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

by Ali McNamara

  ‘Yes, I know. Jonathan, my husband, is on the council so he was at the meeting when it was decided. I think it’s a wonderful idea to commemorate the town as it is today. It’s changed such a lot over the last few years. We’ve grown from a small fishing community to a vibrant holiday destination. With the war years firmly behind us and rationing now finally over we should celebrate in any way we can.’

  ‘Of course. I’d forgotten your husband is on the council.’

  ‘Yes, he has been for some time now. Very proud he is of this community.’

  ‘He has every right to be. St Felix is a wonderful place to live in and to visit.’

  ‘Forgive me if I’m prying …’ Mrs Harrington says in a low voice, leaning over the glass cabinet towards Clara, ‘but was it the war that took your husband from you?’ She glances down at the narrow gold band on the third finger of Clara’s left hand.

  Clara hesitates. She always hated it when someone asked this for, as much as she detested telling lies, the thought of telling someone the truth petrified her even more.

  She looks down at her ring. The truth is the ring had been her grandmother’s. Her mother had given it to her when she’d come to St Felix for the first time to stay with her aunt and uncle. ‘So people don’t ask questions,’ her mother had said.

  ‘Yes, it did,’ Clara says with the obligatory sadness in her voice. ‘I prefer not to talk about it though if you don’t mind.’

  Mrs Harrington pats Clara’s hand. ‘I totally understand. The war left very few of us untouched by tragedy. I can’t believe it’s thirteen years since I lost my darling brother during the Normandy landings.’

  ‘Oh, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’ Now she felt bad – this was someone with a genuine reason to grieve.

  ‘He died a hero … like so many before and after him. I’m sorry for your loss, Clara. Maggie must miss having a father.’

  ‘We manage,’ Clara says, with an air of well-practised bravado that usually did the trick.

  ‘Well done, you.’ Mrs Harrington gives Clara’s hand one last pat, and lifts her brown paper package from the glass cabinet between them. ‘Thank you so much for this. It’s truly beautiful. I don’t know how you do it on that little machine of yours.’ She glances across to where Clara’s black Singer sewing machine sits on a table in the corner of the shop with another of her creations waiting patiently to be completed.

  ‘Ah, it’s the machine, not me.’ Clara smiles. ‘I should be getting back to it – lots to do. I’m so pleased you like your dress, Mrs Harrington.’

  ‘Please, call me Annabel.’

  ‘Annabel it is.’

  ‘Thank you again. Good day, Clara.’

  Clara walks Annabel to the shop door and bids her farewell.

  She pauses to watch Annabel cross the street to have a quick word with Arthur. Her customer smiles as she looks over his shoulder at the painting. Then she bids him farewell too and heads off down the street, happily carrying her new dress.

  When Clara glances back to Arthur again he’s beaming up at her from his easel. Before she realises what she’s doing she finds herself smiling back at him.

  ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’ Clara asks, not knowing what else to say now.

  ‘I would love one,’ Arthur says. ‘Milk and two sugars please.’

  I find myself smiling as I pull back from the canvas, and I turn to Jack. He’s smiling too.

  ‘They’ve made up,’ I say happily.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Jack says. ‘It’s about time.’

  ‘Can we make up?’ I ask quietly. ‘I don’t like it when we fall out.’

  ‘Have we fallen out?’ Jack asks innocently.

  ‘Considering you’ve hardly spoken to me since the night in the pub, I think we have.’

  ‘Been a bit busy, that’s all.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask a little sarcastically. ‘Busier than usual?’

  ‘Yes, actually. I’ve been getting ready for Ben coming.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about that. Is he arriving soon?’

  ‘Yes, his mother is going away with her new fella – a cruise or something – so when Ben said he wanted to come and stay with me for the summer she was more than happy. I don’t think she trusts him in the house on his own.’

  ‘And you’re sure that’s the only thing that’s been keeping you busy?’

  ‘Yes. Why? Should it be something else?’ Jack asks, wide-eyed.

  I shake my head. ‘No, not at all.’ I turn back to the picture.

  ‘Clara was acting a little odd when she spoke about Maggie’s father,’ Jack says, changing the subject for both of us. ‘He must have died in the war, like you suggested before when we were wondering about him.’

  ‘Possibly,’ I say, not so sure. ‘Or maybe she was covering herself. Judging by how she reacted to Annabel I think it might be more likely your guess was correct.’

  ‘That she got pregnant and the father abandoned her?’ Jack says. ‘Really, why?’

  ‘Don’t know. I just get a feeling.’

  The truth is I’ve spent years trying to do exactly the same thing as Clara – pretend about the father of my child to strangers. I know the signs all too well.

  Molly had been born about sixty years after Maggie, but a one-night stand resulting in a baby was not uncommon these days. That’s what had happened to me. I’d never seen Molly’s father again after I’d spent the night with him following a post-graduation party. What must it have been like for Clara as a single mother in the 1940s when those things were much more taboo than they are now?

  Molly knew the situation with her father. I’d never tried to hide it from her once she’d started asking questions. I wonder if Clara had been quite as honest with Maggie.

  ‘Did you see Clara’s sewing machine?’ I ask, deciding that changing the subject again is the best idea. I really don’t want to get into why I think I know Clara’s story with Jack right now. ‘It looks a lot like mine, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I thought that about Arty’s easel too, but surely there were a lot of black Singer sewing machines around at that time, and big dark-wood easels too. I don’t think we can read anything into it.’

  ‘Probably not … but what if they are the same ones as ours. What if I have Clara’s machine and you have Arty’s easel? It might help explain why we’re seeing their story in the pictures.’

  ‘Well, they came from the same house clearance, didn’t they? I guess they could be … but it would be a huge coincidence.’

  ‘Not if Clara and Arty did eventually get together, and stayed together. They might have continued living in St Felix for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘Until Noah came along and did a house clearance for them?’ Jack says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Now, I know I’ve had to suspend disbelief to accept what we see in these pictures, but even you must agree that is getting a bit far-fetched.’

  ‘Not really. Noah said it was an old lady’s family who were selling everything off. It could have been Clara, couldn’t it? She might have outlived Arty? Women usually do.’

  Jack stares at me. ‘Kate, even if they did eventually get together in your fairy-tale version of their lives, Clara would have to be what – a hundred years old by now?’

  ‘No, not that old. She seems to be in her thirties.’

  ‘Older than that, surely?’

  ‘No, they dressed older then. I bet she’s not even my age.’ I pause to do the maths in my head. ‘Annabel said her brother died on the Normandy beaches thirteen years ago, so that’s D-Day, and that was in nineteen forty-four, so we’re definitely in nineteen fifty-seven. So if Clara is in her thirties there, then she’d be in her … nineties now.’

  ‘So it could have been her who died then, leading to the house sale?’

  ‘We don’t know that she died.’

  ‘What other reason do families have for clearing elderly relatives’ houses?’

  ‘She might have gone into a home or something
?’

  Jack smiles. ‘You always see the bright side, don’t you?’

  ‘Not always. But it’s true, whether it’s Clara or not, the old lady could still be alive. Hmm …’

  ‘What’s the hmm for?’ Jack asks, obviously still amused.

  ‘Well, I’ve lived here in St Felix for nearly two years and I’ve never met a Clara, or heard anyone talk about one, and surely Lou would have mentioned that Clara was still alive if she knew she owned my shop previously.’

  ‘True. So if it wasn’t Clara then who was it? They must have had something to do with Arty and Clara if the sewing machine and the easel they owned were in their house.’

  ‘So you do think they might have been theirs now?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, but if they weren’t Clara and Arty’s why are we seeing their lives played out in works of art made with them?’

  I sigh and look at the easel again.

  ‘The house!’ I suddenly say. ‘The one with the blue door. It’s still up for sale, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘So the estate agent must know who’s selling it? All we need to do is ask them and we’ll have our answer.’

  ‘It can’t be that simple, can it, surely?’

  ‘Nothing is ever that simple, Jack, but we have to start somewhere and it’s as good a place as any.’

  Twenty-three

  However, as Jack had correctly pointed out, nothing is ever that simple.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you who the vendor is,’ Jackson of Parkes & Parker estate agent in Penzance tells me over the telephone the next day. ‘That’s confidential information.’

  ‘I know that, Jackson, but I don’t want you to divulge it for any other reason than I’m simply interested to know who the previous inhabitant of the house was. I’m superstitious, see,’ I add suddenly, having an idea. ‘I can’t possibly even think of buying a house if the previous owner’s name begins with a C or an A?’

  ‘You’re superstitious?’ Jackson asks, clearly thinking This is a new one.

  ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘But you are considering purchasing this property?’

  ‘Very much so,’ I fib. ‘I live locally, and I’ve had my eye on that house for a long time. I said to my husband if that house ever comes up for sale, Trevor, then I want to live in it!’

  ‘I can arrange a viewing if you’d like me to?’ Jackson says keenly. ‘Would that help calm your fears?’

  ‘Er … yes, I think it might.’ Actually seeing inside the house couldn’t do any harm, could it? We might find something …

  ‘How about this evening?’ Jackson suggests. ‘I have another viewing in St Felix at six. Could you and your husband make it for seven?’

  ‘Seven would be perfect. Thank you.’

  ‘So your husband is Trevor, and your name is … ?’

  ‘Fiona,’ I grab from nowhere.

  ‘Excellent. Fiona and Trevor.’ Jackson is obviously writing this down. ‘Right, I’ll meet you at the house tonight at seven. Have a good day, Fiona.’

  ‘And you too, Jackson,’ I say, ending the call.

  Right, I think, as I look at the phone in my hand, that wasn’t quite how I saw that going.

  Now I have the difficult task of calling Jack to tell him that not only are we to pose as a married couple tonight so we can see inside the house, but that his name temporarily is Trevor …

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Jack says, as we wait outside the blue door of the house that evening for Jackson to arrive. ‘And why did you pick the name Trevor for me?’

  ‘First one I could think of. Plus, I didn’t know at that point you were actually going to have to use the name or I’d have thought of something better.’

  Jack looks up at the house behind us. ‘I hope this is worth it. What do you expect to find in there anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing probably … but it’s worth a try. I got nothing from Noah when I popped into his shop earlier. He said the house clearance was arranged by some American lady called Susan. He wasn’t sure if they were a relative, and it was mostly arranged by email, I believe.’

  ‘There must be someone in St Felix who knows the person who lived here. You’re all in each other’s pockets enough – I can’t believe someone doesn’t know the old lady’s name?’

  ‘We are not in each other’s pockets. It’s a friendly place to live, that’s all. Some people like that – I thought you did too.’

  ‘Yes, I do, but when you’re new somewhere everyone seems to know each other already. I feel like an outsider.’

  ‘I thought you were getting along fine? You’re always down the pub. I assumed you’d met people there.’

  ‘I am not always down the pub!’ Jack says, looking aghast. ‘Just because you saw me down there the other night when you were on your date doesn’t mean I’m always there.’

  ‘I was not on a date,’ I insist. I’m aware our voices are rising, but as we both try to match each other’s accusations it seems somehow necessary. ‘I was simply having dinner with a friend, you know that. We weren’t even supposed to be in The Merry Mermaid – we were going to The Lobster Pot, but they lost their power that night and had to close.’

  ‘Ooh, The Lobster Pot – fancy! I should have known the local hostelry wouldn’t have been good enough for Julian James.’

  I stare at Jack. Why was he being like this?

  ‘Do you know anything about Julian? You can’t know enough to make comments like that.’

  ‘I know,’ Jack says firmly. ‘I’ve asked around.’

  ‘You’ve asked around! Why would you do that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Jack says, turning away from me.

  ‘Oh, I think it does matter—’ I begin.

  Jack shushes me. ‘Is this the estate agent guy?’ he whispers, as a young man in a blue suit comes through the gate.

  ‘Probably,’ I reply sulkily.

  ‘You keep up that tone,’ Jack says, ignoring my scowl, ‘and he’ll definitely believe we’re a married couple.’

  ‘Jackson Goldsmith,’ the agent says, holding his hand out as he approaches us. ‘Pleased to meet you both.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say, holding my hand out first. ‘I’m Fiona, and this is my husband Trevor,’ I say, gesturing to Jack.

  ‘Hello, Trevor,’ Jackson says, and I notice his voice changes as he speaks to Jack. ‘I didn’t know you were in a wheelchair?’

  Jack picks up his change of tone immediately.

  ‘Oh!’ Jack says, looking down at his chair in surprise. ‘So I am. I hadn’t realised. Thanks for pointing that out for me.’

  Jackson looks uneasily back at him.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate. Just my idea of a joke.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Jackson says, recovering his estate agent patter. ‘Good to see you still have a sense of humour.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I have a sense of humour?’ Jack can’t help himself, and I can’t say I blame him. ‘Do you think it got taken away with my legs?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. I mean it must be very … challenging for you being in a wheelchair. Easy to lose sight of the lighter side of life.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Jack says, in a kind of growl.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ I suggest brightly.

  ‘Yes,’ Jackson agrees with relief. ‘A wonderful idea. Let’s do that.’

  As Jackson moves forwards to unlock the door I flash my eyes warningly at Jack.

  ‘What?’ he mouths silently. ‘It’s him.’ He points to Jackson.

  ‘All ready?’ Jackson asks, turning around.

  I beam at him. ‘Yes, please.’

  Luckily, the doorstep is a low one so Jack manages to get his chair up and over it with very little assistance, and we enter into a large elegant hallway with black and white tiles covering the floor.

  ‘Now, would you like me to give you a guided tour, or just leave you to have a wander? Oh, no offence,’ h
e says to Jack.

  ‘None taken,’ Jack says, grinning a little too vehemently.

  ‘Is it all right if we look around ourselves?’ I suggest. ‘Then if we have any questions we can give you a shout.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jackson says. He glances nervously at the large mahogany staircase rising gracefully up to the second floor in a beautiful curve.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jackson,’ Jack says, watching him. ‘I won’t be asking you to carry me up there.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ Jackson forces a smile. ‘Yes, very good.’ A look of deep concern crosses his face. ‘I’m sure though, if you did purchase the house, the necessary adaptations could be made. Stairlifts are very good these days and not only for the elderly and infirm.’

  Could he dig himself any deeper, I wonder?

  ‘Right …’ he says as Jack glares at him. ‘I’ll wait outside in the garden, shall I? I have a few phone calls to make. Just shout if you need anything.’

  ‘We will,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Thank you, Jackson.’

  ‘Idiot,’ Jack grumbles before Jackson is barely out of earshot.

  ‘He can’t help it,’ I say, waiting until he’s left the building at least. ‘Some people panic, don’t they, when they meet someone with a disability. They don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Tell me about it. From the moment he began talking down to me I knew he was a fool.’

  ‘Yes, I did notice that. Do you get that a lot?’

  ‘Being spoken to like I’m five? Yes, you’d be surprised. It’s like I’m a toddler in a pushchair, not an ex-soldier in a wheelchair. I fought for my country. That guy couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.’

  ‘I didn’t do that when I met you, did I?’ I ask, pretty sure I hadn’t. ‘Talk down to you, I mean.’

  Jack shakes his head. ‘No, you were okay. If I remember rightly you had a right strop because I wouldn’t come downstairs and let you into my shop.’

  ‘I didn’t have a strop. I was simply a bit annoyed, but I didn’t know then that—’

  ‘I had no legs?’ Jack states bluntly, finishing my sentence.

  ‘No. Actually I was going to say you were an awkward bugger, but the legs thing will do …’ I wink at him, and he grins back at me.