Congratulations to James Edwards, my Son the Artist

House on the Hill has won a place in The Young Artist's Summer Show at THE ROYAL ACADEMY in London! (And half a hard lesson in planting spring bulbs)

This is a screenshot from my email inbox. At the top it says it was 8.15 at night. I don’t remember exactly but I will remember that feeling, forever. I will hold it tight and make myself feel it over and over - that burst of beautiful pride (that makes parents light up inside and out). It was a few weeks back now, when I received the news, in the the first week of May. I know it was a Monday because I’d been to college that day. I was studying horticulture at The Duchy College in Camborne, Cornwall. We had a strange afternoon. We were sitting in the classroom struggling to concentrate because there was a seagull tapping on the window with its beak - Rat a tat tat. They’re massive things up close. It had a head like a fist, eyes like a devilish robot, shifting in a rapid blink from side to side, a beak like a witches yellow fingernail making a sharp ‘tap, tap’ on the glass. Our tutor, a proper Cornish lovely chap called Mike, was telling us - ‘Bury bulbs at least three times their depth.’ I was scribbling notes around the pictures on the handout, straining to hear over the screech of my tinnitus and the ‘tap-tap’ of the gull.

Galanthus nivalis - snow drop, good choice for naturalisation, create a woodland effect, spring flowering-’

TAP TAP

rata tat tat

Our heads turned to the window.

‘Message of doom, that is!’ Mike said.

This bird was desperate for our attention. An urgent message? It was going round in my head, Message of doom, a bird at your door, a message of doom? And then I thought, OH YES, of course, I know what this is.

I’d seen this before. And on it went for twenty minutes and more.

I got my phone out and tapped into Google, Birds knocking at your window… The search result went something like this: Folklore says when birds knock at your window it means that death is near or that your life is about to change.’ I turned to my class mate. ‘Next time we come to class they’ll be someone missing,’ I whispered. She looked horrified for a second but then we both laughed. In a short time she had got to know my warped sense of humour. But the tap tapping went on and no one could take their eyes off it. And where was I? Corners in dark rooms were waking up and pulling me in. I could see those two big fat gulls on the window sill of our room in the hospice, every day they came…

I’ve decided to cut the rest of the story for now. I’m too unsettled (a suitcase half packed) to finish editing it. Over tiredness has thrown a fog over me and certainty and confidence have fled. The story gets too sad, I don’t want to put you off my writing. It’s 5.30 in the morning. Today, Saturday the 16th July 2022, the country is facing an unprecedented heat wave. The met office has given a warning for danger to life and in four hours time I will be boarding a train at Bodmin parkway heading to London Paddington. It will be like getting off a plane in a different hemisphere. I’m worried about the heat. I remember living in London in my twenties and I found the summer hard. There was no air and I was homesick. Anyway, on arrival at the station Simon and I will cross to platform number one and walk down to the Paddington Bear statue and fiercely try to embody the presence of our absent son. We will say, James, we are here at last, on our Paddington tour that we promised you. Kidding myself I will look around, for a sign, a falling feather, a bee or a bird out of place, a sudden rush of air, anything to feel that you still exist in some way. Oh, James, You are here, there, everywhere and yet you are not. Tomorrow we will see your painting hanging in The Royal Academy for all to see that you are a true artist. I am so proud of you. In the afternoon we will go to St Paul’s Cathedral and think of the story when Paddington, on a visit with Mr Gruber, somehow get’s caught up in the choir! And then, of course, there’s Portabello Road, The Palace, Little Venice, all the places in your favourite stories.

I am writing quickly. I need to finish my packing, make a picnic for the train. (Cold beer most important.) I need to pack for Ernie our dog. He is going on holiday to my brothers. Uncle James will be here at 9 am to collect him. I will cry as I watch him follow my brother up the garden path.

I was going to post the rest of the story about the lesson on bulbs. But I don’t want to upset you when we are off to London to see the painting. This is a happy exciting time.

I want to share but why? Is it wise? Is it necessary to write about those final days at the hospice? Why should I keep it all to myself? It’s too big and too heavy. I’ve got so much to do, I must go, water my sweet peas, cut some for my neighbour, make coffee, wake Simon. ON and on, the head spins and races like this when you’re going away, doesn’t it. I associate bag packing with trips to Bristol Children’s hospital so my stomach ties itself up in knots until I am barely breathing. Anyway I am sure when I am settled again I will look at the rest of the story and share it with you.

See below a photograph of James and his Buppy taken in Skiathos, Greece, May 2018 when he was three.

And finally you can go and see The Young Artist’s Summer Show between 19th July and 14th August. Entry is free.