‘Did you hear what Maggie from the Post Office said about him, though?’ A lady with a sea-soaked Springer spaniel has joined us, and lowers her voice as another group of customers move off to find a table.
‘Who? Brotherson?’
‘No, that lad representing him last night.’
The prospect of gossip draws our heads together like moths to a lantern. ‘What about him?’
‘Lost his wife.’
‘She left him?’
‘She died.’
And just like that, the air is snatched from my sails.
‘When?’
I’ve asked the question before I can think better of it. I shouldn’t think of Jack Dixon as anything other than the enemy. But nobody deserves to lose someone they love.
‘Seven or eight months ago. Dreadful business. She died at work, apparently. Fell and hit her head, dropped dead an hour after. Only young as well – early thirties or so? Left him on his own with a little ’un. Maggie reckons they lost their house too after the mum died.’
Aggie’s shoulders droop and she glances at me. ‘Oh, now that’s awful.’
‘How old’s his kid?’
‘Dunno. Young, though.’
‘Poor bloke,’ Jude says. ‘My mate Ned lost his missus last year, twins to bring up and only summer work guaranteed. It’s been hard for him.’
The cafe noise hushes to just the distant roar of waves and cries of gulls on Porthgwidden Beach beyond. After a while, Aggie’s cough brings us back.
‘Thing is, though, he’s still workin’ for Brotherson, isn’t he? I mean, tragic for him and his missus of course, but he’s still leadin’ the opposition. This changes nothin’, does it? Ain’t that right, Ser?’
‘Yes,’ I say, wishing I felt more certain. ‘Yes, nothing changes.’
I think about this all day. It’s hard not to when there’s so little else at work to distract me. I try everything – doing the week’s accounts, making some difficult phone calls I’ve been putting off, even completely taking the main displays to bits and rebuilding them in the hope of attracting more custom. But the revelation sticks in my mind and won’t budge.
I wish Jack hadn’t lost his wife, crazy as it sounds. I wish I didn’t know about it. Because it changes things. I’ve tried to hate him, to see him as Bill Brotherson with a different face. But he lost his wife. He’s probably going through exactly what I am, although worse, because he chose her. I’m so grateful that I got to be Dad’s daughter, but Jack chose to marry his wife out of everyone in the world. To find someone you love that much and then lose them must be unbearable. And while it’s hard to be left with a business to keep alive, it’s nothing compared with safeguarding a child’s life.
Grief isn’t a point-scoring game, I know, but I feel like I’ve just lost ground. I just hope last night’s meeting scared Jack Dixon away, and that next week there’ll be a brand new Brotherson Developments rep facing the debate – someone faceless, without a story to hook me with. Aggie and Jude seemed to think that the likeliest outcome, so that’s what I’ll wish for, too. We have to win this fight – and if I’m going to lead the winning campaign, I have to refocus.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jack
There are days here when it’s like the weather is playing chicken with you. It throws everything at your head and dares you to cave first. Visitors to Cornwall always talk about the superb quality of the light and how even being caught in the rain here has a charm of its own. And yes, the light is lovely and the landscape beneath the storm breathtaking. But when you live here all the time and have been solidly rained on for a week, it’s pretty much just wet.
Our clothes are draped over every available surface in our temporary home and the chalet smells of damp things making everything else damp. Part of the problem is that neither of us is prepared to give up our evening beach visits, so we’ve been making seaglass stars despite the relentless rain. I’ve been trying to dry our wet clothes during the day while Nessie’s at school, so that the evenings are free from extra moisture in the air, which might affect her asthma. But seven days’ worth of laundry is more than this faithful old place can easily contain.
There are the sounds, too – the ominous drip-drip of water invading our space somewhere. I’ve patched this roof roughly once every fortnight since we’ve been at Gwithian, and still the water is finding ways in. There’s an ancient chipped enamel teapot catching drips at one end of the small kitchen, and a huge steel saucepan doing the same in the bathroom. But until the rain decides to give me a break, I can’t get up on the roof to tackle the source of the leaks.
I couldn’t work even if I had any jobs today – the rain is just too hard to do any building work at all – but staying inside is driving me insane. Leaving the damp palace of our current residence, I brave the downpour and dash to my car.
Unsurprisingly, I am the only driver on the road over the hills, save for a disgruntled farmer parked up in his tractor. I pass him at the brow of one of the hills and we are both surprised to see each other. He shares a sympathetic shrug with me over the red top of his newspaper in the fogged-up cab of the tractor.
I’ve been thinking about Rectory Fields since the town meeting and it’s high time I paid the site a visit. I had so little notice when Brotherson gave me the job that I wasn’t able to physically see the site before the town meeting – and while I’ve studied the initial plans in detail, I need to see it for myself. I don’t think you can get a sense of a building – new or ancient – until you stand beside it. Photographs only tell you so much; there is no substitute for being there.
I know the plans focus on what Brotherson wants to build. But I believe the raw materials are important. To give a building life and a heart that will mean something to the people who make it their home, you have to know where you’re coming from. Unless you understand the land on which a building rests and get a true sense of its former life, you can’t see its potential.
I learned this early in life and it’s always served me well. Dad took Owen and me to Tintagel when we were little. I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, but I can still feel the energy of the place when I remember our visit. The wildness of Tintagel Castle’s ruins clinging to the cliff, that some say was King Arthur’s fabled Camelot, reached by a scary-looking bridge and steps carved into the storm-battered rock. It felt like you were a great adventurer just reaching the site. On the day we visited the angry clouds above and the wind-churned sea lashing the shore far below added to the feeling of an epic journey. I’m not particularly spiritual, but the story of that site hummed through the ground. I could almost hear the people who had lived there before and worshipped in the small church, now only a ruin; the subliminal bass of footsteps, the distant rhythms of speech. If you built anything on that site you would have to honour what the land told you, or else the building would have no soul.
I park on the patch of hardstanding that is all that remains of an entrance road to the parsonage and listen to the heavy drumming of raindrops on the roof of my car. It isn’t the best weather for viewing a site, but it doesn’t matter. I stare through the slowly misting windscreen at the dark bones of the building, its edges and lines blurring and morphing through streaming rainwater running over the glass.
It’s a bleak place, especially in a storm. What hardships would its former occupants have willingly faced in order to serve the people here? I try to imagine living in this place, blown by winds roaming across the hills, lashed by rain, frozen by winter’s chill, with only candlelight and little heat from small fireplaces to ward off the cold. People were made of sterner stuff back then. I consider it a hardship having crotchety old storage heaters, no WiFi and not enough space to dry washing in the chalet; I can’t imagine surviving in a place like this.
But I can’t learn anything from the comfort of my car. I pull on waterproofs, stuff a folded envelope into one pocket with a biro and head out into the diagonal rain.
The r
emaining stones of the main parsonage building are scratched and marked by time, but solidly constructed. Leaning close, I walk slowly around the perimeter, making a note of usable materials where I find them. There’s more than I’d expected. When I find pockets of shelter around the walls I scribble notes on the damp envelope. Brotherson dismissed my question about how much of the building fabric we could salvage. He didn’t think we’d find any. Has he even visited this site, I wonder?
I pace out the footprint of the building, imagining Brotherson’s expensive architect plans overlaying the parsonage’s remains. So much of building is interpretation: taking an architect’s vision and making it work in real life. You have to work with what you have as a starting point, I think. Two hundred years ago, this building was made by people who understood the land upon which it stood. They knew what would work best in these conditions and built the parsonage accordingly. What would be the point of demolishing everything and starting a new building without trying to learn from its previous structure?
It’s a job, I remind myself before the romantic in me is swept away by this broken old structure crying out to be saved. It shouldn’t matter to me what happens here, only that the site is made safe and viable again.
It’s not even my project yet – not until we win the St Ives town vote. But it’s too late: I already care about this place.
And I know exactly why it matters to me. I walked into that meeting completely unprepared – many of the questions I was bombarded by would have been easy to answer if I’d done my homework. I might have been still in shock that Brotherson had chosen me for the job, but I won’t make the same mistake again. I have to know what I’m talking about, or Seren and her team might as well claim victory now.
I swear I caught her smiling when I couldn’t answer the town’s questions. I can’t hand victory to my opponents like that. Next time I talk to them, I’m going to be fully prepared.
I pat the rutted stone wall and look up to the skeleton of burned and gnarled wooden struts that once formed the roof. Since it fell out of use it’s been victim to several arson attacks and the abuse has scarred the parsonage past the point of salvation. It’s sad that somewhere used by so many people should fall at the hands of a few brainless vandals. No windows remain; the original heavy oak door is long gone, replaced by an ugly grey metal security panel. DANGER and DO NOT ENTER site signs have been plastered over it and several sections are cordoned off with red-and-white hazard tape, the ends of which rise and fly in the wind.
I can make something of this, I tell myself. I’m excited, despite the dreary, sad shell of a building beside me – and the rain finding its way into my waterproofs and soaking through the last dry set of clothes I own. There is potential here. I just need the people of St Ives to put their faith in me to make it happen.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Seren
‘Seren? Sweetheart, are you awake?’
I should reply, invite Mum in and talk like she wants us to. I know I should. But instead I hold my breath, waiting for her soft footsteps to fade, the creak on the penultimate step of the attic stairs and the gentle click of the door at the bottom. At least she thinks I’m asleep, not hiding in my room pretending not to hear her.
Today at the shop felt like the longest yet. The meeting with the bank is preying on my mind and it was all I could think of. This awful weather hasn’t helped, either. It’s rained every day and there haven’t been any breaks, meaning Fore Street has been pretty much deserted all week. And if there’s nobody wandering there, the courtyard doesn’t stand a chance of seeing any custom. I braved the accounts book at three p.m., but gave up two hours later when I’d singularly failed to make them look any healthier.
I’m so tired of trying to make this work. And I know Mum needs me and it’s probably selfish to want it, but I wish I had my own life back. If it weren’t for my jewellery and starmaking trips to Gwithian every morning, I don’t think I’d recognise myself any more.
At least I still have the seaglass stars. I have to say I admire my fellow starmaker’s commitment. Most people would have given up as soon as the weather worsened. My friend on the beach is a cut above. I just wish they weren’t a stranger. I would love a friend who doesn’t know everything else about me right now.
I breathe out, feeling the knots in my shoulders protest. It isn’t that I don’t love Mum – I do, so much – but sometimes I just need a moment, the smallest pinch of time, for me. Since we lost Dad, there are so few minutes in each day that I can truly claim as my own. My beachcombing walks every morning used to be my time, but now even these are crowded with thoughts and worries and contingencies for the day ahead. In the shop I’m bombarded by memories of Dad and the threatening voices of all the bills he left behind. At home, I’ve become Mum’s counsellor, her nearest sounding post for the worries she’s hoarded like piles of pebbles throughout the day. All of it is my responsibility and I do it because I love Mum and I want to sort out Dad’s business. But I miss the before days – when worry wasn’t constantly snapping at my heels. When it was just me; my hopes and my dreams and my lazily wasted minutes. Back before the graphic design agency folded, I had a good life in Falmouth. I’d built it steadily over five years – a great place to live, good friends, occasional fun weekends back with Aggie, Kieran and Cerrie, but always returning to my own life for Monday mornings. I felt like I had an identity, a purpose, dreams and ambitions within reach. I’d make enough money to start up my own studio and gradually decrease my days at Grafyx until I could make my jewellery business pay full-time. And for most of the time there had been Karl, the guy I thought would be around for a lot longer than he ended up being. I still wonder if us breaking up started the rot that eventually took my job, my lovely rented home with its view of the harbour and the life I’d so carefully constructed.
It doesn’t do any good going over the past. What’s happened has happened: I’m here now, for better or worse. I just have to work harder to see the positives.
The bracelet I’m making this evening is twisted silver with palest pink and sea-green glass beads. It’s the most complex design I’ve attempted, but I love how it’s gradually appearing in my hands. It’s beautiful, and I wonder about the person who will one day wear it. Will they be chasing after their dreams like the tiny glass jewels, or be caught up in the twists and folds of life like the silver wire that holds them? Perhaps they’ll buy this bracelet to inspire them to aim higher, or to remind them of the simple beauty of the sea. Maybe a lover will buy it for them. Could it be a promise? A proposal? An unrequited dream?
I smile, the sensation travelling like a wave across my face. Guessing who the eventual owner might be is my favourite game when I’m making my jewellery. One of the unexpected joys of selling my work online is that I don’t know who will buy it. Strangers from across the world could discover my jewellery on Etsy and something I have made from my heart will connect with theirs. Even though we’ve never met. There’s something intensely romantic and magical about that.
Instantly, I think of the other seaglass starmaker. Although we’re strangers, we’re connected by the stars. There’s a kind of romance being played out between us – and that feels special. I don’t know how long it will last, but then who knows that in any kind of romance when it first begins? You don’t analyse the future too much; all that matters is you and the other person in that moment. It’s part of the magic. You just jump in.
There are so many things in my life that are chained by the heavy weight of future worries. This is different, and it’s exactly what I’ve been searching for. It’s a chance to live in the moment and forget what lies ahead.
I want to find my fellow starmaker and thank them, but part of me wants this to go on forever. The not knowing is almost more magical than the knowing . . .
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jack
By day, I am a jobbing builder grabbing scraps of work where I can find it. By night, I am fast becoming an expert in
the Bethel Parsonage site. I’ve made countless visits between jobs while Nessie is at school, written more notes than I have for any other job, even visited the local county records office in Truro to view the original building’s plans. I feel like the site is getting into my blood, with each step I pace around its perimeter fixing plans in my mind. I need to know the site in intricate detail if I’m going to fully realise the building that will one day stand there.
It’s past midnight and Nessie has been in bed for hours. The small dining table is buried beneath a sea of paper – notes, copies of plans, maps I’ve made of the existing site and list upon list of materials, both new and repurposed. Every muscle in my body aches, but I’m buzzing. This is the kind of project I’ve been waiting for and I’m determined not to blow my chance.
It’s only two days until the next town meeting, and there is no way I’m going into it as ill-prepared as last time. It’s just me leading the charge for Rectory Fields, so I have to cover all my bases. Seren and her campaign team will have put the hours in, I’m sure. It helps that she has more people on her team to spread the workload, I guess; but all of their plans are useless if Seren can’t communicate what they know to the people at the meeting. So when it comes down to it, it’s her versus me. On that count, we’re equal.
I’m still smarting from the last time we met and even though I’ve tried to see Seren as the enemy, I can’t quite make the label fit. The only way I’m going to be able to face her again is to think of what’s at stake for me. If I see the Save the Parsonage campaign as a group trying to prevent Nessie having stability and a proper home, it’s enough to rouse the warrior in me. They seem nice enough people, but the consequence of them winning could mean financial peril for me and my little girl.
That’s how I’ll face them at Wednesday’s meeting: ready to do battle for the life Ness and I need. Seren and her team can think what they like of me: I can’t lose this fight.
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 11
