Somewhere Beyond the Sea
Miranda Dickinson
PAN BOOKS
For Mum
You’re amazing and I love you
xxx
‘I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.’
VINCENT VAN GOGH
Contents
Chapter One: Seren
Chapter Two: Jack
Chapter Three: Seren
Chapter Four: Jack
Chapter Five: Seren
Chapter Six: Jack
Chapter Seven: Seren
Chapter Eight: Jack
Chapter Nine: Seren
Chapter Ten: Jack
Chapter Eleven: Seren
Chapter Twelve: Jack
Chapter Thirteen: Seren
Chapter Fourteen: Jack
Chapter Fifteen: Seren
Chapter Sixteen: Jack
Chapter Seventeen: Seren
Chapter Eighteen: Jack
Chapter Nineteen: Seren
Chapter Twenty: Jack
Chapter Twenty-one: Seren
Chapter Twenty-Two: Jack
Chapter Twenty-Three: Seren
Chapter Twenty-Four: Jack
Chapter Twenty-Five: Seren
Chapter Twenty-Six: Jack
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Seren
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jack
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Seren
Chapter Thirty: Jack
Chapter Thirty-One: Seren
Chapter Thirty-Two: Jack
Chapter Thirty-Three: Seren
Chapter Thirty-Four: Jack
Chapter Thirty-Five: Seren
Chapter Thirty-Six: Jack
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Seren
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Jack
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Seren
Chapter Forty: Jack
Chapter Forty-One: Seren
Chapter Forty-Two: Jack
Chapter Forty-Three: Seren
Chapter Forty-Four: Jack
Chapter Forty-Five: Seren
Chapter Forty-Six: Jack
Chapter Forty-Seven: Seren
Chapter Forty-Eight: Jack
Chapter Forty-Nine: Seren
Chapter Fifty: Jack
Chapter Fifty-One: Seren
Chapter Fifty-Two: Jack
Chapter Fifty-Three: Seren
Chapter Fifty-Four: Jack
Chapter Fifty-Five: Seren
Chapter Fifty-Six: Jack
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Seren
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Jack
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Seren
Chapter Sixty: Jack
Chapter Sixty-One: Seren
Chapter Sixty-Two: Jack
Chapter Sixty-Three: Seren
Chapter Sixty-Four: Jack
Chapter Sixty-Five: Seren
Chapter Sixty-Six: Jack
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Seren
Chapter Sixty-Eight: Jack
Chapter Sixty-Nine: Seren
Chapter Seventy: Jack
Chapter Seventy-One: Seren
Chapter Seventy-Two: Jack
Chapter Seventy-Three: Seren
Chapter Seventy-Four: Jack
Chapter Seventy-Five: Seren
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
Miranda’s Favourite Sea-gazing Instagram Accounts
Miranda’s Favourite Sea- and Star-loving Artists
Miranda’s Guide to St Ives (and Beyond)
Miranda’s Top Ten Favourite Foods in St Ives
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Book Soundtrack Playlist
Plan Your Own St Ives Adventure
Chapter One
Seren
It’s still dark as I carefully pick my way down the sandy steps to the beach, the narrow beam from my torch the only guide for my feet. The rush of waves against rocks is deafening, and it’s cold – the kind of cold that sneaks in between the layers of your clothing and seeps into your bones. My hands sting where they hold the torch and the small red tin bucket I’ve had ever since I was a kid. I should probably wear gloves this early in the year; the Cornish early spring wind is unforgiving against my skin. But I like the wildness, the rawness of it.
This is my special place and I adore it all year round.
Walking down to an empty beach before the sun is even up feels like the biggest adventure. And even though I make the journey almost every morning before work, I’m still thrilled by it. For a short time the beach belongs to me, before the surfers and dog-walkers and fellow beach-combers wake and venture down onto the clotted-cream sand. I am queen of all I survey – even if right now that mostly consists of shadow and silhouette, with the faintest line of paler blue at the horizon breaking over the ink-black waves.
But I haven’t just come here to admire the view. I’m hunting for magic.
There are three special beaches where the treasure I’m seeking can be found. Two of them are close to my home in St Ives, but this one – Gwithian Beach – lies at the opposite end of St Ives Bay. I can see it if I sit on the harbour wall, the tall tower of Godrevy Lighthouse marking its location at the end of the sweeping bay far in the distance. But the journey here – and the impossibly early start it requires – is absolutely worth it for what I find on this beach.
Seaglass.
Tiny pieces of multicoloured glass, worn smooth by waves and time, that are hidden among the shingle, seaweed and driftwood strewn across the sandy beaches. Ethereal, like snowy-white, palest pinks, turquoise and mint; or striking – startling cyan, dragon-green and brown – they are impossible to resist picking up. When my dad first showed me them, almost a lifetime ago, I thought mermaids had scattered treasure between the rocks for us to find. I still think it’s spellbinding – and now I collect the pieces in my red tin bucket for the jewellery I make in my spare time. One day it will be my business, and I will conjure my own magic from the pieces of sea-treasure I’ve found on the beach. But my dream is on hold for now, so this is the best I can do.
I think I’m alone on Gwithian Beach. But my torch beam catches something lying on the sand that challenges my assumption. At first I think I’ve found a particularly rich vein of seaglass, but as the light follows the line of glass pieces I see it’s forming a shape.
Behind me, far out on the horizon, the first rays of sunlight begin to shine, and in the strengthening pink-gold light that slowly washes up the beach, I see the whole shape. It’s a star – almost complete. Its fifth point is missing. I look up to scan the brightening beach, trying to see if the person who left this shape is still around. But Gwithian Beach is deserted.
It’s beautiful. As I look closer I can see the care with which the starmaker has placed each tiny piece of seaglass. Why didn’t they finish it? It seems strange to go to so much trouble and then leave it incomplete. Maybe they ran out of time here, or were disturbed. Or maybe . . . I can hardly believe I’m even thinking this, but what if they left it unfinished for someone else to take up the challenge?
What if they left it for me?
I look down into my bucket at the handfuls of glinting, sea-smoothed gems I’ve collected this morning and feel a smile break across my skin. It’s too much of an invitation to ignore. I can’t thank the maker of this gorgeous star, but maybe I can show my appreciation with my own treasure.
In the earliest light of the dawn, I kneel in the damp sand and carefully place my own line of seaglass pieces to make the final point . . .
Doing this takes almost all the time I’d allowed myself to be here – my stolen hours before I have to return to the day and all the competing voices vying for my attention. It’s emptied my bucket too, the finds I’d intended for my bracelets all nestled in the sand c
ompleting the star. But it’s worth it. When I stand to admire my handiwork, my heart feels close to exploding. I don’t even feel the bitter March cold any more. For a moment, here on the golden-light-kissed beach with the sparkling seaglass star, all is right with the world. Nothing can touch me and no fears darken my day. For the first time in weeks, I just breathe. And suddenly, I don’t feel so alone – as though the person who left the star for me to discover is a friend I haven’t met yet.
I take one last look at the star down on the beach as I walk back to my car, still amazed by the gift of finding it. And I smile all the way back to St Ives . . .
Chapter Two
Jack
If she ignores me one more time, I’m going to lose it.
Never underestimate the sheer bloody-mindedness of a seven-year-old on a school morning. Especially when she has a maths test and the beach is calling. ‘Nessie Dixon, come on, please,’ I say – again. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve repeated myself since I woke today.
My daughter continues her improvised interpretative dance piece around her small bedroom, pyjama top swinging around her neck like a superhero cape – as far as she’s got in changing for school – and one trouser leg rolled up to the knee, which is the overnight fate of every pair of pyjama bottoms she’s worn since the age of two. It would be endearing if I didn’t have less than an hour to get her washed, dressed, fed and delivered to the small village school five miles away.
Mornings like these are the only time I wish Tash were here. My wife could do that thing with her voice where all games cease and order is restored. In the seven months since she died I’ve failed to master it. Sometimes it was just an ‘Erm . . .’ in that tone. Remarkable. There are so many things I don’t miss about Tash, mostly the yelling – but her ‘erm’ ability is a gap I’ve yet to fill.
‘Daaa-deee,’ Nessie says, in that singsong way that makes me want to hug and yell at her simultaneously. ‘It’s your turn now.’
‘No, ladybug, it’s your turn to get ready for school.’ I daren’t look at my watch. I know it’ll be bad news. ‘Come on. Please?’
Nessie stops twirling and gives me a stare that could refreeze polar ice caps. ‘You’re no fun,’ she states, hands on hips.
I’m inclined to agree.
On the way, Nessie chatters about the million-and-one things she has to do after school today. I half-expect to hear her mention ‘taking over the world’ as one of them.
‘And can we go down to the beach again tonight? After tea?’
Like I could stop her if I even wanted to. ‘Sure. If you eat all your tea.’
‘I will. We need to finish the star.’
The star? For a moment the rush of the morning school run, plus the list of everything I have to do today, fogs my brain, and it takes me a while to work out what she means. Then I remember. Last night on the beach we collected a handful of seaglass. The storm in the early hours had raked a harvest of sea-worn treasure further up the beach than usual. Nessie and I enjoyed a happy half-hour of beachcombing, and then I suggested we make a shape in the sand with our haul. Behind the rocks, just up from the line of high tide. Nessie chose a star. So we set to work.
Unfortunately, our artistic ambition was hampered by our seaglass-gathering skills, so the star only had four of its five points. Nessie wanted to find more glass, but by then it was getting too dark to see, so I said we should leave it. Perhaps if I’d brought an extra jumper for her or insisted we wear coats we could’ve stayed longer. But it was freezing, and the last thing Ness needs is another cold. Not with her asthma.
I hated leading her away from our unfinished magnum opus. It’s times like that I find hardest being a dad – when you have to be the grown-up and be sensible. I always feel a little like I’m betraying our true nature. Nessie understood, of course. But I still secretly hated it.
‘It will still be there, won’t it, Dad?’
‘I don’t see why not. There aren’t many people on the beach this time of year.’
‘I’m going to find the biggest bits and fill in the middle of the star, too.’
‘We might not find as much as you think, Ness . . .’
‘Er, we will. Because we are Super Mega Awesome Seaglass Finders.’
In that case, Nessie, we definitely will.
We make the school gates with three minutes to spare and I’m granted a swift air-kiss before she dashes off. Then, as she always does, Nessie stops in the middle of the playground, turns back and races into my arms for a huge hug.
‘Secret sign,’ she murmurs into my shoulder.
‘Secret sign,’ I reply, wanting to squeeze her forever.
Two and a half minutes to the bell. But I’ll forgive her the thirty seconds we lost.
Chapter Three
Seren
It’s quiet in the shop today. But then, most days it is.
I look around MacArthur’s and feel the all-too-familiar sinking of my heart. So much of Dad is tied up in this place, and while I’ve repainted the walls and rearranged the furniture, it still feels like his fingerprints are everywhere. I expect him to walk in at any moment, frown and move a display table three inches to the right. Or dust something. Or grab my hand and perform an impromptu jig. Dad was a dreamer, and his tiny art and craft gallery in its tiny courtyard just off Fore Street was the business he’d always dreamed of.
But it was never meant to be my business. Nevertheless, here I am. It passed to Mum three months ago when Dad died, and she had no idea how to run it, so she asked me. The business is mine in every sense except the yearly rent, which Mum pays from Dad’s now dwindling savings account, the tiny amount left in his business account long since used up. I’m determined to make the shop completely self-sufficient before we try to sell it on.
It’s hard work. Long days that often stretch into long nights trying to make the accounts a little less horrific. Through it all, those tiny scraps of light-catching treasure I’ve discovered on my beachcombs each morning help me stay on the right side of terrified. Because after the shop stuff is done, that’s the time my real passion can take over.
I take a small drawstring bag from the back pocket of my jeans and start laying out the seaglass pieces on the driftwood counter. Pale green, peridot, smoky grey and cobalt blue – a line of treasure that will soon be looped together with silver wire. It calms my mind, settles my soul.
Until the front door whips open like a gale has blown into the courtyard, the tiny brass bell above the door almost flying clean off its bracket.
‘I brought you coffee. Large one, with an extra shot. You look like you need it.’
My best friend Aggie breezes into the shop like a strong southwesterly, making my only customer turn in surprise. She’s on her break from the small coffee hut she owns just above Porthgwidden Beach, but she would appear to be in a hurry regardless of whether she was working or not. I love this blustery force of nature. When Agatha Keats arrives in your life, you know things are about to get interesting.
‘Hey, you. How’s business?’
‘Brisk,’ she grins, leaning against the counter and handing me a large takeaway cup of what I know is the best coffee in St Ives. ‘But good. You?’
The only customer I’ve seen all morning has gone, the brass bell still swinging over the door in his wake. ‘Could be better.’
‘It’s a blip, Ser.’
‘Long blip.’
‘It’ll pass. It’s early in the season – not even Easter yet. Whole town’s been quiet lately.’
‘Except for your place.’
Aggie’s silver charm bracelets jingle as she dismisses this. ‘I serve legal addictive stimulants for a very reasonable price. People will forget me once their coffee’s drunk. You provide art that lasts forever. You can’t rush that.’
‘I’d settle for the best coffee in town.’
‘Which is why I brought you one.’ She pats the white lid of the coffee cup. ‘So it’s not all bad, is it, bird?’
I have to smile. ‘Maybe not.’
‘No maybe about it. Drink up.’ She looks down at the seaglass shapes. ‘This your latest one?’
‘Might be. Like it?’
She gives me a look like I’ve just asked if the sea is made of syrup. ‘Like it? I love it! It’s gorgeous. Just like you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She fiddles with the price label on the display of carved wooden shell-shaped keyrings on the counter. I have learned over the years that Aggie’s fiddles always precede something she’s embarrassed about.
She’s inspecting the shells for a long time this morning, so I decide to rescue her. ‘So why did you really come to see me?’
She doesn’t even try to feign injury. ‘Can’t hide anything from you, can I?’
‘No, you can’t. Out with it.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Kieran today?’
I haven’t. Which is odd, as Kieran Macklin is usually my first visitor of the morning. He’s also the Third Amigo to Aggie and me, ever since our last year of secondary school. Whatever happens in life, and no matter where we’ve found ourselves, our bond remains solid as rock. Kieran’s a photographer, known internationally for his gorgeous images of southwest Cornwall and locally for being the best source of gossip; but to us he’ll always be the cheeky chap who crashed our drama club’s Christmas party blind drunk and quoting Shakespeare badly. And although he has a legion of devoted fans who follow his work on Instagram and Facebook, Ag and I like to think we were the first Macklinites. ‘Did he say he was over this way today?’
‘Should be. He’s doing a wall art commission for that new bar on Market Place – supposed to be overseeing its installation all week.’
‘He could be there already?’
‘Nope. I just passed it. No sign of life.’
‘Have you called him?’
The charm bracelets jangle as she runs a hand through her bright red and bottle-blonde-streaked hair. ‘Haven’t had time. Busy-busy, you know.’
Aggie Keats acting strangely is not unusual, but it feels like she’s being too dismissive this morning. ‘If I see him, I’ll tell him you were asking.’
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