Chapter Fifty-Four
She put the piece of paper down. ‘I’m a grown woman, does she think I need this level of intervention?’
‘Don’t be offended, she took me in hand too. Said my clothes were either traveller hippy or power-dressing and I needed to find a comfortable middle ground.’
Evelyn had to admit the result was good because Della’s hair had been trimmed and treated with a toner that had turned it a soft pinky-blond.
She was wearing a jumpsuit, but it wasn’t like the low-cut electric blue number she’d sported for Second Chances; it was navy and belted and said ‘efficient’ rather than ‘Disco Inferno’.
For Evelyn’s outfit, Alison had taken the extreme measure of a home visit.
‘Hmm, style-wise, let’s take a break from browns and greys as we head into spring,’ she’d said breezily as she scanned Evelyn’s meagre wardrobe.
She’d flicked through the hangers until she came across the sailor-collar dress Evelyn had bought in Topshop in Oxford Circus all those years ago.
‘Vintage nautical chic – very fitting for the occasion, no?’ Once it was on, Evelyn had to agree it was a good choice and she’d always liked its square collar and satin ribbon tie.
Now, on the day of the exhibition, it was almost 12 p.m. and Evelyn was ready to step onto the podium (aka the faithful tea chest covered in a white sheet).
‘Hello, everyone,’ she began. ‘It gives me great pleasure to welcome you to our Horizons exhibition, where we celebrate a painting by Peter Lanyon, which captures the extraordinary light of the Cornish coast.’ She paused.
‘Three months ago, certain people expressed the wish to “put Portheast on the map” and I hope this fits the bill.’ Looking out, she spotted Mr Palmer at the back of the small crowd, thanks to the way Cornwall’s extraordinary light highlighted his bald patch.
‘You may notice that Portheast Museum’s name has been shortened – thank you, Leonard, for your sign-writing skills – and I hope that this simpler name will cement the connection between us and the town.
I would like to thank the museum’s committee – Della, Sariah, Alison and Jacob – for their hard work.
‘Please also take the time to admire our other new exhibits. First, the children of Portheast Primary School have created a display about the damage plastic is wreaking on our marine life.’ She gestured over towards the entrance, where a large fishing net was suspended from the rafters and shimmered with shards of plastic.
Ice cream wrappers and sandwich bags fluttered between plastic shoes, a broken diving fin, toys and tangles of fishing rope. It had a sobering sort of beauty.
‘Secondly, there are some lovely paintings by the late Elsbeth Silver, which depict our native flora and fauna, some of which are now endangered species.
‘Finally, if you progress to the Fishing Life area, you will see the recently restored boat name board for the Cora-May. She went down in 1987 with her crew, men who were husbands, fathers and sons, all missed but not forgotten. The restored boat name board and a plaque commemorate those lives lost.’
Instinctively, those wearing hats removed them and a moment’s silence was observed.
‘Please enjoy the exhibition and sample some truly excellent refreshments provided by The Cake Shed. Thank you.’
There was a ripple of applause as Evelyn stepped down and she spotted Alison mouthing, ‘Well done’.
Except then came the sound of one person clapping in an overly long and loud way and Mr Palmer walked towards the front.
As he gave Evelyn an oily smile, she feared the worst. This wasn’t fair – not to her and not to the community that had come together to make this happen.
Regardless, Mr Palmer stepped onto the podium. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said and waited for a hush to settle.
‘I know that many are waiting to hear about the future of these historic sheds.’ He beamed out at the crowd, his gaze skimming past Evelyn and Della. ‘Officially, our decision is due next week, but I am minded to announce it now.’
Beside her, Evelyn sensed Alison and Jacob’s excitement and, over by the food table, Sariah was standing on tiptoes. Only she and Della remained poker-faced.
‘Due to the groundswell of support and the council’s commitment to preserving local history, we are happy to extend the leases on both sheds.’
‘Yes!’ Della punched the air and a cheer rose up from the crowd, but Evelyn knew there was more to come.
‘However,’ Mr Palmer continued. ‘We will be increasing the rent, in line with the market.’ Well, that was to be expected, Evelyn supposed.
But Mr Palmer wasn’t quite finished. ‘And as a gesture of commitment, we ask that the first five years’ rent be paid up front.’
‘What the actual?’ Della advanced, hands on hips. ‘So we just rummage around in our pockets to find, what, a spare fifteen grand a year?’
‘Closer to twenty thousand,’ Mr Palmer clarified. ‘Each. Multiplied by five.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s what Rufus Rowan Holdings offered.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Della protested. ‘It’s immoral.’
Mr Palmer inclined his head, as if to indicate that he could and would.
Della caught Evelyn’s eye. ‘Come on: you’re not going to take this, are you?’ she said.
So Evelyn walked the short distance back to the sheet-covered podium. ‘May I?’ she asked and, sensing a win, Mr Palmer stepped down.
She drew breath. Dignity at all times, she reminded herself and, looking Mr Palmer in the eye, she said, ‘Thank you. This is marvellous news.’
‘What?’ Della gasped and Evelyn tried not to notice that Alison was frowning and Sariah had turned away in disgust.
‘I totally understand. Business is business.’ She brought her hands together and gave a serene smile. ‘It’s. All. Fine.’
She made as if to step down then paused, one finger in the air. ‘Just send the paperwork to my lawyer and I’ll authorise her to pay the rent up front for both sheds. Not a problem.’
It wasn’t often that Evelyn Silver experienced elation but in that moment, she embraced every fizzy, head-spinning, heart-pumping molecule of it and she committed the image of Mr Palmer’s face – his mouth opening and shutting like a fish’s – to memory.
Della wasted no time in catching up with her. ‘Mate, you can’t just make up things like that. You’re getting people’s hopes up and then you’ll disappoint them. What are you playing at?’
It felt good to lay a reassuring hand on Della’s arm. ‘Really, don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain later.’
First, she wanted to see people’s responses to the newest exhibit: the restored boat name board of the Cora-May.
Leonard had taken the rescued fragment that spelled out -ORA- and set it in a rectangle of white plaster.
Then, on either side of the blue wood, he had built up the plaster to recreate the missing sections of the name board and etched the rest of the boat’s name in ghostly white-on-white letters.
It was a work of art that conveyed both absence and presence, indicating that those who were missing had not been forgotten.
A voice beside her said, ‘Perfect, isn’t it?’
It was George, doing his usual thing of creeping up on her, but also saying exactly what was on her mind.
‘Perfect,’ she agreed.
‘I take it you’ve decided what to do with your windfall, then,’ he said.
‘I think so. It feels right,’ she replied.
They continued looking at the reworked name board.
‘What about asking Leonard to do something similar for a few other museum items? I’m thinking specifically of your piece of lace,’ said George.
Evelyn thought of her lonely scrap of lace that had been overlooked for so long and how it might look.
If Bob agreed, the two halves of the lace could be pressed into wet plaster: one with its rusted safety pin, the other half more pristine because it had been kept hidden inside a book of poetry.
The two ragged edges would lie side by side, almost joined but with a distance between them, representing the years apart.
It would convey the pain of that gap remaining forever unbreached.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I like that idea.’
She looked around to say thank you to Leonard, but he was busy talking dogs with Jacob, who in turn was making a fuss of Max the puppy.
Closer by, two big blokes, the muscle that George had hired as ‘security’, flanked the Lanyon painting. Burly though they were, they were also connoisseurs of fine art and one was deep in conversation with Bob, explaining modernism and the rise of multiple perspectives.
On the other side of the room, Sariah confidently made her way through the crowd with a tray, handing out napkins and slices of cake.
She was in her element. Then Evelyn spotted Grace and, to her delight, saw she was talking to her sister Rose: one was holding a piece of carrot cake, the other a slice of lemon drizzle and Evelyn watched as each sister took a bite, then gave a long serious nod before swapping cakes.
Before long, the hubbub began to die down.
Teacups were left on tables and all the cake had disappeared.
‘Not even a crumb left,’ Della remarked with satisfaction.
Evelyn hadn’t had a chance to catch up with Alison, who was talking to a man in a baseball cap and she had a hunch he was from the PR company.
Alison’s dad, Keith, was easy to spot because he had his grandson, Will, on his shoulders.
Evelyn wasn’t the sort of person who got dewy-eyed about children, but even she had to admit he was a very bonny boy.
Alison must have called out to her dad because he turned around and Evelyn glimpsed who Keith had been talking to: a sprightly gentleman with snowy white hair and bright eyes and she wondered if it was Steven West, the owner of the embroidered sailcloth.
Three months ago, she had randomly selected four items for her poster.
Of course her lace held a personal meaning, but the other pieces had intrigued her and it had turned out that the embroidered sailcloth, the cracked teacup and the fake Alfred Wallis had all held hidden stories.
Yes, each had brought difficult secrets to the surface, including her own, but, as George had once told her, ‘Truths are what help us move on’.
Looking around, she felt proud of the museum, now so different from the damp, dingy shed she’d hidden herself away in for so long. Somehow it didn’t feel like ‘her’ museum anymore and that was down to Della, Jacob, Sariah, Alison and George.