by Lucy Dillon
‘Oh. Wow. Poor Gabe. I guess … well done, you.’ Lorna didn’t know what to say. It didn’t make sense – well, Sam wanting to help his family out made sense, but as a farmer? The cows! He used to do anything to avoid being on the farm when the wagon came for market – was he now handling the abattoir calls?
‘Is it still a … beef farm?’ She couldn’t remember if it was dairy or beef cattle. All she remembered was the way Ozzy had described the soft gummy snuffles of the calves, the playful joy with which even the older cows kicked up their heels in fresh straw.
‘We had both, but we’ve packed the dairy side in. Not enough money in mass-produced milk.’ He turned his attention back to Bernard, who was nibbling the zip of Sam’s gilet. ‘We’re diversifying.’
‘Great!’ Lorna didn’t know what to say. It was just too … odd, seeing Sam here like this. She felt unprepared, discombobulated, and he didn’t look much calmer. It wasn’t one of the many scenarios she’d rehearsed in her head.
Her instincts muttered get out, get out , and she busied her hands with Bernard’s lead. Rudy was patiently waiting by her feet, sniffing at the ground with interest. It was probably his first time in a sheep field. He was unfazed by sheep poo. And, Lorna noted, unfazed by Sam. ‘Anyway, don’t want to keep you from what you were doing, you’re obviously busy.’
Sam lifted the terrier down, holding his collar until Lorna had him clipped on. ‘And why are you back?’ he asked casually.
‘I’ve bought an art gallery.’
‘What? You’re kidding? Again?’
‘Different time, different place. I know this is going to work.’ She straightened, defences rising. Sam didn’t need to know about the one-year plan.
‘Well, you know where to come for some advice you can ignore.’
Lorna forced the corners of her mouth upwards; she didn’t want to hear all that again. ‘Brilliant. And you know where to come for some art you think is crap. Anyway …’ She flapped her arms, ending the conversation. ‘I need to get back. It’s good to see you. Sorry about the dog, won’t happen again.’
‘Lorna, don’t be …’ he started, grabbing at the changing mood. Then he seemed felled by awkwardness too. ‘Good to see you. Let’s have a drink in town. Catch up.’ Sam lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and she couldn’t quite make out his expression, whether he meant it or not. ‘I haven’t heard from Ryan in ages, be nice to find out what the Protheros are up to.’
‘Child transport, mainly,’ she said. ‘It’s all about the logistics.’
‘Great.’ Sam smiled, more naturally this time, and his brown eyes crinkled at the edges. He looked older; the strong eyebrows made sense on his face now, the beard gave him a solidity his personality had had long before his body caught up.
Lorna wondered if she looked different to Sam, or if he still just saw the awkward little sister pretending to like homebrew scrumpy. Had she said something that had stuck in Sam’s memory for nearly twenty years, the way his confession about the cows had stuck in hers? No, the thing he remembered first about her was her promise to leave. And here she was.
It wasn’t just the cow secret, though. Millions of fragments of Sam had stuck in her mind like splinters: thousands of tiny comments, glances, jokes, songs, evenings she’d hoarded up, hooking into her own memory until it was impossible to separate them out from her own. He’d always been there, in her tapestry. But his recollection of those years was probably very different. Everyone’s was. It was probably just as well you couldn’t see how out of focus you were, in their version of your own past.
Lorna lifted her hand. ‘Bye, Sam,’ she said and walked off with the two dogs before she could spoil it by saying anything else.
Chapter Six
It had been the politest ‘no’ Lorna had ever heard, to the point where she’d thought Joyce was leading up to saying yes. It would have made such a perfect story in the catalogue notes too: After saving her dog Bernard from being shot, Lorna Larkham was able to persuade Joyce Rothery to curate a retrospective in her newly reimagined Maiden Gallery …
But Joyce had said no. A non-negotiable no. When Lorna had dropped Bernard back, and asked Joyce if she’d read her ideas about Art Week, and whether she’d had time to consider the letter she’d written her about a retrospective, the answer was brisk and definite.
‘I normally ignore letters,’ she’d said matter-of-factly, ‘but since you’ve been kind to Bernard, I’ll tell you straight, Miss Larkham – I’m not interested in any exhibitions, or retrospectives or whatever you care to call them. I’ve drawn a line under that part of my life. I’m no longer an artist. So thanks for your interest, but if that was the ulterior motive for these walks, you’re free to stop coming now.’
Lorna hadn’t known what to say. She’d stammered something about that being fine, that she understood, but it had felt as if she’d made a faux pas by even asking. Surely artists were artists? For ever? Her mother had never stopped, she’d been consumed by creativity from the moment she woke up until the very last moment of her life – you couldn’t retire from it.
And the implication that she’d only been walking Bernard to connive her way into Joyce’s favour – it made her cringe.
‘The old biddy!’ said Mary, when Lorna passed on the news. Then she looked ashamed. ‘Sorry, mean of me. I suppose it’s her choice. So, are you?’ she added. ‘Going to stop walking Bernard?’
‘I can’t, can I?’ Lorna reached for the biscuit tin, Mary’s friend in times of stress. ‘I’ll look like a total opportunist! No, of course I’ll keep going,’ she went on. ‘It’s a nice walk, and Rudy seems to be OK with Bernard. It’s good to go somewhere where we don’t meet many people.’
Sam on his quad bike roared across her mind. They’d seen each other, and got it out of the way, but she’d come here for space, to be herself, not try to pick up threads of the past. She didn’t need Sam Osborne continuing to lecture her about how to run her life.
‘Well, you tried. And there are still plenty of other absolutely top-quality artists on our books.’ Mary brushed crumbs off her scarf; it looked very like the box of unsold silk-printed scarves Lorna had come across in the stockroom, under the box of unsold painted wine glasses.
‘I need to come up with something different for Calum Hardy now,’ she said glumly.
‘I’m sure you will!’ Mary gestured to the front of the gallery. ‘Incidentally, I’ve had so many lovely comments this morning about your window display!’
Lorna had spent Sunday afternoon reorganising the broad gallery window to showcase the few pieces of non-agricultural artwork she had to offer: a set of collage seascapes by a retired vicar from Much Langton who described them as ‘a serendipitous orchestration of the found and the construct’, four blue porcelain bowls which she’d filled with polished pebbles and frothy gypsophilia, and some studies of seashells in pastel frames. To bring the display together, Lorna pinned one of her own craft projects down the middle: a child’s mermaid tail she’d made at a machine-knitting night class a few years ago.
‘But I must ask,’ Mary went on, ‘where did you find this lovely mermaid’s tail? I don’t recognise it, and I’m sure I’d remember selling it.’
‘It’s mine.’ Lorna had to admit it had turned out well, after the tutor had helped her … quite a lot. The scales were worked in different colour wools, and she’d sewn sequins on at random so it glittered. It had been her attempt to find a creative spark, albeit with a pattern. Lorna could not go off pattern. ‘It’s not as hard as it looks,’ she added.
‘I think it’s exquisite.’ Mary touched the scales admiringly. ‘In fact, do you know, I’d like to buy it for my granddaughter. Would you give me a staff discount?’
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this – shouldn’t I be paying you to be here?’ Mary’s continued, unpaid presence in the gallery had been niggling at Lorna; she didn’t want to take advantage. ‘I know we haven’t been busy, but I do appreciate your h
elp, and …’
Mary flapped her hand. ‘Oh, no, it’s rather fun when you don’t have to worry about the bills. You can pay me in mermaid tails. That is, if that gentleman in the window isn’t going to snap it up first. Look! He’s been staring at it for ages now. Coo-ee! Why don’t you come in?’
Coo-ee , thought Lorna with an inward smile, watching Mary beckon through the glass. Who still said coo-ee ? But the smile faded when she saw who was peering into the gallery.
It was Keir Brownlow, staring right at her and looking seriously pissed off.
‘Mary,’ she started, ‘I don’t think he’s …’
She was already opening the door, practically dragging Keir in off the street. ‘Come on in,’ she was saying. ‘Would you like a closer look at our lovely mermaid tail? It’s bespoke!’
Lorna froze. Keir’s pleasant face was red and as near to cross as she imagined he got. He looked pained, as if getting this mad wasn’t something he enjoyed. He disentangled himself from Mary’s grasp. ‘It’s actually your colleague I’d like a word with.’
‘Ah! This is Lorna, she’s the owner of the gallery.’ Mary gave her a theatrical wink. ‘And the knit-smith in question. I will leave you two to it!’
She shimmered off to the back room, trailing a cloud of White Linen.
Keir and Lorna regarded each other without speaking for a moment, then he whined, in a voice sharp with disappointment, ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’
‘No? Is there a problem?’ Lorna hated being caught doing something she shouldn’t be.
‘A problem? Don’t you think it’s a problem if someone lies about who they are, in order to gain access to a vulnerable member of the community?’
‘I’m not sure what you …’
‘You’re not from the Cinnamon Trust.’ He was clenching his fists. ‘Are you?’
Keir’s injured expression seemed to be hoping she’d say she was, and Lorna almost wondered how quickly she could apply once he’d left the shop, so it wouldn’t be a lie if she did say she was, but …
Jess’s disapproving face floated into her mind.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not.’
‘So when you let me assume you were someone who was security checked and recommended to us, so that I gave you access to our client’s home, you were knowingly and deliberately misleading me and, in effect, the social services? It’s a criminal offence!’
‘Now, wait a second.’ Lorna raised her hands. ‘Did you ask me for any ID? Did you even mention the words Cinnamon Trust? I was there for perfectly legitimate reasons. You’re the one who didn’t do the checks. If anyone’s screwed up here, it’s you.’
Keir squirmed but he wasn’t finished. ‘You didn’t say you weren’t. That’s just lying by omission; it’s how scam artists get started. They win the trust of vulnerable people and then when they’re comfortable with the abuser, they steal their life savings. And more than that, their faith in other people! Which, when you’re a vulnerable adult like Mrs Rothery, is way more precious.’
‘Oh, come on … Do I look like a confidence trickster?’ She didn’t even query the vulnerability of Joyce ‘I’m fine’ Rothery.
‘You certainly had me fooled,’ Keir retorted, as if he was the epitome of streetwise social workerdom.
Lorna suppressed her snort, for the sake of his pride. ‘I wasn’t trying to fool anyone … Look! Joyce sold most of her paintings through this gallery.’ She swept a hand around the shop floor. ‘That’s why I was there – I was visiting her to talk about staging an exhibition of her work.’
‘Her work?’
‘Yes,’ said Lorna patiently. ‘Joyce Rothery is an important local artist. Didn’t you ever notice the paintings in her house?’
‘Not really. I’ve never managed to get inside. She keeps me on the step.’ Keir’s bluster dropped a couple of notches, at which point Mary appeared with a tea tray.
‘Have a cup of tea and calm down, Keir,’ said Lorna. ‘Let’s start this conversation again.’
Keir pushed his thick glasses up his nose, dropping his messenger bag by a jewellery cabinet. He took the mug Mary was offering him, cupped it in both hands as if it was a precious gift, then sank down on a decorative pouffe that wasn’t actually for customers to sit on. He didn’t notice it wobble.
Mary started to herd him off it, but Lorna shook her head. If it broke … it broke. It wasn’t that nice to begin with and Mary was resisting all overt attempts to return it to its maker.
‘I’m in a whole world of trouble because of you,’ he moaned. ‘You realise that while we were dealing with Mrs Rothery, the real volunteer phoned my office to apologise for missing the meeting? So when I came back and told my boss that I’d met the dog walker, and you were very nice, and you’d obviously been trained in gaining access to properties in emergencies, guess who got bollocked?’ He pointed to himself, just in case she hadn’t got the message.
‘How could she bollock you?’ asked Lorna. ‘We saved Joyce from lying on that cold hall floor for who knows how long. Does it matter who I was?’
‘Yes! Totally! I got an hour’s lecture about confidentiality, client security, responsibility for safeguarding.’ Now his anger had burned out, Keir looked close to tears. ‘I nearly got put on a disciplinary because of this. I’m already on an unofficial warning, and this is my first placement. I was a mature student,’ he added, before she could ask, ‘I’m not totally wet behind the ears.’
‘But why did you tell your boss I got us in? Why didn’t you just say you found the key round the back?’
‘Because I didn’t!’ His big eyes widened, horrified. ‘I had to document Mrs Rothery’s fall, and my visit, and the outcome. What if she’d reported me?’
‘Oh, he simply had to, Lorna,’ Mary chipped in. ‘You can’t fib. What if something had gone missing or Joyce decided to press charges? My friend Benita had to go to court to get her mother’s savings back from the cleaner social services were sending. Wasn’t the first time she’d done it, either. The social worker in charge lost her job for not checking the references.’
Keir’s face drained of colour.
Lorna looked up just in time to see a couple approach the gallery door, take in the drama unfolding inside, and then hurry away. ‘I’m sorry you got into trouble because of me,’ she said. ‘If it gets your boss off your back, you can tell her I’ve got a DBS check – I’ve volunteered in a hospice for the past few years.’
‘What kind of volunteering?’ He narrowed his eyes.
‘I was a befriender, visiting patients who didn’t have family or friends.’ She reached for the notepad on the desk and copied Kathryn’s contact details from her phone, then handed it to him. ‘Kathryn’s the matron, she’ll tell you I’m not in the habit of burgling old ladies. She’ll also vouch for my dog-walking reliability.’
He scrutinised it. ‘Thanks. I’ll ring her, if you don’t mind. At least I’ll be able to tell Sally I checked you out.’
‘Tell her Rudy sends his love.’ Lorna tried a small smile. ‘Tell her we’ve nearly cured his nervous flatulence.’
Keir took off his glasses and cleaned them. With his spiky blond hair and round eyes, he looked like a guinea pig, nervous and squinty. ‘Sorry for yelling. I’m drained . It’s bad enough dealing with Mrs Rothery on a good day, without this too. Not going to lie, I reckon I’ve been landed with her because everyone else has given up.’
‘God loves a trier!’ said Mary. ‘And you’ll be pleased to hear Lorna is going to carry on walking Mrs Rothery’s dog regardless.’ She offered him the biscuit tin. Keir took two chocolate cookies. ‘So that frees up your real volunteer to help someone else!’
‘Can I put you on the official walking list, then?’ he asked. ‘We liaise with the Cinnamon Trust but I’ve got my project. It’s part of my final assessment.’
‘Why not?’ said Lorna. She hadn’t got round to making contact with the local hospice; this would save her time.
; ‘Great! We’re calling it Operation Walkies – a lot of our elderly clients have dogs or cats and, to be honest, they tend to take a lot better care of their pets than they do of themselves. And some reckon if we find some unwashed dishes in the sink or something, that’s it, they’ll be carted off to a care home, so they don’t let us in.’ Keir seemed more animated now. ‘Sally, my boss, had this great idea that if we buddy up our housebound clients with a dog walker, or a cat … a cat stroker – whatever it is you’re meant to do with cats – it’s a way of keeping an eye on them. Discreetly, like.’
‘So you make the dog walkers spy on the old people!’ exclaimed Mary.
‘No! Not really … well, yes.’ Keir dunked his biscuit and looked guilty. ‘But for the right reasons. And the dogs get walked. Everyone’s a winner.’
‘I think it’s a good idea,’ said Lorna. ‘The hospice tried to let their patients keep their pets with them as long as they could. It’s how I got to know Rudy. He had quite a few friends at St Agnes’s, didn’t you?’ Rudy was lying in his basket, his chin on the edge so his nose drooped down over it. He was still recovering from hanging out with Bernard. ‘We had Pets as Therapy dogs coming in too, to be stroked and just be … doggy and calm.’
Lorna thought of Joyce in her isolated cottage, in the middle of nowhere, with only Bernard. How would anyone know if she fell again? How many other older people lived like that? ‘I don’t mind walking a few more dogs in town, if they’re close enough. I’ll be taking Rudy out anyway.’
‘But no big dogs,’ said Mary, nodding protectively towards Rudy. ‘My little pal here is very nervous. Sorry,’ she added to Lorna. ‘Keith won’t let us get another dog. Says he’s still finding Minky’s hair in the en suite.’
Lorna felt she was getting to know Keith quite well, in the brief time she’d known Mary.
Joyce’s refusal to consider involvement in Art Week had thrown a rather inconvenient spoke in Lorna’s planned meeting with Calum Hardy later that week.