I get that from my dad. He was twenty years old when he arrived in St Ives – ‘blown in by the wind’, as Mum used to say. She was working in my grandparents’ pub when a ragtag band of musicians turned up. They had travelled down from Caerphilly, only to find their gig in another local inn had been unexpectedly cancelled and they were adrift with nowhere to play or sleep. My grandpa offered them board for the night in exchange for a gig. He’d harboured a lifelong hankering to play jazz instead of running a pub, and I think he saw in them the person he might have been. They agreed, the gig was played, and that was that. Dad saw Mum behind the bar and composed a song for her during the improvised set. She was smitten, as was he. Grandpa loved Dad instantly, and when Dad’s band was heading home, he promised Mum he’d return. A month later he moved to St Ives. They never looked back.
That’s another thing I love about this town: that my family’s story is woven through the winding streets, nestled between the cobbles on Fore Street and set in stone in what became Mum and Dad’s house. Literally, in fact: when they moved in, Dad carved a brick with their wedding date and initials and set it into the wall of the house. When I was born, he did the same. So long after we’ve all gone, our stories will be part of St Ives.
MacArthur’s seems darker this morning when I unlock the door, as if shrouded in sea fog. There’s definitely a shadow hanging over the place these days, but this morning it seems even more pronounced. The front door wedges half-open on the pile of brown envelopes strewn across the mat. I don’t have to open them to know what they are.
How did you let it get into this state, Dad?
I know he won’t answer, but as the final demands stack ever higher I really wish he’d find a way. His optimism was one of his best and brightest features, but you can’t build a business on that. He thought people would see his vision for the shop. Unfortunately, it turns out that banks and mortgage companies, suppliers and utility companies are singularly unromantic bodies. I know it was never Dad’s intention to leave us with all of this – I have to keep reminding myself of it because I’m growing angrier as each day passes. Heart attacks are no respecter of personal circumstances. He couldn’t have known it would end when it did. He probably expected to live into his nineties. But I just wish he’d planned ahead a little, sought the financial advice he was always supposedly getting round to asking for.
It’s pointless going over this again. I have the same conversation with myself every morning as I walk to work and I’m never going to find any answers. It’s my job to find solutions.
But this morning I’m tired. Last night I worked a shift at Becca’s Bar, a few streets away from the harbour, a favourite haunt of St Ives folk. I’ve known Becca a long time – her stepdaughter Daisy was my classmate through school. She’s a bit of a local legend, a tiny lady covered in rainbow-coloured tattoos who could break your arm if you cross her. Thankfully, she’s as well known for her heart of gold as she is for her balls of steel, and she’s always been lovely to me.
Even still, I was surprised when she offered me a job a month ago.
It’s only a few evenings a week, but it brings in extra money that’s so needed. It’s a bit tricky fitting it in around all the after-hours shop work, trying to make my own jewellery and my early-morning trips to Gwithian; but what I lose in sleep, I gain in peace of mind.
I took a flask of extra-strong coffee with me to the beach this morning, the drag of weariness heavy on my body. But it remained forgotten in my rucksack when I started working on the star. Today’s star was made almost entirely of green seaglass – and it made me wonder if the other starmaker is saving the pieces from previous stars, to be able to choose colours like that. It would be highly unusual to find so much of a single colour during one visit to the beach. I like that they’re finding new ways to be creative – the planning involved makes me believe they’re committed to our starmaking. That makes me smile despite needing sleep. And I needed that today, more than before.
‘Happy birthday, stargirl.’
I turn in my shop to see a bunch of yellow roses coming in through the door, closely followed by Kieran’s welcome grin. The sight of him is impossibly lovely.
‘I didn’t think anyone would remember.’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to remember, it being my first without Dad and so close to losing him.
‘How good a friend would I be if I forgot? I couldn’t have my favourite beachcomber without blooms on such an auspicious day.’ He looks down as his shoe scuffs the mountain of brown envelopes. ‘Although I see you’re a woman in demand already.’
‘Final demand,’ I grimace.
He chuckles and pulls me into a hug. ‘Darling, being in any kind of demand is preferable to being invisible.’ He plants a large kiss on the top of my head. ‘Gorgeous woman. Shall I put the kettle on?’
As usual, he doesn’t wait for my reply, and within minutes the tea is made and we are sitting in Dad’s old mismatched armchairs at the back of the shop. Kieran has brought still-warm chocolate twists from the bakery opposite the Baptist church and is all birthday smiles, but I get the feeling he has another reason for visiting. A reason that might own a beachside coffee hut and be partial to huge hugs . . .
‘These flowers are beautiful,’ I say, loving the brightness of the blooms against the gloom of the shop. ‘But I wonder if maybe someone else in St Ives would appreciate them more?’
He gives me a withering look but it’s too late: I’ve rumbled him and he knows it. ‘She wouldn’t accept them.’
‘She said that?’ I know Aggie is still crushingly embarrassed about their unexpected night, but would she really turn down flowers?
‘No, but . . .’
‘So you haven’t even tried.’
‘What’s the point? She’d think they were a guilt offering.’
‘Or she might be happy you bought her roses.’
‘It’s complicated, Ser. What happened – it changed things. I don’t know how to be with Aggie any more.’
I love him for confessing this. Usually Kieran remains stoically silent on his own feelings. In all the time we’ve been friends, I think he’s only talked about matters of his heart three times. ‘You really like her, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’ He claps a hand to his forehead and groans. ‘It’s hopeless.’
‘No, it isn’t. Talk to her. Work it out together.’
‘Maybe. If you talk to your mum.’
I did not see that coming. ‘This isn’t about me. Don’t change the subject.’
‘But really it’s the same thing, isn’t it? We both want to move on with our lives but we’re too scared to talk to the person who could make it happen.’
‘I can’t tell Mum I don’t want the shop.’ The space around us suddenly feels cramped and stifling. Both Kieran and Aggie have been saying this recently, but I can’t do that to Mum. I’m all she has, and while she’s making great strides, she’s in no state to run the place. It’s not in the best state of repair, and there are a thousand and one things I want to do with it before I’d ever let it go.
Besides, what would Dad say?
‘I disagree.’
When you’re so tired you can barely think, it’s not the right time to be challenged about huge life questions. I just can’t deal with this today.
‘Can we talk about something else, Kieran, please?’
‘Claiming birthday girl privilege, are we?’ His smile is reproachful but I think he knows not to push this. ‘Fair enough. But you are coming to The Hub with us for birthday dinner tonight and I won’t take no for an answer.’
I love my friends and am touched they want to celebrate with me, so even though what I most want to do after work is curl up under a duvet and sleep, I drag myself back out into town after half an hour at home. I’ve drunk so much coffee, I’m vibrating. I just hope I can stay awake long enough to eat.
‘To the birthday girl!’ Aggie yells, raising her beer bottle, as my friends sitting around the semi-circular bo
oth do the same.
I clink what I’ve promised myself is my only cider tonight against their bottles and we settle back for a good night.
And it is a good night, despite my weariness, and the final demands, and the worries that seem to grow every day. For a few precious hours I’m just Seren, not Seren-whose-business-is-on-the-rocks, or Seren-who-lost-her-dad. Old jokes, old stories and old memories flow around the table, taking us back to when all we had to worry about was having fun and finding our way in the world. I wish it could last forever . . .
Chapter Fourteen
Jack
The asking begins next morning. In between jobs I’ve promised Jeb I’ll do and taking Nessie to school, I make calls from a long list I wrote in the early hours, my head too full of worries to sleep. One by one, lines of biro cancel them out, each stroke thicker and more frustrated than the last, leaving heavy indents on the other side of the paper. People I’ve known for years either flatly turn me down, or explain at length why now isn’t the right time for them to be sharing work. Every excuse is valid, every apology sincere, but they might as well be throwing rocks at my head.
By midday, my hope is fading. By two p.m. I’m starting to panic. In my car outside Nessie’s school at three fifteen I’m banging my head against the steering wheel, wishing I’d never started the damn list.
And then, just when I’m beginning to wonder if Sarah might be right about my prospects, there’s a breakthrough. Dave Ellis, a builder from Padstow I worked with a few years back, returns my call and suggests we meet. He’s visiting a job near St Ives next day, so I arrange to meet him for lunch in a pub in Lelant.
I have to be realistic, I tell myself as I leave my car in The Watermill’s car park: it might be another dead end. But my pulse is racing as I enter the pub. Dave is waiting at the bar, a little greyer than the last time I saw him, but his booming laugh and huge grin haven’t changed.
‘Jack! Good to see you!’ He slaps a hand against my back and almost sends me sailing across the bar. ‘How’s business?’
‘Slow,’ I say, resisting the urge to play down my situation. Today I need to look desperate. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard of anything kicking around?’
Dave grimaces, and I remember why his nickname when I worked for him was Bucky. Enormous front teeth. I make myself stop staring.
‘Can’t say I have, boy. Things bad since . . . ?’ He doesn’t say it, but I know what he means. Everyone knows by now. News like that travels fast in the local trades community. In a strange way we’re family, even though we’re all competing for the same jobs. I’ve had conversations about other colleagues’ misfortunes over the years, so I know how it works.
‘We lost the house.’
‘No! Mate . . .’
I try to shrug the irritation from my prickling shoulders. ‘Yeah. Hard times. So I need to get as much work as I can.’
Compassion graces his broad face for a moment. ‘Then I’m buying your beer. No arguments. Let’s sit down and see if we can’t come up with some ideas.’
I’m grateful he’s even prepared to talk about it, but I’m aware of every muscle tensing as we sit. I don’t like asking for help. It grates against everything I am. But I’m learning how to, and right now I appreciate Dave’s gesture more than I’d ever let on.
We huddle over beer by a small table near bookshelves stacked with the obligatory artful junk of the gastro pub. A strange blue pottery jug shaped like a monkey eyes me suspiciously between a table tennis bat that has seen better days and a faded copy of Tom Brown’s School Days. It’s a bit unnerving, so I look over Dave’s shoulder to watch a beer delivery bloke struggling through the fire exit of the pub.
‘Gotta say, Jack, you’re not the only one askin’ for jobs. There’s more work than a few years ago, but the same people keep grabbin’ it. I seen several blokes go out of business this year alone.’ He takes a huge gulp of his pint, setting the glass down with a thump on the table. ‘Don’t mean we can’t find you somethin’, though, so don’t you lose heart. Let’s have a think . . .’
A couple at the bar are having a heavily whispered row and it catches my attention as Dave starts listing possibilities. I can see the two young bartenders giggling behind the optics as they watch the not-so-silent argument. A year ago that could have been Tash and me – except we’d passed the point of pub lunch dates by then, our relationship played out in a series of increasingly bitter WhatsApp exchanges. I hope the couple here can find a way back to one another, that it isn’t already too late . . .
‘. . . Wes Smith was lookin’ a while back, I know, but that might’ve gone already. Tom Harvey might be worth a call, I s’pose. But even Jim Derham was layin’ blokes off, last I heard. And you know how flush for work he usually is. Is it foreman work you’re after?’
I nod, but in truth I’ll take anything.
He runs through a few more names, none of which sound promising, but I’ll try them anyway. Then he leans across the table and, in a low voice, says, ‘Failing that, there is Brotherson Developments.’
His tone mirrors my gut reaction. Images of horrid, bland buildings fill my mind. Bill Brotherson is to sensitive renovation what Joseph Stalin was to international relations. He buys up old and derelict buildings across the southwest and turns them into identikit, homogenised apartments – the kind my late wife lusted over. I imagine him playing a real-life game of Monopoly across Cornwall and Devon, plonking his faceless houses down all over the landscape like those nasty plastic green houses and red hotels.
‘Is he looking?’ I hate myself for even asking.
‘He is. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not the man’s biggest fan. Brotherson’s a total git, but he’s good for the money.’ His bushy brows drop over his eyes. ‘I could always mention your name to him, if you wanted?’
It’s a heavily loaded question, the kind Gandalf might ask Frodo Baggins just before they enter an Orc-plagued forest: In there? Are you sure, Frodo? Working for Brotherson would be about the worst thing I could do professionally. Once you’re linked with a man like that, you’re labelled for life in the trade.
But it’s better than bankruptcy.
I think of Nessie this morning, how she hugged me extra-tightly outside school, her concern for her failing father all too evident. I don’t have a choice. This could be our best hope.
‘Please – if you wouldn’t mind,’ I reply.
Over Dave’s shoulder, the fire exit door slams.
Chapter Fifteen
Seren
With the next town meeting imminent, Lou and Aggie call a meeting of the Save the Parsonage committee after work. I close the shop at three p.m. and walk to Porthgwidden Beach, enjoying the brief spell of sunshine that has graced the afternoon. The sea sparkles where it catches the sun and peeks between the houses as I pass through Downalong. I take a longer route along Porthmeor Road and drop down the slipway onto Porthmeor Beach, pausing for a while to enjoy the view of its wide sweeping bay. Then I take the footpath that rises from the beach to the Island. With time to spare, I follow the footpath around the Island, watching blue surf breaking in white spray on black rocks down in the coves along the shoreline far below.
I love this walk – it’s been my favourite route for as long as I can remember, the scene of countless summer strolls, rock-pooling expeditions, a spate of morning runs when I was on a health kick a few years back and even my first kiss, which happened on a bench near the chapel on the peak of the hill with a boy I’ve long since forgotten. I’ve laughed and cried here, watched dawns break and days end. I’ve whiled away hours, and escaped for precious stolen minutes.
The morning after we lost Dad – when I woke up for the first time in my life without him in the world – I ran here and yelled my pain and anger into the new day. The Island heard my anguish; Porthmeor caught my tears. I am linked to this land in every way possible and it will always be my sanctuary – the place I run to.
Today the sun smiles on the wind-buffeted g
rass, warming my back as I skirt the Island path. I hear the padding of shoes on the tarmac and look up to see a runner heading in my direction. He slows as he draws level with me, then pauses to take a drink from the water bottle he’s carrying.
‘Lovely day,’ he smiles, rubbing sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He’s an older man, his thinning hair white against the tan of his skin, but his frame is athletic and he looks in the peak of health. His summer-blue eyes twinkle like the sun shimmering on the sea around us. I think I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place where. That happens all the time in St Ives – so many people make frequent return visits to the town that familiar faces can come from anywhere in the world.
‘It is,’ I say. ‘Having a good run?’
‘The best, thank you. This place just begs you to be out in it, doesn’t it?’ He smiles again and presses a button on his digital watch. ‘Doing my best times right now, too. You having a nice walk?’
‘I am.’
‘Lovely. Nice to see you again.’ With a last flash of his smile, he is off, sprinting like a man half his age.
I watch him until he disappears around the curve of the path, inexplicably cheered by the meeting. This place creates a positivity that you end up sharing with everyone, whether you know them or not. People in love with St Ives have a strong common bond – it’s like meeting family.
Lou and Aggie are deep in conversation when I arrive at the coffee hut. They look so serious that I want to giggle, biting my tongue as they look up to see me.
‘I went for a walk,’ I explain, glancing at the clock. I’m only five minutes late, but my friends have clearly started without me.
Lou nods. ‘Well, you’re here now. Take a seat, girl, you look exhausted. Have you been sleepin’ much?’
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