I smile to myself, having thus proved my point about the Shedservatory’s lyric-inducing qualities.
‘I reckon in the next meeting we just blow Jack Dixon out of the water for good. Fix him, win the vote and move on.’
I’m startled by the sudden venom coming from my friend’s mouth. It doesn’t suit him, and yet at the same time I’m surprised by my own gut reaction – of wanting to protect Jack instead of go in for the kill. Because we could – I could. We needn’t wait for the final consultation meeting. From everything I’ve heard and seen around St Ives this week, Jack and Brotherson are still very much in second place. We could call forward the vote and finish this now. I hear the rumblings of impatience in the streets and shops, distant for now, like the faint rumble of the sea from our shed-top perch. Most of the people I’ve talked to want the parsonage saved, the matter closed once and for all.
But I don’t want Brotherson to take Jack Dixon down with him. Jack is a nice guy. Misguided in his choice of employer, certainly, but I can’t believe he is hell-bent on wreaking havoc for the town. I suddenly realise a truth more uncomfortable than the Shedservatory’s bench seat: I like Jack. Something no leader of the opposing side to his development should ever admit. Something I shouldn’t even consider.
I glance at Kieran – the revelation is so loud in my ears I half-expect him to have heard it, too – but he’s too busy trying to wrap himself bodily around his thermal mug to have noticed anything. Relieved not to have been found out, I look up at the stars. But my eyes keep being dragged back to the twinkling land-stars on the opposite side of the bay. Which does Jack regard the most? Is he dreaming of higher things, or only those he can build on the land?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jack
I’m fixing yet another broken fence on the caravan park’s perimeter when I’m interrupted by a familiar voice.
‘Alright, Jack?’
‘Hey, Jeb. How are you?’
Jeb sniffs and clicks the stud in his tongue between his teeth. ‘In a bit of bother, truth be told.’
I wrench the old nails out of the splintered panel. ‘What’s up?’
‘Promised Wenna I’d pick up the dress she ordered from her favourite shop in St Ives today, but the jeep’s broke.’
‘Ah.’ Any story that includes Jeb’s inimitable, mermaid-haired fiancée being denied what she wants is never going to have a happy ending. ‘Not good.’
‘She’s not happy, I’ll tell you that.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Trev at the garage says he can’t get parts till next week. I reckon that jeep’s for the scrapheap. Thing is, we’ve got Chrissy Michaels’ wedding tomorrow and Wenna wanted the dress for then . . .’ It’s almost endearing seeing the tattooed, pierced hulk of a man trying not to ask for a favour.
I drop the hammer into my toolbox and decide to rescue him. ‘Did you want a lift, mate?’
Jeb’s smile is brighter than a lighthouse lantern’s bulb. ‘Would you? I know you’re busy with this blasted fence.’
‘It’s secure enough for now. What makes these holes, Jeb? Is it kids, do you think?’
‘Could be rogue badgers for all I know. The wildlife’s vicious round here . . .’
Once in St Ives, my very grateful friend heads off to Ebb and Flow on the harbour front to collect Wenna’s parcel while I take the opportunity to grab a few essentials for home. We’re out of washing detergent and loo roll, tea-bags and tinfoil – things the chalet seems to eat. I stop by Boots to get a bottle of the bubble bath Nessie really likes, and the cheapest shampoo I can find for me.
The lady behind the till smiles as she takes my basket. ‘You’re the builder bloke, aren’t you?’
I’m not sure how to react, considering I haven’t paid for my shopping yet and Nessie really needs that bubble bath. If I say yes and she’s supporting the opposition, I might be kicked out of the shop empty-handed. I’ve been nervous about coming to St Ives after my presentation at the town meeting. Not because of what I said – I believe in all of it – but because of whom I now represent. I’m not used to being the spokesman for somebody else, and it’s taking some getting used to.
She’s scanned the items now. All I have to do is pay. Can I wait until then to answer her question? She smiles at me again. Ah, well . . .
‘Yes, I am. Construction manager, actually. Hi.’
‘Thought you did well Wednesday night. Changed a lot of folks’ minds, I reckon.’
‘Really?’ I should ask that again, in a far lower tone.
‘I was sitting with my friend Sandra, right, and she said she’d trust you to build her house. And Sandra don’t trust most folk.’
‘Does she need a house building?’ I ask, ever the optimist.
‘Not right now. But she’ll definitely bear you in mind.’ She gives me a startlingly suggestive wink as she hands me my change.
And it continues, as I walk along Fore Street, past the bookshop, clothes shops and the art gallery, the deli with its picture-perfect display of fruit and veg, and Sky’s Diner with its pile of fresh pasties in the window. In the children’s clothing shop with its giant Peter Rabbit toy, a bloke changing the window display gives me a thumbs-up; a lady stops outside the Poppy Treffry shop to wish me all the best. I’d expected accusing looks and a town determined to fight the Big Bad Developer, but I get the sense that the decision is far from made.
I’m heading to the Post Office at the end of Fore Street to buy Nessie a new sketchpad and the watercolour pencils she’s lusted after since our last visit, when I see an A-board sign resting on the cobbles.
MACARTHUR’S
~ local art and crafts ~
MacArthur’s – Seren MacArthur’s shop. I peer up the alleyway to the small courtyard, clutching my carrier bags for security. Why do I feel nervous? It isn’t like I’m doing anything wrong. Come in and browse!, the sign invites me. I notice the paint is beginning to flake around its edges. The hinges are rusted, and a screw is working loose at one end. It seems tired, almost resigned. Looking up the alley, I can see the shop sign painted in identical colours – sea-green with a rambling pink wild rose edging the name, which is painted in white, looping text. It reminds me of the Romany caravan art Dad used to have in his shed, all that remained of a distant relative’s traditional horse-drawn home. Like those panels, the sign has seen better days. I can’t see the shop’s window from where I’m standing, but I wonder what ‘local art and crafts’ MacArthur’s sells. It looks so different from the polished galleries that litter the town. Does Seren paint? I don’t know anything about her, other than that she opposes Rectory Fields, owns this shop and recently lost her father. That seems wrong, somehow. Like I should know my opponent better.
People jostle past, Fore Street bustling as ever despite it being early in the season. But there’s a strange stillness in the courtyard, as if it’s frozen in time beyond the arched entrance, no more than a realistic painting. It’s oddly quiet, considering the famous street it borders. Do people go in there at all?
Maybe I should just walk in? Say hello?
No, Jack. Don’t be daft. What would I say? I can hardly claim to be ‘just passing’, when it’s a closed courtyard. And St Ives isn’t where I live, so I can’t pretend I just happened to be here, even if I did.
But I remember what Seren said – about Tash, and her dad – after the meeting. She looked so lost when she described her grief. And I was worse than useless. I should have said more, responded better. She just threw me with her honesty. It ended on a strange note, and I want to let her know she didn’t tell me too much. Since we lost Tash I’ve sometimes worried that I’ve been too honest when people have asked me about her. When you’re living something twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, it’s easy to forget it isn’t the constant commentary to other people’s lives. She might be embarrassed, or wishing she’d never said anything . . .
Stuff it. I’m going in.
A bump to my shoulder shifts my
attention back to the street.
‘Excuse me, mate.’ A tall, blond bloke in a sharp suit holds up his hand to apologise. He looks like a footballer, or maybe a millionaire. Two women walking past giggle like teenagers when he smiles in their direction.
‘Sorry.’
‘No worries. Hey, good presentation the other night.’
I start to thank him, but he’s already walking up the alley to the courtyard – straight into Seren’s shop.
‘Hey, babe . . .’ he calls as he disappears inside.
Well, one thing’s for certain. Seren MacArthur isn’t worrying about me.
This evening’s star has a bright green heart. I found a pile of spring-green glass under a rock by the path to the top of the dunes – the relatively recent remains of an old cider bottle, by the looks of it – and have used the pieces to carefully fill the middle of the star. Nessie is impressed, but then I am in her good books because I arrived home with her favourite bubble bath, the sketchbook and pencils and a tub of highly prized Moomaid of Zennor ice cream as a treat. For tonight, at least, I am the Greatest Dad in the World.
‘It looks so good,’ Nessie says, hands on hips as she stands back to view our evening’s work. ‘We should do blue tomorrow night. Or pink . . .’
‘It depends on what the mermaids leave for us,’ I say.
‘Pink please, mermaids!’ Ness yells.
I love her enthusiasm and how she never once questions whether the star will be complete in the morning. I’m learning to trust the stars will be there – and I’m starting to depend on it. As we were gathering seaglass tonight, I thought about how much has changed since we made the first star. I now have a firm offer of a job that could potentially secure our immediate future and beyond. In her fifth month there, Nessie is settling in at school (barring the bully-kicking incident, which neither of us refers to); and my experience in St Ives today has made me dare to believe that Rectory Fields could win the town’s vote.
Tash used to mock me for seeking signs, but I’ve always done it. I’m not superstitious – not in terms of avoiding black cats or walking under ladders – but I have always looked for things to pin my hope on. We had so little of that before we made the first star that I was starting to think our downward spiral couldn’t be reversed.
The stars changed that.
And even if they are just a fun game we’re enjoying with a stranger who needs it too, as far as I’m concerned each star is a talisman for Ness and me. A promise of better things and brighter days. I look forward to making them and finding each one complete the next evening. I don’t know if the person who finishes each star realises what they mean to us. I hope they do. In any case, the stars they help us create have heralded a new season for my girl and me. I feel it every time we walk on Gwithian Beach: magic at work . . .
‘Dad, look!’
Nessie’s face is washed in a deep pink-gold light as I follow her pointing finger to the sunset exploding colour across the horizon and over the waves to the beach where we stand. A blood-red sun dips in the electric blue strip where sea meets sky; fiery orange and pink arc above it. The clouds beyond are edged in gold and even the sound of the sea seems to hush in respect. The glowing light warms everything around us – the sand and the rocks, our faces and bodies – making the new, almost-made star sparkle at our feet. Tash once said I’d never see the magic I believed I’d find. She was wrong.
Things are changing for Nessie and me. Here is where the good stuff begins.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Seren
‘Hey, babe . . .’
I look up from the counter and grin. ‘Alright, ’ansum?’
This has been our patter of choice since school and we see no reason to change it now. It’s good to have something so familiar today, with all the new thoughts of Jack still swirling around my head.
‘Looking beautiful as ever, star girl.’ Kieran plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘And smelling good, too. Has the kettle boiled recently?’
He’s shameless, but luckily for Kieran it still amuses me. ‘I made a fresh pot of coffee about ten minutes ago,’ I reply, pointing at the still untouched jug on the coffee machine. I fully intended to enjoy it as soon as it was brewed, but the bracelet I’m working on refused to let me leave it, even for a minute. I haven’t been this excited by one of my designs before and I’m loving the rush. ‘What’s with the suit? I haven’t seen you wear one for – it must be years.’
‘Ross Marchant’s wedding, 2010,’ he says, filling two mugs with coffee and bringing one to me. ‘Not this suit, I hasten to add. We all got drunk on sloe gin and crashed out at mine for two days straight, remember?’
I have a very distant memory of an epically painful hangover and laughing ourselves breathless at Kieran’s post-drunken attempts to make porridge for ten people. ‘I haven’t touched sloe gin since.’
Kieran chuckles. ‘Me neither.’
‘So why wear a suit today? Planning to get drunk again?’
‘No fear! Actually, I had a meeting with a journalist from the Telegraph this morning.’
‘Kieran, that’s amazing!’
‘Pretty cool, huh? Came about completely by accident, too. Guy’s an old friend from art college who’s down here on holiday, and he suggested we meet up. His girlfriend was there, too. Who happens to be the paper’s picture editor. She’s looking for a photographer for their travel section. Six-month contract, plus ongoing projects. Quite an opportunity. So I thought I’d better scrub up.’
‘I don’t suppose Aggie’s seen you looking like this, has she?’ I imagine my best friend being tipped completely over the edge by that particular sight.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to change the subject, would you?’
‘Ooh, touchy.’
‘Shush, you.’
‘Haven’t you two sorted this out yet? Come on, what are you waiting for? You like her, she likes you . . .’
‘I’ve just applied for a job that will take me overseas a lot . . .’
I fix him with a stare. ‘Clever. How to run away from your problems.’
‘You call it running away, I call it professional development.’ He shakes his head as I start to reply. ‘No, please don’t say anything. I know, okay? I’ll sort it – in my own time.’
I can’t push him any more. ‘Fine. I just want you to be happy.’
‘Cheers. So, what are you working on?’
The bracelet – I’d forgotten it was there. Instinctively I flatten my hands over the pieces. ‘Nothing. Just messing about with bits . . .’
Too late. His mug meets the counter with a thunk and he gently prises my hands away. ‘Don’t be shy, just show me . . . My life, Seren, this is . . .’
‘It’s nothing, really . . .’
I hear his intake of breath as he takes in my work. ‘Geddon, girl, this is astounding. Where did you learn to do this?’
‘Nowhere. I just designed it myself.’
He’s still holding my hands as he looks up at me. ‘Why aren’t you selling these in the shop? You’d make a fortune.’
‘No.’
‘Are you crazy? It’s stunning! Tourists would go mad for that.’
I pull my hands away from his and scoop the half-made bracelet into a velvet bag. ‘It’s not for sale.’
‘Why?’
How can I ever explain it to him? I’m making a gift from the mermaids for a stranger I’ve been making seaglass stars on the beach with . . . Nobody knows about this one small part of my life. Kieran knows most things about me, Aggie even more – but this is too special to share. Because however much they love me, it will end up being picked over and pulled apart, like everything else in my life. And I don’t want to share it.
‘It isn’t what the shop sells.’
‘Maybe that’s why the shop is struggling to make money.’
‘I can’t sell these here.’
‘Why, Ser? It’s not like your dad’s going to object . . .’ He clamps a hand to hi
s mouth. ‘I’m sorry. That came out wrong.’
It’s so hard to explain. MacArthur’s is a shrine to everything Dad believed in. I don’t want my jewellery to jostle for position with everyone else’s things. And I know that’s completely irrational, but it’s my decision. My jewellery represents the only thing that’s still mine. I lost my job and my home in Falmouth, the possibility of a new start last Christmas when I passed up the chance of a new job because Dad wasn’t well – and now I have his business, his campaign to run, and I’m living in his house because I can’t afford to live anywhere else. If I sold my bracelets here, it would feel like I’d surrendered that part of me, too. ‘This isn’t my shop. It’s Dad’s. I just want my business to be separate for now, that’s all.’
‘But that bracelet—’
‘– isn’t for sale. Anywhere. It’s not my usual style, just an experiment.’
Kieran observes me for a while. ‘So, who’s it for?’
I can’t escape this conversation without answering him. ‘A friend.’
‘Right.’ He nods slowly and returns to drinking his coffee. I think he’s got the message. My heart is thudding, though. Why do I feel as if I’ve been caught out? And why does making this gift for the starmaker feel like such a risk?
Next morning I arrive at Gwithian an hour earlier than usual. I want to give myself enough time to complete the star, leave my gift and be off the beach as soon as I can. Today of all days, I don’t want to be found.
I finished the bracelet in the early hours, taking time to attach each element. It was like a meditation on the last three weeks. I don’t know if the other starmaker will feel my thanks for all they have done, but I willed my gratitude into every piece of seaglass.
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 15
