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

by Ali McNamara

  ‘Come on then,’ Jack says, still smiling. ‘Let’s explore this house as best we can and see if we can find anything. Although what exactly we’re looking for I’m yet to discover.’

  We make our way as best we can around the old house, but all we find are empty rooms, often with old paper peeling off the walls, and occasional dirty lines betraying where pictures had once hung. There is no furniture left at all – everything has been removed, presumably by Noah and his house clearance team.

  When we’ve explored all of the ground floor we arrive back in the hallway, and I gaze up the stairs.

  ‘It’s all right, you go,’ Jack says. ‘If it’s anything like down here one person will be more than enough to check it out.’

  I nod. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  I hurry up the long winding staircase that curves upwards to the top floor. I’ve always wanted to live in a house with a grand staircase like this, so I can’t help running my hand over the smooth wood of the handrail as I go.

  I scoot through a few of the empty rooms, not seeing anything different than downstairs – only more faded wallpaper, this time more appropriate to bedroom living.

  It’s only when I come to the last room that I pause.

  This room is much bigger than the others, and whereas the other bedrooms all have carpets this one has bare boards. It’s not so much the sight of floor-boards that is fascinating me but what’s on top of them. All over the wood are splashes of colour – more specifically splashes of oil paint – as though someone did a lot of painting in this room and simply didn’t care about the mess, because it was their room – their own room for creating works of art.

  ‘Jack!’ I call downstairs. ‘Guess what I’ve found! Jack!’ I call again, when he doesn’t reply. I hurry back down the stairs. Where is he?

  ‘I’m here!’ he suddenly calls, and I turn around at the bottom of the stairs to try to place his voice.

  ‘In here,’ Jack says, opening a small door under the stairs and wheeling himself out.

  ‘What are you doing under there?’ I ask. ‘Guess what I’ve found upstairs – a room where someone definitely did oil painting! There are splashes of paint all over the floor.’

  ‘Great,’ Jack says, still holding the door of the cupboard open. ‘That definitely backs up what I’ve found too. Look!’

  I hurry over to the under-stairs cupboard and look at what he’s pointing at. On the back of the wooden door are a number of carved doodles where someone has deliberately defaced the wood with a knife.

  The one that Jack is pointing to very clearly spells out MAGGIE.

  ‘It can’t just be a coincidence, can it?’ I ask breathlessly. ‘Are we simply looking for proof that isn’t really there?’

  ‘I don’t think so. If you go into the cupboard there are even more doodles – some of them quite arty – and we know Maggie liked her art.’

  I look at Jack. ‘So they did live here … Clara, Maggie and Arty, in this very house.’

  ‘Did someone call?’ A voice comes from the open front door and we see Jackson popping his head in.

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so,’ I say, hurriedly moving towards him as Jack closes the door behind us.

  ‘I’m sure I distinctly heard my name called in a women’s voice,’ he says, looking at me. ‘You called “Jack” a couple of times, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh! Oh that, yes, I did …’

  ‘She sometimes calls me “Jack”,’ Jack says, swiftly pulling up next to me. ‘It’s like a pet name.’ He takes hold of my hand. ‘And I call her …’ He pauses, and I see a wicked glint appear in his eye. ‘Gertrude,’ he says, looking lovingly up at me. ‘Don’t I, Gerty?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, staring back at him, not quite as fondly. ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘Ah … I see,’ Jackson says, seeming slightly bewildered. ‘So, what did you think of the house then?’

  ‘It’s very nice,’ I say, ‘But I’m not sure it’s for us after all, is it, Trevor?’

  Jack shakes his head. ‘No, Gerty here can be a bit superstitious, and she’s not getting the right vibes about this house, are you, Gert?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Or the previous owners,’ Jack continues. ‘Do you know much about the previous occupants, Jackson?’

  Jackson shakes his head. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. It’s such a shame you don’t like the house. It’s been on the market for a bit and we’ve been instructed to put it up for auction if it doesn’t sell by the end of the summer. Someone could get a real bargain if that happens. It’s a lovely place and in very good structural order for its age. A quick lick of paint and some new fixtures and fittings and it would make someone a beautiful home.’

  ‘I’m sure it would,’ I agree, looking around me. ‘Well, we don’t want to take up any more of your time, do we, Trevor?’

  Jack shakes his head. ‘No, thanks for letting us have a nose around, Jackson. Good luck with finding a buyer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jackson says, holding the door open for us. ‘And good luck to you with …’ He looks at Jack as he pushes himself outside. ‘Well, with everything really.’

  Jack stares at him. ‘Luck doesn’t come into it, Jackson. Tenacity, perseverance, and dogged determination to be as normal as possible is what gets me through the day, and that will never change.’

  Twenty-four

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ Jack says, as we make our way back down the hill into town.

  ‘That’s no clearer than it was before Trevor and Gerty visited the house,’ I reply. ‘Thanks for that name by the way.’

  ‘You’re very welcome! We do know a little more though. Someone called Maggie and someone who painted lived there, and the house provided both the easel and the sewing machine to us. Could it be anyone other than Clara and Arty?’

  ‘I guess. It would be a huge coincidence if it wasn’t them.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘We need to ask around to find out who lived there before it went up for sale. Someone will know – they have to.’

  ‘I agree. Now, are you hungry?’ Jack asks. ‘Would you like to go for some food?’

  ‘Oh … that’s a lovely thought, but I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m meeting Julian for dinner.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jack says, looking straight ahead. ‘I see.’ He begins pushing his wheels that little bit harder.

  I have to walk faster to keep up.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologise, ‘I really would have liked to, but I’m trying to help Julian change his life and—’

  ‘Change his life?’ Jack scoffs, interrupting me. ‘Why does he need to change his life? That guy has everything, doesn’t he? Money, success, homes all over the world. What does he need to change about that?’

  ‘He’s lonely,’ I say, and I stop walking so Jack has to pause and turn himself around to see me. ‘Money doesn’t buy you friends, Jack.’

  Jack stares at me.

  ‘I misunderstood Julian, as I’m sure a lot of people do,’ I say pointedly. ‘I only saw the brash, showy side of him, but that’s not the real him – that’s the person he’s had to become to try and shake off his father’s name. I’m trying to help him change.’

  Jack suddenly smiles, but it’s not a friendly sort of smile – it’s a smug, knowing sort. ‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything,’ he says. ‘He’s using your natural compassion and incredible ability to see good everywhere, to … well … how can I put it politely?’

  ‘Just say it, Jack,’ I say quietly. ‘You might as well get it off your chest.’

  ‘Okay. To get in your knickers. There, I’ve said it.’

  I simply stare at him, then I shake my head. ‘You need to get your mind out of the gutter,’ I tell him. ‘Not everyone thinks like you. Julian is my friend, and if you don’t like that then it’s a real shame because I thought you were my friend too, Jack. Perhaps I got that very wrong.’

  Without saying anything more I push past him and stomp off down t
he rest of the hill so Jack can only watch me go.

  *

  ‘Are you all right?’ Julian asks later that evening, as we sit in The Lobster Pot waiting for our first course to be brought to the table. ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I’m fine. Had a bit of a weird day, that’s all.’

  ‘How so?’

  Where do I start? I wonder. With a visit to an old house pretending to be someone’s wife so we could see whether some mystery people used to reside there who we’ve been watching come alive via embroidery and paintings? Or the part when I left my pretend husband on a pavement after we’d argued about you?

  ‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ I say tactfully. ‘You know, life.’

  ‘Bit of a weird one for me too actually,’ Julian says, and I’m pleased he seems able to share his day with me more easily than I can with him. ‘Someone went into the gallery and started kicking off about my father’s pictures.’

  ‘Kicking off? What do you mean?’

  ‘Saying they weren’t painted by him of all things.’ He shakes his head. ‘As if! Some nutter, no doubt. I wouldn’t have known anything about it if I hadn’t seen Ophelia from the gallery in the bakery earlier. She was pretty shocked to see me here, and somewhat embarrassed by what had happened, but she thought she’d better tell me in case someone was gossiping about it.’

  I haven’t the heart to tell him the people of St Felix have better things to gossip about than what goes on at the Lyle Gallery. Most of the locals have never set foot in the building – they see it only as a place for the many day trippers and holiday-makers to visit while they are here.

  ‘That was good of her.’

  Julian nods. ‘I know, I thought so too. Of course I could only reassure her that of course my father had painted them – who else would have? He loved this place.’

  ‘When did your father first come here?’ I ask, seeing the perfect opportunity to delve deeper into Winston James’ experiences of St Felix.

  ‘The mid-fifties, I think,’ Julian says thoughtfully. ‘He came here as a young struggling artist, I believe. I wasn’t around then, of course. He didn’t meet my mother until the early seventies in New York, and they were married a short time after. I spent the first few years of my life in the States, but Mother wanted me to be educated in England, which is how I found myself at boarding school for so many years. She was much younger than him, but it seemed to work for them both. Do you have a problem with age gaps in relationships?’ Julian asks casually, lifting his glass of wine and taking a sip.

  ‘Er, no, not really. So,’ I ask, keen to continue with the previous subject. ‘Do you know much about your father’s time here? In the fifties, I mean? I hear that’s when a lot of artists started coming to St Felix.’

  ‘Not too much. Only that he did some of his best work here. The funny thing is he didn’t show anybody the paintings initially. I think he was embarrassed by them because they appeared so simple. Little did he know they would go on to become some of his best-known work.’

  ‘So he didn’t have any friends here back then – you know, like other artists?’

  Julian shrugs. ‘Not that I know of, but why would I, I wasn’t even alive then. Now enough about my father or I will think you’ve become one of them!’

  I stare at Julian for a second. ‘Oh, I’m only talking about your father again, aren’t I? I’m sorry. Let’s talk about you instead. How have the last few days been?’

  ‘Good, thank you. You were right, the people are quite friendly if you try a little harder to get to know them. I’ve become quite the expert in making small talk!’

  I laugh. ‘That’s good to hear. I’m pleased for you – perhaps you can carry this experience into your usual life once you return to it.’

  ‘But that’s the great thing. Since I’ve been here I’m wanting less and less to go back to my usual life. In fact, I’m thinking of staying on here permanently.’

  He waits for my reaction.

  ‘How very … unexpected!’ I reply carefully, wondering how he wants me to react. ‘But is it practical for you? I mean we’re so remote here. We’re hardly handy for commuting or transatlantic flights.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Julian says with a wave of his hand. ‘I’ve got my eye on some interesting properties that will make much more impressive permanent homes than the place I’m staying in now. That was once my father’s too, you know. He bought it as a little bolt-hole so he could come back here from time to time. When he died he left it to me. It’s only small, but it’s very quaint and cosy if you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘It’s great you’re thinking of staying on, Julian,’ I say, still wary. ‘I have to say I’m a little surprised though. I can’t imagine you living here permanently. It seems so … rural, I suppose, and you always strike me as much more cosmopolitan.’

  ‘Things change,’ Julian says, holding my gaze across the table. ‘And so do people. Meeting you has changed me, Kate, and I hope to show you just how much influence you’ve had over me in the coming weeks and months, as we get to know each other a whole lot better.’

  I open my mouth to say something, and then I close it again in relief as a waiter appears at the table with our first course, preventing me from having to respond.

  As we begin to tuck into our tiny yet delicious appetisers, however, I can’t stop my mind from wandering back to Jack earlier today and what he’d so crudely told me.

  I glance at Julian, and he smiles at me and lifts his glass in a toast.

  ‘To the two of us,’ he says, his eyes shining, ‘and to St Felix. May the three of us have many, many good times together.’

  Twenty-five

  I stand outside my shop and stare into the window at the latest artwork to appear underneath the sewing machine’s footplate. Although it’s upside down, I can just about see what looks like a face staring up at me.

  Usually when a new piece of embroidery appears I can’t wait to retrieve it from the window and see what it’s of, but this time the sight of this fresh creation is doing nothing but make me sigh. Now I’ll have to go and see Jack again. No doubt he too will have received something very similar this morning in his own shop.

  ‘Couldn’t you have waited?’ I murmur, looking into the window. ‘At least a few days until the heat dies down a bit.’

  ‘It is a warm one, isn’t it?’ a voice behind me says, and I turn to see Anita arriving for work wearing a flowery sundress and carrying a parasol. ‘Goodness knows what it will be like later if it’s this hot now. Good morning, Kate.’

  ‘Morning, Anita,’ I say, greeting her, but not revealing that the heat of the sun wasn’t the type of heat I’d been thinking about. ‘Yep, we’ll have to get the fans out and that air-con unit we bought last summer,’ I reply, turning away from the window and following her into the shop. ‘I think they’re in the back room somewhere. If you hold the fort when you’ve put your things away I’ll have a search.’

  Once Anita is settled in the main shop I head out back. I find the fans without too much bother and, eventually, the small air-conditioning appliance we’d purchased in the record-breaking heat St Felix had bathed in last year. I ferry them back one by one and place them in various positions that will allow a cool breeze to flow through the shop.

  ‘There, that’s better,’ I say when I’m done. ‘At least we won’t die of heat exhaustion now, and we might get a few extra customers venturing in if it’s cooler in here than outside.’

  ‘I was going to make a cup of tea,’ Anita says, handing me a glass. ‘But I thought you might prefer an iced lemonade instead? I gave Eve a wave across the road and she brought us two over.’

  Eve runs the fresh coffee and juice shop a few doors across from us. Whatever weather St Felix throws at our visitors Evie is prepared with either a hot cup of something to warm them up or a refreshing juice to cool them down.

  ‘Fabulous! Thanks, Anita.’ I take the cold glass from her. ‘Mmm, that’s lovely.’


  ‘That’s a pretty little piece of embroidery you’ve got in the window there,’ Anita says. ‘It sets off the old machine beautifully. Did you do it? If you did you should make some more and sell them in the shop. They’d sell like hot cakes.’

  ‘No, it’s not mine,’ I have to admit.

  ‘Oh, where did you get it from then?’ Anita looks through the back entrance into the window again. ‘It looks familiar – is it from someone local?’

  ‘I’m not sure …’ I reply, not really knowing how to answer this.

  Anita looks at me with a puzzled expression. ‘How do you mean, dear?’

  I sigh. I’d known Anita a long time now, and Anita had known St Felix a long time too. She had been one of the people who had told me the most tales about some of the many ‘unexplained’ things that often went on here. If I was going to confide in anyone, Anita would be one of the best people to share with.

  I take a deep breath and confess all, from the first embroidery to the last and all the others in between. I tell her all about Jack’s paintings and what happens when we put the two types of artwork together. Then I tell her about the house with the blue door and who we think might have lived there in the past.

  Then I pause and wait for her reaction.

  ‘Well,’ she says, when I’ve told her my highly improbable and very strange tale, ‘I did wonder whether it might happen to you at some point.’

  I’m surprised by her calm reaction. If someone had told me all this, I’d have been looking at them with very different eyes now. ‘What might happen to me, Anita? Paintings and embroideries bizarrely coming to life?’

  Anita shakes her head. ‘No, dear, the magic of St Felix. I told you before it often strikes in the most unlikely of places. This time it seems to be your turn.’

  ‘My turn? My turn for what?’

  ‘To help someone, or be helped yourself. It’s often both at the same time in my experience – that’s how it usually works. I think I told you the story of the Cornish sorceress Zethar, and of how the townsfolk of St Felix helped her shelter from her persecutors when she was on trial for witchcraft?’