Page 67 of Kate and Clara's Curious Cornish Craft Shop
‘Clara was acting a little odd when she spoke about Maggie’s father,’ Jack says, changing the subject for both of us. ‘He must have died in the war, like you suggested before when we were wondering about him.’
‘Possibly,’ I say, not so sure. ‘Or maybe she was covering herself. Judging by how she reacted to Annabel I think it might be more likely your guess was correct.’
‘That she got pregnant and the father abandoned her?’ Jack says. ‘Really, why?’
‘Don’t know. I just get a feeling.’
The truth is I’ve spent years trying to do exactly the same thing as Clara – pretend about the father of my child to strangers. I know the signs all too well.
Molly had been born about sixty years after Maggie, but a one-night stand resulting in a baby was not uncommon these days. That’s what had happened to me. I’d never seen Molly’s father again after I’d spent the night with him following a post-graduation party. What must it have been like for Clara as a single mother in the 1940s when those things were much more taboo than they are now?
Molly knew the situation with her father. I’d never tried to hide it from her once she’d started asking questions. I wonder if Clara had been quite as honest with Maggie.
‘Did you see Clara’s sewing machine?’ I ask, deciding that changing the subject again is the best idea. I really don’t want to get into why I think I know Clara’s story with Jack right now. ‘It looks a lot like mine, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, I thought that about Arty’s easel too, but surely there were a lot of black Singer sewing machines around at that time, and big dark-wood easels too. I don’t think we can read anything into it.’
‘Probably not … but what if theyarethe same ones as ours. What if I have Clara’s machine and you have Arty’s easel? It might help explain why we’re seeing their story in the pictures.’
‘Well, they came from the same house clearance, didn’t they? I guess they could be … but it would be a huge coincidence.’
‘Not if Clara and Arty did eventually get together, and stayed together. They might have continued living in St Felix for the rest of their lives.’
‘Until Noah came along and did a house clearance for them?’ Jack says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Now, I know I’ve had to suspend disbelief to accept what we see in these pictures, but even you must agree thatisgetting a bit far-fetched.’
‘Not really. Noah said it was an old lady’s family who were selling everything off. It could have been Clara, couldn’t it? She might have outlived Arty? Women usually do.’
Jack stares at me. ‘Kate, even if they did eventually get together in your fairy-tale version of their lives, Clara would have to be what – a hundred years old by now?’
‘No, not that old. She seems to be in her thirties.’
‘Older than that, surely?’
‘No, they dressed older then. I bet she’s not even my age.’ I pause to do the maths in my head. ‘Annabel said her brother died on the Normandy beaches thirteen years ago, so that’s D-Day, and that was in nineteen forty-four, so we’re definitely in nineteen fifty-seven. So if Clara is in her thirties there, then she’d be in her … nineties now.’
‘So it could have been her who died then, leading to the house sale?’
‘We don’t know that she died.’
‘What other reason do families have for clearing elderly relatives’ houses?’
‘She might have gone into a home or something?’
Jack smiles. ‘You always see the bright side, don’t you?’
‘Not always. But it’s true, whether it’s Clara or not, the old lady could still be alive.Hmm…’
‘What’s thehmmfor?’ Jack asks, obviously still amused.
‘Well, I’ve lived here in St Felix for nearly two years and I’ve never met a Clara, or heard anyone talk about one, and surely Lou would have mentioned that Clara was still alive if she knew she owned my shop previously.’
‘True. So if it wasn’t Clara then who was it? They must have had something to do with Arty and Clara if the sewing machine and the easel they owned were in their house.’
‘So you do think they might have been theirs now?’
‘I don’t know what to think, but if they weren’t Clara and Arty’s why are we seeing their lives played out in works of art made with them?’
I sigh and look at the easel again.
