There was a rustling in the overhanging trees near the unlatched iron front gate. With the wind, the gate kept making squeaking and rattling noises as it continued to bang back an forth. The garden looked as though it hadn’t been tended to for a while, which was strange given the owner of the dwelling was normally quite fastidious.
The verandah was sheltered from the wind and up against the front door was a mounting pile of parcels in all shapes and sizes. Regardless of the fact they were in clear shelter and in no way open to the wind, the parcels were moving. They were making rattling noises and knocking eachother, nudging and niggling like irritable school kids.
One parcel has a note stuck to the outside of it but the attachment is loose and flapping.
Neighbours on their evening walks admiring the houses along the street, note the eerieness of this dwelling. They know it’s a gallery but feel uncomfortable that it’s become so neglected looking in such a short period of time. One regular passerby grabs the gate and latches it securely to it’s hook and walks on. Only a few seconds later, the latch has released itself and is banging again.
A young man arrives in an old car and parks outside. He looks at the house and sees the signage is flapping and notices the pile of parcels at the front door wondering if he’s come to the right place.
As he enters the gate slowly walking up the sandy path in the wind he gets to the verandah. He appreciates the shelter of the wind but cannot understand the movement of the parcels. He has his own box and sees the parcel with the note flapping and grabs it just in time before it flies away.
This isn’t what he was expecting. He had been told that this was an operational gallery but everything was looking a so derelict.
The envelope is making crinkling sounds in his hands which he cannot understand as his hand hasn’t moved. He puts down the box and though feeling intrusive opens the letter. It’s addressed to a lady named Bonnie of Artisan Experience.
The note says:
Dear Bonnie,
I hope you’re still there. I haven’t heard from you for a few weeks so I’m just leaving a piece for you, hoping that you can find a spot for it.
I’d heard a little while ago that you’d been unwell and I’m writing this note on your verandah. Please call me when you can. I’ll call in on Emma soon too.
Keep in touch.
Trish.
The young man folded the note and retrieved his phone and googled Artisan Experience. Sure enough the details of this address came up with Bonnie Ryan being the curator, but there was also a note below her details saying for any further details, please call Emma. Her mobile was listed there along with another contact address.
He went back to his car and typed the address into the GPS to find out who Emma was.
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