Previously…

My thoughts turned back to my home–Penmarris and all the loved ones that I had here. I literally ached to see Abby and Heather again and I had only been away a short while. I longed to see my friends again and the cottages and cats and the gallery and pottery and all the nutty people who lived in the cove.

If it was light enough when I get home, I would go for a walk, hopefully with Abby, along the coast path and watch the sunset go down over the cove, then we would go and see Heather for a while. Then I saw no reason why we couldn’t have fish and chips down by the harbour before leisurely making our way home and then–well, I’m sure you can guess what I would want to happen then.

And now the story continues…

The next few days passed in a whirl. I was in and out of my gallery all the time, helping–or hindering–Arthur. I was also spending as much time as I could with Heather, and was on the phone to Georgina at New Dawn Enterprises to make sure everything was running smoothly there. Evidently, the staff had taken the news of Roger’s demise–if you want to call it that–as an event of “exceeding great joy” rather than one of sadness. Everyone seemed to be happy with the new regime and I hoped that things would continue that way.

Katie had presented me with a pile of business papers to go over and I was trying, unsuccessfully, to pluck up the enthusiasm to look at them. I decided that the following week, if I had time, I would go through the stuff with Katie and Abby and try to make some sense out of it all. It looked increasingly as if I might have to employ someone to be my assistant and I was wondering if the bubble gum girl at the printers would want another job–then giggled at that rather bizarre thought!

The printer had come up trumps with the posters and also some leaflets. I got the local Scouts to deliver to all the residences in the village–The scoutmaster wanted an arm and a leg but just settled for a leg in payment. In fact, I promised there would be a new purpose built building for them, the Cubs and the Guides–not forgetting the Brownies. This was a moment of shear madness, but, as I have said before, now I was rich, I wasn’t going to keep all the dosh to myself. Katie was looking into properties for them and said that the Scouts and Guides thought that I was the best thing since sliced bread. I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not but I took it at face value.

It gave me a great deal of pleasure to help the community when I could, but I didn’t want to come over all heavy about it. I would be careful of about who and what I supported. I had a soft spot for the Cubs and Scouts because I had been one, not a very good one because my knots were a disgrace and I always put my woggle on upside down, but still, they were patient with me and that was nice. Mind you, I had really wanted to be a Brownie and a Guide, but for some strange reason, the authorities wouldn’t accept me at the time.

One morning I was in the gallery, sorting out some of my paintings while Arthur was messing about with the plumbing, when I heard a knock on the window. Looking up, I saw a young woman standing there; she was holding a large art portfolio case. I went and opened the door.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘can I help you?’

‘Yes, I have heard that you are willing to exhibit the works of local artists?’

‘That’s right. Look, please come in.’

With a nod of thanks she came in and I sat her down in a corner away from the noise and the litter. I dragged up a chair and sat opposite her.

She was thin, with long straight hair, about twenty or twenty one, I suppose and wore gold rimmed spectacles. She was smartly dressed in a cream blouse and white peasant style skirt.

‘’I…I have some works that I would like to show, if you feel they are good enough.’

‘That sounds great. Let’s have a look then?’ I said enthusiastically.

She pulled out the first piece and uncovered it. It was a watercolour of the cove on a misty morning. The view was unmistakable and you could clearly see the sea, the quay, the cottages and shops, the blend of colours and intelligent use of shade and light–chiaroscuro for those with a technical bent–made one feel that this was no mere painting but a work with life and vibrancy.

‘Oh, it’s beautiful!’ I exclaimed.

‘Thank you, I painted it last year. Would you like to see some of the others?’

‘Please!’

She showed me several watercolours, all based in and around the cove at various times of the season. They were all well crafted and like the first, full of life and colour.

‘Well, ‘she asked, ‘Are they good enough to hang?’

‘Most definitely, I would be delighted and privileged to hang them for you; they are wonderful!’

I made her a cup of tea as we pored over the paintings. Stopping after a few moments I took a look at her. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Pauline Simmons.’

‘I’m Samantha.’

‘I know. Everyone knows you. I think that it’s really great that you’re opening up a gallery here. We’ve needed something like this for an awfully long time.’

‘Where did you learn to paint?’

‘Paris, I was an art student there. Usual stuff, Left Bank, impoverished student, sold cartoons and likenesses of tourists. It was great, but it didn’t pay much. Then I got caught up with Henri, another student and I fell pregnant. He didn’t want to know–the pig–and his family said that it wasn’t anything to do with their darling son, so I came home to the UK without my degree and a bun in the oven.’

‘What about your parents?’

‘Mummy and Daddy died years ago–car crash, so I was brought up by foster parents from the age of eleven. All the adoptive parents wanted babies–no strings or hang-ups, I suppose–anyway, I finally ended up with some permanent foster parents when I was fourteen. They were nice and sent me to a good school. I got good enough grades to go to Uni and I’d always hankered after going to Paris to learn. So because I had this gift as an artist, I was taken on by á‰cole Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts; a wonderful place to learn and it was very inspirational to walk in the steps of some of the Great Masters.’

‘Yes, it must have been. I wish I had had the chance to do that. I am just self-taught really, but I did art at school and college, and I was told that I had the gift–whatever that is, but real life got in the way and it’s only now that I can realise my dream.’

‘Yes, it’s really nice here and the light is wonderful–all those large windows and I like the way you have the spotlights. You can display works in the best possible way. So when will you be opening?’

‘Very soon.’

‘That’s great. So how does this work?’

‘Well, I exhibit your paintings and you–of course–price them. I receive twenty percent of what you get for them. Is that fair?’

‘Very fair, I know some galleries charge fifty percent.’

‘Yes, that’s a total rip-off. I want this to be more of a showcase for local artists and as long as the costs are covered, I’m happy.’

We chatted on for another hour. I showed her some of my own works and she was very impressed. Then we decided on which ones of hers that we would hang first. I limited it to three paintings because I wanted space for others too.

After that she had to go as the babysitter needed relieving. She had a little boy called Ben and it was obvious that he was the apple of her eye. I told her that I had a baby daughter and we agreed to meet up for a sort of mother’s coffee morning when Heather finally got out of hospital.

I called at the pottery after Pauline had left. I wanted to tell Abby the exiting news about Pauline, but she was up to her elbows in clay, showing some of the children from the village infants’ school how she threw pots. So I just mouthed ‘see you later,’ and left her to it. Judging from the faces of the little ones, they were fascinated by it all.

I strolled down to the quay and sat outside the Copper Kettle and had a latte and a Danish pastry. It was fairly quiet down there, with only the occasional passer-by. The summer season had virtually ended now and it was only at weekends when the weather was fine, that it got very busy.

I was sipping my drink when someone said, ‘Hi, Samantha, you look comfortable.’

‘Hello, Jocaster, pull up a pew.’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she said as she sat down beside me and swiftly ordered a carbon copy of my order.

‘How’s young Heather coming along?’

‘Getting better. She’s gaining weight and looks bigger too. She drinks like a fish–’

‘–Do fish drink?’

‘I haven’t a clue, but you know what I mean.’

‘Mmm. So when’s she coming home?’

‘I don’t know yet, but we are going to ask Arthur to do an emergency job of changing one of the rooms into a nursery.

‘At yours or Abby’s?’

‘Abby’s we’ve got more room there.’

‘What are you going to do with your cottage?’

‘Buy it, if I can. I want to use it as an office and studio; you know that I’m a sort of business magnate now?’

‘Is that what attracted Abby to you?’

‘What?’ I asked puzzled.

‘Attracted–magnet, get it?’

I groaned; ‘No puns, please, I might be sick and I don’t want to waste this yummy pastry.’

‘So do you think randy old Albert Mogg will sell?’

‘Millie reckons that if she flashes her bosom at him enough, I might get it for free.’

‘It might give him a heart attack.’

‘Mmm, I might ask Millie to tone down the bosom parading bit. I don’t want a heart attack on my conscience.’

‘What’s it like being rich and powerful.’

‘A pain in the neck–and other less polite parts of the body. I came down here for peace and quiet and I have had more things happen to me in a few short months than ever happened to me in my life before. If this was a soap opera, viewers would leave in droves–too fanciful by half!’

‘At least life isn’t boring.’

‘I could do with a bit of being bored for a while!’

We finished our drinks and comestibles and left. We said goodbye at the top of the lane and I made my way to Abby’s cottage. The cats needed feeding and I wanted to change my clothes, I had spilt some coffee down my skirt and I wanted to put in the wash before it dried too much.

As I walked down the road thinking of Pauline and her gorgeous paintings, I sort of sensed someone coming up to me from behind. I turned and there, in an ancient dress and battered hat was the old sage who had came out with those cryptic puzzles on two previous occasions. She pulled at my sleeve and I stopped.

Looking up at me with rheumy eyes, she smiled. I noticed that two front teeth were missing and wondered why at her age she didn’t have dentures on the NHS.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked.

‘Remember the curious incident of the dog in the night-time? Watch out for the son of Babbage. Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.’

‘I beg your Pardon?’ I said.

‘I have said enough.’ With that she shambled off mumbling to herself.

I continued on my way, wondering if I should say something to Marcia about the old lady. Maybe she should be locked up or given some sort of medication.

I arrived home and was welcomed by a posse of pussies–or do I mean a pride or a rabble–all wanting to play, stalk or eat me. Having fed and watered the inner beasts and given a number of cuddles and strokes–two per cat, there’s a recession on–I was free to go and change my skirt.

After washing the soiled skirt, I went and sat by the pond. It was peaceful and pleasant here and I relaxed on the patio and let myself drift off…

I was awoken by a sound. It wasn’t a normal sound and I wasn’t sure what it was, but I think it was a sort of metallic chink sort of noise.

I rubbed my eyes and then regretted it as I had smudged my makeup, but then I heard the noise again. Lifting a cat off my lap, I stood up and made my way round to the side of the house where both my darling little Beemer and Abby’s car, Dolly, were parked. I heard the sound of running footsteps retreating away from me as I turned the corner. I couldn’t see anyone so he or she had gone. My heart was beating rather a lot as I turned away from the lane and gazed over at the cars.

I gasped as on the bonnet of my lovely shining car, written in red paint was:

‘Leave now, we don’t want your sort here.’

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, help with the plot-lines and pulling the story into shape.