Chapter 11 #2
Fern clicked the link, her heart beating faster as an image loaded at the top of the article, a grainy black-and-white photograph of a young woman standing in front of No.
17 Curiosity Lane. At a guess she was in her early twenties, the same age Fern had been when she first started making a name for herself in music journalism.
The woman in the photograph had sharp cheekbones, unruly waves of dark hair and a gaze that would melt hearts.
She began reading the article.
Matilda Hartley was a promising student, sweeping every award for her compositions at the London School of Music.
She was destined for stardom, and her lecturers predicted she would take the music world by storm.
But just as all eyes turned to her, Matilda made an unexpected move, trading future concert halls for curiosities.
She turned her grandmother’s holiday cottage into No.
17 Curiosity Lane in the heart of Puffin Island, where the rhythm of her days is set not by music, but by the quiet intrigue of forgotten treasures.
Fern wondered why Matilda left music behind. If she had been destined for stardom and, it seemed, had the world of her feet, why would she choose to open a shop full of old junk?
Further down the article, a more personal note caught her attention:
Hartley turned her back on the music world under circumstances she prefers to keep private. When pressed, she simply said, ‘Sometimes the past must stay buried.’
Scrolling further, Fern found numerous articles highlighting Matilda’s extraordinary talent during her years at music school.
Even from a young age, Matilda had shown remarkable versatility; not only was she a gifted pianist and singer, but also a budding composer whose original pieces, written during her college years, earned praise from seasoned professionals.
Her college performances, both solo and with ensembles, regularly drew large audiences, and often filled local concert halls to capacity.
Critics lauded her as a prodigy, frequently noting the emotional depth and technical mastery that set her apart from her peers.
She became a regular fixture at regional music competitions, taking home first-place awards and scholarships year after year.
Teachers spoke of her as a once-in-a-generation talent, and there was a growing sense among the music community that Matilda was destined for international stages.
Fern couldn’t find any reason why she had given everything up to open a shop filled with junk. It just didn’t make sense to her.
There was still no sign of Daniel. She wanted him to walk through the door so she could ask him whether Matilda had shared anything about her past with him.
Surely they must have had some conversations about it?
Closing the laptop, she stood and moved through the shop, running her fingers over the oddities Matilda had collected over the years.
She was now genuinely intrigued by her great-aunt.
Fern’s gaze landed on a small wooden box, its lid slightly ajar.
Inside, a pair of wedding rings rested on a velvet cushion, the worn metal inscribed with initials.
Next to it was a stack of old books, their pages yellowed with age.
She pulled one free, dust rising as she opened it.
Further along, she delved into a pile of faded pamphlets, when she noticed an old vinyl record tucked between them.
It looked immaculate. The name on the sleeve made her pause.
Nathaniel Loring. Fern knew Nathaniel Loring’s name.
He was extremely famous in his day and as a music journalist she was familiar with his work.
She studied it; it looked like new. The song title was ‘Echoes of the Past’.
Fern recognised it as his debut song, the one that had catapulted him into the limelight and ensured every other song he released charted instantly.
Noticing a record player over in the corner, Fern set it up, placed the record on the turntable and carefully lowered the needle.
A soft crackle filled the silence, followed by the start of the beautiful song.
She hadn’t heard it in ages, and it caught her off guard how emotional it made her feel.
After the song finished she put the record back in its sleeve.
She lifted the lid of her laptop again and for the next hour got lost researching Nathaniel Loring’s life.
The internet was packed with information about him.
There were a series of professional profiles, biographies and news articles.
His Wikipedia page showed he was born in 1940.
A London Music College graduate, he’d gone on to become one of the most celebrated composers of his generation.
She scrolled further. The songs he wrote had been sold to some of the most iconic artists of the sixties, shaping the sound of an era.
He’d made a fortune from his very first composition, a piece that had become globally recognised and re-recorded by countless classically trained artists.
His success in the music industry had catapulted him into the realm of multimillionaires.
But the most surprising detail was that Nathaniel had spent most of his life in Italy, living in the heart of the musical world, before returning to England just ten years ago.
In his early years, Nathaniel had opened a music school in London, which was still thriving and nurturing young talent today.
The music she had heard earlier, it wasn’t just a song; it was the reflection of a legacy.
Just then, Daniel walked in through the back door, guitar in hand.
Fern smiled and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Because, Daniel Brooks, I’ve made a decision,’ she said with an exaggerated dramatic flair. ‘I’m going to give you a chance.’
Daniel cocked an eyebrow. ‘Are you going to suggest moving in permanently? Because if you are, we really need to talk about the bed situation.’ He leaned against the door frame, looking more amused than anything.
‘You snuck over to my side again this morning. I mean, I don’t want to sound presumptuous, but I think that’s a little forward.
After all, we haven’t even made it to date three yet. ’
Fern’s mouth dropped open. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Daniel grinned. ‘So you were just … accidentally making yourself comfortable on my side of the bed? Totally understandable.’
Fern rolled her eyes. ‘Be serious for a second!’ She walked over to the shelf of dusty knick-knacks and picked up a vase. ‘This shop is a goldmine of chaos, but I think we could make it more … functional.’
‘Go on…’
She motioned vaguely around at the mismatched furniture, the stuffed badger sitting on top of a bookcase. ‘We should put this place in some sort of order, dust the shelves, catalogue everything, and maybe, just maybe, create a social media account to attract some attention.’
Daniel looked at her as though she’d just suggested they open a fire-breathing circus in the back.
‘A social media account? For this?’ He gestured at the cluttered antique shop, where items were piled upon each other like a mad professor’s hoard. ‘You keep saying I’m the one who’s deluded … but now you’re talking about us selling this as some sort of … influencer lifestyle?’
Fern grinned mischievously. ‘Oh, I’m talking TikTok, Daniel. You could write little songs for all the different items. I’m sure collectors would love that. You could compose music inspired by the 1800s candlesticks or the 1930s toaster. Who knows? People might go crazy for it.’
Daniel took a step back, horror written all over his face. ‘You’ve lost me. I’m no TikTok sensation.’ He clutched the guitar strap over his shoulder as though it were a lifeline.
Fern arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. ‘Well, if people aren’t going to walk through the door, we’re going to have to bring the door to them. Let’s make it happen. What do you think?’
‘You told me it was best I didn’t think.’
‘You have a month to turn this place around.’
‘Why the change of heart?’
‘Because it’s only a month. Now, fetch the duster and a new logbook.’
He saluted. ‘If marriage is on the cards though, you really have to work on your bossiness.’
Fern shook her head in despair but secretly enjoyed the banter between them. ‘Right, let’s get these dusty old blinds fully open and we need buckets of water. Everything needs a good wash down.’