by Jenny Harper
‘I suppose there could be other stories that would merit a painting as well. The paintings would take much longer, maybe a week or two each.’
Lexie’s excitement was growing by the minute. She could smell the heady redolence of oil paint and she craved the feeling of a brush between her fingers. There was a place she went to in her head when she was painting that was hers alone, and she missed it with a physical ache.
Pavel persisted. ‘So keep going doing the books, but pick the best for the exhibition. The books are your cash cow—’
‘—but it’s the painting that’s really important.’ She clapped her hands delightedly. ‘Yes!’
Lexie had been on the verge of a big breakthrough before and once again Patrick’s furious roar echoed round her head. ‘Never offer your work to me again! Your career with Patrick Mulgrew is over.’ It had been the worst kind of bullying, at the worst possible time. Shocked and grieving, she’d been able to think of only one thing – being at Fernhill, helping her parents, coming to terms with what happened. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if she could show Patrick she could succeed without his help?
Excitement died even as it was ignited. ‘It’s not going to work. Even if I could get the idea put together in the right way, I’d need someone to mount an exhibition. You can’t just stick it in a garage. Come to that, I don’t even have a garage.’
Pavel threw out his chest and straightened his shoulders.
‘What, Pavel?’
‘I can think of a solution.’
‘Stop teasing me. What?’
‘We can have it here, darling.’
‘Here?’
Lexie looked around. She’d been coming into Cobbles since she’d been at school, and in all those years it had hardly changed. Everywhere you looked there were treasures – but an exhibition? She shook her head.
‘Pavel, you’re such a sweetheart, but—’
‘Now don’t pooh-pooh my suggestion, darling, let me show you something. Come with me.’
He stood up, a little stiffly, and his hands clawed at the edge of the desk.
‘Are you all right?’
‘It’s just when I stand up.’
‘Have you seen the doctor yet?’
‘I’ll call when I get a moment.’
‘Pavel.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said impatiently. ‘Come.’
A burgundy velvet curtain covered the back door, its heavy lengths puddling on the floor. So far as Lexie could remember, there had always been a curtain here. She was aware vaguely that the door led to Pavel’s apartment, but when he drew the curtain back with a flourish, she stepped back in surprise. She’d expected a corridor, maybe stairs. Instead, daylight flooded into a small courtyard. In the centre was a cherry tree, its branches laden with small, green fruit. Under the branches stood a wooden bench, its lilac paint peeling picturesquely, its legs wedged between the lumps and bumps of the cobbled ground. ‘Cobbles,’ she said aloud as comprehension dawned, wondering that she has never thought before about the name of the shop.
‘This is where I have my cup of tea in the morning, darling, if it’s warm enough.’
‘I’m stunned. I never knew this was here.’
His face split into a triumphant grin.
‘It’s always been my little secret, but maybe I’m too old for secrets now.’
Lexie followed him across the courtyard to another door. She had no idea what to expect – certainly not the stacks of broken chairs, frayed cardboard boxes bursting with books and papers, pictures stacked against the wall, their frames obviously broken or shabby, assorted dinner services and tea sets that had clearly seen better days, dolls, bears, garden statues, old implements, samplers, vases and lamps that seemed ready to burst into the courtyard.
‘Wow.’ It was a feeble reaction for such an astonishing sight.
Pavel looked rueful. ‘Now the terrible truth is out. I’m such a hoarder, darling.’
He swept his arm in a great arc from one corner of the room to the other.
‘It’s all in order, of course, I know where every last speck and spot is, but be truthful now, what am I to do with all this rubbish? An old man like me?’
‘Not old, Pavel—’
‘Once upon a time I meant to turn this into a small fine-art section, but as you can see, sweetie, I never got round to it. Time I had a clear-out.’
‘I can’t take it all in.’
‘There. Two secrets in two weeks. You never guessed I had so many skeletons in my little cupboard now, did you?’
She surveyed the room. There were two large windows into the courtyard, as well as the glass-panelled door. Shabby blackout material hung crookedly from poles across the windows, but if this were taken down, the light would be perfect for a gallery. Visualised without the junk, and there was clear potential.
‘It’s a beautiful space,’ she said,
‘I knew you’d love it.’
‘But Pavel, I couldn’t possibly—’
‘What else would I use it for? Nothing. Just rubbish, as you see. I’ll get in a dealer, darling, sell the whole lot for best price, get the walls painted. It would be such a relief, sweetie, I can’t tell you.’
He picked up a walking cane that was propped against the wall and leant on it picturesquely.
‘You see? Everything’s too old and too dirty for me even to sit down.’
‘Pavel—’
‘It’s small, of course, but big enough for what – a dozen exhibits? Paintings on the walls, the original objects on plinths, perhaps a film projected onto the far wall? The floor’s good.’
He hooked back the corner of a threadbare rug with the cane and revealed broad floorboards.
‘Just need a polish, or maybe a lime wash. Now,’ he let the rug fall back and tapped the floor imperiously with the stick, ‘I don’t want to hear any more arguments, sweetie, because I’ve got them all covered. It’s what they call win-win, I believe, in modern parlance. You take the room for your exhibition, I get the rubbish cleared and—’ he paused dramatically, ‘—I get a lot more people coming through the shop to get to it. And as you so eloquently told me, darling, when you were trying to get me to agree to the newspaper article, increasing the footfall into Cobbles can only be a good thing.’
He stuck his free hand on his hip, challenging her to defy him.
The protest that had been forming on Lexie’s lips morphed into a slow smile. Years ago, she’d thought him an unlikely soul-mate, but time had taught her that friendship comes in many guises and what Pavel offered her was beyond price.
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’ve floored me. What can I say?’
‘Thank you would do nicely.’
She reached for his hand and squeezed it.
‘Thank you, Pavel,’ she said, leaning in to kiss a pallid cheek, ‘Oh, thank you!’
It seemed as if Pavel’s instinct had been right. More shoes arrived daily and some had remarkable stories attached to them. Early one morning, Lexie threw on a silk kimono and stood in the centre of her bedroom, surrounded by parcels. It seemed that her mother had rediscovered her secretarial skills and organised a stacking system. The log book listed everything in date order of arrival at Fernhill. She perched on the corner of her bed and scanned the items at the top of the list.
Baby bootees. Edith Lawrence, Musselburgh.
Rugby boots. Jamie Gordon, Hailesbank.
Ballet pumps. Pavel Skonieczna, Hailesbank.
Clown’s shoes. Frank Dawson, Broxburn.
White neurosurgeon’s clogs. Alastair Whyte, Edinburgh.
Bridal shoes. Carlotta Woods, Hailesbank.
Baby shoes. Kaylie MacDuff, Hailesbank.
16th-century ‘concealment shoe’, found in rafters of cottage outside Hailesbank. Eric and Sheila Flint, Forgie.
Bridal shoe. Anne Grant, Hailesbank.
Edwardian riding boots. Harold Fitch, Melrose.
It ran on, already, to several pages. If she was really goin
g to pull together an exhibition, how would she ever choose from these? She picked a box at random and opened it. Inside was a pair of well-worn trainers. Lexie (who had never seen the point of exercise) was about to close the box again when she spotted a note.
‘Of all the shoes I have ever worn,’ wrote Ellis Ruthven, a local man, ‘these are the most important to me. I wore these trainers for my tenth marathon. It doesn’t sound much, but you see, eleven years ago, my wife kicked me out, calling me lazy, a slob, a leech. I had to face some hard truths and found that she was right about everything. To help ease the pain and humiliation of what had happened, I started to run. Soon someone bet me I couldn’t run a marathon, and so I did. I began to raise money for charities. Running became a way of life. I discovered not only a new energy, but also a new purpose. After a time, my wife took me back. Over the years, I have raised more than a million pounds.’
Unexpectedly moved, Lexie clutched the letter to her chest. It’s about the stories, she reminded herself, and placed the letter and the trainers carefully back in their box. The things that change us.
As early as she dared, she called Molly, but it went straight to answer. She left a message.
‘Hi, Moll, it’s me. Lots to tell you, but I guess you’re still asleep. Call me back when you can, yes?’
She counted the parcels – forty-one – and checked the list. Forty-one? It was nothing, just an exercise in filing, but a few weeks ago Martha could not have done this – or, at least, she would not have had the inclination. Was Edith Lawrence, with her heartbreaking compulsion to revisit a forgotten past, the most unlikely messenger of deliverance?
Her phone rang, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Hi, Moll, thanks for calling back.’
‘What’s happened? You sounded a bit weird. Are you okay?’
‘Weird? Thanks a lot.’
‘No, I mean, uptight.’
‘Excited, more like. I’m standing here in my bedroom, swamped by shoes.’
‘What, you mean, like a shoe mountain? Brilliant, any good ones to spare for me?’
‘No, you don’t get it. Not new shoes, they’re all sorts. Old riding boots, trainers, clogs, good-luck shoes, break-your-heart shoes, everything. Mum’s having to log the lot because it’s quickly becoming chaos.’
‘Why?’
Lexie explained. ‘...And Carlotta came with her wedding shoes yesterday,’ she finished, ‘She wants me to make a book for her.’
‘A book?’
Lexie ran through this idea too. ‘But the best thing is – wait for this – Pavel’s got a room at the back of Cobbles he’s just using as a store. He’s going to clear it and have it painted.’
A lump formed in her throat, but she managed to choke out the news.
‘For me, Moll. He’s going to let me have an exhibition!’
‘That’s brilliant! Hey Lexie, it’s what you deserve. Time to stop doing everything for everyone else and get on with your own life.’
She was about to tell Molly about her plan to leave Gordon’s when the Fleming House tender came through, but bit her words back in time. Molly was too closely involved, it wouldn’t be right to discuss it.
Chapter Sixteen
Catalogue number 24: Edwardian made-to-measure riding boots. Black leather with brown leather band at the top. Donated by Harold Fitch, Melrose. The brown leather section at the top was pulled up over the knee to protect the riding breeches on dirty roads. When the rider dismounted and entered a house, he would fold down the tops so that mud-spattered boots would not dirty the furniture...
Victoria Hunter-Darling was feeling harassed. It was the opening of the Esther Goldwyn exhibition tonight and Patrick had disappeared. She had called him a dozen times since lunchtime, but he wasn’t picking up her calls, Esther was furious because she claimed the labels had been cut on a squint and she hated the font. Besides, their usual caterer was on holiday and whoever was deputising clearly didn’t have a clue because they’d sent trays of dessert bites instead of savoury canapés.
‘I can’t let you move that to there,’ she told Esther rather desperately as the girl unplugged a stuffed pheasant table lamp and tried to plug it in at the reception desk.
‘Why not?’
‘I need the computer on, and it doesn’t leave enough room for the other brochures. Plus, we need the price sheets there.’
Esther ignored her.
‘The brochures can go on that bit at the back, they’re not for tonight anyway. What the hell are you going to do about the labels?’
‘I really don’t—’
Victoria started to flounder, when there was a loud pop and one of the spotlights faded into darkness. Worse, three bulbs in the stuffed seagull chandelier centrepiece appeared to have popped too.
‘Shit!’ she said, forgetting to be ladylike. She had visions of a main fuse blowing and the entire gallery being plunged into darkness any moment.
‘What the bloody hell is—? Christ, no!’ Esther’s voice rose an octave. ‘We’ve spent hours getting that bloody spot in the right place and now look at it! And my chandelier! You’ll have to get the ladder back up at once.’
Victoria was exasperated. It wasn’t Esther who’d spent hours placing the spots, she’d had to do it. Besides, the step-ladder was quite large and now that the exhibits were in place they’d be in danger of knocking over the black-and-white painted wardrobe topped with the stuffed curled-up badger. Esther had insisted on putting too many pieces into the show, she’d always thought that, but the bloody woman was so awfully insistent...
Was there a spare spot? And where was Patrick? There was less than an hour to go till the first customers would appear and the place was still a shambles. There were four exhibits still to be put in place, the rest of the lighting to check, the girl from the caterer had disappeared somewhere instead of setting out the glasses and making sure the white wine was chilling and the red opened , and she really ought to nip down the road to the shop and buy in some crisps and nuts because they couldn’t serve double chocolate ganaches and mini strawberry pavlovas, could they?
Just as she felt she was about to crack, the door opened and Patrick walked in with a stunning woman. She was almost as tall as he was, her dark brown hair fell thickly around her shoulders and her skin was smooth and deeply tanned. Victoria was familiar with jealousy and recognised the feeling at once. She longed to appear capable and in control, but Esther’s fuming gaze was drilling into her back and this vision of beauty filled her with instant inadequacy. Patrick was known to have a short fuse and she absolutely hated the idea of being at the dynamite end of it. Still, what could she do?
‘Patrick!’ she croaked. ‘Help!’
Losing your temper is only worthwhile if it produces the desired effect. In this situation, it would have been counter-productive. Patrick sized up the situation in an instant and took charge.
‘Cora will see to the food, I will sort the lights and the exhibits. You, Victoria, will sit down at the computer with Esther and retype all the labels. Use the template for the mailings and print them out on the self-adhesive labels, then the pair of you can go round together and stick them all on. Straight. Then get out a broom and sweep round to make sure there are no little bits of packaging lurking anywhere. Got it?’
In minutes, ordered efficiency replaced chaos and panic, spotlights were replaced, the badger remained undisturbed and a small colony of seagulls clustered together near the ceiling and holding lightbulbs in their beaks was restored as the eye-catching centrepiece it had always been intended to be.
‘My fault,’ Cora said apologetically, reappearing with a tote bag filled with snacks purchased from the corner store. ‘Sorry. I should never have insisted on getting my hair cut, but it was sorely in need. Where are the bowls to put these in?’
Victoria dived into the store and reappeared with a stack of glass bowls.
‘Here,’ she said breathlessly, returning to the printer, where the last of the replacement labels had just emerged
.
‘Everything is fine,’ Patrick said calmly, returning the step-ladder to the store. ‘We’ve still got twenty minutes.’
This was nothing. This was situation normal. Things happened, they were sorted.
Only sometimes, they could not be sorted. Burst spotlights could be replaced, but words once spoken couldn’t be withdrawn. Lexie, thought Patrick, had become wary of him, and that was something he could not easily fix.
After the madness of the opening was over and Esther had been praised and pampered and expensively fed, along with her sponsors and entire family, Patrick drove Cora back to The Gables.
‘Much as I love you—’ he told her as they turned off the main road into Hailesbank.
She groaned. ‘What’s coming?’
‘—As I was saying, much as I love you, I’m used to living on my own.’
‘Do I get in your way?’
‘You move things.’
‘Such as?’
‘My favourite spatula.’
‘You’re not still on about that, are you?’
‘The scissors.’
‘I found a better place to keep them.’
‘The anti-static cloth I use to clean the computer screen. You still can’t remember where you put that.’
‘Jesus, Pats, you are getting crabby in your old age. Do you want me to go back to Kalamata? Is that what you’re saying?’
He swung into the driveway at the back of the house. The headlights sprayed across the stone-built garages that once would have housed a coach and horses.
‘Of course not. I was thinking you’d be more comfortable in the annexe.’
‘The annexe? Where the hell’s that? Across the river?’
‘Right here.’
‘Here? Where?’
‘In front of your eyes. I had the rooms above the garages converted a couple of years back, God knows why, I wasn’t expecting visitors. I think some architect nobbled me at a reception. I seem to recall he spun me a line about maximising the potential of the property, sweating the assets or some such garbage. I must have had a glass of red wine too many, because he assured me the next day that I’d agreed to his suggestions. Anyway, there it is. There are two bedrooms and the rooms are comfortable. They’d damn well better be, given the price I paid for them.’