‘No more than usual.’
‘You need your sleep, Seren. There’s a battle to fight.’
Several battles, actually, I reply in my head, but I don’t say it out loud. Lou is a sweetheart and is just voicing concern for my wellbeing. He bustles about, getting Aggie to make me a large coffee and grabbing a cushion from one of the chairs by the entrance.
‘Bleddy Nora, Lou, let her be. Anyone would think she was pregnant, the way you’re fussin’.’
‘I’m just protectin’ our greatest asset,’ Lou retorts, shooting a quick glance at me. ‘She isn’t – is she?’
‘No, Lou, I’m not pregnant,’ I say quickly, before the evil glint in my friend’s eye is allowed to wreak havoc.
‘Not that it wouldn’t be okay if you were . . . I mean, what you choose to do or – erm – not do is completely your business . . .’
Aggie’s snort of laughter bounces off the tiled floor and fills the coffee hut. ‘Oh give over, Lou. When do you think Seren has the chance to even think about sex, let alone be bothered to find anyone to have a go with?’
‘Well, I wasn’t implyin’ . . .’ He flushes red. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
I have to smile. Lou is famous for backing himself into verbal corners and it never stops being amusing to watch, but someone has to rescue him before he digs a hole he can’t clamber out of. ‘Relax, mate. I’m missing three key factors in that department.’
‘Which are?’
‘Time. Energy. And opportunity.’
Thankfully, he sees the joke. ‘Ah! Ha ha! Good one.’ Saved from further embarrassment, he gratefully resumes his seat.
‘Drink that, lovely.’ Aggie pushes a huge, bowl-sized cup of dark, smoky coffee towards me and joins us at the table.
‘Cheers. So what’s the reason for the meeting?’
Lou’s features beam into a smile. ‘Strategy, girl. We’ve got Brotherson on the hop, and we need to keep our advantage.’
‘The whole town is behind you,’ Aggie says. ‘Those who matter, at any rate. If it carries on we might not need four meetings for everyone to decide.’
Lou raps his fingers on the table as if trying to pin down his thoughts. ‘I say we keep goin’. Stoke up the fury against Brotherson Developments. Keepin’ order, mind. I don’t want a brawl like last time. Just enough anger to scare Bill Brotherson back to his swanky offices in Plymouth.’
There’s a knock on the coffee hut door and Kieran and Cerrie walk in, too busy doling out hugs to Aggie and me to see Lou’s pointed stare at his watch.
‘What have we missed?’ Kieran swings into the seat next to me. ‘World domination? Unleashing the hounds of hell on Bill Brotherson?’
Lou sniffs. ‘I might’ve known you’d be the one mockin’ our victory, Mr Macklin.’
‘Always happy to oblige, Lou. When are you planning on distributing the Brotherson voodoo dolls and pins?’
I glare at him to stop, but where teasing Lou is concerned, Kieran knows no boundaries.
‘That’s quite enough from you, Captain Flippant!’
Seeing Lou’s neck begin to flush an angry red, I decide to step in. ‘So what’s the plan for the next meeting, Ag?’
‘Both sides face questions from the floor and respond to those raised last time,’ Aggie intones, as if reading Lou’s notes from memory.
‘Nice that someone’s bothered to read my meeting minutes,’ Lou says. ‘Thank you, Agatha.’
‘Happy to oblige, Louis. Although seeing as last time ended in a punch-up, what happens on Wednesday night is anyone’s guess.’
Kieran snorts, and I see Cerrie dig him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘I say we take the higher ground,’ she suggests, ever the cool head of reason in our meetings. ‘Brotherson knows we have history and the heritage of this town on our side. We would save the site for the town and wider public. He just wants to make money from it and move on. The only way he operates is by discrediting his enemies. So we refuse to be drawn into a dirty fight.’
‘Good point.’ I think about how flustered the developer was at the first meeting when faced with an angry crowd. ‘Do you think he’ll even turn up?’
‘Has to, if he wants to win this. Can’t wriggle his way out of it, can he?’
Kieran nods. ‘We have him over a barrel. I honestly think we can win this. And with Seren leading us in Mark MacArthur’s name, we have the best chance of success.’
In Mark MacArthur’s name. So much of my life has become underscored with that phrase. Running the shop, looking after Mum, leading the campaign . . . I’m proud to carry on the work Dad started, but it’s a heavy burden, too. If we can win this campaign and save Elinor Carne’s home from destruction, it will be a sweet victory indeed – proof that my father was right to champion her cause. And at least in this I’m not on my own.
I look around the table at the team and my heart swells. Together, we can make this happen. We can defeat Bill Brotherson and win.
My phone has been vibrating like a disgruntled wasp in my jacket pocket all through the meeting. When it ends and I step out into the early evening, I find four missed calls, all from Mum. Walking home, I call her back. I’ll be seeing her in ten minutes’ time, but she might want something picking up for tea, so I ought to check.
She answers after the first ring. ‘Oh Seren, thank goodness.’
‘Are you okay?’
I can hear her gasps of breath on the line. ‘I’ve – been so – worried . . .’
‘Mum, slow down. Tell me what’s happened.’
‘A letter’s come. From the bank.’
I stop walking and lean against the stone wall of the Island car park. ‘A letter? It’s probably a circular, Mum. We get them all the time.’
‘It isn’t. I know it isn’t.’
Mum’s been prone to panics like this in recent weeks. Last week she was convinced her debit card had been stolen, only for us to find it at the bottom of her handbag instead of its usual place in her purse. Things outside of her control scare her – understandably, given Dad’s sudden passing.
‘Are you coming home? Where have you been? I need you to sort this, Seren.’
I take a breath and answer as calmly and quietly as possible. ‘I’ve been at the campaign meeting. I went straight there after work. I’ll be home soon.’
‘How soon?’
All of a sudden, I don’t want to hurry home. I’ve had a good day, and I’m starting to believe we can win this vote for the town, for Elinor Carne and most importantly, for Dad. The glow inside is made even brighter by the secret seaglass stars I’ve been making every morning, and the realisation that there is so much more in the world for me than just being Dad’s substitute.
‘I have a couple of errands to run. And then I’ll be home. I just need a bit of time, Mum . . .’ I’ve already started walking back towards the town.
‘I opened it,’ she blurts out, a soft whimper following it. ‘I’m sorry. I knew it had to be bad for them to send this to our house, not the shop.’
‘How bad?’
‘The bank manager is calling us to a meeting, in two weeks’ time. Seren, they want us to bring the account books in. This is bad news.’
I can’t think about this now. I don’t want the responsibility. I want to hang on to the optimism I’ve found within for as long as I can. ‘Put it on the shelf and forget about it. I’ll be home soon, I promise.’
I end the call and walk quickly back into Downalong. I need somewhere I can be quiet with my thoughts. And I know the perfect place.
At the land side of Smeaton’s Pier, one arm of St Ives’ harbour that houses a proud white metal lighthouse, there’s a shelter overlooking the town beach. At night during the summer this is the local kids’ hangout of choice. It’s a little more sheltered than the sea wall, but still wild enough to feel like you’re on the edge of the world. Even out of season some kids meet here, judging by the cheekily stashed cider cans under the bench where I’m now sitting.
I
love the sea in early spring. It’s slate-green, with white-headed waves breaking across fudge-coloured sands that seem to glow even on the dankest, dreariest days. The rocks and wooden posts stand out jet-black and stoic against the sea. But the light that for years has called artists to St Ives still makes everything shine as if lit from within.
From here I can see the sweep of the bay, its rich cream sands stretching around the headland to the gleaming white tower of Godrevy Lighthouse far in the distance. The sea beneath its rocky island home is a thin streak of ice blue on the horizon, the glow of the setting sun behind it.
I think about Gwithian Beach – and the box of marshmallows for the mermaids – and I feel warm inside, despite the cold wind numbing my face and hands and the threat of what awaits me at home biting at my nerves. What is the other starmaker doing now, I wonder? Are they on the beach opposite the lighthouse, snuggled down against the prevailing wind, thinking of me?
I hope they are.
I don’t know anything about the other person, but we are connected like St Ives to the bay that follows the headland to Gwithian Beach. We are part of the St Ives Bay story. Mystery has shrouded this coastline for centuries. You feel it as you walk through the fishing villages and towns, or follow ancient footsteps around the cliff paths and across the beaches. This area is rich in stories of adventure, of love found and lost, of smugglers and soldiers and magicians. It sings from the sands and echoes across the cliffs. I feel privileged to be at the beginning of a new story here – the Gwithian Beach stars – and even though I don’t know how long it will last, I want so much to take my place in it.
I’ll go home soon, face the contents of the letter with Mum and prepare for the next battle. But for now, I sit and I think of the starmaker – and hold on to the feeling of completeness it gives me.
Chapter Sixteen
Jack
The challenge of making a new star every day has meant us collecting and reusing pieces of seaglass in every colour we can find. Currently Nessie has a bucket almost full of the stuff, but it can be hard to find enough pieces of the colours she wants for each star.
One night I wake inexplicably at four a.m. It’s the kind of jumping-to-attention, wide-awake sensation that makes returning to sleep impossible. Resigned to an early rise, I get up, make a pot of tea and look around the still-dark interior of the chalet. I don’t want to put the TV on for fear of waking Ness, and my eyes ache too much to consider reading. With two hours to kill before our day officially begins, I look around for something to occupy myself. Having so much time with nothing to do is dangerous for me – too much opportunity for worries and thoughts to fill my mind.
On my second mug of tea, I spot Nessie’s seaglass bucket beneath the coat rack by the front door. I remember her frustration as she rifled through it yesterday evening on the beach.
‘There isn’t enough blue. It’s all too jumbly, Dad!’
Right. Time to sort the pieces out, so she can find the colours she needs more easily.
Last week I found two old cat-feeding trays under the sink, presumably left by a previous resident. Each tray has four compartments, each with their own hinged lids that no longer close. They must have once been operated by clockwork timers to open at set times when the owner was out, but all that remains on the lids are the circles where the dials once were. I fetch them out now and give them a soak in warm soapy water to remove the few remaining crusts of ancient cat food. When they are dried and on the table, they look almost as good as new. Fetching Nessie’s bucket, I settle myself at the table and start to sort the pieces into separate colours. Seven compartments for seaglass, one for the smooth pieces of pottery we’ve found when beachcombing.
It’s a strangely calming activity and even though my body could have done with a few more hours’ sleep, my mind relaxes into the steady rhythm of it. The seaglass pieces are cool and smooth in my fingers. As they pass from the bucket through my hands to the sorting trays I remember all the seaglass stars we have made and found completed on the beach. Because I don’t know who has been finishing our stars, I can’t escape the magic of it. Not having all the answers means I don’t have to look for them. That is so refreshing. Every other consideration in my life feels like it has to be quantified, explored, put into priority order, obsessed over. This isn’t something I can control – and that is a true gift.
By five thirty a.m., the bucket is empty and a rainbow of glittering glass fills the trays. I’m tempted to wake Nessie to show her, but the magic might be lost in her annoyance at being woken too early. Making a new mug of tea, I pull on my hooded sweatshirt and quietly step outside onto the chalet’s veranda.
From the salt-aged wooden steps I can see out over the wide sweep of Gwithian Towans towards St Ives far to the left, and Godrevy Lighthouse’s white tower just beginning to catch the gold of the sunrise to the right. The slowly emerging sun shimmers across the sea and the sky above it is unnaturally blue, the hue you see above the clouds from an aeroplane. Against the dark shadow of the rows of static caravan roofs and undulating dunes, the light glows. Watching it makes me hopeful, and I realise I’ve only just begun to feel that again since we’ve made the stars on the beach.
Is our starmaker down there now? Are they completing the pale blue and white glass star we made last night? Knowing they might be close makes me smile, despite everything else that lies in store today. A friend, on the beach we love, thinking of us. In this moment, I have the sunrise, the sea and the promise of our star-completing friend close to our home. For now, everything is good.
The phone call later that morning came out of the blue and now, two days later, I still can’t quite believe it. After months of trying to make ends meet and unsuccessfully quoting for building jobs, suddenly there’s a job offer. It feels too good to be true. It might yet be.
I’m sitting in the vast reception area of Brotherson Developments, feeling like thirteen-year-old me waiting outside the head teacher’s office. Mr Harrison put the fear of God into me as a kid, and often for good reason. Usually it was my own fault, although towards the end of my school years I became my teachers’ default scapegoat in any punishable situations. I wasn’t a bad kid, just very energetic – and more inspired by the fun my friends were having than by the subjects I was supposed to be learning. I pulled it back eventually, when it mattered. But fun was always more appealing.
My palms are clammy and I wish the chair were more comfortable. Somewhere in the UK I’m convinced there is a manufacturer of office reception chairs specifically designed to make visitors uncomfortable. It’s probably a selling point – to give the business owner the upper hand. You’re never at your best when one half of your bum is numb . . .
Always flippant, Jack. Always the joker . . .
I can hear Tash’s disapproval even now. If she were still alive I would have had a stern pep talk this morning about ‘not letting my sense of humour ruin a great opportunity’. It was one of a growing list of things we differed on. I have to hand it to her, though: she was the perfect professional when she needed to be. I used to watch her working the room at her gallery events – it was like observing a finely tuned machine. She would have loved a meeting like this. I, on the other hand, would much rather chat over a pint at the local pub. I feel straitjacketed in a suit.
But Bill Brotherson is the kind of customer you don’t say no to. He’s the leading developer in the southwest, and a formidable force. If I’m completely honest, I think his developments could be more attractive, and make more use of the phenomenal local building materials all around us. But as he called me, perhaps I won’t mention that to him today.
I’ve tried my best not to think about what this could mean for Ness and me, but it’s hard not to. Brotherson Developments is a multimillion-pound operation. If they offer me a building contract, it could change everything. Tash would be telling me to pull my head out of the clouds, but I can’t help it. This is the biggest thing to happen to my business in years. It might just
save us.
‘Mr Dixon?’
This is it. Or it could be. Either way, don’t stuff it up, Jack . . .
Bill Brotherson is sitting behind a desk so vast it makes him look like a kid at a dining table. He’s what my brother Owen would call an ‘overcompensator’ – surrounding himself with magnificence to make up for his lack of height. You’re supposed to be impressed by his office, everything within it yells. The too-plush carpet that would be more at home in a five-star hotel bedroom than an office; the oversized canvasses on the walls with artfully shot images of the developer poring over plans in a pristine hard hat; the lighting that all seems to be pointed at the man behind the desk. It’s all part of the theatre of being a business mogul.
And it’s terrifying.
But I smile, and try not to mind that he doesn’t even get up from his seat to greet me. My dad would hate that. ‘Bleddy ideas above his station. Manners cost nothin’, do they?’
‘Jack,’ Brotherson says, pronouncing my name with far too many vowels: Ja-a-ack. ‘Appreciate you popping over.’
Gwithian to Plymouth was one hell of a pop, I think. Stuck in traffic and praying my satnav was lying about my estimated arrival time . . . Thank heaven for Owen and Sarah offering to pick Nessie up from school. Heaven knows when I’ll be home.
‘Bill,’ I venture, extending my hand, which thankfully he deigns to shake.
‘Sit. Sit. Would you like coffee?’
I’ve had so much coffee while I was waiting in reception I’m practically floating. Forty-five minutes is a long time to inhale caffeine. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Sorry to keep you waiting. You know how it is in business, Jack. Always on call, a million and one jobs demanding your attention.’
I laugh and nod. I wish. I can’t remember the last time I had more than one job at once, let alone a million and one.
‘So, like I said on the phone, I wanted to chat about a contract. Local to you, actually. Outskirts of St Ives.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s a derelict Georgian building with potential for eight two-bed executive apartments. Views down into St Ives Bay. Great location. I need a construction manager to co-ordinate it. Be my eyes and ears on the site, make my very expensive architect plans work in the real world. Standard stuff, oversight, day-to-day, managing a build team I’ll supply. Interested?’
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 8
