Chapter 6
SIX
JANE
I stay with Rosie and Moira in that gorgeous little garden, and between the three of us we polish off two bottles of prosecco.
They tell me all about the village, and the bookshop with two names – officially the Bookshop at the Edge of the World, which suits it perfectly, but also the Hopeful Hearts, in honour of its new role as a ‘beacon of light and bringer of joy’, Moira modestly announces.
The warm welcome, and possibly the prosecco, go right to my head, and despite my initial fears, I have actually managed to relax – something that is as rare as pigs flying over a blue moon, while flashing their hens’ teeth.
Rosie says she needs to get home, and we stand together on the street outside the shop saying our farewells.
I glance down at the beach, see the beginnings of what will be a spectacular sunset.
I also see a man’s jean-clad leg, peeking out from behind one of the huge red rocks.
It looks a little like he’s trying to hide, but he’s just a bit too big.
For some reason it makes me laugh inside – maybe he’s scared of us!
What would happen if I ran down there and said ‘boo!’?
He’d probably have a heart attack, and I like it here. Killing off one of the residents wouldn’t be a good start. I leave him be – we all need our alone time.
I’ve checked in with Beth, who is having an absolute blast, and Moira assures me that Kate and Brody’s cottage will be perfect for us for the night. I decide to simply chill out, and follow her into the almost-finished gallery she wants to show me.
It’s a large, light-filled room, the orange rays of the dying sun pouring through the windows. It’s all pale wood floors, high ceilings, and walls stripped down to brick and whitewashed. The overall effect is stunning – especially with the sound of the sea as its backdrop.
I twirl around, taking it in from all angles. It’s very easy to imagine beautiful pieces hanging on these walls, to picture launch events and gatherings. Art at the Edge of the World, they’re calling it – could it be more perfect? I wonder.
Moira smiles at my reaction. She looks tired, but happy and proud. She fills me in on the progress here, and tells me about the grant funding they’re applying for to make it even better.
‘Now we’ve got the shop itself back up and running again. And James – our investor – has covered the bricks and mortar for the gallery,’ she explains. ‘But I’ve got ideas. Probably above my station.’
‘Always the best kind. What ideas?’
‘Well, now I come to think of it, maybe “ideas” is a bit grandiose. We have a few artists living here, and we thought it’d be nice to give more a chance, ye ken?
Residencies, shows, scholarships for grown-ups really.
It’s the perfect addition to the bookshop.
Though I am wondering if I’m a bit biased about this place – would anybody even be interested? ’
I shake my head, and reassure her. ‘I can definitely imagine it. It already feels like the kind of place that inspires people to be creative – look at your invitations! The one we found was wonderful!’
She thinks about it and smiles. ‘Aye. You’re right. My Angus worked the fishing boats his whole life, but he had an artist’s soul. And in a different world, I’d have liked to write. Maybe we should specialise in giving oldies a chance, eh?’
‘It’s not a bad idea, Moira. Not everybody got to chase their dreams when they were young, for whatever reason.
I mean, life gets busy doesn’t it – kids, jobs, looking after family.
One minute you’re young and full of plans, then you blink an eye and you’re knee-deep in responsibilities.
My younger self wouldn’t even recognise me. ’
I feel her scrutiny, and cringe a little at giving away so much of myself.
‘You’re speaking from experience there, Jane – what is it you wished you’d done?’
‘Nothing. I’ve lived the dream.’
‘No, now, go on. I can tell there’s something…’
I look at this feisty woman, who remains undefeated by a life that has dealt her some harsh blows. I look at this beautiful room, and the mind-meltingly gorgeous view from the huge windows. Why should I lie? How can opening up hurt me?
‘I loved drawing,’ I tell her, shrugging, half embarrassed. ‘I always loved the illustrations in children’s books, and in the old classics. I saw you had a Mabel Lucie Attwell, I adored her.’
‘I’ve got a cracking Arabian Nights with the Edmund Dulac plates as well,’ she tells me, a happy glint in her eye. ‘Lovely, they are. Well, it’s never too late, my love – maybe you could apply for one of our grants. Assuming we get the funding, and that’s a bit touch and go.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’ I ask, as she frowns.
‘Well, we got past the first round of hoop-jumping, and now we have to fill in more forms, put together a presentation document, show what we’ve done already and what we have to offer.
If we get through that, then there’ll be an in-person visit.
That bit I’m okay with – the bookshop is already so lovely, the perfect foundation for the rest of it.
I know the shop, the community we’ve built, are solid, and I know the gallery could work so well.
But I’m flummoxed by some of it – the forms, the presentations, the language they use?
That foxes me. Bureaucracy was never my strong suit, and Kate is busy with the bookshop and the baby.
I’m worried we’re running out of time… that I’m running out of time. ’
She sounds melancholy as she says this, which I hate.
‘I can always take a look at the paperwork if you like, and I’m a dab hand at pulling together presentations,’ I announce, surprising even myself. I blush a little, and add: ‘Bureaucracy is actually one of my specialisms.’ God, could I possibly be more boring?
Besides, it’s a stupid idea, and I don’t even know how long we’re here for.
I suppose I just want to help, to say thank you, to cheer her up.
‘Anyway,’ I go on. ‘It looks like you’ve done a lot already.
This place is amazing, and the shop seems to be buzzing with all the events! What other ideas do you have?’
‘Och, I’m not totally sure. I know what I want to achieve, I just don’t know how to do it.
I want to do something that brings some of the outliers in more,’ she tells me.
‘This place is wonderful, but there are a lot of people living out in the wilds. Older people a lot of the time. The ones who’ve spent their lives working the land or the sea, independent to the point of isolation.
I’d like to come up with something that includes them here in the village community more.
I’ve run a bookshop all my life, sharing stories.
So… could we capture their stories before it’s too late? ’
I nod, thinking it over. ‘I bet they have some great stories to tell.’
‘Aye, that’s for sure! There are a lot of tales to be told, and room in the world for all of them.
The way of life here is changing, has changed from when even I was girl, and before we know it, it’ll be gone.
I’d like to leave something lasting behind that captures some of it.
Sounds morbid, but I’ve been feeling the pressure of time more recently. ’
She looks fit as a fiddle to me, but I know she’s in her eighties, and was in a wheelchair last year. It’s natural enough that her mind heads in that direction. ‘What about some kind of exhibition about them?’ I suggest. ‘Would they agree to sitting for portraits?’
She seems intrigued, and gives it some thought.
‘Some of them would, I’m sure. It could work, couldn’t it?
I mean, this gallery is the perfect place to hang portraits like that…
the first show is going to be of Angus’s photos, but that’s all right.
They’d blend well. It’ll take a while to get new paintings done though.
I suppose we’d have to commission someone. ’
We walk around the room together as she thinks out loud. ‘Someone good. We’d need the grant money ideally. And to get that, we need a bit of help managing the whole thing… were you serious when you said you’d help, hen?’
Oh bugger. Why did I say that? I look at Moira’s hopeful face, and realise that I said it because I meant it. I want to help her. ‘Of course. But if we’re only here for a night, there might be a limit to what I can do.’
‘I think you’ll be here longer than that, my love.
When my Angus came up with the idea of sharing this place, I think he was onto something…
and when I sent that invitation, I did mean that you were welcome here as long as you like.
Plans are afoot to find you the perfect place to stay.
It’s with a good friend of mine, and I’m going to ask you to trust me on that – he’s a lovely man. An artist, in fact.’
‘Oh! Is he the kind who does portraits?’
‘Sadly not. But he is grand. He lives in a big old house up in the hills, and he has plenty of room for you and Beth. What do you think? You’d be perfectly safe with him, I promise.’
I know what Beth would say – she’d say yes. But I am her mother, and I need to make sensible decisions for both of us. Moira clearly sees some uncertainty in my face.
‘Truthfully, Jane, I think he’s a bit lonely. He’s lived here for years. I love the very bones of the man, and you’d be doing me a favour if you said yes. If you stayed a few nights at least.’
I narrow my eyes, feeling slightly manipulated. She winks at me, obviously knowing what she’s doing. ‘Pretty please with sugar on top?’
I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. ‘Maybe. I’ll talk to Beth and tell you tomorrow. But I’ll definitely do as much as I can to help with your application while I’m here, and if I have the time, we could start planning the art project.’