by Kate Forster
Pamela made a sad face at him but she looked like she did genuinely feel sad for him. ‘Oh, pet, I’m sure you’re ruined. How about I send you up a tray and you can shower and sleep. Sound okay?’
At such unintended tenderness, Remi felt his throat swell and his eyes sting.
He hadn’t cried in seven years; here was this woman, who didn’t know him from Adam, offering him the most he had ever had.
He looked down at the floor. ‘Oui, merci.’
Pamela put the key on the table, turned and went to the door, opened it and stopped halfway through leaving.
‘You know, a hot shower and good sob and you’ll be right as rain, pet. Always helps me when I feel a bit run over by the world.’
She shut the door behind her, finishing the moment with a soft click, and Remi lay on the bed and wept. He really did feel run over by the world and he was grateful for Marcel and Pam. He was the first paroled prisoner they had taken in but apparently Marcel had spent time inside prison and knew how hard it was to make a life when you were finally released. Thankfully, the charity had set this up for him and he had a place to go. So many times he had heard of men leaving prison with nowhere to go and so often they came back to prison because it was safer than being out in the world with no family, job, or money.
But Remi wasn’t given that opportunity, not even to try. He was sent to Cornwall and would never be able to return to Paris.
The man from the charity who helped prisoners like him had come and sat with him before his release in France.
‘There aren’t many jobs around at the moment. One in London as rubbish collector and one in Cornwall as a cook at a pub. The fellow there did some time, so he wants to help someone like you.’
Collecting rubbish in London sounded awful but where was Cornwall?
Whatever he had imagined would happen when he was released from prison, it wasn’t what Port Lowdy offered: the unexpected kindness of Pam and Marcel, even though he was a murderer in the eyes of everyone he knew back in France.
Not that he cared about everyone else’s view of him. Only Juliet mattered. But he would never be able to see Juliet again and that was what broke him. He always thought perhaps he would be walking down the street and he would see her and she would see him and they would reconnect. That had sustained him for seven years. Now he was thrown out of a country that didn’t want him and living in a country that didn’t know him. It was enough to make a grown man weep.
7
That same Wednesday that Remi had arrived, Tressa wheeled her bicycle towards the post office, where she was to meet Dan Byrne. She was early but he had said he would be driving down from Plymouth.
Her conversation with Clive, his previous boss, had been enlightening. Dan Byrne was the bad boy of Irish news, and he was self-destructive and cavalier but he was kind when he chose to be. She told Clive perhaps she had made a mistake in hiring Dan.
‘He needed a break, and this might be good for him,’ Clive said. ‘There’s nothing here for him. Maybe he needs to leave journalism and do something else. This might give him the space to think about it.’
Not that Tressa had any other options, since the other applicants were not even close to being right for the role. Dan was overqualified but it was clear from the lies on the résumé he knew what the paper needed.
She wondered if he would be bringing his car with him from Ireland or if he had a rental car.
After leaning her bike against the wall of the post office, she walked inside. A man who was way too good-looking was standing listening to Penny as she told him about the town.
Feeling awkward, Tressa looked through the jam flavours and spun the stand of postcards. A dog came out of nowhere and sat in front of her.
‘Oh hello,’ she said, patting the dog’s head.
‘Richie, are you being polite?’ She heard the Irish accent and looked up.
‘Daniel Byrne?’ she asked.
‘I am. Are you Tressa with three s’s?’
‘Just the two.’ She paused a moment to take him in. Tall, well-built, dark hair, blue eyes, and a smiling mouth. He was wearing jeans and sneakers and a white T-shirt and looked far too good for someone in such a simple outfit.
‘I’m waiting for the Tressa with three s’s,’ he said to Penny. ‘She’s the wrong one.’
Penny looked confused. ‘There is only one Tressa – this one,’ she said, pointing at her. ‘She’s the one and only Tressa in Port Lowdy.’
‘Oh, well how lovely to meet you, one Tressa with two s’s.’ Dan put out his hand for her to shake and she noticed she still had paint on her fingernails.
‘Dan got here early,’ said Penny and Tressa was sure she was preening. ‘He said he wanted to wander around and get the feel of Port Lowdy.’
Tressa raised an eyebrow. ‘And how does it feel?’
‘Too soon to tell. I’ll need more time.’
‘You only have six months to find out, don’t forget.’ She heard herself speaking to him in what could be considered a flirty tone. Maybe it was the Irish accent that made her playful. They had talked like this on the phone, and she had wondered why it was so easy to be silly with a man she didn’t know.
‘Dan has a car. He brought it over on the ferry with his lovely dog.’ Penny sounded thrilled with the situation, which was a change for the usually dour postmistress.
Tressa felt as though she was standing on uneven ground in high heels, except she had her sensible flat shoes on. She touched her hair and realised she was still wearing her bike helmet.
If she took it off now she would look vain, but if she left it on, she would look more like a dork than she did right now. She casually unclipped the helmet and took it off as though nothing unusual was happening. Penny laughed, not unkindly, but rather tactlessly. ‘Did you wash your hair and then put the bike hat on?’
Tressa touched her hair and realised that she had done that exact thing and then ridden the long way around the bay so she could enjoy the sunshine. The bottom half of her hair was dry but the top half was stuck to her skull, and she knew she looked ridiculous.
Why hadn’t she made an effort to at least look nice for the new employee of the paper?
She ran her hand through her hair and smiled at Penny as best she could. ‘It must look frightful.’
Penny shook her head. ‘No, you always look lovely. Such a pretty girl you are. Now I was just going to show Dan to his room and then I thought you could give him a little tour of Port Lowdy and take him to your office.’
Tressa was glad Penny was taking charge. She couldn’t seem to think straight.
‘Let me take you upstairs and then he’s all yours, Tressa.’
Tressa walked outside the shop and stood in the sun, fluffing her curls with her hands to give them some volume. Dan Byrne had nice forearms, she thought. She always looked at men’s forearms and he had strong ones, with that lovely line of muscle showing he did something powerful with them besides writing.
Tressa felt something push her bottom and she spun around to see Richie panting at her.
‘He has no manners, I’m sorry,’ said Dan, coming out of the post office.
She shrugged. ‘I’ve had worse from other males, so I’ll be fine.’
Dan put on a pair of sunglasses and she felt herself frown at the sight of him. He looked even better with them on and she crossed her arms.
‘You ready?’ she said.
‘Sure am, show me your Port Lowdy, Ms Buckland.’
She put her head inside the post office. ‘Can I leave the bike at the front, Pen? I’ll pick it up later.’
Penny waved her permission and Tressa clipped the helmet to the handlebars and turned to Dan.
‘Let’s go then,’ she said and started off down the road.
Dan and Richie came rushing after her.
‘Aren’t you going to lock up your bike?’ he asked.
‘No, Penny will make sure it’s safe.’
‘You mean to tell me ther
e is no theft here?’
‘There is – mostly when the tourists or day trippers come. But on a Wednesday morning, early spring, my bicycle will be fine.’
‘Wouldn’t happen in Dublin.’ He sighed.
‘What did you think of Penny?’ she asked. ‘She’s an odd bod sometimes. Can rub people up the wrong way.’
‘Oh really? She seems fine to me, very suitable for the prim postmistress of a small English village.’
Tressa laughed. ‘You know she was once Miss Crab, of the Port Lowdy crabs? What a title.’
‘Miss what?’ Dan started to laugh.
‘It was a pageant that she won, celebrating Port Lowdy. I only just found about it but it’s such a funny crown and name. I don’t think Penny sees why it’s funny.’
Dan stopped laughing. ‘Maybe that was her big moment. We shouldn’t be mean about it.’
‘I’m not being mean. I just think it’s a funny title. Penny is great, really, but sometimes she gets a bit judgemental.’
‘That’s a bit pot calling the kettle, isn’t it?’ he said and he was smiling but she felt ashamed. Why had she put Penny down? It was something her mother would do to make others feel small so she could feel bigger.
‘I like Penny and she’s good to me,’ she said. ‘She’s a good person. I shouldn’t have been critical of her.’
They walked in silence for a little while.
Tressa pointed down to the left.
‘That’s the library. They don’t have a huge number of books of course but they get most of the papers from around here and from Ireland and Scotland. They also have Le Monde and Le Figaro if you like the French news. The chef up at the pub is French. He likes to read the papers at the library and swears loudly in French at stories he doesn’t agree with. It’s quite entertaining to watch. I learned a lot of new swear words actually. It’s like a live reading of dirty Duolingo. Oh and they have all the Agatha Christie books if you like some crime. George’s wife Caro donates all her old crime novels to the library so you can read about all sorts of deadly characters.’
They kept walking, as a few villagers said hello to Tressa but ignored Dan and Richie.
‘You seem to know everyone here,’ said Dan.
Tressa nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. You’ll know them soon enough. A journalist from Ireland who knows his way around a flower show? Well, they won’t be able to hold themselves back,’ she said, and she was sure she saw him wince.
She showed him the bakery, the doctor’s surgery, and the best shops for grocery supplies; finally, they stopped the front of the Black Swan.
‘I can show you the beach, if you like?’
‘I would like,’ he said, ‘as would Richie.’
They walked down to the beach, and looked out over the shoreline. It was low tide and the ripples of glossy sand shone in the sunlight.
‘Can I let Richie off?’ he asked.
‘Yep.’ She walked down the steps and he followed her, unclipping the dog lead. Richie went speeding in circles, chasing gulls over the sand.
‘We have a flower show next week to cover. You seem to have experience with those. Are you all right to handle it?’ She gazed straight ahead at the dog.
‘Oh yes, I love flower shows.’
‘It’s early peonies and petunias. Does that work?’
‘I love all the P flowers.’
‘What other P flowers are there?’ she asked.
‘Pansies,’ he said, starting out with confidence.
The dog was barking at the water now. He didn’t seem to be a very bright animal.
‘What other P flowers have you come across in covering all your flower shows?’
Dan paused. ‘Umm…’
She spun around to him. ‘None! Because you’re a big fibber!’
‘A fibber? What’s a fibber?’
‘Someone who lies on their résumé to get a job that they are very overqualified for.’
Dan pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head. ‘Listen…’
‘I googled you. I know you got fired for writing about something you shouldn’t have.’
Dan was silent for a moment. ‘Should I go?’
Tressa laughed. ‘No. Why? Of course I would google you, but I rang your old boss, Clive, who spoke highly of you and he said you need a break from hard news.’
Dan groaned and put his head in his hands. ‘God, what a charity case I am.’
‘Not at all. We need someone, I need someone, and I think it’ll be fine. Honestly. You might even enjoy it.’
‘You must think I’m a total eejit.’ He scuffed the sand with his foot.
‘I think you’re full of shit and I can’t wait for you to cover an actual flower show because we do have them here, you know.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘I also think it’s brave of you to come here and we need the help,’ she said. ‘But I won’t lie. I am looking forward to you covering some of the Port Lowdy events including the crime watch report and the outrage about the bus stop being built.’
Dan smiled at her. ‘I will relish every story and treat them with the respect they deserve.’
She rolled her eyes at him. ‘You like to lay it on thick. Is that the Irish patter?’
‘No, I mean it,’ he said, and he almost sounded like he did.
‘All right, let’s go to the pub for lunch.’
‘Now?’ Dan looked at his watch.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘No, but I thought you would want to get on with work,’ he said.
‘Work will wait, but my stomach won’t.’ It took Dan a solid ten minutes to get Richie to come to him when he called. He eventually bribed him with a mint from Tressa’s purse. They walked slowly up the hill to the pub and Tressa pushed open the door. ‘Any tables for a girl and two fellas?’ she called, and Pamela walked out to greet them.
‘You’re the first in,’ Pamela said. She turned to Dan.
‘Pam, this is Dan, who is helping me with the Occurrence while George is away… and this is his friend Richie.’
Pamela smiled at Dan, and nodded to Richie. ‘Table in the beer garden or inside?’
‘You don’t mind Richie being inside?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. We had Mrs Rouse and her parrot in last week and she got along famously with Walter’s ferret. The parrot, that is.’
Tressa saw the look of incredulity on Dan’s face and laughed.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Outside would be nice, if that’s okay with you?’
They went outside and sat at a table under the oak tree that was starting to show new leaves.
‘Drink?’ asked Tressa.
‘Oh sure, what are you having?’
‘Probably a pint.’
‘Same, thanks.’
Tressa went inside where Pamela was working at the bar.
‘He’s very handsome,’ Pamela observed.
‘Is he? I didn’t notice, not my type,’ lied Tressa.
Pamela scoffed as she poured the drinks.
‘Even a nun would have a little squirm if she was sitting opposite that man.’
Tressa blushed and took the drinks. ‘Put this on the tab, will you?’
Pamela nodded.
‘Oh, and we’ll have the fisherman’s basket with extra chips please.’
Outside, Dan was sitting with his head back, his arms crossed. Richie was lying with his feet on Dan’s feet and Tressa stared at them both for a moment.
Yes, he was stupidly sexy, she thought, and put the pints down on the table with a little bang, causing some of the beer to splash.
‘Careful there,’ he said, ‘that’s liquid gold.’
‘I ordered us the fisherman’s basket, if that’s okay?’
He nodded. ‘Fine, thanks – but I’ll get extra chips.’
‘Already ordered,’ she said and looked down at Richie. ‘We can’t leave him out; he’s new in town.’
Dan pushed his sunglasses onto his head
. ‘Richie and I thank you. No one ever thinks of him like a person, but he is to me.’
‘I get it. I have a cat who is a person to me, even though she thinks I am subhuman.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Ginger Pickles.’
‘Interesting name.’
‘It’s from a Beatrix Potter book. The Tale of Ginger and Pickles, who were the world’s worst shopkeepers. They gave credit to all and sundry and then had to close their shop. Ginger was the cat and Pickles was a terrier. And their mouths watered whenever they had mice or rats in the shop as customers, but they knew that it would be bad for business to eat their patrons.’
Dan laughed. ‘That is an excellent business strategy. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.’
She looked at him for a long time.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘That’s what you did in Dublin, isn’t it? They sued you for your flat. Tough luck to lose your home over an argument.’
Dan looked downcast. She reached across the table and touched his arm.
‘Dan, it’s fine. Honest. I’m happy to go on if you are, and who knows, it might just all work out for us both. The main thing is to keep the paper going while George is away. Can you agree to do that?’
Dan nodded and looked at Tressa. ‘You know, that’s the first time I have felt okay since this all happened.’
Pamela came out and put their food on the table.
Tressa smiled at Dan.
‘The sun is out, you have a new job, you have a pint, you have the best fish and chips in Cornwall, and you’re with Richie. What else is there? This is happiness right here.’
Dan sipped his drink. ‘It’s remarkable that you can say the right things to make me feel better. Twice. You’re a good egg, Tressa Buckland. A good egg indeed.’
8
The Port Lowdy Occurrence was bigger than Dan expected. It had real stories, obviously written by George, and lots of fun little glimpses into the life and times of Port Lowdy. It was what a paper should be, telling people about changes in the village and the stories that might affect and entertain them. Naturally the paper was more profitable in the summer, from advertising, but there was a strong balance of stories in there on local events, and photos Tressa had taken, which were very good. She clearly had an eye.
