Page 14 of And Then There Was You

Nine Merryn

We meet on Porthmeor Beach at five a.m., a small but happy band of volunteers bundled up against the Atlantic chill.

The weather forecast promises temperatures will rise once the sun is up, but nobody’s told Porthmeor that yet.

We gather by the large black rocks just opposite the ramp that leads down from the road by Tate St Ives, past the St Ives Surf School building and onto the beach.

When we arrive, Lou is noisily checking items on the clipboard he brandishes like a shield.

‘Right, when I say your name, please make yourselves known,’ he barks. ‘Then we can divvy up the bin bags and grabbers and get crackin’.’

‘ Bin bags and Grabbers – name of my new grunge band,’ Seth whispers beside me, causing me to stuff my giggles behind my summer scarf when Lou sends me a sharp look.

It feels like the school trips I remember as a kid, all of us now supplied with fluorescent yellow gilets so we can be seen and being corralled by a stern-faced Lou as best he can.

His seriousness, coupled with the early hour, makes the urge to muck about strong.

Muffled sniggers and conspiratorial grins pass between the beach clean volunteers while Lou hands us rolls of bin bags, thick red rubber gloves and metal litter pickers – which, of course, instantly become duelling swords and lightsabers, depending upon your weapon of choice.

In the pre-dawn blue the pale sand glows beneath our feet almost as bright as the gilets we wear. The wind whips at our hair, the thunder of the outgoing tide competing with our chatter as we greet one another.

I recognise several of the volunteers – Seth, of course, whose good-natured grumbling looks set to be my constant companion this morning; Aggie Keats, who owns the coffee hut on Porthgwidden Beach and is bustling around despite being very pregnant; Cerrie Austin, a schoolteacher who’s always part of Lou’s various community initiatives; and Cerrie’s boyfriend, Tom, who bears more than a passing resemblance to Thor from the Marvel movies.

Jack Dixon is here, too, with his girlfriend Seren and his totally brilliant daughter, Nessie.

Despite the early hour, she is full of energy, her dark curls dancing in the wind as she skips around Jack and Seren.

I’m tired after a broken night of sleep, plans and contingencies for the evening openings racing around my brain.

I’ll ask Lou for his help once the beach clean is underway.

The thought of it chills me more than the early morning breeze.

But the fun in this group and the potential for hilarity is the perfect antidote to my nerves.

‘Now, before you all begin, we need to say a huge thank you to the sponsors of the beach clean this mornin’. In fact, the local business supplyin’ all the equipment you’re usin’ have agreed to sponsor the beach cleans for the rest of the year!’

This is met by genuine applause. We might all poke fun at Lou’s officiousness, but we know how hard he works to raise funds for the many community projects he champions.

Lou practically sparkles with the reception to his news.

He lets the applause last for a while, then raises his clipboard for quiet.

‘Thank you, thank you kindly, all. So let’s all thank the very generous Scott Mayfield, co-owner of Pengelly’s, the brand-new restaurant openin’ soon on the harbour . . .’

Applause swells around me, but I’m frozen. Seth isn’t clapping, his concerned stare warm against my cheek.

I’ve seen the construction boards around the former pub overlooking Harbour Beach – painted in Cornish blue and white stripes like the iconic Cornishware pottery; they were impossible to miss. But the business had no name – until Lou confirmed it.

Pengelly’s .

It’s possible it’s a coincidence. But there’s only one Pengelly likely to be setting up a restaurant in St Ives.

There used to be two, before I reclaimed my maiden name when my divorce finalised, three years ago.

I feel sick.

‘It might not be him,’ Seth whispers, glancing at the other beach volunteers who have now started to cotton on.

‘Who else could it be?’ I hiss back.

Last I heard, Luke Pengelly was opening a licensed restaurant in Falmouth, with the intention of developing the entire building in which it was housed into a boutique hotel.

He planned to then repeat the development with properties in Sennen Cove and St Just. Why deviate from that plan to come back here?

Especially after what happened.

The last time I saw my ex-husband was to sign the final settlement papers of our divorce.

That day he made no secret of his dislike of St Ives and his hurry to be out of the town.

We met in The Hub overlooking the harbour, our solicitors tucking into their breakfasts while ours went untouched.

The restaurant we’d opened together had sold faster than we’d hoped, meaning that funds from the sale could be split at the same time as our divorce was nearing finalisation.

My decree nisi had arrived that morning and the short sentence declaring the intended dissolution of our three-year marriage had hit me like a speeding train.

Dismissing our commitment, our hopes and dreams as mere formalities, the court casting it all away as easily as Luke had.

He’d left me for someone else: walking out on our home and our business, leaving me to deal with the emotional and financial fallout, and a furious team of staff finding themselves suddenly unemployed.

The money from the sale of the building did little to compensate for the horrific time I’d had dealing with it all.

‘Thank you, everyone,’ Scott is saying now, his voice almost lost in the strengthening wind from the sea. ‘We’re happy to help. Pengelly’s will be opening in two weeks’ time and I hope we can welcome you all for fine dining and the best selection of spirits in St Ives.’

‘Says he,’ Seth mutters, glancing at a man beside us I recognise from one of the established bars in town.

The man catches Seth’s eye and shakes his head.

No doubt the other bar owners and restaurateurs will have similar reactions, if they’ve been in St Ives for more than a few years.

People here have long memories: they remember the mess Luke Pengelly left in his wake.

‘Are you joining us for the beach clean, then, Scott?’ one of the volunteers asks, the friendly question edged with the smallest hint of sarcasm.

Lou’s smile tightens. I can see what’s coming a mile off.

‘Scotty has places to be,’ he rushes, before Scott can reply. ‘We all know the craziness of openin’ a new business, right? But I’m sure we’ll tempt him down for a future beach clean, right?’

‘I mean, we’ll do our best.’ Scott’s nod is less than convincing. ‘We’ll be doing press, though,’ he offers. ‘Really getting the word out about the initiative. Rallying the troops and all that.’

‘Talkin’ of which,’ Lou interrupts, ‘we should get crackin’. The sun’ll be fully up soon and this beach won’t clean itself!’

There’s a definite atmosphere between the volunteers as we disperse over the beach to begin the clean.

Seth joins me without waiting for an invitation and we work in silence for the first few minutes.

I know he’s biding his time and I’m grateful for the pause it affords me.

Because, honestly, my head is a mess. I don’t know how to feel about this – about any of it.

For the last three years, I’ve patrolled my mind for thoughts of my ex, clamping down on any I encounter. It does me no good to give them room.

I thought I was free of him, physically at least, when he ended our marriage with so little concern for what we’d had.

Knowing St Ives was a safe place, one he’d sworn never to return to, gave me confidence to carve out the new chapter of my life here.

And I love the life I’ve established in this place.

I’m proud of what I’ve achieved, of my café that I founded from bare bones and the community it’s created.

We aren’t just surviving as a business, we’re thriving – which is no mean feat given the intense competition and high turnover of businesses here.

But if I have to enter each new day with the possibility of seeing Luke again – and the woman he so easily left me for – it will change everything.

I don’t love him anymore. Being kicked to the kerb by someone who had so loudly declared his lifelong commitment was a pretty effective way to kill any love I had left.

But I know Luke. He isn’t one to hide in the shadows.

He’ll flaunt his new business and new life for all it’s worth, with no thought of how that might make me feel.

‘You’re overthinkin’ it,’ Seth says, when we’re carrying the first bin bags back to the rocks.

‘Am I? He said he was never coming back here.’

‘He said a lot of things he reneged on.’ It stings, but it’s true.

‘One thing’s for certain: if he sent his lackey down here, it means we won’t see him.

He’s keepin’ his head down and with bleddy good reason.

Besides, Luke never gets out of bed before eight a.m. I doubt he even knows this time of day exists. ’

I love Seth for trying, but my mood is set and no amount of his kind jokes will shift it.

I can’t believe Lou didn’t think to mention the identity of his ‘sponsor’.

With his near-encyclopaedic knowledge of everyone and everything in the town, how did he fail to clock the link with the surname?

He knew me first as Merryn Pengelly – as most of the traders did in town.

I shudder now at the memory of that name, at the ghost of me who carried it.

‘Lou could have warned me.’

‘Yes, he could,’ Seth concedes. ‘But he’s been desperate for a sponsor for the beach cleans for months.’

‘That doesn’t make it okay.’ I know I’m being unreasonable now, but I can’t see past this. Lou knows me and he knows what I went through when Luke left. ‘A word of warning when he came into the café yesterday would have been enough.’

Seth drops the bin bag in the growing pile by the rocks and hands me a new bag. ‘Would it, though, Mer?’

I meet his knowing stare with a sigh. ‘No.’

We walk slowly away to resume our litter picking, any conversation we might have had stolen by the revelation.

The quietness between us makes me face facts.

The truth is, I’m angry with Lou because today was the day I’d planned to ask for his help finding staff for the evening openings.

I was so excited to share the news, but the bombshell of Luke being back in town has stolen it.

I feel like Luke has robbed me again, and I’m as powerless to prevent it as I was before.

When I look at how far I’ve come in the last three years, I’ve always measured it by two things: how confident I feel and how much distance I’ve put between Luke Pengelly and me.

This morning, he stamped right back into view, making that achievement as good as nothing.

‘I wanted to ask Lou to help me find more staff,’ I confess, when my anger has receded a little.

Seth brightens immediately. ‘You mean . . . ?’

‘Three nights a week, to begin with,’ I say, catching the excitement I see in my friend. ‘Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, right through the summer.’

‘You beauty!’ Seth scoops me up in a hug so tight it almost lifts my feet from the sand. It elicits amused looks from our fellow volunteers as he lifts me bodily and twirls me around. In the middle of the confusion, of the questions I never wanted to consider again, it’s a moment of sudden light.

I let him spin us on the sand, welcoming in his excitement like a breath of salt air. And as he does, I make a promise to myself. I’m going to hang on to the celebration of this decision. I won’t allow Luke Pengelly – or anyone else – to rob me of it.

‘We’ll find staff,’ Seth says, breathless from his endeavours. ‘And I’ll work the shifts Ruthie can’t do.’

It’s a kind offer, but he’s already working so hard running the surf shop.

‘I can’t ask you to do that,’ I begin, but Seth won’t let me finish.

‘That’s why I’m offerin’. Come on, Mer, this is going to be amazin’. And you wouldn’t be doin’ it if it weren’t for my naggin’.’ There’s pure mischief in his smile.

‘Is that so?’ I take off one of my rubber gloves and brandish it like a missile.

‘You know it, babe.’ He grins back, pulling off his glove, too. ‘Total brains behind the operation, me.’

The game arrives as easy as breathing. I flick my glove against his arm and take off across the beach, laughing when he gives chase, swinging his glove at my back.

We duck and weave, sometimes dodging glove slaps, sometimes catching them.

Our friends watch with amusement, shouting encouragement to the side they’ve chosen to root for.

It’s like we’re kids again, kicking out across the line of pebbles and shells left by high tide before dawn.

The energy and fun dislodges the hurt from my heart, just as sunlight breaks across the waves beside us.

I have to hold on to this, I decide in that moment, not let fear steal it. The only things Luke Pengelly can grab from me now are the things I let him take. He took my past and five years of my life. I won’t allow him to take my future.