Tottie Nadin, roving reporter for the Western Isles Wanderer..
I looked everywhere for Tom on my latest trip to Tolsta. The open sign was out but there was no sign of the man himself. The studio was open and no artist in residence. I tried the garden, did the full tour. Looking wonderful despite the terrible weather we’ve been having. I’m always amazed how foxgloves can withstand such a battering, and don’t the bumble bees just love them.
I knocked on the front door, peered through windows but no sign of life. Ringing the studio bell produced no result so I decided to take a free peek anyway. The place looked more crammed than ever and there was no sign of any sales as far as I could tell. He’d finished the cemetery painting with the addition of a raven. Not sure that I didn’t prefer it in the unfinished state.
There was a new painting on the easel, a bit more saleable in subject matter with brightly coloured crofters cottages and rusty tin roofed blackhouse barns. I also spotted a shoal of fish, which must be a new line since they are so eye catching I’m sure I would have noticed them during my previous visits. I’d have liked to have bought one but as usual there were no prices. I left a little note so he will at least know I called.
I assume he was away at the peats again. The front door was
locked but why leave the open sign up. This place is so infused with Tom’s
creativity that got the strangest of feeling that somehow here and watching me,
just a feeling. I must phone first next time although I somehow doubt he’ll
answer. Last time he told me he could now get a weak mobile reception from his
bedroom window.
Tom.
I’m not proud of myself. When I heard that Tottie woman calling my name I didn’t reply, but remained hidden in the makeshift plastic greenhouse tucked away behind the walls of the roofless lambs shed. She hung about for a good while, even rang the studio bell, but I stayed put trimming side shoots from the tomato plants. She presumably thought I’d wandered off somewhere, but I gave it a good fifteen minutes before returning to the studio, only to find a note by some painted fish I made last week and wanting to know the price. I suppose that means she’ll be back!
Why the hell do I bother? After another no visits week and a dreary miserable start to the day I decided to do some baking, that usually makes me feel better. I’d made a good start, got the pastry ready and just needed of Swiss chard, sage and parsley from the garden. As I stepped outside I was met with growling and barking from two Labrador dogs being walked by their owner. I did the friendly social think and said good morning even though it patently wasn’t, and he replied with a question, could he put the plastic bag of dog pooh in my bin. “No problem” I said, although I’ve never understood why anyone would want to bag up dog pooh, not way out here, just flick it into the ditch or better still train the dogs to go in the ditch. I must have said something about opening up which led to him asking about Studio 17 and saying he’d call in after the girls had come back from their pony trekking. So I thought in that case I’ll put the open sign up and show good willing. Needless to say they didn’t call in.
By mid–day I’d baked a fruit cake, quiche, and two pasties
and was assembling a rhubarb custard tart when a blond haired woman passed the
kitchen window. I popped out and explained I would be with her and was just
putting a tart in the oven. It couldn’t have been more than three minutes when
I saw her pass the window again, and assumed she had maybe gone to collect her
husband. No sign of her returning I looked out of the parlour window to see the
little red car had gone. No acknowledgement or thanks, and dam it no £5 entry!
It was all over so quickly I suspected a smash and grab, but not even that.
Is that’s all my creative effort is worth, three minutes and a bag of dog pooh?!
The doctors have repeatedly said I should avoid all forms of
stress, so it looks like I’ll have to go back to strictly by appointment only.
