Page 12 of And Then There Was You

Eight Zach

Kieran takes the news of my new early morning job with surprising positivity, given his gruffness towards me since I moved into the studio. He even jokes about me ‘bringing my work home occasionally’, meaning sneaking baked goods back to the studio for him. Maybe I should, to keep him onside.

It’s a good start, the first step to rebuilding my life. What else might be possible for me?

With the rest of the day mine to spend how I wish, I take a long, lazy walk through town, emerging onto Harbour Road.

The tide is out, leaving the harbour a wide, welcoming sweep of pale golden sand and a cluster of boats resting on their sides as if they’re enjoying a late morning snooze.

It’s beautiful, and the vision of the sand glowing in the strengthening sun calls to me like a siren from the sea.

I’m powerless to resist, the call of the waves far out beyond Smeaton’s Pier a distant thunder drawing me out towards it.

The moment I’m down on the sand and picking my way over the brightly coloured mooring ropes that crisscross the beach, I feel at home.

Out here, right now, nobody cares whether I’m a visitor or a local, whether I have a holiday home to return to or am relying on the kindness of friends to keep a roof over my head.

I’m just a bloke walking across the rippled sand of a wide, sea-empty harbour.

I have no past and no sense of future. I exist right here, right now, in this moment.

And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m at peace.

The knowledge of this strengthens my spine as I walk towards the sea, the breaking white curls of surf over waves turning turquoise as they curve over the shore so familiar and longed for.

I have spent half my life in the sea – probably longer.

It’s where I work everything out; where life becomes neatly boxed into pre-surf and post-surf.

I need to get back out there. Soon.

The tide is powerful today. It pummels the wide golden sand beyond the harbour walls.

Too uncertain for surfers, though. Too unpredictable.

Too much energy that could become your enemy in a heartbeat if you don’t pay attention.

There’s bound to be one or two either inexperienced or daft surfers trying their luck, but that’s a mug’s game.

‘Bleddy Zach Trevelyan!’

A shout to my left makes my heart sink like a rock in the ocean. All I wanted was to be by the sea. But I turn anyway, because there’s no escape now unless I wade straight into the waves.

The huge smile that greets me blows away all my concern.

‘Jakey! Man, it’s good to see you!’

Jakey Lowen greets me with a high hand-grasp, our shoulders bumping together.

I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, the last time at Boardmasters up on Newquay’s Fistral Beach.

We joined the circuit together a few months apart and, while we didn’t always compete in the same locations, we invariably ended up hanging out at surf meets across the UK and Europe.

He looks older, of course, the first hint of silver edging the dark waves of his hair where they meet his temples. I wonder how I look to him. Can he see the toll of recent years etched into my skin?

‘When did you blow back into town?’ he asks.

‘Couple of months ago. I’ve been sofa-surfing with a few mates.’

‘Hard times, dude.’

‘Yeah, but, you know, I’m getting back on my feet.’

Jakey nods. ‘Tough job, but I reckon you’ll be okay. Trev the Comeback King can’t be kept down for long.’

‘Cheers,’ I say, cringing a little at the mention of my former nickname, from a time when my surf mates believed I was invincible. ‘So what are you up to now?’

‘Teaching, over at the surf school.’

I laugh, because he’s the absolute last person I ever expected to want to teach kids. Jakey was never one for rules and systems, always carving his own, unconventional path through the waves. ‘And they let you?’

‘Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Trev. I’m one of their most popular instructors, actually.’

‘Heaven help the circuit when your protégés hit it in a few years.’

Jakey bats this away. ‘Maybe they’ll shake it up a bit. Talking of which, you should come down one lesson. Show the nippers how a real pro does it.’

The old fear instantly returns. ‘I don’t think so . . .’

‘Oh come on, Trev, you’d ace it.’ He studies my expression and I will the flood of panic to hide from my face. ‘Is this because of your knee?’

Everything is because of my knee. Before the injury that killed my career, I never worried about showing off my skills to anyone, never hesitated to throw myself into situations that scared me. I hate that I can’t escape it now. It’s why I haven’t ventured out with my board since the injury.

‘I just don’t think I can, okay?’

‘You can still surf, though?’

‘Yeah, of course.’ Can I? I think I can, but unless I get back in the water, how will I ever know?

‘So come and hang with us. Doesn’t matter if you aren’t firing on all cylinders. You love the waves.’ He gazes out at the rolling surf, sparkling where the sunlight illuminates the spray above each crest. ‘You want to be out there, right?’

You can’t kid a surfer. The instinct remains strong, the pull on your heart impossible to fight, even when your body isn’t up to the task like it once was.

‘Yeah,’ I admit. ‘I haven’t been out for months.’ Longer than that, but months sounds better.

‘So, come hang with me. Soon. We’ll get you back out there.’ When I seem less than convinced, he grins up at me. ‘I teach five-year-olds, Trev. You’ll be no challenge.’

It makes me laugh, despite everything else. ‘Maybe.’

‘Yes! Date in the diary, Zachy-boy! So, what are you doing for work?’

I tell him about the job I’ve scored at Downalong Bakery – amused when Jakey’s eyes glaze over at the thought of that window display – and the temporary home I’ve found in Kieran Macklin’s studio. ‘I need to find something else, though – and no, not teaching, thank you.’

‘We wouldn’t take you anyway,’ he jokes, laughing when I roll my eyes. ‘You should try that new place on the harbour.’

‘Which one?’

He looks back at the town and points over towards The Sloop pub and the Aspects Holidays office beyond it. ‘The one with the stripes across its hoarding. Can’t miss it.’

Sure enough, I see it, beyond the glow from the exposed sand of the harbour.

A double length of boarding with a door cut at its centre, the boards painted in alternate Cornish blue and white stripes, like the popular crockery synonymous with the county.

A large banner draped across the top of the boards has a message printed on it, but from here I can’t see what it says.

Jakey stands by my elbow. ‘Going to be a bar and restaurant, apparently. Used to be a gallery with a pub next door. The owners have bought both and are knocking them together.’

‘They’re not painting the thing blue and white, are they?’

‘Not unless they fancy being sued by Cornishware,’ Jakey grins. ‘They’re chucking money around, though. I reckon you could score some shifts there, if that’s your thing.’

We turn back to the sea, our conversation drifting back to memories of the surf circuit and the people we competed alongside. It’s great to catch up with him. The small glimpse of normality feels like a gift.

When we part – having swapped numbers and promises to hit the waves soon – I stalk back across the sand towards the town.

I round the end of Smeaton’s Pier and follow its dark grey barnacled stone brickwork towards the arches and the iconic pink house at Kitty’s Corner.

Then I walk up the stone ramp to the promenade, its upturned rowboats lying in a horizonal guard of honour.

I can see it now, the wording on the banner clear at close quarters.

PENGELLY’S IS COMING TO ST IVES.

NEW BAR & SEAFOOD RESTAURANT OPENING SOON.

On the rough-cut door in the centre of the striped boards is a smaller sign, handwritten in thick, slanting lines of black pen:

Bar staff and servers required Flexible shifts available Apply within.

It’s the invitation I need. That and the fact that the makeshift entrance door is already ajar.

I never believed in signs until my life fell apart. Lately, I’ve been seeking them out. The serendipity of meeting Jakey Lowen after years apart, and his mentioning of this place that I somehow missed on my job-seeking rounds of the town the other day, are too many coincidences to ignore.

Seize the day or whatever you can grab , as Mum used to say.

I kick the sand from my shoes and gingerly push the striped door. It swings open with a creak far older than its years.

It’s dark inside. My eyes take a few moments to adjust after the brightness of the beach.

When I blink away the ghost-image of Cornish light, I see a half-constructed bar at the centre of the two former buildings, dustsheets covering most of its length.

The scar of the old partitioning wall rises up and over it, a newly installed rolled steel joist supporting the weight of the floors above.

Dust hangs in the air, catching the back of my throat as I walk in.

I wonder how long it will take to transform this space into a high-spec new bar and restaurant. They don’t have long if they want to start their business with the summer trade. But at least if they’re a few weeks away, there may still be jobs going.

A man seated by the bar looks up from a roll of plans spread out across its dusty surface.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Er, yeah. I’ve come about the jobs?’

‘Excellent.’ He claps his hands, sending more dust spinning up into the gloomy air, jumping down from his stool and striding across the floor towards me. ‘You’re our first enquirer.’

‘Oh, great. I’m Zach Trevelyan,’ I rush, remembering my manners.

When the man reaches me he shakes my hand with considerable grip. ‘Luke Pengelly. I’m the co-founder of this place. My business partner, Scott, is out at the moment. Let me find us some chairs and we’ll have a chat, yeah?’