Finding Love at Mermaid Terrace

by Kate Forster

  ‘You forgot, hey?’ he heard Marcel ask.

  ‘I forgot so much but taste… taste is the best thing to rediscover,’ said Remi.

  They sat quietly, both tired, but it was companionable and peaceful, something Remi had also forgotten. Who had he even been, before prison? He could hardly remember – but right now, this felt like something he was meant to be.

  ‘Merci mille fois,’ Remi started to say but Marcel waved his hand away.

  ‘Après la pluie, le beau temps,’ he said gruffly and Remi smiled.

  After rain, good weather, he repeated in English, in his head.

  God knows there had been enough rain. He was ready for the sunny weather of Port Lowdy.

  *

  The next morning, Remi woke early, as his body was used to. The sounds of doors opening at 6 a.m. and then the guards calling for wake-up used to permeate his mornings. Now he woke of his own accord, but heard nothing. He lay in the bed with his eyes closed, his ears straining to hear something familiar.

  Finally, he stepped out of bed and went to the window and lifted the blind.

  His window looked over the village and down to the little bay. The sun was rising and Port Lowdy looked asleep. He pulled on his only clean set of clothes, washed his face and cleaned his teeth, and went quietly down the stairs. There were only a few guests staying at the pub but he was very aware of being a good tenant for Marcel and Pamela.

  Unlocking the door downstairs, he stepped outside and the cold early March air touched his face, waking him better than any coffee could.

  The water called him, which was strange as he had never really loved the water. Like most kids growing up in the poor parts of Paris, he was not a confident swimmer – but there was something that called to him today.

  He walked to the stone wall and looked down at the beach. The tide was out, leaving ripples across the sand, glistening in the strengthening morning light.

  A dog was running across the sand with something in his mouth while a man ran behind him, calling out the name ‘Richie’.

  Remi watched as the man ran in circles after his dog. He walked down the stone steps to the beach and across the sand and gave a whistle. It pierced the morning stillness but the dog stopped and ran towards Remi and skidded to a stop. ‘Assis,’ he commanded, and the dog sat in front of him.

  In his mouth the dog was holding a very dead sea bass and the stench was intense.

  ‘Donne,’ he commanded and took the tail of the fish. The dog reluctantly let go.

  The owner ran up to Remi, panting. ‘Oh my God, how did you do that? He’s not really used to having free time on a beach, let alone a dead fish. He’s usually very good but I think the Cornish air has got to him.’

  Remi laughed and threw the fish as far as he could. It skipped a few times across the sand, eventually laying to rest in the shallows with a ceremonial splash.

  ‘He is the best dog ever until there are seagulls or dead animals around.’ The man glared at Richie the dog. ‘He either wants to chase them or eat them or both.’

  Remi laughed again. The fresh sea air felt so good and somehow everything felt easy. ‘I had a dog as a boy who was like him. He chased squirrels in Paris.’

  ‘That sounds very glamorous compared to Richie’s current fascination with seagulls.’

  Richie had flung himself down on the sand and was rolling around giving little self-soothing snorts.

  ‘Are you on holiday from Paris?’ asked the man.

  ‘No, I work at the pub,’ Remi said, hearing the words he said but still feeling they were a lie.

  ‘I just had lunch there yesterday. I’m Dan. Dan Byrne. I’m new in town.’

  ‘Remi Durand,’ he answered and shook the man’s hand. ‘I’m new too.’

  ‘Then we should have lunch,’ said Dan. ‘I have no friends here and you probably don’t either.’

  Remi paused for a moment. This Dan Byrne seemed friendly enough but a friend seemed a bit much after one brief meeting. In prison, friendships were strictly transactional. Something for something and rarely something for nothing. Everything would have to be repaid in the end.

  ‘I work a lot,’ said Remi. ‘But stop in for a drink sometime. I finish late. Bye.’

  He turned and walked back to the pub, wondering if Dan Byrne would ever come for the drink if he found out what Remi had done and why he was here.

  10

  Tressa unlocked the office door and turned on the heater. She had been up since 5 a.m., painting the sunrise in watercolours from the room of Mermaid Terrace. Sunrises were notoriously hard to capture. The fleeting moment was less than three minutes long – three minutes to collect all the colours and the mood. She had prepared various shades of cadmium orange and lemon, ready to record the moment, but then Ginger Pickles pushed over a jar of paintbrushes soaking in water, which nearly soaked her sketchbook.

  She’d given up on the sunrise and continued with her series of seascapes instead. Now she turned the kettle on and waited for the water to boil.

  She’d thought a lot about Dan last night, after their first day. He seemed pleasant and not at all like the angry man she had read about online. The reputation didn’t match the man she had lunched with. But she was wary of him, just in case he lost his temper over a story. Although to be quite fair, she wasn’t sure there was a story at Port Lowdy for the angriest man in Ireland to uncover.

  What troubled her more than his reputation was his looks. He was the sort of man she would have admired if she had met him at a party. Perhaps they would have flirted and danced. Maybe he would have kissed her in the darkness of the hallway.

  At that moment, the door opened and the dog came bounding in with Dan following.

  ‘Morning,’ he said gruffly and threw his bag onto his desk. Tressa turned away from him, hiding the rising blush on her face.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked, clearing her throat after she spoke.

  ‘Ta,’ said Dan. ‘Sorry I’m late. Richie had an incident with a sea bass on the beach and a French guy had to help me with him, and the fish. It was incredibly embarrassing.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Tressa. What sort of a conversation opener was this? She felt as if she was in a dream.

  ‘Anyway, I’m going to head up to the pub at lunch and catch up with him. He seemed like he might have a story. We could do a profile on the new French chef.’

  ‘We could,’ she said. ‘But he might not be interested.’

  ‘Everyone wants to tell their story,’ said Dan. ‘You just have to ask the right questions to get people to open up.’

  Richie came and pushed his face between Tressa’s thighs.

  ‘Come here, Richie,’ growled Dan. ‘He has issues with personal boundaries.’

  She brought their teas to the desk and sat opposite Dan at George’s desk. She warmed her hands on the pretty floral mug. Caro had bought them for the office last year, to replace the odd set they had, many with cracks and chips.

  Thinking of Caro and George made her want to cry and she sipped her tea, trying to stop the tears from starting.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Dan.

  ‘Yes, just burned my tongue on the tea.’

  ‘There’s a superstition in Ireland that if you lick the underside of a lizard, it will cure your burns.’

  ‘Um, no thanks,’ said Tressa. ‘Is that a real superstition or are you pulling my leg? Irish humour and all.’

  ‘No, it’s a real Irish superstition.’ He laughed.

  ‘What’s another one?’

  ‘Never play cards with a man who has a cloven foot.’

  ‘Oh come on, that’s not real!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘’Tis, so. Cos it could be the Devil himself, and you’ll never win cards against the Devil.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said, shaking her head at him. ‘Come on, we have to plan the next issue in more detail.’

  ‘About that, you mentioned I should bring any ideas I had.’ Dan pulled a battered notebook from
his bag.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Tressa carefully. She picked up a pen and her own notebook and started to sketch. She always sketched when she was nervous. Even the simple act of holding a pencil or pen calmed her.

  ‘I want to do a profile piece on Penny.’

  ‘Penny Stamp?’

  He frowned at her. ‘Don’t call her that. She doesn’t like it.’

  Tressa felt affronted at his correction. She would never call Penny that to her face, but everyone in Port Lowdy used it.

  Dan opened his notebook. ‘Penny Stanhope, yes. I interviewed her last night and she’s a remarkable woman.’

  ‘Really?’ Tressa tried to reconcile Dan’s review with her own experience. Penny was kind and always friendly but she wouldn’t have called her remarkable. ‘Remarkable how?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Let me read you what I wrote. It’s a rough version but it’s a start.’

  ‘I don’t know that people want to read about Penny,’ she protested.

  ‘People want to read about everyone, especially about people they know. Why do you think Penny isn’t of any interest? Isn’t that your bias, because you don’t know enough about her? You haven’t bothered to know her?’

  Tressa said nothing but she knew he was right. She hadn’t ever asked much about Penny. All these years and she only learned about her being the one and only Miss Crab recently.

  ‘I get a final editorial decision and veto, so if I think it’s not print-worthy then I will say so.’ She knew she sounded peeved but she couldn’t help herself. In twenty-four hours, Dan had made a new friend, had a lunch date, learned Penny’s life story, and invited himself over to dinner at her place tonight.

  He was not just the angriest man in Ireland, he was now the most popular man in Cornwall, it seemed.

  ‘Go on then, read me what you’ve written so far,’ she said and turned the page of her notebook where she had been drawing Richie gnawing on a hairy human leg. Dan’s presumably, she thought.

  Dan cleared his throat, which she thought was a bit show-offy but she said nothing.

  And then he started to tell Penny’s story.

  As he wove through the incidents of Penny’s life so far, of the photographer who stole her heart and her future, Tressa felt her eyes well up several times at all Penny had had to face. She laughed when Dan told Penny’s story of the little girl trying to post her baby brother to her gran in Plymouth, and felt ashamed when she heard about the aching loneliness Penny felt at times in the village.

  It was beautifully written by Dan, filled with warmth and respect. And he gave Penny and Port Lowdy a side Tressa had never seen before.

  When he finished she was silent.

  ‘Thoughts?’ he asked finally. Was there a sense of trepidation in his voice?

  Tressa put down her notebook and pen. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said truthfully. ‘It’s moving and sensitive and special.’

  She paused.

  ‘But?’ he said. ‘I am sensing a but.’

  ‘But is it relevant to Port Lowdy? I mean, we cover the local events; we aren’t like a Humans of Port Lowdy paper. It might be a bit much.’

  Dan sat back in his chair. ‘Do you really think that? Or do you just not like it because it’s different to what you usually do?’

  Or because she herself hadn’t written it. Hadn’t even thought of it. ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I think it’s great but I don’t think it’s right for The Port Lowdy Occurrence.’

  ‘Why?’ he challenged.

  ‘Because I know what the readers want.’

  There was a current in the air and she wasn’t sure whether she liked it.

  ‘You know what the readers want?’ He was mocking her. ‘That’s grand then. You should head to London. You could save journalism from itself.’

  Tressa narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I am simply stating that—’

  ‘That you underestimated your readers and that you’re a bit of a snob.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Dan tipped back on the chair, balancing on the back two legs.

  ‘I’ll ring George and get his final say,’ said Dan.

  ‘No! I’m acting editor.’ Tressa heard her voice rise. ‘I have the final say.’

  ‘You’re not the editor, you’re the photographer.’

  Tressa glared at him. ‘So who’s the snob now?’

  ‘Okay.’ Dan put away his notebook and shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose.’

  But he wasn’t happy – she could tell by the way his jaw tightened and the muscles flickered. He was keeping his mouth shut, which was clearly an internal struggle.

  They sat and worked through the planned events and what Dan would write and what Tressa had to photograph and the advertising, and when they finished, Dan looked at his watch.

  ‘Righto, I’m off to meet Remi,’ he said, and he picked up his bag and whistled to Richie and walked out the door, leaving Tressa sitting at the desk.

  Whatever goodwill she’d had towards him dissipated as the door closed behind him. He was rude and angry and self-important, she thought, as she picked up the empty mugs and took them into the kitchen. And he just walked out and left the cups for her to wash, like a good little secretary.

  Hiring Dan Byrne was a mistake. She went to her bag and pulled out her phone to ring George.

  But just as she was about to dial, a text came through from him.

  Dan told me about the Penny profile. Genius. I think he should do a few characters in the village, tell their stories. Good for business as they will buy more papers to send to family and so on. Excellent work, Tressa. Dan said it was your idea. Well done. Caro okay, surgery tomorrow morning. She’s resting and sends her love.

  Tressa growled at the phone. Bloody Dan Byrne and his Irish charm. God, the next six months were going to be hell, and she wondered if she was playing cards with a man with a cloven foot or working at a newspaper with the Devil himself.

  11

  Tressa finished up for the day, left the office and went home to paint, but on the way, she sent Dan a text.

  George texted me. Well played. Dinner invite is rescinded. I don’t dine with men with cloven feet.

  She was feeling petty but she had every right to, she thought. He’d tried to soften the blow by passing the idea off to George as her own. It was insulting.

  Riding her bicycle along the esplanade, she saw clouds building in the distance, and she pedalled a little faster. Not because she was worried about being caught in the rain but because she wanted to capture the rain and those clouds in her watercolour sketchbook.

  A few drops of rain hit her face as she opened the gate, and Ginger Pickles sat in the bay window, assessing the clouds, and then Tressa’s arrival.

  ‘Hey, Ginger P!’ She opened the door and wheeled the bike into the small verandah area.

  Tressa had put in shelves along the glass-walled verandah, and they held her seashell collection, ordered raggedly from large to small, some found on the beach, some bought in charity shops, or from garage sales. She loved that they used to be homes to little sea creatures, just like Mermaid Terrace was to her now.

  Her phone rang and she took it from her bag and checked it wasn’t Dan.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ she answered as she walked through the front door. She patted Ginger Pickles’s head as she passed the window.

  ‘How are things? I haven’t heard from you in a while.’ Wendy sounded peeved. ‘I did mention I was having my spider veins lasered, didn’t I?’

  Tressa counted back the days and realised she hadn’t spoken to her mother in over a week.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Wendy continued, with a martyred sigh. ‘No need to worry, Jago picked me up.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum, there’s a lot going on.’ She paused. ‘Caro’s in hospital. She’s really ill. Cancer.’

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t know. They should have told me. I could have helped. Is George with her? What does he need? Did you mention I can help?’ And there it was. The amazing transformatio
n from peeved, neglected mother to concerned doctor’s wife and dear friend of the Foxes.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tressa, ‘they’re in Plymouth. She’s having surgery.’

  ‘Who’s the surgeon?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Should I know?’

  ‘Well, I would have asked – but you weren’t to know. I’ll call them.’

  Tressa sighed as she kicked off her shoes. There were one thousand ways she disappointed her mother, and now she had found one thousand and one.

  Wendy was still talking. ‘Now how are you? Who is doing the paper with you if George is with Caro?’

  Happy to have a change in topic, Tressa spoke honestly to her mother. ‘The most annoying person in the world. Honestly, Mum, he’s only been here a little over twenty-four hours and he’s already turning Port Lowdy upside down.’

  ‘Port Lowdy could do with a little shake-up,’ said Wendy. ‘It can be very stifling.’

  Tressa bristled at her mother’s review. ‘It’s changed since you used to holiday here, Mum,’ she lied defensively.

  ‘So what is this annoying person’s name?’ Wendy wanted to know.

  ‘Dan Byrne, he’s a journalist from Ireland who got fired for being too outspoken. I only hired him because there wasn’t really anyone else and I wanted someone to start right away. Now I regret it, deeply.’

  ‘Dan Byrne, the one who did the story on that dodgy doctor and the corruption at Royal Dublin? Oh, he’s marvellous. Your father followed that story closely. He saved a lot of lives with that exposé.’

  Of course her mother and father would know of him. God, it was so infuriating. Why did Dan have to be so… She tried to think of a word to describe him. Why did Dan have to be so Dan?

  And how her mother was singing his praises – naturally her parents thought he was God’s gift to free speech and to Port Lowdy.

  Tressa interrupted her mother’s commentary on the virtues of Dan Byrne’s work.

  ‘And he got fired for it and he has had to put his flat on the market to pay back the owner of the paper. I mean he’s not a saint, Mum.’

  ‘I think that’s poor form from the owners of the paper. He saved the hospital a lot of money from being sued if more people died under that surgeon’s hands. And to take away the livelihood of that man – it’s unconscionable.’