Page 123 of Kate and Clara's Curious Cornish Craft Shop
I gasp again, but this time I don’t bother to cover my mouth because my hand is tightly gripped around a drainpipe to prevent me from dashing forwards and rescuing my daughter.
Chesney’s face darkens, and he steps forward and grabs Molly. ‘You little bitch!’ he murmurs, ‘I’ll teach you.’
Ben steps forwards also, but he’s too late. In a deft move Molly manages to knock Chesney’s hands away, then she elbows him in the stomach so he crumples to the ground.
‘Those self-defence lessons at school came in handy! Shame you were never there, Chesney, or you might have learnt something,’ she says, straightening her top and brushing her hands over her jeans. Then she walks victoriously over to Ben and links her arm through his.
‘Come on, big bro,’ she says happily, looking up at him. ‘Let’s go back to the party.’
Quickly I tuck myself back around the corner so Molly and Ben don’t see me as they walk into the hotel together arm in arm.
As I try to get my shallow breathing back under control before I join them again, I feel prouder of my little girl than I ever have.
She’s all grown up.
Thirty-seven
Six months later …
St Felix ~ September 1959
Clara and Arty emerge from the little St Felix church radiating happiness and love.
Clara is a beautiful bride, wearing one of her own creations – a pale pink dress, tightly nipped in at the waist, with a co-ordinating pale pink cropped jacket. She simply oozes happiness as she holds tightly on to the arm of her new husband, who today looks incredibly smart in his brand new suit and tie – a long way from his usual attire of a loose painting smock and paint-splattered trousers.
Maggie emerges behind them wearing a flowery dress in the same shade of pink as her mother, looking every inch the pretty yet proud bridesmaid after witnessing her two favourite people in the world declaring their intention to spend the rest of their lives together.
As they stand there having their photograph taken with their friends and family, the delighted group couldn’t contrast more with the scene taking place in the graveyard at the back of the church.
A man stands in front of a shiny new gravestone looking sombrely down at it. He is well dressed, wearing expensive shiny shoes and a tailored suit that definitely haven’t been bought in the local gentlemen’s outfitter but rather from somewhere abroad.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says to the gravestone. ‘Truly I am.’
He glances around to see if anyone is watching him, but there’s no one about, only the distant hum of people chattering excitedly, and the sound of the church bells ringing out to signal the end of the wedding he’d realised with horror was taking place today.
He couldn’t change his plans though. He wasn’t here in St Felix for long enough to do that – it was a flying visit, literally. He was travelling back to America tomorrow having managed at great expense to get a seat on one of the new transatlantic flights from London to New York. It was far more expensive than the boat, but so much quicker, and what he didn’t have these days was time. His recent success across the Atlantic was making sure of that.
However, he had needed to visit this spot today to pay his respects, and to make sure that the gravestone he’d anonymously paid for had been properly created and laid. He’d been extremely pleased to find that it had been, and that it was everything he had hoped it would be. Even though this slightly extravagant stone would now permanently mark the last resting place of the man who was helping him to fame and fortune, it didn’t help to ease his sense of guilt. No monetary gift could ever do that.
‘I’m sorry, Freddie,’ the man says again, as a tear rolls down his cheek. ‘Really, I am. You were, and always will be, the better man. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I saw a chance and took it without thinking. I never knew it would take off like it has. I thought perhaps your paintings might get me noticed a bit more and get my own paintings recognised, but I should have known they would only want your work. Your innocent creations, untouched by greed – something I could never hope to achieve. Perhaps one day someone will know the truth. They will know what a genius you were, and what a cowardly, sad individual I am. Until that time I can only offer you my most sincere apologies again, and hope that this memorial and your cottage, which I intend to buy when it comes up for sale and decorate as a shrine to you, goes just a tiny way to making it up to you.’ The images fade away as they always do, leaving us with a painting of a church and in front of that a piece of embroidered felt in the shape of a gravestone.
‘Well, that was a mixture of emotions,’ I say to Jack, as we sit back like we always do to discuss our latest dip into St Felix’s always colourful and interesting past. It had been such a long time since the easel and the sewing machine had produced anything for us we’d begun to wonder if we were going to receive any more of their unique creations. ‘How lovely to see Clara and Arty on their wedding day, but I don’t know how I feel about seeing Winston James at Freddie’s grave.’
‘How do you know it was Winston?’ Jack asks. ‘We’re just assuming that was him.’
‘I’ve seen a photo of him – I think it was at the gallery with his paintings … well, Freddie’s paintings. Didn’t you see it when we went there?’
‘Oh yeah, I thought the guy looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He was a lot younger there,’ he gestures to the painting, ‘than in the photo, but you can see the resemblance to Julian.’
‘Yes, you can. Poor Julian. I tried to tell him his father might have had some remorse for his actions, but he wouldn’t have it. I can’t really tell him I was right, can I – how would I know?’
‘That was the most difficult thing with all of this,’ Jack says, looking at the easel again. ‘Trying to cover up how we came to know so much about Freddie, Maggie, Arty and Clara. I think we managed to make our story sound convincing, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think anyone really cared how we knew once we proved we were right. Everyone was just happy that justice had been done and that Freddie’s lost paintings had been found.’
‘Maggie’s face was amazing when we told her, wasn’t it?’ Jack says wistfully. ‘I can still see her look of complete euphoria now.’
‘And then suddenly she was at peace. You could see the years simply roll off her. It was obviously something she’d carried with her her whole life. I can’t wait for her to see the gallery when it opens – it will be the perfect end to this story.’
