The Catalyst

by Angela Jardine

  ‘Yes, Edward,’ she prompted gently after watching the apparent workings of absent-mindedness in front of her for a few moments. The long journey upcountry and back in the last few days combined with a night of broken sleep had left her exhausted and very definitely unable to deal with any of Edward’s usual oddnesses this morning. She just wished he would go home and leave her in the peacefulness of the old shop but he had suddenly become engrossed in an invoice and had apparently forgotten he had even been talking to her.

  Edward had started his little bookshop when Francesca left him, more as an exercise in distraction than anything else. It was a way of diverting himself from his loss of direction, the loss of everything he had ever cared about, all wrapped up in the package that was Francesca.

  Life in the years since Francesca had meant little to him and could hardly be called living with enthusiasm. He often wondered why he even bothered to get out of bed in a morning. He had no family now. He had borrowed Francesca’s relations as his own but had let the contacts lapse. He knew he would have been uncomfortable with their awkwardness as they tried to juggle relationships between the two of them and the other man she had found so irresistible, Gilbert.

  He snorted in his mind. What sort of name was that, even if he was French? He surprised himself with his sudden rush of rancour and it set up a vague fear in him that he might never again experience equanimity, never again feel peace.

  They had had no children, Francesca had been vehement about not letting her body be ruined by childbearing but in the end that had been a good thing, he supposed. At least there were no children to hurt or wrangle over. Gradually, after her departure, his natural tendency for introversion had reasserted itself and he now found he had few friends.

  Suddenly, coming back to the present with a jolt he was aware that Sunny had fallen silent and was still looking at him for an answer. He looked at her over the tops of his glasses.

  ‘Well, are you going home to rest then?’ he said testily, as if they had already decided on this. Sunny tried to ignore his tone, sure that he did not realise he had such an unfortunate manner.

  ‘Okay, yes ... I will. Thanks, Edward!’ She surprised herself with an agreement she had had no intention of uttering a moment ago and almost looked sideways to see who had said it.

  Once it was said however she felt it would look foolish to unsay it and offer to stay on to work instead. So telling him she was sure she’d be much better the next day when she was more rested she stepped out into the sunlit street with a sudden feeling of suppressed excitement, like a child playing truant from school.

  The knowledge that she had a day off to recover lifted her spirits a little and her fatigue immediately started to melt in the warm sunshine. Further down the street she surprised herself by absentmindedly taking a little skip-step and it made her smile. Why on earth do I work in such a dark and dingy place for a boss whose moods are at best morose, and at worst decidedly rude, she wondered.

  She did have to work, there was no alternative, no doubt about that. All their joint savings had been eaten away by David’s last illness and her inability to concentrate on any sort of work for some months after his death. Being a rather young widow had meant her financial help from the State had ceased after only a year and things had rapidly becoming critical.

  Edward seemed to make only a modest profit from his business and although he paid her a reasonable hourly rate she knew he could not afford to employ her full time so her part-time wage only allowed for basic living expenses. Although she knew she should really look for something with more hours or better pay, maybe even something a little more diverting, the dark womb of the bookshop suited her. It hid her and her pain.

  Today however she was glad to feel the sun on her cheeks and she breathed in fiercely, aware of a distant echo of the childhood exhilaration she had once felt at being a free spirit for a day. It was a welcome feeling and she took another skip-step, ignoring the fact this might look incongruous in what she laughingly referred to as extremely-late -youth rather than last-gasp thirties.

  Even though she was well aware she was no child she felt that, at least for today and tired as she was, she didn’t quite fit the label of nearing middle age either.

  Chapter 2

  It was only a short journey by car from the coastal market town of Dehwelyans where Edward had his bookshop to the tiny village where they both lived. The narrow road sidled along the sea’s edge for four miles, winding through the pinched streets of the fishing port of Tregorran before reaching her home in Porthcarn.

  The journey was usually made all the more dangerous as she drove due to her inability not to look out across the bay with its constant traffic of fishing vessels, yachts and the large white ferry that charged purposefully across to the Lowarth Isles. When the sun shone the scene had a continental flavour and Sunny often felt she was far away from England on such days.

  On the days when the sea turned rough and threatening and the bay offered the shelter of its deep waters to cargo vessels, visiting warships and tall ships alike there was no doubting she lived on a wind-blasted peninsular surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean.

  Now as she drove past the harbour at Tregorran she noticed one of the large beam trawlers returning to harbour, nosing its way slowly between ’The Gaps’, the narrow entry between the ends of the two quays. Something about the bravado of the boat’s high bows proudly displaying its identity number, the rakish slant of its net beams, raised and folded like a butterfly’s wings, awoke emotions in her that she could neither explain nor understand.

  There was a sort of cocky defiance about it, a steadfast courage that said the sea did not get them this time, but she knew the sea did still take them and men and boats were still lost all too easily around this coast. She felt a strange affinity with the boat and its constant gamble with life in the face of the indifferent cruelty of the sea.

  It was now late morning in Tregorran and feeling the need to be a part of this scene she parked her car and wandered down to the old quay. New quays had been built further out into the bay early in the last century to create the harbour the boats now used, leaving the old quay sitting in the quiet waters inside and close to the land.

  This tiny, ancient curve of stones was now only a silent testament to a simpler time when fishing boats could be pulled up onto a beach that had long-since vanished under concrete and the monstrous, implacable rocks put there by men who had a desperate need to protect their boats and their fragile livelihood from the sea and its temper.

  Today however the stones of the old quay, smudged soft green and vibrant orange by tenacious lichens, lay peaceful in the steady water of the harbour. Tiny mounds of emerald moss clung like sun-warmed fur between the random blocks of granite and herring gulls sat, arms folded in a deceptive, watchful idleness waiting for the boats to return.

  Sunny too sat down with her back against a pile of old lobster pots stacked alongside the low wall and breathed in their smell of seaweed and saltwater. She tilted her face to the sun and closed her eyes, allowing her mind to drift. Her daydream took her to the sloping meadows that clung to the hillside above her home in Porthcarn and she saw herself lie down amongst the wildflowers and the drone of bees until the figure of a man appeared abruptly. She frowned at the intrusion on her idyll.

  ‘Why the frown?’ she heard a male voice ask and she opened her eyes in confusion. Was this the man in her daydream? She wasn’t sure now whether she had imagined him or seen him through half-closed eyelids as he stood over her, a young man with a smile of impossible beauty, the sun behind his head making a golden halo of his tousled yellow hair.

  Instantly shaking off her torpor and feeling that sprawling against lobster pots put her at a definite disadvantage she scrambled to get up, just as he decided to hunker down to her level. Colliding with him she nearly fell backwards as he, reacting swiftly, caught hold of her arm.

  She was aware of many sensations in that moment. The warm, clean smell of him,
the strength in the brown hands, the way he made her feel physically small. Most of all she was instantly, and uncomfortably, aware she had a longing to be held again. It had been so long since she had been cradled in a man’s arms, so long since she had felt protected. The feeling was so strong she had a dread it might somehow communicate itself to him, that he might be able to feel the need in her.

  It was certainly true the man had noticed a sudden high colour in her cheeks and had guessed, although not quite correctly, something of its origin but then this was just the usual occupational hazard for Matty Tregoning.

  ‘You must be careful not to burn, miss. The sun can still be a bit fierce even though ‘tis getting on towards autumn.’

  Feeling he was trying to help her out of her all-too-obvious embarrassment she warmed slightly to his kindness.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right ... I really didn’t intend staying long anyway.’ She was nervous now, and awkward, unaware that she held up a hand as if to ward him off should he make a move towards her. She was grateful to this stranger for his tact but she suddenly felt she needed to get away from him. He was, however, still holding onto her arm.

  ‘I was just about to leave …’ she said, looking at his hand, knowing it was an unconvincing thing to say after he had caught her half-asleep in the sun. She could see the disbelief in his eyes as he turned his slow, electrifying smile on her again as if in some subtle form of revenge for her lie.

  Somewhere, very low down inside her, everything turned over bringing with it an unexpected remembrance of the heat and passion of long-dead lovemaking and she immediately became even more desperate to get away from him.

  ‘I’m Matthew,’ he said suddenly, with an air of that explaining everything. Then letting go of her arm he held out his hand to her and she desperately hoped he was oblivious of the effect he was having on her. He was wondering whether he should pursue this one. ‘Matthew Tregoning ... but everyone just calls me Matty.’

  ‘Sunny … Sunny Smith.’ She introduced herself with a finely timed handshake, shaking his proffered hand for the least possible time she could without appearing rude.

  ‘ … and you live?’

  ‘Oh ... er ... just along the road ... in Porthcarn,’ she said, edging away.

  ‘Ah, then that’s where I’ve seen you!’ He clicked his fingers and chuckled, pleased with his recall. ‘I work out of there … on my boat the Maid of Zennor, maybe you’ve seen her in the harbour? I expect I’ll see you again then … now I know where you live.’

  She felt transfixed by the steadiness of his gaze as it held hers before suddenly remembering she had caught sight of him too, had looked down on his tousled head from the harbour side. He had been working on one of the little crabbing boats in Porthcarn harbour but he hadn’t been smiling into her eyes then. Something warned her not to encourage him.

  ‘Hmm, maybe …’ she said, trying to be noncommittal. ‘Well, I’d better be going now.’

  If he felt slighted by her lack of enthusiasm he hid it well, merely nodding and stepping back to let her pass him. She knew his eyes were on her as she hurried up the uneven cobbles of the old slipway and threw the briefest glance back at him as she climbed into her car. He was still watching her, standing tall and lean, but really just a boy after all. She bit her bottom lip to stop herself grinning at her own foolishness.

  As it turned out it was only a matter of days before she met Matty Tregoning again. Slipping out early to the village shop for her bread and newspaper she was wandering home along the harbour side when she heard someone call her name.

  ‘Hi ... Sunny?’

  Looking down into the harbour she caught sight of him in a small boat, loading lobster pots from the quay steps and was struck again by his physical beauty, all wide smile and sun-streaked hair. Reluctantly she smiled and nodded to him but kept on walking until she was out of his sight.

  A low chuckle behind her made her glance round in alarm until she recognised Tom Batten, one of the old fishermen of the village, following her on his way to work. Tom had been one of Sunny’s first contacts in the village and she had grown fond of him. He now collected money on the quayside car park, feeling he had pushed his luck at sea long enough and was too old to go fishing anymore.

  ‘I ’spect the nex’ wave might jus’ have my name on it,’ he was fond of saying.

  Innocently, she had allowed herself to share a little of her story with him. Only later did she become aware Tom always made sure he shared any news he picked up with the rest of the village and would talk to anyone who would stand still long enough. Luckily this had worked in her favour and there had been a definite warming towards her by the villagers when they found out she was a widow.

  Merely being nodded at by the locals in this village was a definite achievement as she had been warned they could be aloof with incomers. When they found out, though the indirect services of Tom Batten, that she had nursed her husband for a year through his last illness the nods had become greetings whenever they met her in the street. She could not have said why this small sign of acceptance was such a comfort to her.

  Despite being an outsider she was very grateful this fact did not appear to be openly held against her as she felt a real need to belong to this place more than she had ever done to any other. Although she treasured her solitude and did not want to lose the peace it afforded her there was comfort in being an acknowledged part of village life. It was as if the villagers had somehow divined these facts for the balance seemed to be right on both sides.

  Now, she waited for Tom to catch up with her and fell into step with him.

  ‘See you’m met our Matty, m’dear.’ He grinned at her through his grey beard, his white, crooked teeth making him look rather like an amiable pirate.

  ‘Yes...’ she said, hesitantly, waiting for the warning she somehow knew he was going to give.

  ‘Well, jes’ you be careful, girl … ’e be a rum lad, that one, if you tek my meanin’.’

  The faded blue of his eyes twinkled at her and she did indeed take his meaning. She could hardly fail to understand what he meant by ‘a rum lad’, hadn’t she already felt the easy pull of Matty Tregoning herself? Matty would hardly be a normal male if he didn’t capitalise on his obvious attributes.

  Still, she felt that none of this was important to her, reminding herself that she might well be lonely occasionally and unexpectedly returned to the market of life but she was also much older than the boy in question.

  ‘Oh, c’mon Tom, I’m not some foolish kid, y’know!’

  ‘Ah, well now, you never pay that no mind, my bird. Our Matty’s a law unto ’imself and I can’t say as I do know of any woman tha’s been able to resist ’im once ’e sets ’is sights on ’em.’

  He chuckled ruefully as if Matty were just a cheeky boy and she laughed at his words, shaking her head in disbelief.

  ‘You may laugh but you just be warned … ’e’ll like a pretty maid like you. You’ll see what I mean sometime near enough, I doan’ doubt.’

  The twinkle was still there as he glanced slyly at her. She smiled back at him, touched at being described as a ‘pretty maid’ even though she knew it was just the habitual flattery of old men everywhere.

  ‘I promise I’ll be on my guard, Tom,’ she said, trying to look serious but thinking she would have no trouble keeping clear of the predatory advances of Matty Tregoning, handsome as he was … and if they ever happened.

  A forceful knock on her front door a few days later made her jump. It was a stable door and she had left the top half open to allow the sea air and sun into her kitchen. A square patch of sunshine fell onto her old rug and she knew it would fade the colours even more but it was a price she was prepared to pay to enjoy the sunlight.

  The knock was Matty announcing himself and he had a red plastic bucket in his hand. Feeling somehow immune today, possibly because he was on the other side of the door, Sunny smiled easily at him. She had been more than a little amused at Tom’s warning
and had had to admit to herself she had even been quite flattered to think the local Romeo might pay her some attention.

  That had soon faded as she realised he probably practiced charming anything with a pulse that wasn’t related to him and being lovable to women was as natural to Matty Tregoning as breathing. It was just not something he could easily switch off.

  ‘Morning, Matthew, are you on your way to build sandcastles?’ She inwardly congratulated herself on her flippancy as she flicked a tea towel across her shoulder and folded her arms.

  ‘Thought you might like a couple of fresh crabs, Sunny. They’re a gift … from me,’ he said with a smile that lit up his forget-me-knot blue eyes.

  ‘What a kind thought, thank you … but I don’t think I could bear to boil them, poor things.’

  ‘Keep them as pets then.’

  The thought amused her and she burst out laughing.

  ‘Nutcase!’ she said, not realising the playful name-calling seemed to create an instant bond between them. It had not escaped Matty and it was not an aspect he had met before in a woman. The women he usually targeted had always been so eager to please they never risked their chance by teasing him, even with affectionate abuse. Until he left them that was, and then the abuse was anything but affectionate.

  ‘Laughter … just another service I offer.’ He grinned, trying to recover surer ground. He wanted to compliment her, to flatter his way into her good books but he could feel his pitch already beginning to slip out of his control and he did not know how to get it back. He knew she would insist on rejecting his gift.

  ‘Thanks for the thought, Matthew, but they are your livelihood. Sell them to the pub and make some money.’ She turned away, hoping he would take the hint and go but he still lounged against the doorjamb.

  ‘Would you like to go out in the boat sometime? I could show you some of the coves along the coast. There are some that can only be reached by sea.’