The rainbow trays of seaglass by the front door catch my eye as I look up from my research. We’re getting low on blue, I notice. Ness and I need to go on a blue-hunting mission after school. She’ll love that, just as she loves the trays. I regularly catch her crouching beside them, gently patting the glass pieces. I like that seaglass has become part of our lives, as much as the chalet or the beach. I’m tempted to sneak seaglass into the Rectory Fields development somewhere, but I’m not sure I could get that past Brotherson. Maybe that’s the next challenge, if the development wins the St Ives vote . . .
I imagine Tash’s horror at me suggesting seaglass-related subterfuge. She would have loved me working for Bill Brotherson, but would be constantly reminding me not to stuff it up.
‘You get carried away.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do. Keep your mind on the job, Jack. Don’t try to have fun with it.’
‘Can’t I do both?’
‘No. That’s your problem. You don’t take anything seriously . . .’
There’s plenty I’m taking seriously now, I think, stretching my aching back against the dining chair.
I wonder if there will ever be a time I can think of Tash without hearing her disappointment, her judgement. People tell me about stages of grief: I seem to have stopped at ‘angry’. But then, I’d felt that way for a long time before I lost Tash. The sad truth is, I can’t remember the good times. Perhaps their memory will return when enough time has passed. I hope they do, for Nessie’s sake. Tash is still her mum, no matter what.
That’s why I’m taking every opportunity to build happy memories for Ness now. Post-Tash. I want her to remember our time at Gwithian as one of the happiest in her life. I don’t want money worries or fear for the future to cloud that. So while I watch the scarily dwindling funds in my bank account and renew my prayers that Jeb won’t ask for his chalet back before the summer, I only want Nessie to be concerned with dashing down to the beach to make our stars, choosing which ice cream she wants to eat or twirling around the chalet until she’s too dizzy to stand.
Her freedom – her right to a childhood free of worry – that’s what I will fight for on Wednesday night. People can think whatever they like of Bill Brotherson: when I take to the stage at the Guildhall before the people of St Ives, I’m going to prove I am the best person to take Bethel Parsonage to the next phase of its life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Seren
Becca’s Bar is packed this evening. It’s a local wedding – a guy from the lifeboat crew and his bride who works in the ice cream shop on the harbour front that stays open every month except February. Everyone is happy and I’m surrounded by smiles. It’s a good place to be.
I’m tired, but glad of the constant work tonight. The worst shifts are those where customers trickle in and the large antique station clock over the bar draws my eye every five minutes. This evening I barely have time to share knowing looks with my fellow bartenders, Garvey and Shep. They call me ‘Mum’, which is bit disconcerting, but it’s meant sweetly. I suppose all thirty-one-year-olds seem old to twenty-year-olds. Garvey quit university six months ago and Becca took pity on him, like she did most of the rest of her staff. She’s what Aggie calls a ‘rescuer’. She collects people and helps where she can. Shep is a bricklayer by day, but he’s working evenings here to save money to go travelling. I reckon he’ll find his heart in some lovely place on the other side of the world and never leave it. They are both what Dad would have called ‘strapping lads’ – easily over six feet – and they dwarf me by comparison. But they are lovely guys and very protective of me, even though I haven’t worked here for long.
‘Groom’ll be lucky to be standing by last orders,’ Shep says, nudging alongside me to pull a pint of cider. ‘Look at him, poor beggar!’
In the middle of the packed bar Yestin Carmichael is slow-dancing to Feeder, one arm raised, his half-drunk pint of beer sloshing above his head. His best man and ushers aren’t faring much better, the four of them shuffling to the song, arms slung about each other’s shoulders, heads nodding at the bar’s whitewashed floorboards.
I look across the dancing, smiling crowd of guests to find the bride. The new Mrs Carmichael is surrounded by her girlfriends, singing loudly. ‘I don’t think Joely’s going to mind,’ I say.
‘I dated her once.’ Garvey reaches between Shep and me to flip the top off two bottles of Tribute on the bottle-opener screwed to the bar.
Shep and I exchange amused grins.
‘You didn’t.’
‘Last year. January time? She came to see my band play at the Blue Mariner and we ended up snogging. She was pretty good at snogging, from what I recall.’ He winks at us and disappears back to the other end of the bar, where arms are reaching out waving money at him. In the bar, the song ends to a huge cheer.
‘Bollocks did he date her,’ Shep scoffs.
I hand the pint to a waiting customer and shine my brightest smile when he tells me to keep the change. Another reason I like busy shifts . . . ‘You don’t think so?’
‘Nah. Talkin’ out of his bum as usual. Joely’s got too much taste.’
I look back at Joely Carmichael’s new husband, who now has his wedding tie around his head and is rocking out to Dire Straits’ ‘Brothers in Arms’. There’s someone for everyone, they reckon.
‘Is this a good night or what?’ Aggie arrives at the bar, not minding that she’s pushed aside a bloke who’s been waiting for a while. She’s flushed from dancing and is wiggling her empty glass at me. ‘Pop another one in there, will you, bird? I’m gaspin’!’
‘Oi, wait your turn,’ says the man next to her – clearly not one of the locals.
Aggie turns to him slowly, her smile as intimidating as a gangster’s knuckleduster. ‘What’s that? You’re buyin’ my drink? Aw, sweetheart, cider, thanks. What a gent. Ain’t he a gent, Ser?’
The man is so blindsided by her front that he just nods numbly and accepts her thanks as if it was his noble idea after all. She’s dreadful, but I love her. Aggie is the kind of person who refuses to accept obstacles, no matter what size. I love her unshakeable innate sense of belief and I aspire to be like her.
Working here has another major advantage besides the money: I never feel alone at Becca’s. At the shop it’s often just me – Molly being not big on conversation whenever she accompanies me. I can sometimes go a whole day without seeing another person. That kind of isolation chips away at your soul after a while.
Today, even Molly deserted me. She refused to leave her basket in the kitchen, chin glumly resting on her favourite toy – a grubby bunny she found on the beach with Dad years ago and guards jealously with her big chocolate paws. She’s had days like this since Dad died. All we can do is make sure her food and fresh water are close by and leave her until she’s ready to plod into the living room to see us. Mum was happy to stay with her. I can’t blame Molly for taking time out. There are days I wish I could, too.
But the new star I found on Gwithian Beach this morning has warmed my heart all day. Today’s star was tiny but made almost entirely of blue – pale blue and deep blue, with slivers of blue-grey slate and blue-green seaweed threaded through the lines so that it appeared to be growing out of the glass pieces. Every star has been different so far, some with just seaglass, some featuring shards of found pottery and driftwood. And that’s the challenge for me each day: to find similar pieces to complete the last one or two points of the star. And I know anyone else would think me mad for thinking this, but it feels like my unknown beach friend is encouraging me to indulge in my passion, to stretch myself, to see what more I am capable of. It’s been such a long time since anyone did that.
‘Oi! Oi! Pack it in!’ A shout beside me grabs my attention, and I look up from the pint I’m pulling to see Garvey vaulting over the bar towards a couple of ushers who are throwing drunken punches above each other’s heads. Shep is hot on his heels and together they manage to pull the
sparring guests apart. There’s a brief ripple of applause and I look up at the station clock, grabbing the bell pull to ring it.
‘Last orders, please!’
The drama is forgotten in the rush to the bar.
When the last of the guests have finally been coaxed out onto the street, Shep bolts the door and we all breathe a collective sigh of relief. At least everyone left as friends – some more so than others, judging by the newly paired-up couples blowing us kisses on the way out.
After we complete all the end-of-the-night jobs I join my bar colleagues on the step at the back of Becca’s. It’s at the top of a narrow paved alley that winds its way steeply down to the harbour and is the best view from the bar, although only those lucky enough to work here actually get to see it. Tonight the sky is clear and I can see the edge of the Plough twinkling over the harbour as the new moon lights the returning tide. For my first few shifts at Becca’s I would hurry home as soon as it was over, but Shep persuaded me to stay for a drink one evening and now it’s something I look forward to. It’s a chance to delay my return to all the paperwork waiting for me at home. I like that all I have to do for the next thirty minutes is chat and watch the sliver of St Ives harbour shimmering in the moonlight.
‘So, you ready for the town meeting tomorrow?’ Garvey asks, bumping his elbow against my arm.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘We’ve lined up some questions for Brotherson’s lackey,’ Shep grins, the moonlight painting his cigarette smoke as he breathes it out into the night. ‘Like to see him charm his way out of those.’
Aggie and Kieran have intimated something similar. I’m anticipating an ambush being set for tomorrow night. ‘I think he’ll have a lot of tough questions to answer.’
‘You know me and the lads will help with restoring the place, Mum,’ Shep offers. ‘When you have the money to do it.’
‘That’s great. Thank you.’ I’m touched by his offer, but the truth is that I haven’t really thought beyond winning the campaign. There’s a basic plan to eventually restore the entire parsonage and turn it into the Elinor Carne Museum, but that could be years ahead. For the time being we will fundraise and aim to erect a temporary exhibition as soon as possible, rebuilding Elinor’s original small wooden observatory from plans Dad and Lou discovered in the county archives. I don’t know how much that will cost or how many hours it will entail yet. I’m guessing Dad had plans of his own, probably far more detailed and considered than ours. But he died before he could share them with anybody. I didn’t think about the future of the parsonage when I agreed to take Dad’s place as leader; the priority was just winning the right to save Elinor’s home. But now I can see what an enormous task this is going to be if we win the town vote. With everything else going on, how will I be able to do that, too?
I catch myself and think of Aggie, bare-facedly braving out whatever challenge she faces. I’ll find a way to do it, if we win. Taking a long sip of cider, I bask in the smiles of Garvey and Shep and correct myself.
When we win . . .
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jack
I arrive at Brotherson Developments a little before eleven a.m. This is it: D-Day for my presentation. After I spoke with him about my site visit, Bill Brotherson suggested I run my presentation past him before delivering it to the town meeting this evening.
I haven’t revised this hard since college and my brain is stuffed with every bit of information I could cram into it. I’ve carried notes on index cards in my back pocket, the fridge in the chalet is covered in a rainbow of sticky notes – much to Nessie’s delight – and I think Dad may disown me if he has to listen to my Rectory Fields pitch one more time. It’s been the first thing I’ve looked at when I wake and the last thing I read before I sleep. In the small space between late bedtimes and early risings I’m pretty sure I’ve dreamed of it, too.
But it’s the only way I’m going to convince people to back the development. If I’m not convinced, I can’t expect them to be.
Now all I need to do is convince Bill Brotherson . . .
Cassandra, his PA, gives me a sympathetic smile as soon as I enter Brotherson’s spacious office suite. So much for the cool and calm air I’d hoped to arrive with.
‘Hi, Jack. Don’t worry, you’ll be great.’
‘Thanks.’
She lowers her voice. ‘And if you need a shot of Rescue Remedy before you go in, I’ve a bottle in my bag.’
I decline, wishing I was better at concealing my nerves.
Brotherson beckons me into his office and I throw back my most confident smile. I can do this.
‘Good to see you, Jack. So, you ready?’
‘I am.’
Am I?
‘Excellent. We’ll head to the conference room. Give your laptop to Cassandra and she’ll set it up on the big screen. We’ll grab coffee on the way.’
A conference room? I thought I’d be talking Brotherson through my presentation in the comfort of his office. But it appears he wants the full floorshow. Rocket-fuel-strong coffee in hand, we enter an oval room that wouldn’t look out of place in a James Bond villain’s lair. Blinds close at the switch of a remote, a huge white screen descending in sync as the ceiling spots fade. I almost expect steel shutters to slam closed and trap me inside, or a trap door to swing open in the floor revealing a waiting shark tank if Brotherson doesn’t like my performance.
I have to calm down. In eight hours’ time I have to present this for real, and compared with the crowd gathered for the meeting, Bill Brotherson will be a walk in the park.
He settles himself in a chair at the far end of the room and I’m instantly reminded of my primary school teachers who always pretended to be ‘the little old lady at the back with her hearing aid switched off’ to encourage us all to speak up. The smile I have to hide helps. I take a breath, picture my notes and begin.
I try to gauge his reaction as I run through my presentation. The PowerPoint slides I spent ages preparing flood the screen behind me and it’s all I can do not to just stare dumbly at the supersized graphs and graphics. Brotherson wears an odd grin that appears to be the default setting for his face. It comes across as a little insincere, but I know from what he’s told me how much he wants to build this development. Best to ignore it and stick to the facts: as a derelict building in need of complete renovation, the site is unworkable. As Rectory Fields it will go on into the future, its heritage preserved for generations to come. The development will be sensitive to its local environment, using materials and skilled labour from the area to marry the structure to the land, setting a precedent for future building developments across the southwest. Rectory Fields will represent a new direction for Brotherson developments – working with and for the local community to create buildings that benefit everyone . . .
‘Good.’
‘There’s more . . .’
Brotherson nods. ‘And it’ll be good. You’re the man for this job, Jack, no doubting that at all.’
I wait for him to continue, but I’m left in awkward silence facing his strange grin. He makes no move and I can’t think of what to say, my much-practised flow being cut mid-performance. I’m aware my smile has become inane as my embarrassment blooms. He seems happy; but if he has heard enough halfway in, will the townspeople at the meeting follow suit?
‘So – anything you’d like to add?’
Brotherson leans back in his executive chair at the foot of the table. ‘Like I said, you’ve got everything I’m looking for. Sell them this development, Jack. I don’t care how you do it, but make Rectory Fields look good. Once we get their yes, the real fun can begin.’
Many possibilities of what Bill Brotherson considers ‘fun’ run through my head on my journey home, and none of them particularly fill me with hope. I should just trust his response and get on with the job he’s given me. But presenting a convincing argument tonight is going to be a tall order.
By the time I arrive back in Gwithian, my
palms are sweating.
An hour later, on the beach with Nessie, who had the joy of being collected from school by Dad and Pru today, nerves are getting the better of me.
‘Have you got a cough?’ Nessie asks, crouching over the third completed point of our star.
‘No.’
‘Then why do you keep going ahem-ahem?’ She mimics clearing her throat, which is something I’ve been told I do when I’m on edge. I didn’t even realise I was making a sound.
I flop down in the cold sand beside her. ‘I’m a bit nervous about tonight.’
‘Doing your assembly?’
The closest analogy I could offer Ness when I explained about the town meeting last week was likening it to her class assembly, in which she recently had a leading role. ‘Yes, that.’
She gives me a side-look, the breeze from the sea sending strands of hair dancing across her cheek. ‘I was scared when I had to do my speech, too. Not as scared as Joshua Levens, though. His bum kept trumping all the way through his words.’
I love how my daughter can floor me with one line. It’s good to laugh, my shoulders shaking the tension of the last few hours away. ‘Oh dear. Poor Josh.’
Nessie beams, having just earned major Making Dad Laugh points. ‘So you’ll be fine as long as you don’t do any trumps.’
Now there is a maxim I can live my life by.
It’s only when I park in St Ives and start walking towards the Guildhall that I realise Nessie has stuffed my jacket pockets with handfuls of hopeful seaglass. Mermaid treasure for luck. Magic in my pockets. I love her so much. And that reminds me why I’m doing this.
When we can move out of Jeb’s chalet into a more permanent home, I can give Nessie the bedroom she secretly dreams of – a fairy-light-crowned bed and furniture she has chosen, soft carpet beneath her feet and pictures of hearts and stars and her beloved superheroes adorning the walls. I can provide the space she needs to grow and the security we lost when Tash died. All I have to do tonight is keep Nessie and our future at the forefront of my mind.
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