Chapter Forty-Five
Walking up the hill towards her flimsy caravan home, Evelyn’s thoughts returned to George’s idea of an art exhibition and she wondered if she’d been too hasty in dismissing it. After all, she could probably squeeze in some of her mother’s wildflower paintings as a tribute to her unsung talents.
As she reached the crest of the hill, she paused for breath.
She heard the familiar cries of gulls and the distant crash of the sea – and then she heard a sound that made no sense at all.
It was the wail of a siren. Was it her imagination, or could she smell something acrid on the wind?
She looked around to see if a farmer was burning stubble, all the while panic rising because she knew it was the wrong season.
She looked up towards the caravan site, then back at the jumbled houses of Portheast and then she saw it: a column of dark smoke rising into the white sky.
Down in the town, something was on fire. Evelyn began to run.
From above, it had been impossible to tell where the smoke was coming from, but as she reached the narrow streets of the old town, all she needed to do was follow the people.
She saw Mrs Moran gamely striding along and Jude from the pub weaving her way through.
As the crowd turned into Fore Street, she felt a rush of relief because people were flowing straight ahead instead of turning left to the harbour. Her museum, at least, was safe.
The woop-woop of an ambulance parted the crowd and Evelyn watched as it came to a halt ahead.
With a snap of fear, she realised it was outside Potters Newsagents, where Jacob lived.
A firefighter told everyone to get back and long flaccid hoses were rolled out across the tarmac.
She heard people saying the words ‘engine’ and ‘petrol’ and at last, standing on tiptoes, she could glimpse the source of the fire.
It wasn’t a building, but a car – Jacob’s nippy, shiny Mini.
She saw helmets, a blur of yellow uniforms and then there was a whoosh of foam. A few short blasts and then it was all over, leaving a bitterness in the air. Light blobs of foam floated upwards and Evelyn watched as the wind carried them into the cool white sky.
The crowd began to disperse, disappointed that the excitement was over. She saw Nils the baker shaking his head and walking back to his shop and Mrs Moran arriving with a face like thunder because she’d missed out on the action.
Everyone knew what had happened: Roy Pinlow.
As the crowd thinned out she saw Jacob’s car more clearly, with its seats burned out, the paintwork blistered and its windscreen shattered.
On the opposite kerb, Jacob was sitting with his head in his hands and Evelyn could see his legs were shaking.
Sitting beside him was Alison, ashen-faced and staring at the car.
She saw Della crouch down beside Jacob and put her chunky arm around him, and Sariah comforting Alison.
Della looked up and caught her eye. ‘My place?’ she mouthed. Then she held up her hand, fingers spread. ‘In five?’ and Evelyn nodded.
Della had invested in a brand-new, very noisy coffee machine and she insisted that everyone choose a different drink so that she could try out all the buttons.
‘Right, we all need sustenance. What can I get you?’ she asked, but before anyone could reply, she made executive decisions.
‘Evelyn? You look in need of a latte. Alison, I prescribe a cappuccino. Sariah, I know you love an espresso. Which leaves you, Jacob, with a nice big macchiato. With extra sugar.’
If Della was like this managing a bean-to-cup machine, Evelyn could only imagine how formidable she’d have been in charge of a newsroom.
Then they fell silent as Jacob told them what had happened.
He’d taken on the afternoon shift because Mrs P had a chiropodist’s appointment.
One minute he’d been restocking the confectionery display with Bounties and Snickers bars, the next he’d noticed a warm orange glow reflected in the shiny pull-down shutter that hid away the cigarettes, tobacco and, ironically, flammable things like matches and lighter fuel.
He’d heard a snap and crackle and said that the noises had reminded him of bonfire night.
‘Except, when I turned around I realised that it wasn’t a bonfire – it was my car. ’
They all shook their heads.
‘Thankfully, Mrs P’s bunions meant it was me and not her who was in the shop,’ he added.
Della let out a gasp. ‘Oh, no! Where’s your little dog?’
‘It’s OK, he’s with Leonard,’ Jacob reassured. ‘He popped in this morning, saw Max was being a bit of a handful and offered to take him out for the day.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘It’s becoming a regular thing, actually. I think Leonard likes the company.’
‘Did you see anyone hanging about earlier?’ Della asked.
‘Come on, let’s just say his name: it was Roy,’ Alison said stonily. ‘But I’m sure he’ll be long gone, working up some alibi. But we can’t let him win.’
‘The police will take statements,’ Evelyn said and Jacob gave her a sceptical look.
‘Like that’s going to do anything,’ he said.
‘More coffees?’ Della seemed to have finally found her catering forte: pressing a button and occasionally replenishing her gigantic machine with milk or coffee beans.
‘Thanks, but I’m on the evening shift. I’d better get back,’ Sariah said.
‘And I’d better go and assess the damage,’ Jacob said.
Alison slid off her bar stool. ‘I’ll come too,’ she said and as they left she linked her arm into his.
‘Aw, nice,’ said Della.
Evelyn tended to agree. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’
The next day, like the proverbial bad penny, George appeared in her museum again.
‘You forgot to buy white card,’ he said with a supercilious smile.
‘What?’
‘Yesterday, at the newsagents. You panic-bought several copies of The Daily Telegraph, but forgot card for your new labels.’
He laid a pack of white card down on her table.
‘Any update in today’s newspapers?’ she asked, her heart thumping.
‘Not that I could see.’
‘Thanks.’ She put his offering on top of her now very manageable to-do pile. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you a favour.’
He raised one eyebrow and she wondered how long it had taken him to perfect that particular trick.
‘It’s about Roy Pinlow.’
‘Hmm,’ said George. ‘Nasty piece of work.’
‘Indeed. The police have taken a statement from Jacob, but I wondered if there were any other, um . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘Ways to help him reflect on his actions?’
George rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know Roy, but I used to work with his older brother, Grant, back in the day. I’ll pay him a visit. See what can be done.’
Evelyn didn’t want to ask what line of work they had been in together, but she suspected it wasn’t the sort of thing that would appear on a CV.
‘Thank you,’ she said and waited for George to leave. But he wasn’t moving.
‘Just wondered if you’ve given it any more thought?’ he said. ‘The art exhibition.’
‘Actually, yes I have. And I’ve changed my mind,’ she announced. ‘I think it’s a good idea, but I’d like to broaden the scope. Since our big clear-out, I’ve discovered more things that deserve to be seen. Come and see.’
She led George to the revised Fishing Life area and pointed out a yellow oilskin.
‘Kayla and Jude remembered their grandfather wearing one of those, so it would be nice to update its label.’ She brushed dust off a piece of wood with letters on it, her first ever beach find.
‘Then there’s this. I know you wanted to throw it out, but I feel as if it has a story, you know? ’
She passed George the piece of wood, which was painted light blue with white letters that said -ORA- and he turned it over in his hands thoughtfully. ‘Ora,’ he frowned. ‘I wonder if . . .’ Then he turned to face her. ‘Evelyn Silver, you were right and I was wrong.’
‘Naturally. But did you have something specific in mind?’
George’s whole demeanour changed and he turned the piece of wood over again. ‘My goodness, I think it is. Yes, I do.’
‘George, what are you babbling on about?’
He looked up. ‘We’re agreed, this looks like a boat name board, yes?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Well, I’ve got a terrible feeling that this could be from the Cora-May.’ He fixed her with an earnest expression.
‘And that would be?’
‘Evelyn, think back to 1987. The fishing boat that went down in a storm. Terrible tragedy, three men lost. You must remember.’
She thought of how she’d spent most of that year in London, far away from Portheast and its news. ‘I wasn’t here,’ she said softly. ‘I was . . . away.’
‘Well, as I say, it was tragic,’ George continued. ‘It was Gilbert Larkwood’s boat – on its maiden voyage, too. He was so excited to take it out, then a big storm blew up from nowhere.’ He trailed off, remembering what must have been a terrible time for the town.
‘Then it should definitely go in the exhibition,’ she said firmly. ‘And we need to commemorate the lives lost in some way.’
‘Well, Bob’s the man to talk to.’
‘Bob?’ She recalled one of the Wise Men. ‘Fisherman Bob who sits on that bench looking out to sea?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘But never goes out on a boat because he gets seasick?’
‘Gilbert Larkwood was his father. Bob was meant to go out with him that day, but didn’t. Afterwards, Gilbert’s family would visit the bench to pay their respects. But Bob never set foot on a boat again.’
Evelyn felt a tightening around her heart. ‘Oh. Not seasickness then.’
‘No. Something a bit more complicated.’
‘Do you think he’d talk to me? Tell me about the boat and his father and the other men?’
‘You can try. I’ll ask him to pop in and see you, shall I?’
‘Please.’
Still, George wasn’t moving.
Evelyn resisted the urge to tut. She was keen to try out George’s printer, but didn’t need a witness to her technological ineptitude. ‘Was there something else?’
‘Yes, actually.’
He had an odd look in his eyes, one that was making her nervous.
‘I’m glad you’ve decided to do this art exhibition,’ George continued. ‘Because I’ve got some news. It’s about a painting you have.’ He tried to suppress a smile.
She felt her stomach drop. ‘Oh no. Not another fake.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ George reassured. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact . . .’
This sounded even worse: was he going to tell her that their clear-out had unearthed a stolen masterpiece? Did they need to start scheming all over again to return it to its rightful owner? She didn’t think she could stomach any more subterfuge.
‘Come,’ he said and led her to one of the few remaining unsorted boxes, the one containing her mother’s drawings and the abstract painting George had admired. Evelyn’s private opinion, inherited from her father, was that most modern art looked childish or rushed and sometimes both.
‘Don’t suppose you remember where you bought this one?’ George asked, lifting out the abstract canvas.
‘Actually, it wasn’t me, but my mother. I’ve no idea where she got it, but it would have been local.’
George paused. ‘Well, she had a good eye.’
‘Funny you say that, because there was a bit of a hullabaloo. She bought it when my father was away and he wasn’t impressed. Made a joke of it, called it worthless scribbles, and eventually she hid it away.’
‘Well the joke’s on him, because I sent my photographs of it to an art dealer friend – a reputable one, that is. And he tells me he’s certain it’s a Peter Lanyon.’
Evelyn’s knowledge of art did not extend beyond the 18th century, so the name meant nothing.
As George admired the painting, he explained more. ‘Cornish born, mixed with Hepworth and Nicholson and Rothko, but had his own unique perspective.’ He propped the painting against the wall and they both stood back to study it.
‘To me, his work is rooted in the rocks and the sea, but his perspective also soars above it. He piloted a glider plane, which sadly was also why he died young.’
Looking at it afresh, Evelyn saw that of course it was of the sea.
‘All of which means, he’s now highly collectable.’
Evelyn squinted at the painting. She took in the sweep of sky, a curve of yellow that reminded her of Portheast’s quay when the sun hit the stone.
But what struck her most was the crisscrossing of strokes that captured a restless sea.
Looking at it made her yearn to be outside and free, and she wondered if that was what her mother had seen in it too.
Meanwhile, its fluid, fleeting beauty had gone right over the head of Edwin Silver.
It was like that optical illusion again: was a painting childish daubs of paint or a masterpiece? Was her museum a millstone or a marvel? Come to that, was George Rook a crook or rather good company?
‘It creeps up on you,’ she heard George say. ‘Those hidden depths. But the more you spend time in her presence, the more you appreciate her.’
‘Her?’ she said, wondering if this was some antiquated practice, calling paintings ‘she’ like with boats.
‘Yes,’ he replied, then added, ‘The painting too.’
Her face turned hot and she was grateful for the museum’s dim lighting. They both continued gazing at the painting, not daring to look at each other.
‘I suppose it might be worth a few bob then?’ she said at last.
‘Rather a lot of bob, actually. He says he already has several collectors in mind.’
‘Hundreds?’ she ventured.
‘Thousands. Possibly six figures, with the right buyer.’
‘Is that so,’ she said quietly. A sum like that would be transformative and her mind ran through the things she could do to improve the museum.
If she and Della were allowed to stay, they could combine their sheds, which would make her reception area larger and brighter.
There would still be ample space for Della’s cakes and coffees, but they could add a gift shop; maybe a crafts area for school groups to use.
The museum would be unrecognisable. It would no longer feel like a relic of her past.
‘So, shall I tell him you are interested?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, her heart thudding hard. ‘I believe I am.’
She realised George was standing close enough to touch and she let her hand brush against his waxy jacket sleeve.
‘Thank you, George.’
Slowly, they turned to face each other and Evelyn swore she could hear his heart beating almost as fast as her own.