by Ali McNamara
‘Good,’ Noah says, moving away very slowly along the narrow street. ‘I actually meant how are you, but the rest was good to know also.’
I feel myself blushing. ‘Sorry, I’m probably a little bit too excited about this.’
‘Well, that’s a first I must say. I don’t think I’ve ever taken someone to any sort of fair, let alone a postcard one, who has felt like that.’
He takes his eyes from the windscreen for a moment and smiles at me.
‘How’s the shop?’ I ask, as we pull out on to the main road that leads out of St Felix.
‘Good, good. I’ve left it in the more than capable hands of Jess today. Don’t tell her I said that.’ He grins.
‘She is a big help to you, isn’t she?’
Noah nods. ‘I couldn’t believe it when she just rolled up on my doorstep one day asking for a job. I’d just lost my previous helper, and when I say lost, I mean she died – she didn’t just leave.’
‘Oh no, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Hetty was the biggest pain ever. She’d worked alongside my aunt for years, so I had no choice but to continue working with her when I took over. She came as part of the fixtures and fittings of the shop.’
‘A bit like Clarice.’
‘Clarice is an angel compared to her.’ Noah shakes his head. ‘Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but I actually called her “Hetty Hitler” behind her back she was that bad.’
I stifle a giggle.
‘Nothing I ever did was right,’ Noah continues, ‘or more like it wasn’t as good as my aunt did it. She made my life a misery for the first few months I had the shop, then one day I couldn’t take it any longer and I put my foot down.’
I couldn’t imagine Noah putting his foot anywhere other than perhaps in his mouth. ‘And what happened?’
‘She didn’t speak to me for a week. She still came into work, mind, just didn’t speak. I think she thought I was going to give in, but I didn’t. For once I held my ground with her, and then one afternoon she just caved in and suddenly offered me a cup of tea like nothing had ever happened. I accepted, and after that we got on. When I say got on, we co-existed together in the shop and I was allowed to do things my way a bit more without constant interference. Hetty would still tut and pull disapproving faces a lot of the time, but at least she let me be the boss in my own shop.’
‘And now you have Jess.’
‘Yeah, like I said before she’s a great help, although why she wants to work in an old antiques shop when she’s just completed a history degree is beyond me, but she seems happy.’
‘Maybe she wants to stay local for a while. Do her parents live around here?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I think she came here on holiday then just decided to stay. She’s a bit of a free spirit is Jess. I’m sure she’ll change her mind about working for me one day and just flit off somewhere else.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t just leave you in the lurch. She thinks too much of you to do that.’
Noah shrugs. ‘Perhaps. But in my experience even the most reliable people eventually let you down.’
He doesn’t expand on that statement so I don’t pry. We’ve joined the A30 now, and Noah puts his foot down on the accelerator and moves through the gears as we quickly speed up.
‘So, Ana, tell me about you?’ Noah asks, seemingly happy to change the subject. ‘What do you do?’
I tell Noah all about my job, and he seems very interested. He asks all the right questions, and nods and smiles in all the right places.
‘And you’re happy doing that?’ he asks, as we overtake a horsebox.
‘Yes, I think so, for now anyway. I trained long enough to do it, so I guess I’d better be.’
‘That doesn’t sound very positive.’
‘It is, perhaps I didn’t say it right. What I meant was, I am happy doing this for now, but I’m not sure I’ll want to do it for ever. I think we need to move on in life, to evolve and grow, and often what you’re happy doing now isn’t what you’ll be happy doing in a few years’ time, is it?’
Something about what I’ve just said sounds familiar…
‘Very true,’ Noah agrees.
‘I mean, what did you use to do, before you took over the shop – I bet it wasn’t antiques, was it?’ I ask, and then I suddenly remember. It was Malachi! He said something similar to me about people changing outside his camper van the other night.
‘No, far from it,’ Noah agrees, but he doesn’t offer any further information on what he had been doing.
‘But you’re happier now than before?’ I try, hoping this will prompt him into telling me more. Noah was being very guarded about this.
Noah considers my question. ‘My life is very different from what it was before, and yes, I’m happy, but whether I’m happier…?’
I glance out of the window. This was getting more than a little awkward. Why didn’t he just tell me what he used to do? What was the big secret?
‘Let’s talk about these postcards,’ Noah says, steering the subject away from himself. ‘If we were lucky enough to find them, what help do you think they’ll be to your investigation?’
‘It’s hardly an investigation. I’d just like to return them to Lou if possible, and if that’s not possible for whatever reason, to her family at least.’
Noah nods. ‘Sentimental value?’
‘Yes, but it’s more than that…’ I hesitate.
‘Go on.’ Noah slows down as we approach a roundabout.
‘I kind of want to know what happened.’
‘To Lou?’
‘To both of them. I thought to begin with I was just caught up in the romance of it all, and to a certain extent I guess I am, but there’s also this big mystery that I want to solve. Why write postcards to someone for so long but never send them, and why hide them away in an old camper van and then leave them behind when you sell it? So much of this makes no sense, yet I really want it to make sense. Does that sound mad?’
Noah shakes his head. ‘Nope, that sounds like perfect sense to me.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep, I hate puzzles that can’t be solved – drives me insane.’
‘Is that why you’re helping me?’
‘Partly.’ Noah turns his gaze away from the road to me for a second, then just as quickly he returns it. ‘And partly because I like you.’
I wasn’t expecting that.
‘What I mean by that,’ Noah hurriedly says, ‘is I like the fact you want to help someone and you’re prepared to put yourself out to do it.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply sheepishly. ‘That’s nice of you to say.’
Noah doesn’t look at me this time and simply nods his acknowledgement.
We chat amiably for the rest of the journey about more mundane subjects – like the weather, Noah’s shop and St Felix. Then eventually Noah glances in his rear view mirror, indicates and turns the steering wheel of the car.
‘We’re here,’ he announces, as we pass a red and white sign that says Welcome to St Michael’s Hall. ‘Let’s hope St Michael is feeling kindly towards us today!’
The fair is much busier and much larger than I’d been expecting. In the hall I manage to count at least seventy stalls and most are offering a mixture of picture postcards, but some seem to specialise. Some stall-holders only sell seaside postcards or ones that are pre-nineteen thirties, or from the war, the fifties or sixties or of animals and birds. There is even a man only selling postcards of the West Country.
‘The guy we want is at the back here,’ Noah says, guiding me through the crowds until we reach a middle-aged couple sitting behind a large table filled with boxes and boxes of cards that are filed in categories such as South West Cornwall, North Cornwall, Penzance, Newquay and Land’s End.
‘Good morning,’ Noah says, sounding much more assertive than I’ve ever heard him before. This was obviously his comfort zone, in amongst dealers and buyers. ‘Noah Lawson.’ He holds out his hand to the
man and then the woman. ‘Good to meet you both. I believe we have a colleague in common – Geoffrey Harcourt?’
‘Yes, I know Geoff,’ the man says. ‘Haven’t seen him in a while, mind. How’s the old devil doing?’
‘Very well, apparently. I spoke to him only yesterday. He was telling me that you’d be exactly the person to speak to if I was trying to find a particular sort of postcard.’
The man’s face reddens. ‘I – I don’t deal in them sort of cards any more,’ he fervently insists, glancing hurriedly at the woman. ‘Honestly, Mary, I don’t. Cross me heart.’ He makes a cross on his cardigan with his finger, then he looks back up at Noah again. ‘If it’s that type of thing you’re looking for, then you’d be best seeing Kevin on stall forty-five. I believe he has a lot of that sort of thing hidden under his table.’
I try not to grin as Noah hastily shakes his head. ‘No, you misunderstand. I – well, we’ – he gestures to me –‘are looking for a set of postcards probably written fairly locally between the mid-sixties and the late eighties.’
‘Twenty years!’ The man’s bushy eyebrows rise. ‘That could be a lot of cards.’
‘Yes, it’s likely it is,’ I join in now. ‘They were sent, well, not sent… They were all written by one person always to the same recipient, but what makes them unusual is they were never posted.’
While the man pulls a perplexed face, Mary, who I assume must be his wife or partner, speaks for the first time, ‘That sounds interesting, love. What do you mean exactly by they were written but never posted?’
I’d been pretty sure I’d be asked this today so I’ve prepared a condensed version of the story so far. After I’ve told them everything I know as swiftly as I can, I produce one of the cards as a sample.
Mary takes it carefully from me, pops on the glasses that are hanging around her neck, and reads:
30th May 1953
My Darling Frankie,
Today is my half-day, so I decided to take a bus to Mevagissey. It’s a very pretty little harbour town, and there are fishing boats bobbing about merrily on the water just like on the front of this card!
I sat in the sunshine and watched people getting ready for the Queen’s coronation. The bunting they were hanging looked so gay as the red, white and blue fluttered happily in the sea breeze.
I’ll be watching the coronation with Mother and Father at our neighbours’ house. They have bought a television set especially for the occasion – very grand! It makes me wonder who you will be watching with? Oh, how I wish this special day was something we could share. In fact, I wish we could share every day, and that would make them all extra special.
Forever yours,
Lou x
‘Aw, that’s lovely. Look, Colin.’ She passes the card to Colin who retrieves his own glasses from his cardigan pocket and he now reads the card.
‘Very nice,’ he says, passing it back to me.
‘Very nice!’ Mary explodes with indignation. ‘That right there, Colin, that is romance. A word you quite clearly wouldn’t understand if it was tattooed backwards across your forehead so you read it in the mirror every morning!’
I can’t help but laugh.
‘These men, love,’ Mary says sadly, shaking her head at me, ‘they don’t understand what we want, do they? A petrol station bunch of chrysanthemums on our birthday just ain’t gonna cut it. I bet this one doesn’t buy you flowers from no petrol station, does he? He looks better brought up than that.’
‘He doesn’t buy me flowers at all,’ I hurriedly insist, even though I’m enjoying Mary’s rant. She opens her mouth again, but I just manage to finish speaking before she pounces on Noah. ‘We’re not together, you see. Noah is just helping me out with my search for the cards.’
Mary tips her head to one side. ‘Aw, really? Shame, that – you’d make a lovely couple, wouldn’t they, Colin?’
Colin is having a sip of his tea and he jumps as Mary’s elbow jabs into his ribs, just managing to prevent his drink from spilling over the side of the polystyrene cup.
‘Er… yes, I suppose so.’
I glance at Noah – his usually pale cheeks look as warm as mine feel.
‘So, you’ve obviously not come across anything like these cards then?’ Noah says, clearly deciding the best course of action is to continue as if nothing has happened.
Colin shakes his head.
‘If I give you my business card, would you give me a call if you do, please?’ Noah makes it sounds like an order rather than a request. He pulls a card from the pocket of his jacket and hands it to Colin.
‘Wait a minute,’ Mary says, thinking. ‘We can’t help you, but what about Alistair? He’s always on the lookout for cards with interesting messages on them. Some people collect cards because of what they’ve got written on the back as opposed to the collectors who choose them based on the pictures on the front.’
‘Who is Alistair?’ Noah says, looking around. ‘Is he here?’
‘I haven’t seen him. It’s possible he couldn’t get anyone to look after his shop today. He has a small shop up in Newquay – Beachcomber Antiques – it might be worth you trying there.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile at Mary, and as I do something catches my eye. It’s a postcard of Brighton. I pick it up and look at it while Noah gets further instructions from Colin on how we might find Beachcomber Antiques. It’s a view I remember well from my university days, of Brighton pier. I turn over the card and find it’s dated 4th July 1986.
Having a lovely time, it says in faded blue biro. Saw a Duran Duran tribute act last night. Not as good as the real thing, but better than the comedian we saw the night before – he was blue! Missing you, wish you were here. Jenny xx
‘How much?’ I ask Mary.
‘Take it,’ she says kindly. ‘We only get pence for the more modern cards.’
‘The eighties are modern, are they?’
‘In the world of postcards, they are. The most sought after are from the late eighteen hundreds through to the end of the Second World War.’
‘Really, as far back as that?’
Mary nods. ‘The early cards were used back then like we use text messages now, as a way of quick communication. There were often several postal deliveries a day in this country at that time, so people could send a card in the morning letting someone know what time to meet them later in the day. Or what time they would be arriving on a train or a bus.’
‘Gosh, I hadn’t thought about them like that. I just think about postcards as something people send when they’re on holiday, and even that’s fading out now, I guess.’
Mary nods sadly. ‘Yes, in the future there’ll be no record of wonderful romantic messages like your Lou was sending to her Frankie. Everything digital that’s not deemed important will simply be deleted. How our descendants will ever know anything personal about us, I don’t know.’
‘You’re the second person to say that to me,’ I say, thinking of Jess. ‘Perhaps someone needs to start a campaign to bring back the traditional ways of communicating.’
‘It’s been tried, my love. No one is interested apart from a few die-hard purists. Such a shame, but that’s the way of the world these days.’
‘Yes, isn’t it. Well, thank you for this. I have a bit of a thing for the eighties, and I went to uni in Brighton, so this card fits both bills!’
‘You’re very welcome. I do hope you manage to find this Lou. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to reunite her with her cards after all this time? I wonder what she’s doing now.’
I’d been wondering that a lot too.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Noah says, shaking both their hands again. ‘Most appreciated.’
‘Good luck!’ Mary calls as a parting gesture. ‘Let me know how you get on.’
‘I’ll send you a postcard if we’re successful!’ I call back, as Noah guides me away through the hall.
‘They were very nice,’ I say, as we step outside again into the fresh air. The hall had been quit
e stuffy, filled with so many people and old paper.
‘Nice, but sadly not all that helpful.’
‘Why not? They’ve given us another lead?’
Noah smiles.
‘What?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. Yes, this Alistair might be helpful, who knows.’
‘Should we go now?’ I ask. ‘That’s if you have time, of course. How far is it to Newquay from here?’
‘About half an hour. I have time if you do?’
‘I have lots of time,’ I say, thinking about Malachi and Daisy-Rose. ‘In fact, I have all the time in the world right now.’
