Page 7 of And Then There Was You

I still have the first hoodie they gave me, with a unique back print that marked me out as their pro surfer. My name over the design and everything. I don’t wear it out much now. Only if I’m on the beach first thing or if it’s cold where I’m crashing. I don’t want people to know I’m . . .

‘Zach Trevelyan!’ A shout sounds, making me jump. ‘Bleddy legend!’

No, not now . . .

Amused glances from the browsing shoppers greet me as I search for the source of the call. Is it someone I know? I don’t recognise the voice, but I’ve been out of the loop for a while and it’s scary how quickly I’ve forgotten people.

A young, impressively muscled bloke with a shoulder-length mop of dark hair, wearing ocean-print board shorts, a bright orange vest and scuffed Havaianas, lopes towards me, offering me his fist to bump.

‘Hi,’ I say, praying to St Ia that this guy tells me his name. My memory isn’t the greatest at the best of times – all that seawater sloshing around up there , Mum used to say – but after the whirlwind of events today I haven’t a hope of recall.

‘I watched you on the circuit for years, man,’ the guy rushes. ‘I can’t believe you’re here!’

‘Good to meet you . . . ?’ I reply, hoping he’ll fill the gap.

‘S-sorry, Flynn. Flynn Rawlins? I’m a massive fan.’

‘Well, cheers, Flynn.’

‘So what brings you to St Ives? You doing a masterclass down the surf school?’

‘Er, no, I . . .’

‘. . . Cos, oh my life , what I’d give to be part of that.’

Customers are watching now, their interest piqued by Flynn’s fulsome praise.

Months ago, I would have loved this. But today it makes my toes bunch in my sneakers.

He thinks I’m here to teach, or compete.

He doesn’t know I’m off the circuit. And somehow, I have to ask this bright-eyed, starstruck young dude for a job because I have no money.

It makes everything a million times worse.

‘No, just hanging out, you know.’

Flynn nods excitedly. ‘Yeah, I get it. Checking out the competition, right? And the girls . . .’

My attempt at laughter comes out like a strained squeak, stress hissing in my ears.

‘Just trying to relax, brother.’

‘Yeah, yeah, totally. Hey, my boss is out back. He’ll be stoked you’re here! Surf ledge in our shop? Manic! Wait here – I’ll go get him . . .’

Before I can reply, he’s racing through the shop to an open doorway behind the counter.

This is a disaster. He’s going to drag his boss out and then I’ll have to tell both of them that not only am I no longer a surf pro but I’m also on the scrounge for work.

Worse still, the commotion Flynn has caused means there’s now an audience gathering, one of whom is fiddling with their phone like they’re about to take a photo . . .

This was a mistake. I can’t ask for a job here. I just can’t. Not after the rejection I’ve had today. I’d rather go and leave this kid believing one of his surf heroes is still out there, doing his thing.

I hurry back outside, the murmurs of the shoppers rising behind me like an ocean swell.

I pull the peak of my cap low over my eyes, not wanting to attract any further attention.

But the street is suddenly crammed with people – a German tour party with cameras and guidebooks and rucksacks, their frazzled-looking tour guide doing her best to steer them over the cobbles.

I can’t get past them – and now I can hear the young guy from Porthia Surf calling my name.

In desperation, I turn to the next shop.

There’s what looks like a side passage between it and the surf shop building, its entrance under an arching honeysuckle and ivy canopy, its gate open.

I could duck down there, but I don’t know how far it goes and whether it leads to a dead end or not.

If I try to hide there, I might be found.

Instead, I make for the entrance to the shop itself, slamming the door behind me.

The scent of fresh coffee and sweet pastries immediately greets me, the hum of conversation blocking out the sounds from the street.

A tiny café.

It’s packed, every table occupied and a line of four people queuing for takeaway food and drink. There’s no room for me to hide anywhere and precious little room to even stand. If I wait here, I’ll be blocking the entrance and will be discovered the moment someone tries to come in.

I look back through the glass panels of the door to see the kid from the surf shop and a taller, broader bloke with a riot of red curls and a scowl like he’s battling a headache, peering around the slow-moving tour party.

Looking for me.

I can’t leave. I can’t stay. I’m stuck here, by the door, in a café I never intended to visit.

‘All right, lover?’

A young woman behind the counter is grinning at me. She has a ring in her eyebrow, rainbow-tipped hair in kooky-looking bunches and a spectacular tattoo of a gecko walking up her left forearm.

‘Hi, I’m not . . .’

‘We’re rammed in here, soz, but if it’s a table for one you’re after, there’s a little ’un in the courtyard?’ She jabs her thumb towards the back of the café, where an arched door is open, bright sunlight streaming in from outside.

‘Zach? Zach Trevelyan?’

They’re calling my name beyond the glass. It sounds closer now, as if they might be approaching the café . . .

‘Yeah, cheers,’ I reply, a plan rapidly forming.

I’ve less than two quid in my pocket – not enough to afford even a cup of tea in this place, judging by the prices on the hand-chalked menu board above the counter – but if they’re busy they might not get to me for a while.

I can hunker at a table out in the courtyard for ten minutes till the coast is clear, then escape down the greenery-covered side passage I just saw.

I edge around the busy tables towards the warm glow of daylight, stepping out into the sweet little courtyard.

The tables are occupied here, too, save for a small, round bistro-style table with a single wrought-iron chair tucked underneath, beside a large object covered with what looks like a dustsheet.

Cosy is not the word for it – and navigating the limited space with my long legs is a task in itself.

Being six feet three inches tall has its advantages, but is a distinct disadvantage when attempting to fit in enclosed spaces.

It would help if the bulky thing beside the table wasn’t here, jabbing into my leg.

What is it, anyway?

I catch the edge of its paint-splattered covering with my foot and edge it aside, revealing a dusty castor and an elegantly shaped panel of wood. Glancing up at the rest of its shape beneath the sheet, realisation dawns.

A piano.

Old, admittedly. Past its prime, most definitely. But unmistakable.

My heart contracts as I let the sheet fall back into place.

It isn’t like mine – not the one I used to have.

That was the colour of clotted cream, pale wood with a mother-of-pearl inlay of flowers across its front.

But the ache this piano brings is the same I’ve felt whenever I’ve seen one in a bar or a restaurant, or in the window of a house I pass in the street.

I’ve learned to deal with the loss of my Padstow flat.

But giving up my piano was the hardest thing.

I’d had it for years, inherited from my aunt who went off travelling the world in her sixties and ended up settling in Australia.

She’d been a music teacher all her life and she taught me from the age of six.

And while I was often away competing, the piano was always waiting for me when I got home, the first thing I did after chucking my bags on the floor.

Sit down. Play something. Feel the knots and the tension and the aches from my battered body melting away . . .

Does this piano play?

I wonder what it sounds like – its voice , as Auntie Sue always called it.

Every piano and every human has their own unique voice, Zachary. The magic is when one meets the other. A love match of keys and vocals, tone and breath. Find that, and you’ll never feel alone.

Her memory summons a bittersweet smile. I wonder what Sue would make of this piano. Did it ever find its love match?

It’s in a pretty sorry state, judging by the part of it I’ve seen. And the paint-stained dustsheet is hardly adequate protection for it out here, where the canopy overhead provides little shelter from the elements on the courtyard’s two open sides.

Maybe it’s a relic from the business that occupied this space before?

It could be.

The café looks pretty established, though. Usually you can tell if a business is new in this town, the smell of fresh paint and furniture polish a dead giveaway. Not here.

The piano might not even play. Some of the businesses in St Ives love the shabby-chic look, with old and antique furniture repurposed to add to the aesthetic.

I remember one neighbourhood acquaintance whose grandfather took out all the inner workings of an old piano and installed a sound system inside instead.

Auntie Sue never forgave them. The thought of such vandalism chills my skin even now, but could this piano have suffered a similar fate?

Whatever the truth – and despite the way the instrument encroaches on the little available space I have – its presence calms me. I’d never admit this aloud, of course, but it’s almost as if I’m not here alone.

Daft, I know.

But I’ll take it.

If Auntie Sue is watching, I reckon she’ll be impressed with me.

‘O-kay, what can I get you?’ The woman from the counter is beside my table, arriving like a silent ninja. How did she do that? And how has she got here so quickly when there were so many customers before me waiting to be served?

‘I – um – I don’t have a menu,’ I reply, warmth spreading up the back of my neck.

The woman hefts a sigh and turns to the next table. ‘Mind if I borrow this, lovers? Cheers.’ She swings back to my table and offers me the menu. The prices swim in my vision.

‘Just a tea, please,’ I manage, squashing down the panic that rises inside. I don’t have enough change to buy this and I can’t risk using my credit card, either.

‘Mug or a pot?’

Which will delay her longest? I just need five minutes.

‘Pot, please. And a biscuit plate,’ I add, glancing at the list of options on the menu.

She scribbles my order on her notebook and blesses me with a harassed smile.

‘Right y’are. Might be a few, okay?’

‘You on your own today?’ I ask, hoping that prolonging the conversation will buy enough time for Flynn and his grizzled-looking employer to abandon their search.

‘My boss is due back any mo.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Milk delivery was wrong again this morning, so she’s legged it to the Co-op.’

‘Busy day, huh?’

‘Busy month . Not that I’m complainin’, mind. But these emmets . . .’ She blesses the neighbouring table with a beatific smile as if she hasn’t just insulted them, then lowers her voice. ‘I swear they hide in the street, waitin’ till one of us leaves before they all pile in.’

‘Keeps the town going, though,’ I reply, the standard cover-all statement that accompanies every business owner’s moans about the stupidly busy high season. Cornish optimism , Mum called it: like pessimism with a smile at the end.

Everyone in St Ives and the other harbour towns and villages dotting the Cornish coastline accepts that tourists are essential for the economy, even if the summer months see more visitors than the local infrastructure can ever hope to cope with.

But it still feels like we lose something for them being here.

The town isn’t ours until the winter months, the houses priced so high due to the holiday home market that local people haven’t a hope of ever affording property, and we’re essentially barred from the beaches, bars and streets while the visitors occupy them.

‘Definitely that.’ She gives me a cheeky smile, which makes what I’m about to do feel evil. ‘Sit tight and I’ll bring it over.’

I wait until she’s woven her way back around the maze of tables and diners, then make myself stay at the mosaic-topped table for another couple of minutes before I slide out from my chair.

As I do so, my hand bumps the covered lid of the piano, a faintly metallic sigh sounding from the internal strings in reply.

For a moment, I’m tempted to stay, beside this lovely old thing.

But then I see the young woman loading a pot onto a tray.

Panic firing through me, I duck through the gap that leads to the side passage and hurry down it.

I daren’t risk looking back as I dash out onto the street, pushing and dodging my way back past the surf shop and on to Tregenna Hill.

I don’t stop running until I reach the summit, where the road snakes away up towards Tregenna Castle.

Instead of following its upward trajectory, I take the small road leading down to the train station car park and the steps beyond to the beach.

It’s only when I reach the lush gardens that border Porthminster Beach that I allow myself to slow, my lungs burning from my escape.

She’ll be back at the table now, cursing the tall guy who legged it.

Maybe she’ll tell her boss.

I’ll just be one more rude, entitled git who thinks he owns St Ives and can treat those working in the town’s businesses with contempt. She’ll forget the joke and the cheeky smile and the moment of connection that proved I wasn’t an emmet.

But am I one of them now?

No permanent abode here, only finding somewhere to live until I exhaust Aggie and Kieran’s generosity, as I seem to have done with everyone else who’s helped me out.

No. I can’t think like that. Today is a good day, despite what the young woman in the tiny courtyard café thinks of me. If I don’t celebrate the good stuff, I’ll be lost.

I walk along the path through the gardens until it becomes sand.

Porthminster is rammed as always, the beautiful stretch of pale gold beach forever a draw to anyone who visits St Ives.

Bodies are clamouring for space, stakes claimed in tiny kingdoms from here to the sea.

I kick off my sneakers and stalk barefoot across the warm sand, skirting towels and tents and old-fashioned stripy windbreaks, ignoring them all.

The ocean is cold when I reach the water’s edge, the gentle lap of waves over my feet a reminder of everything I love.

The sea is where I work it all out, my body small and insignificant in the vastness of the water and my problems brought into wide perspective.

I wade in until I’m up to my knees, the shouts and laughter and delighted squeals of holidaymakers around me fading into the insistent, ever-present rumble of the waves.

In the sea I find myself, and what makes me who I am. That hasn’t changed.

The sea and me are as present now as we ever were. I’m anchored here. It’s where I belong.

And I have a place to sleep tonight. And food later.

I just need to work out the rest.