Prologue Two
Eva
TEN YEARS AGO
Standing at the workbench in front of the window, I tighten the vice and pick up my plastic goggles. Slipping them over my face, I put the magnifying glass over the piece we’re repairing today. My hand shakes. “Urgh.” It’s so hard to do this perfectly. “How does Dad do this?”
“Do what?”
The television on the wall plays his favourite sport. I look up, the sounds of revving Formula One engines and excitable commentary has him looking to the screen.
“Where’s the tea?”
“Kettle’s on,” Dad says gently, grabbing the end of his apron and wiping his hands. “How do I do what?” he asks again.
Looking down, frustration makes my hands tighten. “Fix these bloody things all day long.”
“Eva,” Dad breathes tenderly. He walks up by my side, his calm presence making me take a breath.
“Sorry.” I place the tools in my hand down on the work surface.
He smiles, woody eyes round and brown, taking me in. “Don’t let it stress you out, darling. This is meant to be relaxing.” He places his hand on my shoulder.
“Relaxing?” I laugh under my breath. “Only you could find the good in working with crap.” His face falls. “I’m sorry, I just don’t get how any of this is relaxing.”
The television sounds making us both look up. Dad blows out his cheeks as we watch two cars take a tight bend, narrowly avoiding a collision. “All you can do when things get tough, is lean into the bend.” He looks back at me. “Don’t fight what you’re working with, just embrace it. Here.”
Picking up the tools, I step to one side, letting him take my place.
I watch in awe as he carefully adjusts the clamp and begins to work his magic. His hands remain perfectly still as his fingers do all the moving, removing the damaged porcelain on the figurine that was brought in this morning.
“Once we’ve removed the old glue, we can stick it back together and paint the image back on the front.”
“You mean you can. I don’t think I’m cut out to follow in your footsteps.”
He laughs. “You’re on your own path, Eva, and you're an exceptional artist. It’s nice having you helping me.”
“Not sure what I’m doing to be honest, but I’ll take that. What time is Mum coming by?”
“Around twelve,” he replies, looking up at the old, wooden clock on the wall. “Not long. Hand me that.” He points to a small bottle on the shelf.
Walking to it, I reach up and bring the bottle down, holding it out for him to take.
I smile as he then applies a light layer of solvent with a cotton bud. It takes a few layers, but eventually Dad seems satisfied his work is done.
“Now we wait.” The clock then chimes and a little bird pops out from the front. “Ah. Time for tea. Shall I put the kettle on?”
I smile at him confused. “Sure,” I tell him, knowing he’s already done it.
“Good.” He steps back.
I remove the goggles, eye rolling myself that I even put them on, concluding that I should stick to painting. Hearing the phone ring, I then make my way to the front of the shop.
“Hello? Robinson’s Restoration.” I listen as the customer tells me their query. “Certainly. Let me just double check with him.” I place the caller on hold, finding Dad sitting in his armchair, watching the racing. “Lady on the phone wants to know whether you can restore an oil painting for her? Apparently she needs it by next Friday?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine. “Oil painting? Of course. That should be fine.” He pushes out from the chair .
“Great.” I walk back to the phone, taking it off hold. “That’s fine. Can I grab some details and ask if you could bring the piece in this afternoon for us to look at?”
She agrees, and I take her details, knowing this will keep Dad busy for the foreseeable.
When I hang up, I meet Dad walking from the small kitchen. “Kettle’s on,” he tells me all cheerily. Again.
“Right,” I say with a shake of my head. I then walk to where the kettle is and find it boiling. He hasn’t got any mugs out or anything, so I open the cupboard door and pick our usuals, filling them with a tea bag each and some sugar.
My eyes stay on his as I grab the biscuits and move to sit next to him. “Mum will say not to spoil lunch, but here.”
Dad smiles, taking two Digestives. “Thanks, love.” At fifty-seven, Dad’s face is starting to look older. It’s the first time I think I’ve truly noticed.
He was already thirty-nine when they had me. Mum was a little younger at thirty, but their love knows no bounds. I hope I find a love like theirs one day. At eighteen, about to start studying art at Uni, with absolutely no real interest in boys, I can’t see how that’s going to pan out.
“You daydreaming again?” I ask Dad, seeing him staring into space.
He looks at me, his mind seemingly somewhere new. “Do you think we’ll make it?”
His gentle question has me sitting back in my chair. He’s thinking about the dream we’ve talked about for years. “If you want it, Dad, we’ll make it happen.”
He smiles. “I’d like to see my work on display somewhere.” He muses to himself, and it’s the way his face brightens at the prospect of his work—not the pieces he restores—but his art, being on display for someone else to enjoy, that really warms my heart.
“Then we’ll make it happen,” I reassure him, handing him another biscuit.
The door dings and Mum walks in all cheerily. “Lunch,” she sings, her heels hitting the floorboards.
Dad and I scoff the biscuits in our hands, sitting straighter and laughing as we drop crumbs all over ourselves .
“Oh, you two,” she chastises, walking to us and placing the bag of food she’s brought with her on the side. She’s been shopping for our picnic later. Her hair’s beautifully shaped, her clothes are her smarter ones she keeps for when she socialises.
Dad watches her in awe. Nothing but love and adoration swelling behind his eyes. “Hi,” he says, when she finally looks at him and stops shaking her head at our mess.
She sighs, walking to him and kissing his head. “Hi, darling.”
“I’m just about to put the kettle on if you want one?”
“That would be amazing. Town was so busy, I’m gasping.” She removes her coat, hanging it on the hook.
Dad nods and stands from his chair. “Eva?”
“What?” I say, brushing the crumbs off my face.
His eyes shine so brightly. Innocently. “I’m putting the kettle on. Want one?”
Trying to be a good sport, I smile, unsure of what’s happening right before my eyes. “Please,” I say, watching as he steps past me.
He then stops, one hand scratching the side of his head. “We still on for tonight? I can’t remember if we arranged anything.”
I hesitate. “Uh, yeah. We’re leaving at five.” I shake my head confused and quite frankly, concerned.
He doesn’t notice as he dips his chin, satisfied, then carries on.
Something inside me shifts, and the big wide world I thought I knew, suddenly feels like it’s narrowing.