the way – the carving is fantastic.’
He looks over at her, eyebrows raised. ‘You have good taste. That was made by a very skilled craftsman. Lives near here, in fact.’
She nods. ‘Yes, I’ve seen more of his work – a little clown, and a cook; at least, I’m assuming they were all done by the same person.’
He looks thoughtfully at her. ‘A clown and a cook – now where would they be?’ Then his face clears. ‘Ah, you mean the ones in Angela’s house.’
‘Yes.’ She’s surprised; how could he have known about the cook? The clown, maybe – it’s in the restaurant for all to see; but the other one is in the kitchen, where
no one goes except the overnight guests. And, presumably, friends of Angela’s.
She glances at him again. He’s a good-looking man, a bit older than her; early fifties, she’d say. Dark hair, almost black, cut very short; jeans and a faded green shirt. No wedding
ring. Maybe he has breakfast in Angela’s kitchen now and again . . .
Lizzie remembers something. ‘He has a shop around here, hasn’t he? The woodcarver, I mean.’
He pauses, her change in his hand. ‘Well, yes and no . . . Tell you what, keep an eye out as you walk around the shops – you’ll find a few surprises in the windows.’ Then
he hands her her change. ‘Thanks; see you again. You’re staying at Angela’s, I believe.’
She looks at him in surprise again, and he grins. ‘Maggie was talking.’
She walks out, bemused. So this is what living in a village is like. And what did he mean, ‘Yes and no,’ when she asked him about the woodworker having a shop? Either he has or he
hasn’t. And what was all that about surprises in the shop windows?
As she leaves Ripe, she comes face to face with the scruffy young man who was in the pub at lunchtime the other day. She holds the door open for him and he walks through without thanks, leaving
a smell of stale cigarettes behind him. Charming.
It doesn’t take her long to find the surprises. In the corner of practically every shop window is a little carving: a Cinderella slipper in the shoe shop, a chubby piglet in the
butcher’s, a pair of scissors in the hairdresser’s, a bunch of grapes in the off-licence. They’re small enough to miss unless you’re looking for them, but each one is carved
with the same delicacy and talent as the clown and the cook.
Lizzie feels curious about this woodcarver leaving his mark all over the place. She wonders when she’ll finally get to see him, and where his shop is hiding.
Not everyone in Merway is friendly. Occasionally Lizzie comes across a bored shop assistant who barely looks at her – and Angela has told her to watch out for Gráinne in the
newsagent’s. ‘Odd as two left feet – a cousin or something of Brian, who owns it. But she’d pick a fight with Nelson Mandela if he had the misfortune to wander in –
give out to him for divorcing Winnie or something. My advice: grab your paper and don’t hang around, or she’ll find something to moan about.’
On the whole, though, Lizzie decides that she’s made a good choice in Merway. It isn’t really too small, even if word does travel fast. She likes the idea of being a stone’s
throw from everything. The pebbly beach at the bottom of the garden – fourteen paces from the caravan door – is a huge bonus. And she’s only seven or eight miles from Seapoint,
which is almost as big as Kilmorris.
After just a couple of weeks here, she’s getting to know people and settling in. The caravan is just grand, plenty big enough for her and Jones, and cosy with the gas fire on. The picture
on her telly is a bit snowy – Angela says it’s probably because she’s so near the sea – but she doesn’t watch it half as much as she did at home, anyway. Angela and
Deirdre are lovely to have around. And, after a shaky start, Dumbledore and Jones are slowly learning to tolerate each other.
On Sunday evening, the end of her second week in Merway,
He looks over at her, eyebrows raised. ‘You have good taste. That was made by a very skilled craftsman. Lives near here, in fact.’
She nods. ‘Yes, I’ve seen more of his work – a little clown, and a cook; at least, I’m assuming they were all done by the same person.’
He looks thoughtfully at her. ‘A clown and a cook – now where would they be?’ Then his face clears. ‘Ah, you mean the ones in Angela’s house.’
‘Yes.’ She’s surprised; how could he have known about the cook? The clown, maybe – it’s in the restaurant for all to see; but the other one is in the kitchen, where
no one goes except the overnight guests. And, presumably, friends of Angela’s.
She glances at him again. He’s a good-looking man, a bit older than her; early fifties, she’d say. Dark hair, almost black, cut very short; jeans and a faded green shirt. No wedding
ring. Maybe he has breakfast in Angela’s kitchen now and again . . .
Lizzie remembers something. ‘He has a shop around here, hasn’t he? The woodcarver, I mean.’
He pauses, her change in his hand. ‘Well, yes and no . . . Tell you what, keep an eye out as you walk around the shops – you’ll find a few surprises in the windows.’ Then
he hands her her change. ‘Thanks; see you again. You’re staying at Angela’s, I believe.’
She looks at him in surprise again, and he grins. ‘Maggie was talking.’
She walks out, bemused. So this is what living in a village is like. And what did he mean, ‘Yes and no,’ when she asked him about the woodworker having a shop? Either he has or he
hasn’t. And what was all that about surprises in the shop windows?
As she leaves Ripe, she comes face to face with the scruffy young man who was in the pub at lunchtime the other day. She holds the door open for him and he walks through without thanks, leaving
a smell of stale cigarettes behind him. Charming.
It doesn’t take her long to find the surprises. In the corner of practically every shop window is a little carving: a Cinderella slipper in the shoe shop, a chubby piglet in the
butcher’s, a pair of scissors in the hairdresser’s, a bunch of grapes in the off-licence. They’re small enough to miss unless you’re looking for them, but each one is carved
with the same delicacy and talent as the clown and the cook.
Lizzie feels curious about this woodcarver leaving his mark all over the place. She wonders when she’ll finally get to see him, and where his shop is hiding.
Not everyone in Merway is friendly. Occasionally Lizzie comes across a bored shop assistant who barely looks at her – and Angela has told her to watch out for Gráinne in the
newsagent’s. ‘Odd as two left feet – a cousin or something of Brian, who owns it. But she’d pick a fight with Nelson Mandela if he had the misfortune to wander in –
give out to him for divorcing Winnie or something. My advice: grab your paper and don’t hang around, or she’ll find something to moan about.’
On the whole, though, Lizzie decides that she’s made a good choice in Merway. It isn’t really too small, even if word does travel fast. She likes the idea of being a stone’s
throw from everything. The pebbly beach at the bottom of the garden – fourteen paces from the caravan door – is a huge bonus. And she’s only seven or eight miles from Seapoint,
which is almost as big as Kilmorris.
After just a couple of weeks here, she’s getting to know people and settling in. The caravan is just grand, plenty big enough for her and Jones, and cosy with the gas fire on. The picture
on her telly is a bit snowy – Angela says it’s probably because she’s so near the sea – but she doesn’t watch it half as much as she did at home, anyway. Angela and
Deirdre are lovely to have around. And, after a shaky start, Dumbledore and Jones are slowly learning to tolerate each other.
On Sunday evening, the end of her second week in Merway,
Similar Books
