Somewhere Beyond the Sea

by Miranda Dickinson

  As I work, I wonder who will find this on the beach tomorrow morning. Will they be expecting a gift? And will this tiny structure mean as much to them as their gift has to Nessie and me? I hope it will. I’ve thought about them a great deal recently. Their kindness is one thing; but it’s their creativity that really blows me away. It takes a special kind of person to see the possibility in a half-finished star and commit to completing them time and again. And then to offer something as unique and special as the bracelet, with no expectation of anything in return – well, that’s nothing short of extraordinary, as far as I’m concerned.

  When my brother drops Nessie home just before six p.m. she is all ready to go straight to the beach, protesting loudly when I insist she eats tea first.

  ‘But Dad! We have to make the present for the mermaids!’

  ‘Relax, kid, I’ve already made it.’

  ‘You have? Where is it? Can I see? Oh Dad, I want to see it. Can I? Please, please, please?’

  I take the tiny gift from my pocket where it’s been hiding, awaiting her return. ‘Here.’

  Her blue eyes widen and she gives a little squeal. ‘It’s perfect! They’re going to love it! We need to take it to the beach right now. Have you done a note, too?’

  ‘I thought you should decide what we’ll write,’ I reply, loving her reaction. ‘So how about you grab the laptop, and I’ll sort tea?’

  My plan rumbled, Nessie gives a loud tut Grandad Dave would be proud of. ‘Okay then. But I’m not having pudding till after the beach, and you can’t make me. This is just too important.’

  It is important, I realise as I’m dishing stew out into two bowls. This game means more to me than anything I’ve done since we lost Tash. So we type and print our message, slip it into the blue glass bottle and head down to Gwithian Beach for the next chapter in the star game.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Seren

  I can hardly breathe.

  I’d come to the beach today determined to love whatever I found, being so disgusted with my reaction to the multicoloured star yesterday morning. All day I sat in MacArthur’s feeling like the most selfish woman in the world. Last night I dreamed of sitting next to Dad in the Shedservatory and enduring a lecture about my attitude. I resolved to do better, to slow down like Dad had told me and delight in every tiny detail.

  The new star was waiting for me this morning as they have been every morning. It’s beautiful – delicate shades of pale green and white with a flower of grey-blue mussel shells in the middle. But that isn’t why I’m staring at it, incapable of moving. It’s because of what else lay at its heart, now resting softly in my palm.

  A note, rolled into the blue glass bottle I sent my own note in. And a package, not much bigger than the one I left for the starmaker with the bracelet. I want to open both now, but the light is only just appearing and I have a star to complete. So I put them in my pocket and set to work. Knowing they are there makes my hands work faster, and within thirty minutes I’ve placed the last piece of seaglass at the star’s heart. Smiling at our latest collaboration, I head back up to the car park, followed by a huffing, puffing dog.

  In the warmth of my car, with Molly contentedly eating a dog biscuit, I take out the note and the package, placing them carefully on the passenger seat.

  I read the note first. It’s typed, in a curling script font:

  The bracelet is beautiful. Thank you.

  Here’s a gift to show how much your stars mean.

  Thank you for being a friend x

  The package is wrapped in cellophane with brown paper underneath. Bubble-wrap forms the next layer down, and a crumpled square of red tissue paper below that. When I unwrap it, I can’t believe my eyes.

  It’s a house. A tiny, round-sided house that fits in the palm of my hand. Its walls are constructed from small vertical panels of driftwood, with a stick-framed door and window and a layered driftwood roof covered with moss. It’s beautifully made and the detail on it is breathtaking. Silver stars are woven into the moss, and the windows are filled with pieces of pearlescent shell that shimmer like soap bubbles in the dawn light.

  I’m still smiling when I open the shop, the sight of the gorgeous gift on the counter beside me sustaining me through the slow trickle of customers. The meeting with the bank is scarily close now, and I’m not ready. Mum is jittery and we’ve already had several arguments over it. She thinks we should put the shop on the market now, before I meet the bank manager, but I know we aren’t a good enough prospect to sell yet. We argue on the phone at lunchtime and again when I get home. She won’t back down and neither will I. So she leaves for her book group and I retreat to my room, where I lie on my bed gazing at the tiny driftwood house, glad I have one friend in the world who knows nothing about my shop or my dad. The person who made this only knows me as their friend who completes the seaglass stars and made them a bracelet. This house will be a sign that I can be something different from the person everyone expects me to be: not a shop owner, daughter or campaign leader. Just me.

  At least I have a week without a town meeting to contend with, which feels like a blessing in the midst of all the tension and worry around me. I’m going to make the most of it, I decide; focus on the meeting with the bank and try not to think about the conversations buzzing around the town as St Ives decides the fate of Bethel Parsonage.

  Mum still isn’t back at ten p.m., so I grab some blankets and head down the garden to the Shedservatory, my beautiful driftwood house safely stored in the pocket of my coat.

  Tonight the stars are the brightest they have been all year. It’s a cold night, and I can see my breath as I gaze up through the Shedservatory’s hatch. Ursa Major is twinkling at me as if she’s trying to grab my attention; Venus is bright and the Pole Star shimmering. I don’t need Clarabell to see the major constellations. Since we lost Dad I don’t always use her. My earliest memories are of just staring up at the jewelled sky snuggled up next to him, thinking he must be the cleverest man in the world as he pointed out each constellation.

  He was equally able to point out the shapes and seasons of my life – and I think that’s what I miss most. I would pour out my heart to him up here for hours as he watched the sky, and then he’d be able to sum it all up in one wise statement. He knew when I was unhappy at college before I did; after I’d spent months feeling alone and adrift but not knowing why. Without his, ‘Well, it’s that course, isn’t it? You need to find one that fits,’ I would never have ditched psychology and sought out the graphic course that introduced me to a love of design, which later led to me discovering jewellery making. Dad’s utter confidence in me made the difference. He never once doubted my ability to succeed.

  My eyes naturally drift to Orion, and I wonder what Dad would really think of me trying to keep MacArthur’s afloat. I won’t admit it to anyone, not even Aggie and Kieran, but I am harbouring the smallest, quietest doubt that he wouldn’t be happy. Not that I had a choice. Well, I did – but when the alternative was seeing my mum struggle and lose her livelihood, what real choice did I have? Mum’s doing what she can to make money and get by, but she couldn’t have run the shop alone, and Dad’s preference for keeping a (now dwindling) savings account rather than paying into a pension left her no option but to try and keep it going. I think Dad would be ashamed of the financial mess he left; I know he would. But what’s done is done. I just have to make the best of it, don’t I?

  There’s a scratching sound at the base of the mezzanine ladder, and I look down to see expectant doggy eyes. I have dog biscuits in my pocket and Molly misses nothing food-related. Shrugging the woollen blankets off my shoulders, I climb down to deliver the desired treat in person. I kneel beside her and she automatically flops her heavy chin on my shoulder, as she’s done ever since she was a puppy. Her breath is loud and warm against my ear and she makes the slightest whimper. This was also her favourite place with Dad.

  ‘I know, lady. I miss him too.’

  Molly tur
ns her head a little and licks my ear, which makes me laugh.

  ‘Ugh, get off,’ I say, but I’m glad of the gesture.

  She’s shivering a little and so am I. Reluctantly, I go back to close the hatch and replace Clarabell’s pink Dralon cover.

  ‘Night-night,’ I whisper. In the stillness, I imagine Dad’s spirit filling the space. I breathe it in . . .

  The moment is swiftly broken by the steady thump of Labrador tail against the Shedservatory door. It’s time to go back to the house, apologise to Mum and work out for myself what I’m going to do.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Jack

  ‘Light?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re selling Rectory Fields based on its light?’ Brotherson sits back in his expensive desk chair and lifts his eyes from the verification order I’ve brought him to stare at a point somewhere over my head. ‘But don’t all buildings have to have light?’

  I smile. ‘They do, but not all of them are built to harness the natural light of their surroundings. Rectory Fields can be different.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘We’re already pledging to acknowledge the heritage of the site with our building,’ I say, playing out the same conversation I’d had with Dad and Owen when I knew the meeting with Brotherson had been confirmed. ‘We’re using as much of the original stone as we can salvage, and giving a nod to the parsonage’s former life by installing a replica altar window in the entrance lobby. But what will make that stone and the window truly special is the light that falls on them.’

  Brotherson blinks. ‘Nah, you’ve lost me. This is why I pay Rory at Wilton & Partners to come up with all that architect gobbledegook for me.’

  ‘Rory’s plans are great, but I think he’s missed this. I walked around the site this week, on a sunny day, and the way the sunlight painted the building was wonderful. If we remove the dark wood cladding from the design and draw attention to the stone on the top storey, it will make the building shine in the right conditions. And the interiors can be used to harness that light throughout the day, too.’ I slide my notes across the desk to him.

  ‘This is impressive. So you’ve been camping out there, have you? Checking up on the sun and shadows?’

  ‘I’ve been visiting the site in different conditions, trying to plan how it will work in all weathers. I believe you have to understand the land in order to make it work best. The people who built the parsonage understood that: I just want to follow their lead.’

  Now Brotherson is interested. He pats a hand on the plans. ‘And this’ll pacify that lot down in St Ives, won’t it? Gives us the perfect comeback to their argument that they’re the only ones capable of caring for the site.’

  I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s true. It would certainly allay fears that the Big Bad Developer is just going to stick a building there without respecting the land around it. ‘They won’t have a monopoly on being the best trustees for the place. In fact, I reckon we’d be able to make better use of the site because we’re building something that makes the most of the environment. A patched-up old ruin with piecemeal renovations wouldn’t serve the land better.’

  ‘See, I knew you were my man for the job! Good work, Jack. I’ll take this back to Rory and get him to look at it again. Might bring you in for a meeting with him when we’re ready to start, too. Get all of us singing from the same hymn sheet.’ He claps his hands and rubs them together. ‘I like it. This’ll have the St Ives mob eating out of the palms of our hands next week!’

  I drive home pleased with myself. At least Brotherson listened to me. It’s one small change, but if the architect agrees it will be my own stamp on the building. I like the step up from the building work I’ve done to construction manager – it feels like a bigger nod to my skills. Something else has started, too, since my visits to the old site: I’ve started to imagine I could do more one day. Since I made the driftwood house for our starmaker, I’ve been thinking about what I’d do with the site if I had free rein. My dream was always to build my own houses, from design to build to completion. For the last few years I’d felt it drift further and further from view, but in my quiet moments lately, after Nessie goes to bed and before she wakes next morning, I’ve dared to consider it again. The driftwood house felt like a down payment on that dream – and now I wonder if it might be possible after all.

  Has the starmaker discovered their gift yet? I know it will be the first thing Nessie wants to know when she races down to the beach this evening. I want to know, too. I hope it means as much to them as it has done to me.

  With Brotherson on my side and the thrill of leaving the driftwood house on the beach, I feel a renewed confidence about our future. I plan to go into St Ives tomorrow and buy some things for the chalet, to make it feel more like a proper home. Nessie and I deserve a bit of indulgence, I think. Until the St Ives vote, Brotherson is paying me for my contribution – a warm glow in my bank account that hasn’t been there for a very long time. I probably should be guarding every penny, but a little treat for Ness and me is justified, I think. I’m going to see it as an investment in the future I hope to secure when Rectory Fields is approved by the town. I feel positive today, as if the sea is changing in my favour at last. Smiling to myself, I relax in my seat and enjoy the ride home.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Seren

  It’s only a short walk to my bank in the High Street from MacArthur’s, but I notice every step. I spent last night going over the books and hoping I might find a secret stash of money somewhere that will buy us time. If it’s there, it eluded me. I wish I felt less dread at the prospect of meeting the bank manager today, but I’m determined to show a brave face. There are some positives, however small. Business in the Etsy shop is beginning to pick up in the new financial year, and we had five orders this week alone. That is what I’ll say to Mr Trevelyan this morning, my best smile firmly fixed. I just hope he believes me. Or takes pity on me. Honestly, I’ll settle for either.

  My shifts at Becca’s Bar are helping our finances too, if not my sleep. Working most nights till midnight, sorting out the shop’s accounts and getting up early every morning to drive to Gwithian is taking its toll on my body – and that’s not even counting running the shop every day, together with all the work I’m doing on the Save the Parsonage campaign. I’m trying not to think about all of it at once. If I did, I might crumble like sand . . .

  ‘Seren!’

  I look up and smile – too late to realise who just called my name.

  ‘Oh. Hello.’

  Jack Dixon chuckles, and I wish a tidal wave would wash me out to sea. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’ He nods at the armful of books I’m carrying. ‘Busy day?’

  ‘Meeting with the bank manager.’

  He pulls a face. ‘Ouch – business going well?’

  ‘Good.’ I road-test my confident smile for the meeting, but it doesn’t quite fit. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Also good. I hope.’ He folds his arms across his blue T-shirt. DIXON CONSTRUCTION is embroidered on the faded marine blue. There’s a stray thread dangling from the ‘X’ and the material looks like it has been washed many times. ‘I have another meeting with Mr Brotherson the day after tomorrow, so . . . Ah. I probably shouldn’t tell you that.’

  ‘You don’t need my permission.’

  ‘Well, technically I do.’

  I have to smile. That was a good comeback. ‘Hope it goes well.’

  ‘Yours, too. Bank managers scare me.’ He smiles and I expect him to say something else, but he gives a self-conscious laugh, raises his hand and continues on his way.

  I resist turning back to watch him walk down the hill towards St Ia’s church. He has every right to be in St Ives this morning, but why pick the very same time to walk down the High Street as I’m walking up? I’m still trying to get my head around the last meeting, when I found myself impressed by what he said, even though it’s essentially against everything I’m fighting for. I s
uppose he’s just a nice bloke caught in a bad situation, but it would be so much easier if I could just hate him.

  I’m still reeling from seeing Jack as I sit in the too-green waiting area of my bank. The black horse above the door looks like it’s making a bid for freedom, and I wish I could hop on its back and gallop off into the sunset. When I do dream these days, it’s always about running away. Packing my car at night and driving through pitch-dark country lanes, climbing from the harbour wall onto a waiting boat and slipping out to sea, or running to my favourite spot on the hills overlooking St Ives and taking off like a bird, my feet finding the lift of the air as they leave the land . . .

  ‘Miss MacArthur?’ A middle-aged lady in a grey suit is walking across the green carpet towards me.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, standing quickly and catching an accounts book that’s about to drop from the pile in my arms.

  ‘I’m Margaret Lowrie, Small Business Development Manager. I’m seeing you with Mr Trevelyan today.’

  Great, two of them to convince. But at least Margaret has a kind smile. The last time I saw John Trevelyan, he didn’t smile once.

  ‘Are we waiting for Mrs MacArthur?’ Margaret asks, looking expectantly towards the door.

  I don’t tell her that Mum hardly slept last night, or that she burst into tears this morning when she came down for breakfast and it took me twenty minutes to calm her down. It’s just all too much for her; I totally understand. She’s scared MacArthur’s will be snatched from us just like Dad was – taken against our will by something completely outside of our control. She thought she’d be able to sit with me in John Trevelyan’s office today, but Fear had other ideas. Margaret Lowrie doesn’t need to know any of that, though.