‘Are you all OK? Is the little one hurt?’ I ask.
Her mum crouches down and hugs her. ‘She’s fine. You scared them off just in time. I was so busy with the buggy I hadn’t realised what was happening.’
‘I’m glad she’s OK.’
‘Thanks to you. Nasty things. Don’t cry, Tasha! I’ll get you another ice cream, darling.’
‘You! Waitress! Have you seen my suit?’
‘Sorry,’ I mouth to the mum. ‘Have to go.’
On the terrace, Mawgan holds up her jacket, her mouth set in a fuchsia line. It’s spattered with mayo, just like a seagull pooped on it.
‘I’m so sorry, madam, you can see it was an accident.’
She thrusts her jacket under my nose. Mayonnaise dribbles down it. Her gaze scythes through me. ‘Maybe it was, but my suit’s still ruined.’
‘I – I’ll pay for it to be cleaned,’ I say, though every word kills me to say it and it will take most of my savings.
‘Cleaned? It’s ruined. This suit cost over three hundred pounds. I expect you to pay for a new one. You or your boss.’
The words leave my lips before I can stop them. ‘Three hundred quid? You’re kidding?’
She gasps. ‘What did you say?’
The hipster lowers his Times and stares at us. His dark eyes glint in the sunlight. He frowns, seems about to speak but then raises the newspaper again. A woman nearby giggles nervously and faces look up from their lattes and pasties at the unexpected free entertainment.
‘I … didn’t mean to be rude, madam.’
‘Oh, really?’ She lowers her voice so that only I and her family can hear her. ‘You do know I can make sure you get the sack and never get another job in this town? I don’t let anyone speak to me like that.’
I hesitate, anger bubbling up in me like the fizz in a bottle of pop. Then my cork blows. Just as quietly I say: ‘Neither do I. Madam.’
I’m on the point of fetching Sheila when loud barks ring out from the side alley of the cafe. They sound exactly like Mitch’s barks but he’s supposed to be safe inside the flat. He can’t have escaped, but seconds later a hairy ball of energy hurtles from the rear of the cafe and onto the terrace. Two Pugs and a Cockerpoo start yapping and before I can blink, Mitch leaps at me, barking joyfully. Mawgan’s eyes flick from Mitch to the back door of the cafe and back at me.
‘I take it that’s your dog?’ There’s ice in her voice.
‘Yes.’
‘And it lives here?’
‘Um. Not as such. He’s just staying in the attic temporarily while I’m at work but he wasn’t supposed to get out.’
‘So, you live here too?’
My stomach swirls with unease but I don’t want to let Mawgan see that she’s rattled me and I’m getting annoyed now. The customer may be always right but she also has no right to interrogate me about my private life. ‘Yes, but I really don’t see what it has to do with you.’
She smirks. ‘Rather a lot, actually. I own this building. Your boss is my tenant so she shouldn’t be subletting the place, for a start, and there are no pets allowed, especially not a great big dirty thing like that one.’
‘Mitch isn’t dirty!’
Mitch glances up innocently then resumes his pursuit of a seagull. Squawks fill the air. My heart sinks to my boots. If I’ve got Sheila into bother I’ll never forgive myself. Even as I think the words, I know I must already have got Sheila into deep trouble. Mawgan raises herself up. ‘In fact, I’m going to see your boss right now.’
‘Mawgan …’ the goth sister murmurs.
‘Keep out of this, Andi!’
Andi caves in like a sunken sponge cake but their father beams proudly and folds his arms.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘You do that, but no one treats me like this and if I’m going to lose my job, I may as well go out with a bang.’ I reach for the nearest cold drink, which just happens to be an abandoned raspberry frappuccino and throw it over Mawgan’s skirt.
Her jaw drops and then she shrieks. ‘You little cow! You did that on purpose.’
‘My daughter could sue you for assault,’ says her father as Mitch skitters back to lick up the bright pink slush from the terrace. I glance over at the hipster but can’t see him any more and despite my bravado, I’m shaking inside.
I rip off my apron. ‘Be my guest. My legal team will be in touch.’
I glance around me defiantly and everyone turns their faces away. No one backs up Mawgan but somehow, I don’t think this is going to help Sheila’s Trip Advisor rating either. Oh shit, what the hell have I just done?
Pink slush drips from Mawgan’s skirt onto her shiny stilettos and her voice is barely more than a hiss. ‘You’ll live to regret this.’
Trembling inwardly, I shrug. ‘Actually, madam, I think I’ll look back on it as one of my finest moments.’
CHAPTER TWO
I thought about the waitress all the way out of St Trenyan, knowing I probably should have said something – that I could have stuck up for her – although I’m not sure what good it would have done or if she’d have thanked me for it. My shining armour turned rusty a long time ago and I’ve stopped trying to solve everyone’s woes. No good comes of crashing in on other people’s lives, no matter how well intentioned.
Besides, she didn’t seem to need my help. In fact, I really admired the way she stood up to the Cades … unlike me. The real truth is I wasn’t ready to face them or, at least, risk being plunged headlong into a confrontation with them.
They’re a local family of businesspeople who are well known in St Trenyan and the surrounding area. Mawgan was at my school, albeit she was a couple of years below me. She’d joined the Cade family empire before I went away and it seems as if she’s relishing her role at the helm. Her father, Clive Cade, is obviously proud of her although his younger daughter, Andi, doesn’t look cut out to be a business mogul. You never know with people, however. Before I left St Trenyan for the Middle East, I wouldn’t have thought Mawgan would become as spiteful and petty as she was towards the waitress.
Ignoring my aching knee, not to mention my niggling conscience, I stride out along the path which lurches its way over every tiny cove and sliver of beach. I’ve already had to change my route a few times where parts of the cliff have dropped into the sea. Judging by the rock falls on the beach, there must have been some almighty storms while I’ve been away.
At the top of one of the cliffs, I duck inside an old whitewashed huer’s hut for a break from the sun. Tankers and a cruise ship are tiny specks on the horizon as they head out into the Atlantic and I can taste salt on my lips again so I know I’m almost home. I shrug the pack off my back and stretch my spine.
The desert boots I had to borrow are caked in Cornish mud now, although I still feel self-conscious in the combats and khaki T-shirt. On the upside, the beanie hat and beard meant that I wasn’t recognised in St Trenyan. If I’d stepped into the row with the infamous Cades, they definitely would have.
Squashing down another pang of guilt, I shoulder my bag again. The path hugs the edge of the cliff, the worst of the climbs are over and I can see the black and white lighthouse on the headland in the far distance. The afternoon sun is mellowing, yet the sweat trickles down my spine. A few yards further on, I reach the milestone, which is just a lump of grey granite spattered with orange lichen. The words weathered away long before I was born but I know what it used to say, all the same.
One way lies Kilhallon Park, my home: the other leads to Bosinney House, my uncle’s house – and possibly to Isla Channing. The report in The Times said she was scouting out the locations for a new drama series and that she’d won an award for her last production. I always knew in my heart that she’d make it big, that she was too good to stay in one small place; with the likes of me. Perhaps that’s why I left in the first place, perhaps not – I’ve had too much time to reflect over the past few months.
On the other side of the valley, a group of ruined engine houses cling
to the cliffs and on the moor the tower of the church looms above the trees. Some of them are almost bent double trying to escape the gales from the Atlantic.
For a second, I hesitate in the middle of the narrow path, wondering if I ought to go home to Kilhallon Park or to Bosinney House. Uncle Rory will know if Isla’s back. Luke might even be around too as it’s Good Friday. He’s an old buddy of mine and he works as an advisor for my uncle’s finance company, or rather he did when I last heard from him which was months ago now.
A young guy and his girlfriend shake their heads at me, eager to get past on the coast path which has become very narrow here due to a fresh growth of gorse.
‘Thinking of moving, mate, or will you be here all day?’ the guy says with a grunt.
‘Sorry.’ I press against the scratchy gorse and they squeeze past me, muttering something about ‘losers’.
A moment later, I’ve decided – and turning away from home, I head for Bosinney.
Oblivious to the trouble he’s caused at the cafe, Mitch trots after me along the cobbles of Fore Street. The houses and shops of St Trenyan tumble down the steep cobbled streets to the sea, their roofs and windows shimmering in the afternoon sun. A few marshmallow clouds float across the sapphire blue sky and whitecaps sparkle on the sea. Tourists ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at the shops full of Easter eggs and gifts, hand-crafted chocolate and trendy china, and posh tea towels that cost as much as a morning’s wages. The tang of fish and chips and rich scent of coffee follow me along the street but I need to save every penny now, even more than before.
I was crimson with shame and fighting back tears as Sheila paid me the rest of the week’s wages which I know was more than I deserved. She was almost crying too which made me feel even worse, but she said there was no way she could keep me on. It turns out Mawgan Cade and her family do own the Beach Hut: they bought it when the previous owner, an old lady who’d lived in St Trenyan for eighty years, had to sell up and go into a nursing home. Mawgan hiked the rent up, which is why Sheila’s margins are now so thin.
‘Someone should do something about people like that!’ I said to Sheila, after Mawgan had left.
‘No one dares stand up to the Cades. They have their fingers in too many pies.’
Sheila offered to make excuses for me but I stopped her. In the end I knew the best thing for everyone was for me to leave the cafe as soon as possible before she was forced to sack me. But leaving my job also meant leaving the temporary shelter I’d found too.
‘Come on, boy,’ I say as Mitch sniffs around the bins by the harbourmaster’s office. I find a vacant bench with room for me and my worldly goods. The tourists tend to avoid the working end of the harbour: it’s too far from the souvenir shops and car parks and always smells of fish, but I need time to think. My stomach growls while Mitch curls up at my feet, full of pasty and sighing contentedly. At least he’s happy and, whatever happens, I’ll make sure he’s looked after. I’d let him go to a good home, rather than see him want for anything.
Rubbing my wet face with the back of my hand, I squeeze back the tears and think of happier times, hoping an idea will come. When I was a little girl, Mum used to take us for tea with my Nana Jones every Sunday afternoon. A proper Cornish tea with a brown pot under a woolly tea cosy, flowery china loaded with goodies you don’t see any more, figgy ’obbin, spicy parkin, fairings, and ‘fly pastry’ with currants. She even made a stargazy pie once but I burst into tears when I saw the little fish peeping out of the crust so she never made it again.
Talking of fish, a few yards away from me, a boat has just landed its catch. The gulls circle overhead, fighting and screaming over scraps. The tang of fresh fish fills the air.
‘Maybe they’d take me on as crew?’ I tell Mitch, who drops his muzzle onto his paws. He looks as confident about the plan as I feel.
‘Well, if we’re not going to sea, we need to find a new job and somewhere to stay. Come on,’ I say as much for my benefit as his. Mitch’s ears perk up ready for a new adventure which cheers me up a little too. ‘We’ve done it before and we can do it again,’ I say with a new determination. ‘We’ll just have to make the best of things.’
CHAPTER THREE
By the time I reach Bosinney House, my knee aches like crazy and a young woman I don’t recognise bars the doorway. The frilly white apron round her waist looks odd with the spray-on jeans and pink T-shirt.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asks, reminding me of the waitress, apart from the accent, which is definitely not Cornish but from a lot further east. Krakow? Bucharest? For some reason, she also looks scared of me. Maybe I should have had a shave.
Feeling guilty, I summon up a smile for her. ‘Hi. Is Uncle Rory at home?’
‘Uncle Rory? I do not know who you mean …’ She eyes me suspiciously and I don’t blame her. What with the attitude, the borrowed combats and the beard, she must think I’ve come to tie up and terrorise the household.
‘I mean my uncle, Mr Rory Penwith.’
She bites her lip nervously before replying. ‘Mr Penwith is here but he has guests with him.’
I should have realised that from the row of vehicles parked outside: a Range Rover, an Audi, and a couple of Mercs. Then, it dawns on me that today must be his birthday.
‘I can see that but I think he’ll find room for one more. Tell him it’s his nephew, Cal Penwith.’
She looks me up and down. ‘You are family?’
‘It may be hard to believe but I am. Can I come in? I won’t steal the silver.’
She tightens her grip on the door frame. ‘They are in the big glass room, having drinks.’
‘The orangery?’
Finally, she nods and stands aside to let me in. ‘Yes. I will take you.’
‘There’s no need. I know my way.’
Leaving my pack on the floorboards, I march past her, across the great hall and down the corridor that leads to the orangery, with the girl’s heels click-clacking behind me. The great hall smells faintly of ashes and wood smoke as it does for three seasons of the year. That’s the only part of Bosinney House that hasn’t changed: the rest has been built on over the years. It’s many times bigger than the house on Kilhallon Park and a hundred times grander. Uncle Rory inherited it from my granddad, who left Kilhallon Park to his younger son, my father. Dad never quite got over being treated as second best but I love Kilhallon, even in the state I left it when I went abroad. I’d never swap it for all Bosinney’s grandeur.
The girl catches up with me. ‘I will tell them you are here.’
I stop and turn. ‘Don’t do that.’
Seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, I feel ashamed and soften my tone. ‘I’d like to surprise them. Please?’
With another nod she scuttles off, muttering. ‘I’ll be in kitchen. I’ll fetch more champagne.’
Champagne, eh? Uncle Rory’s idea of extravagance used to be opening an extra bottle of Rattler … maybe they do know I’m coming after all.
The sound of laughter and the pop of corks drift along the corridor. Are they expecting me? It’s not possible or I’d have known about it by now and besides a handful of people, no one knows I’m back in Cornwall.
There’s applause, a few gentle cheers. I didn’t know Rory made a big thing of his birthdays, but maybe this is a landmark one or perhaps he’s made his first million from his financial advisor business. It was doing well when I left, despite the recession.
It occurs to me that I should, perhaps, have warned them first, not just turn up like this … but the truth is that a small part of me was afraid – is afraid – that no one would actually want me back.
The voices become more distinct, glasses chink and I hear a deep laugh – Uncle Rory – and a giggle – my cousin Robyn and my ears strain for the one voice I really want to hear. I walk towards the orangery and pause at the door, observing, assessing … the scene plays out like a surreal movie. These people I once cared for and loved are like actors in a play.
The
re must be around a dozen people in here, most of whom I recognise. Uncle Rory is downing a whisky – as I thought he would be; my old mate Luke is laughing nervously at something Isla’s mother is telling him. Robyn is handing round a tray of canapés, her face flushed. This is obviously a celebration.
There’s also someone else, whose honeyed hair brushes her bare shoulders, whose dress shimmers in the early evening sunlight and clings to her bottom. Whose slender legs are accentuated in silver heels higher than any I’ve ever seen her in before.
My body tautens like a wire. She hasn’t seen me yet, no one has seen me yet …
‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’
Uncle Rory’s face is purple. He’s lost a bit more hair since I last saw him. Luke’s mouth is open like a goldfish gasping for air. Isla’s mum looks shocked to see me. Robyn freezes, still holding the tray of canapés.
And Isla, she stares at me and her champagne glass trembles in her hand.
‘Cal? Is it really you?’
‘Isla …’ Her name squeezes out from my throat, almost inaudible. I never thought it would be like this. Every ounce of strength has gone.
‘Cal? Bloody hell, I thought you were a ghost!’ Luke suddenly rushes over and gathers me up in a man hug, slapping me on the back so hard I wince.
‘Are you OK, man?’
‘I’m fine. Looking good, Luke.’ And he does. Bigger, beefier, the extra weight suits him and he looks happy. It’s great to see him; I never expected to feel so emotional so I must be going soft. Luke gives me a man hug again, but this time I suppress the wince.
He stares at me. ‘Man, you look thin … I can’t believe this … I just … I don’t know what to say.’
He lets me go and rubs his hand over his face, shaking his head in shock. I don’t blame him. I’ve changed a lot while I’ve been away.
‘Cal! Cal!’ My cousin Robyn launches herself at me, tears streaming down her face, along with the kohl around her eyes. Robyn’s every bit as good a mate as any of the lads – more even. ‘Where have you been? Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?’ Her fingers dig into my forearm but I don’t mind. It’s wonderful to see her again.
Summer at the Cornish Cafe Page 2
