Page 20 of And Then There Was You

Fifteen Merryn

It was him – the man I saw beside my café when I was hanging the sign. The one I thanked for our awkward dance around each other in the street before. He had his hood up, masking much of his face, but I would have recognised him anywhere. The blue eyes, the warm smile . . .

Why didn’t I stop him leaving?

It’s a drama I didn’t want tonight, but I hate that he was scared away. Most of the customers have gone back to their celebrating now, thank goodness, the unexpected floor show over. At least tonight won’t be remembered for this.

But still, I don’t want anyone to feel they can’t come here.

Especially not him.

Nessie is still playing the piano, apparently unruffled by the drama.

My heart is thudding hard as I assure my friends I’m fine.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Jack rushes. ‘I’ve told Ness to watch where she’s going, but . . .’

‘She was excited,’ I counter, keen now to move on. ‘It was an accident.’

‘It was that bleddy bloke again,’ Ruthie insists, still glaring in the direction where Seth just ran. ‘The one who left without payin’.’

Was he?

‘You don’t know that, Ruthie.’

‘Yes, I do! Look what happened. Moment I called him out, he legged it! Creepy as, if you ask me.’

He didn’t seem creepy. He looked lost. But many people who come to St Ives are searching for something.

The sea is a pull to people who need reassurance, hope, something bigger than their own problems to give them perspective.

I can attest to that. Besides, if he did run out on his order, like Ruthie insists, why would I have seen him in Star Court the other day?

Surely he’d avoid this place after that?

‘He was probably embarrassed,’ Jack offers, even though Ruthie is unlikely to be denied her fury so easily. ‘I know I would be.’

‘ You wouldn’t order a pot of tea and a biscuit plate and then beggar off without payin’ for them,’ she retorts.

This is ridiculous. I’ve heard enough.

‘Ruthie, let it go. We have customers to serve and a celebration to enjoy.’

‘Boss is right,’ Murph interjects, arriving by my side and nodding as if he’s been part of the conversation from the beginning. ‘No telling how many nutters we’re likely to serve this summer. Best to get the first one out of the way, I reckon.’

Not exactly the solidarity I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.

Seth returns, red-cheeked and breathless, a moment later. ‘Lost him on Tregenna Hill. Little coward went dashin’ for the station. I hope he gets the last train and doesn’t come back.’

‘You didn’t have to chase him.’

‘Yes, I did. See, this is why you need a padlock for that side gate, Mer. It isn’t safe with creepy gits like that around.’

‘The gate was open anyway,’ I argue back. ‘And the poor guy was embarrassed, not creepy. This place is for everyone, whether they’re confident about being here or not.’

A cheer goes up as Nessie completes her bravura rendition of ‘The Entertainer’ and stands to take a bow. We join in, the drama finally abandoned. As Cerrie Austin and her hunky Australian boyfriend sit at the piano, I return behind the counter.

I hope the guy who ran away is okay. I can only imagine his embarrassment.

If I’d fallen in front of a crowded café, I’d be mortified.

I probably would think twice before setting foot in there again.

I hope he doesn’t feel that way. It was lovely to see him.

Sweet Reverie should be his place, too, whatever Seth and Ruthie think.

Drama aside, the celebration is just what I hoped it would be. Forty-two guests, all of whom eat and drink and chat and laugh, bringing the courtyard alive in a way I’ve never seen before. As the evening passes, I see the potential of Sweet Reverie made real.

And at the centre of it all, is the piano.

It tempts reluctant fingers to traverse its keys.

It sends beautiful music out into the night air.

It even survives some of my not-so-musical customers’ attempts to play it.

We hear ‘Chopsticks’ and ‘Blue Moon’ more times than perhaps is necessary – and some tunes I couldn’t place if my happy future depended upon it.

But it works . That’s what I wanted to see.

By ten, some people are starting to leave. By eleven, only three remain.

‘Can I come back and play?’ Nessie asks, stifling a yawn.

‘Any time,’ I reply.

Her dad hugs her to him. ‘Thanks for tonight, Merryn. And congratulations.’

‘Thanks for coming, all of you.’

‘We wouldn’t have missed it.’ Seren smiles, then pulls something from her pocket. ‘This is for you.’

She places a package wrapped in sea-green tissue paper in my hand. Surprised, I open it, my breath catching when I see what’s inside.

A bracelet, delicate and hand-made, with silver-wire-wrapped pieces of pale blue, white and green beachcombed seaglass, joined by silver links.

‘Oh wow! Is this one of yours?’

She smiles with pride. ‘A new venture needs the blessing of some mermaid magic.’ I see the look that passes between Seren and Nessie when she says this. Seaglass was so much a part of them finding each other, making this gift even more special.

‘Mermaid treasure for luck,’ Jack says.

‘Just what we need. Thanks so much, Seren.’

‘My pleasure. Now we need to get a certain celebrated piano player home to bed.’

‘But I’m not tired,’ Nessie insists, as they walk out, her argument scuppered by her immediate yawn.

I wave as they leave, my heart full.

Mermaid treasure for luck .

I’ll take all the luck I can get.

*

I wake early next morning, despite it being Sunday and licence, if it was needed, for a lie-in.

Bright sunlight floods my bedroom, too tempting to close my eyes and ignore.

The need to be outside is strong, pulling me out of bed, into the shower and then into my comfiest clothes.

I make coffee in a travel mug, sling my bag over my shoulder and head out into the early morning streets.

I love early summer mornings, when the day is filled with promise and the cobbles are still damp with dew. Hardly anyone is up yet, most shops and cafés not opening until ten a.m. But the air is sweet and cool, the promised heat not due to arrive until later in the day.

I take a zig-zag path across town, climbing hills and winding along impossibly perfect backstreets between white-painted fishermen’s cottages.

There are flowers everywhere: crazy white and pink Mexican fleabane daisy-like blooms spilling over stone walls; hanging baskets laden with fuchsia, yellow osteospermum, petunias and trails of white and purple lobelia; seaside planters of agapanthus and bright pink cosmos; and hydrangeas bustling between buildings.

Scent and colour and the always present sound of the sea.

Working and living in St Ives means you have to make time to enjoy all the beauty around you.

When I took on Sweet Reverie and moved into the flat above it, I made a promise to myself to get outside as often as possible.

It’s been my saving grace, especially when the demands of running a business become overwhelming.

Sometimes a fifteen-minute walk along a beach or over the cliff path towards Clodgy Point can make all the difference.

Today, I’m giving myself an hour. We’re due to open at ten-thirty a.m., so I have plenty of time.

Murph will be arriving just after ten. He agreed to work today so Ruthie can have a rest – something she insisted she didn’t need, but I saw how tired she was by the end of the celebration last night.

Besides, I’m looking forward to a shift without lectures from her about creepy customers.

I think about the man in the hoodie as I skirt the Island car park and take the footpath across the lush grass up towards the coastguard station and the chapel above it.

I hope he’s okay this morning. Whatever Seth and Ruthie’s opinions on the matter, I think he was just joining the celebration, like all our other guests.

The blackboard sign I hung by the gate to the side passage was an invitation to everyone, including strangers who haven’t visited us before.

Maybe he was intimidated by the number of the people there who appeared to know one another.

It’s an aspect of the café that I’m most proud of: that local residents find it as welcoming as the passing tourist trade.

There are precious few places in St Ives that local people can count as their own during the summer.

We surrender so much because we want visitors here.

That both tourists and locals enjoy Sweet Reverie’s atmosphere means the world to me.

I know we complain occasionally (some more than others).

And it can be relentlessly busy in the six weeks of summer.

But people choosing to visit our town from all over the world is a wonderful thing.

Their holidays in St Ives allow me to have the business I’ve worked so hard to establish.

That’s cause for celebration, even if parking is a nightmare and some visitors are less than polite.

I don’t know if the man in the hoodie was a visitor or a local. It doesn’t matter either way; only that if he is a holidaymaker, I hope he feels able to come back before his stay in St Ives is over.

I reach the summit of the hill and sit on one of the steps leading to St Nicholas Chapel, gazing down at the gorgeous spread of St Ives below.

From here I can see the long stretch of Porthmeor Beach leading to the curved white building of Tate St Ives to my right, the higgledy-piggledy roofs of Downalong ahead, and the honey-coloured curve of Porthgwidden Beach to my left.

This is my favourite vantage point, the place I come when I need perspective, or just to breathe.

I sip my coffee and drink in the view.

I needed this.

‘You always came here when you needed to think.’

The voice cuts through my thoughts, jarring and unwelcome.

When I look to my right, Luke Pengelly is walking towards me.

No.

Not now . . .