The beach is deserted save for a few stalking seagulls who walk so close to the edge of the sea that they look like reluctant paddlers. White and grey clouds whip past overhead and the sea is a pure green. On any other day I would be down there, soaking in the view. But this afternoon I’m suddenly a stranger again, spying on Gwithian Beach from a distance, as though I have something to hide.
I wait for an hour, until my body is starting to feel numb and the wind on top of the cliff has chilled my face and hands. They aren’t coming. Or it could be hours until they arrive.
Suddenly there’s a rush of energy and noise to my right and I scramble to my feet, ready to defend myself. A ball of brown and white fur careers into me, knocking the breath from my lungs, and I stumble a little, stopped only from a tumble towards the cliff edge by a strong hand grabbing my elbow, hauling me back.
‘Are you okay?’ a man’s voice asks.
I cough to bring the breath back and slowly dare to look up.
It isn’t Jack.
But for a split-second, I thought it was.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
The older man shakes his head. ‘I’m so sorry, miss. My dog – he likes meeting new people.’
The liver-and-white cocker spaniel knocks its head against my knee. My hand is shaking when I reach down to stroke its fur.
‘Hello,’ I manage, forcing a smile. But I feel sick.
What am I doing?
The man apologises again and, when he is certain that I’m okay, ushers his dog away to the cliff path. I sit back heavily on the rug and rub my eyes. Why did I think this was a good idea? And what difference does it make if Jack Dixon is the other starmaker? It just means I have more in common with him than I thought. He doesn’t know who I am. I doubt it would alter his position on the Rectory Fields development even if he did.
The stars have nothing to do with the campaign. We can both carry on doing what we were doing before without knowing the truth about each other. We don’t need to know all of it, do we?
So I could walk away now, forget about Nessie and the bracelet and the tiny beachcombed house. I could go back to playing the game every morning. It would still be magical, wouldn’t it?
I look back to the beach. It’s still empty. Time to go home. I stand and shake the sand from Molly’s blanket. It doesn’t matter who made the stars, I tell myself. I can carry on not knowing.
‘Da-a-a-ad! Look!’
And just like that, there she is. Nessie Dixon – the girl from Cerrie’s class with the wild dark hair and boundless energy. She is right by the seaglass star I finished this morning, jumping like a grasshopper and waving her arms as though a plane is about to swoop down and land on Gwithian Beach at her command.
I crouch down in the grass because I have to see him follow his daughter. I already know the truth – I knew the moment Cerrie showed me my seaglass bracelet. But I want to see Jack standing by the star, to make it real.
‘Dad! Come on!’
I hold my breath. I know that this moment could change everything.
‘Okay, okay, here I am.’
Jack Dixon is on Gwithian Beach. With his daughter. We are linked by the seaglass stars, and now I know who has been making me smile every morning for the last three weeks. And he is the one person it shouldn’t be.
‘Hurry up! Run!’
‘I’m not running, Ness.’
‘You’re just too slow.’
Jack reaches Nessie’s side and gives her a playful nudge. ‘And you’re a noodle.’
‘You’re a noodle!’
I watch him grab his giggling girl and swing her up over his shoulder, dramatically stomping towards the rolling surf, his laughter and her delighted screams merging with the waves and the wind and the gulls wheeling above them. Tears sting my eyes. And suddenly, I can’t stop staring at them together. Because it’s the kind of carefree fun that every kid should share with their father. I was lucky enough to have that, but I know so many friends who never did. I wish I could bottle this picture and hand it out to everyone. Joy defined.
But it isn’t me and my dad down there, splashing about in the sea. It’s Jack Dixon and his daughter. And the one thing I thought was my simple pleasure isn’t any more. Nothing can ever be the same.
Chapter Forty-Four
Jack
It’s just possible that I went too far trying to out-man my brother shifting those boulders yesterday. Either that, or Brotherson Developments have installed concrete sofas in reception since my last visit. Nessie noticed my creakiness at breakfast as I hobbled around the chalet getting our things ready.
‘Why are you walking like a robot, Dad?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. Dadbot! Dadbot alert! Beepbopbeepbop . . .’
This amused her all the way to school, and my last view of my daughter after I kissed her goodbye was of her robot-walking across the playground, giggling her small head off.
Charming.
I just hope Bill Brotherson’s powers of observation aren’t as sharp as Nessie’s this morning. We may not have the go-ahead from the St Ives community for Rectory Fields yet, but I want to look ready to start work if we do.
No. When we do.
My internal critic kicks in again. Owen hauled me up over it yesterday – I didn’t even realise I was saying it.
‘You’ve got to watch how you talk about the job,’ he said as we puffed our way back to the tractor, rocks in arms. ‘Sarah picks on me for that all the time. When, not if. When, not if . . . In her trade you can’t let the other side see a moment of uncertainty. Same with you. Brotherson gave you the job. And you’ll do a damn fine job. So talk like you mean it.’
I like that he believes in me. He could so easily take the side of the townspeople, tell me to find my own developments and not side with the devil himself. Owen is not shy when it comes to telling me what he thinks, even if it might not be what I want to hear. But he knows what’s at stake. It’s good to have allies.
‘Jack, Bill will see you now,’ Cassandra the PA smiles. It’s scary how quickly we’ve moved from Mr Dixon and Mr Brotherson to just Jack and Bill. I remember Owen’s words and correct myself. Not scary. Impressive.
Thankfully Cassandra’s gaze returns immediately to her screen, so my jerky, awkward rise from the sofa has no witness. And Bill Brotherson is too engrossed in the revised architect plans spread across his vast desk to notice my Nessie-defined Dadbot walk into his office, either.
Impressive, Jack. Impressive . . .
‘Jaaack, good to see you! Take a seat.’
I’ve made it most of the way unnoticed to the white leather chair opposite him, so it’s only a single step and a shift of my body weight to my right foot to make it safely to the seat. I’m pretty sure I hid my wince, too. It’s going well so far.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
He doesn’t bother with the intercom, strolling past me to the door and asking Cassandra to do the honours. I envy him his effortless sashay as he returns to his chair.
‘Rory liked your proposed changes. Visited the site last week and agrees with you. So good call on that. You can tell the next town meeting about the change. Sweet-talk them all the way to the ballot box.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I know you will, boy. I hear from a colleague that you did well at the last meeting. No crap, just laid out your stall and let the beggars decide.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Bloody rabble, that lot. Glad it was you facing the firing squad this time.’
I can smile a little easier now my back doesn’t hate me as much as it did. ‘I think we’re making good progress. Certainly the questions I fielded were intelligent and insightful. I think when they understand how sympathetic this project will be to the local environment, a lot of people will be reassured.’
‘Yeah. Pander to the bastards a bit. Good.’
Not exactly what I was saying, but okay . . . ‘Be upfront and honest with t
hem, yes.’
Brotherson stretches back and his expensive chair gives the most elegant of creaks in gentle protest. ‘Excellent. How many more stints in the lion pit do we have to survive?’
‘One more meeting for discussion, then the one with the vote.’
‘Good. I’ve got people on the ground ready to go when we get the Yes.’
You see, Jack? Positive thinking. ‘Talking of that, is there anything else you want me to do before the vote? Schedules? Lists of material suppliers?’
I know we have no green light yet, but I want to be immersed in the project before any earth is broken. It’s how I work best, lining up everything I need well in advance so that the job goes smoothly. And, in the case of Brotherson Developments, I want to ensure my vision is the one that makes it from the plans to the site. Considering how much I need this job to be a success, this is maybe a bit presumptuous. But I believe in the building I can make of the old parsonage – and if I can translate that to the build, then I think the people we’re trying to convince to vote for it will believe in the project, too.
‘Do what you need to get us to the start line. My guys will approve it from here. So sympathetic is the way to go, yeah?’
‘I think so.’
His brow knots for a while, as if he’s tasting the unfamiliar word and deciding whether he likes its strange flavour. He’s interrupted by Cassandra bringing coffee and in an instant he is back to full Brotherson.
It hurts to lean forward to take my corporate mug. By the time it’s safely in my hands the pain is making me feel too bilious to enjoy it.
‘So, how’s your kid?’
I wasn’t expecting that question. ‘She’s good, thanks.’
‘I’ve got three myself. That I know of, anyway.’ He gives a nicotine-grated snigger as his thick fingers spin a clear acrylic photo block around on the desk to face me. It’s like a Russian doll family of Brothersons: shrinking in stature but not attitude from the eldest, who I guess to be in his mid-teens, to the middle son, who might be a year or two older than Nessie, and a mini-Brotherson who can’t be older than eighteen months.
‘They look like fun.’
‘Can’t complain. Wonders of a nanny, eh? Can’t complain about her either.’
There’s a photograph of Nessie in my wallet, battered a little and a few years old now. It’s one of my favourite pictures of her, taken by the quayside in Fowey. She’s sitting on a beach towel and has a book in her hands that, until I asked her to smile for the camera, she was comically engrossed in. She is giving me the widest, most enthusiastic grin, her eyes almost disappearing behind her rising cheekbones. I feel like apologising to her photograph for even having her in the same room as Brotherson after a comment like that.
‘I reckon we’ll start work on Rectory Fields the day after the vote,’ he continues, oblivious to my discomfort. ‘Get the team ready and go in.’
I nod, not really knowing what else to say.
‘And you’ll win hearts and minds, Jack, I know you will. The opposition are nothing more than a few do-gooders and a girl who’s continuing her dead dad’s meddling like it’s some bloody righteous crusade.’
‘Do you mean Seren MacArthur?’ I’m surprised by the edge to my question. Whatever our differences, she doesn’t deserve to be characterised like that.
‘Mark MacArthur was bad enough, stalking the council records for any way he could stop me. But his girl’s worse. What does she care about the place?’
‘She seems to care a lot. From what she said at the meeting.’
‘Clever words, that. Emotional blackmail. Girl should be busy mourning her old man, not fighting his battles. Anyway, if what I hear about that shop of hers is true she’ll soon have more important things to concern herself with.’ He gives a sickly smirk as he swigs the last of his coffee.
‘What about her shop?’
‘On its uppers, en’t it? Pal of mine at the golf club reckons she’ll be out of business within two months.’
Two hours later I’m parked at Marazion, looking across a grey-blue sea to the hulk of the Mount rising like a fortress from the mist. I can’t believe I didn’t realise what was going on.
The other day, when I saw her in St Ives, I had no idea. She wasn’t curt with me because I annoyed her. She was going to the bank because her business is in trouble. She was preoccupied with her own fight.
And there was me, bounding up to her like an idiot gazelle, making small talk badly, when she probably wanted to tell me to sod off.
There’s more: Brotherson said it’s her father’s business she’s trying to run. Inheriting his livelihood and the campaign he started – that’s a tall order for anyone. And where would you ever have any time for yourself in that situation? I think back to our conversation after the last meeting and it makes sense. To be grieving and trying to keep a business open must be taking its toll.
I should have said more. Or crossed the road, left her alone and not said anything. But since when did I ever choose the sensible option?
When she spoke about the old astronomer lady at the meeting I was impressed, I’ll admit. But I didn’t realise what it really meant to her. Finally, I understand.
We’re both fighting for other people: me for Nessie and our future, Seren for her dad and his legacy. Neither of us deserves to lose. But one will walk away from the vote in two weeks’ time denied our chance to fight for the people we love the most. It’s completely unfair – and yet, here we are.
So, what now?
Chapter Forty-Five
Seren
The bunting flaps in the breeze within the courtyard all the way out to Fore Street and it’s as if my hopes of saving the shop are carried on the small squares of rainbow fabric. This is the third special event I’ve put on since John Trevelyan’s ultimatum, and I need it to work. The first – an evening preview with wine, advertised in the local paper and on flyers posted in friends’ businesses – was only attended by Cerrie, her new boyfriend Tom, Kieran, Aggie and Mum. The second, an online sale event on our website, garnered three sales amounting to £150. We have to do better to have a hope of surviving. I have to do better.
I’ve spent hours getting MacArthur’s ready for our Cream Tea event, and now I’m waiting by the open door. We’ve been blessed with good weather today. That’s a relief. It’s early in the season so we need all the help Mother Nature can give us to woo people out into the streets. She’s outdone herself this morning: warm, bright sunshine, a little hazy over the sea but the kind of day that makes St Ives sparkle. Mum will be here soon with back-up supplies of cream and scones for the crowds she’s certain will flock into our little business.
I’m not so sure. I wish I were. I want to believe my own assertion at the bank meeting – that we can survive, that I can make it work. But we’ve been open for an hour and nobody has even ducked into the courtyard.
It’s almost two p.m. when footsteps on the courtyard cobbles make my head snap up from the bracelet I’ve been making. A young man smiles in the doorway, a laptop nestled under one arm.
‘Hey, is it okay to look inside?’
‘Of course. Welcome!’ I rush, wishing I didn’t sound so desperate. Thankfully my sole customer doesn’t turn on his heels and head for the hills.
‘I’m Lee, by the way. Your stuff is awesome,’ he grins, looking at the paintings on the walls. ‘Do you paint it?’
‘No, we show other artists’ work. My mum paints – that one is hers,’ I say, pointing to a landscape of Cape Cornwall painted in soft sweeps of watercolour. It’s an old painting, one that I persuaded Mum to put in the shop for sale instead of hiding beneath dustsheets in the spare bedroom she used to use as a studio. Truth is, she hasn’t painted since Dad died. She makes quilts, sometimes embroiders scenes or crochets – things she can do curled in her favourite armchair in the living room, instead of in the stark whiteness of the studio. I don’t know if she’ll ever want to paint again. It was always so tied up with Dad and the sho
p. It’s still so early, of course. Maybe when more time has passed without Dad she’ll feel inspired again.
‘It’s gorgeous.’ His eyes sparkle when he smiles. ‘When I get my book published and can write full-time I’d love to buy something like this.’
‘You’re a writer?’
He pats the laptop. ‘Trying to be – no, I am. I decided to be positive about it. I have a good feeling about the story I’m writing at the moment, actually. St Ives just makes you want to write, don’t you think?’
I’ve never thought about the town like that, but Cornwall is founded on stories so it makes sense. I wish he had money, though, and it’s a harsh admission. Small talk is lovely and having anyone in the shop is a blessing, but it doesn’t do anything to pull MacArthur’s back from the brink.
‘Do you mind if I take a photo of your mum’s painting? I can pin it on my wall to show what I’m aiming for. One day I’ll buy the real thing.’
So I watch while Lee takes photos of Mum’s work, trying not to notice the plate of scones for the crowds that never came going stale on the counter.
And all the time, John Trevelyan’s words haunt me: Your business will fail, Miss MacArthur . . .
I don’t want to accept defeat, but I’m fresh out of ideas.
Luckily, my best friend has sent me the perfect text message, just when I needed it:
Maidens for beer?
It’s a one-line text we send out as a call to arms. Or more precisely, a call to our favourite place on a hill overlooking the town. The Maidens is where we’ve gone since our teenage years when we need to think, or chat, or just be away from the town. Aggie coined the phrase on the day we left secondary school and back then it was beer on the menu, amongst other more questionable spirits. It stuck and remains our code word for escape, regardless of what we’re drinking. We don’t need a reason to visit, but there usually is one. Tonight I have a feeling both of us need time away from our troubles in the town.
‘Man, I needed this.’ Aggie clinks her cider bottle against mine and takes a swig. I follow suit, safe in the knowledge that my head won’t hurt in the morning like hers will. It was my turn to drive here tonight, so it’s non-alcoholic bottles for me.
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 20
