Chapter Fifteen
After Alison’s disappearing act, enthusiasm for going to the pub seemed to wane.
Evelyn was the first to bow out, saying she needed to lock up, and she stayed at her desk moving things around with no real purpose until she judged it was safe to emerge.
Evelyn Silver might be slowly coming out of her shell, but there was still only so much conversation she could take in one day.
Before leaving, she unfolded the stapled spreadsheet again to take a closer look and found herself staring at the listing for her fragment of lace, as if a note or email address might magically appear beside it.
As Evelyn walked along the quay, she saw a shapeless silhouette heading towards her. She paused, because behind her lay only Della’s ice cream parlour, her museum and the slipway, so she couldn’t imagine where this person was going.
As they drew level, the stranger also stopped and Evelyn could make out the lumpen shape was a woman, who was wheezing and holding a hand to her chest.
‘Is this the way to the museum?’ she asked, her words coming between gasps.
Evelyn took in a bulky coat, plimsols too flimsy for the season and then a face that was as worn as her clothes: a starburst of lines around her lips gave her away as a smoker and her dark hair was threaded with white.
‘It is, but I’ve just closed up for the day,’ Evelyn replied.
‘There wasn’t a phone number, so I had to come in person,’ the woman said. ‘But then the bus was late – always is – and then I had to walk from the main road.’
Evelyn had been looking forward to getting back to her caravan for an evening on her foam sofa with Toots and did not welcome (a) yet more conversation or (b) an update on the state of the local bus service.
‘I’m sorry if you’ve come a long way, but we open again tomorrow: 9 a.m. sharp.’
The woman swore and raked her hair angrily. ‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘I’ve come from Redruth, which means two buses, changing at St Austell. Then, like I say, the evening route doesn’t come down into town.’
‘Well, I’m sorry . . .’ Evelyn began.
‘I came about the lost things,’ the woman said. ‘The stuff that’s ended up in the museum.’
Evelyn felt a softening. Wasn’t this what they wanted – local people connecting with objects from the past?
‘Ah, you saw the website,’ she said more kindly. ‘In that case, the best thing to do is go to the Get In Touch page and send us an email. Tell us which item is relevant to you and please include as much detail as you can. We’re planning an exhibition,’ she added brightly.
‘I don’t know anything about a website,’ the woman replied grumpily.
She pulled a piece of paper out of her bag, which was a big black thing with metallic chains as shoulder straps.
As she unfolded the paper under the yellow lamplight, Evelyn recognised her own handiwork: it was one of the posters Jacob had photocopied.
‘I saw it in the library,’ the woman said.
Evelyn noticed a pinhole and a small tear in each corner of the poster, as if it had been ripped from a noticeboard.
‘It said to come. So I have. About this,’ she said, jabbing angrily at the bottom left corner.
The woman was pointing at the cracked teacup, the one with a golden lily design.
‘It’s mine, see. Or rather, it was my mother’s and her mother’s before that.
It was a complete set, except one went missing, didn’t it? Just the cup.’
Evelyn took a step back. This wasn’t the heart-warming scenario she had imagined, of lovingly reuniting people with their long-lost objects.
‘It’s mine,’ the woman growled. ‘And if you’ve got it, I want it back.’
Eventually, Evelyn persuaded her to write down her details. ‘I’ll add your name to the spreadsheet and one of the team will be in touch presently,’ she said, liking how efficient this sounded. ‘But this is a project to gather stories. Not a lost property service.’
She wasn’t sure the woman was listening because she was looking around, clutching her bag to herself. ‘How am I supposed to get back to Redruth now? You got a car?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Evelyn said firmly, for once glad that her parents’ Volvo had been sold for scrap. That seemed to do the trick and the woman started to walk off.
‘As I say, we’ll be in touch. And if you have any memories associated with that particular item, you’re welcome to write a statement for the exhibition,’ Evelyn called out optimistically.
She didn’t quite catch the woman’s reply, but it sounded like ‘No chance.’
At home, as she and Toots settled into their usual places on the corner sofa, Evelyn fired up her laptop.
It took her a while but she worked out how to access the online spreadsheet and scanned the list for the cracked cup with the golden lily design.
When she couldn’t see it, she scrolled down the list again, more slowly this time.
But it wasn’t there. She checked on the paper printout, but it wasn’t there either.
And then Evelyn remembered: the woman had seen the poster. Which was a bit of luck, because when Sariah made the website, she had decided not to include that cup. ‘Broken old crockery,’ she’d said in a sneery voice.
Unable to add any notes to a non-existent listing, and not adept enough with spreadsheets to add a further row, she decided to put the details on the WhatsApp chat.
Woman came to museum re Golden Lily china cup. Rather abrasive, but I feel there’s a story there. No email, only a mobile number. Then Evelyn added: Her name is Grace.
She watched the group chat, but nobody replied and she supposed they all had better things to do on a Friday night.
As she listened to the pattering of rain on her caravan roof, Evelyn thought about how Della had provided them with the perfect name for the exhibition.
For all these years, Evelyn had been picking up objects that had ended up on the beach or been consigned to junk boxes and giving them a second chance.
She knew that an object’s meaning never stopped with its first owner or maker – that was only the start of its story, which could continue like ripples from a skimmed stone.
Now, some of those ripples were returning to their source and, not for the first time, Evelyn began to doubt the wisdom of this project.
Having lived in Cornwall most of her life, she was familiar with people who believed in auras and good and bad vibes.
Thanks to her thoroughly scientific upbringing, Evelyn didn’t hold with such notions, but that woman she’d met on the quay made her think twice.
Unhappiness had radiated off her like an overpowering perfume and Evelyn had a feeling that not all of the stories they might unearth would be happy ones.