Page 3 of And Then There Was You

Two Zach

‘I’m sorry, mate. There’s nothing I can do.’

I don’t doubt Sid Martyn’s apology, but I can hear nerves in every word.

Somewhere out of view, she’s watching. Eva.

The girlfriend doing everything she can to drag my friend away from the surfing community for good.

She’s already binned his second-best board, and the only good thing about that is she doesn’t yet know about his best one, stashed safely away in the back of St Ives Surf Club’s building.

But it’s only a matter of time before she finds out and bins that, too.

It happens. I’ve seen it countless times before.

I just never thought it would happen to Sid.

‘Don’t sweat it,’ I reply, swinging my rucksack onto my shoulder. ‘Thanks for having me, yeah?’

We hand-clasp and I make my way out. I can practically feel Eva’s triumph as I vacate the property.

Fine.

Let her crow over evicting me.

It was only supposed to be temporary, anyway.

My heart hits the cobbles of The Digey when Sid’s front door shuts behind me. My whole life is temporary right now.

I could find a holiday rental, despite my noble statements about that being the death of Cornwall, but with the ridiculous prices they hike up for July and August, I’d barely afford a few days.

If the weather’s good I could kip on the beach for a couple of nights, but I learned long ago never to trust the forecast here in summer.

The sun is just rising as I walk slowly towards Fore Street, washing everything in hopeful golden light.

A rush of love assaults me, as it always does in this town, despite living here being a challenge most of the year.

And especially now, when St Ives is packed with holidaymakers and all the seasonal jobs are taken.

I can’t help it: St Ives has my heart.

It doesn’t matter what kind of day I’m having, what trouble is stalking me along the cobbled streets, being in this place always lifts me.

Even if I’m broke and, now, officially homeless . . .

I could always head to the legendary Becca’s Bar, see if the good lady herself needs any extra help.

Becca’s known for taking in waifs and strays and it wouldn’t be the first time she’s given me work.

But the summer season’s already underway and she’ll likely have her full contingent of bar staff sorted.

Plus, my busted knee might not last a night shift.

I’ve called in all the favours I can think of, commandeered the sofas and spare beds of all the surfing buddies I know are in town. I’m running out of ideas – and money.

I’ll think of something.

I always do.

But it’s hard to be proactive at five-thirty in the morning, when you’re knackered and hungry and you’ve just lost your bed for the night.

Bloody Eva.

Bloody knee .

I need to think. And I need coffee. And I know one place badass enough to be serving it before six.

I head down Fore Street, past Chy-an-Chy and up to Norway, the street whose name my mum always loved.

‘That’s it, I’m off to Norway!’ she’d sing-song when she was popping to the small corner shop that lies at the end of it.

The shop is still there, a TARDIS of a place packed with a surprising array of groceries, cakes, artisan breads and cheeses.

Not a straight shelf in the place, which amused Mum, too.

The shop is still there, but Mum isn’t.

I kick at the stab of pain that always attacks me when I think of her.

She’s the reason I’m back here, five years after her passing.

When my knee was injured, taking my pro-surfing career with it, St Ives was my best hope.

I needed to be near to her, even though she isn’t here anymore.

Her heart is still here, I think. I feel it everywhere in this town, as real as the cobbled streets and as loud as the gulls.

She didn’t leave a home for me when she passed away – she had to give it up when she went into the hospice. But St Ives was her home, for most of her life. So now, it’s mine.

I duck down Porthmeor Road, the crash of the waves on the beach beyond its row of huddled fishermen’s cottages unmistakable. There’s a blast of salt-laden, sea-sodden air as I pass the gap between the buildings leading to the beach, then respite as the bulk of St Nicholas Court shelters me.

I can’t face Porthmeor today. The surf ’s up and everyone will be out in the waves.

Instead, I skirt the Island car park – where a particularly optimistic four-by-four is camping out in the hope of a parking space.

The driver – pale-faced and bug-eyed, clearly a tourist – is staring at the crowded rows of cars as if he thinks one of them might vanish.

A frazzled-looking woman in the passenger seat and two sleepy kids crashed out in the back complete the set.

I wish them well, I do.

But in the summer season they’ve got more chance of unearthing the Holy Grail in between the stubbornly stationary vehicles here than ever finding a parking space.

As I pass the car park, another beach swings into view. Much smaller than Porthmeor but perfectly formed, with soft, pale fudge-coloured sand, dark grey rocks and a gentle slope of a bay beloved by families in the summer and early morning swimmers all year round.

The steep path that leads down to Porthgwidden Beach brings a rush of sound, a stiff sea breeze and the unmistakable aroma of the best beach coffee in town.

My instincts proved right, I head for the small whitewashed building that presides over the beach.

The door is ajar when I reach it, an invitation lovelier than I can express.

‘Bleddy hell, look what the wind blew in!’

Aggie Keats turns from the shiny chrome coffee machine – revealing a burgeoning belly straining at the sides of her stone-coloured cotton dungarees.

‘Hey, Aggs. What are you doing working? Aren’t you due soon?’

‘Cheek!’ She chucks a tea towel at me. ‘Is that the only question anyone can ask me? I’m eight-and-a-quarter months , Zachary, so plenty of time before this lot arrive.’

‘How many do you have in there?’ I chuckle.

‘Feels like a bleddy herd of rhino right now.’ She carefully manoeuvres her impressive bump through the hatch in the counter and blesses me with a bear hug. ‘Two, officially. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve smuggled a mate in.’

‘You’re looking fab,’ I say with a grin, kissing her cheek.

‘You look like crap.’ Her pierced eyebrow rises. ‘No offence or nothin’.’

‘None taken.’

‘What you doing out this early? You’re not hittin’ the surf, are you?’ Her gaze drops to my knee, as it does with everyone who knows me.

‘I need coffee,’ I reply. ‘And you’re the only bird mad enough to be making it so early.’

‘Yeah, well, my swimmin’ lads and ladies need something hot when they come out of the sea, don’t they? Plus, I can’t sleep. So it’s all good. What’ll it be, then?’

‘Anything you like, as long as it’s strong.’

Aggie sniggers as she returns behind the counter, fills a coffee arm with freshly ground espresso and cranks it into the machine. ‘Like that, is it?’

‘You have no idea.’ I take a seat at the carved oak bar, only now feeling how tired my body is. Sleeping on sofas significantly shorter than your body length for weeks on end does nothing for you, I’ve discovered. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to stretch out flat in a bed.

‘Where are you staying?’

I sigh. There’s no point hiding the truth from Agatha Keats. She’ll uncover it in minutes, knowing the town grapevine as well as she does. ‘I was staying at Sid Martyn’s, until about twenty minutes ago.’

‘Stick-up-her-arse Eva Price chucked you out then? No surprise there. She’d have Sid chained to the cobbles to keep him from the sea, if she could.’ She shakes her head, spiral curls bobbling around her face as she does so. ‘I’ve seen it too many times. But she’s the worst in a while.’

‘I never thought Sid would put up with it, but he’s smitten.’

‘Sid Martyn is a soft touch. Everyone knows it. Here you go, lovely.’ She slides a huge mug of dark, smoky coffee to my waiting hands.

It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve seen for days.

Aggie watches while I drink, wiping the bar with a cloth as she observes me.

Beyond the walls of the coffee hut, the strengthening wind whistles as the surf continues to rise.

There are a thousand things that should concern me right now: contingencies to be put in place, doors to be knocked, worries to address.

But this one, simple moment, enjoying coffee by the beach before the rest of the town is even awake, is such a gift that I can’t rush it.

I’ve learned to appreciate small moments like this.

An injury will do that to you. For years I lived for the highs, the drama and the big events.

I couldn’t even count the smaller moments I let pass by while waiting for the big stuff.

Like all the waves you dismiss when you’re in the water, waiting for that one, perfect swell.

Lately, I’ve had to pay attention to the smaller things because my world has shrunk.

It’s become about loose change and small serendipities, taking each day as it comes instead of racing ahead of the calendar to the next major event.

I no longer have the luxury of control over my life. And that hurts. I’ve always surfed my way out of lean times, trusting the next competition to solve the woes created by the last. But now, I have no firm plan, no forward schedule – and it scares me.

‘So, what’s the plan, Zachy?’ Aggie leans on the counter, her gaze fixed on me.

‘There isn’t one.’ It sucks to admit it, but it’s Aggie asking. ‘I need to find work so I can pay for somewhere to stay. You don’t have anything going here, do you?’

Aggie’s look of compassion both comforts and stings me.

‘I wish I did, lover. I’m strugglin’ to afford the staff I’ve got. Even with the summer rush comin’ . . .’

‘No worries.’ I retreat to the comfort of Aggie’s excellent coffee. I didn’t expect her to be able to help. She has enough to deal with here and with her imminent arrivals. But asking for work has become such an instant thing that my request was out before I could stop it.

I hate this: the feeling of being behoven to my friends, of every acquaintance being a potential route to find work or a place to sleep. I’d never asked anyone for anything until my knee gave up on me. Now it seems it’s all I do.

Aggie grabs a cloth and stabs at a coffee spill on the counter.

Her brows knot as she does so – an expression I recognise.

She’s done it for as long as I’ve known her: the Aggie Keats Thinking Frown.

The only time she’s quiet, unless she’s sleeping.

She’s a problem-solver, one of life’s fixers.

If she’s turning something over in that brilliant mind of hers, the issue she’s looking to solve is already history.

‘Know what, Zachy? If you’re stuck for a place to stay, Kieran has a room, on the side of his studio. He’s not there at night, unless he’s editin’ a big photo job. There’s a fold-out bed, little kitchen, a loo. Shower out in the yard behind it. I mean it isn’t much, but . . .’

‘Yes!’ I rush, because I’ve long since abandoned pride in favour of open doors. ‘That would be amazing. Would you ask him, Aggs?’

‘I’ll do better than that, babe.’ She reaches over the counter and squeezes my hand. ‘I’ll tell him. Stick with me and we’ll get you sorted, okay?’

It’s all I can do not to yell out loud.