Act 2 – Chapter 7
Marcus had walked past Old Po’s hardware shop at least a hundred times since moving to Seagull Bay, but this was the first time he had actually stepped inside.
The bell above the door gave a tired little jangle as he entered, and he stopped just beyond the threshold, momentarily overwhelmed.
It was like walking into an Aladdin’s cave, built by someone who had never thrown anything away.
Shelves bowed beneath tins of paint, boxes of screws, rolls of wallpaper, coils of rope, padlocks, brushes, dust sheets, hinges, sandpaper, gardening gloves, fishing line, buckets, mops, batteries, light bulbs and at least three things Marcus could not identify and was not entirely sure anyone else could either.
The smell hit him next: metal, timber, dust, old paper bags, paraffin, and something faintly lemony that might have been polish or might have been a cleaning product from 1974.
Marcus breathed it in and smiled despite himself.
This was exactly the sort of shop Seagull Bay ought to have. Useful. Chaotic. Slightly stubborn. Full of things you did not know you needed until the moment you saw them.
Unfortunately, he knew exactly what he needed, and that was the problem.
His list was folded in his pocket, already creased from how many times he had checked it.
Cable ties.
Marker paint.
Warning signs.
Sandbags.
Bunting hooks.
Rope.
Clipboards.
Tent pegs.
Padlocks.
Everything for a dog competition he had somehow agreed to organise while running a fully booked grooming parlour without Georgina.
And yet, instead of heading towards anything sensible, Marcus found himself drifting down the decorating aisle.
Paint tins were stacked from floor to shoulder height, their labels promising coastal whites, soft greys, heritage greens and cheerful blues.
Beside them hung brushes of every size, rollers, trays, masking tape, scrapers and sandpaper.
The kind of things owned by people who made plans, started projects, and did not leave half their life in cardboard boxes for months after moving house.
Marcus reached for a tin of cornflower blue.
It would look beautiful on his front door.
The thought arrived so suddenly, so clearly, that he stood there holding the tin as if it had spoken to him. Cornflower blue for the door and for the window frames too. Maybe white for the gate, once he had scraped away the flaky old paint and sanded everything back properly.
The cottage still felt like Morgan’s old place with his belongings scattered through it. Pretty from the outside if you squinted. Unsettled on the inside. A little tired around the edges.
Rather like him.
He gave a soft snort and tucked the paint tin beneath one arm. Wonderful. Now he was comparing himself to external woodwork. That was what a week without Georgina did to a man.
Still, the idea had taken root.
Before summer disappeared and the autumn rain rolled in, he could at least make a start. A front door. A window frame. A gate. Something visible. Something that said he was not just passing through Seagull Bay.
Something that said he intended to stay.
Marcus’s mind tried to find a free slot for some decorating R and R, a chance to clear his mind of the stresses of a full appointment book and no Georgina to help, and the responsibilities of organising the annual dog-grooming competition.
Georgina had been ill for a whole week. The result of a virus. Marcus also needed to find time this evening to call in on her and take the large box of chocolates he’d bought to help her get well—sooner rather than later.
Marcus hadn’t realised how heavily he depended on her, from the small things like sweeping up dog fur from the floor, to having the patience of cleaning out ears of the most fidgety puppies.
He sighed heavily as he reached for sandpaper and painting brushes. Looking down at his decorating things, he realised they weren’t even the items he’d come into Old Po’s to purchase.
He ran a hand down his face. His brain was fried from exhaustion.
‘Need any help there?’
Marcus almost jumped out of his skin. He spun around to see a little old man leaning heavily on a cane. His eyes almost swallowed up by overhanging hooded eyes with bushy grey eyebrows sitting above them.
‘Erm, hello. I didn’t see you there.’
‘Clearly not.’
Marcus looked around, trying to spot something to jog his memory as to why he’d come into the hardware shop.
‘You’re the one organising the dog-competition this year, aren’t you?’ Marcus nodded. ‘And the one who’s bought Morgan’s place?’
Marcus nodded again. How was it that Po knew so much about him? He’d not set foot in here since he’d come to Seagull Bay, nor had he seen Po out and about in the community—not even in The Cheese Wedge and Pickles.
He held out his hand. ‘Yes. I’m Marcus Mitchell. The owner of Ruff to Regal. It’s nice to meet you Mr... Po.’
Po chuckled, his laugh low and dry. He took Marcus’s hand and shook it. ‘They were right about you... A silver fox.’
Marcus’s brow drew together. ‘Who?’
‘The singletons of Seagull Bay, of course. They rattle my head off about the silver fox bachelor from the dog-grooming parlour, every time they come in.’ He chuckled again.
Po picked up the paint tin from off the floor and looked at the label.
‘Cornflower blue, eh? Very nice.’ He turned around and proceeded to head for the counter, taking the tin of paint with him.
Marcus dutifully followed, although there were many more things he now remembered he needed to buy, but he was slightly irritated he was the subject of conversation, and wanted to know who it was that was talking freely about him to other residents in the bay.
He opened his mouth, just about to ask that question, when Po put the tin of paint on the counter and turned around to face him.
‘Has Mrs Flownder tried to marry you off yet, young un?’
Marcus’s jaw dropped open. He should have known. Did she have some kind of agenda going on behind his back to get him paired off with one of her sisters?
Po continued, ‘Folk put people on shelves, lad. Trouble is, not everyone belongs on the shelf they’re given.’ He winked.
Marcus shook his head, stunned. Was he alluding to what he thought he was?
‘Shall I ring these up for you?’
Marcus blinked a couple of times. ‘Erm, no, no. I still have a list of things I need to get.’
‘Oh yes? Give it here and I’ll help you find them. It might look like a great big clutter of stuff in here, but I have everything organised and in places where they’ve been stored for years.’
Marcus produced the list he’d spent the last couple of days writing. ‘I’m hoping you have some of these things. I’d rather give you the trade then go out of the bay for it.’
Po took the list and brought it inches from his face, examining it closely. Marcus could hear him mumbling under his breath as he read it.
‘You’re in luck. I’ve had some of these since 1987. Let’s see. That’ll be the tent pegs, clipboards and padlocks. The rest are newer stock, bought from 1996 onwards.’
Marcus had to stifle a laugh. Newer stock. He hoped the rope on the list was brought into the shop more recently, otherwise it might have started to perish. As for the cable ties, marker paint, warning signs, sandbags and bunting hooks, surely they came from the twenty-first century.
Marcus followed Po around the store like a lapdog, holding onto the items after Po had sourced them from different places.
Finally back at the counter, with all of the things from his list stacked into a pile, Po began adding up his purchases with a pen and paper.
‘Righto, that’ll be eighty seven pounds and forty nine pence please. Not far off my age.’
Marcus gasped.
‘Too much money for you, lad?’
Marcus shook his head with a smile. ‘No, that’s a very reasonable price. I’m shocked at how nimble you are.’
Po smiled, his face becoming a sea of lines. ‘A tot of whisky in my tea, but keep that to yourself.’
Marcus laughed and handed Po five crisp twenty pound notes. ‘Can I get a receipt, please, Mr Po?’
‘It will have to be hand written?’
‘That’s fine.’
After tucking his change and receipt into his wallet, Marcus set about filling the sandbags with his purchases.
Old Po tapped the lid of the paint tin with one crooked finger.
‘Remember, lad, no point painting over old flaking wood. Looks pretty for a week, then it all starts peeling again. Best thing is to scrape it back properly first.’
Marcus smiled. ‘Are we still talking about paint?’
Old Po’s eyes twinkled beneath his bushy brows. ‘Usually we are in a hardware shop.’
But Marcus had the oddest feeling they weren’t.
SWEAT DRIPPED DOWN the back of Marcus’s back as he reached his front door. How he’d made it back home with all the purchases from Old Po’s shop, after such a busy day alone in the parlour, he didn’t know.
He put down the paint tin and hessian sand bags filled to the brim, deciding to leave the scraper on the floor at the side of the door, ready for some mindless prep work.
Thirty minutes later, after a quick dinner of fried egg, beans and cheese on toast washed down with a herbal tea, Marcus was dressed in some old clothes and had his air buds in, his favourite tunes turned right up, and the scraper in his hand.
He stood back and admired the cottage, a wide smile lighting up his face.
This place was his. His name was on the mortgage, however, it still felt like Morgan’s.
Most of his belongings were still in boxes.
It was time to make it his own. Seagull Bay made him feel like he belonged, but until he got the cottage just the way he liked it, it still wouldn’t feel like home.
Home... Why did he see Rowan’s face when he said that word.
He thought of Rowan. Thought of how his insides had felt like they were alive when Rowan had looked at him the way he had done when he’d talked about the lorry crash.
The guitar intro started to one of his favourite tunes, and he began to sing along as he began scraping at the paint on the front door.