by Liz Eeles
Roger has got nice eyes. He blinks at me from behind his old-man specs.
‘But you need to do something about your clothes. Ooh, I’ve just had a brilliant idea!’ She starts jumping up and down. ‘Me and Annie can give you a makeover like they do on the telly. You know the sort of programme – from right old minger to super cool in a month. No offence, Rog.’
‘Super cool would look ridiculous behind the bar of a small Cornish pub. There’s no way you’re turning me into George Clooney.’
‘No risk of that, mate. But it’ll be fun and you can show Jennifer a different side. The suave, handsome, devil-may-care side that you keep well-hidden – buried, in fact. Jennifer’s used to seeing you every day and familiarity breeds contempt so we need to make her sit up and take notice of what’s under her nose. What do you reckon?’
‘I reckon you’re barking mad and it would never work.’
‘It might!’
Roger’s jowls wobble back and forth when he shakes his head. ‘What do you think of her ridiculous scheme, Annie?’
‘Yeah, what do you think, Annie?’ demands Kayla, folding her arms and giving me her best ‘you’d better agree with me, or else…’ glare. No pressure, then. When I touch Josh’s arm for support, the corners of his mouth twitch but he keeps staring into his pint. Swine!
‘I think if Jennifer really matters to you, Roger, maybe it’s worth a try.’
Roger looks at Jacques, who’s surrounded by locals listening to his tales of French midwifery, and sighs. ‘OK, I’ll give it a go. But there’s no way I’m bleaching my teeth or waxing my chest.’
‘Excellent.’ Kayla grabs the crisp that Roger is about to stuff into his mouth. ‘Your makeover had better kick off with a diet and it might as well start now.’
Twenty-Four
When Kayla decides to do something, she really goes for it. And, sadly for Roger, she’s decided to do him. Sprucing up the landlord of the Whistling Wave is her latest project and she’s not about to fail.
First of all, she drastically limits his food intake and switches him from chips and beer to salad and low-calorie soft drinks.
‘A rabbit would starve on this,’ grumbles Roger a couple of days later, holding up a piece of limp lettuce and shaking it in Kayla’s face. ‘I’m hauling beer barrels about so a few chips wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Does Jacques ever order chips?’
‘What, old miracle baby deliverer?’ Roger whistles through his teeth. ‘I bet he’s never had a pomme flipping frite in his life.’
‘And what does Jacques usually order?’ asks Kayla in a sing-song voice as though she’s talking to a child.
‘Salad,’ sighs Roger. He shoves the lettuce into his mouth, chews and swallows.
I don’t mention the bread and chips that Jacques is devouring at our house because I don’t think it would help. Emily has taken pity on our guest and started inviting him to have dinner with us. She doesn’t seem to have fully grasped the concept of bed and breakfast although the clue’s in the name.
Kayla’s also dragged Roger into Trecaldwith to have what’s left of his hair cut and she’s planning a trip to help him choose some new clothes and glasses.
‘What’s wrong with this?’ moans Roger, stroking his beloved pewter-grey sweatshirt that’s gone bobbly in the wash. But he shuts up when Kayla points at Jacques, who’s looking particularly dapper today in beige chinos, pale blue polo shirt and navy blue blazer. He and Jennifer are still spending every lunchtime in the pub.
‘That’s the look you’re going for, mate. Understated and confident with a touch of class rather than your just-fell-out-of-bed vibe.’
‘That man has such style,’ says smitten Florence, breezing past on her way to the ladies’. ‘You can tell he’s French just by looking at him. What a gent.’
Jacques is being treated like the hero of the hour even though he didn’t actually deliver Pippa’s baby. She gave birth to a gorgeous seven pounds two ounces baby boy ten minutes after arriving at the maternity unit and is now back home with Charlie. But everyone still seems very taken with our French guest.
Everyone except Storm, who corners me in the kitchen the next morning while I’m shovelling toast into my mouth before leaving for work. I’m trying not to cry after finding Alice’s half-eaten jar of marmalade at the back of the fridge, which is making swallowing toast rather tricky.
‘What do you think of him then?’ she asks, sitting on the kitchen table in her dressing gown and swinging her legs while I wait for the kettle to boil.
Flicking off the kettle which is belching steam, I force down another mouthful of bread and perch on a chair.
‘I presume you mean Jacques? I like him well enough.’
‘But we don’t really know what he’s like, even though he does nothing but talk about himself.’
Which is true enough. Jacques is gregarious and charming, but he does enjoy talking about his business successes, and he’s never once mentioned Jennifer since I played gooseberry during their first catch-up.
‘He can be a little self-obsessed but what do you think of him?’
Storm wipes the back of her hand across her pale, make-up free face. ‘I think he’s a dick and he’s not nice to Jennifer.’
‘He seems very fond of Jennifer and they’re always together these days.’
‘Yeah, too fond if you ask me. It’s a bit creepy and he’s very controlling.’
When I raise my eyebrows, Storm drums on the table leg with her heels. ‘He is. I hear things when I’m working in the shop and I’m behind a shelf and they don’t know I’m there. Or when I happen to be standing near the stockroom door and they’re talking outside. Or when my shoelaces come undone near them in the pub and I have to stop to do them up. I can’t help overhearing.’
Storm’s overhearing sounds more stalky than accidental but I want to know what our guest has been saying.
‘He’s always telling her what to do. He reckons she’s stocking the wrong stuff in the shop, which she is but that’s not the point ’cos it’s not his business. And he told her to get changed the other day ’cos he didn’t like her wearing trousers.’
‘Crikey, and did she get changed?’
Storm nods, which surprises me because only a brave man or a fool would comment on Jennifer’s outfit. She once told Roger she thought her bum looked big in cords and boycotted the pub for a month when he agreed with her.
‘She huffed about a bit, but she went and put a dress on. And pukey pink eyeshadow that made her look like she’d been punched in the face. To be honest, she’s gone ga-ga. It’s like he’s her leader or something. I’m never going to be like that with any man. I might go lesbian instead ’cos women are less trouble.’
She glances at me for my reaction but I nod and smile. Good luck to anyone, male or female, who takes on my sister and tries to tell her what to do.
‘Maybe Jennifer just likes Jacques, Storm. I know you think they’re both ancient, but it does happen.’
‘Yeah but you can like someone without making them change for you. If he really likes Jennifer, he should be happy with her the way she is.’
Which is a damn fine point and I get a sudden urge to hug my sister for being so insightful. Though I don’t, obviously, because she’d only think I’ve gone ga-ga too. I’m also tempted to confess that I’ve sent a wedding invitation to her mum and am already regretting it, but I chicken out.
‘Plus, he said stuff about our choir,’ says Storm with a sideways look at me.
Her heels continue to kick hell out of the table leg until I gently tap my hand against her shins. ‘What sort of stuff?’
‘He told Jennifer she was wasted in such a silly amateur choir and she should sing with a more professional choir in Paris. Then he laughed and said our choir was something weird. It sounded like nully?’
‘Did he, indeed?’
French lessons at school are a bit of a blur; a jumble of vocab and declensions and being sent to the Head for ta
lking in class. But one phrase I do remember is ‘être nul’ which means ‘to be no good’.
Salt Bay Choral Society can be pitchy at times and we’re not professional – we’ll take in anyone who loves music and wants to sing. But Jacques raved about our community choir and told me how brilliant it was for Jennifer to be a part of it. I wonder what the French word is for ‘two-faced’?
‘Hey, what’s going on in here then?’ booms Barry, slamming the door into the wall when he barges into the kitchen wearing just his underpants. He’s paying us a fleeting visit while his band is in Plymouth and appears to have forgotten his pyjamas.
‘My eyes! My eyes!’ moans Storm. ‘First it’s Josh with his top off and now Barry with his bits hanging out. I could report you to social services.’
‘Stop being such a drama queen. Where’s that French bloke?’ asks Barry, scratching his chest, which is covered in tight greying curls.
‘Fortunately, Jacques isn’t here. He had an early breakfast and has gone out for an early morning constitutional on the cliffs.’
‘You what?’
‘A walk, Barry.’
‘Oh, right.’ My father yawns and adjusts his off-white baggy boxers. ‘And what about you, Storm? What are you doing up at’ – he peers at his watch – ‘blimey! Quarter past eight in the school holidays. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ scowls Storm. ‘I just wanted a word with Annie about Jacques.’
‘Yeah, he’s a funny one.’ Barry grabs half a slice of cold toast from my plate, takes a bite and crumbs spray everywhere when he adds: ‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
‘Why? What’s he done to you?’
‘Nothing. But he’s a man who expects everything to go his way. He comes across as arrogant and he looks at me funny.’
Most people look at a fifty-something bloke funny when his paunch is overhanging his leather trousers and his hair is hanging loose to his shoulders. But Jacques’ looks must have been extra funny for Barry to notice.
‘Told you.’ Storm folds her arms and starts drumming her heels again while I push the rest of my toast towards Barry. My long-lost father and sister seemed totally insensitive when they barged their way into my life last year but sometimes they pick up on things that others ignore.
Suddenly Barry leaps from his chair, lunges for the radio and rams the volume up to ear-bleedingly loud. ‘That is most definitely my song!’ he yells over a catchy tune that’s juddering across the kitchen.
‘Not again,’ shouts Storm, slouching across the table and slamming her head down onto her splayed out arms. ‘It’s a stupid song that’s high in the stupid charts and sung by a stupid boy band. But it’s not your stupid song, Barry. You’re getting dementia.’
‘Yes, it is my song,’ he yells back, ‘My band performed it in the eighties at the Sunshine Festival which is where I got up close and personal with Joanna and Annie was conceived.’
Fantastic! Jacques will come back at any moment to find my father in his underpants yelling about impregnating my mother while a pop song is shaking the house’s foundations.
‘What the hell is going on?’ shouts Josh, bowling in through the back door and flicking the radio off. ‘I could hear that down by the harbour.’ He does a double-take at Barry’s underwear and raises his hands to the ceiling in defeat. It’s happened! My outrageously dysfunctional family have defeated my lovely boyfriend.
‘Isn’t it about time the two of you got dressed?’
It’s like talking to toddlers but sometimes that’s the only way to get through to the father and sister I’ve been landed with.
‘My eardrums are, like, totally screwed now, not that you’d care, Barry,’ moans Storm, stumbling to her feet. And she carries on grumbling under her breath all the way up the stairs, with Barry slouching along behind her.
‘Sorry, Josh. Are you rethinking the whole getting married thing?’
He laughs and holds out his arms. ‘Come here. You look like you’re in need of a hug.’
When I lay my cheek against Josh’s chest, I can hear the beating of his heart even though my ears are still ringing.
‘I apologise for having such a peculiar family when yours are so normal.’
‘Normal? Mum’s fine but Lucy can be a nightmare, Serena’s just like Storm a lot of the time and Freya’s hyperactive. So the wedding’s still on as far as I’m concerned.’
‘That’s good because I’m working my way down the wedding to-do list and the freezer’s already stuffed with prawn vol-au-vents.’
Snuggling up against the soft cotton of Josh’s T-shirt, I can just see the list which is stuck to the fridge and topped by FOOD in capital letters. We’re doing the wedding grub ourselves to save money and it’ll only be a glorified buffet which still won’t be cheap. But it’s far less expensive than having outside caterers and our reception doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be here.
In the hallway, I hear the front door open and heavy footsteps as Jacques heads upstairs. Please don’t let him encounter a half-naked Barry on the landing.
‘Josh, do you think it’s fair on Storm and Emily bringing strangers into our home and running a B&B?’
‘Whoah! Where did that come from?’
‘Storm reckons Jacques is weird and has some sort of Svengali hold over Jennifer, Roger’s upset that he’s here at all, the locals are kicking off about our B&B idea and then there’s the marmalade.’
Josh holds me at arm’s length and narrows his eyes. ‘What’s that about marmalade?’
‘I found Alice’s marmalade in the fridge.’
‘Ah. As Storm would say, that sucks big time.’
Josh wraps his arms around me and holds me while I snivel.
Twenty-Five
Thunder wakes me in the early hours of Saturday morning. The sky was a huge yellow bruise when we went to bed so we knew a storm was coming. But I hoped it might do a swerve and head for France instead.
I’ve got nothing against summer storms. Cornwall is awesome when the air’s heavy with the tang of sulphur and lightning forks into a black sea. But it’s the rain that’s worrying me; the rain and Tregavara House’s dodgy roof.
Slipping out of bed, I sit at the open window watching as the village is lit up by white flashes and thunder rolls around the valley. Behind me, Josh’s legs are tangled in a crumpled sheet and his bare back gently rises and falls in time with his breathing. That man could sleep through anything after sharing a house with Freya when she was a baby.
A sudden gust of wind billows the curtains into my face and rain begins to fall. Oh, no. Fat drops splatter and burst on the garden path and the scent of baked earth drifts into the bedroom as I cross my fingers this is as bad as it gets.
Has the crossing fingers thing ever worked? I wonder, when there’s a crash of thunder and rain begins to fall in torrents – proper torrents that scour the pavement and form dark rivulets where water meets the road. After a while, the rain starts bouncing off the stone window ledge onto my nightshirt and I’m pulling the window closed when there’s an ear-curdling screech from the landing.
‘What the hell?’ Josh is sitting bolt upright in bed, rubbing his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’
Before I can answer, another screech echoes along the landing before being drowned out by a huge clap of thunder.
Josh leaps out of bed but I’m at the door before him. The landing is in darkness but illuminated every few seconds by flashes of lightning. The storm must be directly above us now because the thunder is deafening, and rain is smashing into the stained-glass window above the staircase.
I flick the light switch, but nothing happens. The power’s out.
Another flash lights up Storm, standing in her long white T-shirt like a ghost.
‘It’s coming in,’ she yells into the darkness.
‘What is?’ I trip and stumble over the shoes that Storm will insist on leaving in the middle of the landing.
‘Water. I almost d
rowned in my sleep. There’s water everywhere.’
Josh sprints past me, waving a torch, and rushes into Storm’s room. He points the light at the ceiling, which is moving as though it’s come to life. No, it’s not the ceiling that’s moving. It’s water – a stream of water that’s cascading onto Storm’s bed. Josh waves his torch across the room and the beam picks up another stream flowing from the ceiling in the corner.
‘This house is trying to kill me,’ wails Storm as Jacques emerges from Alice’s room in a striped dressing gown. He does a double-take at Emily, who’s lit up by Josh’s torch and looks like a giant rabbit in her fluffy onesie.
‘Mon dieu! Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’
‘Water’s coming in through the roof,’ shouts Josh above the thunder. ‘I need to get into the attic.’
He illuminates the ceiling hatch that’s halfway along the landing, pulls down the loft ladder and clambers up it, closely followed by Jacques.
‘Not again!’ moans Storm when a flash of lightning turns night to day and she gets an eyeful up Jacques’ dressing gown. ‘Social services would have a field day in this place.’
‘Buckets and torches!’ I yell, leading a charge for the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, the storm has passed and the floor of Storm’s bedroom is an obstacle course of buckets, bowls and anything else we could find to catch the water that’s still dripping. I’ve stripped her bed and made up a new one for her in the small spare room that Barry and Toby use.
‘We’ve done the best we can and patched up the roof with polythene,’ says Josh, coming down the ladder ahead of Jacques while I shine my torch on the rungs.
‘How bad is it?’ I uncross my crossed fingers because what’s the point?
‘The repair held, ironically, but another part of the roof’s letting in water now. I think the roof’s completely knackered. Has the storm passed?’
‘I think so. It’s heading for Land’s End.’
