by Jenny Harper
Carlotta might be on to something. She could draw quickly, and she did a graphic design module as part of her art course at college. She’d find designing a simple memory book easy – and it might be quite satisfying.
‘I would pay, of course,’ Carlotta added, perhaps sensing her weakening, ‘for your time and skill. And for the cost of the book, naturally.’
‘It’s not a bad idea, Lexie,’ Martha put in.
Lexie swept up the shoes and Carlotta’s memorabilia and packed them carefully back into the shoe box. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Fantástico!’ Carlotta clapped her hands. ‘There is no hurry, except that I think you will be very busy and as your friend it would be nice to—’
‘I’ll think about it, Carlotta,’ Lexie cut her short, ‘and I’ll let you know. Now, I really must get to work. Dad’ll be thinking I’m bunking off.’
Patrick took Cora to the empty shop on the High Street. Until a year ago it had been a small grocery store, but the advent of a supermarket on the fringes of the town had forced its closure. Patrick did little shopping. He had a housekeeper, Mrs Mackie, who lived a few streets away and who ran his house like clockwork. She not only ensured it was kept clean, she also washed, ironed, baked and shopped, making sure his store cupboard was kept full of all the ingredients he most prized. Sometimes he left special requests (‘I really fancy a piece of Vacherin this weekend Mrs M’), but as he seldom entertained, preferring to eat out in Edinburgh or at Zebedee’s or Besalú, his demands were modest. He paid her a generous part-time salary and she protected his home better than any mastiff.
It was Mrs M who had told him about the closure of the grocery store.
‘Criminal shame, that’s what it is.’
He’d been trying to concentrate on plans for Esther Goldwyn’s exhibitions – she needed a fair bit of mentoring, unlike Lexie, whose paintings soared all by themselves – and had been a little irritated at the interruption.
‘Shame? What is?’ he’d asked vaguely.
‘That mini market closing. On the High Street. Opposite the town hall. You know the one.’
Amazingly, Patrick did know it, and the seed of an idea began to form in his mind. The site was in a prime position and although the High Street was showing all the signs of town-centre failure common to most urban communities in Britain, Hailesbank was fundamentally an affluent place and there were other ways to entice shoppers. There were few who would believe it, but Patrick Mulgrew wasn’t entirely focused on making money. He’d seen too much poverty, too many blighted neighbourhoods, back in Ireland not to think about putting something back in to the community – as long as he could do it in his own way.
A craft gallery. And a coffee shop. He’d often thought of adding a coffee shop to Capital Art, because people enjoyed being able to sit and drink coffee with their friends in beautiful surroundings. Coffee would draw people in whether or not they meant to buy, but once in, at least they would see what’s on offer and might be tempted. At Capital Art there was no suitable room within the gallery and there was a popular coffee shop across the road. But the site in Hailesbank, would be ideal – and besides, people were more likely to make impulse buys of smaller value items.
‘You see what I mean?’ he asked Cora as they stood at the centre of the empty space.
She looked around. There were two large windows onto the street, on either side of the door. These were boarded over, but once the boarding was removed, light would flood in. Shelves still clung to the walls, hanging off at dangerous angles here and there where impatient hands had simply swept stock away. The walls hadn’t been touched for years (no need, when they were hidden) and in some places a sickly pallid green appeared, in others yellowing cream. The floor was covered with linoleum.
Cora kicked the lino aside.
‘The floorboards seem okay,’ she said.
Patrick watched her with interest. Although Cora’s ability to put her thumb on his tender spots could be bloody irritating, the flipside of this was that he trusted her judgement.
‘It’s a good space,’ she pronounced. ‘What’s through here?’
They moved through an archway into the adjoining room, which also had a large, boarded-up window.
‘Hmm,’ Cora said considering, ‘You know, you could put a café in here. Tapestries and wall hangings on the wall, display shelves in the far corner, the serving counter here and—’ she flung open a door at the rear of the room, ‘—oh yes, ideal. The kitchen area here. I see there are toilet facilities.’
Patrick didn’t allow himself to show it, but he was delighted at Cora’s reaction, it matched his own so exactly. He had known his sister a long time, however, and understood how to handle her.
‘You don’t think the whole thing might be more trouble than it’s worth?’
‘Rubbish. It could be a gold mine, handled by the right person,’ Cora scoffed.
‘I’d need to get someone in for a few months who knew what they were doing. Someone I could rely on.’
She shoved at his chest.
‘I know what you’re doing. You know full well I want the job.’
‘Shall I sign the lease then?’
‘When can we start?’
‘Tomorrow, if the lawyer pulls his finger out. You really think the coffee shop will work?’
They left still talking over ideas.
‘I’ll need your guidance over Scottish crafts people. I know a few top English ones who’ll send stuff. They’ll be thrilled.’
‘Exhibitions or rolling stock?’
‘A mixture of both, obviously. New exhibitions to draw people in, rolling stock to keep turnover up.’
When they reached the end of Kittle’s Yard Patrick stopped.
‘I’d like to take you to meet Pavel Skonieczna. But you won’t say anything about my room full of curios, will you?’
Cora was amused. ‘I won’t.’
Cobbles looked empty, but Pavel appeared from the gloom at the back at the sound of their arrival. When he saw Patrick, his face broke into a smile.
‘Patrick, my boy!’
Patrick didn’t shake his hand, he gave him a quick hug instead.
‘I hear I’m talking to a rock star. And I never knew.’
Pavel chuckled, clearly delighted. ‘You saw the article did you? What fun, darling, isn’t it? And I thought my glory days were over.’
The doorbell chinged again and a young couple came in. The youth was skinny and wore a hoodie, the girl wore her hair scraped back in a ponytail.
‘Can I help you?’ Pavel asked.
They stared at him for a minute, then the girl stuck out a photograph. Pavel saw it was a print of the photo the newspaper had used.
‘Will yer sign that for us?’ the girl asked. As an afterthought she added, ‘Please?’
Pavel signed the photo. The young couple seemed excited. They remembered to thank him, then left.
‘Isn’t it all a bit of a nuisance?’ Patrick asked, concerned.
‘Darling, for a sad old man like me, squirrelled away in a dark shop all day long, it’s been utter joy. Half the kids at the High School have been in for autographs. I love it. They chatter away, want to know everything about Bad Boys and what it was like being a rock star and did I know so-and-so or thingummyjig. Then there’s been the folk of my own generation, the sixty and seventy somethings. Lots of them have vinyl albums they want me to sign and some were even at my concerts. Such fun.’
‘But do they buy antiques?’
Pavel gave a little shrug.
‘Some do. You’d be surprised.’
Patrick thought they probably didn’t. He said, ‘This is my sister, Cora Spyridis.’
‘Enchanted.’ Pavel took Cora’s hand and bent over it in a deep bow. ‘Where have you been hiding her, Patrick?’
‘Cora prefers the heat of the Greek sun to shivering in Scotland, but she has kindly agreed to run a new venture for me, for a few months at any rate.’
�
�Wonderful.’
‘I don’t want people to know the connection between us, Pavel. It’s important. I don’t want to muddy the waters.’
Pavel looked puzzled. ‘Muddy the…?’
‘Branding. Fine art and craft are very different things. So keep mum, will you?’
‘It’s a rather fine distinction. Do you think people will be bothered by it?’
‘I’m bothered.’
‘Well, if that’s what you want, my lips are sealed.’
Pavel made a zipping sign across his mouth.
‘Thank you. But I don’t mind you knowing. While she tells you all about it, I’ll take a look around, if I may?’
A few minutes later he returned.
‘What have you got on that pair of Meissen vases?’
‘Aha. Spotted them, did you? I had a feeling you’d like them.’
Actually, Patrick hated them, but he’d checked them thoroughly and seen that they were perfect, which was rare with this type of flower-encrusted china because it was so delicate.
‘What’s the damage Pavel, come on now?’
They commenced a game, the rules of which were well known to both of them. Pavel named a price, Patrick gasped in shock and named a considerably lower one. Pavel reduced his price, Patrick raised his, and so it went on until they agreed.
‘Pack them, then, and I’ll drop by with the car and pick them up.’
‘You’ve chosen well, you old scoundrel.’ Pavel took Patrick’s arm and drew him close. ‘What do you think about Alexa’s new idea?’
‘Paintings of shoes? Doesn’t sound too exciting.’
‘Oh, I think you’re wrong there, my boy, quite wrong. I think our Lexie is onto something very special, and I’ve had an idea.’
He drew Patrick even closer. Cora, growing bored, drifted to the back of the room and studied a bronze Art Deco figurine of a girl dancing. She thought it would look very fine on Patrick’s mantelpiece and meant to persuade him to buy it.
Lexie planned to drop in at Cobbles and tell Pavel about Carlotta’s idea, but just as she was about to push open the door she spotted Patrick talking to Pavel inside. There was a woman with them. She loomed out of the shadows at the back and laid a proprietorial hand on Patrick’s arm. Was it the woman from the other night? She couldn’t really see and didn’t want to. She turned away quickly. Another encounter was unthinkable.
She had to get to work anyway, she was late already. She shut Patrick out of her mind and thought again about Carlotta’s suggestion of a book. She was beginning to get an idea of how to set up the pages, drop in the main images, ghost in others, add in a few lines from the letters – make it look pretty and intriguing, really something to treasure. Carlotta was right: it wouldn’t take long for her to draw the shoes. A couple of quick sketches (maybe in pencil, maybe in crayon or pastel) would pull the whole book together and stamp it as ‘an Alexa Gordon production’. Each book would be unique and she could present the customer with the original drawing, prettily framed.
Could she make this into a commercial venture? Possibly. It would certainly be fun to make a book for Pavel, even though she wanted to paint him a proper full-sized oil painting, so that she could add real depth and detail. She could make a ‘Jamie’ book too.
Thanks sis, said his voice in her head.
Shut up, I wasn’t talking to you, just about you, she thought, irritated by the intrusion. Jamie had been in her head a great deal in the last couple of weeks, as if disturbing his belongings had roused his spirit.
In her pocket, her mobile buzzed. She hoped it was Cameron, she hadn’t heard from him, even though she had left messages. But it wasn’t Cameron, just a text from her dentist confirming a check-up.
She pushed open the oak doors and hurried through the store. There was one customer looking at a recliner, but his body language suggested that he wouldn’t be buying any time soon. Julie, a twenty-something with a chip on her shoulder on a month’s trial from the Job Centre, was the only member of staff visible. Where were the others? Where was Neil? She nodded at Julie, who scowled and returned her attention to a broken nail.
When Lexie was half way to the back stairs, Julie said, ‘Eh, I forgot, Neil says you’re to go up sharpish.’
Lexie’s excitement deflated as guilt set in. She must speak to her father about leaving. She hated the tedium of coming into the office and now that she’d decided to turn back to her art again…
‘It’s almost a quarter to ten, Lexie.’
Neil was looking pointedly at his watch.
‘Sorry. The postie arrived with lots of parcels, then a courier came with more, and to cap it all, Carlotta pitched up too.’
‘Couldn’t your mother have dealt with the post?’
‘Actually no, not this morning. Surely I’m allowed to be late, for once?’
Neil’s voice was perfectly level.
‘It’s just that we have to get the tender in for the furnishings at Fleming House. It’s due in at five and we’ve barely started the work.’
Lexie’s eyes widened. ‘Oh God, sorry! I’d completely forgotten.’
‘Never mind. Come on, we’ll need to get started. Morag’ll be champing at the bit. Let’s gird our loins for battle, eh?’
Neil was right. Morag was in an uncompromising mood.
‘We have to be realistic,’ she said, patting her frizzy hair and putting on the pinched, self-righteous look that seemed to suck all the joy out of living. If she says ‘challenging retail climate’, Lexie thought, I swear I’m going to batter her.
Morag said, ‘It just won’t be worth our while unless there’s a decent profit in it. We’ve got enough to do keeping the core business of the store afloat.’
‘It’ll give us turnover,’ Lexie defended her idea, ‘and profile. When people see what we’ve done, they’ll come here to get stuff for their own homes.’
‘I very much doubt that. It’s a commercial setting, not a domestic one. And turnover isn’t profit. It’s not even cash flow. In fact, it could make cash flow quite difficult for us.’
Neil chipped in. ‘Lexie is right. We don’t need to make it a loss leader, but profile would certainly help right now, especially if it changes people’s ideas about our image.’
Morag tested their arguments to destruction, but by four o’clock, everything was ready for a final proofread.
‘I’ll do it,’ Morag said. ‘I’m good on detail. You go and do something else, I can make any little changes, if necessary.’
Nitpicking bored Lexie.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. For heaven’s sake send that girl Julie home, she’s fed up with being in the store all day.’
‘Okay, Morag, thanks.’
‘It’s looking terrific,’ Neil said as they descended to the shop. ‘If we don’t win the tender with that, we’ll never win anything.’
Lexie had spent most of the day thinking about shoes. Still, she was eager for the shop’s success because that could be a stepping-stone to greater freedom. Now it was just a matter of waiting.
Chapter Fifteen
Catalogue number 9: Platform sandals, 1970s. Cork soles, suede uppers in brown and orange. Platform 3”, rising to 4” at heel. Donated by Alice McInnes, Hailesbank. ‘I used to commute from Stirling to Glasgow in the 1970s, where I worked as an editor at a large publishing house. I thought these shoes were the height of fashion, and saw nothing wrong with wearing them to work, under my ankle-length floral skirt.’
When Lexie reached Cobbles, Pavel was taking in his sandwich board.
‘Darling! How wonderful. Come in for some tea? Or sherry?’
Lexie never drank sherry anywhere else, but she enjoyed these moments of companionship with Pavel. The sherry tasted good when sipped from the delicate cut crystal Edwardian glasses she knew he would never sell.
‘Sherry would be perfect. And I have a story to tell you.’
‘Ooh, just the thing. It’s been a little quiet here today.’
/> “A little quiet” meant no sales and probably no company, so Lexie was glad she had something to share with him. ‘It’s about the article. There’s been a development.’
He ushered her inside and turned the sign on the door to ‘Closed’. They sat in the back of the shop and she watched as Pavel poured pale amber liquid into two glasses.
‘Cheers, darling. Chin chin. Now, tell.’
‘Shoes,’ she started, ‘are arriving at Fern House. By the sackful.’
‘Darling! How amazing! Shoes? It’s not because of that little article about moi, is it?’
‘Little article? Pavel, it was a double page spread. Anyway, I’m very grateful, because the whole thing has given me an idea for a project.’
She explained about the shoes, and about Carlotta and her suggestion of making a book.
‘It’s the first time I’ve felt enthusiastic about my art since I had to abandon my exhibition. I think I’ll give her idea a try.’
Pavel stared at her thoughtfully. ‘I think you could do better than that, darling.’
‘I’d do them really well,’ she protested. ‘I’ve got—’
‘Of course you would, that’s not what I was going to say.’ His pause was pure Pavel: theatrical in the extreme. ‘I think you could do a whole exhibition.’
‘Of shoes?’
‘Think about it. Already you have three stories. The tale of Edith’s baby – so moving, darling – the funny little memories of Pavel, the old rocker, and Jamie’s boots. And now you have more stories coming in.’
‘People’s wedding shoes?’
‘They mean a lot to them. Never forget that. Anyway, those are the shoes for personalised books like the one you will do for Carlotta.’