And remember not to trump.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Seren
I keep thinking about what Aggie told me about Jack. Losing his wife, then his home; left alone to look after his little girl. I don’t know if he has family nearby to help, or if anyone from his former life stuck around after his wife’s death. It shouldn’t change a thing: Jack Dixon still works for Bill Brotherson; he will be the one tearing down Elinor Carne’s home if the town votes for Rectory Fields. But we share a common experience – and that changes things. Losing someone you love changes everything. So he can’t just be the bad guy in my head.
Nevertheless, spirits are high as we gather for the town meeting. Tonight we present our ideas for the parsonage site. We’re suggesting the site be restored eventually, but that some kind of visitor centre is built as soon as possible, so that we can tell Elinor’s story to local people and capitalise on the crowds of tourists due to descend on the town in the summer. Her own observatory that she built behind the parsonage is all but gone; just a single line of stones marking its footprint remains. But maybe some of it can be rebuilt, in wood at first – which we know from her journals, and what Dad and Lou discovered in the county archives, is what the earliest incarnation of the observatory was made of – and stone later. Lou and Dad founded the Elinor Carne Foundation a few weeks before he died, and since then Lou’s hard work to recruit local businesses across southwest Cornwall as donors has raised almost £10,000. So our plans aren’t pie in the sky. But nobody is under any illusion about the task ahead – if we get the vote.
I’ve decided to tag-team our presentation with Aggie this evening, so that we cover all aspects of our proposal. She knows more about the logistics required to make our plans happen, while I’m Elinor Carne’s champion, having read her journals and learned about her life from the research Dad did. I’m grateful that the responsibility doesn’t just rest on my shoulders tonight. I’m conflicted by the news about Jack and I can’t afford to give my doubts any ground.
I find myself looking for him as soon as the doors open and people start to wander in. Last time he disappeared as soon as the meeting was over, even though he’d been friendly when we first met. But neither of us had realised who the other was then. He probably won’t want to talk to me. And I probably shouldn’t talk to him. But I feel I ought to . . .
‘Jack.’ Lou is walking towards the entrance, hand outstretched, and I see Jack Dixon accepting it. ‘Do you need any help setting anything up?’
‘Yeah, please. I’ve got a presentation on this to show?’ He lifts a laptop from under his arm.
‘No problem. Step this way, son . . .’
As they walk to the front of the hall, Jack looks across and catches my eye. He gives a slight smile and turns away.
I suppose that’s an improvement on last time.
I’m glad we present first. The crowd is hugely supportive again and their questions are sensible and well informed. I leave the stage exchanging satisfied smiles with Aggie, who is flushed from the experience but was a total star up there. Jack going second was Kieran’s idea: to give us the chance to really listen to what Brotherson Developments are proposing without being preoccupied with what we were going to say. So after a coffee break and Lou reconvening the meeting, Jack Dixon takes the stage.
‘You will have heard many rumours about what Brotherson Developments is proposing for the former parsonage site. What I want to do tonight is present what I intend to do there, as the development’s construction manager. I believe in protecting our heritage, in preserving beautiful, ancient buildings for future generations to enjoy.’
There’s a ripple of disquiet around the hall and Kieran nudges me.
‘This should be interesting.’
But Jack doesn’t seem concerned by the bubbling dissent. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t expect to hear that from me. Fair enough. I realise that in the past Brotherson Developments hasn’t been known for sympathetic renovation, but this is the approach Mr Brotherson and I agree is best. We understand the heritage of the site. And, with respect, the Rectory Fields development will preserve the former parsonage far more quickly than a project that has to wait for sufficient funds to be raised.’
Another ripple of reaction crosses the floor.
Jack gives a slight shrug. ‘I mean no disrespect to our opponents. If you’ve visited the site you’ll know it’s in a bad state. The observatory is gone; the fabric of the main building is water-damaged and it’s structurally unsafe. To restore any of the structures will require most of them being rebuilt from the ground up. But our plans for the Rectory Fields development will take the best of the current buildings and make them better.’
I glance at my friends. Kieran is still grinning about the disquiet in the hall, Aggie looks like she wants to punch Jack, Cerrie and Lou are deep in whispered conversation. No worried glances, no visible panicking. So far, so good.
‘Let me show you what I mean.’
The lights go off as Jack’s video presentation begins. After the usual Brotherson Developments CAD-rendered overview (which Bill Brotherson tried to show at the first meeting) a series of PowerPoint slides appear. They show impressive-looking buildings with grass-covered roofs, old stone meeting glass walls, architectural details incorporated into new structures. They are the kind of buildings you see on TV programmes like Grand Designs and Restoration Man. I can hear whispering behind me, the creak of plastic chairs as people lean forward to listen.
‘I believe in using the same materials that old buildings like the parsonage were built from to make something new. I don’t want a faceless development on this site. In fact, as long as the build is mine, I’ll make sure it isn’t. A building should look to the future but never ignore its past. What I want to do is honour the parsonage and all the people it has served over the years – including the astronomer – by using locally sourced materials and labour. I want this to be a truly Cornish development, acknowledging its history and making it fit for the future.’
‘He played the Cornish card,’ Aggie half-whispers, eyes wide. ‘I can’t believe he did that.’
The air around us seems to move as Jack continues his presentation. The Save the Parsonage team shift uncomfortably beside me. But I can’t stop looking at Jack. I don’t want to be impressed by what he’s saying, but I am. He really cares about this build. It’s a complete surprise to discover he actually believes in what he’s proposing. It radiates out of him, animating his movements and fuelling his words. Dad used to say that passionate people can make you passionate about anything, and this is like watching his theory in action. Jack lights up when he talks about building, the same way Dad used to when he spoke about watching the stars.
The applause he receives at the end of his presentation is decidedly warmer and it’s clear I’m not the only one who’s been impressed. Lou’s smile is tight as he closes the meeting, and there’s a pervading shadow over the Save the Parsonage team as we gather at the front of the hall.
‘He’s just a nice guy,’ Kieran offers. ‘That’s bound to impress people. But it’s still Brotherson’s money. He still gets the casting vote.’
‘We need to regroup,’ Lou says, turning on an Oscar-worthy smile as a group of locals congratulate him on their way out. ‘We can’t let this bloke win.’
I should be right in the middle of their planning, but my attention is drawn to Jack Dixon making his way towards the exit. I came here this evening intending to talk to him after the meeting. And even though I still don’t know exactly what I’ll say, I excuse myself from my friends’ conversation and follow him out.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jack
I think that went well.
People are pleasant enough as I leave the Guildhall. They listened well to my presentation – but I saw Lou and the Save the Parsonage team huddling at the front of the stage and a number of people congratulating them. They have the ear of the town, it would appear, helped by the fact tha
t they all live in St Ives. Even though I’m only around the coast in Gwithian, I might as well be from another planet. And Brotherson is practically at the other side of the universe in Plymouth. Round here, proximity matters.
Dad’s at the chalet babysitting Ness and he’s planning to stay the night on the crotchety old sofa bed, so I have a little time before I need to be back. My back is damp from where I sweated on the stage, so fresh air is what I need now.
The tide is just beginning to fill the harbour again as I walk along the front, the boats nearest Smeaton’s Pier already afloat, while those towards the town watch enviously, still beached and leaning into the sand.
I didn’t get a drink earlier and my throat is dry from speaking, so I make for the fish and chip restaurant on the harbour front that does a mean takeaway tea, even at nine o’clock at night. I’m about to walk in when I hear my name.
‘Jack!’
Seren MacArthur is sprinting towards me along Harbour Road. After the look she gave me earlier, I’m not sure if this is a good thing.
I raise my hand. ‘Hey.’
She’s a little out of breath as she reaches me. ‘Sorry, I just wanted a word.’
‘I was about to get a hot drink. Would you like one?’ I’m not sure why I offer, but given that she hasn’t launched an attack on me yet, I figure it’s a good idea.
‘I’d love one, thanks.’
We walk into Harbour Fish and Chips and stand awkwardly side by side as we wait to be served. I’m struck by the thought that this is like the most embarrassing first date, but then I check myself. If I end up giggling she’ll definitely think I’m strange. But it’s more surreal than it should be. We haven’t really spoken before and now we’re being very British, queuing in silence for tea.
We share self-conscious smiles.
Man, this is weird . . .
We don’t speak again until we’re outside.
‘Shall we walk a bit?’ Seren asks, and I agree because I don’t know how else to respond. I follow her to the end of the harbour wall, past the lifeboat station, and we sit on a bench at the end looking back towards the lights of the town.
‘This is good tea,’ she says.
‘Mm, it is.’
‘Well done on the presentation.’
I observe her. It’s a genuine compliment. I wasn’t expecting that. ‘Thank you. Yours, too.’
She nods and blows steam from her paper cup.
‘I guess it’s strange being on opposing sides,’ I say, wanting to reassure myself as much as her. ‘It’s such an emotive subject. The moral covenant, I mean. I don’t know how people will decide.’
She doesn’t reply.
The need to fill the silence is overwhelming. I press on. ‘The thing is, I think . . .’
‘I didn’t know,’ she says, so suddenly I almost spill my tea. ‘About your wife.’
‘Oh.’ Now I’m the one lost for words.
‘I’m sorry.’ She closes her eyes and exhales. I watch silver swirls of her breath snaking up into the night sky. ‘Why do people always say sorry when they hear someone’s died? I’ll never understand that. Unless they hired a hitman, what do they have to apologise for?’
I get the impression her question isn’t one she expects me to answer. But then everything becomes clear – I see that sadness of hers wash across her face again, and I understand. ‘Have you . . . ? Did you lose someone too?’
‘My dad.’ Her voice cracks as she says it.
‘When?’
‘Three months ago.’
‘Wow. I’m sorry.’ I catch the flicker of a smallest smile as I hold up my hands. ‘And I don’t know any hitmen.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ She swirls the tea around in her paper cup and takes another sip. ‘Grief is the worst, isn’t it? It’s so insipid and cruel. I hate that it’s stolen the part of my life where Dad used to be. People keep telling me time is the great healer, but how can it be, when you’ve loved someone your entire life?’
I stare at her, my grief completely eclipsed by hers. Because she has grief: brutal, raw, visceral loss gnawing her soul to shreds. Seren isn’t just grieving; she is grief. And I realise – that’s what people think I’m going through, isn’t it? Seren’s kind of grief. Or maybe they see me functioning, moving on as best I can, and think I’m in denial. Am I in denial? I don’t think so, but what do I know? Answers haven’t been straightforward since Tash died.
‘I’m not sure healing is what matters,’ I say slowly, picking my words like seaglass from between beach pebbles. ‘I think you keep shifting direction until you can move forward.’
‘I don’t feel I’m moving forward. I’m just treading water to stop myself drowning.’
Finally, we agree.
‘Me too.’ I glance at her, wonder if it’s worth the risk. I haven’t told anyone how I really feel, not in a long time. Even Dad and Owen and Sarah have had edited versions of the truth. Seren MacArthur is on the opposing side in the battle for my livelihood. There are a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t give her anything she can use as ammunition. And yet she’s just bared a piece of her soul to me, when she had all the same reasons not to. Surely that means something?
I can see tiny rolling crests of white against the inky black waves of the water filling the harbour. If clouds weren’t shielding the moon, each one would sparkle against the shadows. My mum used to say the white crests were the spray from nocturnal mermaids’ tails, flipping up the dark water. Thinking of mermaids makes me return to Nessie, to our new evening game with seaglass shapes and the handfuls of it currently residing in my pockets. Sometimes all you have to do is accept that you don’t know everything. Magic happens that way.
‘I wish I could feel like that,’ I say, surprised to feel my eyes prickle with saltwater. She is staring at me, but I keep my focus resolutely on the mermaid-tail wakes in the bay. ‘People think I do. They think I’m devastated and only carrying on for Nessie.’ I realise this is the first time I’ve mentioned her. I should stop. I should pull back and just be sympathetic. But it’s already too late. ‘I have a daughter,’ I say. ‘She’s seven and she’s going to take over the world.’
‘That must be hard. Looking after her on your own.’ Her voice is almost lost in the night breeze.
‘It is and it isn’t. The thing is, my marriage died long before Tash did.’ I baulk at my words. They sound cruel – I’d expect anyone else hearing them to be shocked. But Seren doesn’t flinch. That’s new. ‘I mean, I tried for so many years to make Tash happy, but the fact is she blamed me. For bringing her to Cornwall, for her falling pregnant with Ness. And then she blamed Ness by inference, which I couldn’t stand. It’s sad that she died before she had a chance to realise what a mistake she was making. And it’s sad that Nessie had to lose her mum when she was six years old. But I can’t feel devastated by her loss. Not for me, anyway.’
She is quiet for a while and I instantly regret my confession. Saying that stuff to someone so raw with her own loss is irresponsible. I must sound like the most heartless man in the world.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, feeling like stinking seaweed wrapped beneath a trawler. ‘That wasn’t . . . Forget I said anything.’
‘I don’t know how that must feel.’ She’s turned her head back to the sea. ‘Although I understand the anger. A little of it. Not for my dad, but for all the stuff he left behind.’
‘Your business?’
‘His business.’ The emphasis carries a world on its shoulders.
‘Right. Like you find yourself in a life you didn’t plan for?’
She nods. ‘Like waking up in someone else’s existence.’
‘It’s hard.’
‘Hmm.’
‘But we carry on. Because what choice do we have?’
‘Struggle on. Hope that the cracks don’t show.’
How can someone so confident, so ready to fight for what she believes in, think she appears weak? ‘If it helps, you don’t look like you’re struggling. You l
ook—’
I stop myself. Because what I want to say would be far more than I’m ready to admit. She’s still on the opposing side. She could still deliver the fatal blow to the project. We are worlds apart.
‘It’s getting late,’ she says, standing. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
I struggle to my feet, not sure if I’ve just been saved or missed the chance to change everything. ‘Sure. You’re welcome.’
‘I’ll see you a week on Wednesday? Next round of the fight?’ She smiles.
‘Of course.’
The other side of the divide, across a table that might as well be an ocean that separates us . . .
I watch her walk away. And nothing is certain any more.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Seren
‘We have to do something about Jack Dixon.’
Around the table at Aggie’s cafe, every head nods. I wondered why Aggie and Lou had called an extraordinary meeting of the Save the Parsonage committee – now I know.
War-planning aside, I love being at Aggie’s place after it closes to the public. Over the years we’ve enjoyed great gatherings here, from birthday parties to summer evening music nights, supper clubs and even an autumn wedding, when all the evening guests spilled onto the beach wrapped in blankets against the night chill. But the times I’ve loved best have always been just a few close friends chatting and laughing together into the small hours, illuminated by candle lanterns on the tables and festooned fairy lights twinkling from the wooden ceiling.
I needed to be here tonight, among friends, even if the conversation is more serious than usual. It’s too quiet at home; there are too many concerns yelling for my attention. Here, at least for a couple of hours, I only have to think about the people sitting with me around the salt-bleached wooden table.
And, it transpires, Jack Dixon.
‘He did too well at the meetin’,’ Lou says, his usually smooth bald head furrowed by a frown. ‘Everyone is talkin’ about him. And not in a bad way.’
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