‘It was easy,’ Daniel said. ‘Your bus was making a name for itself, and as soon as I explained the situation to her, she understood. Besides, I think she liked seeing that drive and passion in you, even if, that evening, it was all directed at me.’ He grinned.
‘Don’t remind me,’ Charlie said, her cheeks flushing.
Daniel pushed her chin up with a finger, so she was forced to look at him. ‘Charlie, your passion and determination are part of the reason I fell for you. You believed in The Cornish Cream Tea Bus, even when it was just an idea, and Gertie was battered and bruised and destined for the scrapheap. Look what’s happened since. You were right.’ He half-stood, clutching Marmite to him so the little dog wouldn’t slide off his knee, pulled something out of his pocket and sat down again.
‘Right about what?’ Charlie watched as he opened a chocolate-coloured leather wallet and took out a small slip of paper, laying it flat on the table between them. When she realized what it was, she bit her lip.
‘Cornish Cream Tea Bus,’ he read from the ticket on the table. ‘Grand opening, 4 May, Porthgolow. You told me it would be a piece of history one day, but the moment you gave it to me, it felt significant. It took me a bit longer to realize quite how much you meant to me, but not that much longer.’
‘You’ve carried this around with you?’ She picked up the ticket, then took his hand.
‘Every day. Like a talisman.’
Charlie shook her head and laughed.
‘I have liked you from the day I met you, Charlie Quilter, and now I want you to come home with me.’
‘Don’t you want to rest?’ She knew she should at least ask, after what he’d been through that evening, even though every part of her was screaming at her to simply agree.
Daniel shook his head. ‘I’m not letting you go so soon after I’ve finally got you. Come back with me.’
She smiled. She felt as if her face might crack open with happiness.
She locked up the bus and they walked, hand in hand, along the road, Marmite scampering at their feet. The new streetlights burned brightly in the inky twilight. Even from a distance, she could hear the chords of music from inside The Seven Stars and remembered Hugh saying something about reassembling the Cornwall Cornflowers for the end of the bank holiday. Myrtle’s pop-in was in darkness, the bright flowers in the hanging baskets eerie in the gloom, but Stella and Anton’s B&B looked cosy, the rooms glowing behind closed curtains.
As they reached the bottom of the hill that led up to Juliette’s house and then, a few roads back, Daniel’s, he turned towards the jetty instead. They stopped at the end, gazing out at a sea bathed in silver-grey light.
‘My house isn’t like Crystal Waters,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s small, fairly simple.’
‘No hot tub in the garden?’ Charlie squeezed his hand.
He laughed. ‘You can get a bit bored with it, you know. The hot tub.’
‘I doubt it – not with that view. But I don’t care. I don’t feel the way I do about you because of your hotel, or your hot tub, just as, I’m sure, you don’t want me for my tables with cup-holders, tiny oven, or even Gertie’s snazzy bell cord.’
‘Gertie is great.’
‘I can see why you have a new-found love of her after tonight. I do too, to be honest. God, I don’t know what we would have done if—’
He pressed his forehead against hers. ‘The fire engine would have turned up. It would have been fine. Please … don’t think about it. I’ve decided not to. We’re together, right now. That’s what counts.’
‘In the most perfect spot in the world.’
‘It is, now that you’re here.’ He kissed her, and then added, ‘Porthgolow is a special place, all things considered.’ He wrapped his arms around her and she rested her head on his chest. She closed her eyes and listened to the thump of his heartbeat, in time with hers.
She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, but eventually Marmite yelped up at them and Daniel scooped the dog into his arms.
Charlie turned towards the sea again, to the vista that would be her daily view. Not for the next few weeks, or months, but for as long as she wanted it to be. Porthgolow and its sunsets, Juliette and Lawrence, Reenie in her yellow house. They were her friends and this was her home, with Gertie standing proudly on the beach, and Crystal Waters looking over the cove like a glimmering guard dog.
She didn’t need to hold back any more. She could plan more routes around Cornwall, taking in the sights of Penzance and Truro, Falmouth and Padstow, each with their own unique character. She could grow the food market; develop the idea with Amanda, Myrtle and the other villagers. They could find people to sell toffee apples and warming, spiced stews in autumn, Christmas puddings and mulled wine in winter. They could have more fireworks and another bonfire on the beach for Guy Fawkes. She could see Jonah grow into a bold, brilliant young man and take his first trip as a SeaKing Safaris skipper. She could watch Reenie’s Instagram following grow, people flocking to the village because of the photographs she posted. She could find out, first-hand, what the future held for Juliette and Lawrence, and spend time with them whenever she wanted.
But, first thing in the morning, she had her meeting with the estate agent. She was committed to making a life for herself here, and she and Marmite needed their own space. She would go back to Cheltenham for a few days to see her mum and dad, pick up some more of her belongings, and then, once she was settled here, she would invite them to come and stay. She could see if Porthgolow had the same magical effect on them as it had on her.
‘Ready to go?’ Daniel asked.
‘Lead the way.’
Charlie said a silent goodnight to her Cornish Cream Tea Bus, to the sea and the moon, the stars winking above them like the echoes of sparklers.
When they had reached his terraced house and collected Jasper from his neighbour, Daniel paused. ‘I feel like, after such a momentous day, we need to mark the occasion somehow. What would Hal say?’
‘I’m not sure he had any life lessons for this particular scenario,’ Charlie said. ‘Not any he shared with me, anyway.’
‘Forget the mistake, remember the lesson?’
‘Never, ever listen to someone else’s conversation and think you know what’s going on. That’s the lesson – for Jules on this particular occasion, but it’s important for us all.’
‘Right, definitely need to remember that. What else?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Something about love and extra calories?’
Charlie laughed. ‘How are you remembering all these?’
‘Because you told them to me,’ he said. ‘They’re an important part of who you are.’
‘Spontaneous moments are always better than planned ones?’ Her breath faltered as his gaze lingered on her lips.
‘We had planned on seeing each other tonight,’ Daniel murmured, ‘and I’m not sure my unscheduled visit to the edge of Crumbling Cliff is going to be better than this, though my pulse was racing then – almost as quickly as it is now.’
‘OK,’ Charlie swallowed. ‘Let me think.’
‘Don’t think for too much longer.’ He kissed the side of her mouth, then opened the door and let the dogs go ahead.
‘I’ve got it,’ Charlie said. ‘One of his simplest, but also his best. Live life to the full, Charlie. You only get one chance.’
Daniel smiled. ‘Perfect. And I can absolutely guarantee that, with me, you will be living life to the full. I’m going to give you a taster as soon as we get inside.’ He pulled her over the threshold and into his arms.
Charlie laughed, relieved and more than a little delighted that his confidence was firmly back in place.
As his lips met hers, silencing her laughter, and Charlie gave herself up to him; as she let Daniel Harper overwhelm her senses, promising herself she would give as good as she got just as soon as she could think straight, she knew she was exactly where she needed to be.
The bus hadn’t just rescued Daniel; it had rescued her
. Hal’s gift to her, all those months ago, had been the start of her long road to happiness. Gertie, so forlorn-looking and lost when she had first driven it down the hill into Porthgolow, was now one of the highlights of the seaside village, and Charlie was more proud of her bus – and herself – than she had thought possible. Together, they had turned things around. And this, she realized – her last coherent thought before Daniel’s touch took over her mind as well as her body – was just the beginning. She couldn’t wait to embark on the next stage of the journey.
Why I love Cornwall
I hadn’t ever thought much about Cornwall until Aidan Turner galloped along a Cornish cliff top in the BBC adaptation of Poldark. As I child we’d been on frequent holidays to Dorset and Somerset, but had never made it as far as Cornwall, so when I saw those sunsets, the crashing waves and sandy beaches on my television on that first Sunday night, I knew I had to go. Ross Poldark wouldn’t be there, but the beautiful landscape would.
While the BBC managed to make it look spectacular, I realised once I got to Cornwall that there is nothing like being there yourself; standing on one of those hidden beaches without another soul in sight, or on top of the cliffs with a view of the coastline stretching for miles in both directions. The water is an unbelievable blue, the power of the sea and the huge waves are so different to Norfolk, and the space and wildness make you feel as if – even a few minutes walk from a National Trust café – you could be standing on the edge of the world.
It has a magical feel all of its own, as if it is full of secrets. There are countless myths and legends about pirates and beasts, piskies, mermaids and ghosts: hauntings and shipwrecks, giants living in forests and mysterious lights out at sea. The weather can be dramatic and unpredictable – it can go from a thick, low mist to a golden sunset in minutes. It is no wonder that it has inspired writers since forever: Winston Graham and Daphne du Maurier, Liz Fenwick, Fern Britton, Rosamunde Pilcher, Kate Morton, Miranda Dickinson – and countless others.
Fresh, delicious fish is readily available at so many places – my favourite are scallops, served in their elegant shells with a sprinkle of coriander on top – and of course it is home to the Cornish Cream Tea. Warm, crumbly scones topped with jam and clotted cream, alongside a pot of smoky tea. Even thinking about that first bite, the smooth, rich cream, the sweetness of the jam and then that soft, buttery scone makes my mouth water.
In Cornwall I have almost been blown away by the wind, and got sunburnt on the beach in half an hour; I have seen dolphins and badgers (but not the Beast of Bodmin Moor – yet!); I have been down a tin mine and climbed up to the precarious top of Cape Cornwall. I have eaten pasties and fish and chips, Cornish cream teas and Cornish cheese teas. I have visited the spectacular domes of the Eden Project and the creepy slice of history that is Bodmin Jail.
Cornwall is magical and romantic, wild and dramatic, calmness personified. It has terrifying cliff drops with crashing, unforgiving waves, and hidden inlets where golden sand stretches for miles before you reach an azure, glittering sea. It is a place of contrasts, where absolutely anything seems possible, and for a writer, there is nothing more exciting than that.
Acknowledgements
So many people have helped with the writing of The Cornish Cream Tea Bus, either directly or indirectly. The following people have my biggest, heartfelt thanks.
Kate Bradley, editor extraordinaire, who guided this story in the right direction when it wasn’t quite sure of itself, and who supported me when I was definitely unsure of myself. I am so happy with the finished result!
The whole team at HarperFiction, including Katy Blott, Charlotte Brabbin and Kim Young, who are always there when I need a hand or have a question, however ridiculous. Penny Isaac for getting my words in shape and making sure everything made sense, and Kati Nicholl for the final polish. To illustrator May Van Millingen and designers Ellie Game and Holly MacDonald for the gorgeous, summery cover designs that fit my story so perfectly.
Hannah Ferguson, my wonderful agent, for her guidance and dedication, and Caroline Hardman for all her support, as well as Jo Swainson, Thérèse Coen and Nicole Etherington at Hardman and Swainson.
The last chunk of this book was written at the wonder that is Book Camp, so I have to thank all my book camp buddies – all of whom are brilliant authors too. Isabelle Broom, Kirsty Greenwood, Cesca Major, Cathy Bramley, Rachael Lucas, Alex Brown, Holly Martin, Jo Quinn, Katy Colins, Emily Kerr, Hannah Richell and Tammy Cohen.
Also a huge thanks to Helen Fields, who is the loveliest person and creator of one of my favourite ever characters, Luc Callanach.
The three Ks. Katy C, for always finding the appropriate GIF for any given situation, Kate G, for over 20 years of friendship and not being too cross that my bookshelves are disorganised, and Kate and Tim M, for coaxing us over the border.
David, my original and best romantic hero. My words never do justice to how much love and support he gives me, and how much I value it. I hope he knows, regardless.
I am so lucky to have the most brilliant, encouraging family. Mum and Dad, who are always ready with a boost, a celebratory cheer or a word of advice, depending on the situation, and Lee, whose knowledge and understanding of language has always inspired me.
Thank you to all the readers and bloggers who pick my books up off the shelves or download them, who read them and take the time to write a review or get in touch with me. It means the world to hear that one of my stories has made someone laugh or cry or feel inspired. Thank you for choosing this book. I really hope you enjoy it.
I went to Cornwall for the first time in 2015, aged 33, almost wholly inspired by a television series called Poldark that some of you may have heard of . I fell in love with the stunning seascapes, shots of horses galloping along rugged cliff tops and wildflowers dancing in moorland breezes, and knew I had to go. We’ve been back every year since, and it was inevitable that I would end up setting a book there.
I have had a wonderful time creating Porthgolow, and living there inside my head while writing The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. So I have to thank the BBC and Mammoth Screen for bringing Poldark back to our screens, complete with its brooding, imperfect hero, played rather expertly by Aidan Turner – and also Cornwall itself, for surpassing my expectations.
Without them, Porthgolow and Charlie Quilter might never have ended up on these pages, and I am quite glad that they did.
Read on for an extract of Cressy’s heart-warming novel, The House of Birds and Butterflies …
Chapter One
The robin is a small, brown bird with a red breast, that you often see on Christmas cards. It’s very friendly, and likes to join in with whatever you’re doing in the garden, especially if you’re digging up its dinner. It has a beautiful, bubbly song that always stands out, much like its bright chest.
— Note from Abby’s notebook
Abby Field was off the reserve.
She didn’t know how it had happened, but one minute she was treading the well-worn woodland trail, intent on finding the perfect spot for the ladybird sculpture, the final creature in her nature treasure hunt, and the next she had pushed her way through the branches of the fallen elder and was standing at the side gate of Swallowtail House, looking up at the impressive, empty building. As always, she strained to see inside the grand windows, which remained free of any kind of boards, as if she could discover what Penelope’s life had been like all those years ago.
She wasn’t sure why she had ended up here now, deviating from her course and slipping away from the nature reserve, but something about this beautiful, deserted building captivated her, and not just because it belonged to her boss, and had been standing empty for over fifteen years. She wondered if any furniture remained, or if the large rooms had been stripped bare of everything except cobwebs. She passed the house’s main gates on her way to and from work every day, could imagine the trail of cars that had, at one time, driven through them. But now they were kept secure, the huge padl
ock not to be messed with.
The house might be abandoned, but Penelope Hardinge was still intent on keeping people out.
She owned the Meadowsweet estate, the greater part of which was now the Meadowsweet Nature Reserve. Only Swallowtail House, abutting the reserve but secluded behind its redbrick wall, was off limits. The stories Abby had been told by long-term residents of Meadowgreen village varied, but it seemed that Penelope and her husband Al had started the reserve soon after their marriage, that Al’s death sixteen years ago had been sudden, and that Penelope’s flight from Swallowtail House had been equally hasty.
She had left it as if it was plagued, purchasing one of the mock-Tudor houses on the Harrier estate, a five-minute drive out of the village, leaving the grand, Georgian mansion to succumb to the nature she and her late husband loved so much, although she had continued his legacy. She had been running Meadowsweet Reserve with a firm grip ever since, showing no signs of slowing down even though she was now in her sixties.
For the last eighteen months, Abby had been a part of it. She had found a job that she was passionate about, and while she occasionally bore the brunt of Penelope’s dissatisfaction, and sometimes felt her confidence shrinking in the older woman’s presence, she could understand why Penelope had to be so strict, especially now the reserve was in trouble.
Abby closed her eyes against the September sun and listened to her surroundings. The wind rippled through the woodland, the dancing leaves sounding like the rhythmic churn of waves against sand. A robin was singing its unmistakable, bubbling song, and she wondered if it was the young one who, for the last few weeks, had been landing on the windowsill next to the reserve’s reception desk, curiosity winning out over any fear of humans. He was a fluffy bird, his feathers never entirely flat, as if he hadn’t quite got the hang of preening, and she and Rosa had named him Bob. But she wasn’t sure he would stray this far out of his territory, and the reserve wasn’t short of robins delighting the visitors with their upbeat chorus.
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