Somewhere Beyond the Sea

by Miranda Dickinson

  Daft question. But there’s one thing that doesn’t make sense. ‘I am. But I’m a builder primarily, Bill. What made you decide to ask me?’ Tash could be yelling at me now, but I want to know. If this job offer is as good as it sounds, I don’t want to be in any doubt about it.

  Brotherson chuckles and leans back in his black leather and chrome executive chair, which protests a little. ‘I like you, Jack. You think like I do. I saw the development in Fowey you worked on a few years back. Good materials, seemed to have general support from the community. I think you could bring those qualities to this build. As construction manager, you’d be the link between Brotherson Developments and the community. You know your stuff. And word is, you care about what you do. I like that.’

  The Fowey development was five years ago, which feels like a lifetime. I think Tash had hoped we’d move there when it was done – she was never particularly fond of our new-build semi in Penzance. We couldn’t have afforded it, though, even back then, and despite that project making me a good amount of money I always felt her disappointment clouding the achievement. Nevertheless, I was proud of that one. It was much smaller than the development Brotherson is proposing, and I did a lot of the work myself, bringing in a small team of guys I used for the next few years but had to let go when Tash died. We decided to use local stone and source fixtures and fittings from Cornish suppliers wherever possible. It was a key selling point and on the few occasions I’ve been in the area since, I’ve always visited it. To prove to myself it happened.

  I did that . . .

  The chance to do it again would be too good to miss. Not to mention the money it could bring in, which is the main reason I came here today.

  I take a deep breath. ‘What kind of figures are we talking?’

  Brotherson observes me for just a moment longer than is comfortable, then pulls a gold-plated fountain pen from a glass cube on the desk and scribbles a figure on a piece of headed notepaper. It pivots under his thick finger as he turns it to face me.

  The numbers swim in my vision.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say, for once not caring if I sound desperate. I am desperate. And the amount Bill Brotherson has just written down would provide for Nessie and me for a year or more.

  This is the break I’ve been praying for. And I can hardly breathe.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Seren

  The Guildhall is packed when I arrive, even though the meeting doesn’t start for another forty minutes. Lou is looking worried already, his fears not helped by recent jokes about people bringing popcorn to watch the continuing grudge match between Brotherson Developments and the residents of St Ives.

  ‘Best thing to watch on a Wednesday night for ages.’ Fred Philips from Poldark Pasties grins as he takes his seat beside me. ‘You should sell tickets, Seren. Make a fortune, you would.’

  I grin back, but I’m nervous. I know many people in the room support me, but tonight is the first time I’ll be speaking as leader of the campaign. I’ve carried my notes for the speech with me all week, going over them at the shop, on the beach, in the shelter on Smeaton’s Pier during my lunch break and in my room, late into the night. I’m pretty sure I’ve gone over it in my sleep, too. I want to get it right – not just for me, but for everyone on the committee as well. And Dad. Especially Dad.

  Elinor Carne is a woman forgotten by history. Her contribution to British astronomy was so important, and yet for many years it was ignored. We want to promote the work she did and ensure she will be remembered in St Ives, not just today but for countless generations to come . . .

  I hope I won’t sound pompous. Or fluff my lines. The words I’ve written in Dad’s old stargazing notebook don’t seem big enough to contain all the admiration I have for Elinor. I wish I could plug the microphone straight into my heart and let it speak for me. Most people aren’t objecting to the development because of her, I know. It’s more of a protest at developers like Bill Brotherson riding roughshod over our heritage, destroying historic buildings with his horrible designs. But Elinor Carne has inspired me so much; I just want the town to feel it too. Maybe if they feel they’re fighting for her memory, not just bricks and mortar, they will be more likely to vote against the development. Maybe then we’ll have a hope of winning.

  I have a beautiful pen-and-ink print on my bedroom wall by the artist Charlie Bowater. It’s called The Old Astronomer – and I bought it because it made me think of Elinor Carne. In it she’s reaching up to touch a star in the sky. No photographs or drawings survive of our astronomer, so I like to think of her as the woman in the drawing. Reaching beyond the expectations and conventions of her time, daring to be something more. She inspires me to do the same, to keep reaching, to keep ignoring everything that would hold me back, eyes always focused on my dreams.

  I watch the hall filling up, feel the anticipation like static buzzing around me. I should probably find my friends and talk to them, but I feel like all the words I have for tonight are contained within the notebook: I don’t have any left to make conversation. Besides, every row of seats filled fuels the nerves within me. Everyone will be watching me tonight. Everyone will make up their minds based upon what I say.

  I look at my notes again and my heart hits the floor. Why did I ever think I could do this?

  ‘Coffee?’

  I jump and look up. There’s a man standing next to me by the refreshment table, holding up a polystyrene cup. He’s tall, with dark wavy hair and a peppering of a beard across his jaw. He’s wearing a bottle-green hoodie with a white T-shirt beneath and blue jeans. His boots are a little scuffed. I didn’t hear him arrive and it takes me a moment to realise he’s talking to me. ‘Sorry – um . . .’

  ‘Or tea? I think there’s both.’ He gives a rueful smile. ‘I sound like an idiot. Sorry. I’m new here.’

  ‘Oh.’ I must look like a goldfish to him. Gathering myself together, I manage to return his smile. ‘Forgive me. Tea would be lovely, thanks.’

  Relief floods his expression and he busies himself with the crotchety old tea urn, laughing when the plastic spoon bends, Uri Geller-style, as he tries to remove the tea bag. ‘I’m not doing well, am I? Um . . . Milk? Sugar?’

  Not wanting to prolong the awkward business, I reach out and rescue my cup. ‘I’ll sort that. Thanks.’ Remembering my manners, I tuck Dad’s notebook under one arm and offer my hand. ‘I’m Seren, by the way.’

  ‘Jack.’ He looks at the rapidly filling rows of chairs. ‘This place is packed.’

  ‘It is. I wasn’t expecting such a good turnout.’

  ‘Bit daunting, actually.’ He has a nice smile, I think. And what Mum would call an ‘open face’. Trustworthy. I don’t think he’d be good at keeping secrets.

  Why did I just think that?

  ‘Weren’t you at the last meeting?’ I ask, ignoring the train of thought that’s threatening to carry me away.

  ‘Unfortunately not. But I heard about it.’

  I grin. ‘I think half of Cornwall heard about it, judging by the crowd tonight.’

  ‘Actually, I . . .’

  But I don’t hear what Jack says next because a loud thump from the stage summons our attention. Lou taps the already dented microphone one more time and raises his hand.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you could take your seats, please. We’ll be startin’ shortly. Thank you. Before we begin, however, I want to reiterate the ground rules for this meetin’ and those that will follow. I don’t want a repeat of last week and I don’t think anyone else does, either.’

  There is a loud snigger from somewhere in the hall, met by a chorus of shushes.

  Lou rolls his eyes. ‘Cheers for that. Now, it is imperative that we allow both sides of the debate sufficient time to make their cases. Last week – well, I’m guessin’ most of you are well aware of what happened last week, so all I’ll say is please, let’s show some decency to both speakers tonight. I’m making time for questions in the last part of the meetin’, so if there’
s somethin’ you’d like to say you’ll get your chance then.’

  The room has hushed. I clutch Dad’s notebook as the time to make my speech approaches.

  ‘Good. So, I would like you all to welcome our spokespeople for each side of this town debate. For the Save the Parsonage campaign, Miss Seren MacArthur, and representin’ Brotherson Developments, Rectory Fields’ project manager, Mr Jack Dixon.’

  I’m halfway to the stage when I hear Jack’s name and turn to see him following me. He looks as shocked as I feel . . .

  I was expecting Bill Brotherson to be opposite me at the debating table tonight. In my mind I’ve played out the exchange all week – how I would state my case and stand against his objections. I’ve tried to picture myself as a valiant knight, facing an angry, red-faced dragon, fighting the good fight for Elinor Carne’s honour. It made me believe we could win.

  I wasn’t expecting Jack Dixon.

  How didn’t I realise he was on the opposing side?

  As we take our seats I stare over at him. He appears to have lost the ability to make eye contact with me. I could kick myself. Why didn’t I guess the stranger was linked to Brotherson?

  I wish I hadn’t liked his smile now.

  Lou is continuing the introductions, mentioning that from now on Jack will be the official representative of Brotherson Developments; he will be the one tearing down the remaining physical evidence of Elinor Carne’s home and constructing a Brotherson monstrosity in its place. Part of me isn’t surprised that Bill Brotherson chickened out of facing us all again. It’s the sort of cowardly, toe-rag action you’d expect of a man who doesn’t like his little kingdom being challenged. Send someone more innocuous, someone with a sincere smile and professional charm, to do his dirty work, so he gets his way without getting his hands mucky. Ugh. And to think I thought Jack Dixon was on our side . . .

  ‘. . . the leader of the Save the Parsonage campaign will now address the room,’ Lou says, and suddenly I feel the blood drain from my face. This is it: the moment I’ve been dreading all week. Packing away my anger, I rise shakily to my feet. The faded leather of Dad’s old notebook feels warm and reassuring under my fingers and I shut my eyes for a moment, imagining the vastness of his hand closing around mine, like it used to do when I was little. It didn’t matter what scary monsters I thought I faced back then; if my dad was holding my hand, I was a superhero . . .

  ‘I represent the people of St Ives,’ I begin, deliberately slowing myself down and letting the words breathe out of me. ‘And we are opposed to the Rectory Fields development on the former Bethel Parsonage site. It is our intention to preserve the parsonage to honour its most eminent inhabitant, a woman who made significant advances in the field of astronomy during her time as a parson’s wife in the 1800s.’

  Lou and Aggie are smiling at me. Jack Dixon has taken a sudden deep interest in the empty sheet of paper on the table in front of him. I lift my chin and feel every righteous bone in my body strengthening.

  ‘Elinor Carne is a woman forgotten by history. Her contribution to British astronomy was so important, and yet for many years it was ignored. We want to promote the work she did and ensure she will be remembered in St Ives, not just today but for countless generations to come . . .’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jack

  I’m such a fool.

  I didn’t realise Seren MacArthur was on their side. I wondered why she was a bit strange when I offered her a coffee. She probably thinks I was trying to persuade her to defect. Which is stupid, considering she’s their bloody leader. If I was hoping to prepare the ground for a reasoned compromise, I’ve stuffed up any chance of that now. The thing was, I thought I was prepared. I thought I knew all my arguments. But the moment the floor opened for questions, I came unstuck. And Seren MacArthur was on my case immediately. I’m annoyed but I can’t blame her: if the tables had been turned, I would have pushed my advantage, too.

  ‘Are you saying the development would be better for the community than saving Elinor Carne’s home?’ she asked me, when I tried to explain how many local suppliers we hoped to use for Rectory Fields.

  ‘Well, no – um – what I meant was . . .’

  ‘Because, honestly, if your employer believes that he’s more deluded than we thought.’

  ‘I think Mr Brotherson . . .’

  ‘And furthermore, it proves the contempt he has for this community that he thinks we can be so easily bought off . . .’

  The cheers. The groundswell of support for every point she made and the rumble of laughter whenever I tried to argue back. It wasn’t just embarrassing. It was mortifying.

  Idiot!

  I catch sight of my reflection in the windows of Harbour Fish & Chips as I walk past, collar pulled up against the cold wind coming off the sea. Man, I look pale. Like I haven’t slept in a year. This could be because I haven’t – or not slept well, at any rate. Not like I used to. My chin has stubble that refuses to yield to any razor and my clothes still look like I nicked them from a bloke two sizes bigger, which doesn’t help my overall appearance. People think I look like this because I’m grieving for Tash, but in reality I’m not. I’m in shock about the mess she left us with. I lie awake most nights terrified about how close to the abyss Nessie and I are. Right now, we’re okay, but if life kicks us one more time it could nudge us straight over the edge.

  No wonder Seren MacArthur looked shocked. She probably thinks a half-bearded ghost at the refreshment table pounced on her tonight.

  I stop outside the darkened lifeboat station at the end of Wharf Road. Why do I care what she thinks of me? And why do I keep thinking about her?

  Jeb reckons I’m attracted to cryptic women. ‘Like them bleddy awful crosswords only clever dicks like. They don’t make sense to anyone else.’ He’s probably right. Thing is, I can’t work out why Seren doesn’t want this development to go ahead. She owns a business in town, the kind that needs the type of people Rectory Fields will bring in. Local people don’t want artisan crafts, or not regularly enough to sustain a small shop like hers, at any rate. And when you consider the months when tourist trade could make a difference, it isn’t enough to keep a business going all year round. The others on the opposing side I can understand – most of them over sixty, and all the sort who love getting behind a local campaign. Seren stands out among them for being so young.

  And confident.

  And pretty.

  Really pretty – like forget-what-you-were-saying pretty . . .

  Oh no.

  Not now, Jack. Are you insane?

  An angry flush prickles my face as I shake off whatever ridiculous, completely ill-advised thought my head was just entertaining and stomp my way up the hill to the station car park. It’s high time I went home.

  Nessie is asleep when I get back, Dad fast asleep too in front of the television. He’s good for looking after her at short notice and I think secretly he was pleased I asked. It’s been tricky since Tash died. I know he wants to help but we haven’t always had the easiest of relationships, and asking doesn’t come naturally to either of us. He’s been a good support but I’ve been wary of asking too often, not wanting to shake the equilibrium we’ve found in recent months. And then there’s his social life with his partner, Pru, which puts mine to shame. Even when I’ve wanted to ask him, he hasn’t always been available. But tonight his diary was free and Ness was delighted that her grandad was coming to look after her.

  Beside him where he dozes in the sagging armchair is a pile of my daughter’s things – books, paper and felt-tip pens, lengths of ribbon and her collection of Spider-Man figures – an indicator of the kind of evening they’ve had. Nessie would have run him ragged as ever, but I imagine Grandad Dave loved every exhausting minute.

  I wait just a moment before I wake him, watching my old man sleep, mouth open, white curly head resting back against his rolled-up jumper. I remember many nights as a kid with Dad sleeping in the armchair in the tiny bedroom I shared with m
y brother back in Padstow, where we grew up. For months after my mother left home Owen and I wanted Dad close, terrified he would pack his things and disappear in the middle of the night, too. Mum was an alcoholic and suffered from clinical depression, but we didn’t know that back then. Dad hid the worst of it from us, only revealing the truth when we reached our late teens. All we knew was that one day our mother was at home, being Mum, and the next there was an empty space where she’d once been. Dad never told us where she’d gone, or why, only that she wasn’t coming back. He took all of our hurt and anger and tears without question, letting it all run its course. Strong, stoic and dependable. He stayed the same when everything else fell apart. Being a father now, I understand that all-encompassing urge to protect your kid from the ugliness of the world. It wasn’t easy for him. Often the only way he could coax us to sleep was by dragging an armchair into our already cramped bunk-bedroom and staying with us. Dad’s not a man who finds declarations of love easy, but that gesture was all the reassurance of his love that we needed.

  Tonight a shadow of that old fear passes over me. But I’m not scared of losing him any more. What happened tonight is what’s stirring up eddies inside me.

  I gently pat his shoulder and he grumbles awake, blinking away sleep as he sits up.

  ‘Alright, son. How was it?’

  ‘Interesting.’ I don’t want to relive it, not yet. Not until I’ve worked out what I feel about it. ‘It’s late – you should be getting home.’

  ‘How late?’

  ‘Past eleven. Sorry, it took me a while.’

  He struggles free of the armchair’s jealous clutches and stiffly finds his feet. ‘No problem. Wednesdays are Pru’s book club nights, so she won’t be home till gone midnight. More studyin’ labels of wine bottles than debatin’ book plots, if you get what I mean.’