It’s in my pocket now, with the blue glass bottle, its note already carefully written and rolled up inside, capped with a cover of silver foil secured with a tiny green rubber band to keep out the moisture. I’ve wrapped the bracelet in tissue paper the colour of cowslips, slipped it into a turquoise velvet drawstring bag, then wound blue bubble wrap around the whole package and fastened it with loops of brown string. I’m hoping it will be protected from the elements as much as possible, and I’m relieved to be greeted by a dry morning with a gentle westerly breeze.
Molly plods beside me as I scour the beach for glass. Her sand-covered tail bumps against my leg as I crouch to lay each piece in place, as I have done every morning for the past three weeks. She knows to wait now, flopping down in the sand beside me.
Until the moment when I complete the star and place the package carefully at its heart, with the blue glass bottle and message beside it, I can’t quite believe I’ll be able to leave my precious creation on the beach. But as soon as it is in place, it no longer belongs to me. The stars were a gift. This is mine.
‘Come on, lady,’ I say to Molly, my voice catching. Because suddenly it means the world to be doing this, and I don’t want to do anything that might make it stop. ‘Let’s go home.’
When I get back to my car Molly curls up on the back seat, while I sit and watch the dawn breaking over Gwithian Beach. My hands are shaking in my lap and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. This is it, the next step up of the game. Until now our creations have been fleeting: lasting long enough for the other starmaker to see, but ultimately destined to return to the beach. But now there’s a lasting reminder. Will they accept it?
For the first time I feel like I’ve left a part of me on the beach in the middle of the seaglass star. My hopes and dreams are woven into that bracelet. I’ve never shared these with anyone before. Mum doesn’t know the extent of my dream; neither did Dad. They assumed my beachcombing trips were a hobby, and even when I started my Etsy shop, they thought it was a nice way to make a little pocket money. I’m a graphic designer by training and trade, so they assumed that profession would eventually call me back. Computers, technology, not ancient craft skills . . . Even I wasn’t sure I could make a business out of it. So I’ve kept it secret. And I like the secrecy of it. After Dad died, having something only I knew about was a lifeline. Everything gets knocked when you lose someone you love. Your confidence, your life, your plans for the future that now have to be different from what you’d imagined because that person can’t be part of it . . . I have harboured my dream in secret, a precious treasure just for me. But finding the seaglass stars has made me dare to share it with someone else.
So the bracelet waits, surrounded by the newest star.
Today, everything changes. Will there be a new star waiting for me tomorrow morning? Or will my gift scare them away? All I can do is wait.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jack
We almost missed it.
Now we’re sitting together on the creaky old sofa in the chalet and neither of us can quite believe it.
‘Is this because of the marshmallows?’ Nessie asks, her question not much more than breath.
Is it? It’s one heck of a leap from sweets to this.
‘I don’t know. Maybe?’
And we so nearly didn’t see it. The small blue bubble-wrapped package was only just visible in a pile of seaweed the lunchtime storm must have dragged up the beach. We had to clear strands off the star to be able to see the finished shape. I thought the package was just a bit of rubbish dropped by a careless visitor – we don’t get much on Gwithian Beach, so when something is discarded in the sand it’s noticeable. Thank goodness Nessie decided to investigate.
The blue glass bottle with its printed note is exciting enough. But within a small velvet pouch we discovered the most amazing piece of jewellery I’ve ever seen. It’s – I can’t even find words worthy to describe it.
We were so shocked we almost forgot to make the new star. I’m grateful I found presence of mind enough to realise in time. How would that have looked to the starmaker if our response to their incredible gift was no star at all? It took every ounce of our combined resolve to dismantle the current one and rearrange the seaglass into a new design, a multicoloured explosion of random pieces that made me think of stained-glass windows. Nessie couldn’t have found the patience to choose an alternating pattern this evening. Neither could I. By the time we’d finished, my daughter was so overexcited that all her words deserted her. She could only communicate with furious nods, her eyes ablaze and her smile wide. I’ve never seen Nessie sprint for home as fast as she did this evening, not even stopping to gaze up at the bats circling the top of the cliff steps, which would usually command her attention.
She’s shaking a little beside me now. She’s always done this when her excitement levels reach bursting point. Her feet tap repeatedly on the rag-rug in front of the sofa – if we were standing up she’d be dancing like the Irish dancers in Riverdance.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I try it on?’
‘Do it.’
It’s too big for her wrist, but the seaglass and gold wire glow against Nessie’s pale skin. There are beads in it, too, that look like bubbles of sea foam in the sun, and a silver star charm in the centre of the bracelet. It’s the perfect mix of found objects and new materials, and its construction is astounding.
I’ve always been drawn to projects that use the fabric of the land to create something new. There is such beauty in found natural objects. If Brotherson and his architect agree, I want us to pursue this ethos in as many aspects as possible of the Rectory Fields build. Our local environment is too rich in natural materials to even consider looking elsewhere. I believe a building should come from the land – its environment should inform its character.
Whoever made the bracelet understands that.
And their gift makes me feel like they understand me, too. Us. Nessie and me.
As I watch Nessie inspecting each seaglass element, I am struck by the strangest feeling of not being alone, of being connected again. We’ve been out on our own for months – and years before that. I was alone in my marriage until Ness came along, then alone as her parent even when Tash was alive. I’d wonder what she would have made of this discovery, but I already know the answer. For someone who dealt daily in art, she had no concept of the act of creation. To her, the work she hung in the gallery was no more than a price tag, a net worth.
This bracelet would be difficult to put a price on. It’s too beautiful to be reduced to pounds and pence.
And the starmaker made it for us.
I unroll the message from the bottle again.
To the starmaker, with love from the mermaids of Gwithian xx
Like the message we left with the marshmallows, the words have been printed, so there is no indication of the starmaker’s identity here. But the person is obviously an artist – we already know that from the many ways they have completed our beach stars.
‘It’s so lovely,’ my daughter breathes, her cheeks flushed by surprise and joy. ‘Can we keep it?’
I hug her to me. ‘They made it for us.’
‘I’m going to take such good care of it, Dad. And you have to as well.’
‘I promise.’
‘Wait till I tell Flo about this at school on Monday. She’s going to be so surprised!’
Nessie launches into an excited monologue about all the mermaid stories she and her school friend have shared lately, as my mind begins to stray. We should make something in return – now that the game of stars has taken a large leap forward. A thank-you note wouldn’t be anywhere near enough.
I think about it all night, any chance of sleep lost to the thrill of the evening’s discovery. Possibilities crowd my mind as I lie in bed staring up at the wood-clad ceiling. But I don’t mind. I have waited too long for the return of inspiration. Sleep can wait: I feel more alive than I hav
e for months.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Seren
I wake an hour before my alarm is set to go off, but there’s no chance of going back to sleep. My first thought is of the other starmaker and how they will have reacted to the gift I left. Last night I dreamed of visiting Gwithian but finding no star at all. I hope it isn’t a portent of things to come.
I’m nervous about what I’ll find – or not find – on the beach, but one thing’s for certain: I did the right thing. We needed to move forward, as sure as the tides rise and fall. It was time to show the starmaker what their work has meant to me. What it still means to me.
I catch sight of my pale reflection in the stainless-steel kettle as it boils noisily, and wish I looked as confident on the outside as I feel on the inside. It’s early, though; I’m tired, and the lack of sleep from my tossing and turning last night is all too evident.
I go through the motions of preparing my flask of coffee, filling a bottle of water for Molly, fetching her rug I washed and dried last night to take my mind off what might be happening on Gwithian Beach, and packing what I need for my beachcombing. Every step is deliberately slow and methodical, fighting the urge to grab whatever I can as fast as possible and bolt out of the house. I slow my breathing, noticing every cold intake of air and warm exhale, like I learned in the yoga class that runs during the summer above Porthmeor Beach Cafe.
Focus, Seren. Breathe. I repeat it as a mantra, imagining Dad’s amusement at my battle. I remember him telling me off during one childhood visit to Flambards theme park, which I’d begged him and Mum to take me to for months. When I got there the excitement was so great I dashed from one attraction to the next, and after an hour was completely overwrought. I remember Dad leading me gently to a bench, getting me to take deep breaths and then advising me to take my time.
‘Slow down, stargirl. Breathe. You’ve got to take the time to see things – take them in, enjoy every bit. Hurrying misses the magic.’
Okay, Dad. I’m slowing down . . .
Molly is keen to accompany me this morning despite the early start. She barely gives me time to spread her blanket over the back seat of my car before she clambers in, then spends the entire journey with her nose pressed to the rear passenger window, watching the darkened fields whizzing past. We drive through Hayle and out onto the road that winds along St Ives Bay, the first glow of the breaking day just visible where the dark sky meets the ocean. I’m getting more nervous as we near Gwithian. What if they hated the bracelet? What if it scared them away?
All I want to do now is go down onto the sand and find out for myself what’s waiting there for me. Or what isn’t.
I scramble down the steps to the beach, but when I reach the bottom I stop. Molly crashes into the back of my legs and grumbles loudly.
‘Sorry,’ I say, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I’m scared to look, to go over to the spot where our seaglass stars are always made, in case it’s empty. I don’t want this game to end yet, or to do anything to stop it. If the other starmaker didn’t like the gift – or thought it a step too far – it might all be over.
Molly bumps her head against my calves and looks up as if to ask what I’m doing.
What am I doing?
This is ridiculous. There’s only one way to find out whether my fears are unfounded or not. And it isn’t by hovering on the bottom step, too scared to visit the beach.
‘Let’s just go and see,’ I say, but Molly is already padding across the sand towards the rocks.
I clamber over them, almost falling when the toe of my boot catches the top of one of the jagged boulders. I reach out and find a handhold on the next rock, bringing myself to a stop that jars my shoulder but prevents a head-dive to the stones. But by then, it doesn’t matter. I see the sand beyond – and the place where every star has been made – and my heart leaps ten feet into the air.
There’s a new star!
Molly’s ears lift in shock when I yell, but I can’t help myself. I’m just so relieved that the starmaker wasn’t scared away by my gift. As my dog pads away to investigate the early-morning beach smells, I kneel down beside the incomplete star to take a closer look. It’s the same outline shape as all of the previous stars, but the seaglass filling it isn’t as carefully placed as the others. There are no patterns, no alternating colours, just a tumble of seaglass of all shapes, sizes and hues. It’s beautiful, in a new way, but I feel a slight dip of disappointment. It feels rushed, somehow.
I stand up and rub my shoulder where it stings from my almost-fall. I don’t know why the new star doesn’t thrill me. I should just be relieved that it’s there at all. The salt air stings my throat as I breathe it in and I shake the sand from my coat sleeve, annoyed with myself. Having a new star is a gift, as much as the others were. Maybe I built this morning up too much. I’d been so terrified that the game would be over that perhaps my expectations of finding I was wrong were too high. Did I expect the starmaker to thank me for the bracelet? Leave a note, or some acknowledgement that they had received it?
Perhaps.
But the new star is here. Isn’t that enough?
I set about gathering handfuls of seaglass to complete the star. The game is continuing, so I have to follow suit. I fill in the fifth point to match the other four: showers of multicoloured seaglass falling into place, finding their own order.
When it’s done, I call Molly to my side and turn my back on the star. I won’t be disappointed in this, I decide. I just can’t let the game I’ve loved so much be allowed even a glimpse of the dismay that’s clouded every other aspect of my life. This is still my beautiful secret, my own gift. The starmaker hasn’t abandoned me, like I’d feared. I need to stop expecting anything more than I find on the beach every morning and just enjoy the ride.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jack
In the small hours it comes to me: the perfect response. Pulling a jumper on, I venture out of bed and click on the kitchen light. I find sheets of paper and Nessie’s drawing pencils on top of the old sideboard and start to sketch out plans.
What time will our starmaker be on the beach today? It’s too early now, I think, but I wonder if they are making their way to Gwithian even now. It’s strange to think our lives run in parallel, when if we met in the street we’d be no more than strangers.
I’m so glad we remembered to make the star in all the surprise and thrill of finding the mermaid bracelet. If they were to arrive on the beach this morning and find no star, what would they think of us? Part of me wishes I’d already planned what to make for them, so that they could discover it this morning. But they took time to craft the gift they left for us; to rush something in return would be a mistake.
Daylight is beginning to seep through the gaps in the living-room curtains by the time my design is complete. Nessie will be up soon – I want her to see this before the craziness of our Sunday begins. We’ve errands to run, a few odd jobs to do for Jeb, and then I have to get Ness over to Owen and Sarah’s for one p.m. so she can go with them and the boys to a water park near Newquay. I want her to know what I’m going to spend the afternoon making for the mermaids.
It’s almost nine a.m. when she wakes, and the first thing she wants to do is check the seaglass bracelet is still there.
‘It might have been a dream, Dad,’ she says, hurrying to the mantelpiece where we put the bracelet last night. ‘It wasn’t! It’s still here!’
‘I told you it would be. Come and see what I’ve been working on . . .’
‘Dad, I’ve been thinking.’ She’s standing in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips and her most serious expression – a comical combination with her one-leg-up, one-leg-down pyjamas and wild morning hair.
‘Yes, ladybird?’
‘We absolutely have to make something for the mermaids. To say thank you. And not just marshmallows this time.’
‘I think you’re right. That’s what I’ve been planning.’ I hold up the sheet of paper.
‘Want to see?’
Her stance forgotten, she races to my side and perches on the arm of the old sofa as I show her the plans I’ve drawn and redrawn since two thirty a.m.
‘Can you make this?’
‘I think so. We’ll need to find all the bits on the beach, and then I’ll work out a way of constructing it.’
‘Then we have to start right away!’ She leaps from the sofa and begins pulling on her wellies over her pyjamas.
‘Ness – wait – you need to get dressed and have breakfast, and we’ve jobs to do before we go to Uncle Owen and Auntie Sarah’s . . .’
‘I can’t wait for all of that,’ my daughter retorts from halfway inside a hoodie. ‘We have to go now!’
I should insist and play the Dad card, but I love Nessie’s passion. Errands can wait, and the work for Jeb can be done any time. A morning beachcombing for building materials would be good for both of us. ‘Okay, but I’m making us toast to eat on the beach. And put your jeans on over your PJs – and your coat, too. It’s chilly out there this morning.’
I’m buzzing as we head down the steps to the beach. I’ve been thinking for hours about how we could thank our fellow starmaker, and this is the perfect opportunity. They’ve been busy already – we find our star from last night perfectly completed with multicoloured seaglass, a length of sea-frayed blue acrylic rope looping around it and small, flat pieces of driftwood placed like weatherboarding around its perimeter. With Nessie’s permission I carefully remove these, along with some of the shells we used to fill the star’s centre yesterday. Now all we need is moss and something to bind all the elements together.
Later that afternoon, I lay out all the pieces and a few tools I’ve brought in from my car on a small table outside the chalet in what passes as our garden. It feels like the beginning of something special and I’m relishing the challenge of building it. I carefully cut the driftwood pieces to the right size, taking care not to waste anything, winding moss and brown string around them to form a frame. Then I take a mix of cement and beach sand and start to fill in the structure, adding tiny scraps of mussel shell as I go. The iridescent mother-of-pearl shell inlays look magical against the buff-coloured mortar and grey driftwood. Suitably fitting for any mermaid worth her salt.
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 16
