‘Honeymooners,’ she whispered out the corner of her mouth, her gaze indicating the young couple rifling through the postcard prints near the door.’
‘How do you know? ‘Rhodri looked bemused.
‘Sappy expressions on their faces.’
He laughed. ‘You’re right I reckon. Him?’ Rhodri asked playing the game as he nodded toward a middle-aged man with a T-shirt stretched tight over his belly. He was trailing behind a woman, his wife presumably, and looked like he would rather be somewhere else.
Isabel grinned and whispered. ‘She’s got him on a strict diet, and all he can think about is how he is going to sneak away and hit the Mr Whippy parked along the waterfront.’
Rhodri laughed loudly this time, causing the honeymooners to look over at him disconcerted. ‘You’re good.’
Isabel spotted a big man, clad in the casual and unmistakable clobber of a tourist gazing up at a framed painting of a white-sailed ship in a harbour. He had a camera slung around his neck, but it was the cap on his head with Florida in white stitching that gave the game away really. Indecision was written all over his face.
‘A sale?’ Isabel mouthed at Rhodri who mouthed back. ‘I hope so.’
She couldn’t help herself; she’d done a one-day salesmaker course when she’d had a brief stint selling mobile phones before she left for Australia. You had to overcome your natural hesitation at talking to a stranger and put your friendliest foot forward. There was no room for being shy when it came to closing a deal, and Isabel had developed a knack of stepping a little outside of herself when it came to dealing with the public. It served her well pulling pints too, and instead of clumsy, anxious Isabel, she became confident, chatty Isabel. It felt like that was who she was supposed to be all the time, but she didn’t know how to be that girl when she didn’t have a role to hide behind.
This was no good, though Rhodri couldn’t just sit here sipping tea, she thought. He needed to sell the painting to the customer. A bit of sales pitter–patter was what was needed, she decided making up her mind. She put her tea down and leaving a bemused Rhodri; she moseyed up alongside the customer. ‘Hello there,’ she beamed, startling him out of his reverie.
The tourist looked bemusedly at the young woman with strange coloured hair who’d appeared next to him before replying. ‘Hi there.’
Yes indeed, thought Isabel, an American twang. She peered at the card under the canvas. ‘I see you’re admiring, Tidal Goodbye. Do you know Cowes, sir?’
‘We visited it yesterday. It sure was a pretty spot.’
‘You’re here on holiday?’ she stated the obvious.
‘Sure am. I’m with my wife, but she’s around the corner looking for presents to take home for the grand–kiddies. We’re following in my ancestors’ footsteps. Hale’s the family name.’
He looked at her as if expecting her to know all members of the Hale family from the Isle of Wight, personally before continuing. ‘Yep, we sailed from Cowes on the Hercules of Rye to Virginia in 1610.’ He announced this loudly and proudly, another clue as to where he hailed from. ‘Of course, we spread ourselves far and wide; I live in Florida these days. The Sunshine State.’
‘Ah, but if your family comes from Wight originally then that means you’re practically local!’ Isabel beamed. ‘And this beautiful artwork would be a reminder of your brave ancestors sailing forth to embrace a new life in a new world. A permanent visual treat to hang on your wall at home to hark back to your roots.’ She chewed her bottom lip hoping she hadn’t overdone it. The man turned his attention back to the painting. Only now, Isabel hoped he wasn’t admiring it because of its moody hues and delicate brushstrokes. No, now he saw the Hale family sailing forth leaving their home for adventures in a new frontier. In fact, that could be the the same Hercules of Rye leaving the shores of Wight for all he knew, dang it, that could be his great-granddaddy six times removed up on the prow there.
‘Hey there,’ he called over to Rhodri, ‘this here young lady has sold me on this fine piece of art. It’s part of my heritage, a conversational piece, that’s what it is. So how we’re going to set about getting it back home to the U–nited States?’
͠
Rhodri saw the American to the door, a satisfied customer whose artwork would be couriered to his home address in Florida. Isabel was hoping his wife managed to see her husband’s ancestors on the ship too and not the hefty price tag attached.
‘Well, you sure earned your keep. That was impressive sales work,’ he said to Isabel sitting back down and picking up the Jaffa Cakes. ‘Here have another. Sod it, have the whole pack!’
Isabel grinned and helped herself, she shouldn’t really, but she was a sucker for the sweet treats. The day was off to a good start. She sipped her tea and shot a sideways glance at Rhodri. She knew nothing about him other than that he had fancied a change of scene from his life in London and Pier View House had been a prime opportunity for him. Well, there was no time like the present, she decided still feeling rather bold after her painting sale. ‘So then, Rhodri, tell me a bit about yourself.’
He snorted. ‘You might as well have said, “so do you come here often?”’
She blushed. He was right it had sounded like a corny pickup line. ‘Sorry
