Chapter Seven
When she woke, Evelyn was momentarily confused by the darkness and sense of space all around her.
But then she realised she wasn’t in her caravan, she was under the rafters of the museum.
As she lay there, the early morning light began to peep through the gaps in the slate tiles and then came the distinctive thunk of a seagull landing on the roof. It was time to get up.
An ache had taken hold in her knees, her neck and her shoulders and she vowed that it was the last time she would sleep here.
She was too old for such childishness and the diorama was a museum piece, not a substitute for home.
Honestly, a psychologist would have a field day, she told herself.
She stood, shook out the eiderdown, plumped the tiny pillow and tidied away her cup.
Smoothing down her hair, Evelyn made her way to the museum’s door, collecting her satchel and sack on the way.
Outside, the harbourside was wrapped in a soft silence and, after the hubbub of yesterday, Evelyn appreciated the calm as she headed to the beach for her morning duties.
The tide was high, so there was less sand to cover than usual, but each small step along the shoreline soothed her.
This, she reminded herself, instead of sleeping in a child-sized bed, was a healthier way to regulate her emotions.
That was the term the doctor had used all those years ago.
‘Hysteria tends to stem from an accumulation of unprocessed feelings,’ he explained to her.
‘An outburst is the body’s way of expelling them.
What you need to do is find a better way to regulate your emotions.
’ He’d recommended long country walks. ‘Or if you don’t like going out, you could try aerobics. They show it on the TV.’
Evelyn had watched one session of the Green Goddess on Breakfast TV and was horrified by the woman’s crotch-hugging Lycra and boundless enthusiasm.
Long walks, accompanied by her mother, seemed the safer option.
Every now and then, they would stop to admire an outcrop of wild thyme or remark on how the blackberries were ripening late this year.
Her mother began to bring her art materials and they would sit together, quietly sketching the nature around them.
As they packed up, her mother might ask, ‘Feeling better?’ and Evelyn would reply, ‘Much.’ And that was as far as their discussions went, regarding Evelyn’s state of mind and her return home from the regrettable business in London.
Her morning haul was disappointing. The storm had blown in plenty of interesting driftwood, but this was outweighed by plastic bottles and a single diver’s fin.
In truth, she’d found yesterday’s events a little overwhelming. Of course she wanted to save her museum – she was its curator and, without it, she would be nothing. But it had been her private sanctuary for so long that seeing people milling around inside had felt like an intrusion.
So when Evelyn made her lopsided way back along the quay, she was perturbed to see a small huddle of people gathered outside her museum.
She didn’t know if she could cope with yet more visitors but, as she got closer, Evelyn realised with relief that they were outside Della’s, drinking from mugs.
Evelyn hoped for their sakes that Della’s coffee was better than her ice creams.
She recognised Alison, her tiny frame bound tightly by running gear, Jacob, who had helped with the poster, and of course Della, who was regaling them with a long-winded story about backpacking in Thailand.
As Evelyn dumped her sand-heavy bag of rubbish on the flagstones, she caught the end of Della’s anecdote: ‘ . . . and it turned out, we’d taken the wrong path!
’ Even to Evelyn, no master of the bon mot, it seemed a punchline that lacked oomph.
‘There you are,’ Jacob exclaimed, as if happy for the interruption.
‘Indeed I am,’ Evelyn replied and turned away to fumble for her key.
As she pushed open the heavy door, she was surprised to feel it swing inwards with ease until she realised Jacob had reached over her head and was holding the door for her.
What’s more, he proceeded to follow her inside, with Alison and Della close behind.
Evelyn drew herself up to her full height. ‘Can I help you?’ She looked at the trio of expectant faces and understood she might have been a little rude. ‘Sorry, but I’m not open until 9 a.m., which is fifteen minutes away. I mean, I haven’t even had breakfast yet . . .’
‘All sorted,’ said Della, pushing to the front and brandishing a paper bag. ‘Homemade rock cakes. I’m thinking of adding a section to the menu: Della-icious Bites.’
Evelyn thought she saw Jacob give the briefest shake of his head, but it was too late; she had already accepted the paper bag. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But did we have an appointment?’
‘Not as such,’ Della replied. ‘But the three of us thought it would be good to have a chat. Alison got in touch with Sariah, who got in touch with me and I called up Jacob. We thought you could do with a museum committee,’ she added brightly.
‘I’ll add you to the WhatsApp group. But, first, let’s debrief. ’
‘Debrief?’
‘Yeah, discuss what we achieved in yesterday’s initial meeting and our next steps. But we need to get a move on – Alison has to get back to work.’
Jacob stepped forward. ‘How about you sit down, Evelyn,’ he said kindly.
Obediently, she slipped behind her desk where, protected by her wall of books and papers, the invasion felt a little less, well, invasive.
She watched Jacob unfold three of the chairs that were still stacked against the wall and arrange them to face her desk.
Alison produced a notebook and clicked the end of her pen. ‘So,’ she began. ‘Present: Evelyn Silver, Alison Blake, Jacob Warburn and Della . . . ?’
‘Dayvon,’ Della volunteered.
‘Devon?’ Alison did a double take.
Della narrowed her eyes. ‘No. Dayvon. Spelled D-A-Y-V-O-N.’
Without another word, Alison raised an eyebrow and made a small mark in her notebook. ‘Apologies sent by Sariah Carnie. She’s on board, but Saturday mornings are hectic at the hotel.’
It had been a long time since Evelyn had been present at a meeting where minutes were taken and apologies were noted, yet here she was in her own museum, hearing phrases from another lifetime.
Absent-mindedly, she reached into the paper bag on her lap, broke off a piece of rock cake and popped it into her mouth.
First, it was the claggy, doughy texture she noticed, followed by an unexpected saltiness. Then came the unmistakable tang of charred raisins. She chewed hard and swallowed.
‘Good, eh?’ Della grinned.
She took care not to catch Jacob’s eye.
Thankfully, Alison announced, ‘To business.’
It turned out that Alison used to work in PR in Truro. ‘I mean, I didn’t run any campaigns myself, but you learn a lot when you do the admin. And I’ve written loads of press releases. Believe me, if I can make power tools sound exciting, getting coverage for a Save Our Museum campaign will be easy.
‘I suggest we offer the media some human-interest stories: local people who recognise an item in the museum and can relate it to their own family life. My old boss would say, “Always look for the hook.”’
Alison looked around expectantly. ‘Did anyone get good feedback from our visitors yesterday?’
Evelyn thought of Kayla and Jude’s lukewarm interest in a battered old fishing bib, then the way Rook the Crook had sidled up to her, talking in insinuating tones.
‘Um, nothing very significant, I’m afraid,’ she said.
‘Anyone else?’ Alison looked around.
‘As I mentioned already, I’ve always been fascinated by those gold coins,’ Jacob said in a clear voice that demonstrated he was comfortable with public speaking. ‘But they don’t have any link to me or my family.’
There was a disappointed lull. Then Della piped up, ‘Obviously, I’m no local, but I did see Sariah looking at something in one of the cabinets. I mean, looking hard. Transfixed, I’d call it. Might be worth checking in with her?’
Alison made a note.
‘But what about you, Alison?’ Della continued. ‘Didn’t you see anything? You’re Portheast born and bred.’
Alison abruptly crossed her legs, which sent her notebook slithering from her lap to the floor.
Jacob lunged forward to get it, at exactly the same time as Alison bent down.
There was a flurry of ‘Sorry’ and ‘No, I’m sorry’ and by the time Alison sat back up, her face was quite pink.
She opened her notebook at a fresh page.
‘Possibly,’ she said lightly. ‘But my research is ongoing.’
Evelyn’s stomach gave a hungry growl, which seemed to remind everyone that time was passing and they had places to be.
Alison said, ‘Right, to sum up, I’ll start putting out feelers with the local press.
Flag up that the museum is in danger and we’ll have some human-interest stories for them very soon.
Someone is bound to come forward – yesterday was just the beginning, Evelyn. ’
‘Great stuff.’ Jacob clapped his hands together, which everyone took as a signal to stand up. As he’d done yesterday, Jacob started folding away the chairs. He waited until Alison and Della had left before he sidled over to Evelyn. ‘Sorry about the rock cake,’ he said. ‘I did try and warn you.’
‘Oh, she means well,’ Evelyn replied, privately wondering what had brought Della all the way from Australia to Portheast, and to go into catering of all things. ‘But I really am very hungry.’
‘Nils does a good cinnamon bun,’ Jacob said. ‘I’m walking that way if you want to come?’
Evelyn didn’t want to admit that sniffing the sugary air was the closest she’d got to visiting the new Swedish bakery. ‘OK,’ she said firmly. ‘I accept your offer.’