Mum is in the kitchen when I get back from the shop today. She’s sitting at the table drinking coffee from her favourite mug, the yellow-striped Cornishware one Dad bought her years ago. Dad’s favourite blue-and-white striped mug now has a small white orchid growing in it on the kitchen window. Mum’s best friend Lottie suggested it and the idea appealed to Mum – a new thing growing from an old one.
‘Hi, Mum.’ I kiss the top of her head. She smells like roses.
‘Hi, sweetheart.’
I look down at the magazine spread out between her hands. ‘Good read?’
‘The usual. Hearts and flowers and country kitchens.’ She smiles up at me with sleep-stolen eyes. ‘My favourite. But I might pop down to the bookshop in Fore Street tomorrow and pick up something better to read. I fancy escaping into someone else’s world for a bit.’
I know how she feels.
I make myself a drink and join her at the table, pushing my work bag underneath. The account books are in there for me to go through again later – I don’t want her to see them yet.
‘How was your day?’ I ask.
‘Pretty productive, actually. Jeanie at Porthminster Interiors is interested in buying some of my quilts.’
‘Mum, that’s fantastic! I hope you said yes?’
‘I did. Haggled her up on the price, too.’ She looks pleased with herself, and my heart swells with pride for her. She’s coped with so much since we lost Dad. Most people would still be hiding away from the world, but not her. I think forward is the only direction she knows, so she’s just carrying on, one foot in front of the other, one breath at a time. And I haven’t seen her make any quilts for at least a year. She made a batch before that and was about to start taking them to craft fairs when Dad died. It put the brakes on everything and I wondered if she’d ever take the quilts out again after that. Time stops when you lose someone so full of life so suddenly. It’s hard to get going again.
‘How much?’
‘She’ll buy them for £100, sell them for £180. It’s all online business these days, she says, then a few in the shop in high season when the well-off Home Counties lot come down. She wants three a month, so that’ll help keep the wolf from the door, won’t it?’
There’s a scratch of Labrador paws on the slate tiles of the kitchen and Molly flops down over my feet.
‘We’re not talking about you, Moll,’ I smile, reaching down to tickle the warm velvet of her ear. ‘Do you think you could do it, Mum?’
‘It would keep me busy, that’s for sure. But I already have seven made upstairs, so I’d have a head start.’ She takes a slow sip of coffee and places her mug very deliberately down on the table. In our house, this is a sign of a serious conversation approaching. ‘Now. How are you?’
‘I’m okay.’ My voice doesn’t sound as enthusiastic as I want it to.
‘And the shop?’
The account books are as heavy against my right leg as Molly’s head is across my left foot. ‘Bubbling along.’
She frowns. ‘Seren May MacArthur . . .’
The steam from my mug is blown sideways by my sigh. ‘It’s tough going. We aren’t at the point of no return, but we aren’t fully solvent yet. I’m working on it.’
‘I know you are. Oh, my brave girl . . .’ She cups my chin with her hand. ‘All this stress and pressure on you. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. It’s not your fault.’
‘Could we sell it as a going concern? No, hear me out, please. I’m wondering if we should just cut our losses?’
I didn’t want to have this conversation, not now. She knows MacArthur’s is in trouble, but what she doesn’t know is how badly. Or that the problems started long before Dad died. He was such a dyed-in-the-wool optimist that I think he just kept on, believing the debt would right itself. Or stuck his head in the sand so he couldn’t see the scary deficit towering above him.
‘Nobody would buy the shop as it is. We don’t have enough of a sales record to be attractive to buyers. And we need to be working to reduce the debt so that we can sell and have a hope of covering what we owe. I’m sorry, Mum, but Dad was dealing with this for a lot longer than any of us realised.’
Her reaction is inevitable, but it breaks my heart. No widow should have to discover that her late partner was hiding secrets from her. It doesn’t take anything away from who Dad was or what he meant to us, but the reality is cold and hard and impossible to dismiss. He was a lovely husband, a wonderful dad – but a struggling businessman. I pass her the box of tissues that has taken up residence on the kitchen table recently, then hold her hand and wait until she’s had time to take the news in.
‘I never thought that . . . He kept saying we were okay, but . . . oh, your dad was a sly one when he wanted to be.’ She blows her nose. ‘Right. So what’s the plan?’
I watch tiny waves shudder across the top of my coffee as I move my mug, and feel the drag of dread at the edges of my heart. ‘Keep going with the shop. Build up the online side of the business. And let the artists who want to leave us do so. I’d rather concentrate on what we can sell, rather than dashing after every supplier who wants to go. If we build something sustainable, we have to trust they’ll be back.’
‘But some of our suppliers have been with us for thirty years . . .’ Mum sees my expression and holds her hand up. ‘Okay, do what you think is best. Your dad would be so proud of you.’
Down on Porthmeor Beach that evening, taking Molly for her evening stroll, I gaze out at the layered pink sunset framing the chapel on the Island. Would Dad be proud of me? He never made any intimation that he expected me to inherit his business. If anything, he did everything he could to dissuade me from following in his footsteps. Would he be proud of me for struggling on with his mess?
I think about the star on Gwithian Beach, right around the coast. Has the other starmaker found it yet? Dad would have wholeheartedly approved of my newfound game. Which settles it: I’m going to Gwithian every morning until the stars stop appearing.
I’ll start tomorrow.
Chapter Ten
Jack
‘Da-aad . . .’ Nessie singsongs, in the way she does when an Ask is coming.
Ever since she could first say my name, Nessie has wielded the Power of Cuteness. I’ve never worked out how she does it, but my daughter can make her eyes look about fifty times bigger when she wants something. She’s doing it when she appears, wearing an irresistibly cheeky smile, one hand twirling around the end of a strand of dark hair. It’s longer now than it has ever been and probably needs a cut, but she giggles when the sea breeze whips its curls around her face, so I can’t ask her to trim it yet. As long as my little girl wants to tie her hair beneath her chin and laugh herself silly wiggling her ‘beard’, she doesn’t have to change a thing.
‘Wha-aat?’ I sing back, chuckling when I see the hard Paddington stare she’s aiming at me.
‘Can we take a bottle from the sideboard when we go to the beach tonight?’
Whatever I thought Nessie was about to ask for, this wasn’t it. The only bottles in the end cupboard of the old sideboard in our chalet are those dust-gathering thank-you gifts from previous customers. Truth is, I hate whisky. No matter what age or region it hails from, to me it always tastes like municipal toilet cleaning fluid smells. I realise it’s heresy to admit this. But if someone gives me a bottle, it’s a kind thought, so I can’t refuse. And it’s one of those things now where I’ve left it too late to say that actually beer would be nicer, and whisky gives me the worst migraines. So people think I like it. I’ve tried palming the bottles off on Dad, but he’s a beer fan, too. Hence the unwanted stash in its dusty dumping ground.
‘No.’
‘You can’t say no.’
I laugh at her brazenness. ‘I think you’ll find I can. We are not taking whisky to the beach.’
Balled fists slam onto my daughter’s hips. ‘Dad. We have to.’
‘We don’t have to do anything of the sort, N
ess. You’re not taking a bottle.’
‘But Da-aad! We have to take something.’
‘If you think you’ll be thirsty I’ll take a bottle of water.’
‘We can’t take water! The sea is full of water!’
Suddenly, my head hurts. How are you supposed to argue with a seven-year-old’s logic in full, indignant flow? ‘Nessie . . .’
Her shoulders rise and drop dramatically in the most overblown sigh she can manage. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ All of a sudden, I see Tash in miniature. Always Jack’s fault, even if he doesn’t know what he’s supposedly guilty of. Always Jack’s lack of understanding, lack of empathy, lack of whatever attribute she’d decided I should have had that day . . .
No, wait. Stop it.
I shake off my irritation. This isn’t Tash. It’s Ness. My beautiful, brave, bloody annoying little girl who is growing up at an alarming rate. I take a breath, trying to will back some control.
‘Ladybird, tell me what you want the whisky for.’
‘For the mermaids, Dad.’ She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And with it is the tiniest glimpse of disappointment that I didn’t understand immediately. So much of being a parent, I’m learning, is being reminded how often you fall short of the mark.
‘To say thank you for the seaglass stars?’
She nods.
‘Ah. Mermaids don’t like whisky, Ness.’
The baby-blue eyes widen. With my superior mermaid knowledge, I’m back in the game. ‘Don’t they?’
‘Nope. Gets them too squiffy and they end up swimming sideways. They get nasty tail-cramps and have to rest in sea caves until they’re better.’
Any last scrap of frustration has vanished from my daughter’s face and now she’s hanging on my every word. ‘Do they?’
‘Mm-hmm. So they miss out on all the sea parties and shipwreck discos and it makes them very sad.’
‘They have discos on shipwrecks?’
‘They do.’ I rock at this! It was the thing that irritated Tash the most about me – that I could happily talk nonsense and tell tales with no ulterior motive. But Nessie loves it. She’s every bit her own person, but I like to think she gets her imagination from me.
‘I don’t want our mermaids to miss the discos. Or have hurty tails.’ Deep in thought, she flops down on the creaking ancient G-Plan armchair, the bulge of its threadbare seat appearing beneath the frame. Jeb tried sitting there last week, and the rubber pad where springs should be finally gave up the ghost. It’s held together now with figure-of-eight loops of brown string. I have no idea how long the repair will last.
‘I tell you what mermaids do like,’ I say, an idea popping into my mind.
‘What?’
‘Marshmallows.’
The magic word. Nessie gasps. ‘But – that’s my favourite too!’
I mirror her surprise. ‘I know. Who’d have thought it?’
‘Why do they like marshmallows?’
Why do they like marshmallows, Jack? I’ve peaked too early – now I’m scrabbling to find a plausible reply. ‘Well . . . They float. In the sea. And the mermaids like that because they can eat them and swim at the same time. No sticky fingers, you see. And . . . Not that you should throw marshmallows into the sea,’ I add quickly, picturing Nessie causing a minor maritime disaster by filling the bay with bobbing pink and white confectionery. ‘What they love best is getting a few marshmallows in a little box, left behind the rocks on the shore. So they can find them and take them back home.’
Did I sound convincing? I think she bought it . . .
Nessie jumps up, the chair breathing an audible sigh of relief. ‘Then let’s get some! Come on, Dad!’
I watch her race off into the wood-clad kitchen, and feel my heart swell. If only all problems could be that easy to solve for my girl. Life would be so much easier if all it took was a box of marshmallows hidden in the right place.
Our fellow starmaker has finished the star with such care that I almost stop Nessie taking it to bits. I’ve started to photograph the stars, to keep a visual record – because I know they could stop appearing as suddenly as they began. In future years I want Nessie to remember the kindness of strangers and the possibility of magic.
I watch my girl skipping around the beach, her joy infectious and unbridled. And suddenly I’m scared. I’m scared I won’t be able to get us out of this mess. I’m scared of letting Nessie down. Jobs are thin on the ground, and I can’t rely on the generosity of friends forever. I’ve been telling myself that I still have options, that there are many avenues I’ve not yet ventured down; but the stark truth is that unless something big comes along soon, we are in real trouble.
‘Give me the box!’ Nessie is by my side, her feet jigging an excited dance in the sand.
I remember I have the wooden box with the mermaids’ marshmallows, and a note in the pocket of my hoodie. ‘Sorry, Ness. There you go.’
With great care and reverence, Nessie puts the box at the centre of the new incomplete star. Then she stands back and closes her eyes. Her stillness is startling. I wait a while until I speak.
‘What are you doing, ladybird?’
‘Shh!’
‘Sorry.’
Screwing up her eyes, she begins to whisper, her hands clasped together like a saint in prayer. I stand helpless and watch, not really sure what the proper response is. After another minute, she opens her eyes. ‘Okay, that’s done.’
‘What is?’
Nessie rolls her eyes, because of course I should have known the answer. ‘I asked Mum to tell the mermaids to come.’
My world tilts. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Ness might be talking to Tash. I should have asked. I should have known. ‘And what did Mum say?’
‘Nothing.’ She shrugs. ‘I suppose she’s busy.’ I can’t read her expression – it isn’t sadness, more resignation.
‘I bet she heard, though,’ I offer, not sure whether she is looking for reassurance or not.
‘It doesn’t matter anyway. George at school says if you think it loud enough, the universe hears it.’
Is my seven-year-old daughter explaining cosmic ordering to me? ‘And does the universe then tell the mermaids?’
‘No, Dad. The mermaids aren’t in the universe. They’re in the sea.’
‘Right. Sorry.’ My brain hurts.
My daughter picks up her bucket and pats my arm with pity. ‘Don’t worry about it. Let’s go home.’
I follow my extraordinary, surprising, brilliantly weird little girl away from the almost-dark beach to the warm lights of our chalet, and make a silent-loud thought of my own.
Don’t let me let her down . . .
Chapter Eleven
Seren
Marshmallows?
I sit in my car to escape the driving rain and stare at the small wooden box I found on the beach with today’s half-finished star. Inside are four marshmallows – two pink, two white – and a typed note:
For the mermaids xx
What is that supposed to mean? It’s a sweet gesture, but what do marshmallows have to do with seaglass stars? And who are the mermaids?
There’s a grumble from the back seat. I look around to see a familiar chocolate snout slide between the driver and passenger seats. If there’s one thing Molly loves, it’s marshmallows.
‘Dream on,’ I tell her. ‘You only get these if you braved the beach this morning.’
Her eyes moon up at me.
‘I’m sorry, Moll. You wimp out of a wet beach, you lose the treats.’
Rain pelts the windows of the car and drums like impatient fingers on the roof. Usually I wouldn’t even venture to the closest beaches in weather like this, but the stars have changed that. I drove through the rain this morning without a moment’s hesitation. I don’t want to miss a day while this continues.
This morning’s star was a seaglass outline filled with blue-purple mussel shells. Thankfully they had been pushed well down i
nto the sand, so the rain hadn’t dislodged them. As I’ve come to expect, the fifth point was unfinished, but today as well as completing it, I’ve added wispy strands of black seaweed around the outside of the star. When I left it on the beach, it looked like a sliver of black velvet sky had fallen around the star.
The note that was tucked inside the small wooden box is printed, so I have no clues that handwriting might provide. Does the other starmaker think they’re making stars with mermaids?
Molly’s nose nudges my elbow.
‘Oh, go on then.’
She snaffles the sweet in one delighted chomp and her satisfied mumbling as she chews makes me laugh out loud. That feels good.
And then I realise: this gift represents a step up from the game we’ve been playing. It’s the first attempt to communicate beyond the starmaking. And while it might be a little cryptic – and definitely unexpected – it shows me that the game means as much to them as it does to me.
That makes me smile.
They like what we’re doing. It matters. And that means that even though we could be walking past one another as strangers every day, down here in this small corner of Gwithian Beach, we are friends. I like having friends who pursue magic. It feels like coming home.
The discovery of the marshmallows seems to have a sweetening effect on everything that morning. Four customers come into the shop, and two of them actually buy something. I have three more sales on the MacArthur’s Etsy shop and one request for a commission, which I pass on to a delighted potter in one of the nicest phone calls I’ve made since Dad died.
After lunch, the bell above the door rings out and a familiar face enters. Liz is one of our newest artists and definitely one of our most positive. Her delicately layered paper-collage cards and framed pictures are gorgeous works of art inspired by the wildflowers, sea plants and birds of this coastline. They brighten the corner of the shop where they are displayed and I smile every time I see them.
‘I brought you cake,’ she beams, pulling a flowered tin from her embroidered boho handbag. This is always a welcome sight; Liz’s baking skills are as well honed as her artistic ones. ‘Salted caramel and white chocolate – it’s a new recipe, so I thought I’d enlist your help as a beta-taster.’
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 5
