‘Help me understand, then.’
‘You’ll have to ask Cal, not that he’ll tell you,’ he says sharply.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. If he won’t share the information, I’m not surprised.’
‘But you’re going to share whatever it is, aren’t you? Cal told me you’re not just an author, and that you work for a newspaper. You’re going to write something bad about Cal, aren’t you? Because you don’t like him and you want some kind of revenge on his dad?’
He seems surprised that I’ve worked this out for myself, but actually, I was guessing at best. My stomach swirls at the prospect.
‘Whatever I decide won’t be done out of revenge but because the truth should come out.’
‘What truth? Why won’t you tell me? What’s he supposed to have done? And you’re lying to yourself if you think hurting Cal is some kind of public service. That’s a pile of crap.’
He stands up. ‘You’d better leave. You’re in way over your head.’
‘Maybe I am, but you’re as bad as Cal. Patronising me, thinking I won’t or can’t understand what’s going on even if I don’t know all the details. Cal would never do anything wicked or cruel. Not unless there was a very good reason.’
He walks to the door. ‘Go back to your cafe, Demi. Make your cakes and mince pies …’ Then he rakes his hands through his blond mop, just like Cal does, and the likeness between them is so obvious it makes the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.
‘Screw it, you didn’t deserve that from me. I’m sorry for insulting your intelligence, but I mean what I say. Ask Cal what he’s been involved in and don’t try and stop me from doing what I think is right.’
Even though I’m trembling and Kit’s clearly itching for me to leave. I stand my ground. ‘What do you think is right? Spreading lies about Cal and ruining his life? I don’t understand any of this. I will leave, but this thing you know – would you really share this “story” if Cal wasn’t your brother?’
‘I don’t know. But what I really need to ask myself, is would I keep it hidden because he is? Go home and sort your own family life out, Demi, and don’t interfere in mine. From what I heard at the festival, you have enough problems.’
‘You were there?’
‘I heard, though by chance. Actually, your life is none of my business. Cal’s right about that. And mine is none of yours. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh. Sort your own shit out, as they say. Forgive me for not offering tea and cake.’
He opens the door and I know there’s no point in staying. He really is a harder nut to crack than Mawgan, because he’s clever and cool and that scares me.
‘I think you’re better than this,’ I tell him as he shows me into the hall again.
‘I doubt that very much,’ he says and shuts the door behind me, quietly but firmly, leaving me in the dark.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Two weeks have passed since my visit to London and I could easily imagine that my trip was a dream. I haven’t heard from Kit, not that I expected to after the blunt way he asked me to leave his flat.
It’s past the middle of December now, with less than two weeks to go till Christmas Day itself and I’ve been throwing myself into the full swing of the festive run-up at Demelza’s. Even though I’ve been up to my eyes in tinsel, turkey and mince pies since I returned from London, I’ve also had to plan ahead for the summer when Kilhallon will be hosting weddings. Yesterday, I booked a stall at a wedding fair in Truro in the new year to promote Kilhallon as a wedding venue and Demelza’s as an outside caterer. We’ve also had an email from our VIP couple, ‘Bonnie and Clyde’, to say they’re coming to visit after Christmas. That will be scary.
Our Christmas custom is boosted by a few hardy walkers and holiday makers who’ve come down for bargain ‘turkey and tinsel’ breaks in local hotels, plus the odd surfer who likes to live dangerously in the winter seas we’ve been enjoying. When I took Mitch for a run before work, the waves were smashing against the cliffs on the far side of the cove. I keep wondering if we’re going to lose another chunk of the coast path at this rate. The surfers love the conditions though and have been in the thick of the action at local beaches.
‘You’re not telling me you’ve been out in this?’ Nina asks one of them. He’s part of a group of half a dozen laid-back, bronzed dudes who’ve been occupying the corner of the cafe and mainlining hot chocolate, pasties and slabs of Christmas cake. They’d been catching some waves just along the coast and decided to come here to ‘fuel up and chill out’. I recognise a couple of the guys who used to hang out at Sheila’s Beach Hut.
The guys laugh at us when we express our horror, and proudly show us terrifying footage of them riding huge waves that they’ve uploaded to YouTube from their GoPros. I don’t mind, they can be as crazy as they want as long as they keep visiting the cafe.
We closed to the public at three and before it got dark I gave Mitch another run along the cliff tops so I could take a look at the monster surf. The waves were almost breaking over one of the old engine houses that clings to a ledge on a far headland. Though Mitch hates the lead, I’ve kept him on the long rein because the wind is blowing a hooley. His leg is almost back to normal now, but I still want to be super careful with him around the uneven ground until I’m confident he’s fully recovered.
Seeing the huge breakers pounding Kilhallon Cove itself, I decide not to risk descending the slippery, twisty coast path. I hope the walkers I can see on the opposite side of the cove don’t bother either. They could easily be washed off the bottom part of the path by a rogue wave. Two guys have already had to be rescued by the RNLI after they were swept off a rock while they were angling near Cape Cornwall.
Mitch and I stop by a stone stile and I watch the surf pounding the coastline, throwing up spray. Every now and then, fine droplets mist my face and when I stick out my tongue, I can taste salt in the air. The sea is angry, a boiling, seething grey mass battering the cliffs. We’re definitely going to lose more sections of coast path one day soon. As long as the cafe is in one piece though, that’s the main thing. It’s stood here for over two hundred years so I think we’ll be safe.
Pulling my hood over my beanie hat, I lead Mitch back towards the cafe, trying to make a mental to do list. The wind lashes my face and it’s started to sleet. Icy needles sting my bare skin and I can’t wait to get back inside the cafe.
With Mitch safely shut inside the farmhouse with Polly for company, I dash back to the cafe. The surfers have gone but a book club are arriving soon for a private Christmas afternoon tea. I wonder whether to ask them if they’ve heard of Kit, but decide against it. It’s also very tempting to mention the cookbook, but Eva’s agent told us not to tell anyone until we’ve signed the contracts and it’s been announced in the book press.
When I got home from London a couple of weeks ago, Cal asked me how I got on with the publisher, naturally, but I just told him it was all fine. I think Cal was disappointed I didn’t have more to say, but I had my mind on my visit to Kit. I definitely didn’t mention that, of course, and now I wish I hadn’t gone to see him. In hindsight, calling on him seems stupid and desperate and it definitely hasn’t helped. Cal’s cool and distant and I’m worried that it’s not only Kit’s threats that are bothering him. I know he’s tired and stressed – we’re both ready for a break after working flat out since autumn, and all the ups and downs.
I could be wrong, but I feel as if Cal’s backed off from me since the row we had at the Harbour Lights Festival, as if he wants to cool things right down between us. We’re speaking to each other again and I don’t think anyone would know, from the outside, that there was anything wrong between us. Yet I know, and Cal is acting as if he wants to keep away from me, emotionally and physically. I told him he wasn’t ready to live with himself, let alone me, but his remoteness still hurts. If we’re ever going to move on, sooner or later one of us has to break the ice and I suspect it will have to be me.
/> CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
December 22nd, morning
‘The coastal communities of West Cornwall are bracing themselves for a miserable Christmas as spring tides and high winds combine to create a storm surge that will threaten the north and west of the county. Mayor of St Trenyan, Kerren St Minver, is advising all residents and businesses within half a mile of the harbour to take action immediately as the “hundred-year” storm is set to reach its peak in the early hours of tomorrow. Stay tuned for bulletins and information …’
‘I don’t like the sound of that at all.’ Polly turns the radio down in the kitchen of the farmhouse. ‘Though it doesn’t surprise me. It’s been working itself up to a hell of a storm for the past few days.’
‘You don’t think Greg Stennack is exaggerating? You know what Radio St Trenyan’s like. They love to make a mountain out of a molehill.’
‘He could be, I suppose, but as I say, I’ve lived here a long time and I have a very bad feeling about this.’
Cal walks in from the yard, rain running off his waxed hat. ‘What are they saying?’ he asks, as Polly gives him a withering glare for dripping on the tiles.
‘That it’s going to be bad,’ I say.
‘I thought as much. Well, all we can do is be prepared. I’ve serviced the generator and we’ve plenty of diesel for it, in case the power goes off. We should be able to power the farmhouse and guest cottages, but we’d better go round and warn everyone of what to expect.’
But what should they expect? I’ve seen storms and high tides before, and one of them brought a tree down on the house in the summer, but a hundred-year storm sounds very scary.
‘At least we won’t be flooded out up here. Apart from possible power cuts, we’ll be OK with a bit of luck,’ Cal says. ‘It’s the poor buggers down in St Trenyan I pity.’
‘There was a very high tide combined with terrible gales a few years back, one February when you were away,’ Polly says grimly. ‘And I wouldn’t want to go through that worry again.’
‘I remember that, but I was working and living in Truro then, so we missed the worst of the flooding,’ I say.
‘That tide damaged a couple of properties round here, but we escaped a lot better than people further up the coast. There were homes destroyed and flooded out right into Devon. But I do recall a proper storm surge when I was a little girl. I couldn’t have been more than four or five, but I’ve never forgotten it. Waves as big as houses breaking over the harbour, there were. The harbourmaster’s office was wrecked and hundreds of people were out of their homes for weeks and some for months. God knows, I hope we don’t have that again.’
I shudder and hope Polly’s memory has exaggerated how bad the weather was in her youth. I think of Sheila and her cafe, slap bang on the beach front. Tamsin’s Spa is in the back streets, a little higher up, so it should be OK. We’re all in trouble if the water gets that high.
Cal sits down at the table. ‘Let’s hope so. We’ll just have to wait and see,’ he says firmly. ‘Demi – are you opening today?’
‘Yes, and tomorrow if we can, even if only for a couple of hours. There are already guests arriving for the Christmas week and they’ll want a cosy place to hang out in this weather.’
‘OK. You go ahead and do what you need to, but be careful on the cliff top, the wind’s very strong so make your own judgement about whether it’s safe to have people walking around up there so close to the edge. Shall we muck in and speak to the guests? There’s no need to alarm them,’ he says firmly, directing his comment at Polly, ‘but forewarned is forearmed.’
December 22nd, evening
Waves crash over the harbour wall, engulfing the spot where our stall was sited during the Harbour Lights. The lights have been switched off for safety reasons. Large trade wheelie bins are picked up and flung around like children’s toys.
‘Whoa! Keep back,’ a policewoman warns Cal and I as we watch the water slopping over the slipway and onto the quayside. As soon as we realised that the coming storm was a significant threat, we drove down to help people prepare for the worst. We’ve been filling sandbags on the beach and helping people move their possessions to upper floors, but there’s nothing we can do to stop the elements.
A huge wave rips one of the smaller stockings from the harbour wall and hurls it against the front of the ice-cream parlour. Luckily, the owner boarded up the windows.
Rain and salty spray batter our faces, stinging my eyes. Dirty foam tops the swollen tide and spatters the cobbles on the quay.
‘What about Sheila’s? Will she be OK?’ Cal asks me.
‘The cafe is well sandbagged, but it’s not even high tide for another hour. She’s elevated above the beach and we’ve never had a tide reach that far before, even the last two times. We’ll just have to hope.’
Cal, I know now’s not the time, but there’s something I have to tell you. And ask you.
The words stay inside my head. I want to tell him that I saw Kit, and to ask him again about what happened to him in the Middle East. What was so awful that Kit wants to print a story about him? I believe what I told Kit: Cal would never do anything to deliberately hurt anyone.
We watch the waves, in silence, standing close together, but so far apart.
‘Hey there! Could you give us a hand moving some stock upstairs?’
The man from Quayside Gallery calls to us. The water is already lapping the top of the quay, metres from his doorway.
‘Coming!’ I say and we run to help him. Our own problems will have to wait a while longer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
December 23rd, morning
‘It’s the day before Christmas Eve: a day when most of us will be putting the finishing touches to the tree, defrosting the turkey and dashing out for last-minute presents. But as the sun rises over the Cornish village of St Trenyan, a less festive scene could not be imagined. In the cold light of day, the devastation wreaked by last night’s unprecedented storm surge is clear to see. Scores of homes and businesses around the harbour and neighbouring streets are flooded, and debris litters the streets. Hundreds of people from St Trenyan and other coastal villages will be unable to spend Christmas in their own homes, and businesses will be closed throughout the busy Christmas tourist season. For now, the festivities are on hold and the clear-up begins.’
A few yards away from me, the TV reporter stands next to the harbourmistress’s office in his wellies and cagoule. The morning sun shines down from an almost cloudless blue sky over the harbour. Seagulls circle and perch on rooftops, screaming as they always do. But other than that, I’d hardly recognise my own town.
The waters have receded on the outgoing tide, but there’s still water slopping around in hollows and crevices. The harbour and streets are littered with debris; seaweed, wheelie bins. A wrecked rowing boat lies in the circle where the Fisherman’s Choir give their concerts and the twisted frame of a Christmas tree washes to and fro on the gentle swell. A group of people are dragging the shark-themed Christmas light up the jetty. Others are sweeping water from their homes and businesses and piling up waterlogged stock and furniture. Pipelines snake from fire engines into houses and shops.
It seems cruel that the sun is shining so brightly after a night that none of us will ever forget, no matter how much we want to. Cal stayed overnight in town, while I went home late to help Polly make sure our guests were safe and warm. Polly showed me how to operate the generator in case we need it over the holiday, because more high tides are predicted.
At first light, I drove down to town. From the hilltop car park, things seemed relatively normal, apart from the emergency services, electricity and water company vans. Down here at the harbour side, I can hardly believe I’m in the same town. Most of the buildings that have suffered are businesses, but a few of the cottages are holiday homes, and a handful are occupied by local families.
Stopping for a quick word of sympathy with a couple of locals, I find Tamsin in hot-pink wellies helping the own
er of the pasty kitchen to clear out her shop. Her salon has escaped, though her roof has leaked in the torrential rain and damaged the ceiling in her treatment room. She’s cancelled today’s and tomorrow’s Christmas Eve appointments to help her neighbours salvage what they can. Judging by the range of the accents I hear as people come to lend a hand lugging our ruined fixtures, lots of guests and tourists are helping too. I want to help everyone, but I know I can’t so I head for the one place that may need me most.
Sheila stands outside the Beach Hut, surrounded by chairs and tables, telling her waiter, Henry, what to do with the sodden furniture. He often didn’t bother to turn up when I worked for Sheila and I’m surprised but glad he’s put in an appearance now. Other locals and emergency personnel buzz in and out of the building, and a hose winds its way out of the cafe, pumping water down a drain. Sheila waves when she spots me and I hurry over. Not knowing what to say, I hug her tightly. When I let her go, her eyes glisten with tears. Like many of the faces I’ve seen, hers is grey and drawn. I doubt if many people have had much sleep in this coastal part of Cornwall.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask, letting her go. She’s shaking, poor thing. I want to hug her again, but don’t want to make her cry.
‘Yes, course I am. There are so many people much worse off than us, though I still can’t quite believe it …’ She pauses to survey the wreckage around her. ‘All these years I’ve lived here I never thought the sea would take the Beach Hut.’
‘Me neither. I’m really, really sorry, Sheila.’
‘Like I say, it could have been even more disastrous. There’s been some water damage to the ground floor service area and we’ve lost a few chairs and tables that we couldn’t rescue before the tide came up, but my flat’s fine. With a lot of hard work, we’ll be open again for the New Year. How are things at Kilhallon?’ she asks.
‘Oh, we’re fine,’ I say, hoping I don’t sound smug. ‘A few loose slates, a lot of mud and we’ve lost power, but Cal’s rigged up the old generator so the guests are happy. Cal’s helping out from the emergency centre in the community hall, but I wanted to come down here, to see how you are. What can I do to help? Shall I help you clear up?’
Christmas at the Cornish Café Page 22
