Somewhere Beyond the Sea

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘There’s your squeaky voice.’

  ‘My voice doesn’t squeak.’

  ‘It does when you’re nervous.’

  ‘Ness, can we drop this?’

  I have no need to be nervous. But my insides have been like funfair waltzers since I woke. St Ives is busy today, with noticeably more people than the last time I was here. Weekends are a mix of locals and holidaymakers and this time of year, still early in the main season, it’s comfortably busy with a laid-back vibe. Which is even more reason for me not to be nervous.

  Except that I’m not just here for the ice cream and the atmosphere. I’m going to talk to Seren MacArthur.

  I’ve thought it through, and I have to try to make amends. Nessie will probably be overjoyed to see her, as she hasn’t stopped talking about ‘Ellie’s friend the nice lady’ since Seren’s visit to St Piran’s. Maybe the sight of my daughter will stop Seren slamming the door in my face.

  What am I going to say to her? I have no idea. I tried rehearsing potential speeches last night after Ness had gone to bed, but they all sounded crass and insincere. Best to trust my instincts, such as they are, and just go with the flow.

  That’s if she talks to me.

  Bill Brotherson hasn’t offered any more gossip about Seren’s business, which I’d hoped he might. Satisfied by his victory, he’s forgotten she exists. I can’t approach Lou Helmsworth or try to contact her friends because they’ll likely tell me where to go. So trying to talk to her is my only option. I have to give it a go. She’s taken up residence in my head; that won’t change until I see her again.

  ‘Can we look in the bookshop?’ Nessie asks as I collect my money from the cashpoint and we cross the street.

  ‘Of course we can, noodle.’

  ‘You’re the noodle.’

  We walk along Market Place and reach the junction with Fore Street. Nessie races ahead into the bookshop. I stop and watch people walking along the street, knowing that at the other end of it is the courtyard and the conversation I’ve been thinking about for a long time. Will I say the right thing? And what is the right thing anyway?

  I can’t say I’m sorry about the vote going our way, even though I wanted it to be different. Weeks on from the vote, I’ve fallen in love with the site and the challenge of building something special there. It’s given me financial stability and professional recognition – more than that, it’s made me believe anything is possible for my building skills. I had lost sight of that belief long before Tash died. I’m no longer apologising for my job, like I did so often when my wife was alive. It was never enough; she saw building work as a lack of ambition and in the end I stopped trying to persuade her otherwise. Having the St Ives community’s backing and Brotherson’s apparent faith in me has helped me change that. However bad I feel about Seren, I can’t say I wish it hadn’t happened.

  But what I want her to know is how important her friendship was to me, during the campaign. I appreciate what she shared with me when she didn’t have to, and I found her inspiring. And beautiful. And so much stronger than she thinks she is . . .

  My life, this is really happening, isn’t it?

  Nessie spends almost forty-five minutes in St Ives Bookseller, which is no mean feat considering the compact nature of the shop. It’s a treasure trove for her and I don’t try to chivvy her to make a decision. Several times I have to back out onto the street to allow more people to go in, and each time I do I think I almost catch sight of Seren in the early May Saturday crowds.

  I’m losing the plot. Why did I even think this was a good idea?

  My daughter emerges from the bookshop with three new books, a smile as wide as St Ives Bay illuminating her face. Grandad Dave gave her money to spend today and she’s invested it wisely. Tash wouldn’t have approved. Her idea of bookshelves was as minimalist display areas for strange bits of ceramics and glass. No books. But Nessie loves books and so do I. When we have a place of our own, I think, we’ll have bookshelves everywhere. If I ask Jeb, I reckon I can probably put up some shelves in the chalet for the time being. I make a mental note to seek out books to display wherever possible.

  ‘Where now, Dad?’

  ‘Let’s just walk along this street and see what takes your fancy.’

  We buy fudge for Dad at the Cornish fudge shop and some beautiful yellow courgettes at the deli. Nessie giggles while trying on waterproof jackets far too big for her in the outdoor shop and insists we stop at the Baptist church to buy homemade cakes from their Spring Fayre. I appreciate every stop that puts time between now and reaching Seren’s shop, but eventually we’re out of reasons to delay our progress along Fore Street. I can see the Poppy Treffry shop, James King Jewellery and the crazy shop that sells everything from postcards to watches and pocket knives – and beyond that, the entrance to the courtyard.

  ‘What’s up here?’ Nessie asks, when I slow a little. ‘Can we see?’

  This is it.

  ‘Sure.’ I watch my daughter race beneath the archway and stop abruptly by MacArthur’s. I follow, steeling myself for what’s to come.

  Just speak from your heart, Jack. The words will come. I hope they do. I’ve thought about it enough this week. I just hope she listens . . .

  ‘Oh.’

  Nessie’s smile has gone and she is looking above the shop. ‘That’s a shame.’

  I follow her pointing finger and see it.

  A SOLD sign.

  Spotlights light the single display window, but the sign on the door confirms the shop is closed.

  I’m too late. I can’t believe it.

  Brotherson was right: Seren MacArthur’s business has folded, and I’ve missed my chance to speak to her. Again.

  ‘Never mind,’ I say, the heavy thud of disappointment landing on my shoulders. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Ice cream?’ Nessie asks, brightening immediately.

  I manage a smile. ‘Absolutely.’

  We walk down the rest of the cobbled street, Nessie babbling about the ice cream flavours she wants to try today. I feel like a complete failure. Part of me hopes we might bump into Seren anyway – St Ives is a small town and it’s where she lives, so it’s possible, right?

  Deep down, though, I know I’ve lost my last opportunity to talk to her.

  Nice one, Jack.

  We climb the grey stone steps to Moomaid of Zennor’s tiny ice cream parlour and score a table by the window, despite the queue leading out of the door. Good things are happening, I remind myself, watching Nessie’s utter joy at being in her favourite cafe, the delicious scent of sweet ice cream and smoky coffee filling my lungs. Two months ago I couldn’t have justified spending money on anything but the bare essentials; being here with Ness now represents just how far I’ve come. I made this happen. I have to be happy with that.

  I just wish I felt more like celebrating.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Seren

  The sign went up today. And even though it means Mum and I can pay off our loans and maybe even have some money left over, after the generous offer we’ve accepted from Mhairi Peters and her father, I couldn’t stand to watch the banner across the estate agents’ board being changed.

  SOLD.

  It feels so final.

  I told Nick Boleyn I wasn’t opening today. He understood. They wouldn’t need me to open up anyway; the sign over the shop can be changed whether I’m there or not. It seems his faith in the location of the shop paid off, which is a good thing. But it’s strange to think that in a few weeks’ time Dad’s gallery will be a clothing boutique.

  Not wanting to be anywhere near MacArthur’s, I called Aggie. I was worried that she wouldn’t want to see me, but she immediately invited me over to the coffee hut. I’m glad she’s still talking to me after the night on the beach. All the same, I’ve brought flowers and a bottle of her favourite beer as a peace offering.

  As soon as I arrive she receives the gifts with a smile and bats away my apology.

  ‘Don’t mention it, o
kay? It’s done and forgotten.’

  ‘All the same, I’m sorry, Ag.’

  She shrugs. ‘You just care about us. I appreciate that. You’ve an odd way of showin’ it, mind. Anyway, turns out you were right.’

  I look up from the large cappuccino she’s just made me. ‘How do you mean?’

  Her huge smile breaks like surf over rocks. ‘Me and Kieran. We’re officially a Thing.’

  ‘No! When?’

  ‘After you left. We were proper angry with you, but when we’d calmed down Kieran said you had a point. So we told each other how we really felt and – you can probably guess the rest.’

  ‘That’s amazing!’ I grab her across the counter for a hug.

  ‘Get off, woman! Seriously, though, you did okay.’

  ‘Just be happy. That’s all I want for the pair of you.’

  ‘No idea what’ll happen, but it’s started well.’ She giggles and leans towards me so the regulars at the counter can’t hear. ‘Left him sleepin’ happily in my room this mornin’, actually.’

  I love this news, more than I could ever express to Aggie. More than the actual fact of them finally being together, I love knowing good things are happening to my dearest friends. It gives me hope.

  ‘So, the big red sign is up, then?’ Aggie gives me a sympathetic smile and squeezes my hand.

  ‘It will be by now. I probably should have been there . . .’

  ‘No need, Ser. You don’t have to see that happening. It’s tough, even though it’s what you want.’

  My emotions are difficult to pin down today – a mix of relief, defeat, resignation and a smattering of hope. ‘I’m staying closed till Monday. And Garvey’s covering my shift at Becca’s tonight. I just need some time . . .’

  ‘Yes, you do. Been sayin’ that for a while. Do you have any plans for the weekend?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Right. Beers at mine, yeah? I’ll get Cerrie to come over, too. Kieran will already be there, of course,’ she grins again. ‘Recoverin’ . . .’

  I spend the rest of the day walking along the coast path, across beaches and up over cliffs, with the breeze in my lungs and the tingle of salt on my skin. The weight of responsibility I’ve carried for months drifts away and I focus on just being. The power of the sea and the heart-stopping majesty of the landscape are all I need: where I’ve come from and who I am. I could be anywhere in the world in a year’s time, but I hope I’ll still be in Cornwall. This is where I feel most free: and I can’t believe I’ve lost sight of it with everything I tried to carry in Dad’s name.

  No, wait . . . I didn’t completely lose sight of it. Before the night of the vote there was one place I knew I could reconnect with that feeling . . .

  On the top of the cliffs I look back towards St Ives, far in the distance, and let my eyes trace the sweep of St Ives Bay to Godrevy Lighthouse – so small I can only just make out its white outline rising from the small, rocky island in the perfect blue sea.

  I found my freedom again at Gwithian Beach as the lighthouse looked on. I thought it had died when Dad passed away, but it was there waiting: the everyday magic Dad always promised me I’d find.

  Magic is everywhere, Seren, if you look hard enough for it. Life is extraordinary, if you let it be . . .

  Even though he’ll never know it, Jack Dixon and his daughter were my everyday magic.

  Is he still going to Gwithian Beach? Has he forgotten the other starmaker?

  If only I had told him . . .

  My heart plummets like a diving seabird as the beach I loved seems to stretch further away in the distance. Until I knew Jack was making the stars, I was happy. Why should knowing have made such a difference?

  It’s still playing on my mind when I arrive at Aggie’s that evening. My walk home wasn’t easy; the closer I got to my hometown, the larger the loss loomed. Loss of the shop, loss of my dream, loss of the seaglass stars and the freedom I’d rediscovered making them. But I don’t want to think about it tonight. I am so done with thinking. My whole life has been picked apart, prodded and studied in a petri dish. Tonight, I don’t want to think about anything.

  ‘Steady on, Ser,’ Aggie says, as I drain my second bottle and reach for a third. ‘You don’t normally leave me for dust in the drinking department.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I reassure her, but I’m not numb enough yet. I haven’t been drunk for over a year, but I reckon today counts as extraordinary circumstances. I watch my friends relax around the lounge – Kieran daring to snuggle on the sofa with his now-official girlfriend, and the grins he and Aggie keep getting from Cerrie, who is curled up on an oversized beanbag that only she is able to make look comfortable. I sink into the old wing-backed armchair, hugging a cushion like a shield in front of me.

  In this room, gathered as we are, it’s as if the years melt away and we are teenagers again. Back before I realised that real life isn’t made of the wildly fanciful assumptions you entertain when you’re young; that bad stuff can happen which blasts your dreams off-course; and that the people you love don’t last forever. In this moment, we are as we were then. I close my eyes and relax into it, their conversation washing over me like a summer wave. Here I can relax and be myself, without worrying about anyone or anything else.

  But the illusion doesn’t last. I can’t relax – and beer isn’t helping, either. Blood courses through my veins at a hundred miles an hour, like a shot of adrenalin without the thrill. It could be stress: I’ve noticed buzzing in my ears at night and recall it being a symptom. Being within it makes me feel as if I’m standing on sand that’s receding with the tide, my foundations shaken and everything I know being pulled from under me . . .

  ‘Seren? Lovely, are you all right?’

  I blink as Cerrie’s face fills my view. She pushes hair from my forehead, concern etched into her expression. And the compassion and gentleness hits a switch within me. Suddenly I’m sobbing and I can’t stop.

  They are all around me now. Cerrie and Kieran and Aggie, merging together through my tears, their soothing words becoming a warm flood of noise surrounding my head.

  ‘Just let it out, girl . . .’ ‘Shh, now . . .’ ‘This has been comin’ on a while, hasn’t it?’ . . . ‘Breathe, lovely, it’s okay . . .’ ‘Oh Seren, you poor thing . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ I manage, my apology sharp-edged against the softness of their voices.

  ‘You don’t need to apologise . . .’

  ‘Shh, bird.’

  ‘No,’ I insist, needing them to understand. ‘It’s important . . . I’ve ruined everything. I didn’t say . . .’

  ‘You haven’t ruined anything. You faced an impossible task.’

  ‘Cerrie’s right, Ser. Nobody could’ve done more than you.’

  I shake my head, the pain gripping my stomach and all comfort from the alcohol gone. ‘Not the shop. Not the campaign. Jack . . .’

  I’ve said too much: I realise it straight away. But his name is out there and the rest follows like a rollercoaster behind it.

  ‘Jack who?’

  ‘Jack . . . My Jack . . . Jack with the stars and the kiss and . . . and . . .’

  ‘Oh my life, I think she’s talkin’ about Jack Dixon.’

  ‘No, not that Jack . . .’ Kieran shakes his head and turns to me, but his confidence fades the moment our eyes meet. I can’t hide this any more. I have to tell someone about the stars and the seaglass, about Gwithian Beach and the mermaids, the bracelet Nessie Dixon loves so much and the tiny driftwood house I can’t bear to throw away . . . So I tell them everything. The words crash their way out of me; I couldn’t halt them even if I tried. I’ve carried this secret for too long; it’s burning inside me like acid and I need to let it go. If I’m ever going to move on from this, I have to talk about it with the people who love me most. They listen, and although I can’t tell what they’re thinking, I’m vaguely aware of them exchanging glances. I should be mortified admitting all of this, but I’m just relieved to finally tal
k about it.

  ‘And he kissed you?’

  ‘No. Almost. I don’t really know. I should have told him about the stars . . .’

  Aggie squeezes my arm. ‘Perhaps it’s better you didn’t. I don’t think he could have made you happy, Ser . . .’

  ‘No! Don’t say that!’

  ‘I’m only sayin’ – that man was our opposition. And pleasin’ to the eye though he might have been, he was still a Brotherson pawn. And he got the result he wanted, didn’t he?’

  It’s time to be honest about the result. ‘I might have helped him.’

  My friends stare at me – and immediately I’m ashamed. They worked so hard for the campaign, daring to believe that we could win. But the person who should have been leading the charge was working against them.

  ‘Please don’t hate me,’ I sob, the last of my strength ebbing away. I’m dog-tired, exhausted from carrying this on my own along with everything else.

  ‘We don’t hate you . . .’ Kieran says. But he isn’t smiling. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘I thought Jack needed it more. I’d met his little girl and I realised he wasn’t working for Brotherson for his own greed; he was doing it for her.’

  ‘Just like you always say your dad did for you – working extra jobs to get you what you needed, making ends meet even when the business was in trouble . . .’ Cerrie says – and there it is. I saw the qualities I loved about Dad in Jack. It’s a classic case of seeing what I wanted to see.

  ‘I can’t believe you’d do that, Ser. What were you thinkin’?’

  ‘I thought I was doing the right thing . . . That’s all I’ve ever tried to do . . . But I’ve hurt you and I’ve screwed it all up. I hate myself . . .’

  Aggie’s frown disappears. ‘You had your reasons. That site would’ve bankrupted us all in the long run – that much we learned from the town debate. We always knew it was a tall order to save it. Even your dad, bless ’im, who believed a wing and a prayer could make anythin’ happen. No, love, don’t try to say any more. Close your eyes now. We all love you, daft beggar, so you just try to get some rest now.’