converted to a studio in the nineteen seventies.
A man with a silver beard was working on a painting as she moved past the sculptures, glass and jewellery. From a faded photo in the window, Poppy realised this was Archie Pendower himself, the artist-owner of the gallery. Judging by the scrawly signature in the corners, many of the works on the knobbly walls appeared to be his. Poppy felt she could almost feel the spray on her face when she gazed at the stormy seascapes. Being oils, the pictures had no glass frames, so she could see the textures and colours in all their glory.
Behind her, she heard Dan’s trainers squeak on the tiled floor. Her heart sank as she waited for him to march up and tell her it was time to leave. She was well aware that their ferry to St Mary’s was departing in half an hour to take them back to their B&B on the main island. But Dan’s footsteps slowed and then stopped.
Poppy sneaked a glance at him. He seemed to be almost as mesmerised as she was, lingering by paintings and showing no signs of being bored. Relieved not to be hauled outside, she carried on exploring.
Although the walls were peeling and the display cabinets showing signs of age, the space still gave her the shivers – in a good way. Alongside Archie Pendower’s oils, there was work by other artists and makers. Every nook and cranny was filled with copper fish twisting through metal water, driftwood sculptures, bangles made of semi-precious stones and pendants with silver shells and sea glass in jewel-like colours.
At the rear of the gallery, Dan was now deep in conversation with Archie himself. Archie’s deep local burr was mesmeric and Dan’s voice was livelier and more animated than she’d heard him for ages.
Clutching a pack of postcards featuring Archie’s work, Poppy joined Dan and told Archie how much she admired his work. She hoped she didn’t sound like too much of a fangirl but the Starfish Studio seemed to have worked its magic on both of them.
At one time, while she was studying English at university, Poppy had harboured vague dreams about running a gallery. She’d actually spent one of her university summer holiday’s earning a bit of cash by helping out in a gallery – more of a gift shop really – at the craft centre near her parents’ house. She was well aware that an artist’s life was far from the creative bubble customers liked to believe, but she was still in awe of those who made their actual living being creative. She’d always enjoyed dabbling with crafts and spent far too long in the bead shop in her town. She was wearing one of her own creations today: a bracelet inspired by the colours of the sea.
However, when she’d left university she’d got a job as a PR assistant with a building products company and risen to be the communications manager. She still made a few pieces now and then, but work and a long commute meant she had less time than ever for her hobby.
She might laugh at Dan’s obsession with budgets and bulldozers, but her own job was hardly creative. On the other hand, it was how she’d first met him: at a construction conference a couple of years before. She’d gone along, thinking that it would be dull as ditchwater and almost decided to miss the final seminar on marketing on the first day. She was so glad she hadn’t.
Dan had walked onto the stage and Poppy had perked up immediately. Admittedly, she couldn’t remember many of the details of the presentation, but as for the presenter himself – the hour had flown by. He was tall and fit with toffee-blond hair and he reminded her (a bit) of Ryan Gosling. He came across as confident but not cocky, and he really knew his stuff. When she asked a question at the end, he answered it politely and explained his point without patronising her. Afterwards, he made a beeline for her in the hotel bar and while his colleagues were getting pissed, he spent the evening chatting to her. She was impressed by his ambition and his attentiveness. He made her feel special and, by a huge stroke of luck, it turned out they only lived half an hour from each other.
They made arrangements to meet up on a date, and six months later, they’d moved in together. Two years on, their lives were as tightly intertwined as vines and Poppy hoped they would always stay that way: growing closer and building a future together.
‘So, how long have you been making a living from the gallery?’ Poppy heard Dan ask Archie.
‘Too long to remember.’ Archie chuckled, caught Poppy’s eye and winked. He started to explain to Dan how he’d bought and converted the boatshed into a gallery while his family were young. He mentioned ‘while my Ellie was alive’ more than once, which must mean he was a widower now, unless the lady at the cash desk was his current partner.
Poppy glanced at her phone and realised it would soon be time to walk down to the ferry. With a smile for Archie, she said, ‘I must finish my shopping,’ and left him and Dan talking. After swooping on a few ‘must-haves’, she took her purchases to the counter. The assistant added up the cost on an old-fashioned calculator and put Poppy’s money in an old cash tin.
The assistant wrapped the fused glass starfish coasters in tissue paper. ‘Beautiful choice,’ she said, clucking appreciatively. ‘The artist who made these is inspired by sea life on the beaches around St Piran’s, you know.’
Poppy smiled to herself. She knew that engaging with customers made the items they’d chosen seem personal. ‘Really? I thought I’d seen a starfish like these on the beach the other day,’ she said.
‘They’re certainly washed up from time to time,’ said the assistant, popping the tissue parcel in a paper bag. ‘Getting the ferry, are you, dear?’
‘Yes, but I think we’ve still got twenty minutes before it leaves?’
The assistant nodded sagely. ‘About that. Anyway, it’s only a minute to the harbour and you should hear it tooting from here as it pulls in. Your man’s thick as thieves with Archie at the moment. Why don’t you carry on having a look round? It’s cool in here on a hot day like this.’
Amused at Dan being referred to as her ‘man’, Poppy picked up her paper bag, which was surprisingly heavy, and smiled. ‘Thanks. I think I will.’
While she waited for Dan to finish his conversation, she drifted around the gallery again. There were many more things she could have bought but she’d already spent more than enough and even if she’d had the cash, there was a limit to the amount she could carry back on the small aircraft taking them home to the mainland. She was probably over the limit already.
She lingered in front of a small painting almost hidden in a niche next to a spiral staircase that was roped off with a sign marked ‘Private’. The painting was only six inches square but she instantly fell for it. It showed the studio from the outside, bunting flying, with a ginger cat – like the one by the till – curled up on the veranda. The picture was perhaps ‘cuter’ than the landscape scenes in the studio, but it captured the essence of the studio perfectly. There was no price on it, but judging by the figures for the larger pictures, she guessed it wouldn’t be cheap. The artist may have considered it too twee and deliberately tucked it away in a corner, but it was still a piece of original art and she wasn’t going to embarrass herself by asking the cost when she most likely couldn’t afford it.
‘Well, it’s been great to meet you, Archie. Thanks for telling me about your work.’ Dan was shaking hands with the artist and smiling in a way Poppy hadn’t seen for a while. His job was stressful and demanding. This holiday had clearly done them both good and they’d needed it. She’d been very busy at work too – finding new ways of making drainage sexy was harder than it looked – and they both had a horrible commute through the increasingly clogged, polluted roads of the Midlands. Tiny, remote St Piran’s couldn’t have been a greater contrast.
The sun made her squint as she followed
