He frowned over. ‘Is that the one depicted in all those torrid Victorian paintings, with all the hair and dramatic robing?’
‘Torrid Victorian paintings? Wash your mouth out, Johnny Starling. Nineteenth century art happens to be a favourite of mine, especially the Pre-Raphaelites. They loved a bit of red hair.’
‘I can definitely see you in wind-blown purple velvet. Somewhere in my memory I can picture a painting of Morgan le Faye.’ He straightened, thinking. ‘Or was that Samson and Delilah? A head in a pot?’
Callie giggled. ‘Maybe you’re thinking of Isabella and the pot of basil. Samson got away with only his hair cut off, not his head. There’s a painting which is an illustration of a Keats poem of Isabella and her murdered lover, Lorenzo. It’s a Holman Hunt. Poor Lorenzo’s head was chopped off and Isabella buried it in a pot of basil and watered it with her tears.’
‘Jeez,’ Johnny said affably.
‘You may be a bit of a writer, but you know diddly-squat about art.’
‘Or Keats apparently. That poem slipped by me.’ He pointed his sparkly mauve plastic spade at her. ‘And here’s me having visited most of the major galleries in the world. A shocking admission.’
‘Then I’ll just have to complete your education.’
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
‘Whatever you want it to be. Now, get digging, King Arthur, or the tide’ll be back and sweep your castle out with it.’
For thirty contented minutes they dug, filled buckets and finally cut a channel to the sea which allowed the moat to fill.
‘If I say so myself, that’s a pretty good effort.’ Callie stood back. Rubbing her sandy hands vigorously down her shorts, she took a photo on her phone. ‘Wait until Frida sees this. She’ll think I’ve lost my mind.’
Johnny laughed, took a few pics on his phone and then slung a casual arm around her shoulder. ‘Love the crenellated walls. It’s a masterpiece.’
The girl with the flags approached. She had lustrous dark red hair and a beaming smile. ‘Hey. Looking good. Have your kids finished this? If so, I’ll take a pic and stick a flag in it. I’m judging them all at the end of the day.’
‘Thing is, we don’t–’ Callie began.
The woman did a double take as realisation dawned. ‘Oh yeah, Eli said. My little brother,’ she explained. ‘Grudgingly helping me out, claiming to be bored rigid. Think you’ve livened up his day no end. You guys entered yourselves, didn’t you? Fabbie. And you put in a really generous donation too. Can’t wait until I tell Jamie, that’s my husband. He crews on our lifeboat.’ She shoved the clipboard under her arm and thrust out a hand. ‘I’m Lucie. Can I say thank you on behalf of Lullbury Bay RNLI? If you ever fancy a pint of rough cider, you can find me and Jamie plus some of the other crew in The Old Harbour on a Friday night. Come on down. It’s a good craic.’
Callie took her hand and shook it. ‘Callie Thorne.’
Johnny stepped forward. ‘And Johnny Starling. Nice to meet you, Lucie. And thanks for the invite. We may well take you up on your offer. I’m writing an article on British seaside holidays. I’d love to get your viewpoint.’
‘That why you entered the sandcastle comp?’ Lucie giggled.
Johnny glanced at Callie with a conspiratorial smile. ‘It was one reason.’
‘Well, if you want the lowdown on Lullbury Bay, it’s no problem. Me and Jamie have lived here all our lives so what we don’t know about the town isn’t worth knowing. I was a Wiscombe before I married, still am really. Big local family, there are millions of us around.’
‘I know Dave Wiscombe from the Art School,’ Callie said.
‘My uncle. Have you entered the competition? Hang on,’ Lucie gave Callie a penetrating look. ‘You’re Calliope Thorne, the artist who does those huge flowery abstracts, aren’t you? They’re fabulous. I had a quick look-see when Uncle Dave was putting them up. I’d love one but haven’t the wall space. I live in a little flat next to the yacht club.’
‘I am.’ Callie blushed, embarrassed at being recognised. ‘Lovely place to live.’
‘It’s ace and handy for Jamie to get to a shout but it’s not huge. And I’m a student, so moving out isn’t an option any time soon.’
‘What are you studying?’ Johnny asked.
‘English lit.’ Lucie pulled a face. ‘Which I love as I’m a real bookworm but it’s not exactly going to get me walking into a job.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m an English lit grad. I’ve made a living of a sorts from journalism.’
‘Have you?’ Lucie looked animated. ‘I’d love to talk to you about all that sometime, if I can. I’d like to write books, but fiction doesn’t pay the rent unless you’re JK Rowling.’
‘Be more than happy to. Then I’ll–’ he glanced at Callie, ‘–we’llsee you in the pub.’
