Somewhere Beyond the Sea

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Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 4

by Miranda Dickinson


  Reading Elinor’s journals, Dad found out that she’d discovered a star long before the official sighting was recorded. So he had it verified with the British Astronomical Association, and then he began campaigning to have her recognised for her contribution to astronomy. It took him the best part of ten years, and there is still work to be done.

  I remember the first time he opened the journals – at our kitchen table after dinner, each cloth-bound volume spilling out its contents across the knotted oak. Elinor’s handwriting was elegant and controlled, the words adorning each page like miniature works of art. Her line drawings of the night sky, which she’d observed from a small observatory she’d built in the parsonage garden, were things of beauty. I remember sitting with Mum as Dad read each entry – and the sense of reverence as Elinor Carne’s passion was given voice again, so many years after her death.

  And it sounds improbable, but I felt as if she were speaking to me. She was a woman with enormous dreams, caught in a time and a position that demanded she deny them. Her discoveries should have placed her in the esteemed company of the great astronomers: William and Caroline Herschel, Mary Somerville, Isaac Newton and Pierre-Simon Laplace. But the scientific community ignored her because she was a woman and a lowly parson’s wife. So instead she dedicated her life to the tiny rural parish in the hills above St Ives, supporting her husband and gazing at the skies whenever she could.

  I think of Elinor now, as I walk into the packed hall. She pursued her dream in the only way she was able, but the discoveries and observations she made were far beyond anything she was expected by society to achieve.

  I see Cerrie still talking to Bill Brotherson at the far end of the hall. If he sees the evil looks being aimed at him from the committee, he isn’t acknowledging them. But then, he doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong. It’s easy to absolve your conscience when you believe you have a God-given right to do whatever you want.

  He’s here because he has to gain permission from the people of the town before any development can go ahead. The land on which the parsonage stands is under a moral covenant to belong to the people of St Ives for perpetuity – the town doesn’t own the land, but it has a casting vote in what happens with it. Dad made this discovery when he requested the original land registry plans. Without this knowledge, Elinor’s home and what remains of her original observatory could have been lost years ago. I’m so proud of Dad for that – it’s a gift he has left to his beloved St Ives in order to protect the legacy of its most important resident.

  Bill Brotherson doesn’t care about Elinor Carne’s legacy, or about my dad’s work to preserve her memory and bring her the recognition she deserves. I’ve seen the property developments he’s bankrolled across the southwest. He is no respecter of history; his horrible, box-like monstrosities strip beautiful buildings of their soul and repackage their heritage as crass selling points. All he cares about is maximising profit, not the devastation he leaves in his wake.

  He’s a bloated, over-tanned and under-exercised lump of a man with a ridiculous cavalier-style beard and an assumed swagger that makes him appear constantly constipated. When he talks he has a permanent sneer, as if he is surrounded by an unpleasant odour. It would be comical, if he weren’t so successful. Or powerful.

  ‘Ah, Mr Brotherson; have you met Seren MacArthur?’ Cerrie says, waving at me. I can sense her relief from across the room.

  Brotherson nods. ‘Miss MacArthur.’

  ‘Mr Brotherson.’

  He doesn’t offer a handshake, and I wouldn’t accept one anyway.

  ‘You know, we could save everyone a whole heap of time if you and I could just reach an agreement over this.’

  ‘It’s not my decision to make. The covenant concerns the whole of the town.’

  He nods again, but I notice a small flicker at the corner of one eye. Good. My dad wasn’t a pushover, and I won’t be either.

  Lou Helmsworth is tapping on a mug with a teaspoon at the front of the room, and the crowd begins to hush.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for bein’ here,’ he smiles. ‘If you would like to take your seats, we’ll make a start.’

  The rows of brown plastic chairs begin to fill with people I’ve known my entire life. Familiar faces, neighbours, fellow business owners, former schoolmates – the great and the good of St Ives have convened for this meeting. I don’t know how many will support Bill Brotherson, but right now it feels like the odds are in our favour.

  I take my place at the row of trestle tables arranged on the small stage at the front of the hall, and watch as the developer wrestles himself into a seat at the opposite end. Lou sits in the middle, purportedly to act as a mediator, although I know full well he supports me.

  Part of me wonders how I ended up as the spearhead of this campaign. I was always in favour of stopping the development, but it came as a shock when the committee voted me as leader after Dad died. It was simultaneously lovely and terrifying: honouring his memory, but putting me completely out of my comfort zone. I can give all the arguments in the world for why the development shouldn’t go ahead; but saying them in front of the entire town and calling myself a campaign leader scares the living daylights out of me. I’ve always been more comfortable behind the scenes – that’s one reason I worked as a graphic designer before the company that employed me folded last year. I could create beautiful campaigns with only occasional meetings with clients – never entire halls full of people. Gazing out at the assembled audience now, I wish myself back at Grafyx – and wonder again what would have happened if I’d accepted a job with my former colleague there, before Dad died. Had I done that, I’d be in Falmouth now, a world away from the expectant eyes of St Ives residents . . .

  Lou is thanking everyone for coming and laying out ground rules for the forthcoming debate. There are five public meetings planned. It’s supposed to allow everyone a chance to have their say. So tonight’s meeting will be both sides presenting opening statements of their case to the town, the next will be a detailed presentation of the two proposals for the site, the third a chance for both sides to answer questions, and the fourth will be the final debate. The last meeting will be when St Ives votes. Lou’s planned a week without one in between the third and fourth meetings to allow both sides as much time as possible for campaigning. He thinks it’s a foregone conclusion already; I’m aware we need to work as if it isn’t. We don’t know how the town will vote, and people can change their minds at the eleventh hour. Whatever happens, I think this plan is fair. Everyone wants what’s best for the town: this way, no rash decisions can be made. Time to think, time to talk. It’s what Dad would have wanted, too.

  Bill Brotherson speaks first, with Lou unveiling a large card-mounted artists’ impression of the completed development while he talks. It’s mostly glass and stone – impressive, if you like buildings that completely ignore their former lives. It wouldn’t look out of place in London’s Docklands, or on a swanky beachside estate like Sandbanks in Dorset. But on the hill above St Ives? I can’t imagine it blending into the environment. Sympathetic development is not a term Bill Brotherson understands. This one looks a little less monstrous than his previous developments, I’ll give him that. But the only nod to the parsonage’s past or Elinor Carne’s former observatory seems to be one line of coving stones salvaged from the east aspect. To anyone unfamiliar with the old building, these few stones wouldn’t mean a thing.

  The audience is being kind, for now at least, but I don’t see many smiles directed at the millionaire developer as he gives his marketing spiel.

  ‘Of course we will be sympathetic to the past,’ he says, that half-smile of his flashing for a millisecond. ‘Rectory Fields will have a section known as the Elinor Carne Wing.’

  ‘That’s big of ya,’ says a voice from the crowd. And then I feel it – the deep rumble of dissent sounding around the room, like a storm approaching across the sea. It’s small, but it’s growing.

  And Bill Brotherson
has no idea of the tempest heading his way.

  ‘Why not go all out, Bill? Name a parking space after her, an’ all!’ calls another voice, and a peppering of laughs follow.

  ‘We are currently in talks with the council to formally name the approach road to the property “Elinor Carne Way”.’ Brotherson grins, thinking he has done well.

  Oh dear . . .

  ‘While you destroy everything she worked for?’

  ‘What gives you the right to do that?’

  ‘What’s next? You giving all your swanky buyers Elinor Carne T-shirts to wear when they move in?’

  He bats the heckles away like summer midges. ‘We have consulted widely, and we are one hundred per cent convinced that our plans are the most appropriate for the area . . .’

  ‘How widely?’ Another resident stands in the hall.

  Bill Brotherson’s mouth flaps like a goldfish out of its bowl, and for the first time tonight I can see him flailing. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Two interns and a digger driver, I’ll bet!’

  ‘Aye, an’ the post-boy if he’s lucky!’

  Raucous laughter breaks out like the first cracks of thunder, and there it is: rebellion rising in the heart of St Ives.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please—’ Lou is standing now, slapping his hand on the trestle table to summon order. I see ripples in my water glass and it feels like a portent of approaching danger. ‘Let’s just listen to what Mr Brotherson came here to tell us. There will be an opportunity for questions and debate next time . . .’

  ‘People like him don’t care about what we think.’ I recognise the woman pointing her finger at the developer. Sharon has run Wax-a-Daisy candle shop, a few doors down from MacArthur’s, for the past ten years. She’s one of the nicest people I know, but I’ve never seen her this angry before. She points at Bill Brotherson, who is staring back, clearly thrown by the hostility. ‘You just waltz in, build your pig-ugly little buildings and hightail it out. Does he care what he leaves behind? Or what is lost?’

  And then more people are shouting, more fingers jabbing towards the stage – and I can feel the floor shaking as chairs are pushed back and feet hit the floor . . .

  ‘Well, that went well,’ Aggie says, raising her half-drained cider bottle as everyone at the pub table laughs. We’ve been sitting here for almost an hour in stunned silence: it feels good to break the tension.

  ‘I didn’t expect that at the first meetin’,’ Lou says. The flush on his cheeks has yet to fade. After trying and failing to wrestle the meeting back to order, he had finally called time and sent everyone home.

  ‘Nobody expected that.’ I hope it reassures him. He’ll be blaming himself for not maintaining civility. ‘I had no idea feelings ran so deep.’

  ‘It isn’t just the parsonage,’ Kieran says, downing the last of one pint and beginning a fresh one that’s just been bought for him by a local who was at the meeting. ‘Bill Brotherson hasn’t exactly won many friends around here over the years. Tonight was their chance to say it to his face.’

  ‘All the same, if this was the friendly introduction, I dread to think what the next four meetings will be like.’ Lou nods his appreciation to me as I pat his arm. ‘And you didn’t even get the chance to speak, Seren. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘There’ll be time for that,’ I say, secretly glad the meeting was ended before I presented our case. I’ve been staring at my notes all day, and was convinced I wouldn’t be able to put into words what’s in my heart. As it turned out, the vast majority of the town spoke for me. It’s only a brief postponement, but at least I have a week now to plan my speech.

  I’ve always been daunted by speaking in public. In conversation with small groups of friends I think I hold my own, but it’s completely different when a roomful of eyes are trained on you. And even though I probably knew two-thirds of the people in the Guildhall tonight, I was still shaking at the thought of addressing them. It’s where Dad and I differed: he was at his best with an audience. That’s why he was the natural choice to lead the Save the Parsonage campaign. I, on the other hand, have all of his passion but none of his confidence in large crowds.

  I am passionate about saving Elinor’s home. That’s why I’m determined to do the best job I can of leading the campaign. But having a little more time to prepare is a gift I wasn’t expecting.

  ‘Did you see his face?’ Aggie says, her new bottle of cider already half-empty. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Brotherson terrified before. I wouldn’t be surprised if he arrived with a bodyguard next week.’

  ‘Judging by the mood tonight, he might need several. Anyone for another round?’ Kieran stands.

  The others accept, but I don’t. When Kieran and Aggie protest – carefully avoiding each other’s eyes, as they have been all evening – I raise my hands to defend myself. ‘I have a couple of hours of accounts to do tonight. And I want to get the website in order.’ The thought of it makes my heart sink. I set the website up for Dad six months ago, but he didn’t really see the point of it, so most of the items listed are already sold. After Faye Jesson-Lee’s departure today I spent the afternoon taking photos of the stock in the shop, using a makeshift mini-studio of a white sheet draped over one of the shelves and two anglepoise lamps. All a bit rough and ready, but I’m quite pleased with the result.

  Aggie flings an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me into her generous bosom. ‘Bird, do you ever give yourself a break? We’re worried about you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie – because it’s far easier than the alternative. ‘I have my morning beach walks.’ And the stars, I add to myself, enjoying the shiver of excitement it causes. I have the seaglass stars . . .

  Chapter Eight

  Jack

  It’s there.

  I see it before Nessie this time, and I am surprised by the shot of joy it gives me. For the last three evenings we have found these stars, and already I can see the effect it’s having on Ness. She’s always looked forward to going to the beach after school but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her as excited as she has been for these few days. I see it now as her face lights up, the thrill passing from her delighted smile to her legs, which kick into a sprint.

  ‘Again!’ she yells, her spotted wellies kicking up showers of sand and shale as she skirts the rocks. ‘They did it again!’

  Our mystery star-completer has added a line of shells from the tip of each of the star’s points – they get gradually smaller, with tiny periwinkle shells at the ends, which makes the whole thing look as though it’s sparkling. I don’t know when they did their stuff, but finding those small shells must’ve been quite a task. It makes me appreciate the effort even more.

  This afternoon as I was pitching for a building job (unsuccessfully, as it turned out), I found myself thinking about the beach stars. I’m way behind my daughter on this, I realise, but today was the first time I’ve been aware of it. I’d figured we might see a couple of completions at most before the other person grew tired of it. But it seems they are as daft as Ness and me. Which is a nice thing to find.

  How the stars are completed doesn’t matter, to be honest, although I appreciate the care and attention applied to them. It’s more that finally, unexpectedly, we have something happening that is exactly what it seems: a little bit of joy just for the sake of it. We have no more control over the stars than we had over Tash’s death, or losing our home, or having to live in temporary accommodation during the late winter and early spring. But where those factors have brought constant problems and worry, the seaglass stars are a gift.

  ‘We have to make another one,’ Nessie says, scooping the seaglass and shells into the Mickey Mouse bucket we found in the chalet. She’s started to reuse the bits, then scour the beach for extra pieces, rather than try to build the whole star afresh – her idea, which I’m very proud of. If it were down to me, we’d still be spending hours each evening frantically gathering new materials. I love how Ness is changing our approach to make the b
est use of our time and maximise the fun of the task. Maybe she’ll be a builder like me one day. Or an architect. When she’s not busy fulfilling her superhero, cafe-owner and unicorn duties, that is . . .

  Later that night, I tuck her into bed and am about to close the door to the small box-room when she calls me back.

  ‘Do you think they mind?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The mermaids. Do you think they mind having to finish our stars?’

  I walk back into the room and sit on the edge of her bed. It creaks with a forty-year-old weariness. Like everything else in the chalet, it sounds dangerously close to collapse.

  ‘Do you think they would carry on if they didn’t find it fun?’

  Nessie’s nose wrinkles as she considers this. ‘I s’pose not.’

  ‘Well, there you go. Stop worrying. And go to sleep.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Dad.’

  I stroke her soft forehead and wish I could make this last forever for her. ‘No problem. Sleep well, noodle.’

  ‘You too, Big Noodle.’

  Big Noodle. Where did she get that from? I smile as I gently close the door behind me, feeling my face fall as I see the stack of brown envelopes waiting for me on the sofa. End-of-month accounts – depressing in every way imaginable. I think of the dusty whisky bottles stashed in the sideboard, given as thank-you gifts to me from customers but never opened. I wish I could stomach the stuff. Tonight, strong spirits would definitely be an advantage . . .

  Chapter Nine

  Seren

 

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