by Georgia Hill
Dave Curzon, who ran the newsagents, and his girlfriend Lola stopped to chat. Mostly to Ollie. Everyone loved Ollie. She listened as the men moaned about Berecombe football club’s terrible start to the season. Ollie needed a haircut, she thought. His unruly black hair was flopping over his eyes and he kept having to flip it back impatiently. She’d have to get her mum to do it. Since he’d been training with the RNLI crew, he’d put on muscle weight and had bulked up. His shoulders had broadened and he was almost stocky. Or maybe he was just transitioning from a lanky boy into a man? Emotion shifted inside her. She knew she didn’t always treat him as well as he deserved but, deep down, she loved him.
Dave and Lola drifted off and Ollie took a swig of his shandy and grinned. ‘So, come on, tell me what’s Her Ladyship done now?’
It was their name for Leona. It had taken one day for Tash and Emma to get the measure of their new colleague.
Emma’s lips twisted. ‘Today’s hissy fit was over me using her mug. Apparently, I don’t wash up hygienically enough and she doesn’t want my germs.’ Emma’s eyes were huge and indignant.
Ollie laughed. ‘She might have a point there.’
‘And she had a go at me for eating crisp sandwiches for breakfast.’ Emma drew herself up. ‘“You are what you eat apparently.”’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I think it’s up to me what I eat. And then I caught her using wet wipes to wipe the phone receiver before she used it. By the time she’d answered it, they’d rung off!’
‘It takes all sorts, I suppose,’ Ollie said equably. ‘Dawn in the office is like that but not quite as bad.’ Ollie worked for the town council. He had a dull but reasonably paid job which was, most importantly, local enough for him to get to a RNLI shout when on call. ‘Let’s hope she gets fast-tracked and disappears up to head office.’ He put his hand on Emma’s. ‘Chill, Em. It’s not like you to get so worked up.’
Emma sipped her cider gloomily. She didn’t really like it but it was the cheapest alcohol the Old Harbour did. ‘No, it isn’t.’ It was true, she rarely worked up a sweat about anything. Lately though, she’d been feeling unsettled, irritated, bored. She shook off Ollie’s hand restlessly. ‘Trouble is, if she does, it’ll be Tash’s job she takes. And there’s no way in hell I could work for a boss like Leona. Tash isn’t happy about it at all. And Leona, bless her, doesn’t miss an opportunity to remind us she’s the one with the degree. It’s doing my head in.’
‘Don’t think a degree is going to equip her to deal with Biddy Treeby. Or should I say Roulestone, now? Keep forgetting she married poor old Arthur. Is she still interested in the Morrisons’ bungalow?’ He batted a moth away.
Emma managed a giggle. ‘Early doors yet. If I didn’t want the commission so badly, I’d hand over the Morrison-Roulestone sale to Lady Muck.’ She opened her crisps. ‘Would like to see Her Ladyship cope with that.’ She crunched down hard on salt and vinegar. ‘And,’ she added, offering the bag to Ollie, ‘when Tash and I explained about the carnival float we do for Hughes and Widrow, she flatly refused to take part. Said there was no way she was going to dress up as a St Trinian’s schoolgirl. Talk about a killjoy. The woman’s not human. No sense of humour and closed up like a scallop.’
‘Maybe she’s just feeling her feet? You and Tash make a formidable team, you know. You’re good friends too. Can’t be easy slotting in.’ He took a slug of his pint. ‘Probably nerves. It’s not easy starting somewhere new sometimes.’
‘We try to help her fit in, Ollie, honestly we really do. But with some people there’s no helping.’
Ollie pointed his glass at Emma. ‘You just breeze into places, expecting everyone to love you instantly.’ He smiled at her, fondly. ‘And they do.’ He took her hand and kissed it.
‘That’s because I’m so gorgeous.’
Ollie knew his cue. ‘That’s because you’re so gorgeous. So, naughty schoolgirls, eh?’ He visibly perked up. ‘Is that your theme this time?’
‘Thought that might get your attention. Yeah. Should be good fun. We’re going to squirt water pistols and throw sweets to the kids. You collecting, again?’
‘Suppose. Or doing the car park.’
Berecombe Carnival was held every two years and was one of the town’s highlights. The season seemed to get longer every year. When the schools went back, the type of tourist changed. More couples, fewer families, older visitors. The carnival, though, was more a celebration for the locals rather than visitors. Along with the funfair which camped out on the square outside the theatre, it marked the end of the summer season.
‘Would prefer bucket shaking to be honest,’ Ollie said. ‘Overseeing the parking can get boring. And it would give me a chance to make the most of you dressed up as a schoolgirl.’
Emma smiled at him wistfully. ‘If we had our own place, I could do that for you every night.’
He reached for her hand again. ‘It’ll happen, Em. One day.’
‘I like your optimism.’
He grinned and reached for his pint again. ‘That’s me, Mr Optimistic. Now tell me all about this evening class you want to do.’
Chapter 6
Emma couldn’t contain herself. She got to Millie’s bookshop far too early for the first class and the reading area was deserted. Amy greeted her at the door and said she’d be along later. She also said there would be a few familiar faces at the class so Emma assumed some of the other book club members were attending. She found a sofa facing the harbour view and tried to compose herself. She wrote the date and title in the notebook especially bought for the class and then closed it again and hugged it to her. Would she be able to do this? Screwing up her eyes at the memory of school, she clamped down on the fear of failure.
She had been a bundle of nerves and excitement all day. When she’d knocked a mug of coffee all over an incandescent Leona, Tash had ordered her out of the office. She’d made a courtesy call on the Morrisons and had then driven out into the countryside on the edge of town to a thatched cottage they’d just taken on. She spent a while taking the photographs for the sales brochure, enjoying the tranquillity of its setting and its sea views. The old couple selling insisted she join them for tea and cake in the garden. Emma sat with them in the afternoon sunshine while they reminisced about how happy they’d been there. She could see why. Down a track off a B-road, it sat in the vee of the valley overlooking the distant sea. She couldn’t think of a more wonderful place to live.
‘Oh, you’re far too young to be burying yourself out here in the country,’ Mrs Grey had laughed when she’d mentioned it. ‘You young folk want the bright lights and nightlife of a city, don’t you?’
It had made Emma think all the way back to the office. Part of her could see Ollie and her in a house like the Greys’. A spaniel running about, a few chickens, maybe a couple of children – her mother would ecstatic at the thought of grandchildren. Ever since she and Ollie had got back together, the idea of marriage hung around them, unspoken but expected. As she’d said to Tash, she was a big marriage fan but part of her wondered if marrying Ollie would be all too easy – if they were slipping into something because there was no other option. She loved Ollie, she really did, but every time she tried to imagine Ollie in the garden, playing with the dog or holding a toddler, the only face which swam into her vision was that of Joel. He’d said she looked as if she’d stepped out from a Hardy novel and the cottage she’d just left couldn’t be more Hardy-esque. When she tried to picture a man inside the house, it was Joel she saw sitting at the ancient desk in the corner; Joel who stood at the Aga stirring a pan of something delicious, a glass of wine in his hand.
‘Emma Tizzard. My auburn-haired queen.’
Emma blinked and looked up. The man himself stood in front of her. For a moment she wondered if she was still in her fantasy because he held a glass of red in one long-fingered hand.
‘I don’t intend the classes to be formal,’ he smiled down at her, waggling the glass. ‘Millie has provided some rather wonderful wine and
nibbles. She’ll be attending too, along with Amy and someone called Biddy?’ He raised his brows.
Emma’s heart sank. Biddy had a tendency to dominate most situations. She couldn’t even begin to imagine why she’d want to do the classes.
‘I gather she has a rather colourful past.’
‘You could say that. The rumour is she was a madame in London at one time. One of Berecombe’s most characterful residents. Deffo one of its loudest. Married to a local councillor and the talk of the town.’
Joel’s brows shot up. ‘Really? How utterly fascinating.’ He slid onto the sofa next to her. ‘I love how small places like this embrace its eccentrics.’
Emma smiled wryly. ‘With Biddy I don’t think it has a choice.’ She tried to ignore the way his presence made her throat constrict. She wondered where he lived. Exeter, she assumed.
‘So, it will be a lively set of classes. How very splendid.’ He leaned nearer. ‘I have to confess to not being able to contain my excitement at the thought of seeing you again. I have a passion for opening up young minds, of introducing them to all there is to explore.’ He locked gaze and Emma felt her breath hitch. ‘There is so much we can do together, my wonderful Emma.’
She stared at him. Was he coming onto her? She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Was it allowed? Then she remembered she wasn’t at school any more. He wasn’t a school teacher but a university lecturer. They were both adults. She thought of Ollie and a pang of guilt shot through her. The moment fractured as Amy and Millie clattered into the space and she heard Biddy’s strident tones as she struggled up the spiral staircase behind them.
Chapter 7
After the first hour, Emma came out into the cool, salt-laden air in a daze. It might have been an introductory class, but Joel had taken no prisoners. After a quick discussion about why literature was relevant, Joel had launched straight into a lecture on Chaucer and had given them The Wife of Bath to read for homework. She wondered just what she’d taken on.
Biddy followed her out and stood next to her, rubbing her hands in glee. ‘Think I’m going to like this Wife person. Woman after my own heart. Got to use your natural gifts to get ahead, like she said.’ When she didn’t get an answer, she humphed and added, ‘I’m going back in to grab a sandwich. Don’t stay out here, young Emma my girl, or you’ll miss out. Brains need feeding.’
Emma went to sit on the low wall which separated the seating area outside the book shop from the beach. Although it had been warm during the day, there was a distinct autumnal nip developing tonight. She shivered. Doubts assailed her. No one at home could understand why this was so important to her. When she’d mentioned it, her mother had thinned her lips and warned her about trying things ‘not meant for the likes of us. Fine words don’t bring the money in,’ she’d added and had gone on to complain about the state Emma had left her bedroom in. Stevie had scoffed about her wanting to go back to school when he couldn’t stand the place and her father had fallen asleep in front of Man U on the television. They didn’t understand why she was doing this. And certainly weren’t offering any support. She sighed. No wonder she’d dropped out of school as soon as possible. No one in her family valued anything to do with education. Her Uncle Ken was a painter and firmly anti-establishment. Auntie Tess was a baker and had given up hoping that any of her three boys would show signs of being academic. Even Ollie had blanched when she’d told him how much the classes cost. Why on earth was she putting herself through this?
‘Having doubts, Emma?’ Joel’s melodious voice floated into the night and shifted with the sea. He sat on the wall beside her. ‘You were very quiet back there.’
Emma stayed silent. She didn’t want to admit most of what had been discussed had gone straight over her head.
‘What was the last book you read, Emma?’ Joel put his hand on hers.
‘Poldark.’ Emma answered without thinking. His touch had taken her by surprise. ‘I’ve just started Demelza for the book club and before that I read Wuthering Heights. I’m a big Poldark fan,’ she added, self-consciously.
‘And what do you like about the Poldark books?’
‘Well, I know they’re not high literature—’
‘Have to stop you there. Nothing wrong with Winston Graham. Fine writer. But it’s true, we can’t quite class them as high literature. Tell me, in your own words and without overthinking it, why you love reading them so much.’
Emma blinked out into the night. Behind them, she could hear Amy calling to Millie that they needed another pot of coffee. She felt suddenly tearful. How could she explain? ‘I don’t know what to say.’ She concentrated very hard on the distant flashing of the Portland lighthouse.
‘Take your time.’ Joel’s voice was very gentle. ‘Just say it like it is.’
Emma blew out an enormous breath. ‘Mum and Dad weren’t bothered about school and they didn’t mind me leaving as soon as I could. Mum would be happy if I got married, had a few kids. Ollie, my boyfriend, would like that too. Especially the kids part. Life’s been a breeze, I suppose. I’ve drifted along, picking up jobs where I can. The estate agent’s job has been the one I’ve stuck at the longest, although I’m still not sure if it’s what I want to do forever.’ She shifted on the cold stone, smiling as she thought of all the dead-end jobs she’d done, mostly seasonal, all low-paid. Now she’d begun talking, it all tumbled out. ‘I always wondered if there was something else out there. The book group is a big thing for me. For the first time I had people to talk about books to. No one at home is interested and all Ollie bangs on about is his latest RNLI exercise.’ She glanced at Joel. ‘He’s just started volunteering for them.’
Joel nodded but didn’t speak. His attention was intense. No one had ever really listened to her like this. It was an intoxicating experience.
‘I’ve got a nice life, don’t get me wrong,’ Emma went on. ‘I live in a great town.’ She gestured to the white lights along the prom, reflections bobbing prettily on a shifting black sea. ‘Who wouldn’t want to live here? I’ve got a pretty good job – for round here, that is – and a decent boyfriend. It’s not that I’m desperate to live anywhere else.’
‘But you sense there’s more.’
‘Yes! And books give that to me. I love reading about Cornwall. I love how Ross Poldark is such a complicated man. Not a hero all the time. He’s got flaws. Big ones. Everything’s bigger in books. More vivid. More …’ she shrugged, ‘Oh, I don’t know, more everything.’ She gave a gutsy sigh. ‘I’m not making much sense.’
‘Yes, you are. You’re making perfect sense. And this is what you need to say in class.’
Emma frowned. ‘What, about the town and Ollie and stuff?’
‘Maybe nothing quite that personal.’ Joel laughed. ‘But you can say how the characters you read about make you feel. How you relate to them. What relevance the words have for you.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t give up, Emma. Words entertain us, make us think about the world. They matter. They matter to you. Words shape your world, may even change your world. They are powerful things. And you’re just at the beginning of your journey with them. Ease yourself in gradually. Learn how to express how they make you feel. Your opinion is as valid as anyone’s in that room. It’s just that the brain is a muscle. It needs exercising to get it to do what you want.’
‘Thank you, Joel.’ Emma let out a breath in relief. She had a suspicion no one else she knew would understand the way he had.
‘It’s my absolute pleasure. I think you’ve got real potential. And I’d like, if I may, to help you unlock it.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed it softly with a kiss. ‘I’d like to think we can unlock many things together. Exciting things. And now, if you’ll excuse me, the aroma of Millie’s coffee is proving too enticing.’ He stood up. ‘See you after the break. I refuse to accept you not coming back in, Emma Tizzard!’
Chapter 8
Emma jogged along the corridor of the Arts Workshop and burst into the main hall. She was late
. Despite this, she took a moment to enjoy the view with familial pride. There was a satisfying bustle of activity focused around Hughes and Widrow’s float entry into Berecombe carnival.
She watched as Uncle Ken stood back for a second to decide what to paint next. He shoved a paintbrush into the front pocket of his tattered dungarees, oblivious to the smear of grey it left. The Workshop was his pride and joy. His fourth baby after his sons. Some might argue it was his favourite creation. Set up a year ago, its aim was to develop arts and crafts in the town – and to give its young people something to do other than hang around in the shelters on the promenade. It was slowly establishing itself and Ken was overcoming his innate reluctance to deal with those in authority and had recently been working with Jed Henville on securing Arts Council funding. The ceramic and calligraphy courses had waiting lists. Even those youths who considered themselves too hardcore for anything arty were drawn to the graffiti workshops run by Ken. He had probably done over and above the things they imagined they had, Emma thought, with a smile.
Carnival was a big event in Berecombe, the culmination of the season before everyone slid, exhausted, into winter. Everyone looked forward to the carnival parade and the old-fashioned fair that set up in town. Entrants went to extraordinary lengths to create the perfect float and competition was fierce. The best ones even made it to parade in the ultimate street carnival at Bridgwater later in the year. Under the embellishments, all floats were fundamentally the same: a sort of giant open box made of chipboard, big enough to hold a group of people but light enough to be lifted and fixed onto a vehicle, usually some kind of flatbed truck.