Somewhere Beyond the Sea

by Miranda Dickinson

  By lunchtime the festival is a loud, exciting bustle of bodies and noise. Unsurprisingly the bar is busy, a long good-natured queue stretching out through the entrance onto the sun-soaked beach. On a day like today, nobody minds waiting much.

  ‘Alright, bird?’ Aggie’s huge grin looms over my shoulder behind the bar.

  ‘I’m good, thanks. But the queue is that side.’

  Aggie slaps a hand to her heart. ‘I’m wounded. Here was I just poppin’ in to see how my best friend was getting on and I’m accused!’

  ‘My mistake,’ I grin, handing two plastic pint glasses of beer to my waiting customer. ‘How’s the coffee stall?’

  ‘Busy. Kieran’s runnin’ the thing like a military operation. He’s driving me insane.’

  ‘Aww, lucky you, getting to work with the love of your life.’

  ‘If he carries on the way he’s going I might turn celibate.’

  ‘Two beers, thanks,’ says a bearded guy in a Breton T-shirt, cut-off skinny jeans and straw trilby, handing me a twenty-pound note. ‘And whatever Aggie’s having.’

  Delighted, my friend lets out a whoop and for a horrible moment I think she might dive over the bar to hug him. ‘Guy Trennack, I bleddy love you! Pint of Doom Bar, ta.’

  Things in my life will come and go, but my best friend’s ability to scrounge free alcohol is one sparkling constant I can always rely on. I’m still a little careful of what I say to her and my friends since my drunken confession, but I think they’ve forgiven me for railroading the parsonage campaign. Cerrie has gone out of her way to check up on me every day and Aggie is never more than a phone call away. She’s asked me to revamp the design for the coffee hut’s website when MacArthur’s closes, and she was talking about a new logo too. I haven’t attempted much visual design work since Grafyx folded last year, but I’m excited by the prospect of doing it again. With so many people rallying around to look after me, the future isn’t as bleak as it looked a few weeks ago.

  ‘I love your bracelet,’ says a young woman in a bikini top and long, African-print skirt, pushing a pair of enormous sunglasses onto the top of her head as she studies my wrist. ‘Where did you get it?’

  The blue-and-green drop bracelet was one of the first I made, the silver-wired seaglass gems suspended from an aqua leather thong instead of my usual silver chains. Even though I haven’t made any jewellery since the vote, I’ve taken to wearing this one. It’s comforting and I remember Dad’s surprise when I showed it to him. Dismantling his shop has left me needing tangible reminders of him to get through the necessary tasks.

  ‘I made it.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous. Do you sell them anywhere?’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly, handing over her change.

  ‘You should. I’d buy that.’

  I watch her weave out of the packed beer tent into the sunshine, suddenly uneasy.

  ‘Why did you say no?’ Shep is crouched beside me, pulling bags of crisps from the box under the bar. ‘I thought you had an online shop.’

  ‘I’m not doing that at the moment.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asks. ‘They’re good.’

  I don’t have a good reason why. Seaglass reminds me of Dad, and Gwithian Beach, and Jack. It’s too painful to go there right now. ‘Just taking a break. I’ve more important things to think about.’

  Shep holds up two packets of cheese and onion crisps in surrender. ‘Fair enough. Would you ever make a necklace, though? For a bloke?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘Could you make me one? I’d pay. Black leather with one of those seaglass drops. Blue, if you had it. It’d be like a sea charm.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Think about it. Let me know.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘Oh, and me and Garvey are good for half an hour if you fancy a break?’ He nods at the queue that has lulled a little. ‘They’ll all be back after they’ve eaten. Food stalls are packed right now.’

  It’s been a long and busy morning and I’m glad of the chance to get out for a while. Molly plods beside me and I stop to take my flip-flops off. The sand feels good between my toes as we walk around the festival site.

  The most incredible aroma fills the air – sea salt and sand, warm spices and cool herbs mingle with roasting meat, lemon, frying fish, pungent cheeses and the irresistible scent of freshly made chips and doughnuts. All around me people are lounging in the sand, enjoying a multi-ethnic feast and locally made beer, cider and wine. It feels like a huge party to which everyone is invited. On Porthminster Beach people from all walks of life and all parts of the globe meet as one, locals and tourists, children and adults, old and young. St Ives has that air, especially during the summer, but the festival is where it feels magnified. Our town belongs to everyone; if I wasn’t lucky enough to live here, I don’t think I could visit without its beautiful beaches and quaint streets calling me back time after time. St Ives gets under your skin and into your soul. It’s what draws people back every year, and what makes those of us who live here year-round stay when times are tough and the sun isn’t shining.

  I feel at peace with the world, despite my aching calves and back from working in the beer tent. I feel alive.

  Whatever else happens, I have to pursue this feeling. I won’t be cooped up or hemmed in by expectations again. Once MacArthur’s closes for good, I will draw a line under that chapter of my life.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ I say to Molly. ‘Let’s get a bag of doughnuts, shall we?’

  Molly has already turned in the direction of the doughnut stall and is way ahead of me.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Jack

  Persuading Brotherson was always going to be a tough sell. Without his support, my plan is dead in the water. So even though it risks rocking the calm working relationship I’ve so far enjoyed with him – not to mention potentially annoying the man who currently pays our bills – I make an appointment to meet him in Plymouth.

  I’m armed with an impressive report of the work my team has completed on Rectory Fields. We are officially four weeks ahead of schedule – something unheard of on previous Brotherson builds, according to my colleagues – and within budget, having been able to repurpose so much of the original parsonage stone. The team he’s assembled are brilliant, easily the best I’ve ever worked with. And the incentive for St Piran’s school to contribute to the building has gone a long way to keep local support on our side. I’m in the strongest position possible to ask a favour. I just hope it doesn’t mean I’m at a higher point from which to fall . . .

  He’s in a typically bullish mood when he greets me at the door to his office, a suspicious whiff of whisky on his breath from an earlier brunch meeting.

  ‘Jaaack, my favourite construction manager,’ he exclaims, slapping my back. ‘Take a seat. I hear you bring good news from Rectory Fields?’

  I run him through the latest developments and, to my relief, see delight register on his flushed face. It’s always good to keep your boss happy – even more so when you’re about to severely test it. ‘All in all, we’re on course for an early finish. I reckon we’ll be ready for the sales centre on site within the next three weeks.’

  ‘Good work, boy,’ he says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Stroke of genius with the school kids, too. We’ll get local press on that ASAP, push the good news story for all its worth. That should shut the beggars up in Botallack.’

  ‘Problems there?’

  He shrugs. ‘No more than usual. Great site there, Jack. Bigger than Rectory Fields or Trevalgan, with much more scope. I’m thinking cottages as well as the main apartment building. Views there are incredible. We’ll have folks falling over themselves to buy them. Trouble is, Botallack people got wind of it before we’d pushed the St Ives vote story through the local papers. They’re gunning for us despite there being no moral covenant this time.’ He gives an overdramatic sigh. ‘What can you do, eh? Short of us doling out random acts of kindness for
the next five years, we’ve just got to put up with the backlash.’

  That’s my cue. I’d hoped for an open door somewhere in the conversation, and it’s the best one I’m likely to get.

  ‘Actually, I might have an idea that could help . . .’

  The chalet is deserted when I get home, tired and aching from two and a half hours in heavy traffic on the congested A30 and A38. It’s been a hell of a day. I wonder if Owen might have taken Nessie back to the farm after she finished school. Looking back outside where my car is parked, my heart sinks at the prospect of getting in it again to drive to Helston. But just as I’m resigned to making the journey, I notice the sheet of paper propped up against the tea-cosied teapot in the middle of the table. It’s covered in Nessie’s large, happy handwriting:

  Dad

  We are on the beach.

  Bring pop.

  Love Nessie xx

  Owen, Ellis, Arthur and Seth are being schooled in Nessie’s latest dance routine when I join them on the beach. The sun has hidden itself behind a thick band of cloud blowing in from the sea, and I can feel the air temperature beginning to drop. My brother sees me and excuses himself from my daughter’s beachside dance class, red-faced and chuckling.

  ‘Hey, Stink, glad you found us.’

  ‘Nice moves, Reekie.’

  ‘Glad you approve. I’m getting better at it, apparently.’

  ‘Dad! Come and join in!’ Nessie yells, flinging her arms above her head and spinning in the sand.

  ‘In a minute,’ I call back, grimacing at Owen. ‘How long has she had you all dancing?’

  ‘About ten minutes. We were running, star-jumping and being disco-monkeys before that.’ He laughs. ‘And I thought I had too much energy. At least the boys will sleep tonight, so Sarah will be pleased.’

  ‘Faster!’

  ‘I hope the boys forgive her,’ I say, watching my nephews collapse one by one in the sand, leaving Nessie still twirling and jumping.

  ‘They’ll survive. As far as they’re concerned she can do no wrong.’ He takes a can of Coke from the bag I’ve brought down to the beach at Nessie’s command. ‘So, how did it go with Brotherson?’

  I let myself smile for the first time since leaving Plymouth. ‘He went for it.’

  My brother gawps. ‘All of it?’

  ‘Mm-hmm. Turns out good PR comes in all shapes and sizes.’

  ‘Cost too?’

  ‘All in. It’s tax deductible, apparently, so he’s not being completely selfless. But it’s probably the closest to a philanthropic gesture he’s ever likely to make.’

  Even now I can’t quite believe Bill Brotherson agreed to help me. I wasn’t going to mention Seren, but I found myself admitting it anyway. Unexpectedly, my boss found it highly amusing.

  ‘Like that, is it, Jacky-boy? I see. Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of true love.’

  ‘Wow – um – thanks, Bill.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. You wait till I tell Mrs B about this. I’ll be in her good books from now till Christmas!’

  ‘So, a tax break and getting brownie points from his missus, eh?’ Owen laughs. ‘No wonder you’re his favourite employee.’

  Now there’s a mental picture I won’t be able to shift in a hurry . . .

  We finally drag Nessie and her exhausted cousins away from the beach and enjoy fish and chips from the mobile van that will visit Jeb’s caravan park three times a week until the end of the holiday season. It’s a treat for all of us and Nessie is delighted. We’re celebrating – but I know that the challenge that lies ahead is going to need both Nessie and Owen’s blessing, too.

  ‘How often will you be away, Dad?’ Ness asks, piling chips onto a buttered slice of bread and rolling it into a cylindrical chip butty.

  ‘During the week Uncle Owen and Auntie Sarah will pick you up on Wednesdays and Fridays, so you’ll have tea at the farm. Uncle Jeb and Grandad Dave might look after you a bit at weekends. If it goes the way I’ve planned it, this should only last a few weeks. Are you okay with that?’

  ‘No problemo, Dad-o,’ she grins, and I suspect this is another phrase in her vocabulary I have Jeb to thank for.

  ‘I’ll have a job for you to do, too, when it’s almost ready. Think you can help me?’

  ‘Er, yeah. Because I’m brilliant at helping. Auntie Sarah says so. So does Grandad Dave. And Miss Austin at school. She calls me her Superstar.’

  I hide my smile. Cerrie Austin said she was going to make it up to Nessie. I have her to thank for making this happen.

  Now all I have to do is bring our plans into being . . .

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Seren

  We’re supposed to be selling Dad’s business to make money, but all I seem to be doing at the moment is writing cheques and handing over cash. Everything costs – from settling up with our departing artists to buying huge tins of white paint, brushes and rollers to prepare the shop for handing over to Mhairi Peters. It’s something I could have avoided, but painting the shop feels like my last gift to the place Dad worked so hard in and loved so much. It’s a chance to wipe the slate clean, removing the dirt and dust just as we are removing the debt that crippled MacArthur’s.

  There’s another reason, too: I want to walk away from the shop knowing it isn’t ours any more. For all of its life as an art and craft gallery, it’s never been painted white. Too clinical, Dad always said, disliking the colour scheme of choice of every other art shop in St Ives. The pale blue and pale yellow scheme he chose is faded now beyond recognition. Nobody paints shop walls those colours any more. Like so much in the shop he created, the coloured walls are from a different time, when trade was more forthcoming and banks less ready to withdraw their support. It’s time to consign the colours to history.

  I’ve always considered the shop unit tiny, but with most of its stock gone and only me to paint its interior, I’m realising just how much space it has. The pale blue Dad chose might have seen better days but it’s stubborn – I’ve painted two coats of white over it already but it refuses to disappear. I’m so sick of painting, but it’s going to need at least another coat, if not two.

  I put my roller down in the paint tray balanced on the top of the rickety wooden stepladder I’ve borrowed from Sharon at Wax-a-Daisy, and climb down for a break. The ladder creaks as I descend, but I can’t say for certain whether it’s the old wood complaining or my limbs protesting.

  I’m so tired. But knowing I’m nearing the end of this is keeping me going.

  Mum has been studying for her teaching refresher course, so all of the final work on the shop has fallen to me. I just want it done now, and for the day I hand over the keys to arrive. My plans for afterwards are still sketchy, but I’m optimistic that they will fall into place once the shop is no more. So far I have three jobs secured: shifts at Becca’s, redesigning Aggie’s website – and, most recently, a day a week doing design work for Alistair, a former colleague from Grafyx who’s set up his own business, after I dared to call him a few days ago. I’m willing to do more if it means I can provide for myself. I can’t afford a place of my own yet, but I’ve decided that will be my first goal – finding somewhere to rent and the money to cover it each month. Mum’s happy for me to stay as long as I want to, but I like the idea of striking out on my own.

  Cerrie was talking about moving from her one-bedroomed flat in Lelant to somewhere bigger, taking on a lodger, and I have to admit I’m tempted to ask her to bear me in mind. But I can’t and won’t do that until I’m confident I can pay rent. I’ve had enough of being in debt to last me a lifetime.

  The shop is still officially open for another two weeks, but so much of our stock has gone that there was little point in waiting to repaint. When I think customers might venture in I can push the ladder and paint pots to a corner I’ve cleared and throw a dustsheet over it. Kieran joked last week that an art fan might see it as an avant-garde installation and attempt to buy it. I told him they were welcome to. Any money we c
an make in the last fortnight of trading will be a bonus.

  In truth, I’ve had no customers in for a week. The SOLD sign has warded them off. I don’t mind really. A sudden rush would have been heartbreaking. I’ve watched other businesses fold in St Ives over the years, and that last-minute onslaught of bargain hunters picking over the remains of a shop always horrified me. It must be the biggest kick in the gut, delivering an unwanted shot of last-minute hope when it can achieve nothing.

  Molly lifts her head as I pass her basket on my way to the kettle.

  ‘Yes, there’s biscuits,’ I say, hearing the excited flak-flak-flak of her coat shaking as she rises to follow me into the back room. The wooden shelves where our stock was stored are largely empty; it’s strange to see light getting in where it was always trapped between muslin-wrapped canvasses and brown boxes of ceramics and glassware tied with string. I’ve brought two Kilner jars from home, one filled with chocolate biscuits, one containing Molly’s favourite bone-shaped treats, and my dog knows which one is hers. She stands by the folding table where the kettle and tea things sit, her nose inches away from the dog biscuit jar, keeping guard. No biscuit will be able to escape the jar without Molly noticing.

  I make tea in a large RNLI mug Dad had for years and toss a dog biscuit to my ever-vigilant canine companion, slipping another into my pocket to surprise her with later. Although it’s never really a surprise to Detective Molly, it’s her favourite game. I love it almost as much as she does.

  Grunting happily, she follows me back to the main shop and flops back into her basket as I sit cross-legged beside her.