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‘Ouch!’ Verity smiled.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out quite as ungraciously.’
‘No offence taken. Be easy on yourself. Grief is knackering.’
He started. ‘Are vicars supposed to use that word?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but this one does. It’s true though. Nothing so exhausting as grief. Coupled with all you’ve been through, plus you’re not sleeping, it’s not surprising you’re feeling at a loss. My practical advice would be to get yourself checked over by the doctor. Get some pills to make you sleep or, if that’s not your thing, go for long walks along the cliff tops. The sea air round here is famous for its ability to knock you for six. Pop by the church to talk to Winnie whenever you feel the urge, I try to keep the church open as much as I can. My number’s on the noticeboard in the porch if you want to talk again. Or knock on the vicarage door if you ever fancy a coffee. It’s only next door. I’m like a Catholic priest. Whatever you say is in confidence and I’m also non-judgmental and objective. If you give permission, I’ll pray for you too.’ She held up a hand. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not on a recruitment drive, although my Bishop tells me I should be. It’s my way of being of practical help. The doc gives you drugs, I get on my knees.’
Jago laughed. She wasn’t at all his idea of a church person. He wanted to hug her but wasn’t sure it was the thing to do. Already he felt lighter, as if by simply unloading a little had eased his path through. ‘Thank you.’
She smiled. ‘Just doing my job, Jago.’
He wasn’t sure it was the exact truth. He sensed she really cared.
‘You take care now.’ She rose to go. ‘Stay with Winnie for as long as you like. She’s the patron saint of joy and peace. I hope she brings you some. I have to go now.’ She grimaced. ‘Meeting. Besides, it’s freezing in here. Tell Merryn the answer to her question is, of course he exists, and to make sure she hangs her stocking up and keeps the chimney clear. Oh, and he likes a mince pie and some milk. I’ll be hanging up my stocking and she can come to the vicarage to check.’ Then she left.
He sat for some time, staring at St Winifred, feeling a peace settle round him. A peace he hadn’t felt for a very long time. He breathed out, watching his breath mist in the frigid air and turn yellow and crimson in the light pouring through the stained-glass window. ‘Thank you, Winnie,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help.’ He got up to leave and, as he did so, he could swear the saint winked.
CHAPTER7
‘STEP INTO CHRISTMAS’ – ELTON JOHN
Monday 6th December
In an attempt to take Verity’s advice on board, Jago decided to get some exercise. He’d never been a fan of gyms, so he took to walking around. It was good to explore and to get his bearings.
Lullbury Bay was cut into two parts, with the harbour and Christmas Tree Cottage at one end of the long promenade and the shops at the other. Both had steep narrow roads climbing up to the main road beyond. The main street served as the bus route to Axminster and the train station, and had a fair smattering of shops, including a gallery which he investigated with interest. To give his thighs time to recover from the steep hills, he strolled on the beach, unable to resist picking up shells and sea glass, adding to the collection on the kitchen windowsill. The shifting colours in the sea and sky fascinated him. As did the chasing clouds and the magical reflections on the wet sand at low tide. It was almost too much for his senses to cope with, but it was awakening his artistic instinct.
One walk took him along the cliff tops towards a nature reserve and a National Trust shop housed in a utilitarian hut. It was open and decorated with heavy swathes of gold tinsel and a miniature Christmas tree so he stopped, grabbed a Styrofoam cup of tea and some iced biscuits in the shape of snowmen, and enjoyed the view. From here, he could see a vast open expanse of churning sea and the narrow fingernail stretch of golden beach below. It was windy out at sea today, and the white horses were galloping in.
As he sat and made some rapid sketches, several dog walkers joined him and made small talk. Petting one exuberant but charming Staffordshire Bull Terrier, he thought a dog companion would be a good idea. He made a note to discuss breeds with Avril when he got home. It was important to find the right breed and the right breeder. He wanted to make it right for Merryn. For all of them. He’d enjoy having a dog too, especially as a companion on walks like this. Although breezy, it was no hardship to sit in the sun on the bench outside the hut, sipping tea and enjoying the view which was spread out before him. The Staffy owners departed and he was left on his own. Sitting motionless, he was enraptured as several rabbits emerged from the gorse scrub. Watching them with a smile on his face, he was enchanted as a small roe deer joined them. The sight soothed his soul. Surrounded by the soft green of plant life and the silver-blue of the sky and sea, his city life had never seemed so far away. He had no desire to chase it. It had been too long since he’d been able to sit and do nothing for a while, and it felt good.
The burden of grief was beginning to lighten. He didn’t think he’d ever fully get over losing his father, and in such tragic circumstances, but with Merryn settled at school and Avril disappearing off with her new knitting friends, he felt the weight of responsibility for them shift and ease slightly. Moving to Lullbury Bay was beginning to look like a very good idea.
On his return down the steep lane which ran parallel to the main street, he ventured, out of sheer curiosity, into the less pretty part of town. He was well away from the seafront, the cafés and tourist hot spots near the prom and the souvenir shops which were strung along the high street. Strolling past some tennis courts, he came across a large white block of a building which looked scruffy and unappealing from the outside but which boasted an enormous and proud sign declaring it Lullbury Bay Art School. Thinking it was closed, he made a note of the phone number and walked on.
‘Hello, my friend. Can I help you?’
He turned to see a middle-aged man in paint-stained dungarees and a beret addressing him.
‘You’re welcome to come in for a look-see if you want.’ The man stretched out a hand. ‘Dave Wiscombe. I’m the bloke in charge although it doesn’t seem that way most of the time. Come in. Have a gander.’
‘Thanks, I’d love to,’ Jago answered, surprising himself with his enthusiasm. It would be good to make contact with the artistic community.
He followed Dave into an entrance hall where there was a tiny reception and a long white-painted corridor. ‘What goes on here?’
‘Mixture of things. Still building the place up, really, as we get more funding in. At the moment we run a lot of courses. Painting, pottery, photography, graffiti art. We’ve got studios which we rent out to artists. Plus, we’ve our jewel in the crown which is our central space. It’s big enough for exhibitions. Had one or two very successful ones recently. It’s a versatile space, as you’ll see and our main earner.’ He led Jago along the corridor. ‘Some of our work’s on show.’ He gestured to the walls. ‘You can have a wander round afterwards, if you want, take a closer look.’
Jago had a quick glance as he walked. Hung along the white-walled corridor were paintings, black-and-white photographs, and some really skilled pencil drawings. He was impressed.
‘We’re getting the big space ready for a lantern workshop and then we’ll be doing the Christmas Craft Fayre, so the main studio doesn’t look up to much at the moment, but I can show you the pottery room and some of the other spaces. We’ve got a decent staff room too. What are you? Painter? Sculptor?’
‘How did you guess I did something artistic?’
Dave waggled his brows. ‘Oh I dunno, my friend. Wild guess. You taking our number down was a clue.’ He grinned and nodded to Jago’s hands. ‘And you don’t get those scars from pressing buttons on a keyboard all day.’
Jago spread his hands out and surveyed them. They were scarred from getting too careless with a glass cutter or soldering iron. His fingertips were calloused from hours of pressing and shaping glass into place and there were nubs on the joints on the first two fingers of his left hand. His fingers were long and slender, and his hands were strong, but no one could say they were pretty. ‘I make ornamental glass objects. Decorative stuff. Light catchers.’
