Chapter Twenty-Two
Under duress, Evelyn had agreed that she would be on hand in case Della needed to field any questions her way. ‘We each need to play to our strengths, apparently,’ Della had said pointedly and Evelyn sensed she was still sore that Nils was supplying nibbles.
Turning left and right to see herself in the unreasonably short mirror (Evelyn’s appearance below the knees had been a mystery for the past five years), she tried to quell her rising panic.
The only thing that made the prospect of the exhibition bearable was reminding herself that by the end of the day it would all be over and Evelyn Silver could return to her quiet life, hopefully with the museum’s future looking rosier.
As the event got under way, everything seemed to be going exceptionally smoothly.
The exhibits looked perfect. The first people to admire them were members of the press, and they seemed to be enjoying what Della called ‘a private preview’ and Evelyn called ‘letting the journalists in early’.
True to her word, Della had rallied the local media and the big guns from London, thanks in part to Sariah laying on complimentary overnight stays at the Warburn Spa.
‘Yet to meet a journo who turns down free booze and a night in a hotel,’ Della said.
Sadly, neither Dermot nor Lorraine could make it (early starts the next morning) but each had sent one of their people.
As it got busier, the journalists gathered beside what Della referred to as her podium, but was in fact a tea chest turned upside down and draped in a white sheet.
Standing in a huddle on the other side of the podium stood three representatives from the council.
Each held grimly on to his beer glass, taking it in turns to cast surreptitious glances around the shed, as if measuring it up.
Evelyn was gratified to see Mr Palmer’s rabbity eyes dart nervously over towards the journalists.
‘Well, Evelyn, quite a show you’ve put on here,’ he remarked, making it sound like she’d done something disreputable.
‘The press have already been asking me some tricky questions.’
‘The community values its museum,’ she said. It was a line Della had coached her to say and she liked it very much, along with her next one: ‘The exhibition is a celebration of our shared heritage.’ Having run out of pithy phrases, she glided serenely away from Mr Palmer and his colleagues.
As the 6 p.m. official start time crept closer, Evelyn took her assigned place behind Della and looked out at the sea of faces.
She recognised Jude and Kayla from The Lugger and old Mrs Moran, in her green cloche hat and with three dachshunds in tow.
She was generally acknowledged to be the oracle about anything that went on in Portheast. Towards the back, a shifty-looking George Rook stood shoulder to shoulder with Leonard and Bob, who had taken time out of their busy bench-sitting schedule.
Jacob was at the door handing out flyers, and Sariah was doing the rounds with two wine bottles, seamlessly weaving her way through the crowd and topping up drinks.
Evelyn’s usually quiet museum was a hubbub of voices and she took a moment to take in this fact.
At the museum’s opening ceremony thirty-eight years ago, it had been a smaller gathering, almost as if people were there out of obligation rather than free will.
‘Your father has called in a lot of favours to make sure it’s a big success,’ her mother had confirmed, nodding at the mayor and several councillors in grey suits and slip-on loafers.
When Edwin Silver cut the ribbon to declare the museum open, there had been a smattering of polite applause, but now, as Della stepped up onto her podium, there was loud clapping and a few whoops.
She cut an impressive figure, dressed in an electric blue jumpsuit she had found in a St Austell charity shop, the low ‘V’ of her neckline secured with a vintage brooch.
In a commanding voice, Della began: ‘Thank you, people of Portheast and beyond, for coming today. As you’ll hear from my accent, I’m not a local, but I do know that this town has a proud history.
It’s also lucky enough to have its heritage preserved through the objects you see in this museum.
Your curator, Evelyn Silver, has been quietly cataloguing items that tell Portheast’s story for many years.
The time has come to celebrate her work and rediscover this museum’s significance.
‘This exhibition is called Second Chances, because all these items could easily be overlooked, but they hold the key to the history of Cornwall and its people.
‘Please join me in wishing Portheast’s museum a long and happy future and thanking Mr Palmer and his team for their unstinting support.’
At the sound of his name, Mr Palmer gave a sickly smile and raised his glass, prompting several camera flashes from the media’s corner.
‘However,’ Della’s voice boomed and then she paused for effect.
‘What you may not know is that the museum’s lease is up for review.
In order for our paid council representatives to make an informed decision, please express your opinions, as explained in the flyer.
The same goes for my ice cream parlour next door, also under threat. ’
Mr Palmer seemed to develop a sudden interest in the museum floor.
‘Now, replenish your glasses, grab some snacks, as kindly provided by Nils’ bakery, and enjoy the exhibition.’
With the formal bit out of the way, Evelyn felt a warm rush of relief – and she hadn’t had to say a word.
In celebration, she availed herself of a second glass of wine and began making her way through the exhibition wearing what she hoped was a benign smile and dispensing regal nods.
In the distance, Sariah was deep in conversation with someone Evelyn couldn’t quite see, while in the doorway Jacob was talking to Alison’s dad, Keith, who had just arrived.
Sadly, there was no sign of Alison herself.
Further towards the back of the museum, she noted that George Rook had barely moved from his position in front of a cabinet, which made her wonder if he was equally ill at ease at this kind of occasion.
An hour later, the crowd had thinned out a little and, telling herself it would soon be over, Evelyn made the rash decision to accept a third glass of wine.
She was pleased to see several people reading their flyers, which told them how to contact Mr Palmer.
Some had also picked up Jacob’s My Favourite Item forms and she looked around to congratulate him on his initiative.
In the aftermath of what happened next, Evelyn found it hard to recall the exact sequence of events. What she remembered most of all was a feeling of inevitability, as if underneath the superficially professional veneer of the event, chaos had always been waiting to spill over.
She could see the top of Jacob’s head and hear his unmistakable Radio 4 voice, but it was impossible to reach him. Blocking her way were Leonard, who was discussing dog treats with Mrs Moran, and Arnold from The Lugger, who was taking one of the council men to task over parking fines.
Just out of her reach, Jacob was demanding, ‘Why isn’t she here?’ With horror, Evelyn realised that the person Jacob was talking to was Alison’s partner, Roy Pinlow, and she knew that with each word he said, Jacob was making a bigger mistake. ‘She should be here, it’s not fair,’ he continued.
She could only watch helplessly as Roy reached out to grab Jacob by the shoulder, pulled him in close and whispered something in his ear.
Jacob instinctively raised his arm to push Roy away and that simple action changed everything.
First came a punch and then, as Jacob fell to the ground, Evelyn heard the crack of a boot on bone.
She gasped and her hand came up to cover her mouth.
She tried to get closer but then, with an ease that suggested this wasn’t his first rodeo, Roy’s older brother pushed through, twisted Roy’s arm behind his back and marched him out, while the younger brother brought up the rear, steering a baby buggy.
A shocked silence fell, one that seemed to suck all the joy from the room.
She heard an embarrassed cough; then the sound of someone slowly zipping up their jacket, no doubt getting ready to leave.
The silence was excruciating but worse was to come because, unbelievably, she could hear more raised voices and this time they came from further inside her museum.
Whipping round, she saw the source: it was George Rook and he was standing with one arm on top of a display cabinet.
His chin was raised in an arrogant tilt and he was telling one of the VIP journalists that, no, he wasn’t going to move out of the way.
‘It’s my town and I’ll stand where I like,’ he barked at a young man in a blazer.
In return the journalist shouted back, ‘I can hardly write about this exhibition if I can’t see it, can I? ’
No, no, no: everything was spiralling horribly out of control.
If only she could get to George and the man in the blazer, Evelyn felt sure she could smooth things over.
But her legs felt heavy, as in a dream, and before she could act, someone roughly pushed past her, heading for the door.
It was Keith, Alison’s dad, his face red with emotion, and she caught his words: ‘No right to do that’.
As she wondered what Keith could mean, she realised that his push – not to mention three glasses of house white – meant she was faltering, losing her balance and then falling backwards.
She had a sickening flashback to a similarly catastrophic incident many years ago, but this time there was no sound of breaking pottery – instead, she felt a firm grip on her elbow and with a lurch she was righted again.
It was Mrs Moran who had come to her rescue, still holding her three dogs’ leads in her other hand.
‘You nearly went flying there, Evelyn,’ she said.
‘That Keith Blake needs to mind his manners.’
Queasy with shock, Evelyn realised several things at once: she was drunk, she was tired and she would really like all these people to go away.
Mumbling her thanks, she decided it was time to step outside for some fresh air.
Then maybe the world would stop spinning and men would stop behaving badly.
Why was it, she wondered, that when women drank, they ended up laughing or crying, but men ended up fighting?
Taking deliberately careful steps, she made her way past the exhibits, which, miraculously, were still safe and sound.
And then she stopped, because someone was standing at the plinth closest to the door, the one displaying her own ragged piece of lace.
It was a woman she didn’t recognise and she was peering at the lace, rapt, holding on to the stand with both hands, as if to steady herself.
She turned to Evelyn, her eyes wide with disbelief.
‘This lace,’ she said in a voice full of emotion. ‘I can’t believe it. I feel like I know its story.’
Evelyn tried to steady her breathing. In all these years, this was the first time anyone had stopped to look at her lace, let alone said anything about it, and although Evelyn had imagined this moment for so long, she found herself lost for words.
Suddenly feeling stone-cold sober, she took in this woman.
She estimated she was probably in her late twenties; her expression was without guile and her neat features and soft curls put Evelyn in mind of a Renaissance painting.
The woman blinked and said, ‘I take it you are Evelyn Silver. Is there somewhere private we can talk?’