Somewhere Beyond the Sea

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘There’s still time, you know. You could be NASA’s secret weapon.’

  ‘Nah, not bothered now. I reckon there’s more extraterrestrials visit this place every summer than I’d ever find up there.’

  ‘You might be right. What am I going to do, Jeb? Nessie’s so excited about this woman, and sooner or later she’s going to find out I’m the one who wants to build on her former home. I don’t want to disappoint her and I don’t want her schoolfriends to pick on her for it, either.’

  ‘Well, do you know anything about the lady?’

  ‘Not much.’

  Jeb clamps a matey hand on my shoulder. ‘Then don’t you think you should find out?’

  Jeb’s workshop is less a place of work and more a museum to long-forgotten, broken things. As a kid I would’ve loved it here with all its strange half-objects. It reminds me of the junkyards Dad used to take Owen and me to on long summer weekends, often on the hunt for just the right bit to fix something that had broken at home. Dad’s answer to everything has always been to try to mend it himself, however unprepossessing the result. I’m pretty sure Jeb inherited this dust-laden treasure trove from an earlier hoarder – some of the objects look as if they’ve been resident here for longer than their owner has been alive.

  ‘’Scuse the mess,’ Jeb calls over his shoulder, stepping gingerly over upended boxes and rusting hulks of metal. ‘It’s some ummin in here.’

  I love the Cornish slang Jeb uses, but even though I’ve been born and bred in Cornwall there are a lot of phrases I don’t understand. Dad uses the odd word here and there, so those are the ones I know. And anyway, I’m still not completely sure if all Jeb’s turns of phrase are genuinely Cornish or uniquely Jeb. ‘Ummin?’

  He looks over his shoulder. ‘Filthy, my good man,’ he enunciates in almost-perfect Eton English. ‘An utter tip, if you will.’ It’s long been a joke between us that he thinks I’m too posh to call myself a Cornishman.

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘You won’t, but it’s all right. Now I know I put it somewhere . . .’

  After much clunking and worryingly destructive-sounding noises, Jeb emerges triumphant from the junk, holding a roll of faded tarpaulin aloft like a dusty green Excalibur. ‘Got it! Geddon!’

  Out in the much fresher air of his front garden, we unwrap the tarp to reveal an old wooden telescope. It’s seen better days, much like the caravan park around us, but Jeb assures me it still works.

  ‘I reckon your Ness’ll love this,’ he beams. ‘Let us show you how to work it . . .’

  By the time I pick Nessie up from school I’m so excited about her seeing the telescope that the fisticuffs with her head teacher have almost been forgotten. It’s only when I see Mrs Masters briefly appear in the playground, looking anxious, that I remember. Well, let her worry. It’s her problem, not mine.

  It’s all I can do to keep the surprise a secret on the drive home, which seems to take forever as several tractors slide into the rush-hour traffic to wend their weary way home. When Nessie dashes towards the chalet from my car I finally give in.

  ‘Hey, listen, before you go and change, I have something for you.’

  She observes me with a withering look only a seven-year-old can perform. ‘But the star, Dad. We have to get it made. I want to do the best one ever tonight. For Ellie. And the clouds are getting darker over the beach.’

  She has a point, but this can’t wait. ‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes. Ten at most. I promise.’

  ‘O-kaa-a-a-ay,’ she replies, plodding back to me.

  Jeb has set up the telescope in the corner of the tiny patch of grass that passes as a back garden. And bless him, he’s found an old dog show rosette from his Aladdin’s cave of junk and has enthusiastically gaffer-taped it to one side.

  Nessie stops dead when she sees it.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a telescope. For looking at the stars tonight.’

  ‘Who’s it for?’ Her voice squeaks a little, a good sign.

  ‘It’s for you – if you want it. Uncle Jeb had it when he was little.’

  And then she is screeching and jumping up and down and happy-dancing around the telescope, and talking at a million miles an hour, and hugging herself. Moments like these are what I’ve started to live for. I saw it when we first found the completed star on the beach, and it’s so good to see it again now. I always want to make my girl this happy.

  ‘A telescope!’ she yells, dislodging a shiver of chattering starlings from the hedge. ‘Is it really mine? Can I keep it? Oh Dad, it’s just like Ellie’s!’

  ‘Her name was Elinor,’ I say, this time with the conviction that comes from a frantic half-hour Google search on my mobile phone before I picked her up from school. Jeb was right – I need to know who this woman was and why she matters to everyone, especially Nessie. Maybe it will help me address concerns when they are raised, either in the meeting or – thanks to Miss Austin, Mrs Masters and Seren MacArthur – at the school gates.

  Seren. Any way I look at it, she was part of the ambush on Ness.

  I don’t want to believe it. But what other explanation is there?

  At best I hope she didn’t know who Nessie was when she agreed to visit Cerrie Austin’s class, but realistically that’s unlikely. What kind of person uses a seven-year-old child to score a point? Well, Tash for one – many times when she wanted to win an argument, because she knew I’d always back down when she’d threaten to bring Ness into a row.

  What annoys me most is that I’d hoped Seren was different . . .

  I can’t think about this now. Nessie is recounting the story of her Ellie again for me, her eyes bright with excitement. She’s shining. And for once I want to forget about everything else except sharing my daughter’s joy.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Seren

  What will I say to Jack Dixon when I see him? Do I tell him I’m the other starmaker yet? Or test the water and see how he is? I don’t know how he’d react, and part of me wants to stay silent because I want the stars to continue. They’ve come to mean so much to me, become such an important part of my life that I’m just not ready to let them go yet. Even though I know the secret.

  Will knowing make the experience different? Take away the magic? Enhance it? I don’t know.

  Would Jack want to know he’s making stars with me? He’s difficult to read, and it doesn’t help that I’ve tried my hardest not to read him since our first meeting. Aside from the feelings I have for him that I’m scared to investigate, I know how much is at stake. He’s a conundrum: one minute friendly, the next Brotherson’s mouthpiece. Our conversation about his late wife and my dad seemed to shift the ground beneath us. And now I know he is the kind soul leaving half-finished seaglass stars on Gwithian Beach, it’s muddied the waters even more. When I saw him on the way to the bank he seemed happy to see me, as if he was greeting a friend rather than an opponent. At least, that’s what I thought. Or was that me looking for an ally when I felt alone?

  I can’t tell him I watched him and his daughter on the beach, either, because how scary and deranged would that make me appear?

  I look down at the half-finished seaglass bracelet in my hands and wish I didn’t feel so conflicted. I’ve taken to bringing the jewellery I’m making into the shop lately, partly to give me something to fill the days and partly to provide a spectacle for any customers who might wander in. When Dad was alive I only occasionally sneaked my creations in, hiding them as soon as he appeared; even now, I’m looking over my shoulder in case he emerges from the back room and catches me.

  Last night I went to the Shedservatory to watch the sky and even though a thick layer of cloud hung stubbornly over St Ives, I watched it anyway. Wishing Dad was there. Like the clouded sky above me, I have no point of reference for this situation, no map of how to proceed. Dad would have known what to do.

  I like Jack. Really like him. And knowing he
has been making stars with me on Gwithian Beach has only added to that. But he’s the one person I shouldn’t want to like me back. If I let him win – if I surrender everything I’ve worked for with the campaign – then what do I have?

  I had a revelation of sorts last night, bundled up on the observation bench in the Shedservatory. It was finally time to be honest with myself. I want to win this for Dad. Not for me, or the shop, or even the town. That’s the truth. Dad was so passionate about honouring Elinor and getting proper recognition for her work. I’m passionate about it, too. But now I wonder if the passion is really my own, or just a determination that my dad won’t be forgotten.

  I suspect it’s the latter.

  Seeing Jack with Nessie on Gwithian Beach changed things. Knowing who he really is and getting that glimpse into his life has challenged all my preconceptions about a man choosing to work for Brotherson Developments. I thought he was just trying to make money for himself. But now I don’t think he is, however much he tells the public meetings he’s passionate about the development. I imagine Jack is thinking of his little girl when he’s selling his soul to Brotherson. And it isn’t my problem, but now I know they made the stars with me, it feels like it should be.

  While I was watching the clouds roll overhead from the hatch window last night I wondered for the first time if I could let him win. My financial situation won’t be changed one bit if the parsonage is saved; neither will the shop’s fortunes turn around. I have to be realistic about that. But Jack’s whole world could change if he wins the vote.

  What would Dad do? If it wasn’t Elinor Carne’s home and just an old derelict building with a bit of St Ives history attached to it? If he knew the stakes for someone like Jack Dixon, doing the best he can for his kid? I know Dad struggled to make ends meet when I was a child, but I never went without. Mum told me a while ago that he’d once worked four jobs just to keep the roof over our heads; that he’d bartered garden work with the lady who owned the school uniform supply shop to make sure I had a blazer that fitted me for my first term at secondary school. Dad understood the sacrifices he needed to make to look after his daughter. I suspect Jack understands it, too.

  I can’t let Jack win. I just can’t. Even if it means I lose the chance of getting to know him. But can I stand to watch him lose?

  By the time the meeting begins I’m a bag of nerves. I didn’t see Jack when I arrived; it’s only when I take my seat at the table on the stage that I see him walking towards me. His head is high, but he seems to look straight through me when our eyes meet. I’ve imagined everything, I tell myself, forcing my eyes to the notes in front of me. Tonight is the last chance to convince St Ives before the vote next week. I have to concentrate on doing what I came here to do.

  Lou is already welcoming the crowd, which is considerable again. Cerrie and several teachers from her school are near the front on my side of the hall. I can see her encouraging smile and it gives me hope. People care about Elinor Carne – they will stand for her when the time comes. I just have to state our case again.

  Aggie and Kieran stand at the back of the hall, keeping a close eye on proceedings with surreptitious glances at each other. It’s surely only a matter of time before they admit they are in love. For now, they are locked in a careful waltz around each other, close enough to mean something but still with an arm’s length between them.

  ‘Jack . . . and Seren . . .’ I look up as I hear my name and smile quickly when the room applauds. I have to focus and be clear. And not think about Jack Dixon and his daughter.

  He goes first, repeating what he said at the last meeting and addressing some concerns that were raised in the question-and-answer section last time. He seems different, as if his body has been reinforced with steel. But I didn’t know about the stars at the last meeting, so perhaps that’s what I’m seeing now. Is this the real Jack Dixon? This absolutely matters to him. It isn’t just his own livelihood he’s fighting for.

  And then it’s my turn. I try to counter what Jack’s said about the development, but it’s as if my legs are wading through slow-setting concrete. I don’t see alarm on the faces of my friends, so I know what I’m feeling is just within me. But I’m suddenly weary – so tired of everything. I’m tired of fighting, tired of living a life that was Dad’s before, exhausted from trying to keep all the aspects of my life spinning like manic plates in a circus ring. I’m tired of smiling, of pretending that I can do any of this. I love Elinor Carne. I’m passionate that she shouldn’t be forgotten by history as she was in life. But what if saving the parsonage site isn’t the way to do it?

  As I talk about preserving her memory and providing a place where generations can learn about her, I find myself thinking of Cerrie’s class this week. Thirty children who left the classroom excited about astronomy and determined to follow Elinor’s example. Would they have been this excited visiting a ruin of a building on the wind-battered moor? Are their parents anywhere near as invested in Elinor’s legacy after three weeks of campaigning as those kids were after ninety minutes of learning about her?

  I put down my notes and smile at the assembled townspeople. ‘You’ve heard so much from both sides. Thank you for listening. But now it’s up to you. It isn’t just about preserving history, although it’s important for future generations to learn about Elinor Carne’s contribution. But livelihoods are at stake.’ I swallow a ball of sudden emotion.

  Not just Jack’s, but mine.

  I can feel Jack Dixon’s stare but I daren’t look over.

  ‘Please think carefully about your vote. We have a history but we also have the future. It’s up to us all to decide what that will look like.’

  There’s silence as I retake my seat and then the applause begins like a raincloud breaking late over the sea. I finally risk a glance to the other side of the table, but Jack’s chair is empty.

  Shaken, I head to the exit, the atmosphere inside the Guildhall stifling. I don’t know what happened in there but I’m glad the campaign is nearly over. People congratulate me on my way to the door and I smile in return without stopping to chat. I need to be away from this place.

  The evening sky is a deep, dark blue with a half-moon that paints an undulating path over the waves in the harbour. I keep walking, not wanting to go back. Aggie and the others will understand – she’d said I looked tired when I arrived this evening. I’d hoped to see Jack, but the street outside was empty. I walk as far as I can on the harbour wall, then stop to look out to sea. The stone of the wall is cold beneath my fingers as I lean against it. I close my eyes and take in the sounds of the harbour at night: the clink of ropes against metal masts, the slap of waves against the bobbing hulls of moored boats, and the scraps of voices and shots of laughter drifting across the dark water. This place is my heartbeat, woven into my skin and bones, St Ives infusing every nerve, every blood vessel, every muscle with its light and life. I thought I’d left it behind me when I moved to Falmouth, but lately I’ve realised just how much I need this town. It’s where I moor myself, where I reconnect. Taking away all other concerns, my love for St Ives is as immovable as the rock upon which it stands.

  Whatever happens, I’ll be okay if I can be here.

  ‘That was some speech.’

  I jump, open my eyes. Jack Dixon is standing next to me. I recognise the hooded jacket he wears from that evening I watched him and Nessie on the beach.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did you mean any of it?’ It’s a question with a diamond cutting edge.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Then why do I sound so uncertain?

  His eyes are full of the sea as he looks past me to the darkening horizon. ‘I thought you did.’ It doesn’t seem to be a compliment.

  Have I offended him? I can’t tell, but this Jack Dixon is a world away from the one who met me by the bank. ‘I’m sorry, is that a problem?’

  He stares at me. ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how far you’d be prepared to go to se
cure the result you want in the vote next week.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’ Suddenly this isn’t the friendly conversation I thought we’d be having.

  He faces me and I see a whole world of questions in his stare. ‘I don’t know what to believe about you, Seren. I thought you were a decent human being. But now I’m not sure.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Just answer me one question: did you know my daughter was in Cerrie Austin’s class when you came to talk to them?’

  Finally, it all makes sense. He thinks I set Nessie up. He actually believes me capable of using a child to win the vote. ‘Absolutely not! Cerrie didn’t tell me until I was leaving.’

  ‘And would you still have done it had you known before?’

  ‘No. No, I wouldn’t. What do you take me for?’ Now I’m angry. I’m angry that I thought Jack Dixon might be a friend in different circumstances. I’m angry that I’ve even thought of him at all. In that moment I decide: I won’t tell him about the seaglass stars. He doesn’t deserve to know.

  ‘The whole school is supporting your campaign,’ he says, no gentler than his last accusation.

  ‘I didn’t ask them to. And it isn’t just my campaign,’ I hit back. ‘You think I have influence over the people of St Ives? Do you think if I did my primary concern would be saving a derelict parsonage? If I had the power you seem to think I have, don’t you think I’d be saving my business?’

  I let this hang in the air and see a battle break out over his face. Clearly he still wants a fight, but he wasn’t expecting that shot.

  ‘Is your business in trouble?’ His question is almost drowned out by the sound of the lifeboat patrolling the bay.

  ‘What do you think?’ I’m tired and I’m cold and I don’t need to be accused of this on top of everything else. Tears aren’t far away, and I need to leave before he sees it. ‘Goodnight.’