Finding Love at Mermaid Terrace

by Kate Forster

  *

  Dan didn’t love his flat but it was all he owned in the world. Oh, and his dog Richie – a beautiful golden retriever who liked tennis balls and sniffing people’s crotches, which was proving a huge barrier to women he met in the park, walking their small terriers and pretty little fluff balls on legs.

  Not that Dan was ever serious about the women he met, or even dated. He was too busy taking on the world to deal with the drama of a relationship. He liked the girls he went out with to be bright, independent and ambitious, so they didn’t feel they needed to get married yet. He was thirty-six years old and just hitting the prime of his career: why would he want a relationship?

  But now, as he opened the door to the flat and heard Richie running towards him, he wished he had someone to talk to about this. All his friends were journos and he knew they would enjoy his fall from grace, because they were all arseholes, just like him.

  Richie ran up and Dan swung his work bag in front of him. ‘No sniffing, you creeper,’ he said to Richie and patted his head. ‘Come on, boy, we need to find me a new job a long way away from Dublin.’

  He poured himself a whisky and sat at the kitchen table. Then, after pulling his laptop from his bag, he went to the most popular site for jobs in his field.

  He scrolled down and remembered Clive’s words. ‘I don’t think you’ll get a job in Ireland for a while.’

  He clicked UK and started to scroll. A police reporter in Barking. A horse racing reporter in Cheltenham. A finance journalist in London – definitely not for him, he thought. So few jobs.

  Richie sighed and sat on Dan’s feet under the table.

  ‘Big sigh, boy – I get it, I really do,’ he said, as he took a slug of his whisky and kept scrolling. All he wanted to do was go away where no one knew him, where he could just live and write. Maybe he would write a book? That seemed like a feasible thing to do with his time. Maybe he could get a part-time job and have the time to write. He was unsure what the book would be about yet but still, it was the only idea he had right now. He could write a book about his childhood, but who wanted to read another misery memoir about a poor kid in Dublin who was bounced from foster home to foster home?

  Maybe he could write a historical book – but maybe that was about wanting to rewrite his own history. But there was nothing better than starting to write something new. That staring at the screen while you formulated ideas, slowly stringing words together until they created a picture for the reader and then a story. It was a powerful pastime, one that could change lives, or ruin lives.

  Dan clicked the part-time ads. Oh, how the mighty fall, he thought – and then he saw the ad.

  Wanted, part-time journalist for a small local newspaper. Local news and a willingness to get to know Port Lowdy. Six-month contract and accommodation included.

  He typed Port Lowdy into the search engine and peered at the map. A tiny village, on the English Channel. He clicked on the photos and saw a postcard village, like something from a BBC mystery show. It was so chocolate-boxish it almost set his teeth on edge but it was a long way from Dublin and they were offering a place to stay.

  ‘Looks okay,’ he said to Richie, whose tail wagged, hitting the floor with an approving series of thumps.

  Dan thought about his approach. He couldn’t say he was the angriest man in Ireland.

  He thought about the local papers that were the soul of the villages in Ireland.

  Dear Editor,

  I was excited to see the request for a journalist to assist with the production of your paper.’

  He had to stop and look up the name of the paper.

  ‘The Port Lowdy Occurrence,’ he said aloud. Was that really the name? It sounded like something out of a Dickens novel.

  The Port Lowdy Occurrence has a strong presence in your village and a long history, and I will ensure I am working to the ways of the paper. I am not trying to further my career through your paper. Instead, I am writing a book and am moving away from my very busy life reporting news in Ireland.

  I do have a dog named Richie, but he keeps his nose out of other people’s business, mostly.

  He laughed as he typed and then poured an extra splash of whisky into his glass.

  ‘I am available to start immediately and would be most grateful if you would consider my letter of introduction and my enclosed résumé.

  Regards,

  Dan Byrne

  Dan realised he didn’t have a résumé.

  Shit, he thought. He pulled up a template from the internet and started to type.

  He needed to be credible but not overbearing. More local news than unearthing corruption scandals and the poisoning of important rivers. As he typed, he enjoyed creating a career that was the opposite of what he had. Flower shows, and the teacher of the year reports, plus some stories on saving owls in a local park. He thought of the most inoffensive content he could and put it down, stating he had worked as a freelance writer and editor for local papers all over Dublin.

  It was as though he was creating another personality, and he hummed a snatch of ‘Stuck on You’ as he typed.

  Finally, when he was satisfied. He pressed send and finished his whisky.

  He didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the job but at least he had done something positive.

  Now he had to put his flat on the market and hand over the money to the wealthiest family in Ireland. It was enough to make you a communist!

  5

  Tressa walked downstairs as the light faded. She had painted for hours, watching the sun play on the water. She had once read that Turner, her favourite painter, had said on his deathbed, ‘The sun is God.’ This afternoon’s sun has been a playful God, darting in and out from behind clouds, dancing on the waves and sending shots of light through the waves so the sea turned from green to sapphire to translucent and back again.

  Trying to capture it in a painting was impossible but Tressa tried over and over again. If the sun was God, then the sea was her Holy Grail. Her hand ached as she washed them at the kitchen sink, letting the warm water soothe the tiny muscles that had been clasping the brush for hours. The suncatchers hanging by the window were sending prisms of light across the room and Ginger Pickles was trying to catch the dancing specks on the floorboards.

  ‘Evening, Ginger Pickles.’ Tressa greeted her orange tabby cat with a small curtsey, as she would be peeved for the rest of the evening if she wasn’t given the appropriate respect and pageantry.

  Ginger Pickles was the bitchiest cat Tressa had ever met. She was demanding and vain and, at times, mean, especially when she toyed with the field mice she caught from the garden – but she was also an excellent watch cat, making a particular sound when anyone was walking up the path to Tressa’s house.

  ‘Did Janet feed you tonight?’ asked Tressa. Ginger Pickles waved the question away with her tail.

  Mermaid Cottage was the last house before the esplanade turned and the cliffs ran along the side of the road and the sea on the other side. There was something about being next to the huge rock face that Tressa liked. It felt like an extra support against the winds from the sea and from the winds of change.

  While her family home was groomed to perfection by her mother, Tressa ensured that Mermaid Terrace would never be perfect. There would always be something she was moving around and adjusting, from her collection of charity shop flowers hung haphazardly on the walls to the riot of unmatched colours that filled the small sitting room. There was her two-seater sofa covered in crocheted rugs that reminded her of her grandmother’s house, and a winged armchair from a jumble sale in St Ives that she had convinced George to bring down in the back of his Range Rover. She had covered it in an apple-green upholstery fabric Rosemary March had given her in exchange for a drawing of her beloved poodles.

  A floral pink Aubusson-style rug covered the floor; her mother had said it was hideous when she had first seen it. It was now Tressa’s favourite thing in the room.

  Books i
n the shelves. Old apple boxes from the farm a few miles down the road were stacked in a pyramid fashion on either side of the fireplace where paperbacks and artbooks sat spine by spine in no particular order. Tressa’s living space was humble but lovely. It was a matter of money. She needed a few more things to make the house more comfortable, but it was fine for now and it was only the two of them – her and Ginger Pickles. The lamps she had rescued from her grandmother’s house, and with some rewiring they were fine, more than fine really. An old crystal cabinet that she was filling with things she found on the beach, like old bits of china from shipwrecks and perfectly smooth piece of driftwood and sea glass in all colours. Blues and green and pinks and reds of all sizes, worn down by the sand and the waves until they lay exhausted and finally retired into Tressa’s crystal cabinet.

  She had painted the mismatched kitchen table chairs in different pastel colours and the old pine table had come with the house, as it was too big to manoeuvre out the door. Perhaps it had been built in situ, Tressa thought. Against one doorframe in the kitchen, children’s heights had been measured long ago, over a period of sixteen years. Small pencil marks had the years written next to them, with initials in neat writing. It was an imperfect home, which was perfect for her.

  Being in her parent’s perfect home made her anxious but there was nothing in Mermaid Terrace that caused her anxiety to swell. In fact, there was nothing whatsoever in Port Lowdy to make her anxious. Not even when it was high summer and the beaches were filled and the pub was open late. Tressa enjoyed the few months of joy because she knew it would go back to sleepy Port Lowdy once the weather turned and the air became crisp in the evening.

  As the sun lay down for the night, Tressa turned on the lamps and closed the curtains. There was nothing cosier than Mermaid Terrace in the evening. The heater was on and she flicked on the television for background noise, as she poured herself a glass of wine. She wasn’t much of a drinker but she liked a wine some evenings and today was not an ordinary day. She thought about George and Caro and hoped they were okay, safe and warm before they started their journey tomorrow towards – hopefully – Caro’s healing. She sent Caro a quick text.

  Letter to the editor requesting reinstatement of the Page 3 girl. Can we get George to pose? Put ad up for journo. Hopefully Piers Morgan doesn’t apply. Mum loves him.

  She knew the text would put a smile on Caro’s face and that was all she could do to help right now. The sound of a text made her look and she saw an immediate reply from Caro.

  That’s cheered me up no end. George and I are deciding which of the Port Lowdy ladies would be willing to bare the body for one man’s titillation, as it were. If Piers Morgan applies, we are closing the paper.

  Tressa giggled and, settling in on her sofa, she opened her laptop and looked at her emails. Thirteen applications for the role already, which wasn’t bad. She had thought there would be more but really, who wanted a part-time job for six months?

  Skimming the first few letters, she didn’t bother reading their résumés. They were mainly junior journalists with no experience who wanted to know if the job could be full-time, along with someone who wanted to know if they could learn how to be a journalist by being on the job.

  Another person had applied for the wrong job and wrote a cover letter about their skill as a video content producer. Tressa didn’t even know what that job was, but she was fairly sure they didn’t need one at the Occurrence.

  A few journalists were looking for a sea change but with an eye for something bigger than what the job offered. And then she found one that looked promising.

  She read the letter and then read the CV. He seemed to have good experience and he was writing a book. She pictured a bearded older man with his faithful companion dog, ready to write down the stories of his colourful career. He would fit in well at the Occurrence and in the town.

  She read through the rest but her mind couldn’t pull itself away from Daniel Byrne. He would be terrific, she thought. She could learn from him and he would work well in the village. She picked up her phone and dialled Penny’s number.

  ‘Penny, I think I might have someone who will work for the paper, but they have a dog. Would that work for you upstairs at the post office?’

  Penny paused. ‘I’m more of a cat person,’ she said.

  ‘So am I! But I am sure the dog is well trained and quiet. He sounds like an older gentleman. The journalist, not the dog,’ she clarified.

  ‘If the dog is well trained, then it should be all right for a few months – but if the dog is unruly then he will have to leave,’ Penny stated firmly.

  ‘Of course,’ said Tressa. ‘I’ll call this person tomorrow and get back to you as soon as I hear.’

  Tressa looked at the CV and saw his referee: Clive Halper – an editor. That was good.

  She quickly typed to Daniel Byrne.

  Hello Daniel,

  Thank you for your application. I was hoping you could give me some time for a phone interview tomorrow. We are in a tight spot here and need someone to start immediately. If this works for you, let me know what time and I will call you to discuss.

  Best,

  Tressa Buckland

  She sat back on the sofa and called George.

  ‘How is Caro?’ she asked.

  ‘Sleeping,’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘You need to be sleeping soon also,’ she said. ‘You won’t be any good to her if you’re not match fit, George.’

  ‘I know but I can’t stop thinking. We need to head to Plymouth tomorrow and I am so worried about the paper and you and Caro and everything. The kids are being wonderful but it’s a huge thing to take in for all of us.’

  Tressa listened.

  ‘Did anyone apply for the job?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, a few.’

  ‘Anyone good?’

  ‘I think so. I’m going to interview one tomorrow. He’s writing a book, so he could be perfect. Part-time and all that.’

  ‘Sounds promising,’ said George.

  ‘Get some sleep, George. I have this completely in hand,’ said Tressa, knowing she was sounding more confident than she felt. But George and Caro meant so much to her that she knew she didn’t have a choice but to make this work, for them and for her. Because without her job she wouldn’t be able to stay in Port Lowdy. She didn’t make enough from her sporadic art sales to ever rely on the money and God knows she wouldn’t ask her parents for anything because there was nothing given that didn’t come with a caveat. This was everything to her and to George and God knows she had to make it work – no matter what.

  *

  Dan heard his email ping and he picked up his phone and saw the message. A phone interview tomorrow. What was he thinking when he applied? Two rounds of whisky and the adrenaline were to blame, he decided.

  He could do better than this piss-poor job, he thought, just as a text came through.

  Sorry about the job, mate. Do you know if Clive is looking for a replacement?

  He went onto twitter and saw his name was trending.

  People couldn’t have been happier to read Dan Byrne had been fired and had to pay up. He’s a prick who deserves even worse. Dan was aware he didn’t have a strong fan base from some people that he had written about but still, it stung. His eyes scanned the glee at his downfall and he closed the app. He didn’t need to read anymore to know people were enjoying his public humiliation.

  Then he saw the next text, from Clive.

  Their legal team has put a caveat on your flat. You will need to be out by the end of the week. Got anywhere to stay? You can bunk on the sofa here for a week but that’s about it. Sorry, mate.

  Dan felt sick in the pit of his stomach, like he did when he was a child and he didn’t know what house he would be going to next. The flat was his biggest success. A child from foster homes buying his own home as an adult was an achievement worth more than anything else he had done in his life.

  He re-read the email from the woman c
alled Tressa and sighed. He didn’t have anywhere else to go. No family, no friends who would put him and Richie up for a long period of time, and little to nothing in savings. He had his final pay-out coming from the paper but that was it and it was terrifying.

  Typing quickly, he replied.

  I can chat now if you like. I am sure you have a lot of applicants and have a lot of interviews to get out of the way.

  Cheers,

  Dan

  He pressed send and closed his eyes, breathing slowly like he had learned, reminding himself he was safe, he was safe, he was safe.

  *

  Tressa felt on edge – perhaps she shouldn’t have had the wine. She poured the remainder in her glass down the sink. Sometimes wine was not the relaxer it promised to be. Tressa wanted an omelette and a cup of tea and bed. Today had been too much for one day.

  The thought of putting out the paper alone was frightening – but so was losing Caro. She thought about ringing her mother for someone to chat to but remembered it was Wednesday and Wednesdays were for belly dancing and Tressa shouldn’t interrupt her activities.

  Tressa often wondered if she was even Wendy’s daughter, as the thought of attending a belly dancing class was about as appealing as breaking her own knees with her bike lock.

  Perhaps she was more like her father, David, a doctor who preferred a long walk and reading a book in front of a fire. He was still working as a cardiologist in St Ives, where her brother, Jago, was a doctor also, though Jago was in family medicine. Tressa had clearly missed the medical gene, and the busy gene – instead she had a skill with the paintbrush and not the hairbrush, to judge by her unruly black curls.

  In truth, Tressa found her family intimidating. She loved them but she never felt like herself around them. She was the quiet one who didn’t want to debate over dinners about politics or the NHS. She wanted to talk about art and how the light fell on the boats on the port at a particular time and made them look like they were painted by impressionists. She wanted to talk about things that filled her soul, not about things that upset her. Perhaps this was why she hadn’t met anyone yet who she wanted to share her life with; or perhaps it was that she didn’t want to share her art with anyone. How could she paint for hours when someone wanted her time?