. What a load of fucking shit.”
Jez laughed. “Sky would laugh at that! Yeah, but you wait. Sky says art isn’t about money. It’s about this—” He spun in a circle with his arms outstretched, indicating the park. “All things are connected, and sometimes, crucial events come back to us for another go. We get to relive them, through art, giving us a fighting chance. And the people who do the donkey work—us—are as important as the artist who gets the credit on the placard. Her vision is ours too.”
Chris’s answer was to hug Jez fiercely. Eloise wiped away a tear.
Now, I fully expected the three to point at me with sarcastic fingers, hooting with laughter. Chris could not have known about my past or my numerous dreams about reliving events to a happier ending, such as the last time I’d seen my mother and stormed out, refusing her offer of a hug.
I secretly wiped away my tears before continuing my work, trying not to wish it were me being held in a muddy field surrounded by arty gardeners.
I would never have admitted it for all the world, but Sky’s vision made absolute sense. Art could not exist adrift from the world, nor could authentic beauty be made from the toil of others. I’d always been interested in creative forms where every part of the process was valuable. Kings and famous people had not formed galaxies, but every insignificant particle of stardust had contributed to their formation.
I realised I was standing with my mouth wide open and clamped it closed before I became the laughingstock. My sarcasm returned with a vengeance. “Well, she’s certainly got you lot stitched up. Does she pay more than minimum wage though?”
After a lifetime of sarcasm, joining the others in supporting Sky without a lot of time and effort wasn’t possible, especially since she hadn’t visited me yet and maybe never would. I had no doubts I was just one in a long line of cheap labourers for her.
Eloise’s blush was very telling. “Oh, yes. She does so much for us. We get paid twice a month—I mean, I wasn’t even meant to receive a wage since this is like work experience, but she insisted.”
The atmosphere of longing stirred something inside me. I thought of Sky’s assistant, who’d caused me to ache even as she’d irritated me and whose aura tickled mine. She sometimes left notes about my probation appointments on little handwritten cards. Each time I found one propped on the kitchen table, my stupid stomach lurched into overdrive. I didn’t understand why—she was false and annoying.
“Well, I won’t get paid.” Then I remembered the others didn’t know I was on a placement from prison and didn’t even have a bank account. I’d never lived anywhere long enough to qualify.
Jez shook his locs. “’Course you will.”
It was fortunate he was close by. Otherwise, I might’ve bad-mouthed Sky and her assistant a bit more.
Jez lifted his wheelbarrow handlebars and winked. “You’ll see, love. It took me a while. Once you’ve worked with Sky, there’s no going back. Not for people like us. She’ll pay you cash if you don’t have a bank account.”
For a long moment, I held my breath, waiting for Jez to say he knew about prison. How else would he have guessed about the bank issues? Thankfully, he said no more.
I wished I could be like them in their wholehearted support. But I feared I never would. Too much had happened to me at a young age. “If you say so. Right.”
We carried on transporting a ton of bricks and tiles for days until a large circle comprising many layers formed. Although I stuck to my habitual cynicism, I was fascinated by the shimmering haze hovering above the circle every time the sun came out. Again, it made me think of shells and birds. The effect could be seen from quite far away. It played on my mind. What would the bricks look like during the darkness and under the moon? I dreamed about circles, birds, and always an exploding light.
Chris and other gardeners began bringing plants and trees to the area in forklift trucks and pulley systems. Soon, the field became filled with bricks, greenery, and machinery.
After long days of hard labour, I spent my evenings wandering the grounds. Jez said I could roam as long as I stayed away from the nesting birds in and around the lake. And he’d been right about my wages. They arrived twice a month on a Friday evening, left on my bed, wrapped with beautiful patterned tissue paper bought from the park shop. Before, I would have calculated how many weeks of inebriation they would buy. Now, the notes were precious, born of labour, art, in a place of possibility.
For the attention of the prison governor.
Dear Miss Holmes,
I avoided Cora for as long as possible, catching a glimpse of her shaggy hair in the distance as she explored the park and the exhibits. I’m glad to say she gave me no trouble. But for a ruffling of my ‘feathers’, I wouldn’t have known she was there.
Quite early on, she relaxed her façade around Jez and Chris. I was happy to see it when Cora began laughing, dreaming, and finding herself, even if it made the distance between us vaster. The men were easy to work with, but how could I make things easier between us? I didn’t possess Jez’s easy wit or Chris’s honest intensity. I was weird and brittle.
But I wanted to know her better, Miss. Nobody embraced art as Cora did, or at least if they did, I hadn’t seen it. Her honesty when she saw a piece she didn’t like or heard something she disagreed with made me laugh to the point of crying. What a load of fucking shit. I’d grown tired of people fawning over me, Miss, as if I were a goddess instead of plain old Sky. What I’d been missing was a woman who could make me laugh and who, like me, had failed at the things adults are supposed to embrace, like waking up in a woman’s arms on Christmas morning and holding her hand; the things most people take for granted.
I read somewhere that loneliness is the killer of our time. Certainly, it followed me around like a shadow wherever I went. I wanted to matter and to do the things others did so effortlessly—friendships, dates, homes, families. But it was as impossible as catching water in my hands. How could I talk to Cora without wincing? Her sorrows were also mine, visible on her face and in everything she did. Her voice spoke loudly of whatever had led her to prison. Because the loss of her family was carved into her throat forever. How could two such as we become friends? Could one volcano merge with another and not cause more devastation?
My art had consumed me for many years, but not utterly. A sad, flickering light deep inside me wanted more.
