Chapter Two
Seren
I had four orders on my Etsy shop today! Four!
I know Mum and Dad think this is just a hobby for me, but if I keep receiving orders like this it could become more like a part-time job. One step closer to my dream of designing seaglass jewellery for a living. For now, I’m happy to help Dad in his art gallery. I’m building him a sales website, even though he thinks it’s unnecessary. Despite his concerns, I’m determined to drag him into the twenty-first century if it kills me.
‘What about Instagram?’ I ask, already anticipating the answer.
‘What about it?’ He looks tired but his cheeky gene is still firing. ‘Just pretty pictures, Seren. What good does that do? It’s the equivalent of that annoying friend who insists on showing you their holiday snaps.’
Beneath the counter, my chocolate Labrador Molly grumbles in her old wicker basket. She’s long since decided she’s Dad’s dog, as he is the one who sneaks her biscuits most often and brings her to work every day. Dad chuckles and crouches down to give her another bone-shaped dog biscuit.
I sigh and make us coffee in the tiny corner of the stockroom that we use as a kitchen. ‘No, Dad. People see the lovely paintings and sculptures MacArthur’s has in stock and then they go to your website to buy them. People from everywhere, at any time; not just during a one-week holiday in St Ives. People who want to buy our stock in December, instead of waiting until July when they visit.’
He holds up a weather-tanned hand and accepts defeat. Even though it’s December Dad manages to look like he’s spent a week in the Mediterranean. Weather-beaten Welsh farmer genes, he reckons. ‘Fair enough. Do what you think’s best. Just don’t ask me to poke anyone, okay?’
‘You don’t poke anyone on Insta– Oh, never mind.’
His chuckle dances around the walls. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m just an old fuddy-duddy.’ He kisses the top of my head as I hand him his mug. ‘Lucky for me I have a whizz-kid daughter, eh?’
I grin back despite my frustration. I don’t know about whizz-kid. I certainly wasn’t enough of a whizz-kid to foresee the small graphic design company in Falmouth going into receivership after five years of working there. Then again, none of my colleagues at Grafyx saw it coming, either. Being newly jobless and recently single again – trust my luck to be dumped and made redundant within the space of two weeks – there was little to keep me in Falmouth any more. I’m fortunate Dad offered me work in MacArthur’s – our family’s gallery – and was happy for me to move back home. It feels like a false start but at least being here brought me back to my friends and has helped me to refocus on my jewellery. Working in a tiny, mostly deserted Cornish arts and crafts gallery gives me plenty of time to dream.
You have to be slightly strange to enjoy freezing on a beach in winter just to find bits of sea-smoothed glass, but it makes me happy. I sneak out before anyone else is awake, stealing time from the barely begun day to look for treasure. The times when I’m hunting for seaglass and making my finds into bracelets are the times I feel most alive.
My mind drifts back to today’s early morning beachcomb in the arches on Harbour Beach. In the dank December pre-dawn darkness, my torch picked out a scattering of hidden treasure. More than I was expecting. The storm last night had left handfuls of gorgeous seaglass pieces banked up amongst the sand and twisted seaweed strands against the blackened weatherboards in the arches. My red tin bucket, dented by time and use from my childhood, was half filled by the time I reluctantly turned for home.
I perch on the edge of a display unit and hear Molly yawn as she turns around in her basket. Dad sips his coffee and gazes out through the shop’s single window into the courtyard. It’s quiet today, but winter always is. Some of our friends who own businesses in St Ives only open at weekends, or take the month off entirely. The problem is, our shop has been quiet since the height of the summer, which is supposed to be our busiest time. Dad insists it’s fine, but I’ve started to doubt his confidence.
Being here with Dad has its advantages – and not only the small salary I earn. It means I can keep an eye on him. I’ve been worried about him for a while.
He’s been looking increasingly weary in recent months and I think he’s lost quite a bit of weight. He keeps saying he’ll go to our GP for a check-up, but I don’t think he’s been yet. Mum said he’s working too hard, doing all the shop stuff and heading up his new campaign. There’s an old parsonage high on the hills above the town where a Victorian astronomer once lived and it’s under threat from a property developer. Dad’s just found out there’s a moral covenant on the land, meaning the town has a say in its future, so he’s formed a campaign committee with his old friend Lou and it seems to be taking up a lot of his time.
But if it weren’t that, it would be something else. I keep reminding myself that Dad is never happier than when he’s doing a hundred things at once. Having a cause to get behind has certainly pepped him up in recent weeks, but the tiredness creeps back when he thinks nobody is looking. I see it, though, and it worries me.
‘I was thinking we could rejig the display on the back wall,’ he says, with that strange, almost faraway expression he’s worn a lot lately.
‘We should start thinking about the Christmas window,’ I say. It’s the first day of December already and most of the shops on Fore Street and Harbour Road have had their Christmas displays in place for a month. I’ve been steadily sneaking decorations into the gallery for the last two weeks, hoping he’ll take the hint and work his magic on our single shop window. It’s always been his domain, his masterpiece each year. But so far, nothing. ‘Lou will be storming round here with his clipboard if we don’t do something soon.’
Dad chuckles and it makes me smile. His laugh is like sea spray bubbling into rock pools. ‘Lou Helmsworth’s never happier than when he has a clipboard and a tick-list in his hand.’ He gestures at the window like a king surveying his land. ‘Be my guest, Seren. You have free rein to Christmas-ify our window however you see fit.’
This is new. ‘Are you sure? It’s usually your favourite job of the year.’
‘Maybe it’s time to pass on the joy.’ He smiles. I notice dark smudges of tiredness beneath his eyes, the slight sag in his shoulders. I don’t want to see it, not in my capable, larger-than-life father who I’ve always seen as invincible. But the signs are there – and they are getting stronger. So I’m thrilled to be given the Christmas window to do, but more than that I’m relieved he’s allowing me to take some of the burden from his shoulders.
‘I’ll start planning it now,’ I say, grabbing a sketchpad and pencils from behind the counter. ‘Mind if I pop out for a bit?’
Dad’s chuckle sparkles around MacArthur’s walls again. ‘Go ahead. And say hi to Aggie for me.’
He knows me too well.
Whenever I need to think, I go to Aggie’s coffee hut. It’s perched on tiny Porthgwidden Beach and she’s run it for so long the whole place seems infused with her spirit. There are many reasons to visit, not least the excellent coffee, which is easily the best in St Ives. But the main reason is that Agatha Keats is my dearest friend in the world. Ever since the first day we met in our primary school playground and she shared her bag of Hula Hoops with me. Food and friendship is what’s kept us together all these years.
Aggie is cleaning a table when I arrive and drops her cloth immediately to hug me. She gives the kind of hugs that expel all the air from your lungs in a single squeeze, letting go just as you fear your ribs will crack. But I love her for her overenthusiastic PDAs.
‘Bird! Are you a sight for sore eyes! Get yourself over to the bar and we’ll talk . . .’
Giving my ribs a surreptitious rub, I follow her around bleached wood tables and chairs to the large serving counter. There are five stools along its length, made of weathered beech with industrial-looking metal legs. I ease onto one of them and glance up at the row of three lights hanging overhead. Each one is an ancient metal colander, fitted with a hipster-style filament bulb. It’s the first time I’ve seen them in place, but Aggie’s been talking about her pet project for weeks, so it feels like the quirky light fittings have always been there.
‘Love the new lights.’
‘Aren’t they awesome? I’m proper chuffed with them. That one in the middle was my nan’s colander. The bottom had almost rusted out of it – that’s what gave me the idea.’
‘You could sell them, I reckon.’
‘Already have, as a matter of fact. Becca Hardiman wants some for her bar. There’s beer for a year if I do them, apparently, so you can guess my reaction to that.’ Her eyes narrow as she bangs spent espresso grounds out of a coffee arm and refills it. ‘I’ll make one for your new place. When you move out.’
‘I’ve told you, I can’t yet.’
She gives a dramatic sigh and places two coffee glasses beneath the espresso machine. Glossy dark liquid begins to fill them, steam clouding the glass as the coffee drips. ‘Why not? You’re bound to get another job soon, and there’s the money you’ve been saving by not renting. You need your own space, Ser. Living with your folks isn’t good for you.’
I wish it were that simple. I have a little money I managed to save before I lost my job but until I’m working full-time again I daren’t risk it renting a place of my own. It’s fine at Mum and Dad’s – I have an attic room with quite a bit of space for my jewellery desk and the furniture I brought back from my previous flat. They don’t bother me and I get to hang out with my dog, Molly, even if she’s decided she belongs to Dad now. That aside, I feel like I need to be there to keep an eye on Dad. I can’t explain it any more than a tightness in my gut whenever I see him. I just think it’s good to stay there for the time being. Not that I expect Aggie to understand. She moved out of home as soon as she could – the constant rows with her mother proving the springboard to her independence – barely seventeen years old and working three part-time jobs as well as attending college to pay for a poky bedsit high up on Barnoon, overlooking the town.
‘All my washing done for me.’ I grin.
‘No privacy.’
‘Actually my parents give me lots of space.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I’m worried about Dad.’ I see her smile vanish. ‘I know it isn’t ideal and as soon as I can find another job and be sure I can pay rent I’ll find somewhere else. But I think I need to be at home for a while.’
‘Fair enough. But your dad can look after himself. Just promise me you won’t scare yourself out of moving on, okay?’ The coffee she hands me is crowned with a gorgeous lotus flower made of frothed milk and espresso. It’s almost too pretty to drink.
‘I promise.’
‘Good. Now, please tell me you’re comin’ back for the meeting tonight? Lou has been doin’ my nut in with his text reminders.’ She grimaces. ‘EVERYTHING IN CAPITAL LETTERS. I feel like I’m being texted by a drill sergeant.’
‘I’d be scared to miss it in case he shouted at me more,’ I laugh.
The highlight of the St Ives Christmas festival is a huge lantern parade that passes through the streets of the town. Lou has run it for three years and it’s the most spectacular thing I’ve seen. People bring lanterns and torches and join a troupe carrying enormous, handmade lanterns made of parachute silk stretched over wooden frames in all kinds of shapes. It’s magical to see a parade of softly coloured lights winding through the darkened streets and the best start to Christmas I can imagine. All of the shops lining the route fill their windows with fairy lights and lanterns, too – and even though MacArthur’s is tucked away, our window in the courtyard will be no exception. Lou’s had a team of volunteers designing, planning and constructing lanterns for the last three weeks, but I get the impression the work is far from complete. Last year we had twenty lanterns shaped like pirate ships, people, stars, Christmas trees and even one in honour of the St Ives lifeboat; this year Lou wants to double that. It’s ambitious, but I think the town is up to the challenge.
What it means, however, is that Lou’s planning panic has reached fever pitch. We’ve agreed to meet this evening as much to show solidarity as to make plans.
‘Dad’s asked me to do the Christmas window this year,’ I say, the taste of fresh coffee zinging across my tongue.
‘Really? I thought that was his baby?’
‘So did I. But I’m excited about it. I think I might make some strings of hanging seaglass. I’ve a good stash of white and blue pieces – I found a heap of white this morning in the arches, actually. I think I can wind silver wire around each one to make beads, like I’ve been doing with my bracelets, and then knot them onto invisible thread to hang down like showers of seaglass snowflakes.’
My friend leans on the counter. ‘See? You’re wasted workin’ at your dad’s place. I hope you’re makin’ me one of your bracelets this year? You know, December 30th is a rubbish day to have a birthday . . . You’d really cheer me up . . .’
Aggie is about as subtle as a charging bull. ‘Already started working on it.’
‘Ooh! I love you, Seren MacArthur! Can I see it?’
‘Not until it’s your birthday.’
‘Well, that’s just mean.’ She smiles. ‘Cheers, bird. I know it’ll be beautiful.’
When I was walking along the beach this morning I was planning what to make for my friend. I want it to be something that reflects her personality. It’s one of the things I love best about designing my jewellery. Some people are definite pastel shades; others a mix of subtle and striking – but Aggie’s colours can only be strong and vivid.
Since I started making the bracelets, I’ve begun to think of people not in terms of their personality or physical appearance, but of how all of that translates into colour. Dad, for example, is deepest blue and pure white, like the stars and night sky he watches most evenings from his home-built observatory in the garden. My mum would be pale green and teal – rare to find but reminiscent of the sea she loves to paint so much. Our house is filled with her seascapes in watercolour and oils; her artworks were the founding stock of Dad’s gallery and are still sold there today. Our best male friend Kieran would be bold green and glossy brown – colours that change when you hold them up to the light. He’s a photographer, so light dominates his life. Cerrie, my schoolteacher friend, would be a collection of colours, both pastel and strong, and I would make her bracelet in the random order I picked the pieces up from the sand. That kind of serendipity suits her: she can make any situation work, no matter what life throws at her. I envy that.
And me? Before I lost my job I might have been as vivid as Aggie. But in the months since moving home and starting to work at MacArthur’s I’ve become more contemplative. It helps being by the sea, of course, but it’s more than location. I feel like I’m at a crossroads in my life. One season has ended and I’m caught in the frustrating, treading-water phase before the next begins. In twelve months’ time I could be anywhere, doing anything. I feel the possibility of it sparkling, quartz-like in the air around me, just out of reach. My colours are white, pale pink, mint green – thoughtful, rudderless, waiting . . .
‘Who’s coming tonight?’
Aggie helps herself to a mug of steamed milk, adding a shot of hazelnut syrup. ‘Usual suspects. Me, you, Kieran, Cerrie, probably Sharon from the candle shop if she can get away early enough, and Lou. I’m making a Christmas-spiced apple and mincemeat tart to help sweeten the experience. Hopefully that’ll keep everyone festive and friendly.’
This is excellent news. Aggie’s cakes and pies are the best around, just like her coffee. And it doesn’t matter if the old tensions creep into our agenda this evening – Kieran twitting Lou on over his overblown pomposity, Lou completely taking the bait; Aggie and Kieran lurching from best buddies to argumentative foes over the most unimportant discussions, to name but a few. What matters is that I get to hang out with my best friends and make Christmas plans. It’s hopeful and exciting and impossibly lovely, all at the same time. And an evening away from the concerns at home is exactly what I need . . .