Page 22 of The Bookshop at the Cornish Cove

‘Sounds good.’

I’d forgotten what I’d left out in the kitchen on the draining board, and when Dennis came back through, he was holding a large scallop shell in his hand.

‘Dare I ask?’

‘Well, you kind of did. They’re shells.’

‘No shit, Sherlock. I could work that bit out for myself. I just wondered why there were about twenty of them sat on your draining board?’

‘They’re drying.’

‘Again, I’m not a thicko and could work that out. But for what purpose? Maybe that’s a more straightforward question for you?’

This was something that was hard for me to admit to. I was a little bit embarrassed about this hobby. It was something I thought was quite amateur and probably looked awful.

‘I paint them.’

‘Uh?’ He screwed up his face. ‘You paint them. What do you mean?’

‘I’m a shell painter. It’s one of my many skills.’

‘What, so you paint them a colour and then what?’

‘No, I paint pictures on them. Pass me my phone and I’ll show you some of the recent ones I’ve done.’

As he handed me my phone, his hand brushed against mine and our eyes met. We both looked away at exactly the same time and I distracted myself by pulling up a picture on my phone. I took a deep breath before I handed it over to him sheepishly.

He looked at the image and then back at me. Studying the image again, and enlarging it on the screen, he focused in on the intricate painting I had done on the inside of the scallop shell. It was of a pastel-coloured beach hut on golden sands, with a turquoise ocean in the background, a shining yellow sun and seagulls gliding through the sky.

‘Jeez, Nance.’

‘I know they’re crap but they’re not meant to be professional or anything. It’s just something I like doing to de-stress. When I’m painting, it lets me shut off from the world outside. That’s all I think about. It’s good for mindfulness. It was something I started doing with my art class at school and I’ve just kept it up since I’ve not been teaching.’

‘They’renotcrap.’

‘Well…’ I looked at the floor. I never did like showing people my artwork. Not since Denise Wilson had ridiculed me in primary school and my ten-year-old self didn’t know how to handle the whole class laughing at me. It was one of the reasons I went into teaching. I never wanted a child to ever feel like that when they were expressing themselves.

‘Nancy, they are exquisite.’

I looked up and he was flicking through other pics on my phone, enlarging each one and studying the images.

‘Really?’

‘I can’t believe you are doubting me. Honestly, Nancy, they are stunning. Look at the way you’ve captured the total essence of Driftwood Bay.’

At that point, my mum walked in and we jumped apart. Surprise showed on her face for a split second before she smiled again.

‘Morning, you two. What are you up to?’

The word ‘nothing’ in unison was not particularly convincing and she raised an eyebrow until she saw the phone in Dennis’s right hand and an empty shell in the other.

‘Talented, isn’t she?’

‘Amazingly so. You really should be selling these, you know.’

‘Ah, Dennis, you are a man after my own heart. I’ve been telling her that since she’s been doing them. We’ve got bloody hundreds of them at home, and to be honest, much as I love them, I don’t know what to do with them. They’re definitely good enough to sell, but I just can’t convince her of it.’

‘I couldn’t charge anything for them,’ I said sheepishly. ‘They’re nothing special at all.’

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