Chapter Four
By the time Ivy flipped the sign from Open to Closed that evening, her brain felt like sludge. Like any spark of creativity she might have once nourished had been snuffed out by the endless, incessant questions.
Do you have the book? The one with the green cover? Or maybe blue? I saw it on TikTok.
Do you have anything about war but not sad?
Which Kathleen Lee should I get if I don’t like misunderstandings? Or romance? Or dogs?
Ivy’s feet hurt from standing; her cheeks hurt from polite smiling; her throat hurt from forced small talk.
Josie had left early for a yoga session and never returned, probably struck with a sudden desire to hike or paint.
Trip had vanished that afternoon and his sister still hadn’t emerged from her room. Ivy didn’t mind. Alone was good.
She drove home breathing deeply, without even the crackly old car radio for company, imploring inspiration to strike.
She could squeeze in half an hour of sketching and brainstorming after dinner – if she could only think of something to draw.
At the moment her mind was a whirl of receipts and queries and orders.
She parked outside their block and climbed the flight of stairs to their flat, fantasising about an evening to herself.
Maybe Mum might have taken Liv to something after school – neither of them could resist an activity.
But when she unlocked her front door and stepped into the kitchen, the noise hit her: the familiar hum and clutter of chairs scraping, something bubbling on the stove, and her little sister holding forth at full volume.
‘Ivy!’ Liv squealed, launching herself across the kitchen. ‘You’re late! We waited for ever! We have NEWS!’
‘Hi,’ Ivy said, caught in a tight, pasta-sauce-smeared hug. She picked a piece of onion out of Liv’s hair. ‘Smells amazing. Also, ow.’ She prised Liv off gently. ‘Sit down, okay?’
Her mum, sliding garlic bread on to a plate, gave her a worried look. ‘You seem exhausted, love. I can’t believe Josie is working you this hard.’
‘It’s not Josie,’ said Ivy wearily, slumping into her usual chair. ‘It’s life.’
‘Yeah, she’s always like that now,’ Liv said cheerfully. ‘It’s all part of her art school persona. Grumpy with everyone.’
‘It is not!’ cried Ivy indignantly. ‘And I’m not!’
Ivy’s mum bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true, Livvie,’ she said. ‘Poor Ivy is just a bit tired.’
‘But this will cheer her up,’ Liv said, doing a drumroll on the Formica table. ‘Wait till she hears what we’re planning! Wait till you hear, Ivy!’
‘Brace yourself,’ her mum said, piling spaghetti into a bowl for her. ‘And eat up, love. You need some energy.’
‘Go on then,’ said Ivy, picking up her fork. ‘Tell me all about it.’
‘Fox Bay Primary is putting on a winter spectacular!’ Liv jiggled in her seat. ‘Like a real show, with tickets and lights and everything! We’re raising money for the library!’
‘Ah,’ said Ivy. ‘Is this one of Mr H’s wild plans, by any chance?
’ The primary school headmaster was notorious for impenetrable, confusing and frankly disastrous events to aid the community in some form or another.
They were almost always a shambles, but the people of Fox Bay always showed up dutifully anyway.
Her mum laughed. ‘You guessed it. Only, I have a good feeling about this one.’
‘Mr Hargreaves says it’s not going to be a normal nativity. And it won’t be weird like last year where Baby Jesus turned into a Christmas pudding. It’s going to be all about Cornwall! Like, history, folklore, pasties, smugglers – everything!’
Ivy smiled at her little sister. Liv had inherited their mum’s enthusiasm for a project, although thankfully she was far more practical. ‘You’re fundraising for the library with smugglers? In December?’
‘Yes!’ Liv looked absolutely thrilled. ‘Mr H let us brainstorm and then everyone’s ideas are going in. He promised. It’s genius – he says so.’
‘But the end of term is in, like, three weeks,’ Ivy pointed out gently.
‘He says that’s ample time,’ Liv told her. ‘What does ample mean?’
‘It means enough, and he’s wrong. I always thought Mr Hargreaves was delusional,’ said Ivy, digging into her pasta with her fork. ‘And now I know it.’
‘I think it sounds inspired. The library is desperate for funds. And so many tourists will be here,’ her mum said, filling Ivy’s water glass as she sat at the table. ‘It’s the perfect time to draw a crowd. Mr H is cannier than he looks.’
‘If you say so,’ Ivy said. ‘It sounds chaotic.’ She added absently, twirling spaghetti, ‘They’ll need all the help they can get.’
‘Exactly! Which is why,’ her mum said, ‘I volunteered you to help, love.’
Ivy paused, fork halfway to her mouth. ‘You what now?’
‘You’re head of props and set design!’ her mum said brightly, like she thought Ivy would be delighted. ‘We told the show committee how talented you are, didn’t we, Liv? They signed you up right away.’
Liv nodded, her mouth full of spaghetti. ‘Mum told them you’re an artistic genius.’
‘Mum,’ Ivy said, slowly, putting down her fork, ‘you do know I’m working full-time through the holidays, right? And working on my art project. My incredibly important, thirty-per-cent-of-my-mark project.’
‘Well, yes, but you’ve got your evenings. And it’s not like you’re doing anything with your art right now.’
Ivy winced. ‘Thanks.’
‘You know what I mean. It’s a good cause. And I think you might enjoy it. You were always amazing at making sets and things when you were little. You used to put on plays all the time.’ Her mum rested her chin in her hands and looked at her daughter. ‘I’m worried about you, love.’
‘Oh not you too,’ said Ivy. ‘I’ve already had the lecture from Josie about how I’m young and I should be out having adventures or running away to Marrakesh or something.’
‘Well, she’s not wrong,’ her mum said. ‘Maybe not the running-away part, thanks very much, Josie – but all the same … You’re up at the crack of dawn for work and then you come home and stare at your sketchbook for hours but never seem to draw anything and then you go to bed early.
And then you get up and do it all again.
Not much of a holiday for you, is it? I think you seem … ’ She hesitated.
‘What?’ said Ivy defensively. ‘Go on, what do I seem?’
‘You seem lonely.’ Her mum sighed. ‘I think doing the props for this show would be fun, if you let it be.’ She nudged her daughter. ‘Fun, remember that? Before you got so serious?’
Ivy stared at her spaghetti. ‘You really signed me up already?’
‘Head of props,’ Liv echoed proudly. Her face was practically fluorescent-orange with tomato sauce now.
‘You’re going to make a giant castle out of papier-maché.
And probably a fishing boat. And some fish.
’ She waved her hand. ‘Mr Hargreaves says it’s a work in progress.
He’s got Mr Patterson to do the script. He’s the new top primary English teacher and he’s studied avant-garde theatre. ’
‘Great,’ Ivy said flatly. ‘So this winter if I’m not making papier-maché while kids perform avant-garde theatre I’ll be surrounded by tourists at the shop with Josie badgering me to learn Russian poetry and flee the country. Plus, a guy who thinks yoga is a personality.’
‘Who is the guy?’ her mum asked, bewildered by Ivy’s litany.
‘Oh, never mind,’ Ivy said. ‘Some new paying guest of Josie’s.
His sister’s here for a holiday and for some reason she brought along her irritating brother – they’re posh Americans who want a quaint British winter.
Little do they know they’ve moved into the world’s most chaotic Airbnb. What a holiday.’
‘That’s the spirit, love. The first meeting is next week.’
Liv beamed. ‘It’s going to be amazing.’
Ivy sighed, stirring sauce through her spaghetti. She was meant to be having an artistic breakthrough, not painting sets for a school show, doing endless shifts in the shop and housekeeping for a cheerful American boy called Trip.
Who, for some reason, she kept picturing in his yoga gear.