Chapter Five
The floor of the boat shed was swept clean of sand, she’d set up a row of fold-out chairs and even given the glass fronts of the cabinets a rub with a duster.
But then she heard murmurings from next door, a muffled laugh and Della appeared with a slight young woman, wearing running gear. ‘You know Alison from the sports centre, don’t you?’
Evelyn nodded politely, as if games of squash and spin classes were second nature to her.
Their arrival started some sort of trickle effect as next came Jacob (Evelyn suspected he’d been lurking outside but hadn’t wanted to be the first one in).
Then she recognised Sariah, who worked at the big hotel, and Jude and Kayla, teenage sisters who did shifts at their dad’s pub, The Lugger.
Finally, George Rook sloped in and stood at the back, followed by a couple of fishermen, who had probably wandered in on their way to the pub.
Everyone in town knew George, who dressed in a Barbour jacket and a flat cap but was no gentleman.
He ran Portheast Antiques, and the rumour was that stolen goods and the odd forgery had passed through his hands.
George and his father had started out as ‘knockers’ – people who made house-to-house calls offering to buy old jewellery and silverware from the elderly in the days when an offer from a knocker tended to feel more like a threat.
Before George’s father retired, he’d earned the moniker ‘Rook the Crook’, now inherited along with the business by George.
It had been agreed in advance that Della would do the talking. ‘Not my forte,’ Evelyn explained unnecessarily.
‘Right, welcome, everyone,’ Della began in a booming voice that suggested that in a previous life she had been used to commanding attention. She explained how the council wanted to revoke the leases for both sheds and that a TV chef was sniffing around for waterside premises.
‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Kayla from the pub. ‘But wouldn’t a restaurant be good for local jobs?’ She crossed her arms. ‘I mean, your shop, this museum – no offence but you don’t employ anyone else, do you? What about people like us? What we need in Portheast is new businesses.’
‘But that’s not the point of a museum.’ Evelyn spoke up, as surprised as anyone to hear her own voice. ‘It’s not about making money. It’s about preserving our history.’
Della gave her an encouraging nod, then continued. ‘That’s right. Do you think that chef Rufus cares about this town? He’ll make his money, pay minimum wages and then be off. Same as he’s done elsewhere.’
Kayla fell silent and glared back.
‘Actually, I suspect Della’s right,’ said Jacob, who was sitting behind the sisters. ‘My friend did a trial shift at his restaurant in Newquay and didn’t even get paid. Word is, it’s a regular pattern.’
‘Is that the sort of business you want in Portheast?’ Della asked.
Without waiting for an answer, she gestured towards the cabinets.
‘Like Evelyn said, this place isn’t about profit.
It’s about preserving stories.’ She paused.
‘I mean, some of the things you see here might seem a bit random, but that’s why Evelyn made the poster. To show there are some hidden gems.’
‘Every object here has a link with Portheast,’ Evelyn heard herself say, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. ‘I’ve done my best to catalogue pieces, but you or your families might know more.’ With relief, she looked down again.
Della took over. ‘Right, take a look around. If you spot something you recognise, tell Evelyn. She can redo the label, adding your family’s name and any new information. This will help us show the council that the museum preserves local history.’
Jacob stood up and spoke in his clear London voice. ‘Yeah, so I just wanted to add that an object doesn’t have to belong to you. I only moved to Portheast recently, but I used to visit this museum with my grandfather. Things like the gold coins – they feel like a part of my childhood.’
Sensing that the small crowd’s attention was wavering, Della made a final rallying call. ‘Remember, look for things that mean something to you. Oh, and if you fancy a drink or an ice cream afterwards, I need saving too!’
There was a scraping of chairs and Evelyn was dismayed to see several people heading straight for the door.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ Della whispered.
‘You won’t please everyone.’ She nodded towards the Fishing Life display, a mixture of driftwood, fishing attire and tangled nets. ‘Those two are still here.’
Kayla and Jude were standing with their heads almost touching, as they conferred.
Jude, the one with the eyebrow piercing, looked round, beckoned Evelyn over and pointed at a yellow garment, stained and worn.
‘I remember my granddad’s oilskin hanging up in the porch when we were really little,’ she said. ‘It was just like this one.’
Evelyn cleared her throat. ‘These oilskins were worn by fishermen hauling pilchard drift nets from luggers. In the previous century, poorer people made do with overalls made from old flour sacks soaked in linseed,’ she explained.
‘Course he’s dead now, our granddad. And he’d long given up fishing. No money in it.’
‘Fishing is what made this town,’ said Evelyn. ‘It was famous for its pilchards, then crabs and lobsters.’
Wordlessly, the two sisters moved off, not exactly captivated by Evelyn’s commentary, and she gently laid the oilskin back over a pile of broken driftwood.
Over at the cabinet with the pirate coins, Jacob was deep in conversation with sporty Alison, while at the Natural History cabinet, Bob, one of the older men, was pointing something out to Nils the baker. Perhaps Della was right – getting people through the museum doors could be a good thing.
Then, in the same way that Evelyn could always sense when rain was in the air, she felt a creeping unease. A low voice spoke into her ear: ‘Few nice bits you have.’ It was George Rook, a man she had always taken care to avoid. ‘And then a lot of worthless tat,’ he added.
Evelyn turned to face him and was pleased to discover she was a good couple of inches taller than him.
For once, he wasn’t wearing his flat cap and she noticed he’d had his hair cut short.
She supposed he’d finally accepted that a ponytail was unsuitable for a sixtysomething, especially when combined with a comb-over.
Unbidden, a memory rose up of a school trip to visit some standing stones, when she’d ended up sitting next to the young George Rook on the coach.
In their different ways, each of them had been outliers at school, excluded from the cool crowd.
She could almost feel the fuzzy pelt of the seat upholstery, smell the stuffy air and hear the shouts of the other kids on the back seat.
She and George had pointedly ignored each other but on the way back, in a rare act of camaraderie, he’d opened his bag of crisps and shared it with her.
But that was a long time ago and it was an acknowledged fact that the Rooks were a bad lot.
George met Evelyn’s gaze, then gave her a long wink.
‘Course, now you’ve invited every Tom, Dick and Harry in here, you’ve got to be mindful of objects with, what shall we call it, uncertain provenance.
Let me know if you ever need any help with identification. ’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ she replied primly, having no desire to associate her museum with a known con artist.
George got the hint. As he turned to go, she caught a whiff of his aftershave, which was oddly floral. All the more reason not to trust him.
An hour later, the museum was back to its empty, quiet self. ‘I think it went pretty well,’ said Della. ‘You even did a bit of a speech, well done!’
‘But do you think anyone spotted anything that could help our cause?’ Evelyn asked. ‘They probably thought it was a load of old rubbish.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ added Jacob, who had stayed on to stack the chairs. ‘Alison was having a good look around, and Sariah, from the hotel. Give it a bit of time and see what happens next.’
Evelyn watched them leave. It was kind of Jacob to be upbeat, but time was in short supply.
It was only eight weeks until the council meeting to decide the fate of the boat sheds.
Yes, people had come in for a gawp, but she didn’t see how it helped their case.
Gloomily, she wondered if Della would be better off pitching in with that dreadful chef Rufus, offering her ice creams as unique desserts to his overpriced fish and chips.
Outside, the easterly wind was back, spattering rain against the museum’s small, dirt-clouded windows.
That morning, sensing her jumpy mood, Toots had scarpered as soon as she’d opened the caravan door and Evelyn suspected he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.
As the museum’s closing time approached, Evelyn found herself yearning for a treat she rarely allowed herself these days.
She tried to ration these occasions, knowing it wasn’t healthy – and she would be mortified if anyone found out – but every now and then, she gave in.
At 5 p.m., she closed the museum door and locked it from the inside.
Flicking off the electric lights, she retreated deeper into the recesses of the boat shed until she reached her beloved diorama, where Mr and Mrs Cornish Life were waiting.
Unclipping the red rope that encircled the make-believe room, she stepped inside.
This season, the man was wearing her father’s favourite weekend shirt, in cream and brown checked flannel.
The woman wore her mother’s dress, the hem trimmed with a white petticoat.
It had always been a little loose on Elsbeth Silver, but was a perfect fit for Mrs Cornish Life.
An Edwardian bonnet that fastened with a bow under her chin was the finishing touch.
Evelyn lit the candles on the table and let out a deep sigh. If she squinted, it was almost as if she was back home, with her mother serving the tea and her father about to take a puff on his pipe. Sometimes, she reminded herself, having a vivid imagination was a blessing rather than a curse.
Later, she would retire to the cot bed beside the range cooker, fold her too-long limbs into the tight space and pull up the mildew-scented eiderdown.
But first, she would boil the kettle (an inauthentic modern one she kept well out of sight) and make herself a tomato cup-a-soup.
Then she would tell her parents about the excitement of the day.
She would leave out the bit about George Rook, but she would mention there had been an unusual hubbub about the place.
She’d say that she’d kept watch on her Miscellanea cabinet, but, as usual, no one had paused to look at her piece of Cornish lace.
Her parents would remain as stiff and silent as ever, but that was OK because Evelyn liked to imagine their feelings. ‘One day,’ her father’s painted-on sad eyes told her, ‘the woman who made that piece of lace will come.’