Finding Love at Mermaid Terrace

by Kate Forster

  Tressa unclipped her bike helmet and looked carefully through the jams by the door. She picked up a jar and read the label.

  ‘Banana chutney? That sounds ambitious.’

  ‘Rosemary has been trying new things,’ said Penny diplomatically. ‘The jams are lovely though; I can recommend her blackcurrant jam on a crumpet. Or the raspberry and kirsch if you like a little hint of alcohol.’

  Tressa took the blackcurrant jam and went to the counter.

  ‘I’m here to get the letters to the editor. George can’t come today.’

  ‘I know,’ said Penny, ‘I heard.’ She was devastated to hear about Caro. Caro was an important part of Port Lowdy – and above all, she was a friend. Penny was aware that most of the children’s books in the library had been paid for by Caro and George, and that she had refused to have their names added in bookplates.

  Caro had supported Marcel when he first came to St Ives and worked as a chef at the pub. Eventually Caro and George bought it and made Marcel a shareholder. And it was Caro who had introduced Marcel to his wife. Together Pamela and Marcel had turned the Black Swan into such a success, and then they’d bought George and Caro out of the business.

  News that Caro was sick had spread quickly over the village. Now here was Tressa picking up the mail by herself, and it made Caro’s illness all the more real. George always came to the post office and Penny would always have a cup of tea with him and they would chat about the village, about his children and about Penny’s own daughter and granddaughter. Sometimes they talked about Tressa, worried about what she was going to do in Port Lowdy for the rest of her life. Penny worried she would end up like Janet, Tressa’s neighbour who since she’d retired rarely left the house. Who wore dressing gowns all day and stood by the letter box for mail that never came.

  She opened the small door behind her and brought out a stack of letters and set them onto the counter.

  ‘You have a lot of letters to the editor,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen this many at once since the one and only Miss Crab competition in the 1970s. Or this many letters for any one person, come to that.’

  ‘Miss Crab?’ Tressa started laughing. ‘How awful – what a terrible crown to wear.’

  Penny was confused. ‘Oh it wasn’t terrible. I was very proud to wear it.’ She pointed to a faded photo behind the counter.

  ‘Wait – you? How many Miss Crabs were there?’ asked Tressa.

  ‘Only the one: me. They stopped it after me.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Penny wished she hadn’t spoken.

  Tressa gestured at the photo, asking to have a closer look. ‘Why have I never seen this before?’ she asked.

  Reluctantly Penny it handed it over, still wishing she hadn’t said anything.

  She’d only brought the photo down from the attic last night, after having a moment of nostalgia. It was coming up for twenty-five years since the night her life changed.

  ‘You were gorgeous,’ Tressa exclaimed. ‘I mean you’re still gorgeous but look at you.’

  Penny looked at the photo in Tressa’s hands. She wore a pale tangerine georgette dress and her crown was of golden crab claws.

  ‘You look so beautiful,’ said Tressa. But Penny didn’t feel beautiful. She didn’t feel beautiful then or now and she never knew what to do with compliments. They made her feel beholden to return them, or else brush them off – or else carry the weight of expectation with her ever after.

  Silently she handed over the stack of envelopes of different sizes. People always liked to write to the Occurrence. They could have sent emails, but the readership was mainly older people and the internet connection in Port Lowdy was somewhat temperamental – especially when it rained, which kept the post office nice and busy.

  ‘How is George?’ Penny asked. ‘It’s a terrible thing.’

  Tressa grew sombre. ‘Holding up as best he can,’ she said. ‘They’re heading up to Plymouth tomorrow.’

  ‘Who’ll run the paper with you?’ Penny relied on the paper. People popped into the post office to pick up a copy and many of them bought other little items in the shop over the summer.

  Tressa tucked the mail into her backpack.

  ‘I’m hiring a journalist, just for the summer.’

  ‘A proper journalist? How exciting. Although, don’t tell George I said he wasn’t a proper one, will you? He seems to be a man of many interests.’

  Tressa nodded her head. ‘I won’t say a word.’ Indeed, she looked like she was the keeper of many secrets.

  ‘Is the journalist going to live in the village, or will they do that remote work thing that’s so popular now?’ Penny asked.

  She wondered if there was potential love in the air. God knows there was no one here close to Tressa’s age. Villages wasted girls like her – and girls like Penny, for that matter. Tressa deserved more time painting her pictures of the sea, which were lovely but, if Penny was honest, a bit samey.

  ‘They’ll have to live here,’ said Tressa. ‘We need them to attend the events over summer. But if they do come here, do you know anyone who might rent a room for a few months? The pub would be too expensive and loud for a six-month stay.’

  ‘I might have one,’ said Penny carefully. ‘The extra money might come in handy.’

  She thought about upstairs and the empty rooms and the silence at night. About how she would like to chat about the news or the weather with someone and have two mugs of tea steeping by the kettle.

  ‘Oh, Penny, that’d be amazing,’ said Tressa. ‘Then I’ll make sure I find someone perfect for both of us.’ She pushed the jar of jam into her bag, pushing down the mail, and pointed to the photo of Penny still lying on the counter.

  ‘And for the record, Penny, I reckon they stopped Miss Crab because you were the most beautiful crab girl in all of Cornwall and they knew they would never have anyone as lovely again. You broke the crab shell when you won, Penny Stanhope.’

  Tressa was gone in a blur of dark curls and energy, and Penny felt better than she had in weeks. Tressa Buckland was a tonic.

  3

  Caro Fox was doing the one thing she hated the most: lying in bed. This silly cancer was painful and annoying but she couldn’t shake the sense it was too much for her to cope with.

  If Caro had been a religious woman she would have prayed. But having not been in a church since her wedding day, she wondered if this was her punishment for being a non-believer. She had only married in the church because George’s family had always married at St Cuthbert’s since the thirteenth century. So who was she to go up against the thirteenth century? Not even Caro Fox could argue with that lineage.

  So when the doorbell rang, she huffed from her bed, wishing she could tell them to come around the back. She loathed people who used the front door. Caro insisted people just let themselves in through the back door and as long as they wiped their feet, all would be well.

  She smoothed out the sheets and blankets and wondered who it might be. News in a tiny village spread like the plague and since George’s family were the oldest in Port Lowdy, there was a sense that at times they were considered the landed gentry. Perhaps it was the money more than the lineage, she thought at times, but still, it was a lot of pressure to be something they weren’t. George had more deals on the run than Arthur Daley, and Caro couldn’t arrange flowers if her life depended on it but was still invited to open new shops and new schools.

  She absently wondered if she’d been able to arrange flowers, would that have saved her life now, but then she heard voices and then someone coming up the stairs. Perhaps it was a robber who planned to take her as a hostage and tie her up in a dingy shed somewhere? Anything would be better than lying in bed all day.

  A gentle tap at her bedroom door told her she wouldn’t be leaving for the shed after all, and then a mop of curls and two large eyes peered around the corner.

  ‘Oh, you’re awake,’ said Tressa.

  ‘I am indeed – come in,’ said Caro, pleased to see her. L
ovely Tressa who was like her own child and who never asked for anything other than friendship of her and George.

  Tressa choose her words carefully. ‘George told me you’re not well.’

  ‘I’m dying, actually. It’s utter shit sticks.’ Caro sat up in bed and tried to adjust the pillows. She and Tressa had coined the term shit sticks and used it profusely, loving the way it worked in any situation, enough to make a dent in the moment without causing offence.

  Caro saw fear in her eyes and wished she hadn’t said anything. But it was too late now. She might as well be honest.

  ‘George didn’t say you were dying,’ Tressa said as she stepped forward and adjusted the pillows for her. She sat down on the edge of the bed where Caro patted.

  ‘George doesn’t have my body,’ she said. ‘I know I’m dying. I’ve felt it for the last year. The doctors say they can operate but a body can only take so much.’

  Seeing Tressa’s frown, she patted the girl’s hand. ‘It’s fine, really, Tressie.’

  ‘Did the doctors say you’re dying or is this just something you feel?’

  ‘It’s a feeling,’ said Caro, ‘but my feelings are always right.’

  ‘You weren’t right about the storm last winter when you handed out bottled water and cans of baked beans. You weren’t right when you said that Penny would leave Port Lowdy. She will never leave here unless it’s in a wooden box.’

  Caro gasped and Tressa caught her slip. ‘Sorry, that’s a terrible thing to say.’

  Caro made a face at Tressa and shrugged. ‘I’m not always right but sometimes, when it matters, I am right.’

  ‘I think you’re just anxious,’ said Tressa. ‘The operation will go well and they’ll get rid of the cancer and you’ll be back here in no time.’

  Caro patted Tressa’s hand again. She was always an optimist about other people. It was a shame she wasn’t so confident about herself but then again, with a mother like Wendy Buckland it was hard to be confident in life.

  ‘You’ll fall in love this year, that much I know,’ said Caro. ‘I feel it in my bones.’

  Tressa shrugged. ‘Men don’t really visit here, and I don’t want to head into St Ives just to meet someone. Mum’s always on at me about that or those dating apps but really, I don’t think that’s how I’m going to meet anyone decent.’

  ‘I read a book about a serial killer on one of those sites. It’s going to be made into a film with that girl from Pride and Prejudice.’

  ‘You read too many crime novels,’ Tressa said, glancing at the pile of books by Caro’s bed.

  ‘They’re my escape. Just like your art, Tressie. Now tell me what plans George has for you and the Occurrence. How will you make it work?’

  Tressa told her George’s plan, which was really Caro’s plan, but she didn’t want Tressa to think less of her husband. He had been all discombobulated since they found out about her cancer.

  It was a wretched thing for anyone to contend with. She wanted to change the subject.

  ‘How are your parents?’ Caro asked and watched closely.

  A flicker of something she recognised as worry and anger crossed Tressa’s face.

  ‘The same. Mum’s been at me about moving back to St Ives; said she and Dad would buy me a place there, and I could sell Mermaid Terrace and keep the money, and that I could paint in St Ives.’ Tressa sighed. ‘I don’t know why they can’t leave me alone. Mum said I was trying to prove something by living away from them, but I’m not. I just like it here more than anywhere else.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Caro, who didn’t believe a word of it. Wendy Buckland was a dynamo of energy and a terrible mother. Ever since Tressa had first come to Port Lowdy with her family, Caro and George had watched the little girl be dismissed and ignored by her mother and tolerated by her father, who was far more interested in her brother Jago.

  That was why they’d given Tressa a job. To get her away from her family when she was on holidays in Port Lowdy.

  Then Tressa came back as an adult, with a fistful of money from her grandmother, enough to buy Mermaid Terrace and live a quiet life. She had been determined to buy only that house and she had made it happen. Tressa had made her own dream come true. It was a shame her mother couldn’t be proud of her.

  But Caro and George still worried about her. The Port Lowdy Occurrence would probably close after George retired and Tressa still wouldn’t exhibit her art. Caro had encouraged her to approach some galleries in St Ives and Plymouth but Tressa said she wasn’t ready. Caro wondered if she would ever be ready to come out of her shell.

  Caro moved to get more comfortable and took a sharp breath in at the pain in her side. This cancer was not just in her bowel; she could tell. Everything inside her felt out of sorts, as though she’d had all her insides taken out and put back in the wrong order.

  Tressa had jumped up from the bed. ‘What can I get you? Pain relief? Tea? Hot water bottle? I feel a bit useless.’

  Caro reached out and touched her arm. ‘I’m fine, love, just a twinge. I might rest a bit until George comes home.’

  Tressa leaned down and kissed Caro’s cheek.

  ‘I love you, Caro, but I promise, you’re not dying.’

  Caro smiled at her and gave her a little wave as Tressa left the room, closing the door behind her.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, even though it hurt her side. Tressa was wrong. Love was coming her way and even though she was sure she was dying, she hoped to God she could see Tressa happy and loved before she died.

  4

  Dan Byrne slammed his hand on the desk. ‘You can disagree with my views but you cannot stop me saying what everyone thinks. This is called freedom of speech, Clive,’ he stated loudly. A rare showing of Dublin sunshine disappeared as soon Dan’s voice boomed through the office and just like that, rain started to fall.

  Clive Halpern, his editor at the Independent Times, sighed. ‘I don’t disagree with you, Dan, but the owners of the paper disagree and they want you to step back from this.’

  ‘This topic? They don’t want me to write about the corruption in the hospital?’

  Clive paused and Dan watched something flicker over his face.

  ‘Just tell me,’ he said, feeling some of his energy dissipate and sitting down on his chair. Being the angriest journalist in Ireland was tiring. Sometimes he just wanted to write about good things – but people didn’t want good things. They wanted to be angry and anxious and have someone to blame; and he gave them the fuel for their emotional furnace.

  But the one thing Dan Byrne hated was being told what to write about. The billionaire owner of the paper usually gave him a wide berth but, clearly, he had hit a nerve when he wrote about the corruption in the biggest hospitals in Ireland involving a cover-up of malpractice from a senior surgeon.

  ‘How was I to know the surgeon was a friend of the owner’s?’

  ‘You weren’t – but you also wrote about items that were part of an NDA from the court.’

  Dan looked out the window of his office. ‘People died, Clive, and they covered it up and let him keep operating.’

  The men were silent for a moment.

  ‘They want me to let you go. And they want you to pay the surgeon two hundred and fifty thousand pounds or they will take you to court for twice that amount, and you know they will win.’

  Dan turned to look at Clive.

  ‘That’s my flat,’ he said. ‘That’s all I have.’

  Clive sighed. ‘I know, but maybe it’s time to get a new job somewhere else, rethink the angriest man in Ireland thing you have going on.’

  ‘You encouraged that persona,’ said Dan, realising he sounded churlish.

  ‘It sold papers; your column has always been popular but I can’t fix this one. You’ve made a very powerful enemy; I don’t think you’ll get a job in Ireland for a while. Perhaps look in the UK, or Australia.’

  Dan put his head in his hands. He was tired of everything, especially with thi
s paper. It was his first job and he had worked up from the bottom as a cadet to having his photo in the masthead of his column: Dan takes on the world.

  It was an egotistical title for the column but he did feel he had a responsibility to shine a light on the world’s injustices. And there were so many of them, he worried he was running out of time. All he did was read the news from all over the world, fight with people online and do a weekly three-minute report on a television current affairs show about his latest column.

  For the camera they always styled him like a messy, rumpled journalist, the hair and makeup girls teasing his hair out at awkward angles, and making him wear a tie, which he never normally did, but pulling it askew. It was all part of the act, he told himself; but sometimes he wondered if he himself wasn’t the biggest story to uncover.

  Angry, bedraggled journo actually irons his shirts and likes to listen to Easy FM and sing along to Lionel Richie.

  Clive stood up and put his hand out to Dan. ‘If I can help in any way, please let me know, Dan. I’ve always liked you and you’re a fine writer. You have helped many people, you know?’

  Dan looked at Clive’s hand and realised he wasn’t the enemy. Dan knew he was crossing lines when he wrote about the settlement with the families of the victims who’d died. But he didn’t want the surgeon to work anywhere else or take more people’s lives.

  Losing his job and his flat was a small cost compared to those families, he reminded himself.

  He took Clive’s hand. ‘Thanks, Clive.’

  Clive had his hand on the door handle. ‘The people from legal will be in touch, be out by 2 p.m. or security will be up,’ he said in what sounded like a regretful voice, and then he left Dan alone in the office that he had worked so hard for.