Chapter Thirty-Five
Jacob peered into the small mirror that hung over his bathroom sink so that he could inspect the bruise under his eye.
Pressing two fingers into the green-yellow skin he decided that, if anything, it looked worse not better.
The last time he’d had a black eye was when he was nine.
It was ten minutes into a school rugby match and he’d cried so hard that the sports master took him off the pitch and suggested he switch to badminton.
Jacob Warburn had always known he was no good as a fighter, but he wasn’t entirely sure what he was good at. It used to be archaeology, but his university course and London felt like a distant life that he’d left behind. His father hadn’t wanted him to go to Portheast.
‘Why on earth would you want to go there? Stay with us in Chiswick. Or use the Pimlico flat – it’s only a pied-à-terre, but fine as a stopgap. Or shall I transfer you some money, is that what you want?’ Simon Warburn had barked down the phone.
His dad’s standard response to any problem was to throw money at it. It had worked well enough with Jacob’s mother, Fenella, currently ensconced in the south of France, and it seemed to suit his dad’s second wife, Juniper, too. But what Jacob craved was support and maybe a bit of fatherly love.
At first, being in Portheast had been reassuring: its cobbled hill and the quay were unchanged from when he was a boy and he’d been delighted to find the museum was still there. But as time went on, Jacob started to feel like a fish out of water.
In his job at the newsagents, he made an effort to remember people’s names. He always had Mrs Moran’s daily newspaper set aside and he knew which brand of tobacco Leonard preferred. But no matter how many names he learned, he knew he’d never fit in.
The first time he’d met old Mrs Moran, he’d begun to introduce himself and she’d cut him off.
‘Oh, I know who you are. You’re a Warburn,’ she said grimly.
Her expression was a reminder that Warburn Hall had employed the people of Portheast for over a century, as maids, cooks, gardeners and farm workers and that legacy was hardly a basis for new friendships.
His father might have sold off most of the Warburn assets, but the spa had retained the name and it served as a reminder of an inequitable past.
This was one reason why he’d pitched in to save the museum: he wanted to do something for the good of the town and, for a while, he’d felt like a part of something positive.
The other reason, the one he was too shy to admit to anyone, was because of Alison.
Yes, she had a baby and she was as good as married, but the truth was, Jacob couldn’t get her out of his head.
In the long hours he spent in his bedsit above the newsagents, Jacob liked to replay the trip they had taken together to Fowey.
He thought of Alison’s easy laugh and the way she had listened to Michael and written down his story.
Then she’d read it back to him to make sure he was happy with it, and the sound of her voice as she spoke of knots and fishing and a father–son love had moved Jacob in ways he couldn’t explain.
Alison, so softly spoken and funny and clever. Nothing like the woman who had broken his heart the week before his finals and, if Instagram was to be believed, was now living a party life in London.
Odd, he thought, that Michael from Fowey hadn’t come to the opening – perhaps he should visit him again. Would it be a mistake to ask Alison along?
Seeing her running out of her house had been an upsetting experience. He didn’t know exactly what she’d been through, but it was clear Roy was bad news and didn’t cherish Alison in the way she deserved.
The Save Our Museum WhatsApp group had gone strangely quiet and he missed the back-and-forth messages that made him feel like he was part of something.
So when he got a direct message that morning, asking if he could come into the museum, Jacob’s hopes lifted.
But then Evelyn had sent a second message that read Don’t tell the others and he felt a flicker of worry.
The door to the museum was locked, which was unusual, and there was a sign about a stocktake. Did museums do stocktakes? Surely that was the point of a catalogue. But then he remembered the state of Evelyn’s desk and doubted there was any such thing for the Portheast Museum of Maritime Curiosities.
He gave a tentative knock and the door opened a crack. To his surprise, it was George Rook’s face that peered out. Odd. He thought Evelyn detested the man.
‘Quick, come in,’ George hissed and Jacob obeyed. He had become used to the museum’s slightly chaotic appearance, but inside he saw a scene of unprecedented disorder. ‘Oh no, has there been a robbery?’ he asked.
An indecipherable look passed between George and Evelyn, who was kneeling in front of an array of obscure-looking objects.
‘Not recently,’ George said darkly.
‘I’m having a bit of a sort-out.’ Evelyn stood and dusted off her dress.
On the floor Jacob could see a replica bust of the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, who seemed to stare back at him with stern disapproval. ‘Remarkable,’ he said, ‘what they can do these days with plaster casts.’
This comment seemed to alarm Evelyn and she promptly threw an old tea towel over the emperor, like he was a canary in a cage that she wanted to keep quiet. ‘Actually, Jacob, it was something else we wanted to show you. Something closer to home.’
She led him back to the Second Chances exhibition, where only last week Jacob’s grandmother’s painting had been on show, but he now saw that it had been taken down.
‘I’ve decided that a number of items in the museum need to be returned to their rightful owners,’ she said sadly, looking down at the painting.
‘And this belonged to your family, so you are free to take it.’
Jacob gazed down at it, his mind racing.
‘Wait. Does this mean it is an Alfred Wallis?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ Evelyn replied.
Jacob peered hard at the painting. There was no signature, but he’d read that Wallis didn’t always sign his work. ‘Forgive me, but are you sure? I mean, maybe we should ask a Wallis expert?’
‘Well, that would be me. In a manner of speaking.’ George stepped forward.
‘I’m afraid this painting is a fake. I painted it in the back room of my father’s shop when I was a young man.
My father sold it to your grandfather in 1987 and he thought he was getting the real thing. I can only apologise.’
It must have been Jacob’s imagination, but as he looked down at the picture, it suddenly looked less substantial, its colours less intense. Like it had been done by a child. ‘I see,’ he said, swallowing his disappointment.
‘The good thing is, it still holds the same memories,’ Evelyn said encouragingly.
‘That’s true.’
Jacob let his mind roam back to long summer days at Warburn Hall, his grandparents snoozing on the veranda, leaving the nine-year-old Jacob to explore.
He’d crept along gloomy corridors and come to a dark bedroom with a four-poster bed and heavy brocade curtains that smelled of his grandfather’s pipe.
A shaving kit was laid out in the en suite and a plaid dressing gown was thrown over a chair.
He continued down the corridor and discovered another bedroom, this time decorated in salmon pink.
It smelled of the perfumes and powder puffs on the dressing table and, hanging on the wall, he saw this painting.
He sat on the bed with its frilly coverlet and looked at the jolly sailing boat being tossed around at sea, all the while taking in the fact that his grandparents slept in separate rooms.
On that day, the magic went out of holidays at Warburn Hall and he grew to mistrust its dark corridors, which whispered of unspoken secrets.
He might have concluded this arrangement was because his grandfather was a snorer or his grandmother was a light sleeper, had it not been for the bluntness of his mother.
When he told her about the separate bedrooms, she’d flicked her cigarette ash and said, ‘But, darling, of course they do. She can’t stand the man. ’
Jacob carried the painting home in a tatty Lidl plastic bag, which felt appropriate for a bargain basement artwork.
There were no hooks on the walls of his bedsit, so he made do with propping the painting up on the table.
He ran his fingers around the frame and brushed off some dust. Turning it over, he noticed a small tear in the brown tape that secured the backing board.
He ran a fingernail along the tear, widening it a little.
There was something inside, wedged between the board and the painting.
He wondered if it was another of George’s surprises – a note that said, Ha ha, fooled you!
Using a cheese knife, Jacob made slits along the other three sides of the tape and prised the board away.
Out dropped an envelope and on the front was written To The New Owner.
Immediately, he recognised his grandmother’s handwriting, long elegant strokes that he’d seen inside birthday cards for many years.
Jacob opened the envelope.