‘Only so that you can pick his brains about being a roadie in the sixties.’
I grinned, whilst admiring her purple blouse and baggy red trousers. Flamboyant was the word to best describe my artistic gran. Her clothes contrasted her uncolourful white bobbed hair and grey eyes. Chunky jewellery hung from her wrists and the outfit was completed with a wispy silk scarf. ‘I could listen to his stories all day. In fact I’ve got him a present—I managed to track down a vinyl single of that rockabilly band he worked for, in Leeds.’
‘The Bobby Boogie Boys?’
‘Yes. It’s in my rucksack. Vinyls are making something of a comeback. Honestly, imagine being a roadie back in the day when fans had so little access to bands, without DVDs—not everyone even had a telly. He must have felt like a star himself.’ I took a bite of the cake. ‘Mmm. That’s got a kick. Whiskey?’
‘Ginger honey mead. There’s nothing like alcohol for keeping a cake moist.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Geoff shouldn’t be much longer. It all depends on how difficult the carburettor was to fix.’ She fiddled with her pewter and lilac-stoned bracelet. ‘And talking of things being fixed, what’s up with you? Your mouth keeps drooping at the corners, just like it used to when you were a little girl and in trouble. It’s not like you to take a holiday. What’s the matter, sweetheart?’
My cheeks burned. ‘Oh, you know, just fed up with losing my flat and a singing contract. We can’t all be comfortably settled in a cottage that belongs on the front of a chocolate box, gliding our way quietly and conservatively through retirement, closing the door on our busy lives.’ I grinned, waiting for a repost.
‘I beg your pardon! I’m busier than ever. Bowling, sewing, volunteering once a week at the charity shop and my painting class.’
I gazed at a watercolour on the wall of seagulls picking through shells, near a cliff side. ‘Looks to me like you don’t need any more lessons. You really should display your work somewhere—in a café or garden centre.’
Guvnah shrugged. ‘Geoff says the same but … I don’t know, there always seems to be so much more to learn. Next term I’ll be studying working with graphite and charcoal. Busy, busy—although Geoff’s been feeling twitchy lately and has been talking about getting a part-time job.’ She shrugged again. ‘Comes from all those years on the road. Then running his hot-dog van. He misses the craic. Anyway, enough about us, back to you.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure that is really all that’s wrong?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’ I squirmed in my seat, as she sipped her tea, not taking her eyes off me for a single second.
‘Boy trouble?’
‘I’m not at school now—you can call them men.’
Her face broke into a small smile. ‘And Johnny … How are you coping … ? Are things becoming any … easier?’
I forced my lips to upturn. ‘It’s going OK.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Honest. I … I’ve accepted he’s never coming back. I just need a bit more time before … getting on with my life.’
That’s what I told myself anyway. I was messaging him less. Didn’t look at old photos so often. But I still missed his arm sliding through mine. Still missed the giggles as he’d tickle me in bed until I begged him to stop. Teasingly, he’d only agree to if I made a deal, like saying I’d do the washing-up.
‘If you need to talk I’m here for you,’ she said, eventually. ‘Or—’ her voice brightened ‘—we can always hook up online. I’m so glad Geoff’s grandson introduced me to Instagram.’
As I chuckled, the doorbell rang and she gently moved the cat off her lap. ‘That will be the gardener. Nice young man, even if he does keep himself to himself. I hired him last month. The front and back lawn are a bit much for Geoff and me, especially in this heat.’ She got up and brushed crumbs from her legs. ‘Help yourself to another slice of cake, dear. And you can take some back for Izzy. It might inspire her to create a honey mead doughnut.’
I nodded, even though she’d left the lounge by now to open the door. A loud Cornish voice resounded in the hallway and, returning to my own thoughts, I sat back to finish my cup of tea. A higgledy bookshelf reminded me of feisty author Trevor, not caring about anyone’s opinion but his own. Johnny used to love my feistiness.
‘You know what I like most about you?’ he’d once said. ‘Your fiery spirit. That optimism. Your determination. The look on your face after a gig—it’s inspiring to see you relentlessly follow your heart.’
‘Follow your heart’. Those words echoed in my head again. Yes, I was still singing, but also still harping back to the past, struggling to move on with a heart that still felt like a cracked vase that might leak if anyone new tried to fill it up.
The sound of a mower started up outside and Guvnah returned to the lounge. ‘We really ought to be in the garden, but I know you hate wasps when eating.’
I drained my cup. ‘Why don’t we go there now? I’m done.’
We headed outside and sat on the patio, at a white table shaded by a floral parasol. My eyes scanned the long garden, with the weeping willow at the bottom, and borders filled with wild flowers along the fences, either side. Not that I noticed much detail as within seconds my eyes couldn’t budge from a taut torso at the end of the garden, cutting the grass. Beige chinos topped by a bare chest and … I couldn’t see the face which was hidden under an Indiana Jones hat.
Guvnah tutted. ‘I tell him every week to wear a shirt. He’ll get sunburn but apparently he’d rather that than sweat.’
I managed to shift my gaze to my gran and laughed. ‘Really? You really want him to put his shirt back on?’ OK, I missed Johnny, but that didn’t mean I was completely made of stone!
The slate eyes twinkled and she laughed. ‘Sadly, yes. It’s proof of getting old. Hot guys become “nice young men” and, before you know it, you’ve gone all maternal with anyone under thirty. Well, apart from that new Russian professional on my favourite dance show.’
We grinned at each other and she waved at the man. ‘Come and meet my granddaughter!’ she shouted, and then turned to me and spoke in a low voice: ‘I don’t know much about him. He’s not the chattiest of men, but his heart is in the right place. Last time, he insisted on pruning back that leylandii tree at the bottom of the garden for nothing—insisted it was dangerous if strong winds came. Before that he’d checked out a leak in the loft for us and would only accept a scone as payment.’
As the figure neared, I couldn’t help but admire the confident gait. Each stride was measured and purposeful. Plus, he had a six-pack and … what was that? I tried not to stare at the long scar down his right side. It looked like he’d been involved in a knife attack. The hands hung straight by his sides and he soon approached and took off his hat. My eyes widened.
‘It’s you,’ I said.
‘Afternoon, Miss Golightly.’
‘Please, call me Kate.’
‘You two know each other?’ said Guvnah.
‘Yep. I broke up an argument she was refereeing yesterday,’ said Tremain and flashed her a smile. He knelt down and tilted my face. Cornish tones rang out. ‘I’m guessing without all that warrrpaint on, you’re cheek is still proper bruised?’
Was that a hint of humour in his voice? I snorted. ‘Warpaint? I hope my make-up is reasonably subtle.’
However, my indignation was assuaged by the softness of his touch. He looked so substantial, yet his gentle fingers on my chin felt as if they could belong to an immaterial ghost. I couldn’t help laughing at Guvnah’s knotted eyebrows and glances darting between me and Tremain. And he … he looked so relaxed. No lines on his forehead. Shoulders not tensed.
‘Tremain works at, or rather, helps to manage White Rocks. Yesterday I tried to calm down an irate customer and somehow ended up falling onto the corner of a table.’
Guvnah took off her silk scarf and fanned her face. ‘Oh, Kate, you could have been hurt.’
‘You’d have done the same.’
‘True.’ She g
ave a wry smile. ‘And, Tremain … I never knew you worked there. I just assumed you were a full-time gardener—you’ve never mentioned it.’
He fiddled with the brim of his hat. ‘To be honest, it’s a relief to be away from the place and forget about the resort’s problems for a while. Here I can lose myself in the act of mowing lawns or pulling up weeds. I don’t have to think about profits and losses or bank loans or liquidation or—’
‘It’s in trouble?’ Guvnah reached out a hand and squeezed his arm. ‘You sit down, young man, while I fetch some lemonade, and when I’m back I want to hear all about it. I used to work as a troubleshooter for a big furniture chain of stores.’ Her eyes sparked as she stood up and headed indoors.
‘You’re done for now.’ I grinned. ‘My gran misses the business and only retired because she met Geoff and was moving here. She helped bring her employer’s shops into the twenty-first century. Early sixties and she was still putting in over fifty hours a week, convincing bosses that thanks to Kindles, bookshelves were no longer big sellers; that tight incomes meant people upgraded what they had, instead of moving house, so were prepared to buy Jacuzzis, stylish writing desks … the more luxury options instead of forking out for a new home altogether.’
Tremain sat down opposite me and for the first time I noticed deep circles under his eyes. Yet the leaf-green irises filled with light. ‘I’m surprised because we offered luxury but profits nosedived.’ He explained how, gradually, bookings had diminished.
Guvnah returned and poured out three lemonades, ice cubes bobbing invitingly on the liquid’s surface.
‘The thing is, Tremain, people’s homes are everything to them—important to their identity, their standing amongst their friends,’ she said. ‘So luxury items for the bathroom or kitchen still sell and to counteract that people might skimp on their holiday choices or the calibre of restaurant they eat out at.’
I nodded. ‘Where we live, another bistro has just closed. Whereas the family pub that offers a free salad bowl to start and two-for-one menu options is always bustling.’
Guvnah reached for a notepad and pen that she’d brought on the tray. ‘Tell me everything, Tremain,’ she said and sat upright, eyes sparking again. ‘How long has the business been suffering? What options has the bank given you? What are your ideas?’
As I sipped the bittersweet lemonade, I observed the way he spoke. His loud voice actually quietened and the Cornish accent became more of a lilt. He swallowed when he spoke of how he and his mum had to face the obvious—that the business her family had spent two generations creating was under threat. None of us mentioned his father who, from what Tremain said, was around until a couple of years ago.
As he finished speaking, I drained my glass. ‘So, it’s Wednesday tomorrow,’ I said. ‘The trial guests will have left today. That gives you five days to start a serious rebranding before paying family holidaymakers arrive.’
Guvnah sucked in her cheeks. ‘That’s a tall order.’
Tremain rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and, for some reason, I longed to do the same.
‘Next week’s guests are still getting a discounted rate, but, yep, they are expecting to see a resort that will meet their needs.’
My mind went back to my first meeting with him. The golf course. Those bunny rabbits. ‘You need a mascot,’ I said. ‘Trust me—I spent years holidaying in caravan parks as a child. The highlight was the cartoon characters on the various logos. You need something kids can identify with.’ I cast my mind back to many a vacation where I had younger siblings to look after. ‘Kids don’t ask for much,’ I said. ‘Just a pool, tasty snacks and a few activities. It doesn’t have to be grand or expensive.’ Over the years I became a whizz at setting up treasure hunts for my brothers and sisters and kids at the nursery where I worked. They were always happy with just some chocolate as the prize as they had so much fun trying to locate it.
Guvnah made notes. ‘Yes. Kate’s right. In my last job logos meant everything. They have to be memorable and relatable. In the end ours was the outline of a modern chair with a heart in its back—this told people ours was the stylish place to shop at, if you loved your home. And it worked.’
‘Rabbits,’ I said.
Tremain raised an eyebrow.
‘On the golf course. All the bunnies. A rabbit is a perfect mascot for the resort.’ I cleared my throat and stared into the distance for a moment. White Rocks. White. Rocks … ‘A white bunny called Rocky!’ I said and punched the air. ‘You need to find a local wholesaler who sells cuddly toys, specifically rabbits, then order in a load, or search online. In fact …’ I took out my phone and tapped the Internet icon. Within minutes I’d found a seller of white cuddly rabbits wearing T-shirts you could personalise with a name. Perfect! I showed the screen to my gran and Tremain.
They both stared for a moment and then he glanced at Guvnah.
She nodded. ‘Great idea, Kate! Children would love them and “Rocky” the rabbit could be painted around the place, on signs and walls.’
Face flushed, Tremain took my phone. ‘It’s a genius idea, so it is, but timing-wise …’
‘Pay for express delivery—it’d be worth it,’ I said, ‘and …’ I beamed. ‘Guvnah. Lovely, Gran … you’re an artist above all others. I bet you could quickly come up with an image of the rabbit and paint it onto a few signs.’
‘I’m not a professional!’ she spluttered.
‘We could change the name of the restaurant,’ said Tremain and leant forward. ‘What about … Rocky’s Roadhouse?’
‘Fab!’ I clapped my hands. ‘I’m sure we could put together a more family-friendly menu over the weekend and have it printed out in time—the Rocky burger and so on; make it fun.’
Guvnah scribbled again, while Tremain glanced at me. He cleared his throat. ‘You said “we”.’
Ah. So I did.
‘I don’t expect you to …’ He shuffled in his seat. ‘This isn’t your problem. You’re a guest.’
I stared at him. The open expression. The stoic, raised chin. For some reason I wanted to help, despite his abrupt style back at the resort.
‘I’m used to keeping busy,’ I rambled. ‘It would make for a more interesting holiday to get involved.’
‘You’d be wise to take all the help you can get, Tremain,’ said Guvnah and looked up. ‘This is business. Your livelihood and heritage is at stake. It’s not time to be proud.’
He bit his lip. How soft it looked, as if I’d hardly feel it brush across my skin—as if it, nevertheless, would make my nerve endings burn like sparklers. I looked away. Johnny. Johnny gave the best kisses ever. And hugs. After his death that was the first thing I missed—his tight arms around me at the end of a long day, me losing myself in the feel of his breath, in the smell of his neck …
I shook myself. ‘Then there’s the entertainment you offer—that will have to change. You need a twenty-first century format.’ I thought for a moment. ‘What’s current? Let’s see … Celebrities. Reality shows, like Britain’s Got Talent.’
Guvnah nodded. ‘Hold a talent competition—it could be anything, singing, fancy dress lookalikes, telling jokes … And bake-offs are popular—perhaps the chef could offer cookery afternoons for adults and kids.’
‘Yes! Great idea!’ I hugged my gran. ‘And what have you been offering in the form of musical entertainment?’
‘Tribute singers for Katherine Jenkins or Frank Sinatra have always proved popular in the past,’ said Tremain.
Guvnah jerked her head towards me. ‘You need to provide music for a wider audience. Kate’s here for two weeks—hire her. She’s a singer. She can wow an audience with anything from Michael Jackson to Adele.’
I sat more upright. ‘Yes, we could have a seventies disco night, a jazz evening, country-music line dancing … I’m pretty flexible.’
‘You’d really do that on your holiday?’ he asked.
I beamed.
‘I … I don’t know what to say.’ T
remain swallowed.
‘You could end one of my nights with a firework display!’ OK, perhaps getting a bit carried away.
Tremain shook his head and averted his gaze. ‘No … Mum’s got a load from a show she and my dad held here when I worked elsewhere but … but she reckons a display would just be too much to worry about now, what with health and safety experts. We can’t afford for anything to go wrong.’ He made eye contact again and smiled. ‘All your ideas—Mum and me … we’ve had thoughts along the same lines but … but I suppose we’ve lacked the confidence to form concrete plans and didn’t really know how to make them a reality. You’ve both helped me see that we just need to get on with it. It may work—it may not—but at least we are moving forward and trying.’
Tremain and I were still discussing all the options, when he drove me back to the resort. We’d stayed for dinner in the end. Geoff was super-excited as he’d mentioned how much he missed his old catering job and so Tremain suggested he run his hot-dog stall, part-time, at White Rocks in the afternoons.
I squinted into the darkness. ‘White Rocks is so isolated. It’s lovely. You can see the stars really clearly without the amber glow of city lights.’
Tremain pulled up outside the big reception building and turned off the ignition. ‘Yep. I wouldn’t live anywhere else. When times get tough, I head for the coast. There is nothing like a night-time walk, on the rocks, to clear your mind.’
‘Or to risk your life!’ I smiled. ‘Well, guess I’d better get going. Do you want to meet again tomorrow then, to consolidate our ideas, talk things through again?’
Eyes serious, Tremain nodded, mouth slightly down-turned—it was as if a switch had flipped his mood now that we were back at the resort. ‘Great. Thanks again. In fact, let me buy you breakfast at Fish—’
‘At Rocky’s Roadhouse?’ I interjected.
At least that made him smile. And then … my heart raced. Something odd happen. His face flickered and I felt mine do the same. For a couple of seconds, I leant forward just millimetres, as he did, and the only thought in my head was what it would feel like to have his mouth pressed against mine, his body up close, my hand running over his super-short hair and solid frame. A slamming door interrupted the moment and, ears hot, I backed off, said goodnight and left. An hour later, after explaining the afternoon to Izzy, while we did wore face packs, I headed off to bed.
Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun Page 7
