I don’t even have to answer my own question.
The game is on . . .
By the time I have completed the star, adding a mini-star of opaque and bright white seaglass in the centre, dawn has begun to break on the horizon. As the sun emerges, Gwithian becomes a palette of yellow and grey against black rocks and the shadowy grey-white tower of the lighthouse. It takes my breath away.
For a precious moment, Dad is standing next to me, the sand collecting in tiny comical piles on the scuffed toes of his old trainers. ‘If today can produce a sunrise like that,’ I imagine him say, breathing out the words as if he’s savouring each one, ‘just imagine what it can do for the rest of the day . . .’
Just imagine . . .
I hear the familiar flack-flack-flack as Molly shakes her damp coat dry. She licks her lips and blinks expectantly up at me.
‘Okay, lady, let’s go,’ I say, reluctantly leaving my memory of Dad at the edge of the surf. My heart is racing, despite what waits for me back in St Ives. Today I found magic. That’s all that matters.
Chapter Six
Jack
Work may be thin on the ground, but at least Jeb always has something to occupy me in the caravan park. He inherited it from his uncle years ago in quite a run-down state and has worked hard to modernise the static caravans, park shop and communal areas like the bar and the pool. But it’s a task that never ends: as soon as one bit is brought up to scratch, another thing crumbles.
One of the walls enclosing the car park has seen better days, so he’s asked me to rebuild the top section. In truth, I think he’s got wind of my lack of work and has found something to keep me busy. He doesn’t need to – he’s already letting us live in his chalet rent-free – but today I’m glad of his generosity. Rebuilding this wall is earning me another seventy quid, which will go a long way towards keeping us warm and fed.
At two p.m. I’m halfway up the ladder with a load of bricks when my mobile rings. In a move somewhere between sliding and falling with style, I manage to get to the bottom and answer in time.
‘Mr Dixon? It’s Gloria Masters from St Piran’s Primary. I’m afraid we’ve had a – situation – with Nessie . . .’
I’m at the school within twenty minutes. I can’t remember how fast I drove, only how grateful I am to the startled tractor driver coming the other way for pulling up onto the grass verge to let me pass and not swearing at me. Now I’m sitting in reception, I can’t even remember if I locked my car. None of it matters: Nessie needs me.
I’ve been dreading something like this happening since Tash died. Ness is normally so upbeat, so happy, but grief has the potential to ambush that. I’m running through the possibilities in my mind now, dismissing them in time with the relentless tick-tick of the clock over the window-shielded reception desk.
Did she miss a test?
No, we’ve been doing our best to keep on top of test schedules and the school have kindly texted me reminders. And doing well in all of her tests is a point of pride for Nessie.
Has she cheeked a teacher?
I’m not as certain of this one. Of course, it depends on your definition of ‘cheek’. Some might call it being cheeky. I would argue it’s one of Nessie’s most endearing features. But she’s a good kid: she wouldn’t set out to be cheeky on purpose.
I don’t think she would.
At least, I hope she wouldn’t . . .
Did she get in a fight?
No, not Nessie. She just isn’t the sort to use physical violence. I dismiss this possibility immediately. Not my Ness . . .
‘Mr Dixon – Jack – thank you for coming in so quickly.’ Gloria Masters gives me that smile from the doorway of her office. I’ve had a truckload of that smile from everyone I’ve met since Tash died. In Nessie’s head teacher’s case, it’s a little more worrying. Is she feeling bad that I lost my wife, or bad that I lost my wife and now my little girl is in trouble?
‘Where’s Ness?’ I ask before I’m even seated at her desk.
‘She’s with her teacher. She’ll be along in a moment. I just wanted to have a word with you first.’
Uh-oh . . .
I nod dumbly back, wondering how many trying-not-to-be-scared parents have occupied my seat before.
‘Nessie is a lovely girl, Mr Dixon. Very popular. Helpful and positive. Her fellow students and teachers are very fond of her . . .’
I agree with all of this, but none of it is making me feel easier about what might be coming next.
‘Which is why I’m most concerned by her behaviour today.’
There it is. My heart drops to the floor.
‘What happened?’
Gloria sighs. ‘Your daughter was involved in a disagreement at lunchtime that became physical.’
I can feel every nerve in my body twisting on edge. ‘Physical? How physical?’
‘She kicked one of her classmates.’
‘Excuse me? No. Not Ness.’
‘I’m afraid so. Caused quite a bruise. Now, I’ve explained to the other child’s parents that the situation is being dealt with.’ She narrows her eyes and looks down the long sweep of her nose at me. ‘So I am relying upon you, Mr Dixon, to address this issue with your daughter. I trust that we will not be seeing a repeat of this behaviour?’
‘Of course not,’ I say, more out of a need to get out of there than a genuine desire to comply. My mind is whirring. Why would Nessie kick anyone? She’s the most happy-go-lucky, non-confrontational kid I know. Something must have happened to make her react like that.
The weasel-faced school secretary ushers Nessie in, and I resist the urge to sweep her up in my arms and take her away from it all. I need to know what happened if I have any hope of dealing with it.
‘Nessie, I’ve called your father here to help us get to the bottom of what happened today,’ Mrs Masters says, eyeballing me.
That’s my cue. I kneel beside Nessie and try to get her to look at me.
‘Nessie – Ness – I’m not going to shout at you,’ I say, hoping to heaven that I won’t. ‘What happened?’
She is sullen; the spark extinguished from her core, her body slumped. ‘I kicked Brandon Travers.’
Oh, man . . .
‘Ness, you know better than that.’ I can feel the eyes of the head teacher on me, and wish I didn’t feel it was me under her judgement rather than my daughter. ‘We never hit or kick anyone.’
‘He deserved it,’ she says, her chin high – and my late wife is instantly staring me down, daring me to argue back.
‘Ness . . .’
‘But he did, Dad. He said, “Nessie’s got a dead mum.” And he kept on saying it, even when I told him to stop. So I kicked him really hard. Then he stopped.’
In that moment, I’m immensely proud of my little girl. Physical violence aside, her reasons have become noble. How dare any child be allowed to emotionally kick a grieving schoolmate? Charged with righteous indignation, I look up at Mrs Masters and Weasel Features, who have fallen suspiciously silent.
‘Were you aware of this?’ I ask, my even tone masking thick accusation.
‘The reason is beside the point . . .’ Mrs Masters begins, but the squeak in her voice registers a direct hit.
‘I disagree. Ness didn’t lash out unprovoked. She was defending herself.’
‘Brandon Travers has the bruise . . . His parents . . .’
I pull myself up to my full height, which thankfully is just enough to stare down at her. ‘And do his parents condone his harassment of a recently bereaved child?’ I let my stare travel slowly from head teacher to secretary, their reddening faces a reward. ‘Perhaps if they understood the full details of this incident, they might take up the matter with their son.’
‘Mr Dixon, Nessie needs to apologise . . .’
‘And she will.’ I glare at my daughter, who has just stuck out her bottom lip at me, ready for another battle. ‘As soon as Brandon has apologised for his remarks.’
As we walk back to t
he car, heads uniformly high, I bump my arm against Nessie’s. ‘I think that went well.’
‘I’m not sorry, Dad.’
‘I know. But you need to say it, ladybird. However much you think he deserved it.’
‘It sucks.’
I stop walking and stare at my daughter. ‘Where on earth did you learn that?’
She shrugs. ‘Uncle Jeb says it all the time.’
‘Well – he shouldn’t.’
‘That’s not the worst thing he says.’
‘Ness . . .’
She’s remorseless as she clambers into the back seat and fastens her belt. ‘It isn’t. Last week he said bummer . . .’
As we drive out of the school car park I make a note to chat to Jeb about his language. I’ve heard the full extent of his flowery vocabulary – the last thing I need is Ness repeating that at school.
She’s quiet on the way home but still races to change into jeans, a thick hoodie and red-and-white spotted wellies to go to the beach. As we clamber down the wooden steps from the caravan park, I’m praying our mystery starmaker has been busy again. Nessie needs magic after the day she’s had.
The wind drops the moment we’re on the sand, and I can hear the thud of my heart in my head as I follow Ness. Please let it be there, I plead with Gwithian Beach. Even if it’s the last one . . .
She’s far ahead of me now, skirting the rocks and splashing through patches of seawater pooling in the rippled sand. I see her slowing – looking down – and then . . .
‘Dad!’
Thank you, whoever you are. For Nessie. And for me.
Chapter Seven
Seren
There’s a buzz in town today. I feel it as I’m walking to Warren’s Bakery to pick up scones for a meeting with a supplier this afternoon. People smile at me as we pass; some offer a pat on the back or an encouraging word. It’s surreal, but I’m bolstered by it.
The first of what will be four crucial public meetings for St Ives takes place tonight. It’s time for the town to decide what happens to a building entrusted to its care. These meetings mark the culmination of a campaign my dad began, ten years ago. Except the person leading it this evening will be me. Dad’s sudden death three months ago changed everything in my life; not just because I lost someone I loved so much and inherited the business he left behind, but also because it meant I became the leader of a campaign to preserve our heritage.
‘You go get that bleddy Bill Brotherson, girl,’ the lady from the Cath Kidston shop says. ‘Send him packin’ back to Plymouth!’
‘Thanks,’ I say, my heart bumping over Fore Street’s cobbles.
‘He hasn’t a leg to stand on,’ the guy in Warren’s Bakery grins as he hands me a bag of still-warm scones. ‘We’ll stop his fun, won’t we? And those are on the house, Seren. Your dad’ll be cheering you on from the hereafter tonight.’
I’m not a leader. Or even a public speaker. But when Dad died the committee told me I was their only choice for the job. I’ve researched the topic and I have my notes prepared – backed up by the years of campaigning Dad did before. So, while I’m incredibly nervous about the meeting tonight, I have no intention of backing out. We’re trying to save a building of incredible importance to St Ives, and we’re facing a developer who wants to tear it down. People like Bill Brotherson only want to destroy our history to make money for themselves; Dad wanted to preserve it for the future, for everyone. I know whose side I’m on.
But before I face that battle, another one awaits.
The supplier I’m meeting is late, which doesn’t bode well. Recently MacArthur’s has been losing artists who have had stock with us for years. Dad collected people – he was passionate about local artists and craftspeople, and he wanted to bring their work to a wider audience. The problem now is that our customer base has shrunk, and our artists are getting nervy. Some people have just withdrawn their stock, while others have been havering for a while.
Faye Jesson-Lee is one of Dad’s longest-standing suppliers, but she’s become increasingly distant since we lost him. When she finally arrives I’ve been staring at the scones for twenty minutes, wishing I hadn’t bothered.
‘I need my stock,’ she says as soon as the door closes behind her. Talk about cutting to the chase . . .
‘Can we discuss this? At least stay for a drink?’ What I want to do is tell her she is rude, and remind her how my dad supported her work when none of the other galleries in St Ives would even consider it. But Dad would have tried to solve the problem first, so I’ll do the same.
She wrinkles her nose and eventually deigns to sit. ‘This doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind.’
Undaunted, I pour tea and hand her a scone she hasn’t asked for. I’m determined to make her realise the impact of what she’s doing, not let her grab her things and run. ‘I’d just like to see if we can come to a better arrangement. You’ve been part of MacArthur’s for many years, and Dad was always very fond of your work – I’d like to honour that if I can.’
Faye looks like she’s just been slapped. ‘I’m not saying I’m not grateful, Seren. Your father was most kind. But I can’t keep my work where it isn’t selling. And there are other galleries in the town who offer better rates.’
I’ve heard this before. It’s not difficult for those businesses to offer a better deal when they aren’t heavily in debt. They can also drop artists and craftspeople on a whim because demand is so great. I wonder if Faye has heard the same horror stories about them that I have. ‘Of course you’re free to take your work anywhere. We’ve never asked for exclusivity.’
‘Everyone knows your shop is in trouble.’
‘We’re not . . .’
‘That’s not the word in the art community. Your father was kind to many people. But frankly, his business should have passed with him. It’s obvious you can’t save it, any more than he could. I’m sorry, Seren, but if the shop closes I don’t want it taking my work with it.’ She puts her plate on the counter, the scone on it untouched.
In similar conversations I’ve had lately, this would be the point at which I’d start begging. But now I think about making the star on the beach this morning – of how I felt completely at peace with myself – and I just don’t want to bow to anyone any more. Mum won’t be happy, but if our artists want to leave, I’m not going to stand in their way. If they have so little faith in the shop my father built, and so little hope in my ability to save it, then I don’t want them to be part of it any more.
‘Fine. I’ll fetch the paintings for you,’ I say, rising from my seat. I turn my back on her shocked expression and start lifting her abstract canvasses off the wall, stacking them up on the counter. Then I fetch the five paintings we have in the stockroom and add them to the pile. Ignoring the gaping hole in the main display, where now only dust outlines remain of Faye Jesson-Lee’s work, I fold my arms and wait, head high, as she scrabbles to pick them all up.
‘And there’s the money you owe me for sales,’ she rushes, her cheeks flushing.
‘I’m sorry, we haven’t sold any of your paintings for months,’ I reply, the steel in my voice an unfamiliar sound. ‘You have your full inventory.’
No more. I won’t be held over a barrel by anyone. Let them leave.
‘Well, really, I . . .’
‘Let me get the door for you.’ I swing it open and stand, sentry-like, determined to see this woman off the premises. ‘Goodbye, Faye.’
I don’t move, don’t flinch until she has hurried out of the shop, taking her paintings with her. Let her go. I’m done with pleading for people to stay. It’s surprisingly easy to stand my ground, righteous indignation firing through my body. Only when I am certain she has gone do I slam the door and yell out my frustration, the echoes of it left ringing in the glass sculptures by the window.
By the time I get to St Ives Guildhall for the meeting, I’m more than ready for a fight. Even so, when I meet Aggie outside, my nerves are making an unwelcome return.
&n
bsp; ‘Ready for this?’ she asks.
‘As I’ll ever be. Is there a good crowd?’ I try to peer around her to see inside the hall.
Aggie blows her last puff of vape smoke, and nods. ‘Pretty big. Hearing Bill Brotherson was going to be here was the decider for a lot of people, I reckon.’
‘Has he arrived yet?’
‘Just. Cerrie’s making him tea and trying her best to be nice.’
Of all the people on the Save the Parsonage committee, I’m glad my friend Cerrie Austin was the one to greet the developer. While I know she dislikes him, her nature is impeccably fair. Perhaps it’s because she sees the child in everyone and responds to that with her teacher’s approach. It’s a devastatingly effective approach, too: I’ve seen her reduce bolshie adults to doe-eyed kids in minutes.
Inside, the committee and residents are mingling around the refreshment table, but already I can see the divide. It’s in the way people stand, the surreptitious glances across the room, an unspoken sorting into ‘us’ and ‘them’. I don’t know whether to be heartened by this or a little scared. Most people I know don’t want the Rectory Fields development to happen, but there are other people in St Ives who believe it would be good for the economy. As a shop owner, maybe I should be one of them.
But the parsonage was once home to Elinor Carne – a parson’s wife, and one of the great unsung heroes of British astronomy. And although she’s a stranger to many now, her memory all but gone, this incredible woman has been part of my life for the best part of ten years.
Dad was a keen amateur astronomer – hence my name, Seren, which is Welsh for ‘star’. He built his own observatory, affectionately known as the Shedservatory, in our back garden when I was born, so I grew up learning to stargaze with him. The stars and the sea: a perfect combination that stole Dad’s heart first, and then mine.
When Dad was working in Grandpa’s pub, before I was born and before MacArthur’s existed, he’d heard local stories of the vicar’s wife who’d identified a star; but until a decade ago, he had never found any information about her. Then an elderly lady from Carbis Bay got in contact to share a bundle of journals she’d been left by her mother. Elinor Carne had been her great-great-aunt, and the books had been kept safe in their family for years. This lady was now the last surviving member of the Carne family. She’d heard of Dad’s interest, and wanted to pass them on.
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 3
