Daisy’s Vintage Cornish Camper Van

by Ali McNamara

  I grin at her EastEnders reference. ‘I need to find some postcards, that’s all.’

  Jess’s expectant expression drops a tad.

  ‘Postcards,’ she repeats. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘They’re not just any postcards.’ As quickly as I can I tell her all about Lou and Frankie.

  ‘That’s very cool,’ she says, when I’ve finished. ‘Nothing like that could ever happen now – everyone’s texts and emails will end up being deleted in the future. There’ll be no permanent record of people’s love for each other, which is a real shame.’

  I hadn’t thought about it like that.

  ‘All the more reason for us to try to reunite these cards with either their owner or their owner’s family then.’

  ‘Yeah…’ Jess is obviously considering something. ‘There is one thing though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What if the owner didn’t want her family to know about the cards, and that’s why she hid them? Maybe Lou was having some sort of clandestine affair with this Frankie and by returning the cards to her you’ll blow up all sorts of trouble?’

  ‘No,’ I say confidently. ‘It wasn’t an affair, far from it. The cards I’ve read are full of unrequited love from one person to another. It’s beautiful not sordid.’

  ‘Ah, okay,’ Jess says, seeming to accept this answer readily. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right person. Noah loves a good puzzle – he’ll enjoy trying to help you solve this one. I remember when —’

  ‘Thank you, Jess,’ Noah says, coming back into the shop. ‘Don’t you have customers to see to?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Jess salutes, then she rolls her eyes at me.

  ‘Would you like to come through to the office?’ Noah asks, beckoning me across the shop. ‘It’s just this way.’

  Entering Noah’s office at the rear of the shop feels like stepping back in time. It looks like one of those offices you might see in an old black and white film or a fifties drama on the television.

  At one end of the cream-coloured room there is a solid dark-wood desk with a green banker’s desk lamp standing on it. Matching wooden shelves neatly stacked with books and files in colour-coded rows run along one wall, and a few framed oil paintings and watercolours hang neatly in groups on the others.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Noah says, gesturing to a wing-back leather armchair. It has maroon buttons holding down the upholstery all along its back, and I wonder as I sit down on the warm leather how many other people have sat ensconced within its protective sides before me.

  ‘Can I get you some tea or coffee?’ Noah offers. ‘I’ve just had one of those fancy machines installed.’

  I’m surprised. ‘Coffee would be great, thanks.’

  ‘Cappuccino? Latte?’

  ‘Cappuccino, please. One sugar.’

  ‘Coming up. Our little kitchen is only next door, so I’ll be right back.’

  I watch him go through another door that adjoins the office, which he leaves slightly ajar, and I can just make out Clarice dozing happily in her basket on the floor against some pale-wood cupboards.

  I hear the gurgling of a coffee machine doing its thing, and shortly Noah returns with two cups of frothy coffee.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, as he passes me one. ‘I have to say when you said you’d got a coffee machine I was quite surprised. Everything else in here is so old, and this’ – I lift my mug – ‘is so modern.’

  ‘Not everything I do is anchored in the past, you know,’ Noah says, surprising me again by looking a little hurt at my comment.

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean any offence,’ I reply hurriedly. I didn’t want to upset him, not now he’d said he would help me. Actually, no, it was more than that – Noah was a nice, kind man and I didn’t want to offend him full stop. ‘I meant it’s a welcome change, and it makes lovely coffee.’

  Noah looks at me suspiciously, and then he smiles. ‘Good recovery.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It was probably me anyway – I’m a bit touchy when I think I’m being criticised. I know you weren’t,’ he says, holding up his hand to quieten me when I try to pipe up again. ‘It’s just… well… apparently I’m too sensitive.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Jess, and a few other people.’

  I think about this while I take another sip of my coffee. ‘Do you want my opinion?’ I ask a little shyly, putting my mug down on a coaster on the table next to me. After all, Noah and I had only met a few days ago.

  Noah screws up his nose, and I notice under his glasses he has a few freckles scattered haphazardly across the bridge. ‘Do I?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a man that’s too sensitive. Usually you can hit them with a brick and it will still bounce off them without making any sort of dent – metaphorically, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Noah says, grinning now. ‘Well, thank you, I’ll take that on board.’

  ‘Good.’

  We hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds. Then Noah hurriedly blinks and pushes his glasses up his nose, even though they don’t appear to have slipped at all.

  ‘Right, about these postcards,’ he says in a business-like voice now. ‘I can make some calls for you. I know a few people in the trade. Even though I’ve had a fair few cards in the shop over the years, I’m no expert.’

  ‘That would be great, thanks. Tell me honestly, Noah, do you think we have any chance of finding them?’

  Noah sighs, ‘I’d like to say yes – it’s such a touching story that to give it a proper ending would be lovely. But in reality, I think you might be better using the cards you already have to try to trace Lou.’

  I nod despondently.

  ‘I’ll do my very best none the less,’ Noah says brightly. ‘It’s not often I have a damsel in distress asking for my help… especially one as pretty as you.’

  Noah’s cheeks flush so pink, they’re almost the same colour as my chair, but instead of thinking it odd for a man to blush so profusely, I actually find it very endearing.

  St John’s Academy, Sixth Form Leavers’ Ball, 2004

  ‘Where’s Dave?’ Daisy shouts in my ear, trying to get her voice heard over the sound of the thumping music. The DJ is currently playing Britney Spears at full blast, and the dance floor is crammed with eighteen-year-old girls and boys in their prom dresses and tuxedos dancing the night away, seemingly without a care in the world.

  Because of my ‘little problem’ we’re standing on the side-lines as we so often did at these events.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a while.’

  ‘I bet he’s up to no good!’ Daisy shouts again.

  ‘Look, I know you’ve never liked him, but he’s okay. Really, he is.’

  Daisy looks at me and shakes her head.

  ‘It’s okay for you with your oh, so perfect A-star boyfriends. Those types of boys aren’t interested in me, are they? Anyway’ – I shake my head – ‘I prefer them a bit rougher around the edges. They’re more interesting.’

  ‘Interesting – is that what you call it? I call it trouble.’

  ‘Dave is not trouble, he’s —’ But I’m cut off mid-sentence by the music suddenly being turned off and the lights switched on. There are loud boos and jeers from the dancers, and Daisy and I blink under the bright fluorescent glare above us as we watch the head of the sixth form climb up behind the DJ’s desk and take a mic from him. A uniformed police officer joins him.

  ‘I’m sorry to put a stop to your enjoyable evening,’ Mr Grayson says, looking quite pale, which I suspect is not due to the harsh lighting. ‘But there’s been a… situation outside in the playground, and I’ve been asked by the police to put a stop to the music while everyone is questioned.’

  ‘Questioned?’ Daisy hisses in my ear. ‘It must be bad if they want to question us.’

  ‘This could take some time,’ Mr Grayson says apologetically. ‘So I ask that you are all patient and co-operative, and then the police can get thei
r job done as quickly as possible.’

  ‘What’s happened, Mr Grayson?’ someone shouts from the crowd. ‘Has someone been murdered?’

  There are oohs and aahs from the floor, and much muttering and discussion suddenly breaks out.

  Mr Grayson waves his hand to quieten everyone down. ‘No, of course not. But there has been an issue.’ He glances at the policeman standing to his left.

  The officer nods his agreement.

  ‘Well, it’s more of an incident really – an incident involving drugs and a nasty fight…’ Mr Grayson hesitates again. ‘With a knife.’

  More oohs and aahs.

  ‘Now before the police begin questioning you all, can anyone who knows David Skinner well come forward first, please, as they would like to talk to you immediately.’

  I’m aware of several heads swivelling in my direction. Weakly, I turn to Daisy.

  But instead of gloating, I feel Daisy gently take my hand, and with everyone staring at us she guides me safely through the crowd towards the police officer.

  It was not to be my last experience of dating a ‘bad boy’.

  Fourteen

  That afternoon I’m back at my cottage sitting in my favourite spot looking out through the French windows. The day has remained bright and sunny, and in amongst the cry of gulls and the sound of gentle waves rolling in across the bay, I can hear the sound of excited children playing on the sand with their families.

  I’m reminded of a time when I’d taken a day trip to Brighton with Daisy and her family. I’d had a lovely time playing with the boys on the sand making sandcastles and paddling in the sea. We’d eaten fish and chips and then ice cream, and walked along the prom and the pier. I’d felt absolutely exhausted at the end of the day but extremely happy too.

  It wasn’t just Daisy I missed but her family as well. Peter had kindly said I could visit them any time I wanted to, and I had a couple of times – I’d taken the boys for days out to give Peter a little break – but I found it heart-breaking spending time with them, all too aware that Daisy wouldn’t suddenly be popping by to join us or waiting with a cup of tea and a biscuit when I dropped them off at the end of the day, eagerly wanting to know everything we’d been up to.

  I’d never been lucky enough to find anyone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with like Daisy had, let alone someone that I wanted to have a family with too. Recently I’d been starting to wonder if I ever would.

  I shake my head. ‘That’s enough wallowing for today,’ I tell myself. ‘Time up.’

  I allowed myself an indulgent trip down memory lane once every day, which usually resulted in a few tears, but I’d noticed since I’d been here in St Felix those trips were becoming shorter and, dare I even think it, marginally less painful each time.

  I pick up the small pile of postcards I’ve chosen to re-read. They are all dated from the mid-sixties.

  The first one has a picture on the front of Tower Bridge in London.

  10th June 1963

  My Darling Frankie,

  You’ll never guess, I’ve started a new hobby – painting!

  I really enjoy it, it’s so relaxing, and my teacher at the evening class I go to says I’m quite good. I knew I should have gone to art school all those years ago… I’m joshing with you! I love my new job at the solicitors, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. Except of course if you were close by…

  Forever yours,

  Lou x

  The next one is from November that same year. It’s a postcard of St Michael’s Mount at Marazion.

  14th November 1963

  My Darling Frankie,

  Guess what, I sold a painting!

  Our class had a small exhibition and a very nice lady said she would like to hang one of my paintings on the wall of her flat. I can hardly believe it!

  Perhaps one day I’ll be able to paint you? I know it would be the best painting I could ever do.

  Forever yours,

  Lou x

  The card after that has a seasonal picture of a cheery Robin with a bright red breast.

  23rd December 1963

  My Darling Frankie,

  I just wanted to wish you a very Happy Christmas.

  I’ll be spending mine this year back in Cornwall with Mother. It will be nice just the two of us, but I’m sure we will miss Father terribly.

  I hope you have a lovely time with your family.

  Forever yours,

  Lou x

  Then there’s a slight gap because the next card is from August 1964. This time it’s an arty-looking one of some strange sculptures with holes in the middle.

  4th August 1964

  My Darling Frankie,

  I’m sorry I haven’t written for so long; I’ve been incredibly busy! You’ll never guess… I’m giving up my job in the solicitor’s office.

  I’m going to give my painting a real go. I hope I might be able to make a modest living from it. I’m hardly a Hockney or a Warhol, but I’m told my paintings are a little different and I’ve sold quite a few recently.

  Exciting times. I wish you were here to share them with me.

  Forever yours,

  Lou x

  The last from this batch is a picture of a sunny day on Newquay beach.

  3rd September 1964

  My Darling Frankie,

  What do you know? I’ve bought myself a little runaround from the proceeds of my painting! It’s a brand new Dormobile camper van, and I love her! She’s ruby red and cream and is by far the loveliest thing I’ve ever owned.

  I hope to travel the country finding inspiration for my painting. (Don’t worry I won’t be turning into one of those newfangled hippy types!)

  I will of course write and let you know how I get on.

  Forever yours,

  Lou x

  So Lou probably first began painting in the sixties, and she purchased Daisy-Rose in 1964 brand new. I’m quite impressed. I’d never had a brand new car myself, always preferring to buy second-hand – new cars lost so much value the minute you drove them off the forecourt. I wonder if Lou was Daisy-Rose’s only owner before my Daisy bought her last year? Then I remember one of the later postcards. I’d read through them all so fast yesterday that I hadn’t really taken everything in properly.

  I look back through the cards again, which I have tried to organise in small piles on the sitting-room coffee table. I was going to have to find a better way of cataloguing them; one strong gust of wind through the French windows and they’d be all over the place in seconds. In the later ones there is no mention of Lou selling Daisy-Rose. She talks about growing older and about not travelling so much any more, and there’s a definite change in tone from her early cards, which are so vibrant and full of life. On one of the very last her writing is much shakier and harder to read:

  12th April 1999

  My Darling Frankie,

  I went up to London today to see one of my paintings being hung in the National Gallery – only for a temporary exhibition, mind, but what an honour!

  I couldn’t take Rose, as I had to go by train, but to be honest it was quite a relief. I’ve been finding it harder and harder to manage her with my arthritic hands and I’m afraid the time is coming when I may have to let her go, and buy something a little easier to manage.

  She’s been such a part of my life for so long, I’ll be dreadfully upset to give her up.

  I just wish you could have shared some of our happy times with us.

  Forever yours,

  Lou x

  I wonder what happened to Lou and Rose after that? I think, as I gaze at the picture on the card, which is of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square. Did Lou sell Daisy-Rose then? Did she stop writing to Frankie? I can hardly bear to think about the other reason she might have stopped writing. Lou would have been about seventy in that last card according to my calculations, maybe a bit younger. Surely she’d gone on to live many more years after that?

  I sit and ponder what I know already, look
ing partly at my many notes and partly at the postcards covering the table, hoping they might be able to throw some new light.

  I knew Lou had originally lived in St Felix when she was young. As I’d discovered with Malachi, the first postcard dates from 1945, and by what she wrote I’m guessing she must have been about fifteen years old. She did well at school and went on to Oxford University to study law – I know that because one of the postcards was from Oxford itself and told Frankie all about her first term there. She must have passed her exams if she went on to work in a solicitor’s office at a later date, perhaps in London? A card had been written from there and had mentioned her job, but that could have been one of a few places she might have worked. There would have been time for her to have moved around before she gave it all up to paint in the mid-sixties; it isn’t always clear whether the pictures on the front of the cards from that time have any relevance to what Lou is telling Frankie.