by Ali McNamara
‘The reason I say that is I remember her mother took a shop around then – dressmaker’s it was, and she began selling all the fashions of the day from there – you know: full skirts, bright fabrics etc. I badgered my own mother to buy me a skirt like that because all the older girls were wearing them that year. All summer I went on and on until eventually she asked Clara to make one for me – it was the best thing I’d ever owned. I remember me and my best friend Rose – that’s who Rosie here is named after – sitting on the harbour wall swinging our legs listening to Lonnie Donegan, Little Richard and Elvis Presley on her portable transistor radio.’ She smiles wistfully. ‘What good times they were.’
‘Clara had a shop?’ I ask intrigued. ‘Where?’
‘Er …’ Lou looks down the street, trying to place it. ‘You know something – I think it might have been where your shop is now. Yes, in fact I’m sure of it. A few doors down from the baker’s, on the opposite side. Back then the baker’s was owned by Dec’s uncle, I think. “Mr Bumbles” it was called back then.’
‘Clara ran a dressmaker’s from the same shop as mine?’ I repeat slowly, trying to get a grasp on this extraordinary coincidence.
‘Yes, that was until … hmm, perhaps the mid-to late sixties? It’s difficult for me to remember because I moved away for a few years with my husband’s job around then. I was a young bride,’ she says wistfully, thinking back. ‘Anyway when we returned to live here it was already the wool shop, and it stayed that way until you opened your craft shop. Why all the questions, dear?’
‘Lou, would you mind if I pop round to your house one day and ask you some more about this?’
‘No dear, not at all. I quite enjoy a trip down memory lane. I’m not sure how much more help I can be to you though.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised, Lou. Your little snippets of information have already helped me out no end. One more question for now though – do you remember an artist back then called Arty?’
Lou thinks. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells, but you have to remember if we’re talking about the late fifties I would only have been thirteen or fourteen. A lot has happened in my life since. Also, like now, there were a lot of artists painting here back then. That’s one thing that doesn’t change.’
‘Oh, talking of painting, I’d better go.’
‘Off to see our local art-shop owner are you?’ Lou asks, her eyes twinkling.
‘How did you know … ?’ I begin, and then I simply say. ‘Don’t tell me – Anita!’
‘I bumped into Lou on the way here,’ I tell Jack as I prepare for our two pieces of artwork to come together.
‘Lou?’ Jack asks. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Lou’s lived in St Felix for ages on and off. She’s the aunt of Jake, who owns the nursery up on the hill, so I guess that makes her aunt-in-law to Poppy at the flower shop, and Bronte’s great-aunt.’
‘Wow!’ Jack says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Is everyone here related?’
‘It seems that way sometimes. A number of St Felix’s older residents have lived here all their lives. If you chat to any of them for long enough they’ll tell you their stories.’
‘I bet. So what did this Lou tell you?’
‘You won’t believe this but she thinks that Clara ran a dressmaker’s from the same shop that I have now.’
‘Really? That’s incredible.’
‘Yes, she remembers Clara and Maggie, but not Arty. There were a lot of artists here in the fifties apparently, like there are now.’
‘It must mean something,’ Jack says, his eyes narrowing, ‘but what though?’
‘Let’s put the pictures together again, and see what happens today,’ I say keenly, sitting down next to him on the chair opposite the easel. ‘Maybe that will tell us more …’
St Felix ~ June 1957
‘It’s an amazing view you have here,’ Clara says, as she stands at the window of Arty’s ground-floor studio that looks out over the sands of St Felix Bay. ‘I’m amazed you don’t sit and paint this vista all the time.’
‘It’s tempting,’ Arty says, watching her from across the studio, ‘but I think my clients would get a bit bored with the same scene all the time. It’s the light that’s truly amazing here – it floods into the room making everything I do seem better.’
Clara turns towards Maggie, who is frantically trying to finish her own piece of artwork for the day. This was the first time Clara had actually been inside Arty’s studio. Before she’d always collected her daughter at the door, even though Arty had always invited her to come in. ‘Maggie, are you nearly finished? We really must be going. You’re already over your allotted hour with Arthur.’
Arty grins at Clara’s continued insistence on calling him by his full name, but he kind of admired her for sticking to her formality. It was one of the many things he liked about Maggie’s mother, and the list seemed to grow longer every time they met.
‘It’s fine,’ Arty says kindly. ‘You can’t rush art – can you, young Maggie?’
Maggie grins up happily at him from her easel.
‘But even so,’ Clara says, ‘we don’t want to outstay our welcome.’
‘You could never do that,’ Arty says softly, ‘Either of you.’
Clara, pretending she hasn’t heard, bustles towards Maggie’s easel. ‘No, Mummy!’ Maggie says, leaping up as she tries to hide her work. ‘It’s not finished yet.’
‘Maggie,’ Clara says, stopping in her tracks. ‘You’re standing – on your own.’
‘I know,’ Maggie says proudly. ‘We’ve been practising while I’ve been here, haven’t we, Arty? Look I can even walk a few steps on my own now without falling over.’
Clara watches in shock as Maggie walks slowly but confidently away from her easel. She takes each step precisely and carefully, but the look of delight on her face as she accomplishes this simple act is a joy to behold.
‘See!’ she cries elatedly as she reaches her mother’s arms. ‘I told you I could do it if you’d only let me try.’
Clara hugs her daughter to her. ‘Amazing, darling,’ she says. ‘How long have you been doing that?’
‘Since Arty said I should try and walk a bit more often.’ Maggie looks happily over her shoulder at him. ‘He said if I didn’t try occasionally I might never walk properly again.’
‘He did, did he?’ Clara asks, looking sternly at Arthur. ‘Are you a doctor now as well as an artist?’
‘No … but I felt she was ready. If she sits in that thing too long her leg muscles will atrophy, and she’ll be weak for ever. Atrophy means—’
‘Yes, I know what it means, thank you very much,’ Clara says sharply. ‘When you’ve lived with this as long as we have you know all the terminology, and if you’ll pardon my frankness, I think you’ll find I also know what’s best for my daughter too.’
Clara looks around for Maggie’s wheelchair. ‘Come along, Maggie, it’s time to go,’ she says, grabbing the chair and wheeling it over to her. ‘I don’t think you’re quite ready to walk all the way back home just yet.’ She eyes Arty meaningfully. ‘Perhaps you think otherwise?’
Arty shakes his head, and silently watches them as they prepare to leave.
‘Same time next week, Maggie?’ he calls, before they reach the door.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea any more,’ Clara says frostily, turning back for a moment.
‘No, Mummy! I want to come back and see Arty,’ Maggie cries from her chair.
‘Clara,’ Arty says, walking quickly over to them. He places himself in front of the door and grabs the handle. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve done wrong by Maggie. I think she’s a great girl, and quite the promising artist.’ He smiles down at her. ‘Please don’t let your anger with me prevent your daughter from doing something she enjoys.’
Clara’s face softens a little, but her lips remain firmly pursed together as she looks coldly at Arty.
‘I’ll think about it,’ is all she says. ‘Now kindly open the door so we can
be on our way, please.’
Arty relents and stands back, holding the door open for them. He waves gloomily to Maggie, who waves equally forlornly back at him.
Clara purposefully pushes the chair out of the studio and down the street, striding as far away from Arty as she can.
‘Oh …’ I say despondently, turning to Jack as the moving images swirl before us. ‘That wasn’t so much fun tonight.’
‘No. Poor Maggie and poor Arty.’
‘Clara is only trying to do what’s best for her daughter,’ I add, feeling the need to defend her. ‘She probably felt Arty was overstepping the mark.’
‘He was right,’ Jack says, ‘About the atrophy. If she doesn’t use her legs, the muscles will weaken and deteriorate. Believe me I know all about this sort of thing.’
‘I’m sure that’s quite true, but I know what it’s like to be a single mother. You get very defensive when people try to tell you what’s best for your child.’
Jack looks at me. ‘Yes I can imagine that. I don’t see Ben all that often, but at least I share parenting with my ex. We don’t exactly get on well, but she’s always rung me if there’s anything important I need to know about him, or anything we need to discuss. I guess when you’re on your own it’s all up to you. Molly doesn’t see her dad then?’
I feel myself tighten, as I always did when people started to delve into my past.
‘No,’ I reply brusquely. ‘She doesn’t.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Jack continues. ‘I’d be gutted if I didn’t see Ben at all.’
‘Yes, well, things aren’t always as simple as that.’
Jack watches me, assuming I’ll continue.
‘I wonder what will happen next?’ I say, deliberately changing the subject. ‘To Clara and Arty? We know she starts her dressmaker business, but I wonder what will happen to the two of them, and to Maggie?’
‘Let’s hope we get a new set of pictures soon so we can find out,’ Jack says, taking the hint. ‘I set the easel up every night in case. I wondered if I should leave a fresh canvas out at first, but now I leave it empty and a new painting appears like magic. Do you leave supplies out for your sewing fairy?’
‘No, I don’t. The fabric and the embroidery magically appear under the machine plate in the morning, which makes it all the weirder. Do you still wonder who’s doing this?’
Jack shrugs. ‘I’ve given up thinking about that to be honest. The whole thing is so unbelievable I’ve suspended my natural scepticism. The story of Clara and Arty has taken over any thought I might have about how this is happening – I’m simply enjoying the fact that it is.’
I smile at him, ‘That’s exactly how I feel about it. Strange, isn’t it? If you’d told me a couple of months ago that I’d be sitting here with a perfect stranger waiting for pictures to come to life I’d have laughed in your face.’
‘I’m not such a stranger now though, am I?’ Jack asks quietly. ‘I’d say we were getting to know each other quite well as the days go by. I quite enjoy our little get-togethers.’
I’m surprised to hear him say this: not about enjoying our painting reveals – I do too – but it’s rare that he’s so candid. His usual chat is so flippant that it always comes as a shock when he says something with genuine sincerity.
‘Yes, I do too,’ I tell him shyly. ‘It’s been quite nice to have a new friend to talk to.’
‘There’s not really anyone else we could talk to about this,’ Jack adds, gesturing to the paintings, ‘is there?’
I shake my head. ‘I wonder why us though?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I wonder why we’re seeing these—’ I hesitate, trying to find the right word ‘—these images. Do you think this would have happened if Noah had passed on the sewing machine and the easel to some other customers?’
Jack shrugs. ‘Would the artwork have appeared for them? Who knows? And would they have matched them together to make them come alive like we have? It’s highly doubtful.’
‘Why?’
‘The sewing machine and the easel could have gone anywhere, couldn’t they? We have visitors from all over the world here.’
‘Yes, but it would be unlikely they’d buy such bulky items – they’d have a job transporting them home.’
‘True, so if they had been bought by someone local and they did start producing … let’s say unusual pictures, what are the chances they’d have been brave enough to tell someone about it, or for the person they confided in to be the exact same person who was also experiencing it!’
‘You know, you’re right – it’s just as incredible we ever put the two pictures together as them actually appearing in the first place.’
‘Maybe it’s fate?’ Jack says quietly.
‘I thought you didn’t believe in all that sort of stuff?’ I reply smiling, but my insides are a lot less calm. Jack was being very … pleasant tonight. Things I hadn’t expected to hear him say were coming from his lips and it was throwing me off guard.
‘I don’t usually, but it’s this place – St Felix. There are so many stories about strange events happening here – unexplainable events – that I’m starting to believe we’re experiencing one of them.’
‘Who’ve you been talking to?’ I ask, still trying to keep my tone light. ‘Someone down the pub?’
‘Yes. Noah said I should ask down there if I was interested, so I did one night when it was quiet and there weren’t too many people about, and I was quite staggered by some of the tales the locals told.’
‘I’ve heard some of them myself. Even my friend Poppy will tell you a tale about how her flower shop became successful and how she met her husband, Jake.’
‘Yes, I heard that one too.’
‘Maybe it’s our turn now,’ I say, still smiling. ‘To experience a little St Felix magic, I mean?’
‘Maybe it is …’ Jack says, watching me closely. ‘And I’d say the magic is working very well so far – wouldn’t you?’
Sixteen
‘Who are they for this time?’ I ask hesitantly as I walk back into the shop with Barney after our afternoon walk.
‘It says Kate on the card.’ Anita gazes at the huge bunch of flowers taking up most of the shop counter. ‘Secret admirer?’
‘Definitely not! When did they arrive?’ I pull the card off the flowers and tear open the envelope.
‘Amber brought them in about ten minutes ago. She asked about her wedding invitation while she was here – have you replied yet?’
‘Gosh, no, I haven’t. I’ll have to get an acceptance card for Molly and me. Are you going, Anita?’
‘Yes, it sounds like it’s going to be a lovely do on all accounts. Sebastian is going too … What’s wrong, dear? You don’t look very happy.’
I stare at the card I’ve pulled from the envelope.
I hope you enjoyed my last ‘apologetic’ offering?
This time my bouquet is sent in the spirit of friendship.
I will be in St Felix very soon and I would very much enjoy the pleasure of your company once more.
J x
‘Yes, I’m fine, Anita, I’m just not sure who’s sending me these flowers. The last one was only signed J too.’ I pass her the card.
‘Do you know anyone with the initial J?’ Anita asks. ‘I mean anyone who might send you flowers. They obviously know you.’
I think for a moment. ‘Only Jack, and he made it very clear the last bunch wasn’t from him. And, anyway, this isn’t his style at all. Jack is much more direct. He’d never do anything …’ I search for the right word. ‘Anything as clandestine as this.’
‘Good word,’ Anita says approvingly. ‘Well, they say they want the pleasure of your company once more, so you must know them?’
I shake my head. ‘I really can’t think of anyone, Anita.’
‘Hey, Mum,’ Molly says, coming into the shop. ‘Ooh, who are they from – not your secret admirer again?’
I look at my watch. �
��What are you doing here? It’s not time for school to finish yet.’
‘Study period. I told you I’d be getting them occasionally from now on.’
‘Oh, yes, so you did.’
‘So, these flowers then,’ Molly says, smelling them. ‘Was there a card again?’
Anita passes Molly the card. ‘Your mum can’t think of anyone with the initial J who would send her flowers.’
‘Definitely not Jack,’ Molly says with certainty. ‘Not his style.’
‘Exactly,’ I agree. ‘But why does everyone seem to think that Jack would be sending me flowers? He has no reason to.’
Molly and Anita exchange knowing looks.
‘And you can stop looking at each other like that!’
‘So, who is it then?’ Molly asks. ‘Hang on a minute, you don’t think …’
‘I don’t think what?’
‘It couldn’t be Joel, could it?’
I stare at Molly for a moment. Why hadn’t I thought of Joel?
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Why would Joel be sending me flowers now? I haven’t seen or heard from him in nearly two years.’
‘Maybe he’s going to be passing and he wants to pop in to see you?’ Molly suggests, sounding almost hopeful. ‘He might be trying to say sorry?’
Although it had affected us both, I’d never told Molly the full story about Joel. Naturally I’d wanted to protect her, so I’d kept her out of it as much as possible, which is why I hadn’t ever mentioned the sewing machine’s rather curious behaviour either. I didn’t want Molly to spend her time worrying about me – I wanted her to concentrate on herself and, most importantly right now, her studies.
‘No one passes through St Felix,’ I say lightly. ‘You have to make a purposeful trip here. It’s completely out of anyone’s way otherwise.’
‘Maybe he’s holidaying nearby then?’
‘It’s not Joel,’ I insist.
‘How do you know?’ Molly demands. She’d always liked Joel, and I think she had secretly hoped he might become the father figure in her life she’d always lacked and that I’d always felt guilty about not providing. ‘This person obviously knows you and wants to see you again, Mum.’