Polly narrows her eyes at me. ‘There’s no need to be so high handed.’
‘I’m sorry. Before you do that, can you find some clean bed linen and towels for Stables Cottage? I’ll help Demi get it into some sort of habitable state.’
‘Of course, boss. I’ll get onto it right away.’
Polly flounces off, muttering to herself. I grit my teeth. Polly’s been used to running the place without me while I was away and I’m out of practice with the social niceties these days. I know things have been tough on her but it’s time we both got used to having other people around again.
Demi pulls a face behind her back. ‘Polly doesn’t look very happy to see me.’
‘She’ll get over it. Come on, I’ll show you around the place.’
Cal leads me towards a wood and glass porch that looks modern, if you count the 1970s as modern, and is tacked onto the front of the old stone farmhouse itself.
‘This is – was – the reception area. Sorry. This sticks in the damp,’ he says, giving the peeling door into the reception a heavy shove.
There’s still a counter in there and the type of dial phone you’d find in a retro shop, with dusty ring binders piled all around it and a faint whiff of damp and food. The metal racks by the window still have leaflets and brochures on them, faded to monochrome by the sun. I’m sure one of them says Escape to Kilhallon Park, 1985 on it. Escape to Kilhallon? They’d be trying to escape from it these days.
There’s a button on the desk with a sticker next to it, on which I can just make out ‘Please ring for attention’.
‘This way,’ says Cal, pushing open a white-painted door that reads Private on a once-gold plastic plaque. We fight our way past old fleeces and wax jackets and Cal curses. ‘Who left that bloody boot scraper there?’ he grumbles. ‘Be careful.’
Sidestepping over the scraper, I glimpse a chink of light as Cal pushes open a heavy oak door.
When I was little, my mum read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to me. As the coats part, and my eyes adjust, I feel I just stepped into another version of Narnia. Except this Narnia smells of curry and is like a skip – and that’s from someone who’s actually rummaged in a few.
‘This is the sitting room. Obviously.’
He stands awkwardly but I’m fascinated. The windows are tiny with bottle-shaped panes, like an old harbour-side pub, but they’d probably let in more light if someone had cleaned them. Dead ashes powder the air when Cal shuts the door to reception behind him.
He tosses his phone on a huge carved dresser. ‘You’ll have to take us as you find us, as my dad used to say.’
‘My mum said it too but she always tidied up anyway.’ I cast my eyes around the sitting room while Mitch twitches at my feet, itching to give the place a proper sniff.
‘Does your mother know where you are now?’ Cal asks me.
‘I doubt it. She’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He pulls a face as if I’ve upset him, not the other way round.
‘It’s OK. She died eight years ago.’
He winces. ‘Really? You must have been young to lose your mum.’
‘Thirteen.’
‘When did you leave home?’ he asks.
‘A couple of years ago.’ I shrug as if it doesn’t matter but actually I can remember it to the day and hour. I was eighteen, it was raining and EastEnders was on.
‘Do you have any other family?’
Cal’s voice interrupts my memories and I’m grateful for it. No one wants to be reminded of bad times, especially when there’s guilt attached. ‘A brother but I haven’t seen him for years and I don’t want to see my dad again.’
‘Life throws some crap at us, doesn’t it? I know what it’s like to lose your parents when you’re young,’ he says.
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. My mum passed away when I was a teenager and I lost Dad just before I went away on my last overseas project.’
‘God. I’m sorry. Really.’
‘It happens, doesn’t it?’ he says. ‘Make yourself comfortable if you can find a spare patch of sofa.’
I perch on the edge of an old settee between a pile of old garden magazines and for a while Cal remains standing in front of the hearth. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to me; perhaps he’s wondering what to do with me now I’m here. I’m beginning to wonder what I’m doing here myself. Mitch finally settles at my feet: he’d make himself at home anywhere. Unable to look Cal in the eye either, I focus on the room again. There’s a big oak settle by the fire like you get in old pubs, paintings of horses and dogs, seascapes, boats and fishermen and dead rabbits and pheasants.
‘Sorry. I’ll have to have a word with Polly,’ Cal mutters, gesturing at the state of the room. ‘She’s not used to having to share the house again but she’s been here as long as I can remember. She worked for my father until her husband died and she’s become part of the family.’
‘When did the site last open?’
‘About twelve years ago. There used to be dozens of people working here in its heyday.’
‘Dozens of people?’
Cal hangs his jacket on the back of a dining chair. ‘Hard to believe, but yes. We had a small dairy farm, and some arable land as well as the holiday park, but that was gradually sold off. It may not look much now, but thirty-odd years ago there were holiday cottages and a camping and caravan site here. There was even a swimming pool and a clubhouse and the place was packed, apparently, but the good times were over before I was born.’
‘It’s a shame a lovely old place like this is in this state,’ I say then bite my lip, worried about offending him. I shift my bottom on the old settee to try and find a more comfortable position. I swear I can feel a spring sticking in me.
‘It just gradually went downhill as people decided to holiday abroad. Then my father lost interest completely after Mum died. We haven’t had guests since I went to uni and a place like this goes shabby fast, if it’s not looked after. Other people have made a success of their parks and if I’d wanted to keep the business going, I shouldn’t have gone off to save the world.’
‘What did you do? Was it Africa or Syria? That must have been scary.’
‘Like I said, I was an aid worker for a charity in the Middle East until I ended up needing aid myself. And that’s all you need to know. Although I’m sure Polly will take great delight in filling you in on what she thinks she knows.’ His voice tails off. ‘Meanwhile, we have work to do. First, I’ll show you the kitchen. I’m afraid we all have to muck in with the chores here but you’re a professional so I’m sure you won’t mind.’
So he doesn’t want to tell me exactly where he has been. Fine. There are things I don’t want him to know about me. ‘Oh, did Polly make the curry? I can smell it.’
‘You’re joking. It was a takeout. Polly’s never been a keen cook.’
‘I’ve always loved cooking. I can make a mean biryani and Thai curry, and a vegetable chilli with homemade guacamole. And a lovely fish pie – I used to go down to the harbour and buy the fish straight from the trawlers and I make fantastic pasties, steak, veggie – you should try my bacon and cheese ones. They’re brilliant.’
He smiles and I realise I’ve been bigging myself up massively. ‘It sounds like we might get on, after all. Shall I show you around the park so you can get your bearings and see what you’ve taken on?’
Excitement ripples through me. Sensing my mood change, Mitch sits up. ‘Bring it on,’ I say.
We walk through the farmhouse kitchen and a back porch, also packed with coats and boots, to a large cobbled yard at the rear of the house. A row of cottages faces the house, and they seem to be in better condition than the tumbledown barns and cow sheds at the front, which isn’t saying much. Still, the building across the yard is standing, at least, and has curtains hanging at the windows.
‘That’s where you’ll be staying,’ Cal says, pointing to the end cottage with the curtains.
‘Were those the h
oliday cottages?’
‘No, they were for staff. The guest cottages are larger and in another part of the park but they need total refurbishment. People want holiday homes that are even better than their own houses these days.’
‘I guess they do if they’re paying a lot of money.’
‘Yes, but I hope Kilhallon Park will have something to suit everyone’s budgets. Come on, I’ll show you the guest cottages and the buildings from the campsite that I plan to replace.’
With Mitch in seventh heaven at being out in the country, I walk with Cal through the rear yard and through a wooden farm gate along a short lane that’s in slightly better condition than the one from the main road. Even so, I have to dodge a few ruts with dried mud in them. The lane is edged by Cornish hedges but the field on the coastal side falls away gently, giving us a wonderful view over the Atlantic Ocean. The sun glints on the sea as Cal strides off in the direction of a row of much bigger cottages a few hundred yards down the lane.
‘The first thing we’ll need to do is have this lane surfaced so that the builders can get access to the guest cottages,’ he says, splashing through a large puddle in his wellies.
A few moments later, we stop outside the guest cottages. They are in a row of four, with stone walls and slated roofs covered in moss. I think they were once whitewashed but the walls are grey and moss-stained now. The tiny front gardens – more sitting-out areas really – of each cottage are a tangle of weeds.
Cal clicks his teeth and lets out a breath. ‘As you’ll see, the shells are sound but they need rewiring, and modern heating and plumbing, not to mention a decorative makeover. We’re going to need to repair the slate roofs too. There’s a lot to do but it’ll be worth it. These old miners’ cottages deserve some TLC.’
‘They could be really pretty. Lots of kerb-appeal,’ I say, channelling the TV property programmes Sheila used to record and watch back-to-back.
‘That’s what the guests are looking for. Something with character and a great view.’
‘All the ingredients are here. You just need to turn them into a great dish.’
Cal laughs. ‘With a lot of elbow grease, I’m sure we can.’
Mitch roots among the dandelions in the garden areas while I wander up to the front door of one cottage. A chipped slate plaque hangs lopsidedly from a nail. I push it horizontal and read the name.
‘Penvenen? What does that mean?’
Cal gives a wry smile. ‘My granny loved the Winston Graham novels and they were big when the TV series was on in the 1970s when the cottages were originally converted to holiday homes. It was her idea to name them after characters in the Poldark novels. So that’s why we have Penvenen, Warleggan, Enys – and Poldark, of course.’
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t read those books.’
‘Nor me, and the TV series was on long before I was born, but Polly says it’s popular again now so we should leave them as they are.’
‘It’s a nice thing to keep the names if they were your granny’s idea. The tourists love that sort of thing. They were always asking how old Sheila’s Beach Hut was. Sheila used to tell them it was a smuggler’s haunt and then they’d order more drinks just to stay longer.’
Cal bursts out laughing. ‘Sheila’s was never a smuggler’s haunt! Even the oldest part of the building can’t be more than a hundred years old.’
‘It worked, though. I think you should definitely keep the names.’
He gives me a sharp look then breaks into a smile. I must admit, he’s cheered up while he’s been showing me the place so I must have done something right. ‘I think you’re going to be very useful around here, Ms Jones. Come on, let’s go and take a look at the camping area.’
As we walk around the rest of the park, an hour whizzes by but I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. Cal took me into the two fields that once housed the static caravans and the camping site. The vans have long gone; he told me that his father ran out of money for replacing the fleet so they were all sold off to people doing self-builds. The camping site and caravans were served by an ‘amenity block’ with loos, showers and washing-up area. That’s in a right old state, almost derelict. There were birds nesting in the showers.
‘And,’ he says, nodding at a large grassy depression surrounded by broken tiles, ‘that was a swimming pool.’
‘I can just about tell …’ I try to be diplomatic. Although the site is large, he wasn’t kidding when he said there was work to do. ‘What’s that?’
I point at a crumbling stone building silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, at the far edge of the camping field.
‘Just an old farm building we used to use for storage of the grass-mowing machines and equipment for the caravans in the winter. I haven’t been in there for years so it’s probably still got loads of random stuff in it.’
‘It’s a shame to leave it in that state.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. It’ll have to be tidied up, at least until we know what to do with it. I haven’t got round to making plans for everything yet. That’s why you’re here. If you have any ideas, just shoot away. Now, shall I show you where you’ll be staying?’
‘Great.’ With a whistle to Mitch, I follow Cal back across the field towards the reception area and staff cottages, but I can’t resist a glance behind at the crumbling, unloved storage building. I wonder …
An idea has formed in my mind but I’ve only just met Cal and I’m definitely not ready to shoot just yet.
‘Here you go.’ A few minutes later, he twists the handle on the door of the end staff cottage. ‘I wouldn’t call this premium accommodation but this is the best of them. I told you it wasn’t much and it’s a bit damp because no one’s been living here for a few years but it should do, if you’re prepared to put in a bit of elbow grease. I’m sure Polly will bring over some cleaning stuff and bed linen, or I will when I get a chance.’
The door opens straight into a little sitting room with a two-seater sofa, covered in a crazy flowery pattern. There’s an empty fireplace and a few pictures on the walls, mostly of vases of roses and trees. The carpet has orange and blue swirls and the curtains are a sort of pink, with abstract tulips. At least, I think they were tulips once and are now splodges. In one corner a narrow open-backed staircase leads upstairs.
‘Sorry, I don’t think it’s been renovated since before I was born.’
‘It’s … um … very flowery.’
‘It’s either this or the box room in the attic of the farmhouse and I’m sure you’d much rather have your own front door.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
He doesn’t laugh. ‘So you’ll be OK in here?’
‘Yeah …’ Tears clog my throat at the thought of actually having four walls and a roof over mine and Mitch’s heads, then I woman up. I am working for the guy, after all. I deserve a proper roof over my head. ‘It’s fine. Thank you.’
‘You don’t sound too sure?’
I throw him a smile. ‘Honestly, it’s great. Can I see the rest of it?’
‘Sure.’
Mitch runs ahead into the kitchen, which is basic but has a cooker, fridge and sink. There are few dead flies on the windowsill and a whiff of damp, but it’s my own space and that’s what matters.
Cal opens the fridge door and sniffs. ‘I might have to get you another fridge.’
‘I can clean it. It’ll be OK.’
‘If you want to have go, fine, but I’ll get a new one if you need it. You have rights here, including a decent place to live.’
‘Will you just shut up?’ I say, wanting to laugh at his slapped-arse face. ‘And show me the rest of the place, boss.’
‘Please don’t call me that. Polly only does it to wind me up.’
‘OK, boss.’
I picture his scowl as he leads the way up the stairs while Mitch explores his new territory. It’s a sexy scowl, I bet, and his bum and thighs look great in the jeans. Then I rap myself on the knuckles for thinking such thoughts. This i
s work and he is my employer.
Cal opens a door to one side of the tiny landing. ‘Bathroom, obviously. Should be OK with a good scrub.’
I pop my head round the door and smile at the rose pink suite that reminds me of my granny’s. The bath has a shower over it that’s seen better days.
On the opposite side of the landing, sunlight casts a yellow window pattern on the floor. The open door leads into the bedroom, with more flowers on the wall, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a mattress on the floor. Through the window, across the fields, whitecaps dance on the inky blue sea. I pull back the net curtain and peer through a film of salt spray and grime. The first thing I’ll do is rip the nets down so I can enjoy the view every morning.
‘There’s a spare bed frame in the attic at the farmhouse. I’ll carry it over,’ Cal says. I’m not sure if he was smiling at me or not while I looked out of the window and I don’t care what he thinks.
‘I can do that.’
‘You’d be better off taking the Land Rover up to the petrol station shop to get some food in.’
I follow him downstairs. ‘Me? Drive that old thing?’
‘Yes, unless you want to walk five miles across the fields,’ he smiles, cunningly. ‘Or you can take my horse if you like. He’s a bit skittish but if you can ride, you’re welcome.’
‘No, thanks, I don’t like horses. They’re dangerous.’
‘That depends on the rider. The Land Rover it is. When you’ve settled in, come over to the house to collect the keys and some money. You do have a licence?’
‘Yes. My brother taught me before he left home to join the army.’
He seems surprised. ‘OK.’
The sofa boings as I test the springs. Cal glances at my rucksack and my dirty ripped jeans. Before I even realise, I’m pushing a tangled strand of hair out of eyes, and the pink rises to my cheeks.
‘I’ll ask Polly to find you some work clothes for now and you’d better go into town tomorrow and get a few new things.’
‘I can buy my own clothes.’
‘OK, fine, but if you want an advance on your pay cheque, just shout. Right, I’ll go and fetch this bed frame.’
Summer at the Cornish Cafe Page 5
