IN THE BRIGHT CORNISH LIGHT

Both Sara and her daughter Amy were mourning and it would take something ver y special for them to be able to move on

Sara Winter paused from turning the rich red earth. Her eyes followed a flock of clouds like sheep running for home. Her ears tuned into the Atlantic surf beating against Cornish granite.

She became aware of daughter Amy leaning on the handle of her spade looking down at the ground.

“How long does it take to forget someone’s face?” she said suddenly.

The question left Sara stumped for words. Amy and Sam had been married only six weeks when the news came that his ship had been sunk in a U Boat attack. That was three months ago. Her own husband, Amy’s father, had died during the war of 1914-18.

She looked to where silvery white seagulls flew in tiered circles above the cliffs before answering.

“It varies. Sometimes it’s easier to remember at night when the day’s shut down and there’s nothing to intrude. That’s when your father’s face comes back to me.”

She swallowed as she recalled the way he used to look at her in a way that reflected every emotion that had ever passed between them, every memory shared.

Sara pushed the brim of her hat further back on her head. The sun was strong but squinting helped hold back the tears for herself and for her daughter. Two wars. Two widows.

“The secret is – if it’s a secret at all – is that I carry him in my heart, not on my shoulder.” She stabbed the spade into the ground with an air of finality. “Time to go in and find items for the fund raiser. The vicar’s wife’s depending on us.”

In her daughter’s bedroom, Sara watched as Amy ran her hand down the tweed jacket once worn by Sam, Amy’s husband. Everything else was piled on the bed.

“Are you going to let it go?” asked Sara. Amy pulled a face. “He supplied the measurements. His mother chose the material. He hated it but I’d like to keep it. I can see his face…”

There it was again, this need to see Sam’s face, to keep the memory alive.

Sara sighed. “He’d want you to get on with your life, Amy. Someone else will come along, just you wait and see.”

Amy eyed her mother almost accusingly. “It didn’t happen for you.”

The tweed jacket was returned, the only item of Sam’s left in the wardrobe.

The sudden fluttering of white wings drew Sara’s glance to the roof of what had been a cow byre that Amy had made into a studio. It planted an idea in her mind.

“They also want bric a brac, plants, any old furniture – pictures even. People like a nice picture to brighten their room. Perhaps you could root around in the studio and find any paintings you don’t want. Better than gathering dust. Somebody will love them.” “I don’t know that I want to go in there.” Sara persisted. “If they do sell, it might inspire you to paint some more.”

“I’m not sure I can begin painting just yet.” Amy was holding a shirt tightly to her chest. Sam’s of course.

“Let’s see what there is for now.”

After supper they visited the studio. The smell of linseed and paint overlay the mustiness of a place not used for a while. A row of finished canvases were propped against the wall. None were huge scale but a size that wouldn’t look out of place on a cottage wall.

At the far end her easel sat starkly in front of an arched window that seemed to be a painting in its own right, the blue sky glowing with the onset of sunset.

Sara wandered around, touching some of the paintings. Some had been painted before Amy had married Sam. One was of children running along the cliff top, multi coloured kites flying high behind them. Another of two women huddled beneath a sunshade deep in conversation.

“I like this,” said Sara. “It makes me wonder what they were talking about.”

Sara indicated one where a smartly dressed child was licking an ice cream, three less well dressed children looking on longingly. Amy made no comment. Sara turned to see her staring at a painting of Sam standing on the cliff top, his white shirt billowed by the wind, his laughing face facing her. Sara recalled the white shirt she’d hugged back at the house and knew beyond doubt that it was the same shirt.

Bypassing this one, they agreed on the kite fliers, the child licking the ice cream and the two women engrossed in a secret conversation beneath a sunshade.

“You really should start painting again,” said Sara encouragingly.

Grim faced, Amy grabbed the door handle and slammed the door shut.

“Something very special has to happen before I do that.”

It was his unusual name that instantly struck her – Jack Blizzard

On the day of the fundraiser the church hall bustled with people looking to buy. The proceeds were to go to evacuees in need of clothes. Many had done their bit unpicking old jumpers and cutting down men’s and women’s clothes to make children’s garments, adapting old fashioned coats into a more modern style for women.

Amy’s pictures were hanging on the wall with a notice underneath saying Open to Offers. Amy scowled.

“A cup of tea first, I think,” said Sara. “I’m going outside for some fresh air.” Left alone, Sara went for one last look at the paintings, lingering over those she liked best. “So which is your favourite?” The American accent took her by surprise. His eyes were the colour of chocolate and his thick white hair reminded her of a lion’s mane. Sara took a deep breath. “I think it has to be the two women under the sunshade. I’d love to know what they’re saying.”

He tilted his head to one side and studied the painting.

“They’re gossiping about a woman who’s having an affair. Women do that.” Sara blushed. “How could you know that?” His teeth flashed white when he smiled down at her.

“They’re whispering.” He turned back to it. “I like it a lot.” “Are you going to buy it?” His smile persisted. “I already have. All three of them in fact. And I paid a good price. Five pounds each.”

Sara met his direct gaze and swelled with pride. “That’s very generous of you. My daughter painted all three.” He looked pleasantly surprised.

“I just loved all three the moment I saw them. Is she still painting?”

Her expression clouded. Her smile disappeared. “Alas, no. Her husband was killed on convoy duties. They hadn’t been married for very long.”

His eyes clouded with sympathy.

“I’m sorry. I can understand how she feels. I lost my wife. Illness, not war.”

“I lost my husband to the Great War.” His look was steady and there was something about it that made her feel she was wrapped up in a warm blanket.

“Look, I’m going to confess I didn’t just buy those paintings to aid a good cause. I run an art gallery in London. Do you think your daughter might resume painting at some time?”

“Eventually, at least I hope she does.” He began rummaging in his coat pocket. “Here. My card. Let me know when there’s some finished work to sell. I’d be very interested. I guarantee to pay a good price for anything she produces.”

It was his unusual name that instantly struck her. “Mr Blizzard?”

“Call me Jack.”

Amy chose that moment to come back into the hall. Her gaze flicked between her mother and the distinguished man standing next to her.

Sara explained. “Mr Blizzard owns a gallery in London. He’s bought all of your paintings – and he wants more.”

“Whenever you’re ready that is,” added Jack Blizzard.

Sara remembered what Amy had said when they’d paused in the doorway of the studio about wanting something special to happen before she recommenced painting. An idea immediately popped into her mind.

“How about you come to dinner tomorrow night?”

He smiled and that warm blanket feeling hit her again. “I will.” Jack Blizzard looked at his wrist watch. “Time to go I suppose.” “Yes. We’ll see you at seven?”

“Seven would be perfect.”

He arrived driving a dark green sports car bringing with him a bottle of port and a box of chocolates.

Sarah was astounded. “Wherever did you get these?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “I have contacts in the West End of London. A French chocolatier in fact. I think the supply of raw chocolate got air lifted from France at the same time he did.”

“Wonderful!” Sara put the chocolates to one side.

He sniffed the air. “Something sure smells good.”

“Chicken in gravy. With lots of vegetables.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Sounds good to me.”

Sara set glasses on the table and handed the bottle of port and a corkscrew to Jack Blizzard who immediately set about opening it. She asked how long he’d lived in London.

“Quite a time. I married my wife after the end of the Great War and at the same time joined my uncle in his art gallery. Art has been my life.” He smiled at Amy. “And I know good work when I see it.”

Amy thanked him but didn’t look that convinced.

“I suppose I’ve got Adolf Hitler to thank for finding your work. If we weren’t in the middle of a war, I would never have come across you.”

Amy’s lips set in a straight line. “I would prefer there had been no war.”

He raised his glass. “Then let’s toast to a swift and easy victory. Oh, I also do some air warden duty.”

Sara noticed he looked very proud of the fact, this handsome man wearing what looked like a Saville Row suit, his hair glossy as white satin.

“Quite a contrast with the gallery, I should think.”

He nodded. “It is, but I feel I have to do my bit. My son joined the Royal Navy. His ship was sunk fourteen months ago… fourteen months, three weeks and four days…to be exact.”

All three fell to silence. Amy looked the most taken aback, as though the wall she’d built around herself had begun to crumble.

“Water under the bridge,” he said suddenly. “And we owe it to their memory to carry on, don’t we? Here’s to their memories. All of them.”

They raised glasses and suddenly it was as though those who had died were in the room, out of sight but not out of mind.

Over coffee Jack outlined why Amy’s paintings would sell.

“People want a bit of sunshine in their lives, you see.”

“Cornwall’s got plenty of that.”

From Amy’s bedroom window Sara saw Amy enter the studio. She told herself not to get her hopes up, turned away and opened the wardrobe door. To her great surprise there was no sign of the jacket Amy had refused to let go. Her heart skipped a beat. Something special had finally happened for her daughter.

Her heart continued to race. Jack Blizzard’s dazzling smile burst into her mind like Cornish sunshine. Something special had happened for her too.