Chapter Seven #2
They must have looked an unusual couple, walking the length of the quay: Evelyn in her unofficial uniform of a long brown skirt and grey cardigan and Jacob in his trainers, baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirt.
She noticed that he’d done something to his hair so that it stuck up more than usual. ‘You know, I remember your haircut being cool first time around. All the rage with blokes who wore denim waistcoats and drank in The Lugger in the late seventies.’
Jacob laughed. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I probably could have got the old barber on Fore Street to do me a mullet for a fraction of the price it cost me in Soho.’
Evelyn remembered glimpses of Soho: pubs crowded as a Tube train carriage, the vegetable mulch of Berwick Street Market, stallholders shouting out, flogging their wares, and seedy shops that advertised SEX in big neon letters.
She’d walked through those streets on weekends, too scared to stop but secretly thrilled that all this was going on in broad daylight, almost on her doorstep.
‘So, did you grow up in London?’ she asked.
‘Well, the quieter outskirts. Chiswick.’
‘Hmm, I think you mean posher outskirts,’ she said. ‘I spent some time in London in my twenties and I doubt it’s changed that much.’
‘Ah, you got me.’
‘So what brought you here, Jacob?’
‘Well, I always had a soft spot for this place. Memories of holidays staying with my grandparents, I suppose. After my parents split up, it felt more like a haven than ever.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Evelyn said. ‘About your parents.’
‘That’s OK. Long time ago. We’ve all moved on.’
‘And then you heard the siren call of Potters Newsagents.’
Jacob gave a rueful smile. ‘Not exactly. It was the only job going. Not much demand for archaeology graduates in Portheast, you see. Especially ones who didn’t actually graduate.’
Evelyn sensed he wanted to say more.
‘Girlfriend trouble,’ he explained as they headed towards Nils’ bakery. ‘Dumped just before my finals and I didn’t cope well. So I came to Portheast to lick my wounds. At first, I was worried about living on my own, but it’s done me the world of good.’
Evelyn felt her chest tighten. He wasn’t the first person to come back to Portheast to mend a broken heart.
‘And where is it you live?’ she asked.
‘Attic room over the newsagents. Only a bedsit, but it suits me.’ Jacob nodded towards the hills behind the town. ‘Plus, it gives me a view of Warburn Hall. Or Warburn Spa, as it’s called these days.’
‘That must be strange,’ she replied. ‘It being the old family seat.’
‘To be honest, I hate the idea. It was a stupidly big place – turrets and everything. My grandfather only lived in a couple of rooms by the end. But even before that, the house always felt a bit dark and unloved. My best memories are of doing things outside: playing on the beach, walking around the town with my grandfather. And, of course, visiting the museum. Anyway, here we are.’
They had reached the bakery, its window showing rows of glistening buns swirled with icing, puffy croissants and flaky slices filled with custard.
‘I’ll get a couple of buns, shall I?’ Jacob asked and Evelyn gratefully accepted, but only because she wouldn’t have been quite sure what to ask for or how to pronounce it. Kanelbulle, the label said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking her second baked gift of the day. ‘And for your help with the poster.’
‘Honestly, it’s a pleasure. The job at Potters is only part-time and it’s hardly taxing. It’s good for me to keep busy.’
‘It can help,’ she said with a weak smile.
‘So Alison’s very, um, organised,’ he said, biting into his sugary bun.
‘That she is.’ Evelyn hadn’t yet made up her mind about the tiny dynamo that was Alison Blake. On the surface, she was all appeasing smiles and efficient notetaking, but she sensed a fragility underneath.
Jacob continued: ‘I hope you didn’t feel like the three of us were, you know, moving too fast. But her idea about finding people who spotted something special in your museum – it’s a good one.
In fact . . .’ He rubbed his palm over his chin and she heard the soft rasp of his stubble.
‘Weird thing is – and I didn’t want to mention this in front of the others – at yesterday’s meeting I did see something I recognised. ’
‘The coins?’
‘No. Something else. A painting. A small one of a boat. In fact, it was the one you put on the poster. But it was only when I saw it for real that I realised.’
‘Small painting of sailing ship, oil on wood. Circa 1930s,’ Evelyn recited. Then, looking left and right to make sure no one was listening, she whispered, ‘I’m not certain, but I have a hunch it might be an Alfred Wallis. Which would be very good news indeed.’
Jacob fixed his blue eyes on hers. ‘Well, that was exactly what my grandmother was told. It used to hang in her bedroom, you see. It was a gift from my grandfather. Whoever cleared out Warburn Hall missed a trick, but their loss could be your gain. And the museum’s.
’ With that, Jacob raised his hand in farewell and strolled off, leaving a scattering of cinnamon sugar in his wake.
Evelyn stood for a moment, thinking. She could remember where and when she’d acquired most of the things in her museum and she’d picked up that little painting at a jumble sale in 2019.
She remembered the timing, because it was one of the last she’d attended before the lockdowns.
It had been inside a cardboard box of nautical art which had cost her ￡5 and she was ashamed to admit that the box had sat, untouched, under her desk until very recently.
The odd thing was that jumble sale had been held before Warburn Hall and its contents had gone up for sale.
But that barely mattered. If she and Jacob were right, the museum’s future was suddenly looking far brighter.
She knew how the wheels of the council were oiled: if she had an Alfred Wallis on her hands, she would have enough money to persuade the powers that be that the two old boat sheds on Portheast quay were wholly unsuitable for Rufus Rowan’s fish and chip empire.