‘I’m stuffed from dinner, Ag.’
‘Listen, you, I never said you had a choice in this. We have ice cream and it demands an audience. You can’t deny ice cream.’
So even though I doubt I’ll be hungry again for a week, I let her bustle back into the kitchen. Dad’s photo grins at me from the mantelpiece, catching my heart up in a well of emotion. I don’t know what he would make of everything in my life, but ice cream was one of his favourite things, and he would definitely have agreed with Aggie on that.
I can’t think of the future yet, I whisper to him in my mind. I need to see this season through. Maybe when it’s all over I’ll be able to see a way forward.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Jack
It has been raining for ten days now and the Rectory Fields site is a quagmire. I’m huddled up in the Portakabin with the build team, waiting for the break in the clouds that forecasters have promised for today. I’ll believe it when I see it. The stubborn army of thick grey clouds above us doesn’t look as if it’ll move any time soon.
We can’t even call it a day: Brotherson Developments’ schedules won’t allow for delays. It took longer than we anticipated dismantling what was left of the parsonage, so the new schedules drawn up are scary. It’s been a shock to the system to work on a project at this level but the challenge is as invigorating as it is terrifying. I’m just so glad to be working at last, the months of uncertainty now a fading memory. So I go over plans and shore up arrangements for material deliveries, talk over the specifics of each part of the build with my team and keep our minds as full of the development as I can.
While the weather might not be co-operating, other areas of my life are decidedly brighter. I had worried that Rectory Fields getting the green light might cause problems for Ness at school, when St Piran’s Primary had made such a stand for the opposition. But nothing’s been said. One of the school gate mums told me the school is supporting a mobile exhibition about Elinor Carne that the Foundation is putting together. I wonder if Seren is part of this. It wasn’t the outcome I’d hoped to see her get, but maybe in time it might be a good alternative. Nessie has made me promise to take her to see it when the exhibition starts to tour the local area. I’ve said yes, but I’m hoping she’ll forget. Either that or I’ll persuade Uncle Owen and Auntie Sarah to take her instead. I should just man up and face Seren MacArthur, but I’m still in wuss mode. I guess I’ll face that hurdle when I get there.
Leaving the team to their fifth mugs of tea of the morning, I put my Brotherson Developments jacket on and brave the rain to inspect the site. Jeb mocked my new corporate clothing when he saw it, but it’s a NorthFace jacket worth a good couple of hundred quid, and infinitely warmer and drier than my old yacht waterproof. I’m an employee of Brotherson Developments now; as long as everything remains on an even keel, I plan to stay so for a long time.
I’ve been looking at places to rent in the area, to give me an idea of what money I need to put by. I already have a bank account further from the red than it ever has been, and I’ve been able to buy a few bits for the chalet to make our stay there more comfortable. It means Nessie and I will be warm, well fed and secure. I never pictured myself working for Brotherson, given his fearsome reputation, but the reality is far better than I could ever have imagined.
The foundations for the development are going in and as I walk the site I can see the beginnings of Rectory Fields. We’re incorporating into the design the stone bricks from two walls of the original Bethel Parsonage, which we painstakingly removed piece by piece. It’s a bold decision and Bill Brotherson took some persuading, but to give him credit, he agreed. It doesn’t hurt that a large part of his proposal for the development up the road at Trevalgan is based on this approach. Baby steps for the big bad developer, but I believe he’ll do it.
Rain beats relentlessly down on me as I check the boundary markers and retie a length of white tape the wind has worked free. This build is going to be a triumph over the elements for sure. I wipe rainwater from my cheek where it’s dripped down from my hood, and notice a small pile of stones by the edge of the foundation trench. Bending down to clear them, I spot a deep blue round of glass in the centre. It looks like it was once the base of a small bottle, its shattered edges smoothed by the elements over years. As I feel the weight of it in my hands, I suddenly think of Seren MacArthur.
It stops me in my tracks.
Is she okay, now the dust has settled? I’ve been so busy looking at the logistics of my new job that I haven’t thought about how she might be doing, three weeks on from that night. I hope she’s found some peace. Last Monday was May Day, the unofficial start of the holiday season in Cornwall. I hope the fresh influx of visitors has been good for her shop. Things always look bleakest in the winter and spring here; maybe the summer will bring the trade she needs to keep in business.
Does she know how much of this building we’re salvaging? There have been countless reports in the local papers, as journalists are keen to keep an eye on Bill Brotherson. Has she read any of them?
When Tash died, it made local news for a week, the tragic and sudden circumstances of her death perfect for papers that usually focus on lifeboat shouts and local council cuts. I stopped reading the Western Morning News for a month; the free papers delivered to our house went straight in the recycling. I couldn’t risk Nessie seeing her mother’s photograph plastered over the news or the specific circumstances of Tash’s death being revealed to her. It was hard enough explaining why her mum, who had been so vociferously and ferociously alive at breakfast that morning, wasn’t coming home again. Tash had yelled at Nessie for getting felt pen on the cream carpet she’d insisted on having in the living room, and for a while Ness thought her mother had left home because she was still angry about it. As far as I know, Nessie doesn’t know the full details of how Tash died – and that’s good for now. If she ever asks me, I’ll tell her, but I want to let her make her own memories of her mum until then.
Maybe I should go to St Ives at the weekend. I haven’t taken Nessie for ice cream for a while and I know she’d love a visit to Moomaid of Zennor. I might glance up the courtyard towards Seren’s shop as I pass by on Fore Street. If it looks busy, I might even risk a look in the window . . .
‘Jack!’
I look back to see Ray, the splendidly bearded build team foreman, waving to me from the Portakabin door. ‘Brotherson on the phone.’
I give him the thumbs up. ‘On my way.’ Pocketing the blue glass disc, I hurry out of the rain.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Seren
Four people view the shop in its first week on sale. I don’t know what I was expecting potential buyers to look like, but the only defining feature they all share is the exaggerated smiles and eyebrows raised too high. The photos Nick Boleyn took of MacArthur’s made the space look enormous and even though the exact square footage has been listed in the property details, actually standing in it makes you realise how small it is. As I show the buyers around, I can see their smiles tightening, their questions becoming less specific, and I watch them hurry away when the viewing ends.
‘It’s early days,’ Nick assures me when he calls to see how the latest viewing went. ‘You generally get casual viewers first. Newly listed properties always catch attention.’
The bank’s deadline is a fortnight away. Serious buyers need to start visiting soon – I don’t want to consider what happens if they don’t. A firm accepted offer would be enough to call off the bank’s bloodhounds. I’m not about to give John Trevelyan and his beak-featured small business manager the pleasure of foreclosing on our loans. There has to be someone who will see the potential of this space. Dad did; he can’t be the only one.
Completely unexpectedly, Mum has found herself a job. I didn’t even know she was looking, so it was a huge surprise yesterday evening when she announced it. I was grooming Molly after her unscheduled bath on the kitchen floor, wishing I hadn’t taken her on Bamaluz stra
ight after work where she’d found a large pile of stinking seaweed to roll in, when Mum calmly told me.
‘So, I have a full-time job.’
‘What? When did this happen?’
She shrugged, unable to hide her delight. ‘This morning. I met Sam and Mary Lyons from my drama group for breakfast at Porthmeor Beach Cafe and I told them the shop’s for sale. We got talking and I said I was thinking of finding a job, with our finances being what they are. Anyway, it turns out Mary is looking for supply teachers, especially in Art and English. So I mentioned my English MA and that I used to teach Art before I had you. They’ve signed me up!’
‘That’s brilliant, well done!’
‘I have to do a refresher course and have all the checks and so on, but St Ives School in Carbis Bay needs an Art teacher to cover maternity leave from September. Looks like it’s going to be me!’
I hugged her, immeasurably proud of her bravery for getting back out into the world so soon after losing Dad. ‘And this is what you want to do?’
‘It is. Your dad was such an old fuddy-duddy about not wanting me to work. He thought he should support both of us so that I could paint and sell my work in the shop. It never really worked out the way we’d hoped, but I loved him for trying to facilitate my dream. Since he died I’ve been feeling itchy, like I want to do something with my life. This is the perfect opportunity.’
The brass bell above the shop door rings out as a young woman walks in, an older man following in her wake. She can’t be more than twenty-one, but she has the confident air of someone much older.
‘Miss MacArthur? I’m Mhairi Peters, here to look at the shop?’
I rise to shake her hand. ‘Welcome. Can I get you a coffee before we start?’
‘I won’t, but Dad probably will.’ She shares a knowing grin with the older man and my heart contracts.
‘Notice she doesn’t introduce me,’ he laughs, offering his hand. ‘Luke Peters, silent partner and not-so-secret moneybags.’
Mhairi glares at her father and I remember countless conversations where Dad embarrassed me. I miss that strange mix of frustration and fun you feel as a kid when your parent makes you cringe. ‘Dad’s going to fund my business for the first five years. That’s the plan.’
‘What business are you looking to start?’
She beams and it’s the kind of smile Dad always wore whenever anyone asked him about MacArthur’s. ‘A boutique. I design and make my own line of dresses, hats and bags. It’s only small, but I have big plans.’
Mhairi and Luke are noticeably different from the previous viewers, from their questions about the premises to their willingness to discuss both pros and cons of running a business here. I can’t afford to like anyone who can’t buy the shop, but I really like these two. They leave over an hour later and I’m left feeling hopeful that even if they aren’t the eventual buyers, they represent the kind of people Nick promised would view the shop.
At Becca’s Bar that evening, I bite the bullet and ask Becca for more shifts. I’m inspired by Mum’s example and cheered by the viewing today – and while I haven’t yet considered what the future might hold for me, lining up work for after the shop sells is a good place to start.
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ Becca grins, her new ruby-set front tooth catching light from the festoon of fairy lights looped over the bar canopy. ‘You tell me how many nights you’d like to do, and then we can add day shifts when the shop sells. Sound all right?’
‘Sounds great. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure, bird. You’re the best worker I have – and the others think the world of you. I’d be nuts not to use you more.’
Aggie and Kieran meet me on the back steps of the bar when my shift ends and we walk down the narrow alley to Harbour Beach. The tide is in, but a narrow sliver of sand is still accessible, so we head down the slipway opposite the Italian restaurant and carefully step over mooring ropes until we find a place to sit.
‘Haven’t done this in a while,’ Aggie says, cranking the metal caps off three cider bottles and handing them out. ‘Remember our last week of school when we came down here and Kieran got off his tits on Jägermeister?’
Even in the low light reflected from the town across the harbour, I can see Kieran turn green. ‘Ugh, don’t remind me. How come so many of our memories involve me getting smashed and chucking my guts up?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’re a lightweight?’ I say. Aggie and I giggle.
‘Oh cheers, Seren MacArthur! That’ll teach me to feel sorry for you.’
Aggie nudges me with her elbow. ‘Good to have you back, babe. You always had the best one-line comebacks.’
It feels good to be laughing again, and I wonder if the shop selling might be key to finding myself again. Like it is for Mum.
I look at my friends, who have been by my side most of my life, and decide to start as I mean to go on. ‘Talking of me being myself again, I want a word with you two.’
Their smiles vanish in sync, but I won’t stop now. It’s all very well them lecturing me about my life, but they’ve been failing to address the huge issue between them for weeks. Even though it’s the most obvious thing.
‘When are you going to just admit you’re in love?’
Kieran swears and drops his brow. Aggie stares at me.
‘Seren!’
‘No, I’ve had enough of being the middlewoman between you two. So you got together and it was unexpected, but it was also wonderful and you both realised – at last – how you feel about each other. So what? Why let it scare you away from making the best decision of your lives?’
‘You don’t understand . . .’
I fold my arms and stare them down. ‘I do. Because I’ve heard from both of you how frustrated you are with each other, how neither of you wants to say anything but you wish the other would. So, here we are on a beautiful night in a beautiful town. Say it.’
They look at me, then at each other. Nobody speaks, the sounds of St Ives filling the gaps where the words should be.
‘Say it!’
In that moment, I’m furious with them. I jab my cider bottle in the sand and stand up.
‘You know what? Do what you want. I’m going home.’
‘Seren, sit down. You can’t force us to do this . . .’ Kieran begins but I’ve heard enough.
‘Not everybody gets the chance to find happiness with someone else. Some people wait a lifetime to meet the right person. Some put their faith in someone only to realise it could never work. You have the chance of love – real love – the kind that everyone else is looking for. Are you going to let that go, just because you’re too stubborn to admit it?’
‘It isn’t your job to sort us out, Ser.’
‘Maybe not. Do what you want – but leave me out of the constant agonising over each other, okay? I have more important things to worry about than your stupid pride.’
I regret it as soon as I get home and hurry out to the Shedservatory, not even checking to see if Mum is still up first. Molly is already waiting by the back door, so she comes too. I don’t mind her company – she’s unlikely to demand an explanation for my mood or expect anything other than treats, so that’s fine by me.
I shouldn’t have yelled at Kieran and Aggie. And even though this thing between them has been going on far too long, it wasn’t my place to tell them to sort it out. They are my best friends. Whatever lies in wait for me in the future, I’m going to need their love and support, no matter what.
I’m such an idiot.
I push open the hatch windows and stare up at the stars, barely visible through the passing veils of dark clouds. Dad’s blanket is warm around my shoulders and I know he would have called out the real reason for my outburst as soon as I’d told him about it. I wasn’t really shouting at my friends about their almost-relationship. This wasn’t ever about Kieran and Aggie.
It was all Jack.
The truth is, I keep thinking about him. Most of what he d
id was to win the vote, I’m convinced. But that moment on the Guildhall steps as we waited for the vote; was any of that real? It may have only lasted a few seconds, but I can’t shake the memory of us moving towards each other, or the feeling of being suddenly certain of him . . .
I’m furious with Jack Dixon. But more than that, I’m furious with myself. I didn’t tell him about the seaglass stars, or seek him out after the vote. I was hurt and angry, too blinded by my own loss and fear to even give him an opportunity to speak. I’m still not sure how I feel. But he won’t leave my head, and I have no way of going back to that night to discover the possibilities if I’d talked to him.
People keep telling me I have to decide what I want for my life, now that the shop is closing. I have no idea what waits for me when I hand over the keys. One thing’s for certain – if I’m ever in a situation like I was with Jack Dixon again, I won’t make the same mistake.
‘I wish I knew what to do,’ I whisper into the indigo night, hoping Dad is somewhere out there, listening.
From the floor below me, Molly whimpers in her sleep.
Chapter Sixty
Jack
‘Dad, why are you nervous?’
I look down at my daughter as we queue by the cashpoint. ‘I’m not nervous.’
‘You so are. You only ever jiggle your keys like that when you’re nervous.’
As soon as she says it I’m aware of the telltale sound of shaking car keys in my hand. I shove them in my pocket. Since when did Nessie become so observant? ‘There. Happy?’
She shakes her head. ‘Now you’re tapping your foot. You do that when you’re nervous, too.’
‘Okay, thank you for noticing.’ The queue moves forward and we follow it. ‘I’m fine. It’s a lovely day, we’re going to have a nice walk and an ice cream at the Moomaid, and then we’ll walk over to Porthmeor Beach and make sandcastles. Nothing to be nervous about whatsoever.’
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 27
