Chapter Eleven
Seren
Our online call for volunteers seems to have gone better than we’d hoped. What began with a couple of people responding on Twitter and Instagram at the beginning of the week has now blossomed into something far more significant. When I park my car in the farmyard by Fred’s barn tonight there are five more vehicles I haven’t seen before.
The buzz in the barn is loud and welcome. At least ten people are helping my friends make lanterns, and everywhere I look the giant figures destined to parade through St Ives are rising from the piles of willow withy sticks and shiny material. Aggie waves at me across the space, beaming. For the first time I think we might be able to pull this off. Kieran gives me a hug.
‘The power of social media, huh?’ He’s playing it down, but his Instagram photo account is most likely to have brought so many volunteers. ‘Lots of new faces and they’ve all promised to keep coming back until the lanterns are done. Lovely folks, all of them. Mind you, we need to stop Lou hugging them quite so much or he’ll scare them off.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’
‘Rather you than me.’
‘Tell her about her admirer!’ Aggie yells. Cerrie and Lou look up and grin.
‘Oh yeah, there’s a bloke over there who says he knows you.’
I follow the direction of Kieran’s pointed finger – and can’t believe who I see.
‘Alastair?’
A familiar sandy-haired head looks up from over the edge of a half-made, huge snowflake lantern. It is him! The last time I saw Alastair Currie was on the day we walked out of our suddenly former workplace, pathetic cardboard boxes in hand. Like all my colleagues we’d promised to keep in touch, but without our work in common we quickly drifted apart.
I hurry over and hug him, his presence here suddenly feeling important.
Working with Dad has been okay, living at home has been fine, but I’ve started to miss the life I’d begun to carve for myself. Alastair was part of that world, one half of our creative team. We worked on countless campaigns together, firing ideas off each other, working late into the night sometimes, chasing deadlines with company-provided pizza and rocket-fuel coffee. The rush was fun when it involved working with someone with whom I was so matched creatively. I miss that. I’ve missed it more than I realised until now . . .
‘Surprise!’ he laughs, every detail of his face a lovely returning memory. ‘Bet you weren’t expecting me?’
‘Not at all! How did you know about this?’
‘Saw your tweet asking for volunteers and fancied helping.’
‘You follow my tweets?’
Alastair chuckles. ‘I like to check up on my old work buddies. I thought it’d be good to create something physical for a change. Working only on screen is soul-destroying sometimes. And Georgie here thinks I’m doing okay.’
‘He’s not bad.’ Georgie grins from the other side of the star lantern. ‘Talks a lot, though.’
‘He always did.’ I turn back to Alastair, my head still spinning from seeing him again. ‘It’s so good to see you. How are you doing? What are you up to now?’
‘Help me stretch this corner over the frame, MacArthur, and I’ll tell you everything.’
For the next hour we work and chat, the months since our last day at Grafyx melting away. He’s still living in Falmouth, a fifty-minute car drive away, which makes his being here all the more surprising and special.
‘Thanks so much for this,’ I say, when the star lantern is finished and Georgie and I are laying out pieces for a huge Harry Potter lantern to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of J. K. Rowling’s books. ‘I really appreciate you coming over.’
‘My pleasure. It’s been fun.’ He helps us fetch the half-made frame from the stack in the corner of the barn. ‘Hey, are you free for a drink on Friday night? My shout. I’m heading over this way anyway. It would be good to meet up.’
Considering the effort he’s gone to in order to be here tonight, a drink is the least I can do. ‘I’d love to. How about I shout you dinner and you cover the drinks?’
‘Ah, the old Seren MacArthur, alive and well! You’re on, lady.’
It’s only when I’m back at home working on Aggie’s bracelet that the significance of Alastair’s words hit me. The old Seren. I stare at the line of seaglass pieces awaiting their silver wire mounts. It’s been so long that I’m not sure I even recognise the old me any more. I thought she’d been lost in the jumble of losing my job and home and life in Falmouth. Could she ever make a return? I love living in St Ives – it’s a part of me I’ve enjoyed rediscovering – and being back with my parents has its benefits. But I miss who I was before. I miss the freedom. I miss me.