‘We still have support,’ Cerrie argues. Though she’d hate me for noticing, she’s always a schoolteacher, even off duty. Her tone is even and reassuring, as though soothing a fretting child. ‘You’ll see. People around here care about their history.’
‘Why did Brotherson have to go and find someone nicer than himself? It just isn’t fair.’
Sharon from the candle shop rolls her eyes. She’s the most recent addition to the committee but by far the most fervent supporter. It’s great to have her here, even if I suspect Lou is a little intimidated by her. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Lou, the man’s not daft. He bombed spectacularly at the first meeting. I don’t blame him for wimping out of the others.’
‘He ran scared.’ Kieran returns from behind the counter, where he’s been making coffee in the espresso machine. I notice Aggie didn’t stop him – usually she’s so territorial about her cafe equipment. She’d run her business for three years before she’d even let me behind the counter – and I’m her best friend. Kieran hands a cup to Aggie so tentatively it’s like he’s approaching an unexploded bomb, and she gives a self-conscious nod. Are they ever going to sort this situation out? ‘Plus, Brotherson’s a businessman. If you find that you’re a deal-breaker, you delegate to someone more palatable. He wants to win.’
‘I don’t understand why someone like Jack Dixon wants to work for Brotherson.’
They all look at me. I’m not sorry I said that. It’s what I’ve been asking myself since I heard Jack’s presentation – and our conversation on the harbour wall afterwards. I can’t square that Jack with a cynical Brotherson minion.
‘Money, Seren. It’s always about that.’
‘Is it, though, Ag? I mean, if he’s as passionate about sympathetic renovation and locally sourced materials as he says, why align himself with someone who never gives either a second thought?’
Aggie gives me a look that says Why does it matter to you? – but at least she doesn’t voice it. ‘I still think he needs the money. Let’s face it, we all do.’
I can’t argue there. ‘Is there anything we can do to counter him?’
Lou wipes cappuccino foam from his moustache. ‘We have to step up the campaign. Focus all attention back on the organ grinder, not the monkey. Brotherson is a git and everyone knows it. So we remind them who’s really behind Rectory Fields. An’ make bleddy sure nobody buys Jack Dixon’s velvet words.’
Kieran nearly chokes on coffee. ‘Would you listen to yourself? “Velvet words” . . . You been reading too many Poldark novels again, have you?’
‘Oh, you can laugh, Kieran, but I tell you, that man’s a threat. We had this vote in the bag until young twinkle-eyes showed up.’
‘“Young twinkle-eyes”!’ The candle lanterns clink together as Kieran’s laughter rocks the table. ‘You’re insane.’
‘Glad I’m amusin’ you,’ Lou huffs.
‘We could run stories in the Western Morning News,’ Sharon suggests. ‘Make it all about our proud town standing up to the big, bad developer. There’s a journalist from the paper comes into my shop all the time. I could ask her.’
‘Great,’ Lou notes down her suggestion, glaring again at Kieran, who is still giggling. ‘Any more?’
‘Poster campaign,’ Aggie says. ‘SAVE THE PARSONAGE! I’ll get some made and we’ll ask every shop owner in St Ives to display them in their windows.’
‘Posters . . . Excellent.’
‘Local TV?’
‘Sharon, my love, you are on fire this evenin’. TV. Good. I’ll invite crews from BBC Spotlight and West Country Tonight down, shout ’em lunch at The Hub. That ought to do it. More?’
‘Flyers. Get the locals involved. I’ll ask Mitchell Jakes if his scout troop could give them out on the streets at the weekend.’
‘Great, Aggie, great. This is good, folks. Rampin’ up the grass-roots support.’ Lou’s smile fades. ‘Got anythin’ sensible to add, boy?’
Kieran, wiping tears from his eyes, shakes his head. ‘Probably not.’
‘And Seren? You’ve been very quiet.’
Have I? I’m weary from a long day, and my thoughts have strayed to Gwithian Beach and what I might find there tomorrow. I used to daydream all the time as a child – I was forever being told off about it. But when you live within a minute’s walk of the sea and you have a dad who gazes at stars and delights in dreaming up awesome, inspiring stories to tell you, it’s impossible not to be tempted away from reality.
I’ve been thinking about leaving something else along with the completed star for the other starmaker to find – a return gift for the little marshmallow box. The stars have meant so much to me: I just want to let them know. While I was on the beach this morning I found a small blue glass bottle, almost intact. There’s one chip on the rim of its neck, but the sea has smoothed it over time. It’s the perfect size to slip a note inside.
At first, I thought about just leaving a note in the bottle in the middle of the seaglass star. But words alone don’t seem adequate to convey everything the stars have meant to me. It doesn’t seem reward enough for all the effort the starmaker has gone to on my behalf. After all, they have made most of each star: I’ve just completed them.
And then I had the idea.
I’m going to make them a seaglass bracelet. But a better, bolder, more intricate design than I’ve ever attempted before. When I’ve found the seaglass stars on Gwithian Beach, it’s as if the best version of me has responded. I want to make something that represents the person I want to be – the future I want for myself. I haven’t lost my dream of making seaglass jewellery for a living, but before I found the Gwithian stars, that dream was hidden beneath all the responsibility I’ve inherited. Finding the stars has brought my dream back out into the sunlight – and I want to thank the starmaker for that.
I remember the sweetly odd little note I received with the box of marshmallows two weeks ago – For the mermaids – and it suddenly strikes me as a perfect reply. What if the Gwithian Beach mermaids sent a present in return?
An ancient term for seaglass is ‘mermaids’ tears’. So what if Gwithian’s mermaids took their tears of joy and crafted them into a bracelet?
All day I’ve been dreaming of the colours, the design and the construction of the mermaids’ gift. Gold wire instead of silver, with pearlescent ‘soap-bubble’ beads in between to look like sea spray caught in sunlight and a silver star-shaped charm at the centre of the circle . . .
‘Seren?’
Lou is rapping the bowl of a teaspoon on the table impatiently. I’ve forgotten the question – Aggie’s sly grin doesn’t help me remember, either.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have anything to add? As the figurehead of this campaign?
‘“The figurehead!” . . .’
‘Drink your coffee and button it, Kieran!’
‘Yes, Lou. Sorry, Lou.’
I scramble my wayward thoughts together. ‘I think you need to focus on Elinor Carne, not the building.’
‘Meanin’ . . . ?’
‘If we ask people to save a site that – let’s face it – is pretty run-down and uninspiring, not everyone will understand the importance. But if we focus on Elinor and the injustice she faced for years, I think people will relate to that. She worked so hard all her life but was denied the recognition she deserved because she was a woman. She was a pioneer born at the wrong time, a victim of the society she lived in. Look at the great female pioneers of astronomy: Mary Somerville, Caroline Herschel – only two names we are aware of, yet both faced years of being referred to as male astronomers’ helpers.’
‘So we’re going the feminist route?’
I sigh. ‘No, Lou, we’re going the human route. Everyone knows what injustice feels like, on some level or another. Everyone has been passed over in favour of someone else, or had to watch another person take credit for their work. It’s a universal thing. If we link that with Elinor’s struggle – and the ongoing campaign to have her contribut
ion officially recognised – I think people will see it as a chance to redress the balance.’
My friends observe me in silence. Even Kieran has stopped laughing.
‘You should come to my school,’ Cerrie says. ‘Talk to the children in my class. I think they would love Elinor’s story – and if they tell their parents . . . We could make it a whole-school campaign.’
‘Now that is brilliant. Would you do it, Seren?’
I don’t even have to think about it. ‘Yes, I’d love to. When?’
Cerrie grins. ‘Next week. Before the town meeting.’
Chapter Thirty
Jack
It’s Thursday morning. I’m at the site again and thankfully the sun has decided to shine on me. I need to think: I’ve found peace by this old parsonage in recent days. I take off my jacket and lay it over a jumble of old stones a little way from the main building, flopping down to enjoy the sun on my face.
Owen sent me a text earlier. I heard the ringtone as I was driving Nessie to school. When I reached the parsonage site, I read it:
Hey Stink. How’d it go last night?
How did it go? I’m still not sure.
I was confident enough when I left the Guildhall, but what happened next clouded everything. I didn’t sleep much last night, my conversation with Seren replaying over and over in my mind. She was so honest, when she had no need to be. It won’t help her cause with the campaign, but I got the impression she left her role as leader of it at the Guildhall door. She sought me out. I still don’t know why, or how I should feel about it. I only know something changed last night. We’re on opposing sides, but outside of the debate we’ve moved closer.
I look around the ancient stones kissed by the sun this morning and I wonder what happens now. The future of this site is our main concern – it has to be. But it turns out the two people leading the fight for its possible futures have more in common than we thought.
As for the meeting, I’m proud I didn’t let myself down this time. I thought of Nessie as I addressed the town; of the life I hope to make for us, if this project goes ahead. The seaglass in my pocket helped. I told her that this morning as we dashed to get ready for school.
‘Of course it helped you,’ Nessie replied. ‘It was magic.’
‘It was magic because you put it there. Thanks, noodle.’
‘You’re a noodle! So, did you win?’
‘I won’t know that for a bit.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s an important decision that the town has to make. They need time to hear both sides to make the right choice.’
‘But you’re the right choice, Dad. Everybody knows that.’
I wish they did. And I wish they all had Nessie’s confidence in me.
I may have changed a few minds last night, but there’s more to be done. I find the roll of plans in my jacket pocket and spread them out on the grass at my feet. As I do so, a handful of Nessie’s good-luck seaglass tumbles out. Smiling, I stoop to pick the pieces up, watching the sun dance around them in my palm. Nessie calls them ‘sun jewels’ in the daytime, holding them up one by one to see how the light hits them.
Wait a second . . .
I hold a piece of pale green glass up to the light, then look down at the plans. The design for the side of the building closest to me currently adds two extra storeys, crowned with a gently sloping roof I’ve proposed we cover in sedum and grass. Looking at the shell of the parsonage, I imagine how the new walls will rise from the old. The materials list has the top storey clad in dark wood; but I’m not sure it will work. Part of the beauty of the original building is its pale stone. In the warm sunlight, it almost glows. Wood cladding will absorb the light and spoil the effect. I take a pencil from my back pocket and write a note on the plan. Then I stand and begin to walk the perimeter of the building, paying attention to where the light falls and where the shadows rest. It’s completely different in some parts from how I’d remembered and I’d be willing to bet Brotherson’s architect hasn’t spent a sunny few hours watching the light travel across the site, either.
Suddenly, I’m excited again. If we get this right, it could totally transform Rectory Fields. We can work with the path of the light through the day to maximise its effect within the building. More light will mean a better living experience for the people who live here. I’d hoped we would utilise the best materials the local area could offer, but I’d forgotten Cornwall’s most famous commodity. Light has summoned artists here for years; it’s inspired countless authors and poets, photographers and craftspeople. Part of the beauty of this place is its unique light – we’d be crazy not to play to its strengths.
It will mean submitting a verification order to the architect up in Plymouth, so I’ll have to talk to Brotherson and get him to okay it; but I’m so convinced this will make Rectory Fields a truly special development.
An hour later, the plan is covered in my handwriting and my mind is alive with possibilities. I don’t wait for an invitation: I call Brotherson’s office and ask to meet him.
If we’re celebrating Cornwall’s light in the development, it might sway some voters. I don’t know if it will make a difference, but I have to try. I have Nessie’s good-luck gift from last night to thank for finding it. Maybe she was right – perhaps the seaglass is magic after all.
Chapter Thirty-One
Seren
‘Let me get this straight – you do this for fun?’
‘What, sit in one place for hours on end to catch sight of an incredible natural phenomenon?’ I grin at Kieran and hand him a steaming thermos mug. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘You strange, strange woman.’
‘Oh, and it’s so different from your job because . . . ?’
‘Listen, I don’t sit in elevated sheds for hours on end staring at the sky,’ he argues back. ‘When I do landscape shoots, I choose locations with a hope of a warm fire nearby. Or, preferably, in countries where the night temperature won’t chill your martini.’
I know he’s hamming it up to amuse me, and that his photographic assignments often require him to visit pretty remote places. But the performance is appreciated. ‘You’ve photographed stars before, though?’
He is holding the hot chocolate like it’s about to save his life. ‘Yeah. Out in Canada, a few years back. My mate in Ontario specialises in long-exposure time-lapse composites. I asked him to show me how to capture star trails, so we went up to the mountains to shoot the Perseid meteor shower. But I just helped him set it up – I haven’t done a solo shoot before.’
‘So tonight is a new experience for both of us?’
‘It is. Not least in my discovering how long I can sit on this shed bench and still retain feeling in my legs . . .’
‘Oh, stop moaning. This was your idea, remember?’
He can’t deny that. When he visited MacArthur’s yesterday afternoon we began talking about how I was going to enthuse a bunch of primary-school kids about astronomy. And, specifically, about Elinor Carne.
‘Words are okay,’ he said, ‘but kids love visuals. I did a talk at Cerrie’s school last year and I’d planned to talk a bit about how I get my shots, but pretty quickly the kids’ eyes started glazing over. It was like the worst job interview I’ve ever had. I was terrified. Just to survive I started to share my favourite photos from around the world, telling them the story behind each one, and the response was incredible. So you can tell them Elinor Carne’s story, but if you want them to really connect with it you need to bring them into her world. Show them why Elinor was so passionate about the stars. I mean, you’re the best person to understand that and share it, aren’t you?’
I immediately thought about the amazing star-trail photographs that cause such a stir in the astronomy forums I’m a member of. Several times I’ve been rendered speechless by the otherworldly arcs being drawn across the night sky, as the camera maps the path of each star. Having a resident camera expert on the spot, I asked him to help m
e.
It’s taken almost an hour to set up the bank of cameras on their curved tripods on the flat part of the roof below the hatch window – but now we’re huddled on the hatch bench, hearing the rhythmic click of the timer between each simultaneous shutter movement. I’m glad we brought supplies. It’s not very cold by Shedservatory standards, but sitting in one place for hours is going to get pretty chilly, especially in the small hours of the night. Plenty of time to chat, though . . .
‘Still seems weird not seeing your dad around town,’ Kieran says, nodding at a battered old photo of him I’ve drawing-pinned to the hatch frame beside the ancient star wheel. In it he has an arm slung protectively over his telescope, Clarabell, and is grinning like an Olympic champion. A mate of his who worked for the Western Morning News took the picture, and Dad was very proud of being the first local amateur astronomer to appear on the front page for eighty years.
‘It is weird.’
He nods. Nothing else is needed. We sit in silence for a while, two shutter rounds firing and the distant singing of a confused songbird serenading a streetlight beside its nest the only other sounds around us. The sea is little more than a white-noise rumble from here, but if I tune my ears into it I can catch it.
‘The town looks good tonight.’
‘It does.’
‘I love how the lights on the other side of the bay look like stars,’ he says, pointing out of the hatch to the hill opposite ours. ‘Ever noticed that? They twinkle.’ A tiny cluster of wrinkles pools at his brow. ‘And if you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.’
‘Don’t worry, it goes no further than here.’ I pat the smooth larch lap shed frame to reassure him. ‘Anyway, just blame the Shedservatory. It makes you lyrical.’
I haven’t made the link between St Ives’ nightscape and the constellations before. I’ve always been too intent on looking up. I wonder if Dad ever noticed it? And what about Elinor Carne? The lights were different in her day, but did she view St Ives from the hills and see the stars in the streets mirroring those in the firmament? How much did her role as a parson’s wife and servant of the tiny hilltop parish tether her to the ground? Did she look to the stars as an escape from hardship on earth?
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 14
