by Ali McNamara
Molly is silent for what seems like for ever, but what is in fact likely only a few seconds, before she sidles up in front of Chesney and says in a low, and if it wasn’t my daughter I was listening to, I’d say seductive voice, ‘Chesney?’
‘Yeah, babe,’ Chesney says, glancing away from Molly to grin at Ben triumphantly.
‘I am no longer your girlfriend,’ Molly now speaks in a loud and commanding voice so everyone can hear. ‘I broke up with you ages ago, which you would know if you weren’t so thick, so the last thing I want to do is go anywhere with you, you homophobic Neanderthal!’
I gasp again, but this time I don’t bother to cover my mouth because my hand is tightly gripped around a drainpipe to prevent me from dashing forwards and rescuing my daughter.
Chesney’s face darkens, and he steps forward and grabs Molly. ‘You little bitch!’ he murmurs, ‘I’ll teach you.’
Ben steps forwards also, but he’s too late. In a deft move Molly manages to knock Chesney’s hands away, then she elbows him in the stomach so he crumples to the ground.
‘Those self-defence lessons at school came in handy! Shame you were never there, Chesney, or you might have learnt something,’ she says, straightening her top and brushing her hands over her jeans. Then she walks victoriously over to Ben and links her arm through his.
‘Come on, big bro,’ she says happily, looking up at him. ‘Let’s go back to the party.’
Quickly I tuck myself back around the corner so Molly and Ben don’t see me as they walk into the hotel together arm in arm.
As I try to get my shallow breathing back under control before I join them again, I feel prouder of my little girl than I ever have.
She’s all grown up.
Thirty-seven
Six months later …
St Felix ~ September 1959
Clara and Arty emerge from the little St Felix church radiating happiness and love.
Clara is a beautiful bride, wearing one of her own creations – a pale pink dress, tightly nipped in at the waist, with a co-ordinating pale pink cropped jacket. She simply oozes happiness as she holds tightly on to the arm of her new husband, who today looks incredibly smart in his brand new suit and tie – a long way from his usual attire of a loose painting smock and paint-splattered trousers.
Maggie emerges behind them wearing a flowery dress in the same shade of pink as her mother, looking every inch the pretty yet proud bridesmaid after witnessing her two favourite people in the world declaring their intention to spend the rest of their lives together.
As they stand there having their photograph taken with their friends and family, the delighted group couldn’t contrast more with the scene taking place in the graveyard at the back of the church.
A man stands in front of a shiny new gravestone looking sombrely down at it. He is well dressed, wearing expensive shiny shoes and a tailored suit that definitely haven’t been bought in the local gentlemen’s outfitter but rather from somewhere abroad.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says to the gravestone. ‘Truly I am.’
He glances around to see if anyone is watching him, but there’s no one about, only the distant hum of people chattering excitedly, and the sound of the church bells ringing out to signal the end of the wedding he’d realised with horror was taking place today.
He couldn’t change his plans though. He wasn’t here in St Felix for long enough to do that – it was a flying visit, literally. He was travelling back to America tomorrow having managed at great expense to get a seat on one of the new transatlantic flights from London to New York. It was far more expensive than the boat, but so much quicker, and what he didn’t have these days was time. His recent success across the Atlantic was making sure of that.
However, he had needed to visit this spot today to pay his respects, and to make sure that the gravestone he’d anonymously paid for had been properly created and laid. He’d been extremely pleased to find that it had been, and that it was everything he had hoped it would be. Even though this slightly extravagant stone would now permanently mark the last resting place of the man who was helping him to fame and fortune, it didn’t help to ease his sense of guilt. No monetary gift could ever do that.
‘I’m sorry, Freddie,’ the man says again, as a tear rolls down his cheek. ‘Really, I am. You were, and always will be, the better man. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I saw a chance and took it without thinking. I never knew it would take off like it has. I thought perhaps your paintings might get me noticed a bit more and get my own paintings recognised, but I should have known they would only want your work. Your innocent creations, untouched by greed – something I could never hope to achieve. Perhaps one day someone will know the truth. They will know what a genius you were, and what a cowardly, sad individual I am. Until that time I can only offer you my most sincere apologies again, and hope that this memorial and your cottage, which I intend to buy when it comes up for sale and decorate as a shrine to you, goes just a tiny way to making it up to you.’ The images fade away as they always do, leaving us with a painting of a church and in front of that a piece of embroidered felt in the shape of a gravestone.
‘Well, that was a mixture of emotions,’ I say to Jack, as we sit back like we always do to discuss our latest dip into St Felix’s always colourful and interesting past. It had been such a long time since the easel and the sewing machine had produced anything for us we’d begun to wonder if we were going to receive any more of their unique creations. ‘How lovely to see Clara and Arty on their wedding day, but I don’t know how I feel about seeing Winston James at Freddie’s grave.’
‘How do you know it was Winston?’ Jack asks. ‘We’re just assuming that was him.’
‘I’ve seen a photo of him – I think it was at the gallery with his paintings … well, Freddie’s paintings. Didn’t you see it when we went there?’
‘Oh yeah, I thought the guy looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He was a lot younger there,’ he gestures to the painting, ‘than in the photo, but you can see the resemblance to Julian.’
‘Yes, you can. Poor Julian. I tried to tell him his father might have had some remorse for his actions, but he wouldn’t have it. I can’t really tell him I was right, can I – how would I know?’
‘That was the most difficult thing with all of this,’ Jack says, looking at the easel again. ‘Trying to cover up how we came to know so much about Freddie, Maggie, Arty and Clara. I think we managed to make our story sound convincing, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think anyone really cared how we knew once we proved we were right. Everyone was just happy that justice had been done and that Freddie’s lost paintings had been found.’
‘Maggie’s face was amazing when we told her, wasn’t it?’ Jack says wistfully. ‘I can still see her look of complete euphoria now.’
‘And then suddenly she was at peace. You could see the years simply roll off her. It was obviously something she’d carried with her her whole life. I can’t wait for her to see the gallery when it opens – it will be the perfect end to this story.’
‘Yes, it will. I still find it odd though,’ Jack says, ‘that we’ve found ourselves involved in all this.’
‘Perhaps we’ll never know why?’ I shrug. ‘But does it really matter now? We’ve done a great thing with the help of an antique sewing machine and a battered old easel.’
‘Why does yours get to be antique and mine battered and old?’ Jack asks, smiling. ‘I think they’ve played their part equally.’
‘They have, maybe we should reunite them sometime so they can say hello again.’
‘Say hello again,’ Jack scoffs. ‘You’re talking like they’re real now.’
‘They’re hardly normal, are they?’
‘That’s true. Do you think they’d like to be reunited? I mean permanently …’
I look at Jack questioningly. Was he saying what I thought he was?
‘Yes, Kate, I’m asking if you’d like to move in together? I
know we haven’t known each other all that long but—’
‘Yes,’ I say quickly, before he changes his mind. ‘Yes, Jack, I would. Very much.’
Jack’s smile broadens even further, and we’re about to lean in for a kiss when I turn my head suddenly so Jack ends up kissing my cheek.
‘Hey!’ I say, staring at the easel. ‘How did that happen?’
‘What?’ Jack asks, following my gaze. ‘What the hell!’
The easel that until a moment ago had held a painting of a church now displays a painting of a house standing elegantly on top of a hill, and my gravestone-shaped felt is now a door. A blue door.
‘It’s the house,’ I whisper excitedly, as we both stare at the easel in amazement. ‘The house that Clara, Arty and Maggie used to live in. It’s the house with the blue door, Jack!’
‘Put it together,’ Jack instructs, in a much calmer voice than mine. ‘The door, I mean. Match it up to the one on the painting.’
I do as he says, carefully matching up the two creations, and as always happens the colours immediately start swirling together to form a new moving image that slowly comes into focus.
As we watch the images a car passes along the road in front of the house, followed by a man riding a bicycle. He’s wearing a helmet and tight, brightly-coloured Lycra.
‘It’s not the fifties!’ I hiss at Jack. ‘It can’t be. It looks like now!’
Jack is silent as we enter this new modern-day world.
A woman carrying a reusable shopping bag and talking on a mobile phone walks through the gate. She has her back to us so we can’t see her face, but she’s tall and has long dark hair; an elderly golden Labrador poddles slowly behind her.
She ends the call, walks up to the front door and pulls a key from her pocket, but as she’s about to put it in the door it swings open and a man greets her with a loving smile. As the woman enters she has to bend down to kiss him because he’s in a wheelchair.
‘It’s us,’ I whisper so quietly I can barely hear myself. ‘It’s us, Jack, and that’s Barney following me through the door.’
I feel Jack’s hand take mine as we continue to watch ourselves.
The woman, who I can clearly see is me now she’s turned around, suddenly smiles at someone coming up the path behind her and we quickly recognise slightly older versions of Molly and Ben messing about as they walk towards the house, playfully pushing and nudging each other like siblings often do. They have a second dog on a lead – this time it’s a chocolate Labrador puppy.
Then, just as I’m desperate to see more of what can only be our future selves, the door of the house closes behind them and the picture begins to fade …
‘No!’ I call out. ‘No, I want to see more.’ I turn to Jack expecting him to say something similar, but instead I see his broken face and a tear rolling down his cheek.
‘You still want me in the future then?’ Jack says, more as an observation than a question. ‘You don’t get tired of being with me.’ He wipes the stray tear away.
‘Of course I want you! Why would you even think I wouldn’t want to be with you? I love you, Jack. You know I do.’
‘I love you too, Kate. More than you know.’
As we try to kiss my phone begins to ring in my bag. ‘Leave it,’ I say, leaning forwards again to Jack. ‘It won’t be important.’
But as soon as the phone rings off, it starts again.
‘Don’t worry, they’ll leave a message this time if it’s important,’ I say.
The third time it rings Jack insists I answer. ‘You’d better get it, Kate. It sounds urgent.’
Reluctantly I lean over and reach into my bag but as I suspect it’s an unknown number. Of all the times to get a junk call.
‘Yes!’ I snap aggressively into the phone. ‘Who is this?’
‘Kate,’ a distant voice says. ‘Kate, is that you?’
‘Julian!’ I cry, ‘Where are you? You sound like you’re in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Sorry … line isn’t great here … breaking up quite a lot … you like your surprise?’
‘What surprise?’ I ask.
‘… you get the email?’
‘What email?’ I say. ‘What email, Julian? I’m losing you … Julian, can you hear me?’ I shout into the phone.
‘Yes, I’m still … just! We’d better make it quick. I might … at any moment. You should have got an email, Kate, from … solicitor. I’m giving you the house. The one you liked in St Felix … house on the hill with the blue door … all yours.’
‘What do you mean all mine? How?’
‘… bought it, Kate!’ Julian is now shouting too. ‘Agreed … really good price with … Susan and … your Maggie … wanted you to have it … bought it with Mother’s money … ago … now I’m giving it to you to live in … to say thank you.’
‘No, Julian, you can’t!’ I cry. ‘I can’t let you. If you bought it, it’s yours.’
‘Sorry, Kate … losing you,’ Julian says, sounding fainter by the moment. ‘… solicitor will be in touch … what Maggie wanted, and you promised me, remember?’
The line goes dead.
I stare at Jack. He looks as mystified as I feel right now.
‘Julian is giving us the house,’ I say slowly, so both Jack and I can try to take this all in. The last few minutes have been complete madness.
‘What house?’ Jack asks.
‘The house in the painting – the one with the blue door. It’s ours.’
‘How can he do that?’
‘I think he said he agreed a good price with Susan and both he and Maggie want us to live there.’
‘I was wondering how we were going to afford that house,’ Jack says, grinning at me. ‘I thought we would have to win the lottery or something!’
I smile and shake my head at him. Trust Jack to bring me back to reality.
I stare at the painting again, and I try moving the door back into place to make the images come to life once more. I wanted to see more of my future with Jack.
However, this time the images remain still.
‘I think that’s it,’ Jack says, watching me. ‘I think our time as guardians of these magical images has come to an end.’
‘A very happy end,’ I tell him, sitting down next to him again and taking his hand, ‘for everyone who’s been created and crafted by one amazing little sewing machine …’
‘… and one very clever easel,’ Jack finishes for me.
‘May their owners past and present be united together for ever.’
Acknowledgements
Hello, Dear Reader!
Thank you for choosing this book.
Whether it’s your first or your eleventh book of mine, I do hope you’ve enjoyed it and it will encourage you to read more of my novels in the future.
I always love writing about St Felix and the people who live there, and I love that you enjoy it just as much as I do! I’ve returned to this magical Cornish town three times now, and I hope that I will be able to tell you lots more stories from there in the future.
But other than thanking you, lovely reader, I’d also like to thank a few other folk who have helped make this book what it is: Hannah Ferguson – my fantastic agent; Maddie West – my wonderful editor; the whole fabulous team at Sphere and Little, Brown including Clara Diaz, Tamsyn Berryman and my new editor Darcy Nicholson; my amazing family – Jim, Rosie, Tom and our two dogs Oscar and Sherlock. I couldn’t do it without any of you.
I’d also like to send special posthumous thanks to the St Ives artist Alfred Wallis, who the character of Freddie was inspired by, and whose real-life story gave me the idea for this book.
To all of you above, I send my love and thanks for all you do.
Ali xx
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