Somewhere Beyond the Sea

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Seren, wait . . .’

  ‘It’s late, and I’m tired.’

  ‘I’m scared they’ll make her life a misery. That they’ll blame her instead of me . . .’ The words tumble out of him.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The kids at St Piran’s. The school is going to fire them up about Elinor Carne and when they realise who Nessie is, she’ll be their target.’

  ‘And that’s my fault?’

  ‘Yes. No . . . Partly. I’ve seen how your visit affected Ness. She believes in Elinor Carne. Your old astronomer is all I’ve heard about since you visited St Piran’s. If other kids in the class react the same way and tell their parents, what hope do I have of protecting my girl from the fall-out?’

  How is any of this my fault? And why do I feel like Jack is expecting me to solve his problem? ‘You should talk to the school, then. They have a duty of care to your daughter.’

  ‘And you don’t bear any responsibility for influencing the school?’

  ‘You know what, Jack? I’m not the punch bag you’re looking for. Take it up with Cerrie – Miss Austin. And for what it’s worth, I think your daughter is great. I think she’ll follow her heart no matter what anyone thinks. Maybe you should give her more credit instead of expecting problems.’

  I’ve said too much. I don’t want to be here and I’m done with talking. I walk past him but I can hear his steps behind me.

  ‘Hang on, what right do you have to tell me about my kid?’

  ‘None at all. Just as you have no right to tell me what to do with my life. But next week the vote happens and then we can forget about each other.’

  I don’t look back but I don’t hear him following me. I’ve burned every bridge, destroyed any chance of knowing him as a friend rather than an enemy.

  And my heart is broken.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Jack

  Her business is dying. Brotherson said so, and she just confirmed it. She’s lost her dad, is still fighting his battles and looks exhausted. And I just accused her of plotting against Ness.

  Bloody hell, Jack.

  I watch her hurry away from me and as she heads up the hill from the harbour I see the heavy shaking of her shoulders. I should go after her but I know I’ve scuppered any chance of being heard. The damage has been done – it would be cruel to risk any more. I sit on one of the benches lining the harbour wall and knock my head back against the cold, damp stone.

  Idiot.

  My mother used to say you shouldn’t stamp on anyone because you don’t know what battles they are facing. And she knew that better than any of us. For years I hated her for walking out on Dad and leaving him looking after Owen and me, but maybe she had a point. Her demons were too much to keep her playing happy families. Maybe she thought we’d be better off without her. As it turned out, we probably were. Apart from the odd birthday card when Owen and I were younger, she broke all contact. I found out she died a few years ago and it felt like I was mourning a ghost, a shadow from my past, rather than the mum I should have known. I’ll never understand it, but it was her decision to make.

  I shouldn’t have hit out at Seren. What she said at the end of the meeting threw me. I couldn’t see past her visit kick-starting Nessie’s school’s campaign and I thought she was being hypocritical. But was she offering balance? When she mentioned livelihoods was she not just referring to her own?

  The problem isn’t that she visited the school. Or that Ness is so taken with Elinor Carne. The problem is that I’ve started to care about her. The hurt and betrayal I’ve felt has nothing to do with dented pride, or fears for my daughter. Seren’s been in my thoughts for a while and now I know why.

  Finally I can see it for what it was, five minutes too late to prevent a huge mistake. Why couldn’t I see past my own anger? Why couldn’t I have recognised the truth? I’ve just become so used to fighting everyone and everything that I couldn’t see someone who was trying to help – someone offering to be a friend. Because I think that’s what Seren MacArthur was doing . . .

  The town is eerily quiet as I walk back to the station car park. The crowds from the meeting have melted into the night and I am suddenly aware of my steps as they echo in the empty streets. I feel I’ve been judged and found wanting – and this time, it is my fault.

  The morning brings Owen, Sarah and the boys, who are taking Nessie to Paradise Park for the day to make the most of the Easter holidays, while I meet the trades who will be working on Rectory Fields if we get the green light. I make polite conversation with my sister-in-law as Nessie dashes around the chalet with her cousins. I don’t want to add any more people to the Offended by Jack Dixon list today. I’m grateful to Owen and Sarah for treating my daughter to a day out.

  ‘You sure we can’t tempt you to skive work and come with us?’ Owen asks, munching a hot cross bun from the stash Sarah insisted on bringing. ‘The JungleBarn slides rock.’

  ‘Sorry. I need to be a grown-up today,’ I grin back.

  ‘Rubbish. Being a grown-up sucks.’

  I smile over his shoulder. ‘Nessie, make sure Uncle Owen behaves himself today, okay?’

  Nessie pats her uncle’s arm. ‘You’ll be safe with me, Uncle Owen.’

  ‘Cheers, Ness.’

  ‘We should get going,’ Sarah says apologetically, checking her watch.

  ‘Yep.’ Owen takes a swig of my tea and scoops his car keys from the table. ‘Come on, troops! Let’s go play!’

  Nessie flings her arms around me as I bundle her rucksack and coat to my brother. ‘Cheers for this, Reekie.’

  ‘Pleasure, Stink.’ The Owen Dixon Hair Ruffle ensues. ‘Don’t work too hard. You look rough, man.’

  I feel rough. I didn’t sleep well after my showdown with Seren last night and woke this morning feeling like a total git. I’ve considered going to her shop in St Ives and apologising, but she’d be right to slam the door in my face. And what would I say, anyway?

  I’ve well and truly screwed up there. Best to leave it now.

  The group of trades Bill Brotherson has assembled to work on Rectory Fields is impressive. It isn’t often a build team agrees to work on a project before it gets the green light, but Brotherson’s paying a healthy retainer to secure all our services in anticipation of a Yes vote. We meet in the conference room of a chain hotel on the outskirts of Truro, and as each one goes over their plans for the apartments I can see the development taking shape in my mind. None of them bats an eyelid about my involvement as construction manager, either, which is a relief. I haven’t worked with any of the guys but they are all highly rated within the business. When Brotherson said he wanted the best of the best to work on this, he wasn’t joking. Most of them have worked on many Brotherson builds and they know his processes inside out. They’re highly skilled and it feels good to be counted among them.

  This will be the first site of this size I’ve managed and it’s eighteen months since I worked on anything comparable. I’m up for the challenge and excited about the potential. Brotherson has promised free rein on specifications for the team, but we’ll see. In my experience plans are always unlimited until the build begins and reality sets in. Still, it’s the best starting point I could’ve hoped for and we leave the meeting with smiles all round.

  They were all keen to know how last night’s meeting went, so I told them what I knew. Truth is, I didn’t stay long enough at the end of it to gauge the reaction of the crowd after our closing arguments. I wasn’t heckled out of the Guildhall, but neither was I hailed a hero. It’s going to be a close call and I don’t think anyone can guess what the outcome will be. Next time we meet, neither Seren nor I will have to say anything: it’s the turn of the town to decide. Are they more likely to vote for the development or against it? It’s impossible to say. In a week’s time a winner will emerge and all guesswork will be academic. I thought we did enough, but what do I know?

  As I drive back towards home, I can’t stop thinking about Seren. The way she look
ed at me last night – like I’d shape-shifted into a slug at her feet. I wish I could take back what I said to her. In the bright light of day it’s sickeningly obvious that I was in the wrong.

  I can’t imagine what she’s going through. I overheard Lou before the meeting saying how hard Seren’s having to work and how they are all concerned about her. He was talking to Aggie from the beach cafe on Porthgwidden Beach and I don’t think he knew I was in earshot. They seem to love her, so at least she has friends. But she looked so hurt last night and so tired. Why didn’t I see it before I engaged my gob?

  I pull into a roadside caravan cafe and try to eat a bacon sandwich, but the weight of my mistake sits like concrete in my stomach. I have to put this right. But how?

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Seren

  I shouldn’t have yelled at Jack. He’s as much a slave to his circumstances as I am to mine. But he accused me of using his daughter, and that was totally out of order. I was right to defend myself.

  Nevertheless, I can’t stop thinking about the look in his eyes when he voiced his fears for Nessie at school. It must be terrifying, seeing potential dangers everywhere for your child but having to let them go out into the world anyway. I’m not sure how I would cope with that. And I can see his point: if Cerrie’s school makes an issue of the campaign and pits themselves against Brotherson, then Nessie is separated from her classmates by default. That isn’t my problem to solve, but still it doesn’t seem fair.

  The thought I had during the meeting has been playing on my mind, too: that perhaps location isn’t key to preserving Elinor Carne’s memory. Lou has put together an initial breakdown of costs to do basic renovations on the parsonage. He showed it to us before the meeting and it was scary. I don’t know how we’ll ever raise that kind of money – and that would just be the beginning. We could be fundraising for years before we’re even able to start work on the site. The building is already in a bad way – it’s structurally unsafe and a target for local vandals. How much worse will it be by the time we raise the money to save it? Will there be any of it left to save?

  Maybe it’s because I’m so tired of fighting Dad’s battles, but I’m really wondering if this fight is worth the energy. What do I get out of winning next week’s vote? A victory for Elinor Carne perhaps, but the reality of that is signing myself up for so much more work. Maybe years of fundraising. More debates, more fights, more and more of my life claimed by the ongoing campaign. If I’m honest I don’t even know if this is the best way to honour Elinor. If we have so long to wait until her former home is restored, how does that get the word out about her? I want Elinor to be recognised and remembered, but am I willing to sacrifice so much of my future to see it happen?

  But what happens if we lose? If Jack wins? He isn’t doing this job for himself; he’s doing it to provide for his little girl. If we lost the vote and Brotherson Developments won, he could secure their future and the problems he fears with the school would be solved.

  If Jack wins . . .

  I need to think. This itch about the vote refuses to go away, which makes me think I should pay attention to it. But could I risk everything my friends and I have campaigned for? And what alternative could I offer them?

  I leave the shop at four p.m. and walk up past Porthmeor Beach, taking the cliff path around the headland. When I reach the highest point, I sit down and gaze out to sea.

  Think, Seren. There has to be a way to make this happen.

  There’s a storm coming.

  I can feel it.

  In the air, in the subtle change of the breeze.

  Over the sea, washes of grey cloud are beginning to bleed like watercolour strokes. I can see the rain approaching, sheets of leaden bullets heading for shore.

  The breeze turns and suddenly it’s the rush of air that precedes the rain, like the rush of wind before an underground train appears. I love this moment: when you can see what’s coming and there’s no way to stop it. I like the certainty. The brief warning. It’s like a knowing nod from nature herself: get ready, here we go . . . The rush is energising, vital, real. I love knowing it’s going to happen, and yet the thrill of not knowing quite when.

  Sitting in the wild grass on the edge of the cliff, I wait, hugging my knees to my chin, feeling the wind lift my hair to make it dance around my face as my jacket hood billows behind my head.

  Life should be like this, I think, as the waves of grey cloud rush across the sea towards me. Constantly anticipating something happening, loving the thrill of waiting for it to arrive. And in that moment, I understand. This is how I want my life to feel. Expectant, confident that something exciting will happen if I just wait for it.

  If we win the vote, I can kiss this feeling goodbye. It will get buried beneath more layers of responsibility, more demands on my time. I can’t compartmentalise my happiness any more. All I want is to feel on the edge of possibility. I have to make this happen. This should be my choice . . .

  I close my eyes to keep my tears within. And the rain starts to fall.

  Chapter Fifty

  Jack

  There’s a problem at the site.

  The first I heard about it was this morning when Bill Brotherson’s PA called me.

  ‘So sorry to call at such short notice, Jack, but Bill was very insistent you meet him today. He’s going over to the site at lunchtime. Is there any chance you could meet him there?’

  Silly question. When your potential employer demands an urgent meeting, you don’t hang about. Thankfully providence is on my side today: it’s Nessie’s night for tea with Owen and Sarah, and she’s spending the day with my father beforehand. He’ll drop her at Owen’s farm so if the meeting is a long one I won’t have to worry about getting her there. Gathering all my notes and plans, I drive over to the parsonage and arrive just as Brotherson’s chauffeur-driven Jaguar appears on the approach road.

  ‘Nice day for it, Jack.’ Clive, Brotherson’s chauffeur, gives me a wink as he gets out of the car and walks around to open his employer’s door. Even Brotherson’s employees I’ve never met before seem to be on first-name terms with me.

  ‘I hope so,’ I say, glad of the cloud-dappled sun being blown across the site. I wait for Bill to emerge, quickly stepping forward to shake his hand. He doesn’t look happy.

  ‘Hi, Bill.’

  ‘Jack. Appreciate you coming.’ He jams a blue Brotherson Developments hard hat on his head and hands his shoes to Clive as he pulls on a very new-looking pair of green Hunter wellingtons. Then he nods at me and we walk through the rusted gate and up the overgrown path to Bethel Parsonage.

  ‘Cassandra said there was a problem?’

  ‘Potentially. We did initial tests on the ground and some of the results are inconclusive. Geophys scans suggest a crack right across the foundations of the main building, travelling east to west.’

  That is bad news. Or it could be. ‘Would there be any way of shoring it up?’

  ‘Nah. Best solution would be to flatten the site, dig everything out and start again.’ He squints up at me. ‘I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear.’

  I think on my feet. The news should utterly depress me, but, surprisingly, it doesn’t. I’ve been questioning this build since my row with Seren and this seems to confirm my gut feeling. ‘There are ways round it. If we can salvage the original stones and incorporate them into a new design, I don’t see a conflict with our sustainable development goal. It might mean working in extra time to take the building down brick by brick, but ultimately I think it’ll be worth it.’

  ‘Expensive, though.’

  ‘But worth it in the final product.’

  Brotherson shrugs. ‘I reckon you’re right.’ He shoves his hands in the trouser pockets of his bespoke-tailored suit. ‘Listen, Jack, I want us to win that vote. I want this site to be a success.’

  ‘I know. I’m trying my hardest.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll see you right, boy. I believe you’ll win it, but I don’t
want you worrying if that rabble goes rogue and votes against us. Ways and means, Jack. Ways and means.’

  I stare at him, not sure what to make of this. Is he offering me a job regardless of the vote’s outcome? ‘I really want this job, Bill.’

  ‘I know you do, son. I appreciate what you’ve done for this project. Never had anyone go the extra mile the way you have. Light and sustainable development and all. Your cost-cutting plans are bloody genius, too. I like you, kid. More to the point, people like you. The construction team wants to work with you. Even those bods at the town meeting didn’t rip your head off. You’re an asset to my company.’

  This wasn’t what I thought he’d say. It’s a massive compliment – and more than that, it’s the security I’ve worked so hard to gain. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Jack Dixon. We need more of you in construction. Now, I still believe we can win this vote on Wednesday night. But if it doesn’t happen or we have to take the fight further, I have several other projects nearing agreement I’d like to set you working on in the meantime. That’s if you’re interested?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I rush to reply. ‘Absolutely.’

  It’s like pieces of a puzzle are clicking into place. I sit in my car long after Brotherson has departed, mulling it over. I keep thinking about Seren – about everything she has lost and what is at stake if we win the vote. She was exhausted when we argued, the fight I’d seen in her gone. It wasn’t right: she seemed to have so much life when I first saw her speak. What would happen if Brotherson lost the vote and her campaign won? Would it give her a boost? Help her see the old astronomer recognised and fulfil her father’s wish? If her business folds, could the campaign to restore the parsonage take its place?

  I hate that I yelled at her. I want to do something to redress the balance. Brotherson said I have a job regardless of what happens on Wednesday night – which means I can support Ness and me, my primary concern in all of this.