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

by Ali McNamara

  ‘If you must know, Julian tried it on – with me, I mean. He didn’t try on my vest.’ I grimace at my awful joke, but Jack is silent. ‘So, yes, you were right, apparently he does have some feelings for me and he chose that afternoon to make them abundantly clear.’

  A smug expression appears on Jack’s face.

  ‘You can take that look off your face! You’re the one still in the wrong here not me.’

  ‘So nothing happened then at the cottage?’

  ‘How many more times? No, of course nothing happened. Jack, it’s you I like – can’t you see that? Goodness knows why when you behave like you do sometimes, but for all our differences there’s something between us. Something special, I hope.’

  To my enormous relief Jack smiles up at me. He takes hold of my hand and pulls it towards him so he can kiss the back of it. Then he tugs on it again so I have no choice but to follow my hand with my body.

  Suddenly I find my lips on Jack’s, and we share the softest of kisses. Nothing like what I’d imagined Jack’s kisses might feel like. When I’d kissed him before it had very much been me kissing him, now it was his turn.

  ‘Sit on my lap?’ he asks.

  Without saying anything I do as he requests, tentatively sitting as gently as I can on him, but Jack is having none of that. Before I know what he’s doing he scoops my legs up and turns me sideways so my legs are now dangling over the side of his chair and my head is nestling into his broad chest. As he wraps his strong arms around my body to hold me close to him I feel completely at home, enveloped in his warm embrace.

  I tilt my head up towards him so our faces are millimetres apart.

  Jack looks into my eyes, ‘Now I can kiss you properly.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’ I ask, eager for the touch of his lips on mine. His upper body feels taut and firm against me. Close contact with Jack is very pleasurable indeed.

  ‘Because I don’t want you to miss this,’ he says, and he looks past me out over the sea.

  I follow his gaze and I’m amazed to see the most beautiful blood-red sunset in front of us.

  ‘It’s just like the painting,’ I whisper softly as I turn to Jack. ‘Arty and Clara’s painting.’

  ‘I know,’ he whispers back, before he kisses me again. ‘Like history is repeating itself … but this time it’s just for us.’

  Thirty-one

  ‘Morning, Kate!’ Anita says, as she arrives at the shop the next morning. ‘How are you today, dear?’

  ‘Great, thank you, Anita,’ I reply happily. ‘Really well.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad to hear it.’ Anita adds while she hangs up her cardigan and handbag in the back of the shop: ‘Only I heard you had a bit of bother last night.’

  ‘Bother? No I don’t think so. Who told you that?’

  I’d decided not to say anything to Anita about Joel’s visit. I didn’t want to fall out with her any more than I wanted to fall out with Jack or Julian.

  ‘Rita from The Merry Mermaid told Janice at the chemist, so when I called for my prescription this morning Janice asked me if you were all right?’

  I shake my head. The speed at which gossip travels around here is unbelievable!

  ‘Something about you storming out of the pub and Jack chasing after you?’ Anita says as she comes back into the shop. ‘But obviously she was mistaken?’

  I sigh. ‘All right, so we did have a small disagreement, but it’s all sorted now.’ I can’t help smiling to myself as I remember last night up on the hill.

  Jack and I had sat for ages watching the sunset and each other, just the two of us snuggled together getting to know each other even better. The incredible sunset had eventually turned into a star-filled sky, and we’d watched that with the same wonderment and togetherness, until eventually it had become too cold to sit there any longer, and we’d sadly had to head back into town.

  There had been a brief discussion about the possibility of spending the night together, but we’d both agreed that it might be a bit of a worry for our respective children to find either one of us not in our own bed the next morning. Or it would have been even more of a shock if either one of them had found an unexpected visitor in their parent’s bedroom.

  Regretfully, we’d parted, promising to be in touch the next day.

  ‘By the expression on your face,’ Anita says, smiling at me, ‘I’d say it had been more than just sorted.’

  ‘Let’s just say Jack and I have moved our relationship up a gear,’ I reply, beaming at Anita.

  Anita to her credit simply nods contentedly, and doesn’t ask me anything further.

  ‘Morning, campers!’ Sebastian calls, as he comes through the door a few minutes later. We had our large delivery coming in this morning so I had both my staff in with me in order to process it quickly with as little disruption to the shop as possible. ‘Now then, boss, what have you been up to?’ Sebastian asks with a wicked grin. ‘You’re the talk of the town!’

  ‘Don’t tell me, you went into the chemist and Janice asked how I was?’ I reply wearily.

  Sebastian looks puzzled. ‘No, I called in at the bakery, and Ant asked me what was going on with Jack and you. When I said I didn’t know what he meant, he told me you’d been spotted up on the hill last night at sunset, kissing and canoodling!’

  I roll my eyes. This town.

  ‘You know we’re the talk of the town?’ Jack asks me later when I’ve gone over to his shop with the latest embroidered felt pieces. They were really coming thick and fast at the moment, and now so many people seemed to know that Jack and I were an item – including my own friends and family – it suddenly wasn’t as difficult for us to sneak off and pretend we were having some ‘us time’.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard all the gossip,’ I tell him, as I lift the easel into Jack’s sitting room. ‘Apparently we were seen last night.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Jack asks as I pull up a chair next to him.

  ‘Do I look as if I do?’ I bypass my chair and instead straddle Jack’s so I can kiss him. Jack’s response to this spontaneous movement is equally as fervent, pulling me back on to his lap like last night.

  ‘Jack,’ I eventually say, trying to pull away from him a little, ‘we really need to look at the pictures. We don’t have long today.’

  ‘I can think of some much better things we could fill that short time with,’ Jack murmurs, not letting me go.

  ‘I don’t want a short time with you,’ I whisper. ‘I want a really long time.’

  ‘I can’t guarantee that,’ Jack says, grinning at me, ‘but I’ll do my very best.’

  ‘Right then, the pictures!’ I wriggle from his embrace and begin to line up the first of the paintings and embroidery. ‘We have two different ones to watch today … I wonder why these have suddenly appeared together?’

  ‘Heaven knows,’ Jack says, ‘Maybe it’s a two-part episode of our fifties’ soap opera? I long ago stopped questioning it, I just let it happen now.’

  ‘I have to say I’m a bit worried about this first one,’ I say as I sit down on my chair next to Jack. ‘It looks a bit bleak, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. It’s a church though, isn’t it? Perhaps we’re going to see Clara and Arty’s wedding?’

  ‘If we are, it doesn’t look like a very happy day,’ I say, warily regarding the artwork in front of us. Jack is right – his picture is definitely a painting of a church, but it’s in drab shades of grey and dark blue, not how an artist would usually depict a joyous wedding day. My matching felt is of the gravestones in front of the church. ‘I really hope nothing has gone wrong for them.’

  Jack takes hold of my hand, I move the embroidered felt across so it’s in exactly the right place, and then we wait anxiously as we travel back to St Felix once more.

  St Felix ~ December 1958

  Clara, Arty and Maggie stand in a windswept graveyard looking down at a newly filled-in grave. There is no headstone yet, just loose earth denoting that the incumbent of the
plot hasn’t been there all that long.

  They are all wearing sombre colours. Arty, very unusually, is wearing a suit, and Clara and Maggie black formal-looking dresses. Clara has the addition of a tiny black hat, and Maggie’s long hair is tied up with a black ribbon.

  ‘You’d have thought that more people would have turned up to the funeral,’ Clara says, looking down at the grave. ‘There were only us three and a few others. It’s very sad.’

  ‘He kept himself to himself,’ Arty says, standing next to her. ‘He wasn’t one for the social side of life really. It was just him and his painting. He said after his wife Irene died he didn’t have any other family left.’

  ‘Still, I would have expected more people to pay their respects. It’s simply good manners.’

  Arty squeezes Clara’s gloved hand.

  ‘Are you all right, Maggie?’ he asks, putting his arm around her shoulder.

  Maggie just nods. She’d been very quiet since Freddie had died. He’d gone peacefully in his sleep, the doctor had said, and had been discovered by a neighbour who wondered why he hadn’t opened up the top of his stable door, as he always did every morning come rain or shine to ‘let the St Felix air in’.

  ‘What will happen to all his paintings now he’s gone?’ Maggie asks, voicing a very good question that no one else had even considered yet. ‘What if they get thrown out when someone clears his house. Freddie wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen, Maggie,’ Arty says reassuringly. ‘How about we go over there tomorrow and see what the landlord is going to do with them?’

  Maggie nods.

  ‘Time to say goodbye now, Maggie,’ Clara says gently. She hadn’t realised quite how much this kind old man had meant to Maggie until the news of his death had reached them. Clara and Arty had both lived through the war, during which hearing news of people dying had become commonplace to them, but death and everything that came with it was new to her daughter, and it had hit her hard.

  Maggie nods. ‘Goodbye, lovely Freddie,’ she says sadly. ‘Thank you for all the lovely times we shared. I’ll never forget you.’ She places a white flower on top of the grave.

  ‘We all had a lot to thank Freddie for,’ Arty says, looking down at the grave again and then across at Clara. ‘If it wasn’t for him your mother and I might not be together.’

  Clara nods knowingly. She knew Arty meant that after he’d taken Maggie to Freddie’s that first time to check all was well, Clara had realised that Arty only had their best interests at heart. She had softened towards him, and their relationship had begun to flourish from that moment on so that a few months ago Clara had accepted Arty’s proposal and they were now engaged.

  ‘If only he knew,’ Clara says gently.

  ‘I think Freddie knew a lot more than people thought,’ Maggie says, stepping back from the grave and taking hold of her mother’s hand. ‘A lot, lot more.’

  ‘Oh, how sad,’ I say, looking away from the images that have begun to swirl again.

  ‘Yes, it was, but he was an old man,’ Jack says seriously. ‘He’d had a good innings.’

  ‘I guess so, but Maggie was clearly very close to him and it’s obviously very upsetting for her …’ I pause. ‘Shall we move on to the second picture? The colours are a bit brighter. I think it’s of Freddie’s house, isn’t it?’

  ‘Seems like it. Good job we’re viewing them in the order they appeared so it’s all chronological. We wouldn’t have known what was going on otherwise … I barely do anyway for that matter.’

  ‘Stop it, you fibber,’ I tease, as I lift the second picture on to the easel. ‘You’re enjoying all this just as much as I am.’

  ‘Having you here does have its benefits,’ Jack says, grinning. He takes my hand again as he waits for me to move the felt into its corresponding place on the front of the painting. ‘That’s one thing I do have to thank these pictures for.’

  I squeeze his hand. ‘Ready?’ I ask, sliding the felt across.

  ‘Ready.’

  St Felix ~ December 1958

  Maggie and Arty walk together towards Freddie’s cottage. Both of them feel apprehensive about visiting again knowing that he won’t be there this time.

  Arty had accompanied Maggie on her visits on quite a few occasions over the last year, and he’d got to know Freddie well in that time. He was a quiet man, gentle and intelligent, and Arty had enjoyed sitting painting with him and listening to his stories about St Felix and his life there almost as much as Maggie. Arty had brought him some of his own canvases to use with the excuse that he didn’t use that size any more. Freddie was a proud man and Arty knew he wouldn’t accept anything that looked like charity, so when he’d brought him as many pieces of art equipment as he could he always used the ‘unwanted/ unused’ excuse. He wasn’t sure Freddie always believed him, but he was gracious enough to accept Arty’s gifts without a fuss.

  He and Maggie arrive outside Freddie’s cottage and are surprised to see the doors open, and the sounds of hammering, banging and raised voices coming from inside.

  ‘Good morning!’ Arty calls tentatively through the doors.

  ‘’ello, mate can I ’elp you?’ asks a man wearing blue overalls and a tweed cap, approaching them across the kitchen floor.

  ‘Yes, perhaps you can. What are you all doing here?’

  ‘Renovations, mate. This place ain’t been touched in years. The new owner wants it all ship-shape as fast as possible.’

  ‘New owner? But I thought this house was rented?’

  ‘’Twas, I think, but the landlord has sold it on now. Far as I know he got an offer he couldn’t refuse.’

  Maggie tugs at Arty’s hand.

  ‘And do you know what happened to the paintings that were here?’ Arty asks, looking at the bare walls. The place was hardly recognisable as Freddie’s house any longer as the builders were pulling down the old kitchen cabinets and there was dust everywhere.

  ‘Don’t know nothing about any paintings, mate. Place was all empty when we arrived.’

  ‘Right, thank you. Just one more thing, do you know who the new owner is by any chance?’

  The builder shrugs. ‘Nope, we’ve been hired by some company in London. We’re Penzance-based as a rule.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for your time,’ Arty says, pulling on Maggie’s hand for them to leave.

  ‘But where are Freddie’s paintings?’ she cries, staying put. ‘Have they been thrown away?’

  ‘No, I’m sure that hasn’t happened, Maggie,’ Arty says gently. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find them.’

  ‘You could ask George along at number ten,’ the builder suggests, regarding Maggie with concern. ‘If there was something important here, maybe he would know?’

  ‘George?’ Arty asks.

  ‘He was the landlord here beforehand. Even though he’s sold the place he’s still overseeing the building works for the new owner. He’ll come and check on us occasionally.’

  ‘Right, we’ll do that. Thank you again.’ Arty pulls on Maggie’s hand again and this time she follows him.

  ‘Where are Freddie’s paintings, Arty?’ Maggie asks again.

  ‘I don’t know, Maggie,’ Arty replies with determination, ‘but we’re going to find out.’

  They knock on the door of number ten and a man wearing a white vest, braces and slippers opens it.

  ‘Yes?’ he asks suspiciously, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Good morning,’ Arty says confidently, assuming this must be George. ‘I believe you used to be the landlord of number three, back along the road?’

  ‘Yes, who wants to know?’

  ‘We were friends with the man who used to live there – Freddie …’ Arty says, suddenly realising he didn’t know Freddie’s last name.

  ‘You mean Wilfred,’ George says. ‘That was his proper name. He let children call him Freddie because he reckoned it was friendlier. Weren’t you at his funeral?’ he asks, looking at them both.

&n
bsp; ‘Yes, we were. So must you have been then?’

  ‘Yeah, I look a bit different in me suit, I do,’ George says, running his hand over his receding hair. ‘Thought someone should go as I didn’t expect many people would show up, and I was right. Why are you asking about Wilfred?’

  ‘We wondered what happened to his paintings when he passed on?’ Arty asks. ‘I know you’ve sold the house now, but before the builders arrived did you clear the house at all?’

  ‘It’s funny you should ask that,’ George says, his brow furrowing, ‘because I was wondering the exact same thing. One day old Wilfred was in there painting away and the next he was carted off by the undertaker. When I went to check on the house a few days later to make sure it was still locked up, all his paintings were gone.’

  ‘Gone!’ Arty repeats. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was odd, it was. Nothing else seemed to have been taken, not that the old fella had a lot – just the paintings. They weren’t worth anything so I didn’t bother the police. Maybe someone took a shine to them … Dunno why though – some of them looked like they’d been done by a child. No offence, lovey,’ he says to Maggie.

  Maggie just stares up at him.

  ‘When did you get the offer for the house?’ Arty asks.

  ‘Few days later. Came out of the blue, it did, but it was too ’andsome an offer to refuse. It’s given the wife and me a nice little nest egg, it has.’

  ‘Do you know who bought it?’

  ‘Some company – London-based, I think they was? I don’t know much about this sort of stuff so my son helped us out with all the documents and complicated stuff to make sure it was all above board. He’s works in a bank, you know,’ George says proudly. ‘Ever so clever.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Arty says, nodding. ‘And you got paid all right. The money all came through?’

  ‘Yep, sitting in me brand new bank account. My son opened it for us.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Good for you,’ Arty says, feeling totally dismayed. The chances of finding Freddie’s paintings were fading fast.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help with the paintings though,’ George says. He looks down at Maggie again. ‘I sees you coming and going a lot into Wilfred’s. I know he always appreciated your visits.’