Summer at the Cornish Cafe

by Phillipa Ashley

  ‘I hope he comes back soon or the ticket will run out on the car park,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, look. Isn’t that Cal now?’

  Robyn waves to a couple outside a shop, on the far side of the food fair. It’s obvious Cal is talking – or rather arguing – with a tall, slim girl with long blonde hair.

  ‘He’s with Isla,’ Robyn says, then groans. ‘Oh, I think I have to go.’

  Polly’s gossip and The Letter race into my mind. That’s her, then, the ex, the woman who broke his heart. I try to get a better look but people keep obscuring my view.

  ‘Good to meet you. I’ll ask Cal for your number and text you. It’d be cool to meet up again. Byeeee.’

  Robyn dashes across the square, almost tripping over her skirt but Cal is already striding towards her. She reaches him and says something, I assume, then tries to hug him but he shakes his head and walks faster in my direction. By his thunderous expression, I wonder if I and the sardines will get home in one piece. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for a very awkward journey.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I never meant to argue with Isla. I tried so hard but it was a shock, seeing her come out of the jewellers with Luke. I’d just finished with the architect when I spotted them. I watched him kiss her goodbye and walk back towards his office and fully intended to walk away in the opposite direction.

  That’s what I should have done. What a sensible man would have done.

  Instead I found myself crossing the street, and almost jogging through the crowds of shoppers to catch her up. Was it a wise decision? Her face told me the answer. She was shocked, dismayed, a little afraid of me, even. Oh, she changed her expression fast enough: she hid her real feelings very well; anyone would think she was an actress not a producer. But it was too late.

  A nice guy would have said a quick hello, made his excuses and said he couldn’t stay long because he had work to do and a holiday park to rebuild and his car park ticket was expiring. But I’m not a nice guy: not where Isla Channing’s concerned and Cornwall County Council can fine me a hundred quid and it still won’t make any difference to how I feel.

  After a brief chat, she kissed me goodbye; I think she wanted it to be a friendly peck on the cheek but somehow, our lips met. She didn’t pull away and it was only quick but afterwards she said, ‘That was for old times’ sake. It can’t happen again.’

  ‘Why did it happen at all, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Cal. I want to stay friends.’

  ‘So do I. Did you find anything you liked in the jewellers, then?’ I hated myself even as the words left my mouth.

  ‘Not yet, but I know I will soon.’

  ‘Are you going to the ball?’

  ‘Of course I am. Luke and his dad have bought a table. Goodbye, Cal. Take care.’

  ‘Wait! Isla!’

  ‘I waited for you long enough, Cal.’

  I reached for her arm but she slipped away. It was probably a good job that Robyn saw us. I phoned her this morning and apologised and said I’d go to the ball with her. I owe it to her. Now all I have to do is make it up to Demi for the way I behaved on the drive home.

  Bloody Cal! I could have strangled him on the way home from Truro. We just made it to the car before the warden stuck a ticket on the Land Rover but he was still in a foul mood. He hardly spoke a word and wasn’t interested that I’d scoped out some locally made kitchens and bathrooms, and arranged for the designers to visit and give us a quote.

  His driving is rubbish too and I seriously wondered if we’d get back in one piece, especially when we were held up in a holiday jam on the A30. When we finally got home, he thumped off back to his office and slammed the door.

  I was almost ready to quit until he called me over to the house the next afternoon, handed me a new tablet and said he ‘was sorry for being a bit short with me the other day’. I was grateful for the tablet as it means I can research my cafe idea more easily, but I’m certainly not ready to mention the plan yet. Still, I think I might wander down to the building with Mitch later and have a scout around to see how the layout might work …

  Robyn came round later and asked me to go into Truro on her evening off from the Tinner’s. We’re going out with a gang of her mates from the college. I think she has a boy she wants to impress. She also persuaded Cal to go along to the charity ball this coming weekend, much to Polly’s amazement – and mine.

  Leaning against the kitchen worktop the next day, sipping my coffee, I watch Polly press Cal’s tux ‘as a special favour and because he’d do a crap job’.

  I think it’s because he bought her a bunch of roses for her birthday the other day and drove her and her mate all the way to St Austell to see Il Divo. She seemed even more astonished when I made her a cake and iced her name on top. She said ‘Oh, go on with you’ or something but I heard her telling her daughter all about it on the phone, that it was ‘light as a feather’ and that she’d save some until she went over at the weekend.

  I hide a smile as she slaps a damp tea towel over the leg of his tux trousers. The black slim-line jacket hangs over the back of a chair, the Boss label visible through the chair rail. He can’t be that skint, then.

  ‘Is he really going to wear that?’ I ask, through a mouthful of Hobnob. I still can’t get used to having a full biscuit barrel at my disposal – come to think of it, I could make my own biscuits if I have time. Nana taught me how to make Cornish fairings.

  Steam clouds the air as Polly presses the iron to the tea towel. ‘I wouldn’t be ironing the thing if he wasn’t, would I? Why he couldn’t have bought a new one, I don’t know, but he said it was a waste of money which is why I’ve spent all morning trying to work miracles on a second-hand one from bloody Oxfam. God knows who wore it before.’

  The suit looks good as new to me but I’m not going to give Polly the satisfaction of telling her. She’s been slightly less frosty to me lately now she can see I’m ready to put in the work, but that’s not saying much.

  ‘I can’t imagine Cal dressed up like that,’ I say, pulling another Hobnob from the open packet on the worktop.

  ‘He scrubs up all right,’ she says, moving the tea towel higher up the crease of the trousers. ‘As you’ll notice.’ She gives me a sly look and my cheeks suddenly feel warmer.

  ‘I don’t notice. I’m too busy.’

  ‘Which is why you’re watching me iron his trousers?’ Steam rises into the air as she bangs the iron down on top of the tea towel. For a moment, I think she might be smiling.

  ‘Actually, I was on my way to ask if I could use his laptop. I’ve got to print off some info on catering and business-studies courses.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I can’t see his daft eco plans ever happening. No one’s going to lend him the extra money to do this place up.’

  ‘They might. Don’t you want the park to get back on its feet?’

  She dumps the iron on the board and lifts up the trousers. ‘Of course I do. No one wants to see the business doing well and Cal happy more than I do. It would finish Cal off for good, if his plans don’t work out.’

  ‘He’s stronger than that. He’d survive,’ I say, surprised at Polly’s burst of emotion.

  ‘And you know him, do you? Having been here five minutes?’

  ‘I know him well enough. So do you. You’re just worried he’ll end up like his father, aren’t you?’

  She drapes the trousers over the ironing board. ‘I don’t want to lose this place completely. I like living here for now and yes, I do worry he’ll end up like his father. Something happened to him while he was away that he’s not telling us. It bothers me. It’ll come out one day soon, mark my words.’

  ‘I still think that we’re going to make a big success of the new park, as long as we all think positive and work together,’ I say, suspecting I sound like some of the business gurus I’ve come across on Twitter.

  ‘Maybe … don’t you laugh at me, Demi. I may speak my mind but I’m not a total ogre. I know you wo
rk very hard here and you want to do well, and you care about Cal, but take my advice: don’t you get too caught up in him and his plans. You’ll only end up hurt. Cal draws people to him; they’d walk over hot coals for him but he knows his own mind and if you want my opinion, it’s still fixated on Isla Channing. He’ll never let go of her.’

  ‘And this has what to do with me? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I want to make the new resort a success and build a career.’ I sound arrogant but I’m troubled that Polly thinks she needs to warn me off.

  She softens her voice. ‘Then you’ll have to excuse my interference. It was kindly meant.’ She holds out the trousers. ‘Here, I’ve better things to do than act as Cal’s valet. If you’re not too busy, can you take them up to his bedroom and save me the trouble? The jacket’s hanging off the back of that chair but make sure you don’t get crumbs all over it. I’m not doing it all again.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say, torn between annoyance and amazement that Polly thinks A – I’m after Cal, and B – that she actually cares that I might be hurt.

  ‘Won’t he need a shirt?’

  ‘He can iron one himself if he does.’

  She flicks off the switch and pulls the plug out of the wall. While she puts the kettle on, muttering about how much work she has to do before she goes to her daughter’s for the weekend, I drape the trousers over one arm, pick up the jacket between my fingertips and take them upstairs. I’ve been up here a few times over the past few weeks, to collect fresh towels and bed linen from the airing cupboard, but I’ve never seen Cal’s bedroom.

  Floorboards creak and I walk to the far end of the landing and up a wooden step. His room is almost in another wing of the farmhouse, overlooking the back of the house. I have to transfer the jacket to my arm to lift the latch. The door swings inwards over the uneven floor, and sunlight spills out into the landing.

  Wow. I stand in awe at the four-poster bed. The other rooms have modern beds in them but this must be centuries old. The duvet and cover aren’t, because I helped Polly haul them back from Marks and Spencer in Truro in the week. Polly said that Cal’s father had died in the bed so they’d chucked out the mattress and duvet. A shudder runs down my spine. I’m not sure I could sleep in a room where someone had died.

  There’s a great big wardrobe on the opposite side to the bed so I lay the suit on the duvet and carefully open the doors. One side has several suits and tweed jackets and smells a bit musty. Judging by the size of the suits, and the pairs of well-worn brogues underneath they must have belonged to Cal’s father. I wonder why they haven’t been thrown out yet. Perhaps Cal’s been too busy and Polly didn’t like to do it.

  The other half of the wardrobe is almost empty apart from a couple of shirts and a pair of jeans on a wire hanger. It’s as if Cal hasn’t quite decided to move in here permanently yet.

  I don’t really think it will do the tux any good to be hung in the musty wardrobe so I pick an empty hanger, slot the trousers over the bar and slip the jacket over the top. I hook the suit over the back of the door.

  A thought occurs to me. All of the top holiday cottages are big on the local materials they use and the way they ‘channel influences from heritage and environment and vernacular architecture’. OK, Kilhallon house itself is a bit of a mess but there are some fantastic antiques and quirky bits and pieces we could use in the new cottages. Plus the general look and ambience of the place could be our unique selling point for the premium holiday cottages that are going to bring in the most money. I grin to myself, enjoying ‘channelling’ all the buzz words I’ve been picking up from luxury letting sites. Though I must admit I had to look up ‘vernacular’.

  On the dresser, there’re a gorgeous silver-plated hairbrush and mirror set, although it’s tarnished now, and a pretty carved wooden box with an inlaid lid that looks like it came from India or Malaysia. I look in the silver mirror and frown at my reflection and then pick up the box. It’s much heavier than I thought and instead of rattling as if full of trinkets, it feels full and solid.

  ‘Damn.’

  The lid and box part company and the base tumbles with a thud onto the bare floorboards, along with the contents: dozens of faded postcards. In a panic and feeling guilty for letting my curiosity get the better of me, I scramble on the boards, trying to gather them all up. They must have been from Cal’s parents to each other or from friends of theirs, although I can’t see why they’d have saved them and oh …

  The cards are all addressed to Ms Isla Channing. It would be wrong to read them but as I gather them up and stack them neatly in a pile, my eyes can’t help lingering on some of the words. It’s Cal’s writing, of course, spidery in different colours of biro, one in pencil and a couple in purple felt pen, probably the only thing he could get hold of in these remote places while he was busy working. They date from a few years ago, some are seven or eight years old.

  Hi Isla,

  Guess where I’ve ended up this time? Yeah, the ruins on the front are a bit of a giveaway. Like the retro card? Think it dates back to the seventies. I found it at the back of some dingy shop. The place has changed a bit now and sadly not for the better. Man, it’s hot here. Hotter than you could ever believe and I won’t bore you with the stuff I’ve seen and heard and smelt but I swear, if you were here and saw the people and children, you’d forgive me for trekking off for three months to come out here.

  Sorry, have to go. My boss is after me and I’d better not piss her off again. Good luck with the BBC interview, though I know you’ll ace it.

  See you soon,

  All my Love,

  Forever,

  C x

  Why would Cal have postcards he sent to Isla? Did she give them back to him before he went away or more recently?

  ‘Demi? What are you doing in my wardrobe?’

  I almost jump out of my skin. Cal stands in the doorway, his curly hair brushing the lintel. His face is stony and my heart thumps. He steps into the room and I think I’ve made a big mistake. Huge.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Oh, I … I’m sorry. I was going to hang up your tux in the wardrobe and I knocked over a box of cards. I didn’t mean to be nosy.’

  ‘Really?’ He stares at me and the cards for a second then at the tux hanging on the picture rail. ‘Forget it.’

  Hardly able to believe I may have got away with my indiscretion, I hold the box up to him. ‘I’ll put them all back.’

  ‘No, I’ll do it later.’

  I lay the box on the bed, wishing the floor would swallow me up.

  ‘Thanks for pressing my suit,’ he says gruffly.

  ‘Don’t thank me. Polly did it.’

  He gives me a sharp look. ‘Really?’

  ‘She’s not so bad. I’d better get on with my work,’ I say, edging towards the doorway. ‘I need to use the laptop to check out some college courses.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  He doesn’t seem to register that I’m here or doesn’t care. He looks so lost that I want to throw my arms around him and kiss him. What would he do? Would he push me off him? Say I’ve got to leave? Kiss me back? Push me onto that big bed …

  I redden at the thought. He’s my employer, and though I’d rather die than admit it, Polly was right to warn me off him. As I walk along the landing, the bedroom door closes softly and the lock clicks behind me.

  Mitch woke me the next morning, his sharp barks punctuated by knocks on the cottage door. Pulling on a hoodie over my pyjamas, I scoot downstairs to find Cal peering through the kitchen window. In his cracked waxed jacket and dark-green Hunters, he could be a country squire although the two-day stubble and the scowl ruin the image. The glare of the morning sun makes me blink when I open the front door.

  ‘Cal? Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘You don’t usually come to get me out of bed.’

  ‘I’ve come to take you out.’ He checks his watch impatiently.

  My stomac
h rumbles. ‘But I haven’t had my breakfast, yet.’

  ‘You can have it when we get back.’

  ‘Get back from where? Mitch hasn’t had his food and he needs a wee.’

  ‘Then he can come with us,’ he says firmly.

  Shivering in my PJs, I nod at the grey clouds billowing over the sea ‘I’d better get dressed properly first.’

  ‘OK. I’ll wait here.’

  The moment I shut the front door behind me, after I’ve got dressed, Cal sets off. ‘Hang on; I haven’t even got my laces tied up yet!’

  He stops, rolls his eyes, walks back to me and grabs my hand. ‘I haven’t got time to hang about.’ He pulls me across the farmyard towards the house with Mitch running ahead, nose to the ground. Obviously a walk is even more tempting to him than breakfast. I try to protest as Cal hauls me over the yard, though not very hard, and he takes no notice of me anyway.

  The truth is, I can’t believe how good it feels to have his hand in mine, even though he’s doing it to wind me up, but then I feel embarrassed so I pull away from him. Polly glowers at me through the kitchen window.

  He pulls a waxed jacket from a peg in the porch. The navy blue fabric is streaked by rain and salt. Mitch sniffs at it. ‘Here, it’s blowing a gale out on the cliffs. It was Robyn’s.’

  ‘Doesn’t she want it?’

  ‘She left it here years ago so obviously not.’

  Although the arms are a little short, the coat fits pretty well and I’m glad of it as we battle the wind gusting off the sea in the lower field. Huge white clouds race across the sky like some invisible demon is chasing them. Mitch sniffs every post and tree like a coke addict as we stomp down the field.

  Cal shakes his head. ‘Does that dog have a bottomless bladder?’

  ‘I said he needed a pee. Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Bent almost double against the wind, we walk along the path in the opposite direction to the cove. Now I know why the trees around here are so bowed down and twisted. Cal strides on, obviously a man on a mission. At the far end of the field, we pass the holiday cottages, now with scaffolding around them and walk through a gate into another field full of grass where I can see the ruins of the pool and amenities block.