People We Love by Jenny Harper

Author:Jenny Harper
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781783753963
Publisher: Accent Press
Published: 2015-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Catalogue number 30: Black leather brogues. Donor, Arthur Donnelly, Edinburgh. ‘In October 1986, I was a journalist, attending the meeting in Reykjavik between Reagan and Gorbachev that marked the beginning of the end of the Cold War. I followed the two men into the press conference, my shoes treading where theirs trod. My partner finds my reluctance to part with these shoes overly romantic, but I felt I was walking in a moment in history.’

By the end of July, Lexie was settling into a new rhythm of life. She ate, slept and breathed her work. Early in the morning, she tumbled out of the bed that had been her one extravagant purchase. The bedroom had been cleaned and painted white, and was graced with a threadbare rug from the attic at Fernhill. She liked the fact that it was worn and aged. Many feet had padded across this rug – her ancestors, probably. She liked the idea that she’d brought her past with her, that she hadn’t severed all links with her family, even in making the break from home.

She bathed in the roll-top bath, which had been made respectable with the assistance of strong detergents and elbow-grease. She made toast in the kitchen. She loved the kitchen. She’d painted the walls white, spent precious hours sanding the old dresser and giving it a coat of duck-egg emulsion, and she’d hung a new cream-spotted cotton curtain in a matching shade under the wooden counter top to conceal her few kitchen necessities. It was basic, but it worked.

Martha drove over every few days, usually with another small consignment of shoes, all meticulously catalogued. Lexie had turned the large walk-in cupboard opposite the bathroom into a computer room and her mother was helping out by photographing the shoes and scanning in any letters, old photographs or other sentimental items sent with them.

One morning Lexie was pulling on her old painting clothes when there was the toot of a horn. She peered outside.

‘Thought I’d do this while I could,’ Cameron said, jumping down from the cab of the Pettigrew’s lorry.

‘What? What are you talking about?’ Lexie laughed, bemused, as Cameron crunched her into his arms and dropped a light kiss on the top of her unbrushed hair.

‘I’m leaving Pettigrew’s. My uncle wants me back on his farm.’

‘Brilliant! Isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘Sure. Look,’ he followed Joe McPhail’s bulky form round to the back of the lorry and watched as the roll-door rattled up noisily.

‘What’s this?’

‘Your dad says it’s damaged stock.’

‘Stop gabbing, man,’ Joe called, ‘and get on with it.’

The pine table that appeared was small and utilitarian. Lexie recognised it – it had been sitting neglected in the corner of the store for some time – but she didn’t mind its plainness, it would be perfect in the kitchen. Four chairs followed.

‘Wow. I can sit down to eat!’

A bulky sofa emerged from the van. It was a dull brown, but it looked extremely comfortable.

‘Where d’you want this?’

‘And these armchairs?’

‘Did Dad really say

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