Kate and Clara's Curious Cornish Craft Shop: The heart-warming, romantic read we all need right now

by Ali McNamara

  So sorry I’ve not been in touch.

  Speak very soon, I hope.

  J x

  ‘Who sent these?’ I ask Poppy.

  Poppy shrugs. ‘It was an internet order, I think. I’d have to ask Amber – she makes up all the bouquets.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘How many people do you know whose name begins with J that might send you flowers though?’ she points out. ‘There can’t be that many.’

  I think about this. Could it be Jack apologising for the other night? It didn’t seem his style, but then how well did I actually know him? Every encounter we had seemed to end awkwardly.

  ‘No, there’s not,’ I reply, deliberately trying to dodge answering her question. ‘It’s a mystery.’

  ‘Ooh, someone’s popular!’ Sebastian cries, appearing at the top of the stairs. ‘Who’s sending you flowers, Kate – a secret admirer perhaps?’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ I reply hurriedly, tucking the card in my jeans pocket.

  ‘It’s from someone with the initial J,’ Poppy blurts out before I can stop her. ‘But Kate doesn’t know who?’

  ‘Oh really?’ Sebastian says, with one eyebrow raised. ‘Now who might we know who has a name beginning with J … Hmm.’ He pretends to think. ‘Could it be the local art-shop owner, perhaps?’

  ‘Jack?’ Poppy asks, her eyes wide. ‘I didn’t know you two were an item!’

  ‘We’re not,’ I quickly retort. ‘They’re not from Jack.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Sebastian asks, looking at Poppy. ‘There must have been a card.’

  Poppy glances at me, but I shake my head with the tiniest of movements while glaring fiercely at her.

  ‘Anonymous,’ she says quickly. ‘We get them sometimes.’

  ‘Even more curious,’ Sebastian says, looking at each of us, ‘when you said just now they were from someone with the initial J.’

  I sigh. ‘Okay, there was a card,’ I say, pulling it from my pocket. ‘Here.’

  Sebastian examines the card. ‘Anita said you and Jack argued the other night. Why can’t they be from him?’

  I was beginning to regret telling anyone anything about Jack. They seemed to spend all their free time gossiping about me.

  ‘Argued about what?’ Poppy asks.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I reply. ‘Really,’ I insist, when both of them open their mouths to ask more questions. ‘These flowers won’t be from Jack. I’ll just have to wait and see whether my mystery admirer gets in touch another way,’ I say to appease them. ‘Now, Sebastian, we’ve got customers to attend to. Thanks for dropping these by, Poppy.’

  ‘Sure,’ Poppy says, taking the hint. ‘I need to get back to my own shop anyway. Amber is going for a dress-fitting this afternoon. I can’t believe that she and Woody are finally getting married – so exciting! Anyway, let me know if you figure the mystery out!’

  Poppy leaves, and Sebastian and I spend the rest of a busy afternoon serving customers, but all the time at the back of my mind is the niggling little question: Who had sent me the flowers that now stand blossoming in a vase on the shop counter? If it is Jack then should I thank him for them? Or should I wait until he approaches me first?

  And if it isn’t Jack, then who is it? And why are they apologising to me?

  Thirteen

  ‘Barney!’ I yell, as I watch him disappear around some rocks jutting out over the sand while the tide is out. ‘Come back here at once!’

  But Barney, usually so obedient, keeps going. I up my pace and hurry after him, jogging around the rocks.

  ‘Oh!’ I cry, startled by what I find. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘It is indeed me,’ Jack says, looking up at me while he pats Barney.

  ‘How—How are you?’ I ask, suddenly tongue-tied.

  ‘Good actually. I’m trying out my new set of wheels.’ He gestures to his wheelchair. ‘They’re made especially for sand. I’ve been waiting for them to arrive since I got here. Now I can travel across the beach at low tide like everyone else. I came down the slipway,’ he adds, ‘before you ask how I got over the soft sand.’

  I look across to the slipway, which at high tide is fully covered with water, but now while the tide is out it’s the perfect ramp for a wheelchair to travel down on to the hard compact sand.

  ‘It’s a bit like running on sand,’ Jack explains. ‘It’s more difficult than on solid surfaces, so you work harder and gain more fitness as a result.’

  ‘Ah … I see,’ I reply, not really knowing what to say. I feel a bit awkward, to be honest, as the last time we’d spoken it hadn’t exactly been friendly. ‘So now you have four wheelchairs?’

  If I could have grabbed the words back before they floated across towards Jack I would have. I’m sure he didn’t need reminding of that.

  But Jack doesn’t seem in the least bothered by my comment. ‘I suppose I do. They all have their own purpose though.’

  ‘You sound like me and bags,’ I say, trying to recover. ‘You can never have too many. Some women, it’s shoes. But me, its bags.’

  ‘Right,’ Jack says, nodding.

  ‘I mean, I’m not saying bags are like wheelchairs, obviously they’re much more important. Wheelchairs, I mean, not bags.’

  Oh Lord, I may as well dig myself a hole in the sand.

  Jack just smiles, unlike me not seeming in the least bit uncomfortable. ‘I think Barney spotted me across the sand just now,’ he says. ‘Sorry if he ran off.’

  ‘It’s fine. I wondered why he’d suddenly shot off like that – he’s usually so well behaved on walks.’

  ‘Yes …’ Jack says, watching Barney run around on the sand. There’s a slight pause in the conversation while we look at Barney, and I’m about to try to fill it but Jack gets there first:

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says suddenly, ‘about the other night.’

  I turn to look at him.

  ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at you the way I did.’

  I shrug. ‘No harm done.’

  ‘But I think there is,’ Jack insists. ‘I thought you might pop into the shop again if you were passing, but you didn’t.’

  ‘You could have come to see me,’ I say. ‘It’s not like you don’t know where I am.’

  ‘I know,’ Jack says, his head dropping towards his chest. ‘I’m not very good at words. I’m much better at actions. They say actions speak louder than words, don’t they?’ He looks up again apologetically.

  Was he talking about my flowers? He must be …

  ‘Thank you for the flowers,’ I say without thinking. ‘They are really lovely and very pretty. I have them on my shop counter.’

  ‘Flowers?’ Jack asks, looking mystified.

  Oh no, it wasn’t him. Me and my big mouth.

  ‘Did you think I’d sent you flowers?’

  ‘I … I didn’t know if it might be you?’ I reply hurriedly, trying to dig myself out of the huge hole that has appeared beneath me. It feels like I’m standing on quicksand the depth of my embarrassment is so great. ‘The card was signed J.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Jack says, holding up his hands. ‘Not me. You must have another admirer.’

  Did he just say another admirer?

  ‘Obviously I have,’ I reply lightly. ‘Aren’t I the lucky one.’

  We stare at each other for a second.

  ‘So, we, er … we never got around to comparing that second picture, did we?’ Jack says quickly, changing the subject. ‘If you’d like to pop by sometime we could try it and see if the same thing happens again?’

  ‘Promise you won’t shout this time?’ I reply teasingly, as I feel the atmosphere between us lightening by the second.

  ‘Promise,’ Jack says, saluting in return. ‘It wasn’t you I was cross with. I took my anger out on you, that’s all, and again I’m truly sorry for that.’

  ‘Who were you cross with then?’

  ‘Myself,’ Jack says so quietly I can barely hear him above the noise of the gulls and the sea breeze.

/>   ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Look, come over to mine later and I’ll explain properly,’ Jack answers. ‘If you’re free of course – it is a Friday night.’

  ‘It’s a long time since I had regular plans on Friday nights. I leave that to my daughter now. She’s off to an eighteenth birthday party later.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘I know. I’m pleased she’s being invited places, but she’s fifteen and I worry about her, probably a little too much actually.’

  ‘You’ll always do that – that’s a mother’s job. And a father’s too,’ he adds.

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Just the one – Ben. He lives with his mother now though. We split up a number of years ago.’

  ‘Ah,’ I nod with understanding. ‘But you see him regularly?’

  ‘School holidays, the odd weekend, that sort of thing. It’s easier now he’s a bit older as he can travel to see me – he recently turned eighteen.’

  ‘Then we have something else in common – the joys of bringing up teenagers!’

  Jack rolls his eyes. ‘Yup! And ain’t that fun and games!’

  Barney is getting restless now; he’s smelt all the interesting scents in the vicinity, played with the friendlier dogs on the beach and is heading back to see us.

  ‘Right, we’d better head off. I’ll pop round later then?’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Jack says. ‘Same sort of time as before?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I smile at him and give him an awkward sort of half wave as Barney and I depart across the sand together.

  ‘Barney, I won’t often tell you that you did the right thing by running off,’ I whisper to him as I pat his damp fur, ‘but today you were a star!’

  ‘What time does the party finish again?’ I ask Molly, as she looks at herself in my long mirror for what seems like the twentieth time in the last ten minutes.

  ‘I told you – we have to be out of the community centre by eleven, so not late.’

  ‘You’ll be careful, won’t you?’ I say for at least the third time.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ Molly says, turning towards me now. ‘I won’t drink alcohol.’ She counts on her fingers. ‘I won’t take drugs. And I won’t have unprotected sex.’

  My eyes open wide.

  ‘I’m joking!’ she says, grinning at me. ‘Lighten up, Mum!’

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  ‘You have to promise me to do the same while you’re over at Jack’s,’ she says, her eyes shining mischievously.

  ‘Scout’s honour!’ I answer, playing along. ‘Now, give your mum a hug.’

  We embrace briefly and then the doorbell sounds downstairs.

  ‘That will be Emily!’ Molly says excitedly. ‘Gotta go!’

  She checks herself in the mirror one more time.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I tell her. ‘Stop worrying.’

  ‘Night, Mum. Have a good time with Jack. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’

  I shake my head as she departs down the stairs. When had someone replaced my little girl with this grown-up version? She might be eager to cut her ties and head off into the adult world, but it would be a long time before I was ready to let her go.

  ‘Have a great time!’ I call, just before I hear the door slam. ‘And be good.’ I whisper as the door closes behind her.

  ‘So, you ready?’ Jack asks a little later when we’ve set the easel up in his flat, ready to match the pictures together.

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  I hold my embroidered felt over Jack’s oil painting of the sea and rocks, exactly like we had the first time, so it matches the artwork of the canvas perfectly. Almost at once the images swirl and blend together and we’re transported once again back to a vintage St Felix.

  St Felix ~ June 1957

  Clara pushes Maggie in her chair up a steep hill. It was difficult pushing her along this part of the coastal path, but it meant the two of them could venture further away from the town, which was becoming busy with visitors now summer was in full swing.

  Hordes of excited holiday-makers arrived in their buses and on the coastal railroad by steam train, some just for the day and some staying in the many new B&B guest houses that were opening everywhere.

  The town was alive with the sound of excited chatter as families from all over the country enjoyed, often for the first time, a traditional Cornish seaside holiday.

  ‘Oh, Mummy, the air is so fresh up here!’ Maggie calls, as Clara pushes her further up the hill. ‘Thank you for bringing me – it’s so beautiful.’

  Clara remembered coming here with her aunt and uncle when she had stayed with them in 1945. It had been an easy walk at first, but as the months had passed the walk had become more and more difficult. However, it had been nowhere near as hard as pushing a wheelchair along this path today. Still, she would do anything for her only child, and if it meant she was the one who was a little uncomfortable today, then so be it.

  ‘Oh look, Mummy,’ Maggie calls. ‘It’s the painting man again.’

  ‘Where?’ Clara asks, looking around her.

  ‘Arty!’ Maggie calls before Clara can stop her. ‘Arty, over here!’

  Clara spies Arty sitting a little way below them in front of some rocks on a small stool. He has his easel set up in front of him and he’s in the middle of a painting. He turns when he hears his name called and waves to them.

  Maggie waves back. ‘Push me over there, Mummy,’ she insists.

  ‘Please,’ Clara reminds her. ‘And I don’t think I can – it’s too steep for your chair.’

  ‘Then I’ll climb out,’ Maggie says, already lifting herself out, but her weak legs begin to crumble underneath her after she’s only taken a few steps and she tumbles on to the grass.

  ‘Maggie!’ Clara cries, trying to park the wheelchair so it doesn’t roll down the hill after her.

  Arty is already on his way over, so before Clara can get anywhere near Maggie his long legs have carried him up the slope towards her. He scoops her up in his strong arms before Clara can get to them.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Clara asks, running barefoot towards them with her shoes in her hands.

  ‘Yes, Mummy, I’m fine,’ Maggie says, looking shyly up at Arty.

  ‘I believe this young lady belongs to you?’ Arty says, smiling at Clara.

  ‘Yes, thank you for coming to her rescue. Your footwear is a lot more practical than mine for running up and down hills.’

  Arty looks at Clara’s neat black slip-on pumps. ‘But nowhere near as pretty,’ he says, smiling at her.

  Clara’s cheeks flush.

  ‘Can you take me to see your painting?’ Maggie asks, looking down the hill towards Arty’s easel. ‘Mummy says my chair won’t go down there.’

  ‘Of course!’ Arty says. ‘If that’s okay with your mother?’ Clara looks uneasy. ‘Well … if you have no objections, Mr—? I’m sorry I’m not sure I caught your full name the last time we met.’

  ‘I’ll repeat what I said then. Please call me Arty, and you are Clara if I remember correctly.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Clara says, a little flustered by his informality.

  ‘Right then, I’ll carry young Maggie down there first, and then I’ll come back up for her chair. Will you be okay getting down there, Clara, or should I carry you too?’

  ‘I will be just fine, thank you,’ Clara says, choosing to ignore the twinkle in Arthur’s blue eyes. ‘But please be careful with Maggie, won’t you – she’s still convalescing and is quite delicate.’

  Arty, competently, not only carries Maggie and her chair down the hill towards his easel but guides Clara too by holding on to her hand so she can make her way safely over the grass towards the edge of the cliff.

  Now they all sit together looking out over the rocks that hug this part of the St Felix coastline and towards the sea that today delicately licks the edges of the granite but on a less calm afternoon would try to batter it
into submission.

  ‘I like your painting,’ Maggie says, peering intently at Arty’s easel.

  ‘Thank you. Probably not one of my best, but it’s a work in progress as us artists like to say when things aren’t going too well.’

  ‘Is this your full-time job?’ Clara asks, in a tone that suggests it can’t possibly be.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And do you sell much?’

  Arty grins. ‘It may surprise you to know I do. It keeps the wolf from the door anyway. I teach a bit as well,’ he adds.

  ‘Would you teach me, Arty?’ Maggie pipes up. ‘I’ve always wanted to learn how to paint!’

  ‘Maggie!’ Clara admonishes. ‘Don’t be so presumptuous. I’m sure Arthur is far too busy to have you as a pupil.’

  ‘Quite the contrary,’ Arty says, eyeing Clara meaningfully. ‘It would be my absolute pleasure teaching you how to paint, young Maggie.’

  The pictures suddenly become blurry again and the colours, so sharp and vivid only a moment ago, spin around in a maelstrom, a bit like a child’s kaleidoscope toy before the pattern takes shape. Our brief trip back to 1950s St Felix has ended once more.

  ‘It’s like reading a single chapter of a book a day at a time,’ I say, still staring wistfully at the painting and the embroidery, ‘except you’re not allowed to read more – even though you desperately want to.’

  ‘Or watching Netflix and only being allowed one episode when all you want to do is binge-watch the whole series,’ Jack says, looking at me.

  I turn towards him.

  ‘I feel my slightly more … poetic analogy is a little more appropriate to the situation and the time, don’t you?’

  Jack shrugs. ‘Probably. It’s still the same thing though, I want to know what happens next.’

  ‘Me too. I wonder if any more works of art will magically create themselves now we’ve seen these first two – I’ve a feeling there’s so much more to this story.’

  ‘Yup, Arty obviously has the hots for Clara.’

  My face screws up in distaste. ‘Has the hots for her? This isn’t some lascivious made-for-television movie, you know. I sense a delicate love story is going to develop between these two star-crossed lovers.’

  ‘One,’ Jack says raising his eyebrows, ‘how do you know they’re going to be star-crossed? They could get it on in the next painting!’ He grins at my horrified expression. ‘And two, what the hell does “lascivious” mean?’