People We Love

by Jenny Harper

  ‘Your missus is doing a fabulous job,’ Cameron told Jonas.

  ‘I bought the place because I thought it would stop her getting bored, but I never imagined she’d do all this.’ He swept his arm in a semicircle to take in the whole extension. ‘I never seem to see her nowadays.’

  They ordered Rioja and studied the menu.

  ‘Don’t know why I’m bothering,’ Lexie said, pushing it away, ‘I know what I want. Calamares and Manchego with quince jam. I’ll eat whatever anyone else orders anyway.’

  ‘Did you hear about Lexie’s big idea?’ Cameron said. ‘Tell them, doll.’

  ‘Where will I start?’

  ‘The old biddy, of course.’

  It was the second time Lexie had recounted the tale of Edith’s visit and the discovery of the bootees, and her delivery was getting more dramatic.

  ‘—so when she opened the box, what do you think was inside?’

  ‘Drugs?’ Jonas suggested, helping a waiter who had arrived to unload the second round of drinks onto the table.

  ‘Jewellery?’ Molly asked hopefully.

  ‘A pair of baby bootees,’ Cameron chipped in, rather spoiling Alexa’s reveal.

  Jonas drained his pint and signalled to a waiter. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Whose were they?’

  ‘She lost a baby, years and years ago, of course. It was illegitimate and her family practically threw her out. The bootees were all she had left.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But finding them again made Edith very happy. You should have seen her face. Anyway, when I saw Edith sitting there clutching those tiny bootees, I had an urge to paint them.’

  Molly’s pleasure in Lexie’s news was immediate.

  ‘That’s fantastic. You haven’t felt up to painting all year.’

  ‘Thanks. Actually, there’s more to it than Cameron knows. I started to clear out Jamie’s room—’

  Molly sucked her breath in sharply.

  ‘—It’s all right, Moll, honestly, you don’t need to worry about us,’ she hastened to reassure her friend. ‘It needs to be done, or we’ll never start to get over it. And it worked, because Mum came and helped me. And when we found Jamie’s rugby boots, I had this urge to paint them as well. Because – don’t you see? – they say so much about him. They kind of are Jamie.’

  Cameron’s face split into a wide grin.

  ‘Brilliant idea, Lexie. Love it.’

  Molly croaked, ‘Perfect.’

  Jonas slapped his thick thighs delightedly.

  ‘Brilliant! Maybe we could even auction it for the Club.’

  ‘When I told Pavel Skonieczna about it, guess what? He produced a pair of shoes too. Well, not shoes exactly, ballet pumps. His pumps.’

  ‘Pavel was a dancer? Figures, I suppose.’

  ‘Not a ballet dancer, no. A rock musician.’

  ‘Pavel was?’

  ‘He was the lead singer in Bad Boys.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Cameron said. ‘They were good.’

  Molly leant forward, her emotion of earlier replaced by a keen interest.

  ‘You should make something of that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a great story. No-one round here knows that, do they? I didn’t know it. Did you?’ she appealed to the men, who shook their heads. ‘Well, sell the story to the local rag. They’ll be thrilled.’

  ‘You think so? Do you know, I have a feeling that Pavel would enjoy a bit of limelight, but I’d have to ask him.’

  ‘Sure. They’ll want his photograph, anyway. It might help Cobbles too. Didn’t you say the shop was struggling? People might go in just to gawp, but they could end up buying things.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll give it a go. Oh, by the way,’ Lexie delved into her bag, ‘I thought you might like this, Moll. It was on the mantelpiece in Jamie’s room. You two were always so close.’

  She pulled out a framed photograph. They were sitting on green grass liberally sprinkled with daisies and Jamie’s arm was behind Molly’s shoulders, two fingers stuck up behind her head in a comic rabbits’-ears gesture. They were looking at the camera and laughing. Lexie remembered the day it was taken, maybe a couple of months before Jamie’s death. They’d gone on a picnic – Jamie, Lexie, Adam and Molly – to Tantallon Castle, an imposing ruin perched on the rocks near North Berwick. The day had been perfect, one of those rare spring days when it’s more sunny than in the south of France and the wind drops so that you can almost hear the fluttering wings of the skylarks as they tumble over and over through the air high above. Molly had a piece of cake in her hand and her mouth was stuffed with it so that her cheeks appeared full. Jamie had found it extremely funny, Adam (off camera), maybe less so.

  Molly burst into tears.

  ‘What?’ Lexie cried. ‘Don’t, Moll. Please don’t. I thought you’d be pleased. I can take it back.’

  She reached for the photograph, but Molly snatched it away.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, dashing the back of her hand across her face, ‘It was just a bit of a shock.’

  She studied the photograph again. ‘I remember that day. Didn’t we have such a good time? But don’t you want to keep it?’ she asked, but she was still clutching the photograph as if it was glued to her hand.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of photos of Jamie. It’s yours if you want it.’

  Molly dropped it quickly into her handbag.

  ‘Thanks, Lexie, I love it. Honestly.’

  Cameron kissed Lexie under the old town hall clock , where trysts had been kept for centuries. His kiss tasted of beer and garlic, but she liked it. The flicker of desire he’d awakened on the day he’d reappeared in Hailesbank flared into life.

  His hand rummaged under her blouse.

  ‘This feels ridiculously juvenile.’

  ‘Know what you mean.’

  It had been a long time since she’d gone to bed with anyone, and making love with Cameron had always been blissful. ‘We can’t go back to Fernhill. They always want to check I’m in and that I’m safe.’

  Her body remembered the feel of him and lust was making her weak. She didn’t want to stand here petting like some teenager, but when he withdrew his hand she was maddened by thwarted desire.

  ‘I’ve moved in with a mate and he’s away for a week. We can go there. Can’t wait —’ kiss, ‘— to get you back—’ kiss, ‘— shall I tell you what I’m planning to do to you?’

  Lexie flushed in the semi darkness.

  The flat was small and messy. Lexie eyed the crumb-strewn floor, piles of old newspapers and half-full mugs of cold coffee with dismay.

  ‘Cliff’s quite untidy,’ Cameron said, noticing. He dumped the mugs into the sink on top of the dirty dishes already heaped in there, grabbed a grubby dishcloth, gave the kitchen table a perfunctory wipe and asked, ‘Want a drink?’

  She shook her head. The thought of accepting any food or drink in this flat made her queasy. Desire was sinking under unsavoury reality and she was beginning to regret coming.

  Cameron turned out the light. The untidiness disappeared and all she could see was the contours of his face illuminated by a shaft of light from the hallway.

  ‘You’re very lovely, Lexie,’ he said, pulling her close. ‘I’ve always thought so.’

  Her insides liquefied and she wondered if it was just lust or if she would fall in love with him again. He took her face between his hands and kissed her sweetly and with such delicacy that she was astonished (as she often used to be) at how a man of such strength could be so gentle. It was a beguiling blend. His scar was a seam of silver in the moonlight. She reached up a hand to touch it and the desire ignited again.

  Sensing it, Cameron’s quick, fluttering kisses turned more amorous and his tongue slipped between her lips. She pushed her body close to his.

  ‘You must know how I feel about you, Lexie.’

  His hands settled on the small of her back and he pulled her close. He loosened h
er dress and pushed it off her shoulders so that it slipped to her waist.

  No! I can’t do this!

  She pushed him away.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  Lexie reached for the light switch and blinked as light flooded the room. She reached down quickly to pull her dress up. Maybe it was just the mess, she told herself, but this didn’t feel right. And besides, he hadn’t even told her yet why he had gone.

  ‘Sorry, Cameron.’ She moved away, found her handbag, turned back to see his bewildered stare. ‘Maybe another time.’

  ‘Was it something I –’

  ‘No.’ She leant towards him and kissed his cheek, moving away quickly before he could clasp her again. ‘No, not you. I’ll be in touch, OK?’

  A vision of Patrick filled her head as she ran down the stairs and out into the night. ‘Can I call you?’ he’d asked after Cameron had hit the deer, but she had shaken her head. She forced the image away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Catalogue number 26: Flying officer’s boots, WWII, sole of right boot torn loose from uppers. Donated by Squadron Leader Derek Browning, Forgie. ‘We were in an old Gypsy Moth, practising spinning. I stamped hard on the rudder pedal, but the sole of my flying boot jammed between the rudder bar and the side of the cockpit. Talk about panic! I managed to wrench it free just in time... ’

  Pavel was ecstatic at the idea of his story resurfacing, and the local paper was eager to publish, just as Molly had predicted. For the next few days Lexie found herself in the heart of a whirlwind. A reporter came to do an interview, someone dug out a load of old photos of ‘Paul Scotland’, and a photographer was sent to take a picture of Pavel, wearing the pumps and camping it up like the old pro he was.

  Eric, the young reporter, said, ‘What makes the story perfect is the bit about your painting, Lexie.’

  He was on the edge of his seat, his enthusiasm bubbling to boiling point.

  Lexie was astonished that meeting a member of a half-forgotten rock band from forty years ago caused such excitement in a young man, and even more surprised that he was interested in her project.

  ‘A painting of some old ballet pumps?’

  ‘It adds another dimension. It takes it forward, gives us something else to play with. Could you do us a quick sketch? There might be a small fee, I’ll see if I can persuade the editor.’

  She dashed off a pastel drawing and they used it as part of the article – a full double page spread, under the headline, ‘Hailesbank Antique Shop Owner Is Bad Boy!’ The picture they used of Pavel was fantastic; he was wearing a striped blazer and white polo neck, and was pulling up his trousers at the ankles to reveal the white ballet pumps. There were several photos of the band in its heyday, statistics of their albums and hits, quotes from a couple of other members of the band (now in Hawaii and Eastbourne), and Lexie’s drawing. It looked striking, considering it was reproduced on newsprint. There was even a photograph of Lexie and Pavel together, with the caption, ‘Respected artist Lexie Gordon is to capture Paul’s famous pumps in an oil painting.’

  Lexie was quoted as saying, ‘It’s part of a project I’m planning. I believe that not only do shoes retain something of the wearer, they also tell stories. That’s what I’m hoping to capture. I’m thinking about paintings of a pair of baby bootees and a pair of rugby boots, but I don’t want to say any more about the project at the moment.’

  A few days later, shoes started to arrive at Fernhill. Shoes in boxes, shoes in carrier bags, shoes hand delivered, shoes posted, shoes brought by special courier, shoes clean, shoes dirty, shoes in pairs or single, old and new (or nearly new), but shoes with one thing in common: each had some significant meaning to the owner.

  ‘Look at these,’ Lexie said, holding up a pair of white leather clogs to show a bemused Martha. She delved into the box and produced a note. ‘It says they’re surgeon’s clogs. Just imagine,’ she laid them carefully on the kitchen table, ‘what they must have seen.’

  ‘What are you going to do with them all?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Lexie opened another parcel. ‘Heavens above! What are these?’

  She pulled out an oversized shoe with huge bulbous toe arcs ludicrously high above its heel. It was made from blue, yellow and red leather and had bright scarlet laces.

  ‘Oh, that’s a clown’s shoe,’ Martha said, breaking into a spontaneous smile. She took the shoe from Lexie and turned it round and round, studying it. ‘Do you know, I remember going to the circus when I was six years old and seeing a clown wearing shoes just like this. He was constantly falling over the toes. I thought he was so funny, but of course there was pathos too, because it can hurt to be laughed at.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s the appeal of clowns, isn’t it? They manipulate extremes of emotions.’

  As they examined the parcels, delivered by courier half an hour ago, the doorbell rang again.

  ‘It’s the postman,’ Martha said, squinting down the garden to the road outside.

  ‘Quite a mailbag today,’ he said, ‘I was going to leave a note for collection, but seeing as you’re in, you can come and fetch them from the van if you like.’

  This time there were four sets of baby shoes, accompanied with wads of pictures and copies of birth notes and two pairs of cream satin wedding shoes.

  ‘Not quite so interesting.’

  ‘But special to the people who’ve sent them. I have a feeling this isn’t going to stop for a while.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Lexie said, wondering what she might have started.

  ‘You’d better make a note of them all. Whatever you decide to do you’ll have to have some way of knowing who they belong to and how to return them.’

  ‘Wow, what a responsibility. And this could turn out quite expensive.’

  ‘But it could be really interesting.’

  Lexie raised an eyebrow. Martha, interested in something? She studied her mother and realised she wasn’t sitting over breakfast in her old dressing gown, she had dressed. This was progress. Now that she thought about it, something about her mother had altered since they’d begun clearing out Jamie’s room.

  ‘You’ve had your hair cut!’ she exclaimed. ‘It makes you look years younger.’

  Martha patted her hair. ‘Oh that,’ she said. ‘Yesterday. I thought no-one would notice.’

  Lexie was ashamed. Deep in all the fuss over Pavel, she’d missed the changes in Martha. Her mother was wearing make-up again, a touch of shadow on her eyes and a dash of colour on her cheek. And she had mustered enough enthusiasm for the day ahead to get dressed. These were all positive signs.

  ‘Interesting or not, I’ll have to think about this carefully. I have a horrible feeling I could get swamped.’

  ‘I’ll log everything for you,’ Martha said. ‘Do let me. It will be good to feel I’m doing something useful again.’

  Lexie didn’t have to fake appreciation. She smiled gratefully.

  ‘Okay. Thanks. That’d be really helpful.’

  She was about to set off for work when a text came in on her mobile.

  ‘It’s Carlotta. She says, “Don’t leave yet, I have a cake, and something else for you. See you in ten minutes”. Bother. I wanted to get going.’

  ‘What kind of cake?’

  ‘She doesn’t say.’

  ‘I hope it’s one of her almond ones.’

  Lexie stood up and started repacking all the shoes. ‘You’ll need a book to list these in. I might have something upstairs.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear. I’ll walk into town and buy one at the stationer’s.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’ll do me good to get out.’

  As this was indisputable, Lexie merely said, ‘Leave a column for me to add notes, will you?’

  ‘Of course. Look, here’s Carlotta now.’

  Today, in a black jersey shift and lime green bolero, Carlotta could hardly have been more simply dressed. It’s impossible for her not to look sexy, whatever she wears, Lexie
thought with a bead of envy.

  ‘I am so glad you are still here. I have a cake—’ Carlotta laid a tin carefully onto the kitchen table, ‘—and these.’

  She opened the carrier bag she was carrying and put a shoebox on the table beside the cake. Alexa’s heart sank. She guessed what was coming.

  ‘My wedding shoes,’ Carlotta said, opening the box with a flourish.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Lexie examined the soaring heels (Carlotta’s attempt to rise towards Jonas’s giddy height). She didn’t need to lie. They were fabulous, with their lace-covered body and crystal-encrusted heels, a pretty pearl-centred flower decorating the peep toes. A small lace detail enhanced the heel at the back, drawing the eye to the ankle. But what could she do with wedding shoes? The story they told was only special to the wearer. ‘What do you ... why—?’

  ‘It was the article in the paper. Pavel, he is so charming, but who would have guessed at such a glamorous past? Then I thought, dear Lexie, she will photograph these for me, like in a special way, you know?’

  ‘Carlotta, I can take photos of your shoes, of course, I’d be very happy to, but you know, you could do that yourself.’

  ‘Then I thought, Lexie knows how to do the design, how do you call it?’ Carlotta smiled at them both. ‘Ah yes, the graphic design. And I thought, I will ask Lexie to make me a book!’

  ‘A book?’

  That was unexpected. Lexie had been turning over in her mind how she might politely explain to Carlotta that she’d be very busy over the next few weeks painting Pavel’s ballet pumps, and Edith’s bootees, and Jamie’s rugby boots: that she couldn’t take on any more at present. But – a book? She was sufficiently intrigued to say, ‘What kind of book?’

  ‘You know.’ Carlotta waved her hands vaguely. ‘A memory book. You can do such things on-line now, but most people do not have artistic ability or training. But you, Lexie, you have the skills to make something very special.’

  She delved into her handbag and produced a small bundle of photographs and letters, tied with pink ribbon. ‘I have brought the things I would want in mine. Here—’ she started to untie the ribbon eagerly, her small, olive-skinned fingers with their scarlet nails fumbling with the knot. ‘—some photos from the wedding, of course, and from the time we were courting, and our honeymoon. Some lines from a letter written by my grandmother in Spain. She could not come, you see. And maybe a quick drawing – not a big painting, I know you have no time for this – just a pencil drawing of the shoes. And don’t tell me—’ she went on quickly as she saw Lexie open her mouth, ‘—that these things take too long, I have seen you draw, Lexie, and you can do this thing in minutes, very beautiful.’