by Freya North
‘Can I help?’ calls a voice from the here and now.
‘Can she?’ Mac asks quietly.
‘She could –’ muses a voice from a long time ago, ‘but maybe we ought to help her on her way.’
‘Jocelyn?’ says Mac softly.
‘Mackerel!’ she chides.
‘That you?’ he whispers, not daring to turn around, not needing to.
‘It is me,’ she answers.
Mac lays the envelope on the tabletop and smooths it with his weathered old hands.
‘I found it for her,’ he says.
‘I think I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I’d rather she found it for herself.’
‘Can I help?’ came the voice again, from the sitting-room.
‘No, no!’ called back Mac, breezily. ‘Be with you in a tick-tock!’ He pushed the envelope into the furthest corner of the drawer and laid the folded carrier bags over it for good measure. Carefully, he reinstated the jumble into precisely the harmonious disorder in which he found it, and closed the drawer boldly.
‘OK,’ he nodded quietly, ‘okey dokey, Jocelyn Jo. Circumstances have provided the opportunity you hoped for. Him and her. Young, free and so near. Just needing a gentle shove in the right direction. And then it’s up to them.’
He returned to Chloë who looked pretty relaxed and very pretty in the simpering light of the afternoon. Her eyes widened as he came into the room, and scanned first his hands, then his pockets, finally his eyes; imploring.
‘My dear,’ he said, tapping at his temples as if he was losing his mind, ‘it is not where I thought it would be.’
Panic and disappointment streamed over Chloë’s face and altered her countenance visibly, sinking her body deep into the chair as if she had been winded, stripping her eyes of any glint, pulling the corners of her mouth downwards dolefully.
‘Have you lost it?’ she asked forlornly.
‘Gracious no!’ encouraged Mac, shuffling over to her and laying a hand on the top of her head. She batted her eyes up at him: ‘Mislaid it?’ she suggested.
‘Good Lord forgive you!’ he remonstrated, patting her head and letting his hand slip down through her hair, his fingers catching on her ringlets; it felt lovely for them both.
‘Is it not here?’ she enquired, twisting her neck this way and that as he continued to play with her hair.
‘No,’ he conceded, ‘it isn’t.’
Chloë nodded reluctantly.
‘But I know precisely where it is,’ triumphed Mac, levering himself away from the arm of the chair. Chloë stood up, her eyes shining once more. He took her chin in his hand and squeezed it, while winking at her.
‘Where?’ she whispered, putting her hand gently on his wrist.
‘It’s in my old studio,’ he explained, his open face and soft smile hiding the whitest of lies convincingly, ‘not far from here. Near Zennor. Last house off the cliff lane. Meet me there tomorrow, at elevenses. We’ll rummage together and see what we come across.’
FORTY-ONE
The next morning, Chloë went directly to the café and asked if she could swap her shift. Yes, of course, no problem at all with it being so quiet and all, but would she mind just doing the egg mayonnaise quickly before she went. Yes, of course, no problem.
William thought he’d take lunch to Mac and made a trip to the wholefood café in St Ives which did a lovely line in filled granary rolls and fudge brownies that were to die for. He loved the place; the smell of warmth, of baking, of goodness, that solicited him whenever he visited. He hadn’t been for ages and, as soon as he entered, he wondered why on earth not. The scent was intoxicating, and he stood very still with his eyes closed for a few moments. There was nobody serving anyway; just somebody humming out the back.
‘Hullo?’ he called but the humming overrode his voice. He listened awhile, gazing out to the sea through the window at the back of the café. A very peaceful scene. He closed his eyes again and breathed in deep. Egg. Very fresh.
‘Hullo?’ he called again.
Chloë had bits of eggshell clinging to her arms, mayonnaise over her fingers and butter swiped across her cheek when she heard the call of a customer.
‘Hullo?’ she called back, unwilling to leave the task she was hurrying to complete.
‘Any chance of a sandwich this side of tea-time?’ laughed the voice. Chloë looked at the clock. Nine-thirty. She laughed too.
‘In a mo’,’ she called back. ‘I’ll send someone out. Jane! Jay-In! Customer, please!’
Jane appeared from the storeroom with a clutch of bananas and was immediately thankful that the customer had been spared the sight of the condiment-daubed Cadwallader.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes please,’ said William.
Jane called back to Chloë for two rounds of egg-mayonnaise sandwiches on granary and fetched them when Chloë sang ‘Yoo-hoo!’ a minute or two later.
‘And two pieces of fudge brownie,’ William said, adding, ‘make that three – I’ll have to have one now,’ with a guilty smile. His order was wrapped in greaseproof paper and placed tidily in a small, recycled brown paper bag with handles and the café’s insignia. He thanked the sales assistant he deduced to be Jane profusely and loudly.
‘No problem,’ Jane smiled, ‘enjoy!’
‘Thanks a lot,’ called the egg-mayonnaise girl from somewhere in the kitchen.
‘Bye now,’ smiled William, brandishing his bag of delicacies.
‘Crumbs,’ says Jane, handing Chloë a great swathe of paper towels.
‘Where?’ Chloë cries, brushing herself down vigorously.
‘No,’ Jane laughs, ‘not where but who! He was ten times more scrumptious than our egg-mayonnaise granary sandwiches. In fact, make that fifteen!’
Chloë nudges her friend. ‘Ah,’ she says, ‘but was he as divine as the fudge brownies?’
‘Easily,’ Jane assures.
Mac kept both his front and back doors locked. When William rapped at the door, at first light-heartedly and then more insistently, Mac stood stock-still in an upstairs room, biting on his lip to ensure silence. He glimpsed William scratching distractedly at the sandy flop of his hair, saw he had come prepared with a customary little feast, heard him knock again and call through the letter-box and then watched him wandering away.
‘Oh Jocelyn,’ Mac murmured some minutes later, retrieving the bag William had left on the doorstep. ‘I’ve done as decreed. “If Fate has it that they’re both young and free,” you said, “give ’em a gentle shove.”
Mac rifled through the treasures in the bag. ‘We all thought it contrived,’ he theorized with a mouthful of fudge brownie, ‘but now that they are so near, I concede indeed the merits of a helping hand.’
Placing the wrapped sandwiches in the fridge until lunch-time, and making a futile resolution to save the other brownie till tea, Mac returned to his piskies. They assured him he had acted with Jocelyn’s best intentions, and with those of Chloë and William too, in his heart.
‘It’s up to them, now.’
The fronts of Chloë’s thighs hollered for mercy and though her bicycle chinked and skittered over the divots and dunks of the lane, she pedalled on; albeit through clenched teeth. This was the cliff lane and gusts from the sea alternately gave her a helpful propelling, or smacked her in the face so suddenly that she could neither pedal nor breathe. And this was the last house. Up that stony path. Look at this pothole.
Chloë dismounted and pushed her bike the last few yards, ringing her bell merrily to tell Mac she had arrived. The cottage at the end of the path was called ‘Peregrine’s Gully’. It did not ring a bell. She said ‘Jasper’s Gully’ out loud and was sorry for him that it did not scan so well. By the garden gate was a sign pointing ‘Studio’.
‘Mac!’ she called, her bicycle bell trilling feebly against the insistent breeze. ‘Mac!’
Barbara knew her name was not Mac, but someone was calling so imploringly that she left the small patch of sweet grass s
he had recently discovered and sauntered over to inspect the stranger. She was about to bleat a welcome but decided instead to creep up behind the visitor first. Just to surprise her. Just to make her entrance. Softly, she ambled over; her cloven hooves, the colour of apricot, scuffling noiselessly through the grass. The stranger was still calling, somewhat sorrowfully, standing on tiptoes and peering through cupped hands into the darkened studio. Barbara nuzzled the backs of her knees boldly in a combined gesture of welcome and comfort. Chloë leapt, gulping down her shriek with shock. Barbara bleated triumphantly and butted Chloë’s thigh with her horny forehead in an effusive display of affection.
‘Heavens!’ gasped Chloë, repeating it many times while her hand clasped her heart and she fought to catch her breath. Then she giggled.
‘Hullo goat!’ she laughed heartily, twisting the milky white ears and rubbing the damp little nose. ‘Aren’t you lovely!’
Chloë chattered to the goat who, unfortunately, was unable to tell her where Mac was and what time he would be back. She was, however, extremely good company and they snuggled up on the steps to the studio which was locked and too dim to make out much other than the general position of the workbench, the potter’s wheel and some shelving carrying ceramics which were swallowed from definition by pervasive shadow. Chloë looked at her watch. Way past elevenses. Well, Mac was elderly and she was now on the evening shift. She could wait, she was warm now and the goat both jollied and relaxed her. Chloë tried to remember out loud the story of the Billy Goats Gruff but Barbara found this somewhat tasteless and wandered off until Chloë coaxed her back by humming ‘Greensleeves’ softly and melodically. Barbara gruffled and bleated at opportune moments. They were still making music when William returned at noon.
That’s Greensleeves! he thought. That’s Barbara. And that isn’t.
He made his way to the back of the house as noiselessly as he could, cocking his head to the strange duet. It was comical and yet it was melodious. Barbara’s voice was familiar; strident and rasping. But this other voice – plaintive and tuneful? Familiar, somehow. He creaked the garden gate. The music died at once. Barbara bleated and defecated simultaneously in welcome and delight, skipping over to him, butting and stamping and tugging at the knees of his jeans with her hard, blunt teeth. He made his way over to the shadowy figure who had scrambled up from the studio steps. It was a woman. Barbara trotted back to her. William followed.
‘Je-zus!’ he exclaimed quietly, his mouth agape, his eyes dancing, his brow twisting, his heart thundering. His senses were alight and allowed the lack of sense in the situation to be utterly irrelevant.
‘Jesus Aitch!’ he murmured, not taking his eyes off her. ‘It’s the humming girl!’
‘The humming girl?’ questioned Chloë, not waiting for an answer. ‘You’re not Mac!’ she said crossly, stamping from foot to foot to thaw them. The young man had remained motionless but for closing his mouth and drawing it into an expansive smile of generous warmth. To Chloë, it was an odd smile to expend on a stranger, appearing to brim with the affection usually reserved for those known well. Mind you, it was a very nice smile too, and she was pleased to be the recipient.
‘You’re not Mac,’ she repeated a little shyly, now not knowing quite where to look and so fixing on Barbara’s quivering tail instead.
‘No,’ the man conceded, smiling even more brazenly, ‘I’m William. Won’t you come in?’
He took her through to the kitchen. Barbara begged to be allowed in too and hollered furiously at the closed door before stamping off in a sulk which William knew he would pay for later.
‘Tea?’ he suggested, scouring the humming girl’s face with scarcely hidden delight.
‘OK,’ agreed Chloë cautiously, darting away from his intense eye contact to blow on her chilled fingers.
‘You want Mac?’ he asked over his shoulder while retrieving mugs and tea bags. Chloë, however, did not quite hear him; momentarily distracted by his broad shoulders tapering to a neat bottom, and athletic legs hinted at behind nicely hanging jeans.
‘Mac?’ he said again.
‘Yes!’ she cried, banishing her meanderings and praying she was not blushing. ‘This is his old studio and he has something for me,’ she informed him. William turned around and regarded her quizzically.
‘No it’s not!’ he chided gently.
‘Yes,’ assured Chloë, ‘it is. Actually. He’s meeting me here, we’re going to rummage together, you see.’
‘Rummage!’ laughed William. God, her skin really is like porcelain. ‘Indeed?’ He brought over two mugs of strong tea and heaped a spoonful of sugar into both. Chloë thought it rude to inform him that she took her tea weak and unsweetened but was pleasantly surprised at how quickly his brew warmed and revived her. And she didn’t want to offend him; not least because he was friendly and open. And rather attractive too. She’d stay awhile, wait for Mac here with him. They sipped in silence, smiling occasionally over the rims of their mugs.
‘So,’ said William once he had drained his, ‘who, exactly, are you?’
The humming girl did not answer; she was miles away. She was gazing full force at the corner of the room and, as he watched, the colour slipped from her face and faded away.
‘Hullo?’ he said. She did not hear. His gaze followed hers and alighted on his tall coiled urn, presently home to an umbrella and the raffia mat on which he had sunbathed away many a summer afternoon. She looked quite shocked; a tiny, lovely dent in her brow spoke of it; her eyes, fixed and wide, proclaimed it; her silence and sudden deafness emphasized it. Tentatively, he walked his fingers over the table and touched her knuckles lightly.
‘Hey?’ he said.
She looked at him, her face giving nothing away. She caught hold of his eyes and refused to let them go, burrowing into them, trying to make sense of it all.
Could it be? Could it really be? Him? This chap? Was it? Now? How come?
What lovely eyes, she thought.
What did I think he’d look like!
Fresh and handsome, she observed.
I never stopped to think!
This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be real. Blink, girl!
Slowly, Chloë’s flat expression softened and the corners of her mouth lifted easily.
‘Hey!’ he welcomed.
‘Hey!’ she replied.
‘Who are you?’ he asked again.
‘I’m Jocelyn’s god-daughter,’ she informed him with a spirited smile, ‘and you,’ she proclaimed, squeezing his wrist quickly, firmly, ‘you are William Coombes!’
William’s face was wide open, his lips parted and his eyes would not keep still.
She knows me?
Oh yes!
She knows me!
She does indeed.
The humming girl?
The very same.
With the freckles and the porcelain skin, the beautiful neck and eyes of mahogany?
And the tresses of burnished auburn that have lingered with you so.
In my kitchen?
Right here.
And she knows me?
‘You are William Coombes,’ pleaded Chloë, her brow twitching and magnetizing William’s senses, ‘aren’t you?’
Suddenly she so wanted it to be him that she found herself terrified that perhaps it was not. He had said his name was William. Don’t let coincidence ruin the possibility.
‘I am he,’ he declared softly.
‘Hey,’ said Chloë through her smile, ‘I’m Chloë. Cadwallader?’
After the penny had dropped, they dissolved all formality in a round of unfettered laughter and Good-Lording.
‘Would you like to see the studio?’ William asked, still shaking his head slightly.
‘Would I!’ Chloë grinned, offering her mug for a refill.
There in the studio, his heaven and hers, he stood back while she inspected. Traversing the room in a world of her own, she ran her eyes and her fingers over all that greeted her; she sme
lt the clay, spun the banding wheel, examined the tools and held little pots of glaze pigment up to the light. She flipped through books and dipped her fingers gingerly, before dunking them entirely, into a small bowl of terra sigillata that had the entire workbench to itself. She sat quietly astride William’s wheel. Motionless, she gazed out to the cliffs and beyond.
William watched her all the while. Here was the humming girl, right here, whom he had known so well for almost a year yet never met. Reality had not let the day-dream down and the flesh was as enchanting as the fantasy. The very stuff of his late-night last thoughts was now rummaging about his studio in front of him. She was lovely and real and ingenuous.
Might she? William wondered silently, hoping that she would. Commanding all powers of telepathy, he implored her to do it; hum.
Don’t!
Do!
Chloë didn’t need to be asked, aloud or otherwise. He watched her gather her hair back, dip her face in and out of the vessels, trailing her hands over them, brushing her forearm against one surface, pressing her cheek against another, making small music all the while. She declared that this piece sounded so much lower than the range of the Ballygorm urns, that one there just a tone or two higher. She told him of the tune they had made, of the comfort and pleasure they had given her in Ireland. That they looked beautiful in the luminescent Antrim spring, that she still thought of them; standing intimate, united and timeless. But William was too overcome with the luck of it all even to take the compliments on board, let alone graciously. He just nodded and said ‘Oh’ and did not think to tell her that they had been sold as a set and that he had been commissioned for more.
Chloë understood it as modesty and liked him all the more for it. He sat in the slip-splashed Windsor chair while she perched neatly on the end of the trestle; they chatted and smiled and marvelled to themselves that they should have met. The humming girl and the lone potter.