This is our place: as much mine and Aggie’s as the Shedservatory was mine and Dad’s. This spot on the high hill overlooking St Ives has been our favourite since we were sixteen and non-alcoholic pear cider was definitely not in our rucksacks as we scrambled up the grass bank from the road. We come here in all weathers: wrapped up like fleece-swathed mummies in winter, and with hoodies over our shorts in summer. There’s something about sitting hidden from view with the town at your feet that gives you perspective. Tonight the lights of St Ives are beginning to shimmer across the bay as the sunset paints the sky brilliant pink beneath wispy grey clouds.
‘So how’s Kieran?’ I ask, seeing her grimace reflected in her cider bottle.
‘If it’s possible to ignore someone while still havin’ a conversation with them, that pretty much covers it.’ She shakes her head. ‘I dunno, Ser. I mean, we’re talkin’ but not talkin’. He came to the hut today and stood by the bar while I was servin’. Chatted to me the whole time about nothing special, then he went. Am I supposed to take that as a sign?’
‘A sign he wants to talk to you but doesn’t know what to say?’
‘Who knows? Thing is, I ain’t a mind reader. I don’t have the energy to decipher everythin’ he says. Or doesn’t say. It’s bleddy annoyin’, I know that.’
This has been going on for so long that I honestly don’t know what to suggest – other than honesty. Which I know will be the last thing she wants to hear. ‘Aggie, just ask him. Straight out.’
She stares at me like I’ve just suggested she cut off her arm. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t expect you to understand. It’s Kieran, not some lad I’ve had a one-night stand with who doesn’t matter. I know what I could lose if he decides it was a mistake. Once we go down that road, I could lose him if it goes wrong.’
‘Or you could miss out on the biggest love of your life.’
She gives an uncomfortable nod. ‘True.’
‘How will you find out unless you try? Just ask him what he wants, Ag. All this dancing around each other is only making you both miserable. At least then you’d know for certain where you stand one way or another.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I’m not ready for that. Don’t worry, bird, I’m just lettin’ off steam. You don’t need to think about this with all you’ve got goin’ on.’
I settle back on the grass and hear the sudden beat of bat wings overhead. They fly out from the trees that edge The Maidens site when the sun dips below the sea and it’s one of the signs that the nights are getting warmer. I love this place. Tonight I need the peace it’s always brought me. Jack Dixon is on my mind and I can’t seem to shake him. I thought about him today as I waited for customers to appear, and I’ve been thinking about him since I discovered he was making the stars with me. Something changed when I saw him and his daughter on Gwithian Beach. I think it’s been growing for a while, hidden behind every other concern, but seeing him with Nessie and putting the pieces of the puzzle together has brought it out in the open. It isn’t love – at least, not like I’ve ever experienced it. But I feel like a door has opened to the possibility.
The Maidens is an apt place for matters of the heart. Not just our many conversations and confessions about love over the years: the very stones are supposed to signify love and longing. Legend has it that three sisters wept on this hillside for their sweethearts lost at sea – and even though they knew they wouldn’t return, they refused to leave in case the boat returned to harbour. Their tears gradually turned them to stone to forever keep watch for their lovers’ return and they became the three standing stones behind Aggie and me. Cheery. And while they were actually put up in the 1930s by an entrepreneurial landowner who wanted a suitably mystical story for his visiting guests, genuine Cornish legends are full of stories like that – heartbreak, lost love, murder and ghosts. So many stories have been told in this place through history that you can almost hear them murmuring up from the ground beneath you.
Dad was a great collector of Cornish legends. He’d share them with his mates at the pub and swap them for even grislier, doom-laden tales. Several times a year he’d go to storytelling nights and recite his stories as if he was a born-and-bred Cornishman, not a Welshman in cunning disguise. ‘I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing,’ he’d often joke. He’d learned Welsh legends as a kid and saw great parallels between Wales and Cornwall. Maybe that’s why he felt so at home here.
‘How’s it goin’ at Becca’s?’ Aggie asks, stumping her empty bottle in a tuft of wild grass and taking two more from her bag. ‘Never figured you as the barmaid type.’
‘Neither did I, but it’s fun. Tiring, though.’
‘I’ll bet.’ She hands me another bottle, even though I haven’t finished my first yet. ‘Bar work and shop work. If you can survive workin’ in them you can work bleddy anywhere. Ninja trainin’, it is, especially at Christmas or high season.’
‘Most of the regulars aren’t bad. One or two are a bit set in their ways and can be rude, but I can handle them. Besides, Becca’s never far away and no-one crosses her.’
‘I’ll bet. Becca Tomlinson’s hard as rock. I saw her break a bloke’s nose once,’ Aggie grins.
‘When?’
‘Christmas party, a few years back. The guy was bein’ mouthy, then he picked a fight with one of the surfers that come into my place. Becca was between them quick as winkin’ and when the chap tried to push her out of the way, she grabbed his shoulders, yanked his head down and head-butted him!’
The thought of barely-five-feet-tall Becca doing that is scary and impressive in equal measure. She’s brilliant – a total powerhouse of energy and positivity – but I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her. I’m still grateful she offered me bar work when she found out how much the shop was struggling.
‘T’aint much, but it might just keep your head above water,’ she said, then hugged me like a wrestler. That’s the good thing about the local community in St Ives – everyone looks out for each other. It’s hard to make a living out of season, so you do what you have to and help those who need it. If I’m ever in a position to offer work to someone, I won’t hesitate.
‘And what about the shop?’
I turn to her, grateful that she is the one person I don’t have to pretend with. She knows I’m not fine. ‘It’s bad, Ag. I’m out of ideas.’
‘Didn’t you have anyone to the cream tea event?’
‘One lovely bloke, but he couldn’t afford to buy anything. And two more artists withdrew their stock yesterday. I keep thinking about what the bank manager said . . .’
Aggie snorts. ‘John Trevelyan is a knob.’
‘He’s going to foreclose on us.’
‘So he’s a powerful knob with no sense of decency.’ Kindness replaces the mischief in her eyes. ‘If anyone can turn that business around, it’s you. I believe that.’
‘I think he might be right.’ Saying the words aloud feels like a betrayal, even the other side of the hill from Dad’s shop. ‘I think we might be best to sell.’
‘Won’t that put you and your mum in a bad way?’
‘No worse than we’re in already. We wouldn’t have to find running costs. Maybe we should take the hit.’
Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. ‘Do you want it to fail? No, before you tell me I’m off the mark, ask yourself this: would it be easier for you if the shop closed?’
Of course it would. But that wouldn’t make it right. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What we need,’ says Aggie, raising her bottle as if lecturing the universe, ‘is somethin’ excitin’ to happen. Somethin’ magical.’
And right then, I almost tell her about the seaglass stars on Gwithian Beach. And the tiny driftwood, glass and moss house that right now is cradled in my left hand safely in the pocket of my hoodie. I don’t know what stops me, but the words refuse to leave my lips. Under the cloud of foreclosure that hangs over MacArthur’s and me, t
his is my sole beacon of light. I want to keep it just for me, while I try to decide what to do about Jack. Do I tell him the truth about the seaglass stars? Do I tell him I know he made them with me?
I can’t decide. Not yet. There’s too much at stake.
So instead I just agree with my best friend’s wish for magic and drink my cider, pretending it’s full of alcohol that will wash the cares of the day away, as the lights of St Ives glitter beneath my feet.
Chapter Forty-Six
Jack
It’s only when Nessie’s teacher Miss Austin sends a letter home explaining the school’s intention to support the Save the Parsonage campaign that I realise who the class visitor was, and the identity of ‘Ellie’. Ness has been banging on about poor Ellie and the silly men who didn’t listen to her for days. She’s fired up about it, which I love, but it helps that I know who she’s referring to.
And it turns out that the ‘Miss Carter’ Ness said visited the class is far from a stranger. Seren MacArthur is responsible for my daughter’s sudden passion for stargazers. I’m not sure how to feel about that yet.
I’m annoyed by the school’s stance on the campaign, especially as the vast proportion of children at St Piran’s don’t live in St Ives. And it’s our livelihood that’s at stake. The letter details a whole programme of events both in school and with the local community, centred round Elinor Carne and her importance to the local area. Nessie is excited about it for now, but I’m worried all this attention on the St Ives vote for Rectory Fields could single her out if things turn nasty.
I think about it all night and call the head, Mrs Masters, to talk about it. To my surprise she asks me to meet her in school to address my concerns.
Which is why I’m here now, sitting outside the head teacher’s office like a naughty kid. The difference is that this time I’ve done nothing wrong. I wasn’t angry with the school until I arrived, but then a throwaway comment made by the school secretary annoyed me. And as I wait, I feel anger firing up like a furnace inside my chest.
‘Bill Brotherson must be fun to work for.’
That’s all she said. But she said it with that look – the one that says, you’re wrong, you’re the enemy . . .
Stay calm, Jack.
I’m overreacting, I know. She was probably attempting to make small talk. But I feel I have just cause to be annoyed by the school’s attitude to the town vote.
Mrs Masters has apparently forgotten my last visit and the way Ness and I swept magnificently out after the kicking incident. She is as perfectly pleasant when she welcomes me into her office as she was six months ago when I came with Nessie to apply to the school. I was out of my depth with everything, and finding a new school for Ness seemed such an insurmountable task. But Mrs Masters helped sort everything. It’s good to know she’s sympathetic to our situation, but I need to make her understand that my choice of employer is a key part of safeguarding our ongoing life, too.
‘Mr Dixon, thank you for coming in. I thought it best we discuss this in person.’
‘Me too.’
She settles herself behind her desk and I already get the impression she isn’t going to listen to me. ‘So, about the project.’
‘The project?’ Is that how they’re justifying their complete partisanship?
Deep breath, Jack. She hasn’t declared war on you. Yet . . .
‘The Elinor Carne project.’
‘Right.’
‘At St Piran’s we are keen that our children understand and connect with their heritage. Elinor Carne was an important figure, not just locally but nationally and internationally since her findings have come to light. The increased publicity surrounding the campaign is bringing her story to public attention: we would be wrong to miss the opportunity to share Elinor’s story with the children. Miss MacArthur so inspired Nessie’s class that we want to capitalise on their enthusiasm for Elinor Carne’s story. So you see, we’re not taking sides in the campaign, just teaching the children their local history.’
‘Then why choose the weeks prior to the St Ives vote to focus on her, if you aren’t expecting the kids to take sides?’
‘Protecting her legacy to Cornwall is important.’
‘I agree. But there are ways of doing it that don’t entail preserving a derelict building.’
Her nails are painted the colour of tin and they rap on the desk like the drum of approaching rain. ‘It seems the best place to start, given that it was her home.’
Hers is the kind of opinion formed by long, gossipy conversations with friends over wine: all shared offence and no facts. ‘Have you actually visited the parsonage? There’s so little left standing that in order to save it you would need to rebuild it. Effectively build something new on the site.’
‘This isn’t personal, Mr Dixon.’
‘Maybe not to you.’
‘It’s a history project . . .’
I’ve heard enough. ‘No, it isn’t. With respect, it’s a blatant attempt to take sides. And it would be bad enough if nobody in the school were involved with the opposite side of the argument. But somebody is. My daughter. Who, may I remind you, is still grieving for her mother.’
‘Miss Austin tells me Nessie was very taken with Elinor’s story.’ Is she smiling? Is she seriously amused by this?
‘And what happens when the children – who are so inspired and motivated by your not-at-all-discriminatory project – discover that Nessie’s dad wants to rip down Elinor Carne’s home? Don’t you think that might put her in an impossible position?’
‘I assure you that won’t happen.’
Her smile grates like fingernails down a blackboard, and it’s all I can do not to shout.
‘Do you remember what it was like being seven at school, Mrs Masters? Because I do. If your friends turn against you it’s the loneliest place in the world. I don’t want Nessie to face that when she’s done nothing wrong. I’ve worked hard to provide a safe, steady environment for my daughter. I thought St Piran’s supported me in that. Nessie’s been making great progress at your school and seems really settled and happy. But this could make her a target in her class – and in the school as a whole.’
‘I understand your concerns, Mr Dixon, but equally we cannot stop an entire project just for the sake of one child. Or parent.’
That’s it. I’ve tried to be nice, but it stops now. ‘I need this job. If I win the contract it will give us financial stability for the rest of this year. We’re in temporary accommodation, as you know, and I’m keen to change that. What you are doing is deliberately jeopardising my chances of providing a solid future for my child.’
‘I think that’s a little unfair . . .’
‘No, it isn’t. Have you even looked at the plans for Rectory Fields? Or come to any of the public meetings where I’ve explained the kind of sympathetic development I intend to create? No, I didn’t think so.’
‘Mr Dixon . . .’
‘And what happens when my daughter discovers her father is the one trying to stop people remembering this woman, hmm? Have you considered that?’ This is my real fear. Right now Nessie and me are in a good place. I’m all she has and she loves me, but if this came between us? I don’t want to think how hard that could be. ‘She wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t trust me. Have you any idea how hard it is to bring up a child on your own?’
She has no answer for that. Despite her repeated assurances, I stand. ‘Reconsider your project. Or I will complain to the education authority on the grounds of your unfairly targeting an emotionally vulnerable child.’
An hour later, I’m still seething. Jeb raises his hand as he passes the chalet but heads over when he sees my expression.
‘Alright, matey?’
‘Not really.’
‘Need a beer? Just had a delivery at the park bar.’
It’s a sweet gesture, but I decline. ‘Bit early for me, Jeb.’
‘Fair ’nough. So, wasson?’
His bushy brows lift as I recou
nt my morning battle.
‘Upshot is that they’re standing by their decision but focusing on the history rather than the campaign.’
‘Bleddy unfair if you ask me. Your poor nipper. You tell Nessie from me that her Uncle Jeb’ll sort out anyone who tries to pick on her. Tell her I know jiu-jitsu.’
My bearded, tattooed and many-pierced friend doesn’t strike me as a martial arts devotee, but you don’t question Jeb. It’s entirely possible he trained in Japan with a martial arts master before he became a caravan park owner in southwest Cornwall.
‘Wasson with this historic bird then?’
I pick at a splinter on the weatherbeaten veranda rail. ‘Elinor Carne, parson’s wife and amateur astronomer. Discovered a star or something. They got the leader of the campaign to save the parsonage to come and speak to the kids at school about her, and now she’s all Nessie talks about.’
Not just anyone from the Save the Parsonage campaign. Seren MacArthur. As my fury at the school has raged, something else has been building in my mind. Why did Seren have to get involved? I can’t get over that she chose to come to my daughter’s school, miles from St Ives, to talk about Elinor Carne. I’ve seen Nessie’s teacher, Miss Austin, at the town meetings, sitting with Seren. Miss Austin knows I’m Nessie’s dad. So, whose idea was it for Seren to visit? I like Seren. I’ve felt sorry for her, losing her dad and trying to save his business. I was impressed by her passion for Bethel Parsonage and touched by her compassion towards me when we talked about losing people we loved. But did she use me? Did she know she was going to meet my girl at the school?
The question sits like hot ash in the pit of my stomach, burning me as I turn over the facts.
‘Used to like a bit of stargazin’ myself, way back when,’ Jeb says, oblivious to my inner battle. ‘Thinkin’ about it, I got an old telescope Ness can have if you fancy.’
‘Have you?’
Jeb sniffs and strokes his ginger beard into a thoughtful point. ‘Yep. ’Ad it when I were a young ’un. Thought I’d be an astronaut if I used it often enough. Fat lot of good it did me, eh? Mind you, I’m not sure them aliens would understand me in a first-contact situation. “Wasson boys? We come in peace an’ that.”’ When he laughs I swear the chalet shakes.
Somewhere Beyond the Sea Page 21