Finding Love at Mermaid Terrace

by Kate Forster

  An email pinged and she checked it on her phone.

  The journalist, Daniel Byrne, wanted to talk tonight. He was keen, she thought – but if he was good, it would be one less thing to worry about and George would feel better knowing the paper was in safe hands.

  She made a cup of tea and put some bread in the toaster and messaged his phone number.

  Can I call in ten minutes?

  After buttering her toast, she put more of the jam from Penny’s post office on top and ate it while thinking.

  If this Daniel Byrne was pleasant and not about to take over the world then she might not even read the rest of the applications.

  A text came back.

  Looking forward to chatting with you. Dan

  After she had finished her tea and toast, Tressa sat on the sofa and dialled the number, while Ginger Pickles came to her side, eavesdropping on the phone call.

  He picked up immediately.

  ‘Dan Byrne.’ He had an accent, she noted.

  ‘Hi, Dan, it’s Tressa Buckland from The Port Lowdy Occurrence.’

  ‘Hi, Tressa. How are you this evening?’

  It was a low voice, younger than she had expected and with a strong Irish accent, which was to be expected since he lived in Dublin but it was melodious and had a hint of a smile in the tone.

  ‘I’m fine, Daniel, thank you. How are you?’ She tried to be professional but she had never interviewed someone before and she felt perhaps she probably should have looked up questions to ask before she’d called him. Too late now, she thought.

  ‘Dan, call me Dan. Tressa is a lovely name. That means third, doesn’t it? Are you the third child?’

  Tressa paused for a moment. How did he know this? ‘Yes, I’m the third child.’

  ‘And your older siblings? Do they have traditional Cornish names?’

  ‘Umm, well it’s just my older brother now. My sister… died.’

  She never spoke about Rosewyn only because she hadn’t known her. Rosewyn felt like a dead grandparent at times and then at other times, she felt like a ghost who followed Tressa around for all of her life.

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible. I am sorry for mentioning it.’ Dan sounded genuinely upset and Tressa thought this probably wasn’t going as well as he had hoped.

  ‘That’s okay, you weren’t to know.’ Tressa felt Ginger Pickle’s claws arch into her thigh and she flinched.

  ‘Tell me why you think Port Lowdy would be a good choice for you?’

  ‘The job sounds perfect, as I’m writing a book, so I can work and write and be away from the bustle of Dublin.’

  ‘There is no bustle in Port Lowdy,’ said Tressa, trying to uncurl Ginger Pickle’s claws from her pants. ‘You might be bored.’

  ‘I don’t think so – I’d like something peaceful, to be honest. It’s been a bit hectic here for a while and I need to see new things, meet new people, you know?’

  Tressa didn’t know. She didn’t like meeting new people on the whole and she certainly didn’t want to see new things.

  Ginger Pickles stared at Tressa with a look of spite, and curled her claws into her leg again.

  ‘Ouch!’ Tressa cried.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘My cat just clawed me, sorry.’ She shot a look at Ginger Pickles, who retreated, knowing she might not get her breakfast if she kept it up for much longer.

  ‘Ah, cats do that. That’s why I have a dog.’

  ‘Yes you mentioned that – Richie?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dan, laughing, and she found she liked the sound of the way it started small and then ended up in a loud guffaw.

  ‘Tell me about your experience. You have an extensive résumé of covering local events. Are you good with people?’

  ‘Excellent, people love me,’ he said.

  ‘They love you? That’s a strong claim.’ Something about his confidence annoyed her. She would never claim people loved her art. It wasn’t for her to assume people’s opinions about her work.

  ‘They mostly love me,’ he corrected himself. ‘I mean what is love anyway? Strong feelings that can easily be replaced by someone or something else.’

  There was an edge in his voice.

  ‘What is your book about?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  There was a pause. ‘I don’t know yet. I was hoping to get inspiration in Port Lowdy.’

  ‘I really don’t know how much you will be inspired here, unless you’re interested in the latest batch of jams at the post office or trying to understand the rules of naming fishing boats.’

  ‘Both sound perfectly fine topics to me.’ He laughed and Ginger Pickles jumped onto the back of the sofa and started to tap Tressa’s head repeatedly with her paw.

  She swatted the cat away but Ginger Pickles returned to her task, her claws getting caught in Tressa’s curls.

  ‘Goddammit,’ she said. ‘Hang on. This cat is trying to tell me something or murder me.’

  She put the phone down and untangled her hair from the cat, then stood up and picked up the phone.

  ‘I’m sorry. That was very unprofessional of me. Now, where were we?’

  Tressa tried to remember what they had been talking about and she looked at his résumé again on the computer screen.

  ‘You mentioned you wrote obituaries. Covered anyone of note? Death is a big deal here; obits are always important news.’

  ‘Just the usual. Politicians, musicians, priests, sporting icons.’

  ‘Oh really? Like who?’

  ‘No one you would know. All Irish identities.’ He brushed her question away. ‘Tell me: what are the rules for naming fishing boats?’

  Tressa laughed. ‘Do you really want to know? Because I can tell you – but I’m not sure if you’re serious or not.’ She had to think for a moment, trying to remember as she moved the laptop and lay on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling.

  ‘A name with seven letters is good luck. Don’t name it after an engaged woman or a married woman.’

  ‘Are you engaged or married?’ he asked.

  ‘What? No, you can’t ask that.’

  ‘I’m not planning on getting engaged or married to you but Tressa would be a fine name for a boat.’

  ‘It’s not seven letters,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll put an extra s in the name,’ he said, and Tressa burst out laughing at him. This job interview wasn’t going the way she had assumed it would. They kept talking about nothing to do with the job. At times it felt playful and silly and other times she felt he was avoiding questions.

  ‘What else? What are the other rules for the choosing of names for boats?’

  ‘Don’t name it after one that sank; that’s a given.’

  ‘So the Titanic Tressa with three s’s is off the cards?’

  She laughed again. She couldn’t stop herself. He was funny and nice and he sounded like just the thing she would like to be around over the next few months. She paused.

  ‘You sound fine. I mean you might think it too small a paper but it’s important to the people here. It’s a much-loved paper.’

  ‘I get it,’ Dan said. ‘All news is important to those who receive it. Good news, bad news, interesting news and so on. Never underestimate the power of news. We could stop Poseidon’s wrath on the wrong naming of a boat and save sailors’ lives! You never know.’

  Tressa rolled her eyes. Maybe he was a bit precious for The Port Lowdy Occurrence.

  ‘And don’t roll your eyes either, because you know what I am saying is true.’

  Tressa looked at her phone to see if she was on video call. ‘How did you know I rolled my eyes?’

  ‘Because I could hear them rolling around, thinking this Irish journo is off his nut.’

  ‘Yes, I was actually. And I really am getting the impression you’re off your nut – but I need someone to start as soon as possible. When could you be here?’

  ‘What’s today? Monday? How does Wednesday sound?’

  ‘Wednesday? R
eally? That would be amazing. We have an issue due out in ten days, which I should be okay in getting sorted, but anytime, really. I have a room for you organised with our postmistress, Penny Stanhope, above the post office.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, is that okay?’ Tressa was worried he was expecting something more glamorous but Port Lowdy didn’t really do glam. It was more successful at cosy.

  ‘No, it’s fine; it just sounded like something out of a children’s book. Living above the post office with the postmistress as the landlady. Can I lick the stamps and become an integral part of the postal service?’

  There was that smile in his voice again. It was infectious.

  ‘You cannot. Penny takes her role very seriously and she’s also very no-nonsense and wants to be sure your dog is well behaved.’

  ‘Of course he is. Just like his owner.’

  Tressa smiled. ‘So call me when you arrive on Wednesday and I will meet you and Richie and we can get started.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ said Dan, and he sounded sincere when he said it.

  Tressa put down the phone and turned to Ginger Pickles who was washing her paws as if she hadn’t just assaulted Tressa.

  ‘You won’t be getting any treats for a week after that abuse,’ she said to the cat, who looked nonplussed.

  She texted George, who she knew would still be up, worrying about everything and more.

  New journo starts Wednesday. He seems on the money and very capable. Rest up and message me tomorrow after you and Caro are at the hospital.

  Thank goodness that was done, she thought. Although Tressa had never interviewed anyone before, she knew she hadn’t done a traditional interview – but she figured he knew what he was supposed to do and it was only for six months after all. And if she didn’t like him, she could ask him to leave. That would be pretty easy, wouldn’t it?

  Her head hurt from not only thinking but also from where Ginger Pickles had pulled her hair.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she announced to the cat, who stopped washing her paws and looked up at Tressa as if to say, who cares.

  ‘I can’t get any respect around here,’ she said with a sigh and went to bed.

  She woke at two in the morning with Ginger Pickles curled up next to her neck, as though nothing had happened.

  Tressa went downstairs to get some water and saw her laptop and opened it. A quick google of Dan Byrne and then she would head back to bed.

  She typed his name into the search engine. Dan Byrne. Journalist. Dublin.

  And then the results came up: 23,000,000 results. Can’t be right, she thought as she started to read. Were there two journalists in Dublin named Dan Byrne?

  And then she saw a profile piece on Dan and his beloved dog Richie.

  Oh. It was the same person, and he was handsome and he was young. Dammit.

  She emailed the referee on his résumé, the man called Clive, and asked him to call her in the morning.

  You had one thing to do, Tressa, and you messed it up already, she scolded herself. She should definitely have followed up with the referee and found out more about Dan and before offering him the job. She closed the machine and went back to bed where Ginger Pickles was now curled up on her pillow, like a selfish little minx.

  6

  On the Wednesday morning, Remi Durand arrived in Port Lowdy. He had been travelling for nineteen hours when he stepped off the bus from Plymouth, after travelling by ferry from France.

  His body was sore from the travel, and his eyes hurt from the bright sunlight and from seeing so many bright colours and new things.

  At twenty-eight, Remi looked older than his years. Not in his face but the way he held his body. He was rigid and stood straight. His movements were economical and he took small steps when he walked, used to exercising in a confined space. Dark-haired and with dark eyes, he wasn’t a tall man but he was strong.

  He looked around for a building called the Black Swan.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he asked a girl with black curls who was wheeling a bicycle. ‘Can you tell me where the Black Swan is?’ He hoped his English was passable.

  The girl smiled at him in a friendly way and he was unsure how to respond. Did he smile back? Did he say, I have been in prison and you won’t want to smile at me again after you know what I did?

  She pointed ahead. ‘It’s up this hill and to the right. You won’t miss it. She’s a lovely pub. Are you staying there?’

  ‘Yes, I am working for Marcel.’

  She seemed thrilled at this news. ‘For the summer? That’s fantastic. The pub is so busy and Marcel and Pam can’t do it all by themselves again. It nearly killed Marcel last year.’

  ‘Pam?’ he asked. What was a Pam?

  ‘Pamela, his wife. They’re fabulous. I can’t wait to come and eat there now you’re working with them.’

  Her enthusiasm for his circumstances was confusing. Would she feel the same if she knew why he was really in Port Lowdy?

  Remi nodded, not willing to say more.

  ‘You must try the crab bisque – it’s sensational.’

  The girl wheeled her bicycle away and Remi looked up the hill. He had a backpack containing all he owned in the world, but he had a job. This was more than a lot of other prisoners had when they were released.

  The village was small, smaller than he had imagined when he was told about working and living here.

  It was so foreign to him. He only knew Paris and its busy, loud existence. Now he was looking at a little pier and fishing boats, and was standing on a cobbled street. He could hear the seagulls calling but that was all. It was so quiet. Not like Paris with the clubs and bars.

  He shuddered thinking about that life.

  Taking the curly-haired girl’s advice, he made his way up the hill, where he saw a large old white building with painted signs of two black swans gently swinging in the breeze. There were tablecloths on the washing line and red geraniums in pots set out at the front of the doors. It looked nicer than he’d expected, and with the girl saying that they served a crab bisque, he was feeling more hopeful.

  The door opened and a large man with a red beard emerged in an apron that could have doubled as a spinnaker.

  ‘Remi?’ he asked and Remi nodded, as the man pulled him into a hug.

  ‘Welcome to Port Lowdy,’ the man said.

  ‘You’re French,’ said Remi.

  ‘Oui but I am now Cornish. A Cornish crepe,’ and he laughed as though he had said something outrageously funny.

  The man, who was called Marcel, according to the letter Remi had received in Paris, owned the pub. He smelled of onions, garlic and seafood. It was the best scent Remi had smelled in a very long time.

  ‘You will stay here with me and my wife Pam and we will teach you everything, non?’

  Remi nodded.

  A woman came towards them in a tight red dress, red lipstick and her hair done like she was from another time, perhaps the 1950s.

  ‘Oh, look at you Frenchies,’ said the woman and she looked over at Remi and smiled. ‘You all right, pet? Had a rough trot, eh?’ She had a voice like sandpaper and an accent that could have shucked an oyster but her eyes were kind and she smiled at him like she meant it.

  Before he could answer her, she tapped Marcel on the arm. ‘Your pastry is drying out.’

  ‘Merde,’ said Marcel.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m here. I’ll take care of the young’un,’ she said and she pushed open the red door for Marcel, who bustled in, and stood waiting for Remi to enter.

  ‘Come on then, I bet you’re knackered from all the travel. And hungry. Let me show you your room and then you can eat something and have a lie-down. Marcel has a lovely lasagna on the menu today. You like lasagna? Or I can get you a curry. Or even an omelette if your tummy is on the turn from the ferry?’

  Remi stepped inside the pub and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light.

  The pub had a low roof but was painted white inside. It was a large o
pen room with a huge fireplace, like the sort that wealthy men would have warmed themselves in front of after a day of hunting.

  The tables were scattered about and comfortable-looking chairs surrounded them, and the lighting was excellent. It was a beautiful room. There was a sense of homeliness about it but it was chic.

  Remi remembered the discussions about lighting from when he was at the bar. There was much discussion about the lighting in the bar but in a restaurant, it was different – the lighting needed to be softer. He remembered that much but he didn’t like to remember the time at the bar. That was before everything happened.

  ‘This is very nice,’ he said to Pam.

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely, and very busy in the summer. We also do fish and chips in the beer garden and takeaway packs.’

  Pamela walked him through the restaurant and then through a door and up a back staircase.

  There were doors along a hallway and they stopped at the one marked 21.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said and took a key out of her pocket of her tight red dress and opened the door. Twenty-one, he thought. The age he was when he went into prison. What a waste of his life. What a waste of the other man’s life. No one wins when someone dies and the other one goes to prison.

  Inside the room was a simple bedroom but it was nicer than anything he had ever had.

  A double bed with a large navy bedhead, two bedside tables in white wood with lamps on them. A wardrobe, and a small table and chairs. A large comfortable striped armchair sat by the window.

  ‘We just did it up – seaside, nautical theme,’ she said. ‘Not really my taste but the tourists love it.’

  Remi smiled. ‘I love it, too.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, pet. A little bathroom here.’ She opened a door and he saw a shower and toilet and basin, all in shiny white and blue tiles. God, this was luxury.

  ‘You hungry?’ Pamela asked him.

  Remi shook his head. ‘I’m very tired actually.’