Somewhere Beyond the Sea
Page 29
Cerrie makes strong coffee while Kieran and Aggie settle me on the sofa. Within minutes I’m asleep.
It’s twelve hours before I wake again. My hangover is threatening to crush my head, but I feel a little lighter for confessing to my friends about Jack. My cheeks hurt from where the salt marks have dried and it will be a very long time before I consume that much alcohol again.
But as I stumble into the kitchen in search of tea and toast, bright May sunshine bursts in through the window. I’m dazzled for a moment, the shock of the light making my eye sockets throb. But I’m warmed by it, and underneath the pain I feel hopeful.
Last night hurt, but it was necessary. I’ve faced everything that was holding me back, all the secrets I’ve been carrying for weeks that bound my heart and chained my feet – and I’ve emerged into a new day.
From now on, I promise myself, I’m going to seek my own magic.
I don’t need anyone else to conjure magic for me. I’m going to throw myself into the uncertain future and believe that life is extraordinary if I dare to let it be.
Just like Dad told me.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Jack
I’ve been trying to think of a way I can encourage the great community support we’ve enjoyed for Rectory Fields to keep going. The build is a quarter complete and pretty soon the old resentments towards Bill Brotherson will resurface, especially as he’s just secured the old buildings in nearby Trevalgan village for his next project and is rumoured to have earmarked a third site already. Doing something that involves people in the building’s construction will give them a tangible link to the past – and demonstrate Brotherson Developments’ new ethical responsibility policy in action.
When St Ives voted in our favour, I was concerned that Nessie might be bullied for her link to me. But it appears my fears were unfounded. Nessie hasn’t told me of any problems, which is encouraging. Certainly she talks of her entire class as her best friends these days. So when her teacher calls and asks to meet me urgently, alarm bells ring. When she suggests meeting on a Saturday morning in a beachfront cafe, I’m downright confused.
With Nessie happily on her way to the farm with Uncle Owen and her cousins, I drive a couple of miles along the coast to Hayle Towans beach – part of the long stretch of golden sand that reaches around St Ives Bay to Gwithian and Godrevy. It’s a glorious day, the sunlight so bright it causes a haze over everything, like you are viewing it all through fine gauze. Summer isn’t far away and the season has begun in earnest – there is a sense of expectation in the air and everyone is looking forward to longer days and brighter times ahead.
I won’t let anyone spoil it. Not when Nessie and I are doing so well.
Miss Austin is waiting for me when I arrive, an already half-drunk mug of hot chocolate in front of her. From the cafe windows I can see the sweep of Hayle Towans beach below and an army of surfers making the most of the huge waves rolling in. I order a strong coffee to steady my nerves and do my best to look nonchalant about it. Teachers can smell your fear, I think. If she’s here to challenge my daughter, or my parenting style, I don’t want her thinking she has an instant advantage.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ she says, shaking my hand. ‘I’m sorry it was late notice.’
‘And out of school.’
Her smile fades a little. ‘I thought it might be best . . . Is Nessie with you?’
‘She’s with my brother and his family today. I didn’t think she was invited.’ Realising I sound far too defensive, I rein myself in. Time to hit her with the idea I’ve had for Rectory Fields. Driving here I decided to strike first, show willing and support for the school and hopefully diffuse any tension before it’s allowed to manifest. ‘Actually, I’m glad you wanted to meet. I have an idea I’d like to run past you, if you don’t mind?’
‘Yes – erm – fine.’
Good, she wasn’t expecting that. Round one, Jack Dixon . . .
‘Given the school’s support of the Elinor Carne Foundation, I’ve been thinking of ways we could translate that to the site,’ I say, watching Nessie’s teacher carefully. Things are okay at the moment, but like I said to Bill Brotherson when he visited the site last week, we need to be seen to be considering the local community, even if ultimately they won’t benefit from our building. ‘We could create a lasting reminder of Bethel Parsonage’s past. I was thinking perhaps the school could create a mural to go on the entrance wall? It would be along the lines of the tile mural on the shelter on Smeaton’s Pier in St Ives. Have you seen it?’
‘Yes, I know it well.’
‘We could use a whole-school design, so that all the children feel involved. Each class could design a row of a picture, which Brotherson Developments will then have made into tiles. The kids can decide what they want the picture to include – maybe scenes from Elinor Carne’s life, or the stars she studied.’
‘It’s good. I like that idea.’
‘Could you put it to the head and the staff, to see if they think it’s achievable? The turnaround would have to be pretty quick, though. We anticipate the build completing in six to eight weeks’ time.’
Miss Austin agrees again and is certainly making the right noises. But she seems preoccupied and I can’t work out what I’m missing.
‘Of course, if you think it isn’t workable . . .’
‘Oh, it will be,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s just . . . Look, Mr Dixon – can I call you Jack?’
‘Um, sure . . .’
She takes a breath. Is she nervous? ‘Okay – Jack – I’m Cerrie, by the way.’
‘Hi, Cerrie.’
‘Hi. Jack, I didn’t come here to talk about Rectory Fields. Or Nessie.’
The clink of coffee cups and hiss of steaming milk fill the space where my response should be. Is this an official visit or not? And if not, then why on earth are we here? ‘You didn’t?’
‘No. Although I really like your mural idea and I’m sure the school will do you proud.’ She spreads her hands on the red-and-white polka-dot tablecloth and I notice her nails have been painted in alternating rainbow colours – red, yellow, green, blue, violet, from thumb to little finger. Nessie’s mentioned Miss Austin’s brightly coloured nails many times before – she longs to be let loose with nail varnish and I know it won’t be long before she’s doing her own. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the impression this was an official meeting. I just didn’t know how else to get to talk to you.’
‘Miss Austin – Cerrie – why are we here?’
She gives an apologetic smile. ‘Forgive me. In my head this was a lot more straightforward than it’s turning out. Tom said this was a bad idea.’
Now I’m completely lost. ‘Tom?’
‘My boyfriend. It doesn’t matter. The thing is, I’m here on personal business.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s about the stars.’
‘Which stars?’
‘On the beach. The seaglass stars you’ve been making with Nessie. And the bracelet you found there that she brought into school . . .’
I’m not sure which revelation to react to first. How on earth Nessie’s teacher knows about the seaglass stars is mystery enough, but did Ness really take the mermaids’ bracelet to school when I’d told her not to? ‘She brought the bracelet in? When?’
‘A few weeks ago. The day Seren MacArthur visited, actually.’
That explains Nessie’s suspicious behaviour when I picked her up from school and the thing she’d shoved in her pocket in the playground that afternoon. But what do that and the beach stars have to do with Cerrie Austin?
Unless . . . Oh man, this could be awkward . . .
‘Wait – was it you? Did you finish the stars for us?’
Horror drains her face chalk white. ‘Me? Oh goodness no, it wasn’t me.’
I’m embarrassed by how relieved I am about this. Miss Austin seems lovely, but I can’t picture her as our starmaker. Besides, she has a boyfriend. Not that it’s important. My head hurts.
I’m tired and uneasy about where the discussion might be going next. ‘Then how do you know about it?’
‘I know who finished the stars. And who made the bracelet Nessie brought into school.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Seren MacArthur.’
I know my mouth has dropped open but I can’t do anything about it. ‘Seren made the stars?’
‘Yes. And she’ll kill me for telling you, but I think you need to know.’
Seren finished the stars. She made the stunning bracelet Nessie treasures and she helped set us on course for all the good things that have happened. She is the missing piece in the mystery, the kind soul who made my daughter believe in magic again. But I took away everything she ever cared about . . .
‘Are you all right, Jack?’
‘Just give me a minute. It’s a bit of a shock.’
‘I thought it might be.’ She waits and watches me, her rainbow-tipped fingers fidgeting on the tablecloth. Her voice is lower, softer when she speaks again. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything because Seren is my dear friend and she’s been doing so much better now the shop is sold. But she told us – me – last night and she was so upset that she never got to tell you.’
‘Does she know she was making the stars with me and Ness?’
‘She worked it out when I showed her the bracelet Nessie had brought into school. And then she went to the beach and saw the two of you down there. We didn’t know anything about it until she confessed it all yesterday. I think she was going to tell you after the vote, but—’
‘But I was an idiot when I won. I was trying to protect her from my employer but I stuffed it up. I think I hurt her.’
Cerrie bows her head.
‘I don’t think she’s over you, Jack.’
‘What?’
‘The way she talked last night – I think she’d started to fall for you before the vote. She admitted she’d spent the last week of the campaign trying to swing the vote your way. I know – it goes against everything she said she believed in. But that’s what she told us.’ She looks directly at me. ‘I don’t think she would have done that for you – for Nessie, too – risking losing her friends in the event, if she didn’t care about you.’
‘Wow.’
‘I’m glad you were sitting down when I told you.’
‘Me too.’ My world has shifted on its axis, all the certainties I’d accepted now turned on their heads. What am I supposed to believe now? ‘What made you decide to tell me?’
She blushes a little and picks at a cake crumb on the tablecloth with a rainbow nail. ‘I feel bad about ambushing Nessie. I invited Seren to speak to my class because I thought the kids would love Elinor Carne’s story – but I also knew Nessie was your daughter, and I thought she might persuade you to give up the parsonage job. I’m sorry, Jack. I got caught up in the campaign and it was only afterwards that I realised what a position I’d potentially put Nessie in. And how unprofessional of me it was. Not to mention unethical.’
‘It could have caused major problems. She’s already had to defend herself in school over unkind comments about her mum.’
‘I know. Nessie deserved better. I’m so sorry.’
Given everything else I’ve learned in this tiny cafe with its view of the sea, I’m not going to make an issue of Cerrie’s mistake. ‘I appreciate your honesty, thank you. It’s been a crazy time. That debate swept everyone up in it.’
‘It did. But out of all of us I think Seren was thinking the clearest. She really liked you, Jack.’
I stare at her. ‘I don’t know what to do with this.’
‘Do you feel the same way?’ She shakes her head. ‘No, sorry, you don’t have to answer that. It’s none of my business. I just thought you should know what she did for you and why. What you choose to do with that is totally up to you.’
‘I don’t think she’ll ever speak to me again.’ I’m surprised by the words sounding in front of me, but I realise I need to talk about this. Cerrie Austin is the very last person I’d expect to say it to, but I need to work out what to do, and my mind is blank. ‘When the vote result was announced she came to congratulate me, but I was too busy feeling guilty about her losing. I just dismissed her, and when she left she looked like she hated me. I didn’t want that to happen. I –’ I stop myself; but why conceal anything now? ‘Okay, here’s the truth: I spent the last week of campaigning trying to throw the job. I wanted Seren to win because I could see what it meant to her.’
Cerrie’s eyes become as wide as Nessie’s when she’s trying to persuade me to agree to a treat she wants. ‘No way! That’s incredible. Look, I can’t tell you what to do, or even if you should do anything at all, but you know now. Seren is a remarkable woman. I’m completely in awe of what she’s done to keep everything going since she lost her dad. This is what I know about Seren MacArthur: she never does anything without really considering it first. If she was prepared to give up the parsonage for your sake, you must mean something to her. That’s all.’
When I leave the cafe I walk to the edge of the dunes, the push of the oncoming wind strong against my chest. I thought I’d lost my chance to know Seren better. I might still have blown it. But she gave up so much to benefit my daughter and me. I have to find a way of repaying that kindness.
I unfurl the crumpled serviette that Cerrie scribbled her mobile number on before she left. Holding it steady to enter the numbers into my phone, I type a text:
Cerrie – thanks for today.
I want to do something to thank Seren. Can you help me?
Jack
Chapter Sixty-Three
Seren
Today is one of my favourite weekends of the year in St Ives. And for the first time, I’m not just a visitor.
The vibe of the St Ives Food Festival is laid-back and fun, with crowds gathering on Porthminster Beach from all over the world for a weekend of food, music and a great time. I look forward to it every year, but this year more than ever. I need a weekend where I don’t have to think about anything other than eating, dancing and hanging out with my friends.
So when Becca asked me to man the beer tent she’s running, I jumped at the chance.
Garvey, Shep and I set up the bar on the beach as the sunrise paints everything in gorgeous pale blue and gold. Even though the first visitors won’t be here for a few hours yet, there’s a decidedly festive atmosphere already. I know most of the food stallholders and several of the acts performing at the music festival tonight. This is the weekend when the people of St Ives come out to play and party, whether they are working here or not.
Positivity seems to rise from the sand beneath our feet and seep into everyone. I’ve seen nothing but smiles since we arrived, and it’s only going to get better. Added to this, Molly has been given special dispensation to be an honorary member of Becca’s bar staff for the day. She’s happily snuggled into the warm sand just inside the marquee tent, her nose being warmed by the early morning sun as she snoozes. She’s the picture of peace and contentment.
I know exactly how she feels.
‘It’s going to be nuts today,’ Shep grins, lugging a barrel of beer from the trailer at the back of the tent and ducking under the temporary bar to hook up the beer pull pipe. ‘Garvey’s on the pull, too, so we’d better keep our eyes on him.’
‘What happened to his last girlfriend?’
Shep grimaces. ‘She tried to change him, he reckons. Nasty business. Didn’t like his clothes, apparently. I mean, what did she think she was going out with? I can’t see Garvey in a suit, can you?’
‘That’s a shame. He seemed settled with her.’
‘Well, he is officially the terror of St Ives’ single ladies once more.’ He chuckles as Garvey strides in, a huge box of bar snacks in his enormous hands.
‘Who is?’
‘You are, Romeo Jones.’
‘Guilty as, m’lud.’ He winks at me as he walks behind the bar. ‘Don’t mind him, Mum, he’s only jealous.’
‘I can’t believe you brought dog treats,’ I say. ‘You don’t even own a dog.’
‘Knew old Moll was coming down, didn’t I? Gotta keep my fellow staff sweet.’
‘See that? Blatant favouritism,’ Shep says, laughing when Garvey tosses him a bone-shaped biscuit in reply.
I need this today. When the crowds descend the work will be full-on until sun down, but I don’t mind. It’s so markedly different from working during the death throes of a business. There’s nothing joyful or uplifting about that.
Many of the paintings are gone from the walls in MacArthur’s now, a steady stream of artists and craftspeople coming into the shop to claim their work. It’s a sad, rapidly emptying shell of its former self and already the ghosts of the past are reappearing. I found a note in Dad’s handwriting stuffed between the driftwood counter and the chipboard carcass upon which it sits. It’s only a list of long-defunct phone numbers, but it was like Dad trying to make his voice heard in the shop again. I’ve begun to notice small details of the shop’s fabric as its stock has been taken away – the nail Dad hammered into the wall over the corner of the stockroom that sufficed as a kitchen, that irrevocably bent when the hammer slipped, so he declared it a tea-towel holder; a line of measurements pencilled onto the inside of a cupboard door, their original purpose lost in time; the chip of paint on the doorframe Dad refused to paint over because he thought it looked like a highwayman on horseback. There are countless marks and dents and scratches whose stories will be patched up and painted over when the shop is no longer ours.
Since the SOLD sign went up it’s been a dark, sad, cold place to work, shrouded in shadow despite the spotlights burning all day. I think the building knows. Even Molly hasn’t wanted to be there with me this week. I watch her now, rolling onto her back and warming her paws in the strengthening sun as the beach comes alive with the first flush of visitors, and it makes me strangely hopeful. Neither of us should be cooped up in a sad, dying place. Out here on Porthminster Beach there is life, and light and laughter. Whatever happens next for me, I want to pursue this feeling of hope.