Chapter 1.8

 

Except her Aunty, on her father's side.

Aunty Finn had been an artist. Not a successful one, it had to be said. She made an independent living as a Capitalist Pig, as she called it, since she'd inherited the building she lived in -- The Old Mill -- and a series of outbuildings she'd refurbished and turned into crafter's studios. The rent from those, plus a small stipend from the British Heritage Fund for restoring the mill to working order and allowing visitors every Thursday and Saturday afternoon, paid her enough to keep her bank balance above the overdraft and the lights and heat on in both house and studios. She'd also given lessons in painting, and had a side hustle of selling watercolours, etchings and prints of the Mill and surrounding Fen. Róisín had always thought that it was only because her aunt lived on the very edge of Laverstone that she was able to avoid the soul-crushing despair the town infected all the other residents with, although if you asked a random shopper in the market town, they would always say it was a nice place to live. But then, sheep would probably say that the day before they were sold to the nearest supermarket chain.

She remembered the first time her aunt had given her a lesson in painting. She'd been staying at the Mill while her mum was in the hospital having what she referred to as 'ladies' troubles' though Aunty Finn had filled in the details, explaining that she was having a hysterectomy after something nasty had happened to what might have been Róisín's brother or sister, but had elected to return to the Great Wheel instead. Her aunt always talked like that, It was the main reason her mum didn't like her very much. Not a proper Christian, in her mother's opinion. A bit too 'away with the fairies.'

She couldn't remember how old she'd been at the time. Not old enough to have given up on the rag doll she'd had since before she could remember. Aunty Finn had been surprised to see it, since it had been she who had made it as a birthing gift for Róisín and was sure her mum would have got rid of it the moment her back was turned. Davey, it had been called, and Róisín couldn't help but smile at the memory of the little patchwork doll that had been her companion through early childhood. Spindly limbs like a deformed spider, a snout like a dog, and a tail like a monkey, it had held her laughter, her tears and all the secrets a five-year old could whisper into its pointed ears without telling a soul.

It had been late autumn or early winter. One of those mornings that smelled of wet leaves and half-remembered conkers, when she'd seen all the cartoons the television had to offer and had tired of watching videos on the internet. Without any toys to play with, since her mum had been rushed off in an ambulance with her dad following in his work van, and Aunty Finn had virtually no experience of looking after a child other than the vague awareness Róisín had to be fed, clothed and kept safe, the nearest she had to suitable toys were some old, boring comics and some Lego that had once belonged to an uncle who'd died years before Róisín was born. It wasn't that she hated Lego, it was just an old box of tiny pieces from models from an ancient film. A film that was Boring.

"Come on, then." Aunty Finn had made her put on her coat and walk down to the studio where she worked, past the Smith's where the ironwork outside was gathering more rust than the Fourth Bridge (only God knew where the other three were) and the glassblowers. Róisín was disappointed that the glass studio was closed. She loved the tiny models the woman made of spun glass and rainbows, and the pictures she made by fusing tiny slivers of colour into leaded frames. Finn's studio door creaked open like an old sound effect, and dust rose into the air in puffs as they entered, sparkling in the fingers of cold sunshine creeping around the stacks of paper and canvases.

Finn had set her up with a table easel and a swathe of coloured bottles. Ink, she called them, though Róisín had never seen ink in anything other than blue or black before, and the red that only a teacher was allowed to use.