‘Right.’ She’s picking at a thread on her coat cuff now, and suddenly seems to have shrunk in height. This is not like her at all.
‘Aggie?’
There’s a long pause – and then the bomb drops. ‘Kieran and me – we had a – thing – last night.’
‘You and Kieran?’
‘Yep.’
‘What sort of a thing? A kiss thing? A something-more thing?’
She shuts her eyes as if the truth might escape from her lashes. ‘A kiss thing. And a going-back-to-his thing. And a several times during the night thing . . .’
‘Wow. Okay.’ Kieran and Aggie are my oldest, dearest friends, and while there’s always been a lot of inappropriate flirting between them, I’d assumed it was just what they did. This is a huge development – and I can’t hide my shock.
‘Yes. I know, don’t give me that look!’
‘What happened?’
‘He kissed me. Right out the blue. We’d been on the balcony at Fred’s, you know, like always; Buds and vapes and talking bollocks . . . And then – honestly, Ser, I don’t know what happened. He just leaned in, then I was kissing him back, then I was back at his . . .’ Her forehead drops to the counter and she groans. ‘I don’t know what I was thinkin’.’
‘My life . . .’
‘Yep.’
‘When did you leave?’
‘In the early hours. He was still sleepin’.’
‘Did you leave a note?’ I stare at her. ‘Text him at least?’
‘I just dashed to work. There wasn’t time – I didn’t know what to say . . .’
‘Oh, Ag.’
‘I’m a fool, aren’t I? And now he hates me.’
‘He doesn’t hate you. Maybe he’s just lying low.’
‘Avoiding me.’
‘Possibly. Was he – were you drunk?’
‘That’s the worst bit. Stone cold sober, both of us.’ There’s a flush of red above her eyebrows when she raises her head. ‘He said he loved me.’
‘Wow.’
‘I know. I just don’t know what to do with that. We’ve been friends all this time and he never said a word before. Has he ever told you about it?’
‘No, nothing. Oh Ag. How do you feel?’
‘I don’t know. Confused. Frustrated. Terrified I just lost a friend.’
‘But you must have felt the same last night?’
‘I did. I think I did. What if I took advantage? Just got swept up in the suddenness and left my brain at the bar?’ She’s pacing now, trying to make it look like she’s browsing the shop. It isn’t convincing.
‘Don’t worry. He might be shocked by it all like you are. He’s probably gone off with his camera somewhere to clear his head.’
‘Sophie and Martin are workin’ today and they think I’m nuts. I’ve been a proper cloud-cadet all mornin’. I took an early lunch just to give the poor kids a break.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry to put it all on you, bird.’
‘I’m glad you did. You can always talk to me.’ I spread my hands wide to the emptiness of my shop. ‘I mean, what else would I be doing?’
She narrows her eyes. ‘You all right, Ser?’
‘I’m fine. Why?’
‘Somethin’s different about you today. You had your hair done?’
‘No. How am I different?’
Aggie shrugs. ‘I dunno. Glowy. I haven’t seen you lookin’ glowy for months.’
I do feel brighter today. Finding the star on the beach this morning has made everything else feel easier, as if I’ve found a pocket of optimism I’d lost. I almost tell Aggie about the star. But I don’t think I’m ready to share it with anyone yet. It’s novel to have something that just belongs to me for a change, and it’s probably a one-off; one of life’s serendipities that sparkle up at you just when you need them.
All the same, as I’ve been working on my new bracelet this morning I’ve been wondering about it. I usually alternate between the beaches I visit, but I’ve already decided that tomorrow I will go back to Gwithian Beach. It’s the furthest away from St Ives and will mean a painfully early start. But I want to see if the star is still there. Just for me. To keep the magic a little longer . . .
Chapter Four
Jack
‘I’m sorry, Jack.’
I stare at the well-dressed, middle-aged man who, until thirty seconds ago, was my best customer. I’ve done regular building jobs for Charlie Smith for the last five years and was counting on his help again.
‘Are you sure? I can do anything, you know. Gardening, handyman stuff . . .’
Charlie shifts position as though an awkward burden balances on his shoulders. ‘I wish I could, mate. But the estate’s hit financial problems and I’m having to lay off staff.’
And you’re not even staff, his expression says. It’s the truth: Charlie offered me a job a few years back, but contracts were easier to come by then and I thought I could do it on my own. Back when it wasn’t just my wage keeping a roof over our heads. Things must be bad at the Tremorra Estate if Charlie’s making staff redundancies. Most of the people who work across the historic house and its land have been there for years. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.’
‘It’s tough for everyone right now. If I can streamline here we might be in a better position in six months, but nobody really knows.’ His smile is kind, but a closed door. ‘Listen, if I hear of anyone looking, you’ll be the first name I give them, okay? I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.’
My heart is in my boots as I drive away. I’d banked on Charlie having work for me. Early spring is traditionally the time he asks me to repair and rebuild bits of the crumbling estate, before the summer season fills his holiday cottages and books out the hall for expensive weddings. He’s usually good for three or four weeks’ work at least.
I could kick myself. I was so confident of this job that I haven’t actively sought to fill my diary for the coming month. Now I have no work, and others will have snapped up any jobs going for the next few months. It’s my own stupid fault.
As my aged Volvo bumps along the rutted country lane leading from Tremorra, a bright orange light begins to flash angrily on the dashboard. Great. Another mistake. The drive out here is a bit of a trek but I thought it was worth it. Now I’m low on fuel, I have hardly any money in my account and I’m miles away from the nearest garage. Can today get any better?
I reach Hayle on vapours and fervent prayer, fill up as much as I dare and wait in the garage kiosk queue, flicking my credit card nervously between my fingers. I’d promised myself not to put anything else on the plastic; the amount I owe is too scary to think about. But I have to make sure I have money for Nessie’s food and the cranky old electric meter that eats 50p pieces, so I daren’t touch what’s left in my account. As the cashier turns the card machine to me, I swallow my fear and put my faith in the gods of Visa to rescue me . . .
When my wife died, I thought it would be easy to carry on. Well, not easy, but possible. I hadn’t banked on the financial mess she would leave behind, or the challenge of being a sole parent. If I had a salaried job it would be easier, but running my own business and trying to keep everything ticking over for Ness is so hard. I don’t know what will happen if I can’t find work. I’m not ruling out finding a job – or several jobs – to make ends meet. Dreams are the first thing you have to trade when reality kicks you.
The thing is, I want to believe I can make it work. I can do it, I just have to up my game. I won’t let Nessie down. I’m all she has.
By the time I’ve collected Ness from school and we’re driving home, I’ve promised myself I won’t be defeated by this situation. Despite everything life has chucked our way over the past seven months, Nessie is as full of life and joy as ever. Being by the beach has only magnified her happiness. I know she misses her mum, but the freedom and space she feels in our current home have gone a long way to comfort her. My mate Jeb suggested we move into the small wooden chalet on the e
dge of his caravan park overlooking Gwithian Beach last November, when our house was repossessed. It was out of season and quiet, he said, so we wouldn’t be in the way of paying guests. To be honest, I didn’t expect it to be as good as it’s proved to be. What it lacks in design and furnishings it more than makes up for in character and Ness adores it. Now spring has arrived, I’m getting nervous. It’s still early and Jeb’s unlikely to need it back yet, but when the summer comes, who knows? He’s a great mate and hasn’t said anything yet, so I’m making a point of not mentioning it. Or thinking about it. Or worrying . . . Nessie is in a good place now, and I have to protect that. I just need to work out how on earth I can do it.
It’s blustery when we get down to the beach after Nessie’s changed out of her school uniform. We haven’t waited for tea, my daughter being too excited to consider eating yet. She isn’t the only one desperate to get down on the sand tonight. I need the wildness of it this evening, the wind blasting away all the other rubbish in my head. Out here, as the waves crash onto the beach and the last of the sea birds call on the night, I can believe that the day’s problems are being washed away. I wish it were that easy. If only I could write it all down in the sand and wake tomorrow to find the ocean has smoothed away every worry, every concern, leaving nothing but a perfectly smooth, wide open shore.
Nessie is skipping ahead, the wind gusting her long dark hair in dancing ribbons high above her head. She loves the wildness of this place too, and when I remember to be thankful for the good stuff, this is one of the blessings I count. In our previous home she was cooped up in small, boxy rooms with only a postage stamp of a garden to run in. Here, while we don’t have much in the way of space in the chalet, her backyard is the vastness of Gwithian Beach. Part of me wishes we could be here without the shadow of money ever darkening our steps: just being happy and wild and free. But that’s an illusion. Like going on holiday and believing you could move there permanently. In real life, it doesn’t happen. Reality finds you, no matter how idyllic your surroundings. Unless I can secure our future, everything is uncertain.
I hate that. I hate that so much of this is out of my control. I like to be the one with solutions. But now it’s all on me, and I’m floundering.
‘Daaa-aaad!’
Nessie is over by the rocks near the weathered wooden steps that lead back up to Jeb’s caravan park, waving like crazy. I jog over but I’m clearly not fast enough: by the time I arrive she is cross-armed and despairing of her old dad.
‘I said hurry,’ she admonishes me.
I can’t help but smile. ‘Sorry. What is it?’
Her smile seems to illuminate the growing dusk shadows beneath the rocks. ‘Look! The mermaids came back!’
She’s pointing at the star we left half-made yesterday.
Somebody has finished it.
I feel a shiver of excitement as I see its perfectly complete shape, a glistening white quartz pebble at its heart. All the concerns of the day finally blow away, as we crouch down to look at the mermaids’ handiwork.
The mermaids. Another Jack Dixon story come back to bite me . . .
Since we’ve been in Jeb’s chalet, I’ve made a point of bringing Nessie to the beach after school. When the evenings get lighter we’ll come down later, but for now we dash straight to the sand as soon as we get back. Nessie was still in her school uniform yesterday, and it was heavy with damp sand within minutes of reaching the beach.
‘Let’s do something different today,’ she’d yelled over the sound of the waves.
‘Like what?’
‘Let’s make a star! Out of the glass stuff! A big one!’
I had shown her seaglass on our first night at the beach, something I remember from school trips as a kid. Back then it was magical – I wanted Ness to experience that, too.
‘It can’t be too big,’ I’d called back, looking at the darkening sky and the thin strips of sunset painting the underside of clouds across the bay. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’
Almost an hour later, with the torch from my iPhone our only working light, I’d finally persuaded Nessie that we should finish.
‘But it isn’t ready yet,’ she protested, strands of damp hair blowing across her face.
‘We can see if it’s here tomorrow.’
Her big eyes mooned mournfully up at me. ‘But what if it isn’t?’
‘We’ll make another one. A bigger one.’ She still wasn’t convinced as I coaxed her away from the seaglass star, so for want of something else to say, I added, ‘Who knows? Maybe the mermaids will see it and finish it for you.’
Ness has been obsessed with mermaids since she met the real St Ives Mermaid – a local lady who swims with a mermaid tail – at a friend’s birthday swimming party. Mentioning mermaids last night was a throwaway line, just something to distract Ness long enough to get her off the beach and home. But now, as we look at the completed star, I know exactly what she’s thinking.
‘It’s the mermaids, Dad! They finished the star! Like you said . . .’
I don’t know who did this, but I want to hug them. My little girl’s eyes are bright in the evening light, enormous with delight. She is the most Nessie I’ve ever seen her be. And that is more of a gift than I could ever wish for.
‘Wow, Ness,’ I say, pulling her onto my knee as we gaze at the star together. ‘You were right. The mermaids did come back.’ Her hair smells of the sea as she snuggles into me.
‘I knew they would. They know we’re here now, Dad.’ She pats my hand and a tiny wrinkle appears over the bridge of her nose. ‘And – even if they aren’t mermaids, even if it’s someone else, we’ll call them mermaids for now. Okay?’
It’s such a hesitant, grown-up thing to say and I wish she didn’t have to be on the cusp of reality. She’s seven but soon she’ll be eight – already kids in her class are starting to define what is and isn’t acceptable to believe in. Pretty soon I’ll get the Christmas question, which I’m dreading. I want to tell her magic is real and the worries of real life are transient, because that’s what I wish was the truth. I hate that part of being her dad is preparing her for losing her dreams. ‘For now we’ll call them mermaids,’ I say, giving her a squeeze. ‘And for as long as you want to.’
Chapter Five
Seren
It’s still dark when I leave home and head down the worn stone steps to the quiet street. There’s a low grumble beside me, and I look down to see my dog Molly puffing along a few paces behind. She lifts her head and observes me with doggy puzzlement, her thick tail wagging despite her obvious misgivings. I don’t always take her with me on my beachcombing walks, but this morning her soft head and huge eyes whipped up from her basket in the kitchen as soon as I passed. In Molly’s world, that’s volunteering.
‘You can go back if it’s too early,’ I offer; but my dog has just caught the scent of salt on the air, and is now waddling ahead to our small garage where my car is waiting, just down the street.
It’s strange, the smell of the sea. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Being so close to the ocean means it’s easy to forget during the week. I think you become accustomed to it, like the picturesque harbour and the quaint streets. But turn a certain corner in town and it suddenly, magnificently reminds you it’s there. I love that whoosh of salt and breeze straight from the waves. It’s the best wake-up call – and has soothed more than a few hangovers, too, in my life. I’m not hung over this morning, but my head is aching from too much thinking and not enough sleep.
I wasn’t going to go to Gwithian again this week – before I found the star yesterday. There are other beaches, much closer to home, that yield as much if not more seaglass. The harbour arches in St Ives can be treasure troves in the right conditions, for example, and they are a mere five minutes’ walk from my house. But I’ve been thinking about the star on Gwithian Beach since I completed it, and I need to know if it was the only one.
I have no real reason to suppose there are any more, but the child in
me wants to believe there might be. Maybe I just want to relive the thrill of finding it yesterday. Its discovery made my whole day better.
‘Magic is everywhere, Seren, if you look hard enough for it.’
Dad believed that if you really wanted to see magic, you’d find it.
I want to believe it too, now more than ever.
The cold wind hits me when I arrive at the small car park by Gwithian Beach, the door of my ageing Fiat 500 buffeted by a blast of icy, salt-tang breeze that almost blows it shut again. In the back seat, on her tatty blue-and-red-check travel rug, Molly cowers into the upholstery.
‘Come on, lady,’ I grin, reaching across the seat to coax her out of the car’s warmth. ‘It’ll be lovely when we get down there.’
Reluctantly, she huffs her way out onto the grass and sand of the car park and leans heavily against my legs, as much to find shelter from the bracing conditions as to show affection. I love her for even being here.
It’s dark on the beach and a little warmer, too. I’m wearing the head-torch that I bought for evening cycling but have found much more useful for early-morning beachcombing. As we slowly follow its beam over the shadowy sand, I try to remember the exact location of the star I discovered yesterday. The beach looks so different in the pre-dawn conditions; and anyway, the excitement of finding the seaglass shape all but obliterated my memory of where it was. The first two spots I head for are empty, and I retrace my steps as Molly grumbles beside me. And then my torchlight falls on a cluster of rocks I think are familiar. I scramble over them and stop in my tracks.
The star has vanished.
But something else is in its place.
A new star, its glass shard lines glimmering in the torch beam. And one of its points is missing . . .
The construction of the new star is almost identical to yesterday’s. Did they find the star I finished? Or had the sea or other beach visitors claimed it before the starmaker returned?
I want to believe they saw the first star completed and created a new one to see if I’d accept the invitation. It’s a tiny gesture that feels enormous – as if the new star is an outstretched hand. Dare I take it?
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 2
