Daisy’s Vintage Cornish Camper Van

by Ali McNamara

  Eighteen

  I wait for Noah in the Land Rover while he quickly calls Jess to check that she’s getting on okay.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I ask, as he returns to the car.

  ‘She seems to have everything under control.’

  It’s my turn now for a knowing smile.

  ‘What?’ Noah asks, starting the engine.

  ‘I was smiling because you know you needn’t worry about Jess, and yet you still do. Why don’t you trust her?’

  ‘I do trust her.’ Noah reverses out of our parking space and we drive to the gate.

  ‘You don’t behave like you do.’

  Noah, waiting for a break in the traffic so he can pull out safely, simply shrugs. ‘I’m just looking out for my business, that’s all, and I haven’t known Jess all that long. Like I said, she just sort of turned up on my doorstep one day asking for a job.’

  ‘Sure…’ I say, looking out of the passenger window. ‘I guess that would be it.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  I turn back. ‘It’s just you’re very secretive about your life – protective even. I doubt you trust anyone really, let alone Jess.’

  ‘Just because I don’t share every part of my life with everyone I meet’ – Noah pauses to accelerate quickly out into the traffic – ‘it doesn’t mean I’m secretive or untrusting of people.’

  ‘I just get that vibe from you, that’s all.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Noah says, glancing at me quickly. ‘You’re one of these people who share every part of their life on social media. I bet you have Instagram and Facebook and Twitter, and you’re on them all the time.’

  ‘That is where you’re very wrong. Yes, I have all of those apps on my phone but I very rarely use any of them.’

  ‘Really?’ I detect a hint of approval in Noah’s voice.

  ‘Really. I mean they’re good for keeping up with friends and family, or finding out news and stuff, but that’s it. I just find it all so…’ I search for the right word, ‘fake.’

  Noah nods approvingly. ‘Me too. Jess is insisting we need a Facebook page for the shop but we have a small website already, so I can’t see why I need that too.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the way a lot of business is done these days, and Jess is young so she knows no other way.’

  ‘You’re hardly old yourself,’ Noah says. We’ve pulled up at a set of traffic lights, so he’s able to look at me this time for more than a couple of seconds.

  ‘I’m thirty-two.’

  ‘Like I said, hardly old.’

  ‘How old are you then?’ I’d guessed in my head he’d be in his late thirties, but it was difficult to tell – he dressed older and often had the manner of a more mature person.

  ‘I’m thirty-six, no sorry, make that thirty-seven. My birthday was last week.’

  ‘Cancer,’ I say knowingly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your star sign – it’s Cancer. My friend was into all that kind of stuff. I couldn’t help but absorb some of it.’

  ‘Yes, I am. I have no idea what that means, though?’

  ‘You’re emotional, sensitive and private, you can be difficult to get to know, but once you do get close to someone, you’re very loyal to those you hold dear.’

  Noah doesn’t comment. ‘What are you then?’ he asks instead.

  ‘Capricorn – we’re practical and goal driven, and usually successful, often later in life.’

  ‘Only that?’

  ‘A Capricorn can often be seen as cold and unfeeling, which is usually not the case at all – they’ve just chosen not to show their feelings to you.’

  Noah smiles. ‘Do you believe any of that?’

  I shrug. ‘Some perhaps. Daisy was quite resolute about it all, as she was about most things.’

  ‘You obviously miss her a lot.’

  I just nod.

  ‘Do you think this is one of the reasons you’ve set your heart on finding Lou – to take your mind off your loss?’

  I stare hard at him. ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t mean any offence by that. I just meant sometimes, when we’re grieving heavily, to have something else to focus your mind on can help ease the pain a little.’

  ‘Perhaps it is diverting my thoughts a tad,’ I admit, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten her. Far from it.’

  ‘I never said you had.’

  There’s silence between us for a moment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I apologise, ‘if I snapped at you. It’s just since I’ve been in St Felix I’ve found myself thinking less and less about Daisy every day, and that makes me sad.’

  ‘That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though,’ Noah suggests gently. ‘It’s part of the grieving process, and it means you’re starting to heal.’

  ‘You sound like you know what I’m going through?’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Noah asks, deftly changing the subject. ‘We just passed a sign for a service station up ahead – we could get some coffee and maybe a sandwich?’

  ‘Sure.’ Noah quite obviously doesn’t want to talk about his past with me, and who was I to push him about it if he wanted to keep that chapter of his life private.

  At the service station we manage to get cups of hot Costa coffee from a machine and some reasonable-looking sandwiches, then we return to the car to eat and drink.

  ‘Sorry it’s not more glamorous,’ Noah says, taking a sip from his cappuccino. ‘I guess we could have stopped for something when we got to Newquay.’

  ‘It’s fine, I’m quite hungry. Plus this way we can people watch, which I love.’

  ‘What’s so interesting about watching people coming out of a service station?’

  ‘Are you kidding? You can tell a lot about someone by what they’ve bought – take that woman over there, for instance. She’s carrying a salad and a diet drink, so she’s obviously watching her weight.’

  ‘Or she just wants to be healthy?’

  ‘Perhaps, whereas this guy has a large bag of sweets.’ I squint a little. ‘And a can of Coke.’

  ‘What are you deducing from that, Sherlock?’ Noah asks, looking amused. ‘That he doesn’t care about himself because he eats sugar?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Or…’ Noah says, looking hard at the man. ‘He’s buying it for his child as a treat on a long car journey?’

  Our eyes follow the man across the car park, and Noah is proved right as he opens up the back door of his car and hands the sweets and Coke to a young boy.

  ‘Impressive,’ I say approvingly. ‘He still shouldn’t be giving the kid all that sugar, though, so technically I was right about him not caring.’

  ‘Is that a Capricorn trait too?’ Noah asks, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. ‘Having to be right all the time?’

  I grin. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Right, enough character assassination for now. We’d better get going. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yup.’ I take his sandwich packet and throw it into a nearby dustbin with my own rubbish, then I climb back into the car. ‘Let’s go.’

  Beachcomber Antiques is located just outside the town of Newquay. It looks more like a converted barn than a shop, and has its own little car park, so Noah pulls up on the sandy-coloured gravel and we climb out.

  ‘Phew, it is open,’ I say, trying to sound positive as I see a sign hanging outside the entrance. ‘So that’s a start.’ I’d tried phoning the shop on the way here but no one had answered, and I’d wondered if we were going to arrive and find it closed.

  As we walk towards the barn, our feet crunching on the gravel, we find the shop is not only open but quite busy too.

  ‘After you,’ Noah says, holding out his hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, going through the door. ‘Gosh!’ I look around me in wonder as I enter the shop. ‘This place is amazing.’

  Inside the barn we find a cornucopia of what I’d politely call junk, but what I’m sure Noah will think are interesting and fas
cinating artefacts. They’re hung from the roof, stacked up on tables, displayed on the walls and sometimes protected in glass-fronted cupboards. Each way we turn there is something new to see.

  ‘Impressive,’ is all Noah says as he looks around him.

  ‘Thank you,’ a voice, appearing to belong to a large stuffed black bear standing on its hind legs, politely says.

  I glance at Noah, but he’s smiling at the elderly man who appears now from behind the bear.

  ‘Is this your shop?’ Noah asks.

  ‘It is indeed, young man.’

  ‘You must be Alistair then?’ I ask eagerly.

  ‘Again, guilty as charged. What can I do for you both?’

  ‘We’re looking for some postcards,’ I begin. ‘A particular set of postcards…’

  I tell Alistair the same condensed version of the story I’d told Mary and Colin.

  ‘I see,’ is all he says when I’ve finished.

  ‘And Mary thought you might have seen something like them,’ I add. ‘She said you specialised in interesting messages on cards.’

  ‘I do indeed. Hmm… now, let me think,’ he says, rubbing at his white beard. ‘There was a set of cards a while back. Interesting lot – the seller said he found them stuffed inside an old tyre he bought for his VW camper van.’

  ‘That could be them!’ I say excitedly. ‘Do you still have them?’

  Alistair shakes his head. ‘Sadly, no.’

  I sigh with disappointment.

  ‘When did you sell them?’ Noah asks steadily.

  Alistair pulls a face. ‘A few weeks ago, I reckon. I remember because the guy bought quite a lot of stuff from me. He was one of these interior designer chappies. You know – they buy old reclaimed stuff when they’re doing up people’s houses for them. It makes their clients seem interesting because they’ve got a lot of old stuff, even if they really aren’t.’

  ‘What did he want some old postcards for then?’

  Alistair shrugs. ‘He said something about a screen – he got that from me too. He was going to paste the cards on there, I think. He was interested in the messages, though, not the picture side of them. He bought a lot of my cards, not just the ones you’re looking for.’

  ‘Découpage,’ I say, with a tinge of disappointment. ‘I bet he was going to cover the screen with the cards then varnish over them. Damn.’

  ‘Do you have any records of this sale?’ Noah asks, not sounding in the least bit disillusioned by this news.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

  ‘So you’d have a name then?’

  ‘I can do better than that, my friend. He had everything delivered, so I should hopefully have an address too.’

  I can’t help but smile as we follow Alistair back over to his shop counter, where he proceeds, in between customers, to look through his records on a very old computer that matches the rest of the shop perfectly. It seemed luck might be on our side once more.

  ‘What do you think to the shop?’ I ask Noah, as we stand back to let Alistair serve another customer. ‘It’s a lot like yours, isn’t it, only yours is much tidier.’

  ‘This place is way cooler than my shop,’ Noah says. He picks up a wooden elephant from the table next to us and turns it over to look underneath. ‘It’s a real treasure trove of goodies. Alistair has a wonderful eye for what’s going to sell. Madam,’ he says suddenly, stepping forward. ‘I wonder if I might interject for a moment?’

  I watch as Noah expertly proceeds to sell the woman the wooden elephant to go with the several carved pieces she already has on the counter. Then he steps back to let Alistair complete the sale.

  ‘That was very smooth,’ I whisper. ‘Quite the charmer, aren’t you, when you want to be?’

  ‘Selling antiques is about the only time my talk is smooth,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘The rest of the time I’m usually putting my foot in it and saying the wrong thing to people.’

  I shake my head. ‘Well, I think you’ve been quite wonderful today. I’ve been very impressed.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Noah says, blushing a little. ‘I’m not completely useless then.’

  I’m about to tell him in no uncertain terms that he’s very far from that when Alistair suddenly jumps up in front of his computer screen. ‘Got it!’ he says joyfully. ‘Thirty-first of May – a job lot of two hundred and twenty postcards was bought by… oh, wait.’ He grimaces slightly. ‘I’m not supposed to tell you, am I – client confidentiality and all that.’

  ‘Ah, no, indeed,’ Noah says calmly. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to try phoning your client, though, and ask him if he’d mind if we spoke to him about the cards?’

  Alistair nods. ‘Of course.’ He picks up the receiver of his landline telephone and dials, then turns secretively away from us as though that will make the call more private.

  ‘Let’s go over here while he phones,’ Noah says. ‘We don’t want to get him into trouble after he’s been so helpful.’

  We wander over to the other side of the shop while Alistair makes his call.

  ‘Great news!’ we hear him holler a few moments later. ‘I couldn’t speak to my client, but I spoke to his partner instead and he’d be more than happy to help you.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ I say, as we hurry back over.

  ‘Let me just write down his details,’ Alistair says, grabbing a pencil and some paper. ‘We delivered all the items to a Mr Oliver Jackson at this address in Penzance.’

  I grin excitedly at Noah, but he just looks calm and composed as always.

  ‘Here you go,’ Alistair says, handing me the piece of paper. ‘I can’t guarantee the cards haven’t been covered in glue and slapped on a nineteen thirties modesty screen. But for your sake, I hope not.’

  ‘Thank you so much for your help, Alistair,’ I say, glancing at the paper. ‘You’ve been very kind.’

  ‘Nonsense, I should be thanking you for adding to that sale from earlier. If you ever want a job,’ he says to Noah, ‘give me a call.’

  ‘I will,’ Noah says. ‘And thanks again.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him you had your own shop?’ I ask, as we leave the barn and head to the car.

  ‘Didn’t seem necessary,’ Noah says, unlocking the doors. ‘We got what we wanted, didn’t we? Never show all your cards, Ana. Always keep something in reserve. Ana?’ he enquires, when I don’t respond. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I’ve opened the door of the car but I’m still standing outside staring at the piece of paper.

  ‘What’s up? Didn’t he write it down correctly?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all here all right.’ I climb into the vehicle.

  ‘Where does it say we have to go to then?’

  ‘Oliver Jackson,’ I read. ‘Jackson’s Interiors, 88 Thatcher Street, Penzance.’

  Nineteen

  After I’ve got over the shock of the eighties-sounding address, Noah calls the phone number that Alistair has added to the paper to see if we can go over and visit today. But now there’s no reply, so he leaves a message asking if Oliver or his partner can call us back.

  ‘Shall we head back?’ Noah asks. ‘There’s not much more we can do until we hear from him.’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Let’s go home.’

  Noah pulls away from the Beachcomber Antiques car park and we begin our drive back to St Felix, which Noah says should take just under an hour if the traffic is good.

  ‘Interesting that you chose to use that word before,’ Noah says, when we’ve been travelling a few minutes.

  ‘What word?’

  ‘Home. When I suggested we head back you said, “Let’s go home.”’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well St Felix isn’t your home is it? It’s only temporary.’

  ‘Maybe I meant let’s go back to my temporary home then? Why does it matter?’

  ‘It doesn’t. I just thought it was interesting you should call it that. You must feel quite comfortable there already.’


  I think about my little cottage and how I was looking forward to getting back to it, putting the kettle on, making a hot drink and seeing what the weather was currently doing to my view through the French windows.

  ‘I do actually. It’s such a pretty cottage I’m staying in, I really like it.’