Oliver's Exhibition - STRONG LANGUAGE ALERT

Oliver’s exhibition (STRONG LANGUAGE ALERT – DON’T READ IF SWEARING OFFENDS YOU)

This is an excerpt from a novel I have in progress. Oliver is a young sculptor who works as Artist-in-residence at an art college in London. He has just completed an elaborate ‘sculpture’, which involves computers and lighting banks as well as more conventional elements, and this sculpture is to be exhibited in a prestigious gallery. His gran, Liz, has paid for the work, and been involved in its creation. She is now in a hospice, dying.

Oliver is married to Carole, who is expecting their first child.

*       *       *       *

“Olly. You are going to be with me when your daughter’s born, aren’t you?”

Carole looks diffident, slightly miserable. Neither is typical of her; neither suits her.

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“I’m frightened, Olly. I need you.”

Poor Carole. I embrace her, carefully, around the bump. “Of course, I’ll be there, my love.” I cross the fingers of my left hand behind my back – not to negate the promise, but because Carole might go into labour while they’re loading my sculpture onto the flat-bed truck. Or while I’m in the gallery, frantically trying to wire it up to the multiple computers and lighting banks that it needs. Or at the preview, when the critics will be out in force. Oh God, there’s so much that could go wrong. Still, today is Monday, the sculpture moves tomorrow, I have Wednesday and Thursday to connect and check everything, Friday is the preview, and Carole isn’t due until Sunday. All I need is reasonable luck.

Look, I’d love to have planned it better, but babies come nine months after conception, and to exhibit in a decent gallery you take the dates you’re given. I was bloody lucky to be offered an exhibition at all, even with Clive Trevelyan pulling strings for me. Just as well he chipped in with some more cash too. I haven’t told Liz about that yet.

Poor Liz. She sounded really poorly the other night when I phoned. I hoped so much she’d make it to the preview, but the doc says not a chance. She might not live until then, and even if she does she’ll be far too unwell to attend. I’m sad about that. I shall wish for a miracle.

“Olly.”

I look down at the woman in my arms. So beautiful she moves me almost to tears. And carrying our child, there, in that fluid-filled sac, so heavy, so precious. Life is full of miracles. I wonder if my dad felt like this about me?

I stroke our unborn child gently. I can feel her, pushing hard as though to break free into the world. Carole nuzzles into my shoulder. “Olly, you’re going to be such a good dad.”

I fizz with delight. Carole knows these things. If she thinks I’ll be a good dad, that’s what I’ll be.

“I shall certainly do my best, my love.”

We cuddle silently.

Minutes pass.

Carole detaches herself.

“You want to plan now. I can feel it. Good idea.”

She’s right. As usual. I love holding her. I felt our child stirring in her womb. And yet my thoughts had turned to the sculpture. There’s just such a lot to do. I kiss her, and leave for the studio.

*       *       *       *       *

I have laboriously prepared protective foam liners and glued them to the sides of the boxes that will transport my creation to the gallery. All the removers have to do is assemble the cases, bolt them together and load them with reasonable care onto the truck. Heaven help us. Who have they sent me? Is this the third eleven?

“It goes the other way up.” (Fuckwit) “The arrows and the words ‘This way up’ are meant to give you a bit of a clue”

“Sorry, guv. Thought that meant when we move it, like.”

“It does as well.”

If he turns it upside down, I shall turn him upside down and use his head as a football.

Right. That’s the main section in the box, and they’re bolting everything together. Let’s give Carole a call.

The foreman comes over while Carole’s number is ringing.

“How heavy did you say this thing is?”

I show him the phone and give him a V sign. “Two minutes, mate”.

He shrugs. “I don’t think we can move it. Not unless we repack. Too heavy.”

“Hi, Carole, All well? All quiet in maternity?” Soothing noises. Good. I needed that. “Yeah, well, it’s in progress. We’ll manage. Love you!”

“Right. What’s the problem? That wagon’s designed to take twenty fucking tons.”

“Yeah, it is. That’s twenty fucking tons that we fucking drive on there, mate, not two tons that we put on our fucking backs and carry.”

What? Are they kidding? The contract specified exactly what the sculpture, in its container, weighs, and what its dimensions are.

“You are fucking pulling my pisser. Are you telling me you don’t have the kit to load the box onto the wagon?”

“Not here, no. Probably got something back at the depot.”

“Have it brought here. Now.”

“Nobody there. Tomorrow at the earliest, mate.”

“Not fucking good enough. Your contract says you move my sculpture to the gallery today, and that’s what you’ll do.”

“Love to oblige, mate, but one small snag. I can’t move this fucking big box with your fucking piece of paper.”

Tomorrow will be too late. It’s going to take hours and hours to position and align everything correctly.

Right. There’s an overhead crane in here. The truck can back up further until it’s underneath it. There are lots of scaffolding poles that we can push through channels in the base of the box, that I constructed out of pallets. So, provided someone in the college can operate the crane, we can lift the sculpture onto the lorry. That leaves unloading at the gallery.

I’m six feet four and eighteen stone and seriously pissed off. Time to get heavy.

“Bob.”

“Yes, mate?”

“I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to think very carefully about the answer. Because if you give me the wrong answer, I am going to rearrange your face against the back of your lorry. Understand?”

“Now then. Don’t you threaten me. I don’t have to take this kind of thing.”

“This way then, if you please.”

“Oi! I can’t answer your question unless you ask it, can I?”

I stop.

“I think I know how we can get the box onto the lorry. Can you unload it at the gallery by four o’clock this afternoon?”

“Yes, of course we can. Don’t know what you’re making such a to-do about.”

“Good. Here’s what you do, then.” I explain and they set to work. Neil. Neil Bream. Please, please, please answer the phone.

“Oliver! How’s it going?”

“We’ve had a little hiccup, Neil. I need someone to operate the crane to load the sculpture onto the lorry.”

“Ah. We may have a small problem there. Larry, the senior technician, was the original operator, but then he retired. I’m not sure we trained a replacement, because we’d never actually used the crane. Let me check. Assume, for the moment, that I’ll find someone. All okay otherwise?”

“Yeah. Yeah, fine.”

“Good. Stay calm, Oliver. We’ll get you sorted. This means a lot to the college. You’re going to wow them on Friday.”

Nice man! I wanna have his babies.

“Thanks, Neil. I really appreciate it.”

“That’s fine. Ciao.”

And Neil is as good as his word. By 1 o’clock he’s in the studio in person with Larry. Soon my boxes are being raised slowly, methodically, carefully onto the lorry.

“How did you manage that?” I enquire.

Neil grins. “Our esteemed Director was only too pleased to call Larry in. He’s one of our approved contractors and we’re paying him a retainer. This month he’s earning it for a change.”

I will never understand how the world of money works. (So true, sighs Carole). Every month, the college pays Larry for doing nothing. How come? Still, there are more pressing matters.

I check the straps holding the containers in place, while Bob looks on with an injured expression but saying nothing. I check the address he’s been given, and the map showing the gallery location, and the plan showing how he is to gain access. All okay.

I have never been this nervous in my life, even in Chechnya.

The lorry leaves. Heart in mouth I watch as it pulls out of the mews entrance. There can’t have been more than a few millimeters between the biggest case and the corner of the building.

“Quick one for the road, Oliver? Brace you up.”

“Too much to do that needs a clear head, Neil. Sorry.”

“I’m sure you’re wise.” He grips my shoulder. It’s strangely reassuring, and I find myself relaxing. Time to call Carole. Good again. No contractions, just normal baby movements. As I ring off, the phone goes again. Dad.

“Hi, dad.”

“Hi, Oliver. I’ve just been in with your gran. She was insistent I should wish you luck with the show.” Oh, Liz, Liz, how I wish you could be there. You’d be so surprised; and delighted, I think. “She’s near the end, Oliver. The doctor says she’ll probably become unconscious within thirty six hours and slip away some time in the following day or two. Is there any chance at all you could make it down here to Rosemount?”

“I’m so sorry, dad, there’s no chance at all. There’s a million things I must finish for the show. And Carole’s due on Sunday.”

Dad understands. He always did. Mum could never see how important my work is to me. I’ve got to do it, and I’ve got to do it right. That’s just how it is.

*       *       *       *       *

At three fifty-five precisely, the truck with my sculpture on the back reverses neatly into the gallery’s rear access. By four thirty the boxes have been unloaded and dismantled. The components of the sculpture are in approximately the right places, dominating the centre of the main exhibition space. I gloat over it. No damage. All as it should be.

The massive central section of glass, polished chrome, lacquered steel, and light emitting diodes, stands waiting to be woken into life by carefully programmed illumination. My fingers are itching to complete the set-up and ensure that ambient light won’t dilute the work’s impact. I wonder how late they’ll let me work on it tonight? I’d better check with Estelle, the gallery’s Exhibition Manager.

Her office at the rear of the gallery is formidably neat. One wall is entirely filled with lever arch files of exhibitions in chronological order. Each holds a meticulous record of the works, the reviews – and the sales. Estelle herself is perfect. From the top of her elaborately coiffed hair to the soles of her Manolo Blahniks, she exudes confidence. Her hands are manicured (of course), the nails lacquered to a high gloss. Her perfume is subtle and understated. It’s almost five o’clock and she’s been working since seven this morning.

“Estelle? How late can I work setting up tonight, please?”

“Five o’clock, Oliver. You’ve read the contract I expect.”

“Mmm, yes, I’m afraid I rather hoped…”

“I lock the gallery door at 17:00, setting the alarms as I go. Anyone inside the building will trigger the alarms. The police will arrive very, very quickly, because sometimes we have valuable pieces here.”

Ouch. I know my work isn’t valued at millions, but it may be some day.

I nod and smile pleasantly. Alright for tonight, but I’ll have to plan carefully for tomorrow. There’s a lot of work to be done.

“Tomorrow you may work from 08:00 until 17:00. It’s in the contract.”

Even as we speak she has tidied her desk, locked filing cabinets and checked that the safe is secure.

“After you,” she says.

“Would you like a drink?” I ask, more in hope than expectation.

“Why, that’s very nice of you, Oliver.” She glances at her watch. It appears to be set with diamonds; Cartier, I suppose. “Yes, I have half an hour. This way.”

It’s not far.

Oh boy.

There is a slight mismatch between my appearance and that of every other person in the bar. I am in a scruffy tee-shirt and frayed jeans; not fashionably scruffy, but working person scruffy. The other customers are immaculate. I wonder about the total value of jewellery in the room. Estelle perches herself, legs crossed, on a high stool by the bar. There is a little smile on her face.

“Francis. Two of your specials, please.” The barman nods, greets her by name, and busies himself with bottles, ice, shakers. He places two ice cold glasses on the bar, and a cocktail shaker.

“You’ve not had this before, sir. The best way to drink it, if I may suggest, is to leave it for two minutes before you pour it into the glass.” He hands me the bill.

Ah. Time for the credit card. Oh dear.

I pay.

Estelle opens the shaker and pours first my drink and then her own.

“Your health.” She is still smiling, and watching me intently.

“And yours.” I sip my drink. My goodness. What the hell is in this? Electricity? Certainly chilli of the hottest variety. Vodka? The effect of the alcohol is instant. Perhaps it’s Polish spirit, 140 proof? But there are sweet flavours in there as well. It’s all I can do to maintain my equanimity.

Estelle swallows a large mouthful. “That feels better,” she says. “It’s been a hard day.”

I nod, and take another cautious taste. The drink is icy cold, but my mouth feels as though it’s on fire. My lips are tingling furiously. With the third sip, the alcohol starts to have an anaesthetic effect. I could learn to enjoy this, I think, but in moderation only; I couldn’t afford to be anything other than moderate, frankly.

Estelle glances round the lounge, and points out several people who have been good customers at the gallery. One of them catches her eye, smiles and waves. She waves back.

“Do you need to go over and say hello?”

“Oh, no. They understand when I’m working.”

“This is work?”

“Of course. Tell me about Carole. She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Due any day now.”

“How lovely. Is the nursery all ready?”

She takes another gulp of her drink. I somehow expect to see her breathe fire, but no; her hair does not curl, steam does not vent from her ears, and she remains immaculate, her image as highly polished as a Rolls-Royce in a showroom.

I venture a larger mouthful of mine. It’s no good; I shall have to blow my nose. Thank goodness I have a handkerchief. Mind you, I cringe as I draw it out. It’s been in the studio for goodness sake, the place where I paint, and where I occasionally spill coffee and beer – what do you expect it to look like? I’m conscious, too, of perspiration on my forehead.

Estelle glances at her watch. The diamonds (cubic zirconia, I bet you, insinuates Carole) flash. “Well, nice though this is, I have a train to catch.” She downs the remainder of her drink. “Goodbye, Oliver. See you at eight tomorrow, I expect.” I watch her as she leaves. Her movements are smooth without being graceful. I finish my drink, trying not to weep.

The barman takes my glass. “Another one, sir?”

“No. No, thank you. I’d best be on my way. What the hell was in that drink anyway?”

Francis smiles with the thinnest of thin lips. “Trade secret, sir. Unique to this establishment. I hope you enjoyed it. Goodbye.”

I vacate my stool carefully, aware that the cocktail has affected me. I’d better go home to Carole. Out in the street, as I walk to the underground, I feel as though I’m floating. It’s a lovely feeling, and I grin happily at the passers by. I want to let everybody know that soon I shall be a dad. I shall be holding a baby girl, and that will be awesome. One cocktail and I’m pissed. That’s ridiculous. And it’s happy pissed, not routine, matter-of-course-every-weekend pissed. It’s a long time since I’ve felt so very, very cheerful. Any minute now I shall break out into song.

Luckily for the other pedestrians I catch sight of a policeman and think better of it.