‘All a bit weird, isn’t it?’ I stroke her head and she pushes her nose up under my hand. ‘But we’re doing the right thing. I just wish I didn’t have to do it on my own – no offence.’
My dog grumbles a little and shifts so that her nose is pointing towards my jeans pocket. Give me a treat and you can say what you like . . .
There are three missed calls and a splatter of white paint on my phone when I pull it from under the corner of a dustsheet. Kieran has called twice, Aggie once. It’s lovely to know they are checking on me, but I’m so tired and have so much left to do that I can’t lose time returning calls. I know they won’t be offended, so I make a note to ring them later tonight – if I’m done before midnight, that is.
Most days this week I haven’t made it to bed until the early hours. Each job I’ve had to do has taken far longer than planned, so much so that I’m beginning to wonder if the shop is deliberately setting roadblocks and delays in my way to put off our inevitable parting. There isn’t long to get it all finished, and no money to pay someone else to do it. Once again I have no choice but to work until everything is complete.
Molly huffs against the corner of her basket, her chocolate eyes observing me with disappointment.
‘Okay, you’ve been very patient. Here you go.’ I give her the dog biscuit from my pocket, drain the last of my tea and struggle back to my feet.
I’m rearranging dustsheets on the floor when a sharp rap on the window startles me. When I turn, I see a familiar grin peeking through the glass. It appears that one of my friends isn’t willing to wait for a return call.
Kieran is all smiles when I open the door, clearly pleased with himself for taking the initiative. ‘Evening, ma’am,’ he says, striding in, planting a kiss on my head and plonking a carrier bag in the middle of the floor. My dog forgets she is a doddery old lady and is out of her basket like a boisterous puppy, bouncing around Kieran’s feet and joyfully flinging herself on the dustsheets for a belly rub. ‘And hello you, Molly May.’
Lovely though this scene is, I can’t stop to watch it. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘Thought it might be. How are you getting on?’
I daren’t even look for fear of spotting more unfinished tasks to add to my ever-growing list. ‘Slowly. Sorry, Kieran, I’d offer you a drink but I need to get on. You’re welcome to help yourself, if you like.’
‘I might just do that.’ He waggles a finger at me. ‘You didn’t return my calls.’
I know he thinks he’s being funny, but this evening his tone irritates me. I look around at the half-painted shop, the boxes that still need sealing and labelling, the piles of stuff that still need to be sorted. ‘I’m a little busy, in case you hadn’t noticed. I was going to call you later, when I was finished.’
‘You said that last time I phoned you.’ His grin grates on me.
‘Well, the last time I talked to you, I was dealing with this, too. And the time before that. I have an entire shop to paint, every fitting to dismantle, tons of rubbish to remove . . .’
‘And your best friends to be rude to when they come to see you. Because you won’t call them back . . .’
I love Kieran Macklin with all my heart, but he has no filter when it comes to joking around. He doesn’t know when to stop; and either can’t read the signs when people have had enough, or is so caught up in his own enjoyment he simply doesn’t see them. I am too tired to deal with this now and my emotions are so close to the surface, I know I’m likely to dissolve into tears or scream at him to leave. Neither option is appealing.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but I really have to get back to work. I’d like to be in bed before midnight tonight.’ I return to smoothing the dustsheets back across the carpet where the legs of the stepladder have pulled them back.
‘Oh come on, Ser, you need to lighten up with this. Your buyer’s bought the place as seen – you don’t have to do anything other than pack boxes and hand over the keys.’
I stare at him. ‘Yes, I do. Have you seen this place? It’s not in any state to pass on yet.’
‘Or maybe you’re coming up with reasons not to let it go.’
‘Don’t try to pretend you know what I think about this shop, okay? This is necessary. That’s all.’
‘I thought you’d end up doing something like this.’
‘Right, that’s enough.’ I stand and face him, ready for a fight. ‘Thank you for visiting, but as you can see, I’m fine. I just need to get this done – by myself, like everything I’ve had to do lately – in the way I want to do it.’
‘Listen, Ser . . .’
‘And you know what? If you really wanted to help me you wouldn’t bombard me with calls and come here late at night to attack me for not answering; you’d be turning up with a brush and old clothes and bloody well offering to help.’
He reaches down and scoops the carrier bag from the floor.
‘You mean like these?’ He opens the bag to reveal a paint-splattered red checked shirt and two paintbrushes.
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. I stare at the bag’s contents, feeling like the biggest fool on the planet.
‘I’m not a completely heartless moron, girl. I figured you’d like real help more than moral support. So, here I am.’
Mortified for yelling at him, I accept his hug and burst into tears against his warm chest. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’m sorry it’s taken so long for us all to realise how much you had to do. Aggie’ll be here in half an hour and Cerrie’s on her way over, too. She’s bringing that big strapping Aussie of hers, too. You shouldn’t have to do this alone. It’s time we stepped up and helped you.’
True to his word, my friends duly arrive and suddenly the shop is filled with love and laughter and light. Aggie brings bottles and Cerrie brings homemade caramel apple cake. Her boyfriend Tom brings his surprising skill for painting woodwork, and Kieran brings jokes all night. Molly is in seventh heaven with so many minions to attend to her fussing needs and I stand in the middle of it all, amazed and loved.
It might not be as romantic as seaglass stars on a beach, but this evening I’ve found the magic I need in this tiny shop. With my friends by my side, anything is possible.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Jack
I’m tired, but there’s no way I’m missing being on the beach with Ness. She’s been so good about being looked after by Owen, Dad, Jeb and Wenna while I’ve been working on the side project, but I want to give her every scrap of time I can.
Gwithian Beach is stunning tonight. It seems to glow in the late afternoon sun as we head down the wooden steps, and we glow with it. I can see threads of warm gold in Nessie’s dark hair where the sunlight catches it. On days like these I am beyond grateful to live in such an amazing place.
‘I’m going to make a bunch of stars tonight,’ Nessie says, swinging her bucket filled with seaglass from our stash in the chalet. I’ll let her, too, the lightening evenings giving us more time for starmaking.
Every part of me aches but I’m almost finished. I just hope it’s enough.
I’ve thought about Seren a lot since Cerrie Austin told me. It’s perfect that she was our secret starmaker and if I ever tell Nessie I reckon she’ll love it, too. I don’t know why Seren didn’t tell me. I wish she had. If the vote hadn’t been between us, would we have found out sooner?
She might not talk to me. She looked pretty angry the last time I saw her and so much has happened in her life since then. That’s why I’ve been doing what I know best: building. It’s harder to ignore a physical structure. I hope, anyway. She might hate it, or assume I have a hidden agenda for getting Brotherson back in her good books. I hope she sees it for what it really is. It’s my best and only shot and I’m banking everything on making it work.
‘Dad!’
Nessie is perched on the bottom step, pointing at the beach. I wonder why she hasn’t run straight down on the sand. It’s not like Ness to waste a second of potential bea
ch time.
‘What is it?’
She turns back to me, eyes wide with wonder. ‘The mermaids. They came back!’
I hurry down the steps, my heart in my mouth. Has Seren come back to Gwithian? Could she have made another star for us?
But then I see it. And my breath deserts me.
The beach has been strewn with blue jewels as far as we can see. On every rock, laced between the ribbons of seaweed marking the high tide line and dotted across the ridged sand leading to the sea, sparkles of blue catch the early evening sun. It’s stunning.
‘What are they, Dad?’ Nessie asks in a squeaky whisper.
‘I don’t know. Let’s go and see.’
Gwithian Beach is littered with hundreds of tiny, electric blue discs. They’re delicate and ringed with tiny concentric lines, like the rings in the middle of a tree. In the centre of each is a transparent triangle, rising like a catamaran sail. They’re not moving, but it looks as if they might have once. Each one is a work of art but the sheer volume of them is overwhelming. I’ve never seen anything like it before. We pick our way slowly over them until we reach our starmaking site. Our star from yesterday evening is still there, free from the strange blue discs. Ness and I pause and look back. People have come down onto the sand to see the spectacle and are dotted over the length of Gwithian Beach. Even some of the die-hard surfers have ventured onto dry land to look. There’s a sense of reverence, like you would expect in an ancient cathedral.
‘Do you think the mermaids sent them?’ Nessie asks.
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
Her frown-wrinkle appears again. ‘Even if they didn’t, it’s like it rained jewels on the beach. I think that means we’re meant to be here, Dad.’
I stare at her. I’ve seen how at home in Gwithian she is but I’ve never actually heard her say it. I’m struck by how quickly my baby girl is growing up. She’s confident and unafraid and I adore that she is her own person. I love being with her on the beach, our only concern to make a better seaglass star than the evening before. But, like the passing days on the beach, I know it’s fleeting.
‘I think we’re meant to be here too, ladybird. Are you happy?’
She regards me carefully. ‘Are you?’
I blink away my surprise. ‘I am with you.’
‘I want you to be happy with everything. And don’t work so hard.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You work really hard and that’s very good of you. But you don’t need to worry and work all the time. We’re going to be okay, Dad.’
When Nessie says it like that, I can believe we will be.
Later that evening we carefully retrace our steps and climb back up over the dunes to the caravan park. I managed to find one of the bright blue, triangular-backed discs marooned on a small rock that we could take with us. Nessie carries it beside me like she’s bearing the crown jewels. I can hear her whispering to it as we walk along the sand-strewn path towards home.
I figure Jeb might know what the strange object is, so instead of going straight back to the chalet, we head for his bungalow by the entrance to the site.
‘Alright, birds?’ he grins at the door, ushering us into his home. ‘Wenna’s just made biscuits and she’s popped out for more sugar. We can probably scoff most of ’em before she gets back!’
Jeb and Wenna’s bungalow is a shrine to the weird and wonderful. My theory is that Jeb was denied the chance to collect things as a child; as soon as he had a home of his own he unleashed his passion for all things collectible. We pass a coffee table in the hall with two Samurai helmets and a group of battered Smurf figurines, who look like a post-apocalyptic tour group viewing a museum exhibit; beyond that a stuffed toy tiger lurks by a hatstand draped in long, striped woollen scarves Dr Who would be proud of. There are film posters and framed, faded classic LPs on the walls, and a random collection of old milk bottles randomly advertising Hovis, Kellogg’s Cornflakes and Bisto gravy line a shelf above the kitchen door. It’s a grotto of ephemera, and magical in a dented, dusty and decrepit way.
But even Jeb’s eclectic collection can’t boast the treasure we have brought. As he pours tea into three mugs that don’t match, Nessie slides the rock carefully onto the vinyl kitchen table top.
‘Uncle Jeb, do you know what this is?’
Jeb puts the teapot down and leans closer. ‘Where did you find that?’
‘On the beach. There’s millions of them.’
‘That’s a jellyfish.’
Nessie wrinkles her nose. ‘It doesn’t look like a jellyfish. It’s not . . . jelly-ish.’
Jeb grins at her and then at me. ‘It is so. That’s a By-the-Wind Sailor. Get them on Gwithian every now and again. But you say there were lots?’
I nod. ‘The beach is covered in them.’
‘Ah, see I heard of that happenin’ a few years back. They float on the water, see? An’ that bit on their backs is like a sail. But sometimes they get blown off-course and end up beachin’ themselves.’
‘That’s so sad,’ Nessie says.
‘It is and it isn’t. They follow the wind, so wherever it takes them they go. Quite romantic, if you think about it. It’d be nice not to be tied to one place all the time.’ He chuckles. ‘But don’t you let on to Wenna I said that. She likes limpets better – stickin’ fast to one place!’
Nessie is a bit subdued when we get home, cradling the rock with its deceased jellyfish resident. It’s only when she’s in her PJs and climbing into bed that she answers my question.
‘I’m all right, Dad. Just a bit sad.’
‘Things don’t last forever, ladybird. I wish they did . . .’
She fixes me with a look. ‘I don’t mean that. I know stuff dies.’
‘Ah. So what are you . . . ?’
‘The mermaids. They didn’t send the blue things as a gift, did they?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Because that game is over, isn’t it? We do the stars ourselves now. That’s what we decided. And we’re good at making them, so it doesn’t matter. I just think it’s sad that things have to change. But it’s okay to miss them, right?’
‘Of course it is.’ I pull the duvet up and tuck it under her chin. ‘You have the right to feel whatever you want to about it. There’s no right or wrong reaction. Just what’s best for you.’
‘Like you and Mum.’
I don’t even know where to begin to respond to that.
‘You shouted at each other. A lot.’
‘Wow, Ness, I—’
‘And you weren’t happy. Well, you were sometimes, but you shouted more. It wasn’t fun when Mum yelled. She yelled at me, too. And she hardly ever wanted to play games, or read stories, not like you did. I liked her hugs, though, even if she usually yelled first.’ Her hand finds mine. ‘But it’s okay to feel sad that she isn’t here any more, isn’t it? Like the person who finished our stars? Even if the memories aren’t always good, it’s okay to miss the good bits, right?’
I don’t want to cry in front of her. So I swallow hard and force a smile. ‘Yes, it’s okay. If you miss Mum, it’s okay. If you don’t miss the bad bits, that’s okay, too. And don’t ever let anyone tell you any different.’
I’m completely shaken when I leave her room. I don’t know if I ever thought I’d have a conversation like that with my daughter, and definitely not this soon after Tash’s death. I need alcohol.
There are no bottles in the fridge – I’ve worked so much recently that I haven’t had either the time to buy beer, or the inclination to drink it after long days on both sites. In desperation, I raid the sideboard stash of thank-you-whisky. Not liking the spirit and knowing virtually nothing about it, I pick a bottle at random and take it out on the veranda.
The light has almost gone and here at the top of the cliff the stars burn brightly. My eye catches the sight as I slug a mouthful of whisky, shuddering as the heat sears back up my throat. This stuff really tastes disgusting, but it provides the warm buzz I ne
ed.
I didn’t know Ness was so aware of how it was with Tash and me. You assume kids are so caught up in their own worlds they don’t see yours. Especially being so young. But I should have known: Nessie misses nothing, so why would she miss this?
In truth, I don’t know how to feel about it. I’m heartbroken she has adverse memories of her life with two parents, but would ignoring them be good for her in the long run? I want her to have good memories of her mum, but I want them to be real, too. It doesn’t work to build an idealistic, rose-tinted picture of someone you’ve lost, because ultimately you lose the very essence of who they were.
I can’t experience this for her, or save her from it. She has to work her own way through her grief.
If Ness needs to remember the Tash who yelled frustration with her life out at her six-year-old daughter, so be it. If she needs to remember the bedtime stories not read, the hugs not given, that has to be her prerogative. I have no right to stop that or suggest it be somehow edited out of the bunch of contradictions she knew as ‘Mum’.
My throat burns where the whisky has scoured it and from the anger I’ve buried just to keep going. Maybe I need to remember everything about Tash, too. It’s been too easy to be angry with her for dying and not think of the times we were happy, or the dreams we once shared.
She was passionate and antagonistic, soft and jagged; her beauty became ugly when she was angry, returning to beauty when she got her own way. And I must have loved her, before all the complications and recriminations clouded my view. I loved her enough to start a family and endure her many late-night lamentations over what she swore she’d lost as a result. There were times I was poleaxed by her spirit and determination; where she could kill my strongest argument just by looking at me the way she did when we first met. She had the ability to floor me with her beauty and passion. Even at the end, when battles were all that remained, I still caught glimpses of the woman I’d married. That was what kept me going through the rest.
The By-the-Wind Sailor is on its rock at the top of the veranda steps, its blue still vivid, even in the dim porch light. ‘Blown by the wind, wherever it goes,’ Jeb had said. He could have been describing Natasha Lucy Dixon. There were times when her actions confused me. I couldn’t understand why some things mattered to her so much – the way she obsessed over small details nobody else would notice. Maybe she focused on the insignificant things as a way of avoiding the big issues, like our crumbling marriage or her frustration with life in general. But she was wired to act like that. Tash stuck out her sail and let herself be blown along by her need to have what she wanted. And while she was following that powerful breeze, she ended up beached, her life suddenly over.
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 31
