‘See, I told you. And high fives to that!’ I hold up my hand and he smacks his palm against mine before he rushes off.
Then Loella sweeps by with an armful of papers and flashes me a smile. ‘Cam’s already chatting to you? Well done for that – a lot of us have tried and failed there, so great work.’
It’s nothing, but for someone who took all afternoon to write three ‘a’s it’s the high point, so I’m going to grab it and enjoy.
‘And we’ll see you same time tomorrow for Fun with Fabric?’ I’m trying my best to return the wall-to-wall smile Loella’s sending me when hers suddenly fades. ‘You do want to come? I mean you would like to try sewing?’
Crap. If I’m bad at writing, needlework will be so much worse, because I could never do that before. ‘Errrr –’ This is not the moment to run out of words either.
‘You look less up for this than your aunt, that’s all?’
Damn. ‘W-w-whatever g-gave you that idea?’
Her face cracks into a smile again, but this time it’s rueful. ‘One, the faces you pulled when I mentioned it earlier, two, the way you looked like you wanted to make a run for the door most of the afternoon. Need I go on?’
I have to admit as I take in her hand-knitted cardi that wouldn’t look out of place on a catwalk, the stylish knitwear and the straight talking have both caught me off guard.
‘Two tiny things, you’ve totally misread.’ This time I make sure my smile is dazzling and I’m really over-compensating. ‘Don’t worry, w-we’ll be there. So much fun – how could we not?’
‘Don’t worry …’ It’s almost an echo and as she cocks her head her laugh is low and dirty. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Edie Browne. See you tomorrow.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck. This time I don’t even try to hold back my groan.
She’s still there grinning at me. ‘And I’m so pleased you swear. You’re going to fit right in here, I just know.’
And that was calligraphy.
Day 141: Thursday, 22nd March
Back at The Deck Gallery
Epic Achievement: Getting a different view of St Aidan. (It’s all about the ‘boom’.)
Fun with Fabric? That has to be one of those oxymoron phrases that totally contradicts itself. As for how I still know about those when I can barely remember that my middle name’s Sara, that’s just another of those pesky anomalies I collide with every day. If I had my way there’d be a law against the words ‘fabric’ and ‘fun’ ever appearing in the same sentence. Just saying. So there’s no misunderstanding. Even if I can’t look at a pin without messing things up, this is for Aunty Jo – she’s like my mum, they could sew in their sleep.
Up until we reach the gallery, it’s like reliving the last time. Pasta, prunes, lettuce. Speeding Aunty Jo down the hill because, despite the promise of needles and scissors, she’s suddenly very reluctant. But today there is a difference because, even before we push through the tall plate-glass gallery doors, we can hear the whirr of sewing machines. As we make our way towards the work table we’re faced with an explosion of colourful fabric and then, one by one, the bowed heads look up and we’re faced with a sea of waves and smiles, and a chorus of ‘hi’s and ‘hello’s.
It takes Aunty Jo one blink to take it in, then she overcomes her shyness. ‘Cathedral window patchwork – how wonderful.’ A nanosecond later she hurls herself into a discussion about backing fabrics that’s so involved I can’t even understand it, let alone join in.
I spot Loella brandishing a hissing iron at one of the ironing boards beyond the fabric piles and give her a little wave. ‘Hey, this is every bit as mind-blowing as you promised.’ I flash her a smile huge enough to reinforce how super-happy I am to be here, but mostly to keep her off my case. Then I sidle into a seat, grab a spare pin cushion and make myself look extremely busy rearranging the pins. Then Aunty Jo comes and shows me how to draw around a template, and cut out squares for patchwork. But, even though I’m not joining in the chatter, I’m finding it hard to keep on task. It’s like calligraphy revisited – Aunty Jo is beaming from behind a huge heap of perfectly cut hexagons, and I’m still struggling to cut out my first square and kicking myself for scoring a total fail. I’m just wondering if swapping to a different pair of scissors might help when there’s a cough beside me.
I’m racing to get my excuses together for Loella. ‘Actually, I’m just checking out …’ When I pull my eyes into focus, what I’m actually checking out are some super-hard denim-clad thighs so I take a moment to get over the shock – and take in any details Bella might be asking about later. Then I flash upwards to a familiar stubbled jaw, and a mouth that’s not quite twisted into a grin. ‘Barney? W-what the h-hell are you doing here?’
He gives a shrug. ‘I popped in to drop some tools off for Beth, but if you can spare a minute, I could do with a hand outside.’
Going with Barney, or staying here. Two choices, both of them equally awful in their own way. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘C’mon Edie, I promise it won’t take long.’ That direct gaze is so dark it’s playing havoc with my insides.
Aunty Jo has somehow torn herself away from her discussion about stitch length. ‘Run along now, Edie. I’m sure Loella won’t mind.’
My wide eyes are pleading with Loella to insist I stay, but she just smiles. ‘If Barney needs you that’s good with me.’
‘Fine.’ It’s not at all. On balance, now it’s happening, I’d rather sew an entire quilt than go with Barney. If this is my punishment, I’m really regretting not trying harder with the cutting. By the time I’ve pushed back my chair he’s away. By the time I catch up with him he’s holding the door open and, as the chilly afternoon air hits my face, he’s thrusting an oilskin jacket into my hands.
‘Here, have my coat, we’re off to the harbour, not that I want to rush you, but you might need to hurry up if we’re going to make it back for the end of the class.’
‘But …’ What the hell happened to that minute this wasn’t going to take? It’s not like I can argue when I’m running to keep up. I’m getting glimpses of the bay in the gaps between the buildings as we cut down through a narrow cobbled alleyway, watching the long lines of the waves rolling in over the shine of the wet sand, seeing figures bending against the breeze, hearing the rush of water in the distance as the waves break on the beach. And for once the iron grey of the sea has lifted a shade and the water surface is silver, hammered like the dapple of fish scales. Then we come out onto the quayside, edged with its neat rows of cottages with pink and blue front doors, and the piles of lobster pots and rope coils, and the blue and red and black boats lined up along the jetties, their masts sharp against the sky.
By the time we leap down the wooden steps onto a very wobbly pontoon my chest feels like it’s going to burst from the exertion. ‘What are we h-here for?’
‘She’s rigged and ready, so I’d have thought that was obvious.’ He dips down into the low open boat we’re standing next to and hands me a padded waistcoat and pulls one on himself too. ‘That’s your buoyancy aid, slip it on over the waterproof and we’re good to go.’
‘Go WHERE?’ As if I’d know one end of a boat from another, let alone know the nuances and implications. If we’re talking water I have no objection to paddling, but if the water’s any deeper than my ankles I’m not a happy bunny. When I was with Marcus, whenever his family dabbled with boats on holiday, which was a lot, I always did a silent hooray, made my excuses and