Soon she had transformed a pile of cardboard into a storm-tossed fishing boat, complete with splintering boards and faded paint. A stack of cereal boxes became a miniature pastel-paintedharbour, with hand-drawn signs for the shops, and puns for the eagle-eyed audience members to spot. She built a stone circle out of chicken wire and papier-mâché and cliffs from cardboard, a backdrop of crashing waves from material and a silhouetted Jamaica Inn, sign swinging ominously.
And then, of course, there were the fish for Tom Bawcock’s boat. There were to be hundreds of them, three-hundred-and-fifty to be exact, all to spill across the stage in a sparkling shoal. She had to enlist most of Year 4 for that. She could imagine how cool it would look, the audience gasping in amazement.
Her fingers were constantly covered in glue and paint. But for the first time in months, Ivy wasn’t dreading each day, steeling herself for blank glances and eye rolls. She had to admit doing the props was kind of … fun.
The kids of Fox Bay rose to the challenge Trip set them. Ivy saw them studying their lines at bus stops and in the playground, reading their highlighted script with serious faces, lips moving silently as they committed their parts to memory. One boy called Miles, who was playing Merlin, even claimed to be growing a beard.
‘That’s some serious method acting,’ Trip told him.
Ivy didn’t see Trip much. Occasionally she caught glimpses of him at the town hall – mid-rehearsal, gently guiding the kids back to their marks, discussing technical issues with Callum or earnestly explaining the dramatic subtext of a scene to a group of seven-year-olds dressed as sardines. Always cheerful and upbeat, and managing, somehow, to get the best out of everyone.Brooke hadn’t been wrong when she had said that Trip could pull this off, Ivy thought.
His enthusiasm caught on. Posters for the show, designed by Ivy, printed by Kate and extravagantly coloured-in by Bethie and Liv, started to be splashed all over the town. Lou had promised to provide catering as her contribution to the library fund. Simi had promised wine for an after-party. The Seafoam Serenaders agreed to do the music and had even located an authentic folk band to help after the last one went on strike. The theatre critic for theFox Bay Sentinel, an elderly man called Magnus who had refused to see the last three shows on the grounds that they were rumoured to have been simply too awful, had agreed to be in the audience on the big night. There was a buzz in the town and it was all down to Trip.
Ivy told herself she wasgladshe was seeing a bit less of him this week. His relentless good mood would surely have started to wear thin. Besides, she still had an art project to pin down. As well as working on the show, she was desperately throwing ideas around in her head, googling concepts and themes, even ransacking the eclectic art book section at Wildest Dreams in between serving customers. Words swirled in her brain.Impermanence.Ephemerality. Ideas would strike, only for her to realise a little later how stupid they were.
She couldn’t help returning to Trip’s question the night they had walked through Fox Bay in the winter darkness. ‘Why don’t you ever draw Fox Bay?’More and more she found herself picking up her sketchbook to capture something in front of her: a childdressed as an octopus; Simi on a ladder stringing fairy lights above the door at the Mariner’s, her and Lou exchanging a brief kiss during a busy shift; Mei, headpiece on, barking orders; Callum, eyes closed as he conducted the Fox Bay youth choir in the carol section; Erin snorting with laughter at one of the children calling St Piran ‘St Piranha’.
And when things were quiet at Wildest Dreams she’d draw things she remembered: children, lost in a book, heads bent together over the pages; Aunt Josie doing her mantras before the shop opened; the cups of tea and melting candles. All of the cluttered cosy charm that she associated with Wildest Dreams and the quirky characters of Fox Bay would pour out on to the page. At least she was enjoying herself, she thought, although it didn’t add up to a project of any sort.
‘Morning, Ivy,’ said Fin, dropping on to a stool across from her on Thursday morning as he set down Josie’s sourdough. His eyes drifted to the open sketchbook on the counter. ‘Is this part of your big project Josie was telling me about?’
Ivy groaned. ‘This? No, I wish. It’s just scrappy sketches. Silly stuff. It’s not worth—’
But Fin had already pulled the sketchbook gently towards him, flipping through the pages. Ivy watched him. Fin was an artist and had been selling rugged seascapes of the area around Fox Bay for years, some for serious money. He might not be her tutor, but Ivy suddenly found herself anxiously wondering what he thought of her work.
She watched as the images flicked before her. A kid in aseagull costume mid-squawk. Brooke frowning over her emails, coffee gripped in her hand. Trip laughing. The beach, the boats, the Stargazy Pie. Ivy’s notes were scrawled in the margins – snatches of overheard dialogue, music that was playing.
Fin kept turning pages, slower now, eyes keen as he assessed the pictures. Ivy found herself holding her breath. Eventually, he closed the book, resting a hand on it.
‘Ivy,’ he said, looking up at her, ‘these arereallygood.’
She flushed. ‘It’s just stuff I didn’t want to forget.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘There’s real heart in these. Real warmth. And a wicked sense of humour. That sketch of Bill in the pub – you can hear the tall tales he’s spouting just looking at it.’
Ivy laughed, surprised and a little embarrassed. ‘Fin. They’re only silly. They don’t add up to anything proper.’
‘I disagree. There’s a lot to be said for capturing ordinary life like this. The small stuff. Like a story without words.’
Ivy looked down at the book. For the first time this year, she felt a spark of confidence returning, a small flame licking into life.
‘Maybe I’ll keep going then,’ she said shyly.
Fin nodded. ‘You should. Not every masterpiece has to be brooding and abstract, you know. There are plenty of small ones. Sometimes the magic’s in showing life as it is. You can’t force something that isn’t there, Ivy. I’ve always been drawn to painting the sea and I can’t imagine anything bigger or more endlessly interesting than that. If I tried to do something else … it would ring hollow. Maybe you like drawing people doing everydaythings. For now, anyway.’ He winked. ‘Even artists are allowed to change their minds, you know.’
Ivy nodded, storing the words away to think about later. ‘Thanks, Fin.’
He stood. ‘Don’t thank me. Just keep drawing. The world’s weird and funny and beautiful and you’ve got an eye for all of that.’
And with that, he was gone, leaving Ivy alone with her sketchbook and the warm loaf of bread. The unexpected praise settled on her. She felt cheerful and encouraged. Whether or not there was a project in this, it nevertheless feltright.
She flipped to a fresh page of the sketchbook and began to draw.
Later that morning, Brooke marched down the stairs while Ivy was pricing up a handful of remaindered paperbacks. ‘What,’ she said, dropping a photocopied flier down on the counter, ‘is this? Because I don’t recall you adding it to my list of must-see Fox Bay highlights, Ivy. Have you been holding out on me?’
Ivy turned the flier round.See Fox Bay Come Alive With Winter Magic!the flier screamed in comic sans font. Two snowmen danced with pointing disco fingers on either side.
‘Oh, that’s just the Fox Bay Winter Wonderland opening,’ Ivy explained. ‘It’s tonight, I guess.’
