THE BACKROOM
It was a cloudless autumn day in November, along the shingle coast of Sussex. The estate agent, who smelt faintly of ketchup, showed us round number 86 Blackbury Avenue. We entered through the Edwardian shop front. The weather peeled panes were black with gold trim, the sign above read: Manning and son. ‘Do you know what they sold?’ said Jane. The estate agent shrugged and began to describe the house. ‘Large family living room, galley kitchen in need of refurbishment, bathroom bedroom, upstairs,’ said the estate agent in a robotic phrase to phrase check list. After the tour of upstairs, he led us down and into the backroom opposite the kitchen. It was a large and stuffy workshop. There was an old apron sink, some thick wooden work tops, and a strange smell that was unpleasant and familiar. Jane’s eyes shone like emeralds. ‘This will make a perfect studio Donny,’ said Jane. She was an artist. And now she would have the space to