Where the Light Gets In

by Lucy Dillon

  There were now firm lines of knitting around the edges of Lorna’s attempts, anchoring the whole thing together.

  Joyce looked at her quizzically, saw she wasn’t faking her enthusiasm, shrugged and demonstrated the stitches. ‘You go here, and here, and count carefully this time, don’t just guess and hope for the best.’

  Lorna watched; experience made Joyce’s economic movements elegant. Flick, loop, flick, loop, and there, something solid was created from nothing. It was perfectly logical but magical at the same time.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ Joyce didn’t take her eyes off the knitting, even though Lorna wondered how much she could actually see. ‘Never seen an old biddy knitting before?’

  ‘Not as well as that,’ she answered truthfully.

  Joyce snorted at the compliment and handed back the dog jumper, now with two leg holes established. ‘You do the other two and bring them with you next time,’ she said with a beady look over the top of her darkened glasses. ‘I warn you now, though, I’ve high standards. I don’t accept sloppy workmanship.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Lorna, and when she waved goodbye at the door, there was a glimmer in Joyce’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. Curiosity, maybe.

  And as Lorna drove away, there was something sprouting in her own heart that hadn’t been there before. A small leaf, or a ray of morning sun. This time, she thought, checking both ways as she turned on to the main road, it felt as if Joyce actually wanted her to go back.

  More than that, she did too.

  Chapter Eight

  The second weekend in February started before dawn for Lorna and Tiffany, while the world outside the gallery window was still dark, and only the most devoted owners were stumbling down the high street towards the park, their dogs nosing gleefully ahead in matching reflective jackets.

  It was a big weekend for the Maiden Gallery. This was Lorna’s first chance to make some money and drag the month’s takings back into line with projections, via strong card sales, men looking to spend money for the sake of it, and hopefully some extravagant impulse buying of gifts. In other words, it was the weekend before Valentine’s Day.

  ‘So, that’s everything,’ said Tiffany, casting a critical eye over their early morning efforts. She’d made her ‘special’ strong coffee, and with Lorna’s motivational playlist on loud, their resulting surge of effort had transformed the gallery into a romantic wonderland. It helped that Mary was away playing golf with Keith again because they’d moved everything. Paintings had been rehung in eye-catching clusters, the glass cabinets sparkled with jewellery, the card spinners were restocked, and one wall had been temporarily smackeroo-ed with potato-print lipstick kisses. ‘Anything red, anything pink, anything with hearts, flowers, dogs or pigs. Is that it?’

  Lorna tied the last Lover’s Knot on to the papier mâché stag’s head that she’d given up on selling or persuading Mary to return. His antlers were decorated with every ring in the gallery, tied to red ribbons of various lengths. He looked rather festive. ‘Anyone coming in for a card, convince them that a piece of art is a much more long-lasting Valentine’s gift than roses.’

  ‘Especially if it’s a piece of art with roses on.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Lorna glanced sideways at the bland flower close-ups that she’d brought out of stockroom exile for the occasion. Today was their best, and last, chance. ‘And if they choose jewellery, we’ve got a lot of hand-decorated containers to put it in, for a reasonable giftbox charge.’

  ‘Got you,’ said Tiffany with a jaunty fingerpoint. She bent down to stroke Rudy, who was watching them from the safety of his basket under the desk. ‘And a bow for sir? Maybe we could pop Rudy on the desk and have him selling Valentine’s cards for pets?’

  It was a good idea, and Lorna toyed with it for a millisecond, but Rudy’s naturally anxious expression stopped it dead. He only relaxed in his basket in the gallery when it was just her, Mary or Tiffany about – luckily for him, that was most of the time. Today, she hoped anyway, it would be far too busy.

  She picked him up protectively and he pushed his sharp nose into her armpit – his little sign of trust. ‘No, I think there’ll be too many people here for Rudy. But make a pet card display anyway. We need to give people lots of reasons to spend money.’

  ‘Take it from a nanny who always had to buy cards for Mummy and Daddy and the doggies,’ said Tiffany, efficiently dealing out cat and dog cards from the main pile as if she were at a Las Vegas casino. ‘There is no limit to people’s madness when it comes to Valentine’s Day, and no one who can’t have a card sent to them.’

  The first customer was already peering through the door, wallet in hand, when Lorna turned the Open sign around at nine o’clock – a harassed man who ‘didn’t want to make the same mistake as last year’. He left with a pair of silver cockleshell earrings, plus a rose canvas as back-up, and the rush continued at a steady pace through lunch, thanks to the hand-painted window display, which promised ‘personal service to find the perfect gift’.

  Lorna was relieved to see the amount of old stock flying through the till, but what really gave her a buzz every time was finding something special for each customer, a treasure she knew wouldn’t end up at the back of a drawer. Talking to customers about what they were drawn to also made her look at some of Mary’s favourites in a new way: one lady absolutely adored Bob’s wonky pottery which Tiffany had filled with Love Hearts.

  ‘Aw, it’s like me and my bloke,’ she said, hugging two lumpy hic-cup mugs to her chest. ‘Bit off centre but we love each other just the same.’ Lorna made a mental note not to be so snobby in future. Not until she was in profit, anyway.

  They worked through without a lunch break, and Lorna was just coming in from taking Rudy out for a quick spin down the street behind the gallery when Tiffany grabbed her and bundled her towards the back office.

  ‘Someone to see you.’ She nodded towards the front of the gallery, where a man in a heavy jacket was standing by the counter, squinting critically at a canvas of a sheep’s head. He angled his head, frowning at the sheep, and Lorna realised it was Sam. She hadn’t recognised him immediately, not with the beard. Her chest suddenly felt light and tight – not exactly with excitement, more from panic that she was about to say something stupid.

  And then, a funny sort of pride that he’d seen her new venture, and seen it so busy too. Just goes to show, she thought defiantly, I’m not totally clueless about art.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Tiffany leaned over. ‘Don’t tell me he’s one of the artists you were talking to on the phone the other day. Because if it is, you can sign me up for a full-time job. I would have no problem talking to him about his creative impulses.’

  ‘He’s not an artist, he’s an old friend.’ Lorna wondered what kind of artist Tiff thought Sam was – a blacksmith? A rugged woodworker? She could sort of see that.

  ‘Aye aye.’ Tiffany raised her eyebrows. ‘What type of friend?’

  ‘You’ve met him! Sam Osborne. We met him in the bar at Colbert? He’s my brother-in-law’s best mate,’ she added, when Tiff’s face went blank. ‘The property developer? I’ve known him since I was eleven. It’s not like you’re thinking, so stop it.’ She knew she was protesting too much, and Tiffany’s disbelieving expression made it clear that it wasn’t convincing.

  ‘How many of these old friends have you got?’ Tiffany angled her head to see past the jewellery cabinet. ‘I love a country boy. Is he a farmer? I bet he’d look great stripped to the waist, a scythe over his shoulder …’

  ‘That’s Poldark , Tiff. Not actual farming.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Lorna shook her head and walked through the gallery. Her heart felt as though it was beating high up in her throat, but she tried to look relaxed. Two quick, unseen clenches of the hands, a friendly smile. There. Relaxed.

  ‘Hi!’ she said. As she got closer, she could smell the fresh air clinging to Sam’s coat. It swamped his shoulders, making him seem
broader. ‘I can do you a discount on that! And we have about ten more if you want a different kind of sheep.’

  ‘Its eyes are wrong,’ he said, pointing at the beady yellow marbles. ‘Jacobs don’t have yellow eyes.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not Jacob’s sheep! Maybe it’s Walter’s!’ said Lorna, and winced at herself.

  Sam looked askance. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘That’s my only sheep joke.’

  ‘Well, I won’t hold it against you, I’ve got no art jokes.’ He gestured round the gallery. ‘Looks good! I was in town and thought I’d pop in to see what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘And do you approve?’ She couldn’t help sounding a bit snippy.

  Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, at least I know what these paintings are meant to be of. I’ve already had reports – you sold a birthday card to one of Mum’s WI cronies and she got the rest on the grapevine. I know, I know.’ He lifted a hand in a ‘what can you do’ weary gesture. ‘That’s Longhampton. Not much going on. Any gossip … Not that you’re gossip, obviously.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Lorna hadn’t missed the jibe about the art; just because Sam ‘knew what it was meant to be’ didn’t mean it was good. That just confirmed her worst suspicions. ‘We both know you can get in the local newsletter by wearing a hat.’

  ‘At least it takes the heat off me for ten minutes,’ said Sam.

  ‘Why? What’s the gossip about you?’ Was there gossip? About why he’d come back?

  He looked cross with himself. ‘No,’ he said, in a way that didn’t encourage further questions.

  ‘So,’ said a voice behind her, ‘can we interest you in a Valentine’s card? We have some beautiful examples.’

  What? Lorna spun round.

  ‘Doesn’t have to be for a lady friend.’ Tiffany had shimmered up behind her, farmer-charming smile in place. ‘We have cards suitable for anyone. A good friend, your mum, your dog, a favourite cow?’

  ‘My mum ?’ Sam looked horrified at the same time as Lorna said, ‘A cow ?’

  ‘I don’t judge.’ Tiffany tilted her head. ‘You country folk. Takes all sorts. So, what’s it to be? Something for the wife? Or girlfriend? Or both?’

  ‘Tiff, a lady over there’s looking at the eggshells,’ said Lorna, pointing in the direction of the ceramics. ‘Tell her everything looks better in groups of three. Unless she wants to put a piece of jewellery in it, in which case steer her to the silver cabinet.’

  ‘Will do!’ She lingered for a moment, giving Sam a shameless up-and-down look, until Lorna nudged her and she sashayed off.

  ‘So …’ she said and her mind went blank. There were quite a lot of big questions that seemed too big for casual chit-chat. Are you married? Why the beard? How come Jess and Ryan haven’t mentioned you for ages when you were once round there every other weekend?

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked conversationally. ‘I don’t recognise her as a local, so I’ll have to report back to Mum that there’s someone new about the place.’

  ‘That’s Tiffany. She’s a nanny. You met her, in that bar?’

  Sam looked blank. ‘Did I? Should I have remembered?’

  ‘I don’t know. Should you?’ Tiffany had the kind of wicked eyes that people (men) seemed unable to walk past. Whenever she and Lorna had gone out when they were living together, she’d been asked so many times if she was a model that Lorna had started to wonder if she had some kind of secret life. Tiffany always retorted that she looked like the DD+ M&S lingerie lady. ‘She’s in between jobs at the moment, and I’ve got plenty of room so she’s staying here. What? What are you smiling at?’

  ‘Just a lot of information. I wasn’t asking if you had three kids stashed away upstairs.’ He paused and tilted his head. ‘Oh no. Do you?’

  ‘Three kids of my own? No,’ said Lorna, and waited a beat. ‘There are four.’

  Sam’s face registered quick shock, but then he rolled his eyes.

  ‘Good to see your sense of humour’s still as crap as ever. So, anyway, how about that drink? I’ve got a few things to do in town, but if you’re free later we could have a pint in the Jolly Fox?’

  Really? Lorna wanted to tally up the day’s takings, and she definitely needed to go through the stockroom and replenish the displays for the Sunday opening. And there was no food in the fridge and the laundry basket was overflowing, and she needed to talk seriously to Tiffany about what was actually going on with her agency, and how long she was planning to stay. And she didn’t want any more advice about art from Sam Osborne.

  ‘Yes,’ she heard herself say. ‘Why not?’

  Lorna couldn’t remember what the Jolly Fox public house at the end of the high street had looked like when she lived in Longhampton, but Sam assured her while they were waiting at the bar that it had changed beyond all recognition – and not for the best.

  Looking round it now, she was pretty glad she’d never been to the old version if this was an improvement.

  ‘You must remember the horse brasses they had over the optics?’ he said, pointing to the mirrored cocktail shelves that now reflected the customers back at themselves through a fence of exotic-coloured spirits. ‘And the so-called draught ales that we reckoned were just Jim’s home brew? And the booths? Come on,’ he added disbelievingly when she looked blank, ‘you must remember the booths.’

  ‘Sam, I was thirteen when we left Longhampton,’ Lorna pointed out. ‘I never set foot in this place.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you did. The average age of the drinkers was probably just over seventeen, and that included the old codgers playing dominos in the snug.’

  She shook her head impatiently. ‘Don’t you remember? I looked about ten, so I always got carded. Jess used to tell bouncers I worked for a plastic surgeon and got discount Botox, but I couldn’t even get in with her fake ID.’

  ‘Ha! Of course. The fake ID …’ The barmaid appeared, and Sam ordered her cider and his Guinness, then leaned on his elbow, appraising her in the same cool manner that had turned her insides to water the time they’d met up in London. He’d looked so much older, a finished man; she’d thought up until then that she looked adult, confident and independent, but obviously he hadn’t seen that, not the way he’d spoken to her.

  ‘It’s funny,’ he said, ‘I always think of you as being the same age as us.’

  ‘Not at the time you didn’t.’ She’d forgotten – until now – how sore it had felt being left behind, part of the ‘us’ only when it suited them. ‘You just think it now because you want to think you’re four years younger than you are.’

  ‘Ha! No, that came out wrong, I’m sorry. I meant you always seemed old for your years, or maybe we were immature …’ He realised he was digging himself in deeper. ‘Jeez, shut up, man.’ He held out his wrist for a slap – something Jess used to make Ryan do, as a running joke – and for a second he was the old Sam again, familiar as a faded T-shirt.

  It was confusing, thought Lorna, suddenly unable to meet his gaze – it was easier to look at his reflection in the mirror. Forget the beard, there was something new about him that hadn’t been there before. An edginess, a fidget in his movements, as if he wasn’t entirely comfortable back in the brand new checked shirt and jeans. Something else was different. Maybe Sam was struggling too, finding some things unchanged while some things were transformed beyond recognition. Like the farm, like his plans. Maybe like her.

  It had to be that, thought Lorna, and in trying to avoid meeting his eye in the mirror, caught her own reflection. Her hair was messier than she’d thought and her raspberry lipstick, hastily applied in the reflection of a framed print on the way out of the gallery, had already worn off. She glanced away; she never looked the way she thought she did in her head.

  Sam spotted the sudden movement. ‘What?’

  ‘Those mirrors.’ She nodded at them, embarrassed. ‘Who wants to see themselves getting pissed?’

  ‘I think it’s so you spot anyone trying to steal your handbag or pinc
h your bum. I mean, you can change some things but the clientele …’ Their eyes met in the reflection and Sam smiled, a sweet smile that reached his brown eyes. Lorna realised she’d missed him. Not him, maybe, so much as the possibilities of her crush, the memories that trailed behind him like clouds. For a long time she hadn’t been able to think about Sam at all but here he was, and here , when they weren’t trying to be city escapees, it was easier than she’d expected.

  She enjoyed the sensation of her own smile spreading across her lips, seeing it reflected in his.

  The moment stretched between them, and then Sam coughed. ‘There’s a table over there – do you want to sit down? There’s something I need to get off my chest.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lorna, and her happiness deflated. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear whatever it was.

  There weren’t many people in the pub, and plenty of seats to choose from. They sat down under a reproduction poster of a Longhampton railway station that had never been that pretty in real life, at a table small enough that their knees almost, but not quite, touched underneath. Sam put his pint down dead centre on the beer mat advertising the local craft ale, and looked straight at Lorna. He had a disconcertingly clear stare; she’d always felt as if he could see inside her mind. It made her want to think of frantic scribbles to protect her less noble thoughts.

  ‘So, let’s get rid of the elephant in the room,’ he said.

  Lorna poured her cider carefully, though her hand was wobbling. ‘Which elephant?’ she said, and nearly added, I didn’t know you’d gone into elephant farming, but stopped herself.

  ‘The last time we saw each other … I was a bit of a dick. I’m sorry.’

  Something twanged in Lorna’s chest. What exactly was he apologising for? The rather smug business advice, or … the other snub?

  ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did about your pop-up gallery.’ Sam scratched his beard. ‘I’m sorry. What do I know about art, compared with you? When I got home, I nearly came back to apologise but I didn’t want to make it worse. You had the art background, not me. I just knew about the money.’