by Kate Forster
‘Sure,’ said Tressa and she put the camera into her bag as they got back into the car. ‘There are good ones at the Lowdy Creamery in the village.’
‘Done,’ said Dan, as he put the car into gear and they drove along the coastal road. Dan turned on the stereo and the sound of Lionel Richie came through the car. He burst into the chorus of ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’ and pressed a button so the window went down, and the sea air rushed through the car and Tressa’s curls covered her face.
‘I didn’t take you for a Lionel Richie fan,’ she yelled over the music.
But Dan shook his head at her and sang louder so she gave up on trying to discuss his passion for this song.
By the time they returned to Port Lowdy, Dan was singing ‘Hello’, and Tressa reluctantly hummed along and heard herself singing the chorus. Damn you, Dan Byrne, you have me singing Lionel Richie.
Dan parked the car and turned to Tressa. ‘I like you even more now that you sing along in the car with me, and to Lionel Richie. I think we are going to be best friends.’ He jumped out of the car and opened the door for Richie to follow him.
Tressa felt like her head was spinning, as she shut the car door behind her.
‘How many cups of coffee have you had today?’ she asked as they walked towards the ice cream shop.
‘None,’ he answered. ‘Just enjoying myself. Nothing to worry about, nothing to be angry about – it’s quite a new thing for me. Let me have it because who knows how long it will be before my dark mood returns.’
Dan pushed open the door of the ice cream shop and gestured for Tressa to step through first.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the girl behind the counter.
Dan walked along the counter, checking the flavours.
‘Lavender? What sort of ice cream is lavender flavour?’ he asked.
‘Would you like to try some?’ asked the girl.
‘No thank you, I’ll leave it for the bees.’
Tressa watched him peer at the ice cream. No amount of handsome charm could make up for his cavalier energy.
‘I will have a single cone of vanilla ice cream and a waffle cone of chocolate mint and peanut brittle.’ He turned to Tressa. ‘You? What do you want?’
‘I’ll have a single cone of rum and raisin.’
‘You won’t drink whisky but you’ll eat rum ice cream? You’re a mystery, Tressa Buckland.’
He paid for the ice cream and handed Tressa her cone, then walked out to Richie holding two cones and held one for Richie to lick, which he did messily.
Tressa watched Richie enthusiastically lick the offering. ‘I don’t think dogs are meant to eat ice cream.’
‘We’re not meant to eat ice cream either but it’s a nice treat for humans and for fur humans.’
When Richie had finished eating his cone, they walked down to the beach, licking their ice creams.
Richie ran onto the beach and chased seagulls who had the better of him while Dan sat on the wall and Tressa sat next to him.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Tressa said.
‘It is, but don’t you get bored of living here?’ Dan asked.
‘No. Why would I?’
‘Because I think it would be very routine. You know everyone; you know what happens every season. You work in the newspaper but there is no real news to report on because nothing actually happens.’
‘It does so. There was a mermaid on the beach today.’ But his words hit a nerve because sometimes, she thought about these things also.
Dan finished his ice cream and wiped his hands on the napkin that was wrapped around the cone.
‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘Why are you here since it’s so boring?’
‘Because I have nowhere else to go and my flat is about to be sold and no one in Ireland will hire me.’
For some reason this annoyed Tressa and she stood up and walked to the bin and threw the rest of her cone away.
‘Hey, Richie would have eaten that,’ he said but Tressa kept walking towards the office.
‘What did I say?’ he asked as he chased after her.
‘Nothing,’ she answered but she was offended that he didn’t want to be here. She was offended on behalf of Port Lowdy and she was angry because he had triggered something inside her that she knew to be true.
Port Lowdy could be very unremarkable to the outsider but there were days when the sun hit the water and the children ran on the sand and lovers proposed on the rocks and Ginger Pickles lay stretched out on the tiles of the front step and everything was right in the world.
Tressa opened the door to the office, went to her computer, plugged her camera into the machine, and started to download the photos.
Richie entered the office and sat under her desk, while Dan came puffing behind.
‘You have an angry walk,’ he said, leaning over the desk, trying to catch his breath.
‘I do not.’
‘You do. It’s all tight and fast, like this.’ He proceeded to do an impression of Tressa that reminded her of Wendy.
‘God, you look like my mother when she’s asking to speak to the manager.’
Dan threw his hands up. ‘See? You inherited your mother’s angry walk. Most women do.’
‘That’s sexist.’
‘Not really. Most men inherit their father’s balding pattern. It’s just DNA.’
Dan sat at his desk and she heard his laptop turn on.
‘I think Remi has a story,’ he said.
‘Unless Remi tells you his story, then it’s none of your business,’ answered Tressa.
‘It is; it’s everyone’s business. Remi might have something extremely fascinating to share and he doesn’t know it yet.’
Tressa said nothing, as she started to file the photos into the folders on the server.
‘When we had lunch, he seemed to have no idea about things like Game of Thrones, or Snapchat. He’s your age, right? Late twenties. He should know about those things.’
‘I don’t use Snapchat and I haven’t watched an episode of Game of Thrones. Does that make me mysterious?’
‘No, because you’re a painter and that’s your thing. And you’ve at least heard of those things. But Remi – I want to get to know him better.’
Tressa spun around on her chair.
‘You said you wanted to be his friend, so be his friend. Don’t look for drama when there isn’t any because you’re projecting your boredom about being here and your resentment that you’re not winning a Pulitzer for your exposé on Mrs Caddy taking off all the side mirrors on the cars near the library while driving in her new car.’
‘So it was Mrs Caddy?’ He slammed his hand down on the desk. ‘I knew it.’
Tressa went back to her work. Richie put his head on her lap, while he was under the desk, and she scratched his head.
‘Your dad has more issues than The Port Lowdy Occurrence, and we have been in print since 1781,’ she said and she heard Dan burst into laughter behind her.
‘You’re funny – that’s why we’re friends,’ he said and Tressa turned to him and looked him in the eye.
‘We are colleagues. We aren’t friends. I don’t want to be your friend if you do to me what you are planning to do to Remi. Snooping about his life and trying to find plot holes. So let’s just get this issue finished and to the printer and then we can have a break from each other for a week.’
Dan looked hurt and she wondered if she had been too harsh. But he needed to be told. The last thing she wanted was for him to start snooping around her life. God knows she had moved to Port Lowdy for a reason only she knew and she wanted it to stay that way.
14
Two weeks later, Penny Stanhope lifted up the bundle of papers by the front door of the post office and carried them inside, placing them on the rack. She cut the plastic wrapping off them and then took the top one, went behind the counter and laid it on the wooden surface.
There was the photo Tressa had taken of her, holding the Miss Cra
b photo. Postmistress Reveals Past. Turn to Pages 5 & 6, instructed the text under the photo.
She looked old, she thought, as she turned to the page mentioned and started to read.
It was as though she was reading about someone else. Someone wiser and braver and infinitely more interesting than she felt.
The photo of her as Miss Crab was bigger on the inside spread and there were large quotes from Penny in bold text.
‘I have forgiven Port Lowdy, but I can’t forgive him.’
She closed the paper and dialled Tegan’s number.
‘Tegan, it’s Mum. I want you to know that I’m in the paper today. No, The Port Lowdy Occurrence. It’s a bit of a thing, you see, and I think we should talk now in case anyone asks you about it.’
*
‘Goodbye, Ginger Pickles,’ Tressa called out as she shut the door to her terrace. She had fed her but she would probably be skulking around Janet’s for extra breakfast soon enough.
‘Morning, Tressa,’ she heard and looked up to see Janet in the doorway of her own terrace, in her blue dressing gown.
‘Hi, Janet, I was just thinking Ginger will be over later for more food, so just to let you know she’s been fed – so nothing too much, if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. I like having her over. She’s company,’ said Janet. Tressa wheeled her bike down the path, shaking her head.
She really wished that Janet would get her own cat instead of having a part-time connection with Ginger Pickles. It wasn’t that she minded Janet looking after her cat, but she wanted Janet to have more than occasional company.
‘I loved your drawings today,’ said Janet, as Tressa opened her gate.
‘Pardon?’
‘In the paper. The sketches of Port Lowdy – they’re gorgeous. I mean, I have seen a lot of tourist tat of paintings and the like – but yours are special. You know the place. You can see the heart and soul of where we live.’
Her head spinning, Tressa jumped on her bicycle and rode away from Janet towards the village. That lying, snooping bastard, she thought as she rode towards the post office.
She was unsure if she had ever pedalled as fast, making it to the post office in record time.
Penny had already opened the shop, and there were a few locals crowded around the counter while Penny held court.
‘Tressa,’ she called, ‘isn’t this marvellous?’ She waved the paper at Tressa, who grabbed a copy as she passed her.
‘Dan upstairs?’ she asked before even waiting for an answer. At the back of the shop she went through to the back stairs and ran up them two at a time.
Richie met her as she opened the door, but she pushed him away as she stormed into the kitchen.
Dan wasn’t there.
‘Dan?’ she yelled.
‘In here,’ he yelled back and she opened the door and realised it was the bathroom. Dan was behind a shower curtain that was printed like a giant airmail envelope.
Tressa ripped open the newspaper and found the page of her drawings. ‘You took photos of my art without my permission and you put them in the paper. I signed off on the edition and this wasn’t in there. Who the hell do you think you are?’ she shouted.
Dan put his head around the curtain. ‘Good morning, Tressa,’ he said. ‘Let me finish up here and then we can get tea and I will make you a full Irish.’
‘I don’t want a full Irish, I don’t want a part Irish, I don’t want any Irish.’
‘You sound like Dr Seuss,’ he said and she heard the water turn off.
‘I’ll wait in the kitchen.’ She left the bathroom.
She spread the paper out on the table and looked at her work in print.
The Magic of Port Lowdy in Art
Tressa Buckland, Port Lowdy’s resident artist, has drawn Port Lowdy in a series of delightful and charming sketches, capturing the spirit of Port Lowdy with her insightful art.
Tressa has several pieces for sale and is planning a solo exhibition later in the year.
You can contact Tressa through The Port Lowdy Occurrence for further details on her work.
Dan walked out of the bathroom wearing a towel.
‘An exhibition? Pieces for sale? What the hell, Dan?’
Dan switched the kettle on and took a fry pan from a cupboard. ‘Scrambled or fried?’
‘You invaded my privacy and you printed my work without my permission. I could sue you.’
‘Get in line,’ he said. ‘But be warned all I have is my shitty Subaru and Richie, and both of them have dodgy exhausts, quite smelly with the wrong fuel.’
‘You don’t get how awful this is, how sad this looks to have my crappy sketches in the local paper. It’s bloody amateur hour. Being in the Miss Crab edition to boot.’
Dan turned to her. ‘You’re a snob.’
‘I am not,’ she said.
‘You are, you think your work is too good for The Port Lowdy Occurrence and that Penny’s story is a joke. Yet I don’t see you pushing yourself out there as an artist. And you should, because you’re good. Those sketches are fantastic; they live and breathe this place. Much better than those paintings of the sea you seem to have an obsession with.’
‘Oh seriously, you are so out of line. I see why you were fired and you’re alone and with only your dog for company.’
‘So what’s your excuse?’ Dan put down the fry pan and leaned against the cupboard.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re alone, with a cat for company, working for a paper that will probably fold once George retires, unless someone buys it, which they won’t because no one cares about Port Lowdy except the people who are in it and they’re all old. Ever noticed you are one of the few people in your twenties around here? You have to have a plan.’
Tressa listened. Part of what he said made sense; in fact, these were the things that kept her awake at night sometimes.
‘But this isn’t your plan to make. This is my life, Dan. I hardly know you and you have betrayed me with no awareness of why I don’t want my art to be out in the world. You’re a bulldozer and you think your good-looking charm will make you immune to the fallout. But it doesn’t.’
She stalked out of the kitchen and towards the stairs that went out to the street.
‘You are talented; your work should be out in the world,’ he said, following her.
‘My life is none of your business, Dan. None.’
She opened the door and walked down the stairs and out into the street, feeling the tears welling in her eyes. They spilled over and turned into racking sobs as she managed to find her bicycle and walked it down the street towards Mermaid Terrace.
15
The phone ringing woke Tressa up from her nap on the sofa. She picked up the phone and saw it was her mother.
She deliberated whether to answer it or not but knowing Wendy’s doggedness, she chose to get the call over and done with.
‘Hi, Mum,’ she said.
‘Darling, we’re so proud of you. Jago showed us the drawings you did. They’re online. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Tressa closed her eyes. Of course they would be online; she had forgotten about the online edition. God, this just got worse.
‘I am so pleased you put your work out there, darling. I am proud of you. Everyone needs to see how wonderful it is and now they can. It’s good you have moved on from that stage, darling, and now can put your name to your work. I mean no one even thinks about that now, do they?’
Tressa sat up and sighed. Except you, Mum, you’re the one who mentioned it, she thought, but didn’t have the energy to try and explain.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said. ‘Hey, Mum, I have someone at my door. I’ll call you later, okay?’
Before Wendy could answer, Tressa had ended the call and put her phone down on the table.
Of course Wendy would bring up her first exhibition. Sometimes Tressa wondered if Wendy struggled with her daughter’s failure as an artist more than Tressa did. It was difficu
lt to follow a sister who was apparently the most charming, delightful child, who was the light of her mother’s eyes and whom Jago doted on.
She had died at age seven from a brain tumour. Jago was ten and bereft – as were Wendy and David – so they had another baby.
Perhaps they were hoping to clone Rosewyn, but instead they got Tressa. Even her name was unremarkable. Tressa meaning third. She was just the third one, since they lost the second.
For her whole life she had seen Rosewyn as the competition. Her mother talked about her as though she was still alive. She and Jago never clicked, not with ten years between them. He remembered Rosewyn too well to have Tressa replace her memory.
And her father buried himself in work.
Perhaps they thought having another baby was a mistake. Often in their family home, she felt so out of place. She wasn’t academically inclined like Jago, and she wasn’t one for activities like her mother encouraged.
But when they came to Port Lowdy, things were different. Everyone knew her as Tressa the girl who could draw anything, and George saw her photos when she was a teenager and gave her a job at the paper. The family dined outside in the garden and would have walks on the beach in the evening, and sometimes, they played Monopoly or Scrabble until Jago went away to university.
Rosewyn had never been to Port Lowdy – they only started going when Tressa was born – so it felt safe from her mother mentioning that Rosewyn might have swum in the sea or how everyone loved Rosewyn at the ice cream store.
No, Port Lowdy was Tressa’s special place, and it was no wonder she returned after what happened after art school.
A howl from Ginger Pickles and a knock at the door made her jump and she saw Dan standing outside. She stood up and looked at him through the window for a long moment and then turned and walked upstairs to her studio.
*
‘I don’t know how I could have got it so wrong,’ said Dan to Clive down the phone, sitting on the stone wall overlooking the beach.
‘I can. You just push your way into things,’ his former boss reminded him. ‘You have good intentions but no subtlety.’
Dan rubbed his forehead. The look on Tressa’s face when he arrived at her door had made him feel sick, and he realised he really cared about what she thought. Perhaps more than anyone else in a very long time.
