Finding Love at Mermaid Terrace Page 10

  ‘I thought I was helping her, you know, her career – she’s genuinely talented,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe that’s her choice to make,’ said Clive. ‘You don’t know what is right for everyone. You might think you do but what worked for you going through life isn’t for everyone else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You had a shite upbringing, Dan, and you managed to escape the cycle using your smarts and your ability to fight with your words but you can’t do it for other people unless they ask you for your help. Maybe she was happy with where she was. Did you ask her?’

  ‘No,’ said Dan.

  ‘You never do,’ Clive said.

  Dan said goodbye and ended his call.

  Clive had been his most loyal supporter in his career and he knew a lot of the details about Dan’s life but not all. No one knew all the details of being raised in group homes for most of his life. There was the occasional foster family but sometimes it was better being in the home than exposed to some of the people who claimed to love children so much they would take them into their homes.

  Maybe being in Port Lowdy was a mistake, he thought, and he whistled for Richie to come to him to head back to the post office.

  *

  Penny rushed upstairs to where Dan sat at the kitchen table, typing at his laptop.

  ‘You’ll never guess,’ she said.

  ‘No, I probably won’t,’ said Dan. ‘So you might as well tell me.’

  ‘Everyday Faces, the TV show called me, and they want to do a little interview’

  Penny could hardly believe it; they wanted Tegan and Primrose on the show too. It would be filmed in Port Lowdy and they would see the photos and the costume crown and talk about her life.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Dan, not looking up from his laptop.

  ‘You all right, Dan?’

  He nodded. ‘Fine, just working on something.’

  ‘Writing your book, are you? Tressa said you were writing a book.’

  Dan looked at her now. ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘Not today. Why?’

  He looked at the screen again. ‘Nothing.’

  Penny looked at his face and saw his jaw was tight and she wondered, just wondered, what had happened between him and Tressa.

  Her phone rang in her pocket. ‘More calls! I have never been so popular, Dan, all thanks to you.’

  She ran down the stairs to the post office, where more locals were waiting to chat. What was this about being lonely? she thought to herself. Today she couldn’t keep up with everyone wanting to talk about the past and the present.

  It was as though Penny was finally part of Port Lowdy.

  *

  George sat by Caro’s bedside as she slept. The surgery had been successful but she was sleeping a lot. Normal, said the nurses, but George wasn’t used to Caro not chatting away as they read the paper together in the morning. He quietly opened his copy of The Port Lowdy Occurrence and started to read. When he was finished he closed the paper and sat back in his chair.

  It was better than anything he had ever produced. The article on Penny, the art by Tressa. Dan had better headlines and even his article on the washed-up seal on the beach and the way he had intertwined it with the myths of Cornish mermaids was genius. There was a new life in the paper; even Tressa’s photographs had a fresh sense of creativity to them and George wondered if Dan had pushed her to take different approaches to the subjects. Dan Byrne was just what The Port Lowdy Occurrence needed and George wondered how he could get him to stay.

  16

  There was an understanding between people who had been to prison to not ask questions about each other’s time inside or what led them to being in prison – and with that came the understanding that sometimes things were harder to get used to once you were released. For Remi and Marcel, they both saw the effect of their time in prison in different ways.

  Remi saw Marcel’s emotional distance and the tough exterior that had protected him for years, perhaps only broken down when he met Pam, whose nurturing could make a hedgehog lower his spines and curl into a little ball of love.

  Marcel saw Remi’s compact movements from living in a confined space and working in one in the prison kitchen. No eye contact and a lowered head when Marcel barked orders at him in the kitchen was another sign, but what Remi had, that Marcel also had, was ambition. Ambition is the only thing that will get you through, Marcel had often said to Pamela and he repeated it to her again when they received the call from the charity to take Remi on as a trainee cook.

  ‘He wants his own place one day. That’s what he was working towards in Paris, before he went inside. This is something I can work with.’

  Too many times Marcel had seen ex-prisoners leave with no confidence, no ambition and no reason to stay straight. Remi was different and he knew it from the moment he met him.

  For Remi, Pamela and Marcel were lovely employers and were becoming even better friends.

  When dinner service was over, they would have a drink in the restaurant with Melon, whose real name Remi still didn’t know. They would listen to stories from Marcel about cooking for rich men and gambling with poor men. Pamela usually had her feet in his lap and he would massage them as he spoke, his knuckles digging deep into the balls of her feet.

  And Remi would remember Juliet. She was ticklish and hated her feet being touched but she loved her hair to be brushed and played with, and when he lifted the hair from her neck and kissed her lightly where the tiny hairs sprung out…

  Thinking about her was both a pleasure and pain. In prison he had tried not to think about her but she wouldn’t be ignored, coming to him in his dreams, sitting on his bed and asking him why he didn’t call her. Why he didn’t write to her.

  And he would wake and stare at the grey ceiling and wonder if she ever thought of him at all.

  Tonight, Dan was with them, drinking heavily while arguing with Marcel about who was the best fly-half in the World Cup.

  Remi watched Dan waving his hands about. His Irish accent was even thicker when he was drunk and arguing. The raised voices triggered something in Remi and he stood up. ‘I am going to bed. Goodnight,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I’m heading off,’ said Melon, pushing his chair out also.

  Dan and Marcel didn’t hear them as they left.

  ‘You all right, love?’ asked Pamela as he went through the kitchen where she was making a cup of tea.

  ‘Yes, just tired,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry about the yelling. Marcel is loud at the best of times.’

  Remi nodded. He didn’t feel like being in his room. He had spent too much time in four walls. He needed air.

  He left the pub and walked down towards the beach. The village was quiet, the beach empty. The moon was waning and the stars were bright, the sound of gentle waves soothing as he stood on the stone wall looking out into the darkness.

  ‘Hello,’ he heard and he turned around to see the girl with curly hair standing under a street lamp.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘You’re Remi, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why?’ he answered slowly.

  ‘I met you when you arrived. I pointed you in the direction of the pub. I’m Tressa. Penny from the post office told me you were working with Marcel.’

  Remi nodded. ‘Oui, I am.’

  ‘The beach is lovely, even at night,’ she said and he realised she was standing next to him.

  ‘You did the drawings in the paper,’ Remi said to her.

  ‘Yes, they aren’t very good – just sketches. They shouldn’t have been in there.’ She sounded upset but he would never pry into anyone’s life unless they wanted him to know more.

  ‘They are fantastic,’ he said. ‘Do you draw people also?’

  ‘Sometimes, if they’re nice people.’ She laughed. ‘Did you want a portrait done of yourself?’

  Remi shook his head. ‘No, of someone I know. But I only have a photo of them – it’s very o
ld.’

  The breeze picked up and blew Tressa’s curls over her face. ‘My bloody hair,’ she said and he laughed.

  ‘I knew a girl who had long hair. It was annoying to her sometimes too. But not all the bouclé like you.’

  ‘Yes, I have far too many bouclé, indeed.’ She burst into laughter and Remi found himself laughing also.

  She had swiftly changed his mood and he didn’t know how she’d done it, but she had.

  ‘If you have the photo, I can look at it tomorrow if you like? Come to my place and we can have a coffee and I will have a look.’

  Remi smiled. ‘Merci, Tressa.’

  ‘De rien,’ she answered.

  ‘You speak French?’

  ‘A little but I would like to improve. Maybe I can do your drawing and you can give me a French conversation lesson?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said and put out his hand for her to shake, which she did.

  It had been a long time since he’d held a girl’s hand and the smoothness of her skin surprised him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, realising he had been holding her hand too long.

  ‘It’s fine.’ They stood side by side on the stone wall.

  ‘I have been in prison,’ he said suddenly, unsure why he was telling her. He just felt he had to. ‘I came here because Marcel gave me a job, because he understands.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Tressa.

  ‘But I’m not a bad person. I did something I regret, and I live with it every day, but I don’t think I remember how to be in the world, especially a new country. France deported me, because my mother was English.’

  A cloud went past the moon as he spoke, momentarily dulling the world.

  ‘I feel like a different person now but I don’t know who I am. People think I should be something or they have expectations of who I am based on who I was but why can’t people change? I know I have but I don’t know who I am now.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said, and Remi knew that she did understand, at a visceral level. ‘Do you want to come and have a cup of tea now? I live along the esplanade. We can talk or not talk about it but I would like to be your friend if you want one.’

  Remi nodded at her and smiled, feeling tears in his eyes. This girl was so gentle and real, and he thought about Juliet.

  ‘I love someone in Paris,’ he said.

  ‘She is lucky.’

  ‘We haven’t spoken for seven years.’

  Tressa took his hand. ‘Let’s drink tea and eat digestive biscuits and talk about it.’

  ‘What is a digestive biscuit?’ Remi thought it sounded horrific.

  ‘The best tea companion biscuit in the world; now, come on,’ she said and they walked along the esplanade, still holding hands.

  *

  Dan walked down to the beach, looking for Remi when he saw Tressa standing next to him holding his hand.

  ‘Jesus, that was quick,’ he mumbled to himself.

  He watched them talk and laugh and then walk in the direction of Tressa’s house and he felt the pit of his stomach drop.

  Oh dammit, he had a crush on Tressa Buckland and he was jealous of her and Remi. He didn’t even know they knew each other and now Remi was walking to her place holding her hand. A workplace crush on the first woman he’d spent any time with, in a long time? While living in a tiny village? God, where was the Dan Byrne he thought he was? He was turning into a romantic fool and he didn’t like it one bit.

  17

  Remi fell asleep on the sofa before three in the morning, so Tressa put a crocheted blanket over him and went upstairs to bed.

  She didn’t know why he trusted her enough to tell her everything, but he did, and her heart cracked into thousands of pieces. She cried as he told her how he was left to rot in prison. Made an example of, in the courts, with poor legal representation and no family support, Remi never had a chance.

  Marcel had given him a chance – but was it a broad enough ledge for him to launch from later?

  He would never get a bank loan, with his history, and he would struggle to buy a property or even get a job unless he had someone backing him all the way.

  Remi was a good man who deserved better than the hand he was played.

  When she woke at midday Remi was gone, with the blanket left folded and the heater turned off. On the table was a plate of madeleines, covered in icing sugar, spilling off the plate and onto the table like confetti, and in the sugar was the word Merci, written with a finger.

  Tressa picked one up and took a bite. Lemon. Perfection, she thought as she put the kettle on. Ginger Pickles wandered in and circled her feet.

  ‘Morning, Miss,’ she said and she took her bowl and filled it with food.

  Her phone rang. It was Dan’s number.

  She put it down again and poured her tea. She had let the tea steep, like her anger against Dan.

  When her phone rang again she saw a local number she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Hi, this is Tressa.’

  ‘Tressa, wonderful. This is Barbara Crawford from Crawford Gallery in St Ives. I saw your sketches in the Port Lowdy paper and I was wondering if you would be interested in coming up to see me and showing me some more of your work. The article mentioned you were having an exhibition somewhere but perhaps you might find my gallery more suitable. There is a real market for work like yours and I think you would also have some larger pieces?’

  Tress sat down at the table. Her tea spilled over onto the wood surface.

  ‘I do have some oils,’ she heard herself say.

  ‘Wonderful. Do you think you can come and see me?’

  ‘I can. When?’

  ‘How about next Monday? Does two work?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. See you then.’

  Tress put down the phone and looked at the word in the icing sugar – Merci.

  She needed to speak to Dan.

  *

  Dan pushed open the door of the office where Tressa was already seated at George’s desk. Richie betrayed him immediately by going straight to Tressa and putting his head on her lap.

  ‘Hey,’ she said and gave him a small smile.

  He walked in and sat in George’s chair.

  ‘Your text said you needed to talk to me. Before you fire me, I’m resigning to George today, so forget about the lecture.’

  Tress shook her head. ‘No, I wasn’t going to fire you, I wanted to say thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ He raised his eyebrows at her.

  She paused. ‘A gallery rang me today. A really good one in St Ives.’

  ‘That’s nice for you,’ he said. He noticed a red flush on her neck.

  ‘It’s nice, but it’s also stressful.’

  ‘Art is pain.’ He folded his arms.

  Tressa looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know about that. It’s just harder for me sometimes. And I really lost it when you published the images without my permission.’

  ‘And why is it harder for you?’ he asked, homing in on the easier part. ‘What makes you so special? Most artists would love to have galleries call them and to see their art printed in publications.’

  Tressa bit her lip and then she sighed.

  ‘I have a disorder.’ She paused again. ‘And it’s hard for me to put my work out there.’

  Dan felt his stomach fall away. He went to speak but she put her hand up.

  ‘No, I have to tell you before I lose my courage.’ A long pause.

  ‘I went to art school, a good art school. And I was told I was the most talented artist in my year, which is a huge amount of pressure, let alone for anyone with anxiety. I mean I had always been anxious as a kid, but I was told I was just oversensitive. Overdramatic and so on. Dismissed by my parents, but that’s another story. By the time I got to art school it was blossoming into a fully blown disorder.’

  Dan listened.

  ‘And then there was the final show. I was supposed to present my best works, the ones that reflected the mark I wanted to make in the world. It was at the Tate in S
t Ives, a big and important night. This was the culmination of everything, all those years. You know?’

  Dan nodded. He could see the importance of it on her face.

  ‘My parents came. They were proud of me for the first time, probably the last time.’ She laughed wryly. ‘And I fucked it up.’

  He saw tears forming in her eyes.

  ‘How did you fuck it up?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Because I couldn’t get my work up. I didn’t submit anything in the end because I was so anxious that all my work was terrible, that it wasn’t what people were expecting, or whatever story I told myself. I just didn’t mount anything in the show. My parents came, friends came, and there were the blank walls where my work should have been. My name was on the walls and there was nothing. I had all the works there ready to hang but I couldn’t put anything up. Part of the rules of the final show is that the students must hang their own work. My arms wouldn’t let me pick up the art to hang. I couldn’t make a decision on where to put them. It was overwhelming to the point I thought I was about to be physically sick. I lost my peripheral vision, my ears were ringing, I was sweating and couldn’t catch my breath.’

  Richie whined anxiously. His head was in her lap and Dan watched as she stroked the dog’s head, unaware of the comfort the animal was giving her as she spoke.

  ‘And my mother, God, she was furious. I told her I couldn’t do it, and she slapped me in the face and told me I was ridiculous. That I—’

  ‘She slapped you in the face?’ Dan was incredulous. He had seen some bad parenting. But Tressa’s mother was the worst sort of parent: one who thought she was a good mother. Why was it always the ones who thought they were best mothers, who were the worst?

  Tressa went on, ‘She said I was a disappointment. And that my dead sister would have done something, anything to be alive and have her chance to show her art and be part of life, so why didn’t I just step up to my life and get over whatever made-up illness I was trying to create.’