People We Love

by Jenny Harper

‘Here’s another.’

  She lifted out a bundle of tissue paper and folded it back carefully.

  ‘Isn’t this gorgeous? Careful –’ she handed it to Molly, ‘– it’s very fragile.’

  ‘It’s so tiny.’

  ‘It’s a child’s shoe, from about the sixteenth century. They found it in the rafters of an agricultural worker’s cottage outside Hailesbank and they think it was put there either by the builder or the tenant, as a good luck charm. It wasn’t unusual, apparently. They call them “concealment shoes”.’

  Molly handed it back.

  ‘To be honest, I thought you were just off on one of your arty jags when you started all this, Lex, but now I see where you’re coming from.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She opened another box and found herself staring at a brilliantly coloured and elaborately sequinned pair of high-heeled shoes. ‘It’s all about journeys. These were the shoes an Indian woman wore to get married in before she came to live in Scotland. They must have meant a lot to her if she brought them all the way here.’

  Molly’s visit left Lexie fired up to start work, but no sooner had she set out her paints than she heard the front door open again.

  ‘Dad!’

  It was the first time her father had visited. He was dressed for the office.

  ‘Just thought I’d sneak a look at the place that’s stolen my daughter away from me.’

  ‘Oh, Dad—’

  ‘Just joking.’ He looked around. ‘Nicer than I thought.’

  ‘Thanks to your generosity. Thanks for the stuff, Dad.’

  ‘Is it all right?’

  She showed him the kitchen and the spacious garden room.

  ‘Nice. Surprisingly nice. Now, sit down on the sofa and close your eyes.’

  ‘What? Why should I?’ she said, puzzled but obedient.

  ‘Keep them closed till I tell you.’

  She heard the front door open, then the metallic clunk of a car door closing. She was tempted to peek but didn’t want to spoil his surprise. There was a heavy thump by her feet and she opened her eyes, startled.

  ‘What are you—? Oh Dad!’

  It was a heavy cherrywood coffee table that had been in the showroom only for a month and was one of the few pieces of furniture in Gordon’s that she really liked.

  ‘It got damaged,’ Tom grunted.

  ‘Really?’ Lexie was sceptical. ‘Where?’

  He pointed to a scratch along the side.

  ‘Dad! That can be polished out.’

  ‘Not worth it. Anyway, I’d like you to have something you really like here, not just unsaleable odds and sods. Okay?’

  She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.

  ‘Okay. Very, very okay.’

  When her mother appeared an hour later, she gave up on work completely.

  Cameron began to stay for an occasional night. Lexie enjoyed his company, but there could be problems. If he wasn’t working the next morning he tended to hang around when she was keen to start painting. One morning he materialised at her side when she had already been at work for an hour or more. She was immersed in a detail of one of Jamie’s boots and barely registered his presence.

  ‘That’s jolly good.’

  She whipped round to find him examining her work. Lexie didn’t like her work being looked at until she was ready to show it. She leapt to her feet and stood pointedly in front of her easel.

  ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘Is that coffee I can smell?’

  ‘I made a fresh pot half an hour ago.’

  Cameron yawned and stretched. He’d pulled on a pair of joggers but was still bare-chested and she could see his muscles ripple under smooth skin.

  ‘Great. Shall I nip out and get the papers?’

  Lexie bristled. ‘Listen, I’ll stop and have a coffee with you, but then I have to get on. Okay?’

  ‘Hey, chill a bit, can’t you? I’ve got a day off. I thought I could take you out for lunch somewhere. We could go down to that pub in Port Seton, there might even be a game of boules going on.’

  ‘Sorry, Cam. I’ve got to work.’

  ‘What’s the big rush? You haven’t even got a date for the exhibition yet, have you?’

  ‘We’re hoping December. But there’s so much to do still. Anyway,’ she crossed her arms defensively, ‘I’m in the mood for painting.’

  He tutted and sighed, and slouched off to the kitchen. Lexie followed him. She hated when they rowed, it brought back all her insecurities.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Cam. We can go out another time.’

  ‘Tomorrow? I’m off tomorrow too.’

  ‘You know I can’t go out on Saturday mornings, I still help Pavel out in the shop. It’s the least I can do for him. I could be free by lunchtime, if you like.’

  He sighed heavily and poured two mugs of coffee. He spotted a card on the mantelpiece above the old fireplace.

  ‘What’s this? Invitation to the opening of The Maker’s Mark. What’s that, when it’s at home?’

  She took the invitation from him and replaced it on the shelf.

  ‘It’s a new craft gallery in Hailesbank. The woman who runs it is called Cora Spyridis. I’ve not come across her before.’

  ‘Why’ve you been sent an invitation, if you don’t know her?’

  Lexie shrugged. ‘I’m a local artist. She will have made it her business to make sure people like me are invited.’

  ‘I guess so. Are you going?’

  ‘Probably. I expect it’ll be a good evening.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me about it.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested. You don’t usually like galleries or openings. I can meet you afterwards, if you like. We could go to Besalú.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? You’ve kept quiet about it, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’d forgotten about it, to be honest.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘Okay then. Why not?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘On the corner of the High Street. It’s where that convenience store used to be.’

  ‘Want me to pick you up?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Molly’s coming. She’ll bring me.’

  ‘Right.’

  He crossed his arms and placed them in front of him on the table, then lowered his head and used them as a cushion.

  ‘I’m bloody tired. Can’t I persuade you to come back to bed?’

  ‘Why would I come back to bed if you’re tired?’

  An arm snaked out and grabbed her.

  ‘Ow! Ouch! Get off!’

  ‘I think you’re a witch. I’m waking up.’

  At another time, Cameron feeling interested would be welcome, but not right now. She used the only defence she could think of.

  ‘I’m expecting Mum. She said she’d be here before eleven.’

  He groaned. ‘What’s the time now?’

  ‘Half ten.’

  ‘Shit. I suppose I’d better get going then.’

  She tidied the kitchen while he dressed. It was impossible to settle while he was still around and painting was a compulsion. She had to paint.

  ‘I’m off then, sweets. See you tonight. Seven?’

  ‘Seven.’

  She watched him as he climbed into his car. Everything was finally turning out well for her. She had the studio, she was working towards her own exhibition, she had good friends, and she had Cameron.

  But the rhythm of her work had been disturbed. Where the morning had started productively and she’d felt in harmony with her materials, now she felt restless and critical. She applied some paint with a palette knife, stood back and studied it, added some more. It wasn’t right. She scraped it off and wiped the blade of the knife down the side of the palette. What a waste.

  She studied the painting again.

  Don’t worry ab
out it , said a voice in her head.

  Jamie had followed her here. She hadn’t expected otherwise. She’d never be rid of him – nor did she want to be. Still, she did worry about her work.

  But it was not this painting that was troubling her, and she had the odd sense that Jamie knew this. He was referring to the painting stowed away in the corner: the painting she’d been working on when she’d heard about his accident.

  I have to look at it.

  At her request, friends at the co-operative in Edinburgh where she’d been renting space had wrapped the canvas in brown paper. She remembered telephoning from the hospital and begging them to destroy it, but none of them would take responsibility for that act.

  ‘We’ll cover it for you, if you think it’ll upset you. One day you might feel differently.’

  The truth is...

  She threw her palette knife down on her work table and strode across the room.

  The canvas was a big one and there was a lot of brown paper. The paint was still wet when they’d wrapped it and torn strips adhered stubbornly to the canvas when she ripped at it; messy, but unimportant. When most of the paper was off, she turned it right side up, leant it against the wall, then backed away and forced herself to look.

  The exhibition had been themed the power of the subconscious. Lexie had visualised a nightmare for the large canvas that was to form the centrepiece. The focal point was a young boy lying on his back, his arms and legs splayed. Blood had stained his clothing and dripped from his blank, staring eyes. He was clearly dead, although there was no indication of what had killed him. Around him, all was grimness and desolation. Women wept, men decayed into skeletons, crows picked at bones. Technically, even though it was unfinished, it was as good as anything Lexie had ever done. It was accomplished, detailed and riddled with allusion and symbolism. It was meant to be evocative, to stir up deep and dark emotions, but all Lexie felt as she looked at it now was a sense of disgust.

  Artbollocks! Jamie’s teasing voice came into her head.

  Shut up! I don’t need you to remind me.

  She flipped it back to the wall because irritatingly, he was right. She had been breathtakingly cynical. The work wasn’t what she knew or believed. It wasn’t her.

  She couldn’t think about it now. She’d paint instead. And if painting didn’t help to bury the past, she’d turn to the mechanical task of putting together another book or two and let the stories of other people’s shoes soothe her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Catalogue number 18: Ladies’ winklepickers made by Stan Bartholomeu, Battersea, London, 1960. Cream leather with eight-inch point enhanced by black detailing, two-inch slim heel. Donor: Madge Radcliffe, Edinburgh. ‘I was a young secretary in London when the craze for winklepickers swept the country. I put in an order and saved up for weeks for these, but truthfully, they were terrible to walk in, you had to pad around like a duck. But I never could bear to part with them.’

  The Maker’s Mark was a shop transformed. In a little under three months, Cora Spyridis had engaged a cohort of workmen, and directed, bullied, pleaded and cajoled them into getting everything ready for tonight’s grand opening.

  Patrick, who had an eagle eye for detail, checked everything from the set-up on the computer to the toilets. He saw that Cora was pretending not to watch as he did his round of inspection, but his eyes lit up with amusement when she uttered an anxious, ‘Well?’ as he emerged from the Ladies.

  ‘I have to say—’ he couldn’t resist a teasing pause.

  She leant towards him, her thick hair swirling round her shoulders as she moved. There was a small vertical crease between her eyebrows.

  ‘—you’ve done a terrific job.’

  She let out her breath as he beamed, and the crease disappeared.

  ‘I can’t believe what you’ve achieved. You may be a pain in the backside, but I have to hand it to you, you’re bloody good.’

  ‘I think that’s what they call a backhanded compliment.’

  ‘To get the refurbishment done, all the fitting complete, and a forward programme sorted out into next year, that’s a huge achievement.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Patrick looked round the gallery. The café wouldn’t be open tonight, but the counter space could be used to set out the bubbly. The main exhibition was a series of fabulously sculpted wrought iron and stainless steel pieces by a local artist-blacksmith. Cora had also set up three mini exhibitions, with local makers supplying silver and acrylic jewellery, hand-painted silk scarves and ties, and a series of amusing ceramic sculptures (mostly of overweight 1930s bathing belles). These added colour and variety, while the main exhibition was about the craftsmanship and design quality that was Patrick’s vision for The Maker’s Mark.

  ‘Sold anything yet?’

  She nodded.

  ‘It’s a good idea to sell a couple of pieces in advance. Makes people think they’re desirable.’

  ‘Which they are.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Can I see the acceptance list?’

  Cora handed it over and he ran his finger quickly down the names. He recognised many of them – Cora had been working hard contacting Capital Art stalwarts who lived in this part of the country, plus some local worthies. They had invited the press (who never bothered to reply unless they were setting up an interview), all the traders in the area, including Carlotta Wood and Pavel Skonieczna, and as many artists and craftsmen as they could trace locally.

  His finger stopped at Alexa Gordon. She had accepted. He hadn’t seen Lexie since she nearly drove into him a couple of months ago, but he knew where she was and what she was doing, because Pavel kept him informed. (‘I haven’t seen her work, darling boy, but she’s very excited about it, so I think it will be first class.’)

  ‘Is Diana coming?’ Cora asked.

  ‘I haven’t invited her.’

  ‘Sir James and Lady Catriona will be here.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘Just saying.’

  Patrick handed the guest list back.

  ‘I’m nipping home for a shower. Want a break?’

  ‘Much as I’d love to relax, I have to be here. Little and Large,’ (her nicknames for her two assistants, Jane and Laura), ‘are due in shortly, and you can bet your bottom dollar that our star, Henry the Hammer, will be really early, just to check we’ve set everything up right.’

  Patrick scanned the exhibits. There didn’t seem to be a right or a wrong way for most of the iron shapes, which were all abstract in form.

  ‘Which you definitely won’t have. Still, the man has arms like Thor, he can move them himself.’

  ‘Right. When will you be back?’

  ‘I’ll let it get busy first. By the way, the gallery is nothing to do with me, you’re working for someone in London who’s very shy.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I don’t want people to know I’m involved.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t sit well with Capital Art. Dilutes the brand.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Anyway,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘best get going. Remember – the owner is in London.’

  Cora raised her eyes to heaven as he strode out, but she knew there was only so far you could push Patrick Mulgrew, even when he was your brother.

  It was a small new gallery in a small town, hardly New York or Paris, but by the time Patrick got back, the place was so full that guests had spilled out onto the pavement.

  ‘Hey, look who’s here,’ called one man, a county set caricature in pink trousers and navy blazer, complete with two rows of gleaming brass buttons and pale pink open-necked shirt. ‘The great Patrick Mulgrew. What brings you here?’

  ‘I do live down the road.’

  Patrick jerked his head vaguely in the direction of The Gables. He had chosen a black suit and black V-neck silk tee shirt. Patrick wore desig
ner in the way Lexie wore vintage: their style defined them.

  ‘Been in yet, Malcolm?’

  Malcolm raised a glass.

  ‘Had to get some bubbles. But man, it’s crazy in there. Beats the openings at Capital Art hands down, ha ha.’

  Patrick smiled politely.

  ‘I’m pleased if it’s doing well, it’s good to see something of quality in Hailesbank. Hope you’ll be getting your cheque book out later, you old cheapskate?’

  Malcolm laughed and a blonde woman talking to someone nearby turned round.

  ‘You tell him, Patrick. I’ve got my eye on one of those wrought-iron sculptures. Just what we need as a focal point in the front room.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Malcolm groaned.

  Patrick laughed and pushed on through the crowd and into the gallery, where he stopped and spoke to just about everybody. Half way round the room he encountered Pavel.

  ‘How’s the new space at the back coming along?’ he asked, unheard amid the hubbub of voices except by Pavel. He’d like to cut his interest in Lexie’s career stone dead, but he couldn’t.

  ‘Getting there. We can’t all work at your sister’s ferocious pace, you know. Where’s all my best stock heading to, then?’

  Patrick lifted an eyebrow. ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘Her Nosiness Bessie Brown, my neighbour across the way, came in a couple of days ago and told me there was a removal van outside The Gables and did I know anything about it?’

  ‘And did you?’

  Pavel touched the side of his nose.

  ‘Aged but not stupid, dear boy. I never quite saw you as a fan of Meissen and Hepplewhite.’

  ‘I appreciate a great object as much as the next man.’

  ‘And a profit even more.’

  Pavel guffawed. He was clearly not in the least offended.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Mind? Darling boy, who else spends so much in my little shop?’

  ‘I make quite a profit, you know, in London.’

  ‘And I couldn’t afford to ship things there. Couldn’t be bothered to either. No, no, dear man, it’s a chain, we all know that.’

  Patrick’s mouth twitched in amusement.

  ‘You’re a canny operator.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘You should. I don’t know anyone who can smell out prize pieces the way you can. Your contact book must be amazing.’