Rope Ladder

There had been no chance of sleeping well the night before, but still, plenty of hope. After 2 a.m, the hope faded, but at least she drifted off some time soon after that. In the morning, her eyes stung and the rolling of the train made them beg for sleep, but unfortunately, the nervous feeling in her stomach wouldn’t let her eyes close for more than a few minutes between stations – Staplehurst, Marden, Paddock Wood… No use. The woman opposite her stretched in her seat and grunted uncommonly loudly, which was disconcerting but welcomely distracting. The peak time ticket had burned a hole in her debit card and given her another thing to think about; if she did get the job, would she end up spending all of her money on train fares?

Don’t worry about it, just try not to look nervous in the interview. You might not even get the job, no use in getting worked up about it.

The plan was to get to Goldsmiths early, have a drink, get her bearings, and look composed, and definitely not sweaty. The previous week’s trip up with T had been a reconnaissance mission, figuring out the trains and setting eyes on the campus for the first time. It was worth it, at least she wouldn’t get on the wrong one again. Wouldn’t it be good to get a part-time job on the same campus at which she was doing her MA? Probably a bit too good to be true. What if she managed to say something hideously inappropriate in the interview? At least let it be funny. If it all went horribly wrong, at least it would be an experience to learn from. Please don’t let it go horribly wrong! she thought. Fiddling with facebook on the train would fill the time.

I hate feeling like this – nervous and slightly sick to my stomach.

Three minutes later, three comments:

John Plummer: Interview?

Mark Maguire: Disposing of a body again?

Lewis Arnold: Sugar shock?

Funny. But why couldn’t she keep it to herself? Now if she didn’t get the job, everyone would know. She’d already told Ali, though. And it was no use, the only way to get past it was to confess all, even if only into the ether.

The morning went as planned – early arrival, checking appearance in the toilets, sipping on a cup of tea (less leisurely as the time slipped by) and finally, taking up position outside of the meeting room.

Check time, look nonchalant, try to sound like you have a clue what you’re doing.

After an age of nonchalantly reading and re-reading the same page of her book, a figure opened the door.

“Leeanne?”

“Yes.”

Well, that went well.

It went. It had gone. Quickly. She wondered if she should go in search of a few galleries while she was up here – make the most of that ticket – but inspecting her reflection before rolling back out onto New Cross Road, the blooming sweat patches on her grey jumper told her to get back on the train and go straight home. Maybe they didn’t see that.

It was the last day of the exhibition, the last day invigilating, and the last tie left to the university and the college. She stared at Laura’s installation, streaming, insanely vivid spirals of sprinkler hose, strimmer cord and yarn, and felt sad in spite of it. Was it sadness, or just fatigue? It had been a good decision not to go for a drink with the band after the previous night’s rehearsal. The invitation was tempting, of course, as the new bass player had a story about everyone in the music industry, it seemed; “I met Bob Marley,” he said. How funny, he actually did say it in italics, she thought. But the drive back home had been wearing, and by the time she parked outside the house, she felt permanently creased and car-seat shaped.

Since the degree show went up in Chatham, nothing had stopped. There had been two days in the last week when she was free, but what did she actually do? They weren’t just blurred, they had disappeared in a flurry of driving. It had taken six hours in all to get to Basingstoke, do the site visit, then drive back to Kent to collect T from school – all in the hope of making a winning proposal for a commission. There was no knowing whether it would be worth any of it, especially after seeing the number of artists there – the odds shrank visibly as yet more and more latecomers trickled into the room for the briefing – but the entire experience made her feel like a professional. In on it. This is my job, of course, she thought. She’d like to be paid for it at some point in the not too far future.

That day, there had been less than an hour between getting back from the school run to getting into the car to make the 16:09 train to London Bridge. All in order to look at some feminist crochet. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It was partly to have a look around Goldsmiths at last, and to try to work out how long the commute would be, door-to-door.

T was getting accustomed to private views, but that didn’t mean he was impressed. He didn’t seem to notice the two crocheted penises on display. Either that, or he did, and found them, as well as the crocheted breasts, entirely unremarkable. After playing hide and seek with the staff upstairs, he chose a moment when the exhibition was full of people, and yelled, “Can we go home now, Mum?” Chuckles from the room followed by a quick exit for a glass of wine.

One hour and forty-five minutes, door-to-door.

She had to come up with a plan. Or money for a childminder. She also had to come up with a band name, but that was the least troublesome thing to come up with.

Talking to Ali usually made things clearer, as though her kitchen had magical calmative qualities – probably the tea – but this time, it wasn’t as easy. The ideas suddenly seemed too vague, and to make things worse, there was a new idea for a proposal; usually a good thing, but in this case, a proposal for an entirely different project, and the energy for coming up with anything for the commission seemed to be fading away. When she got home from Chatham, she would leave the evidence of the her degree in the car, and go to bed.

A couple of days to think, then time to finish the two writing projects she’d started – can’t put them off any more, she thought – and then she could concentrate. She hoped.

Ali folded her dried washing and dropped it into the basket. The kids were watching a movie in the other room while their mothers hid in the kitchen, and for a while, no-one was screaming. Lee filled the kettle from the tap and started,

“I went into the loft today and came down with some ideas. I came down with the glass bits of that desk, which was actually what I went up there for in the first place, but I gotta go back for the legs when I can find a torch.”

“What desk?”

“That desk that Patrick had in the spare room, his office desk. I want to sell it at a boot fair or something. I should sell this stuff on ebay but I don’t want the hassle of posting anything. I want people to just come up to me and take my junk away, and give me some money for the privilege.”

“What junk? I might want some of it. But not if it’s junk junk, just good junk. What’s the idea?”

“Well, you know how I’m slightly obsessed with being evicted. Or having to move. That’s partly why I had the camper van.”

“Nutter.”

“Yeah, I know. I thought I’d get the desk bits down now while I was putting a suitcase back up there, so that at least it could be ready to go to the next boot fair on the cricket pitch. But there was just so much stuff up there. Just so much stuff. What on earth am I going to do with it if I have to move?”

“You’re doing your usual thing and going nuts over something that hasn’t happened and probably won’t for a long time. Just tell me what the idea was. Was it my jam and bread on the horse’s head?”

“No, but I’m still pinching that. Where would I get a horse though?”

“I want credit for that! You see? I could have been an artist too. And don’t forget the rose petal idea I gave you.”

“Oh yes! Anyway. I’ve got these two sheds and a loft full of detritus from my past life, and no money to buy materials. So instantly I was like, “I need to use this fabric somehow,” but the problem is, I keep thinking about the things I used to make, and the leftovers from that time kinda spoils it for me. For one thing, I think the patterns are going to be too obvious. And I don’t really know if I want to bury all of that time or talk about it with the new artwork.”

“Why would you want to bury it? You’re just turning into a snobby artist. It’s too ‘crafty’ for you now?”

“Gimme a break. I was always a snobby artist inside. But seriously, I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to that; since I stopped, I haven’t had the time or inclination to sew anything. Katrina, one of the girls on my course, said it was like I’d come full circle too soon. The circle is still too small, that’s all. It’s all in my head. Like the knitting! I was knitting like crazy for months, then I remember the morning Patrick said he wanted a divorce, and I was knitting a jumper for T; I put it down and haven’t knitted a stitch since. Thing is, I’m not traumatised by knitting, but it’s such a cool story, with the “I haven’t touched it since!” that I can’t be bothered to break it up by knitting again. It’s been six years and I might be able to drag it out forever if I’m careful. Such a waste of all that wool though. And all those needles I bought.”

“Well, you can always crochet if you feel the urge. Get the milk out of the fridge. Have you ever been dumped mid-macramé?”

“Har, har. What I was going to tell you about was when I went to Basingstoke to do a site visit for this commission. It’s a craft commission. And I was thinking, aha, I can do that! But I didn’t know what I wanted to do exactly. But then the same night I went up to Goldsmiths and looked at some feminist crochet.”

“As you do.”

“Of course. So like I said, I have some ideas…”