Chapter 20
TWENTY
JANE
Fiona, the lady who is heading up the grant funding visit, sighs as she looks at one of Angus’s prints.
It’s an especially gorgeous shot taken of Bonnie Bay, from a vantage point on the cliff tops.
‘The colours are amazing,’ she says, ‘and the way he manages to capture so much in one frame… he was so talented.’
I nod enthusiastically. ‘I agree completely. But photography was just a hobby for him, he spent his whole life working on the fishing boats. Imagine what he might have achieved if he’d had the kind of support we’re hoping to offer.’
Fiona smiles knowingly. ‘Is this your unofficial pitch?’
‘It is, I suppose, I hope you don’t mind?’
Fiona and her two colleagues have had a guided tour of the bookshop and its event spaces, including a live poetry reading from a local writer.
They also got to add their own handprints to the mural in the children’s room, which went down well.
Robbie rigged up the gallery with a projection screen to show the place as it would look when the displays are complete, and Rory took them on a walk along the waterfront to discuss his plans for small sculpture installations – a kind of local heritage trail – that he’s volunteered to create.
Rory is an established artist, and his support will undoubtedly have helped – as will the fact that James Fraser, the investor who co-owns the place, has offered to match fund any grants that are approved.
It’s been a busy day, and Fiona – a pale-skinned redhead – has asked for a moment indoors to recover from all the sunshine.
I was only too happy to keep her company, and add my own voice to the chorus.
‘Of course not,’ she replies. ‘It would be interesting to get the view of an outsider – which I’m guessing from the accent you might be? ’
‘Yes, I live near London, and I’ve not been here long.
But Bonnie Bay… well, what can I say? It’s an amazing place, and this bookshop is at the very heart of it.
You can see for yourself that it’s thriving.
Music nights, poetry events, author readings.
It’s not just a shop, it’s a place where people come together – it’s a community.
And if we managed to secure the grant funding, we could expand that community so much further. ’
‘I’ve seen the plans,’ she responds. ‘The proposed exhibitions and projects, the idea for bursaries to support local artists. All solid.’
I bite my lip, and try to rally my thoughts and emotions into something that makes sense.
‘Yes. Solid. But Fiona, I suppose what you can’t quite capture in a grant application is the way this place matters…
you’ve met the older men, the ones who we want to paint?
Well, since they became involved in this project, they’ve been into the village more times than in the last few years, apparently.
They’ve re-engaged with life here – that’s more than art, isn’t it?
That’s magic. And knowing Moira, there’s a lot more magic to come… ’
We’ve told them that she isn’t well, but not gone into specifics – there doesn’t seem any need, and none of us know what the future holds.
Fiona laughs quietly. ‘I’ve not met Moira in person, but I can already tell she’s a force of nature – I hope she feels better soon.
And yes, what you said is exactly right – art isn’t just about pretty pictures, is it?
It’s about people. And I can see that the people here are very special… ’
She gestures outside to the secret garden, where things are in full flow. The sounds of laughter and music reach us inside, and I catch snatches of Doric – the village elders playing up to their role by using the local dialect that it’s impossible for me to understand. ‘Shall we join them?’ I ask.
‘I suppose we should. Though between you and me, Jane, hiding away inside a beautiful bookshop? That’s pretty much my idea of paradise…’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ I reply, as we head outside.
The garden is bustling, and everybody in the village seems to have chipped in in some way or another – Rosie brought platters of sandwiches and home-made lemonade; Shirley and her son Xander provided the glasses of fizz that are going down so well in the sunshine, and Ginny made new candles just for the occasion, scented with sea salt and the subtle herb-like aroma of thistle, the national flower.
Joanne donated her famous apple cake, and I’ve made sure Fiona had a slice in front of her as we talked.
That cake casts a spell on all who taste it.
It’s actually getting quite late now, the sun fading in the sky, and it feels more like a party than any kind of inspection.
I hope that’s a positive sign. Fiona is on driving duty, and by the time they finally make their way back down to the car park by the harbour, her two colleagues look decidedly tipsy.
Fiona looks back up at me and waves. I think she liked what she saw.
We do some clearing up in the garden, and Rory is put on taxi duty, taking the older gents back to their homes. Eventually, Kate and I sit together at the big table in the bookshop, enjoying a moment of peace.
‘So, how do you think it went?’ I ask.
‘Well, I’d say?’ Kate replies, swiping a stray lock of dark hair from her face. She’s wearing her Art at the Edge of the World T-shirt, as am I. As was everybody today, even an unbearably cute baby Alice.
The baby has gone home for a nap, along with Brody in his super XXXL-sized Edge of the World T-shirt.
Frankly Kate seems like she could do with a nap herself.
She looks exhausted, and I’m sure I do too.
‘And if they didn’t like it,’ she continues.
‘Then I’m not sure what else we could have done…
I hope so though. I have everything crossed.
Moira deserves this. She needs it. I’ve always had this weird feeling that her fate is somehow linked to this place, when one is up the other rises with it… ’
She looks a little embarrassed at saying something so fanciful. I nod. I know exactly what she means – and she’s right on all counts. We’ve done everything we can.
All things considered, it had been a tremendous team effort – especially considering the fact that the team captain is currently on the bench.
Or in hospital, to be more exact. Moira had keyhole surgery two days ago, and despite her insistence that she could be ‘up and at ’em’ by now, she was banned from leaving her bed.
Brody threatened to handcuff her in place, and sounded so stern when he said it that I actually believed him.
I think she did too, because she finally gave in and agreed to let us handle it without her.
She’d grabbed my hand as we’d left, tears in her eyes as she held me back.
‘Do your best for me, won’t you, hen? I have no idea what the future holds for me, but it’d put my mind at rest if I knew all of this hard work was going to pay off…
that there’d be something solid there, for the future.
Something left behind by me and my Angus. ’
‘I promise we’ll do our best, Moira – and I promise you, you’re going to be fine. That doctor said you were, and he was terrified of Brody, there’s no way he’d have lied.’
She laughed then, and let me go. She’d looked fragile as her silver-curled head settled back onto the pillow, and I hope to God I was right.
The cancer was only in the very early stages, and they’re hopeful that it was caught in time.
She might need some radiotherapy, but so far they seem to think that she’ll be fine.
Obviously at her age, nothing is a given – but the surgery went well, and she’s pretty healthy, so everyone seems optimistic.
Apart from Moira, which is perhaps understandable.
At least everybody knows now. We persuaded her it was for the best, and once she knew she was going in for an op, there wasn’t really much else to do.
Robbie is scared and trying to hide it; Joanne is upset but more stoical.
The rest of us are holding on to our faith – in God, in fate, in the universe, in medical science.
Mainly, in Moira McLeod herself. I swear that if Rory does have a religion, it’s not Catholicism – it’s Moira.
‘I get that, Kate, I really do. It will all be okay, I’m sure.
’ I pour us both a glass of the leftover fizz, and we enjoy a few quiet moments, talking over the day.
The bookshop is a wonderful place to unwind, so comfortable and welcoming.
The little fairy lights glinting on the shelves, the heather-sprigged cushions, the overall sense of being both at home and being in some magical faraway land – it’s all something I’m going to miss when I leave.
She notices me glancing around, and puts two and two together. ‘Imagining leaving it all behind, and wondering how you’ll cope in the real world?’ she asks, with a knowing smile.
‘Nope. I can’t wait to see the back of the place,’ I answer, grinning. ‘Very much looking forward to getting back to my boring job, my arsehole boss, and the Domino’s delivery boy. Actually, that last part is true. I do miss him…’
She laughs and points at me. ‘I know, right? Got to admit, there’s not much I miss about London apart from the takeaways! I eat far better here than I ever did, but every now and then, something very deeply ingrained in me wants a man to draw up on a motorbike carrying a big grease-stained box…’
We both look wistful for a second, then she adds: ‘You know what, though – Brody and Rory both have motorbikes. I bet if we asked, they’d be up for a bit of role-play…’
I snort out a laugh. I just bet they would, I think, momentarily distracted by the idea. All kinds of delicious possibilities come to mind.
‘When are you going back anyway?’ she asks, sipping her drink.