A Cornish Gift

by Fern Britton

  He set about clattering around the kitchen, pulling out saucepans, frying pans and chopping boards. Breakfast was well on the way by the time Alex came downstairs. Her hair was scraped back in her trademark ponytail and she was rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  ‘God, Dad, are you trying to wake the dead?’

  ‘Good morning, my treasure!’ He kissed her on the top of her head. ‘I like your jimjams.’ He pointed with his wooden spoon at her Hello Kitty pyjamas.

  She threw him a sarcastic look. ‘They’re ironic.’

  ‘Of course they are, my little princess.’

  Alex playfully gave him a push and then sat down next to her brother.

  ‘Oh, no, not Spike Turner again.’

  ‘Feck off.’

  ‘Sam, enough with the potty mouth,’ Ed warned.

  ‘Feck isn’t a swearword, Dad.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  The first proper bicker of the day was nipped in the bud by Molly’s arrival as she bounded joyfully through the front door, followed by Charlotte.

  ‘It’s a glorious day out there. Oh, good – breakfast. What are we having?’

  ‘Don’t interfere – you know this is my speciality.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She leaned in and gave Ed a peck on the cheek. ‘Though you do seem to have used every single pot, pan and utensil in the entire kitchen.’

  ‘It’s a man thing. We need our man tools.’

  ‘It’s an organisation thing – or lack of it – if you ask me.’

  ‘I didn’t. Sam, Alex, I’m dishing up. Can you lay the table?’

  There was then a chaotic scrum as the small kitchen was filled with three bodies all rummaging around in drawers and cupboards that they weren’t familiar with, while Charlotte sat down at the table with the paper.

  ‘That village shop’s quite something. There’s a funny woman in there, some ancient Cockney.’

  ‘Ah, that’s Queenie, what she doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing. Right – here it comes.’ He set loaded plates in front of Charlotte and Sam, who fell on them eagerly. Then he went back for a pile of buttered toast. ‘Yours is coming, don’t worry,’ he told Alex.

  A moment later he was back with a plate for himself and one for his daughter. He was halfway through a Waitrose Cumberland sausage when he realised that Alex was still staring at her untouched plate.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  Charlotte looked up from her paper. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh, what?’

  Everyone was looking from their plate to Ed. ‘What?’

  ‘Dad, Alex is a vegetarian,’ Sam said through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

  ‘Since when?’ Ed was flabbergasted. ‘The last time we ate out, you had that giant burger, remember? With two burgers, bacon and blue cheese – it was fifteen quid,’ he added, still aghast at the bill.

  Alex pursed her lips and put her head to one side, speaking to him in a patronising voice: ‘I’ve been meat-free for over a year now, Dad.’

  ‘Yes, that was probably the last time we went out for a meal,’ Charlotte said matter-of-factly. ‘And I can’t remember the last time you sat down to a meal at home without jumping up to take a phone call or check your email every five minutes. You probably didn’t notice.’

  ‘But you used to love my fry-ups.’ Ed was aware that a whine had entered his voice.

  ‘I still do, Dad, but not with any of this.’ And she used her fork to push one of the sausages towards her father.

  Ed was struck speechless. How had he managed to miss something so obvious?

  Charlotte reached out for her daughter’s plate. ‘Want me to make you something else, darling?’

  Determined to retrieve the situation, Ed leapt from his chair. ‘Hang on – give me a chance – what do you want instead? Poached eggs on toast? Welsh rarebit – have we got any cheese?’

  ‘An omelette – a nice one and not too runny.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ed. ‘The perfect omelette on its way.’

  ‘Can I have Alex’s bacon and sausage, then?’ Sam was already moving his fork towards Alex’s abandoned plate.

  Charlotte laughed. ‘Here – go nuts. I’ll put your dad’s breakfast in the oven to keep warm.’

  A few minutes of banging and clattering ensued as Ed cleaned the frying pan and prepared the ingredients. The delicious smell of sautéed mushrooms and onions wafted over, until eventually Ed presented his daughter with a golden omelette, butter still bubbling away on the surface. ‘Well?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Is it perfect?’

  Alex put a forkful into her mouth and gave it a delicate chew. ‘Pretty much.’

  Ed breathed out. ‘That’ll do.’

  Charlotte waved for him to sit down, then retrieved his half-full plate from the warm oven before rolling her sleeves up to tackle the huge pile of washing-up.

  When he’d finished eating, Ed joined his wife at the sink, whispering, ‘So did I pull victory from the jaws of defeat?’

  ‘Just about,’ she answered, not looking up from her task. ‘This time. But there’s no such thing as perfection. Not in families and not in omelettes, either. It takes practice to even be half good, let alone perfect.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ed could tell there was a subtext to what she was saying, but he couldn’t get a handle on it.

  ‘I mean …’ She put down the pan she was scouring and looked up at him. ‘You might be able to manufacture perfection on a three-day holiday, but it’s much harder for me to do it every day at home in Worthing. On my own.’ She turned away to dry her hands on a tea towel, then tossed him a scouring pad. ‘Seeing as you’re demonstrating how to be the perfect husband and father this weekend, how about doing the rest of the washing-up?’

  Deciding that the best policy was to say nothing, Ed took the scouring pad and finished washing the dishes.

  *

  After breakfast, keen to make the most of the late-summer sunshine, they set off for the beach cabin. As they made their way down the path, they could see that, while the beach wasn’t as busy as some of the sandy beaches in the area, Shellsand Bay had its own unique charm. With no direct road leading to the beach, it could be reached only from the path, which made access difficult for buggies and wheelchairs, and limited the number of casual visitors. But the Atlantic swell guaranteed excellent waves, making it a surfer’s paradise, and it also had a devoted following among those who appreciated its natural beauty and sheltered position in the lee of the cliffs.

  Charlotte had packed everything they needed for the day into their cooler bag and an assortment of beach bags. Although the sun was shining, there was a chill in the air, so she hadn’t taken any chances, bringing along blankets, towels and cardigans in case the weather took a turn for the worse.

  Once in the cabin, Ed pulled out the deckchairs and the windbreaker, fashioning a little area in front of the veranda. The clapboard doors of the other beach huts were all padlocked, so they had that part of the beach to themselves.

  Charlotte stuck the kettle on, pulling out some green teabags from one of the carriers. ‘Fancy a brew?’ she asked Ed.

  ‘Got any coffee?’

  ‘There might be some in the dresser.’ She had a rummage in the cupboard and found a jar of Mellow Bird’s. It was lumpy, but it would do.

  Sam made straight for the surfboard and wetsuits.

  ‘Come on, Dad – let’s have a go.’

  Ed was reluctant but aware that he’d dragged them all down there and this might be the price he’d have to pay. Tall, at six foot four inches, he’d always felt like he was all clumsy legs, especially when dancing or roller-skating. Now in his forties, he was rarely required to do either, though he suspected that surfing might expose the same sort of awkward gangliness and lack of coordination.

  ‘OK, why not? How do you get one of these things on?’ he said with more enthusiasm than he felt.

  While Ed and Sam pulled out the squeaky rubbery suits and tried to work out which p
art went where, Alex plonked herself down on one of the deckchairs and pulled a book from her bag.

  Charlotte, meanwhile, was busy exploring. Next to the cupboard was a little, bleached, white wooden table about waist height. There was a gingham curtain around it, and when she pulled it aside she could see a bowl and some washing-up liquid, as well as some tea towels. She’d noticed a standpipe on the beach at the bottom of the path, so that must be where the water came from. Cute. In fact, there were cute things all over the place, from frames filled with old seaside postcards and seaside knick-knacks adorning every surface.

  ‘Now, where are the mugs?’ she said to herself.

  Opening the bottom of the dresser, she couldn’t see any mugs but she did see something else which caught her eye. There were some very old board games, including snakes & ladders and ludo, Scrabble and Yahtzee, as well as a few jigsaw puzzles, but she also spied an old Tea Time biscuit tin. She pulled it out and prised the lid off. It was filled with colour pencils and a few sticks of charcoal. Peering further inside the cupboard, she could also see a supply of artist’s paper and a couple of sketchpads. She pulled them out and flicked through the pages; someone had already drawn several pretty pictures of the local area. One of them was of the cabin. It was a little amateur, but the colours and the flag were pretty accurate. Across the top of the picture the artist had written, ‘The perfect place to be yourself’.

  She smiled and gathered up all the materials – it would be the ideal beach occupation. And who knows? she thought. Maybe she would find herself again.

  *

  Hearing the sound of her husband’s laughter, Charlotte looked up from her sketchpad. Despite Ed’s protestations, Charlotte could see that he had quite taken to the surfboard. While their thrashing and floundering might not, strictly speaking, be classed as surfing, he and Sam seemed to be having a lot of fun.

  In her own quiet way, she too was having fun. For the last couple of hours, she’d been trying to capture the scene in front of her. Drawing by the sea had been a favourite pastime of her childhood, back in the days when her parents would set up the windbreakers and sun shade and picnic hamper for long summer days on the beach near Weymouth. It was there that she’d acquired a lifelong fascination for the ever-changing colours of the sea and sky. No sooner had you picked out the subtle teal and turquoise tints of the waves than the clouds would shift and the tones would shift to purple and grey. After a couple of attempts she had decided it was impossible to capture a moment in time; better to be more impressionistic. The figures of Ed and Sam were fluid dashes, as was Molly, the rest of the holidaymakers and surfers mere traces against the cerulean blue of the sky and the cobalt brilliance of the sea.

  She put down her pencil and scrutinised her work. Overall, she was pleased with it. She hadn’t quite got the shade of the sky right, but she hadn’t been aiming for perfection. Her stomach rumbled. Breakfast seemed hours ago.

  As if on cue, dripping with sea spray, her son and husband came running towards her.

  ‘Mum, the sea’s freezing! Even with the suits on, it’s wicked. What’s for lunch?’

  ‘You’re a bottomless pit, Sam Appleby.’ Though only eleven, Sam was already shooting up and looked set to be as tall as his father. ‘Sausage sandwiches for you. Cheese for Alex. Egg-mayo for anybody.’

  Sam narrowed his eyes. ‘Normal egg-mayo?’

  ‘Yes. Normal egg-mayo.’

  ‘You didn’t put anything weird in it – not like last time?’

  Charlotte feigned shock. ‘I don’t know what you could possibly mean. Of course there’s nothing “weird” in the egg-mayonnaise sandwiches. What a funny boy you are!’

  Sam wasn’t convinced. ‘I’ll have sausage. What’ve you been doing, Mum?’

  ‘Mum’s been working on that drawing for ages,’ Alex said, putting down her book and springing to her feet. ‘Come on, show us.’

  Alex and Sam peered over her shoulder at the sketch, Sam dripping seawater on the page.

  ‘Careful!’

  ‘Wow, Mum, that’s reeeeally good!’ Sam congratulated her.

  Charlotte couldn’t help preening slightly.

  ‘Well, I quite like it.’

  Alex feigned indifference. ‘Yeah, it’s OK. I forgot that you used to be an artist or something.’

  ‘What do you mean, “used to be”?’ Charlotte bristled.

  ‘I mean before, when you had a proper job. Wasn’t it something to do with art?’

  Charlotte instantly made the transition from bristling to prickly. ‘For your information, I was a design director on a number of TV programmes and films. Yes, it was something to do with art and, yes, you do need to be quite good at it. As far as I know you don’t stop being artistic just because your womb has been commandeered for the purpose of having children. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know!’

  Alex merely shrugged and looked bored, returning to her deckchair and her book.

  Charlotte stood, hands on hips, glaring.

  ‘Look, love, I don’t think Alex meant anything,’ said Ed, trying to smooth her ruffled feathers. ‘She wasn’t thinking, that’s all.’

  Still fuming, Charlotte turned her glare on Ed, who attempted what he hoped was a concerned and sympathetic smile. To her it seemed condescending.

  ‘It’s an incredible picture,’ he gushed, digging himself in deeper. ‘And I think it’s great that you’ve found an outlet for your creativity while we’re here.’

  For a split second, Charlotte felt like strangling him. Instead, she said through gritted teeth, ‘Could you try and be a little more patronising, Ed. You’re almost there, but you’ve not quite managed to make me feel completely, utterly belittled – though you’re obviously trying very hard.’

  Ed’s face fell. Charlotte felt a twinge of guilt for turning on him, but it was too late. Her anger was in full flow.

  ‘How do you know that I don’t already have an outlet for my creativity, Ed?’ she went on, her voice rising an octave or two. ‘Though it would actually be quite difficult, wouldn’t it, seeing as I’m raising our children practically on my own? I’m not surprised they’ve forgotten what I’m capable of – all they ever see is the mum who cooks, cleans and nags!’

  ‘Charlotte, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Oh, forget it. I’m going to take Molly for a walk and stretch my legs.’ She grabbed Molly’s lead from the rail and Molly shot out from the beach cabin where she’d been keeping out of the sun. ‘Come on, Mol, let’s go!’ she called, striding off in the direction of the cliff path without so much as a backward glance as she added, ‘The sandwiches are in the cooler box. Help yourself.’

  *

  Ed took a bite of egg-mayonnaise sandwich. As the first tang hit his taste buds, he realised that there was something mixed in with the egg and the mayonnaise, something that crunched and that didn’t quite work. It tasted odd. He put it back in the sandwich bag.

  ‘Where’s Mum gone?’ Alex plonked herself down next to him.

  ‘For a walk.’

  ‘Is she in a huff?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Alex drew a circle in the sand and looked sheepish.

  ‘Never mind. As much my fault as yours, and you know it won’t last.’

  ‘Why isn’t Mum a … design director any more?’

  Ed sighed and wondered how to put it. ‘Working in film and TV isn’t exactly compatible with a normal family life. The hours are crap and production companies don’t tend to make allowances for working mothers. The two don’t mix.’

  ‘She likes her job at the theatre.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She’s always on the phone to Henry talking about it. He’s the director. She spends most of her time at the theatre. Sometimes she asks me to be at home for Sam when he gets back from school because she’s running late.’

  Ed felt a hot flush rush up his face and tried not to focus on what could be making her late. I love you … can’t
live without you …

  ‘Will Mum ever go back to work properly? Like before?’

  He started to answer but then realised he had no idea whether Charlotte had ambitions in that direction. When the children were little, Charlotte hadn’t wanted to leave them, but once they were both at school they had discussed the possibilities. Ed knew that Charlotte missed her work. But jobs were few and far between, and those that did come were either too far away or the hours couldn’t fit around the children. Eventually, the subject was quietly dropped. Ed’s career had taken off and Charlotte had seemed content to help out at the local theatre, which put on short runs that were geared towards families. ‘I don’t know, Alex,’ he sighed.

  ‘Dad, there’s someone waving at you – over there.’

  ‘Where?’

  Alex pointed at a woman coming down the path. ‘Put your glasses on, Dad!’

  Ed scrabbled around in the sand for his specs and put them on. The blur formed itself into Penny coming into view. He smiled widely and waved her over.

  ‘Good God – Alexandra, is that you?’ Penny exclaimed when she saw Alex. ‘You’re just like your father!’

  ‘Hopefully she’ll grow out of it. Hello, Pen.’ Ed stood and gave her a big hug.

  ‘Hi, Penny.’ Alex gave Penny a hug too before joining her brother and Penny waved to Sam who waved his spade back in return.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she asked. ‘This is an amazing place, isn’t it? It has a completely different feel when you’re not working.’

  ‘I know. It’s perfect. Well … almost.’

  ‘Where’s Charlotte?’

  ‘Um, she’s gone for a walk.’

  ‘Things still a bit rocky?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Give her time – your time. And don’t give up.’

  He ran his hands through his hair. ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘Isn’t that Charlotte coming down the path?’

  Ed turned and saw his wife heading towards them with Molly. The tense bad humour was gone from her face, but there was a definite flicker of caution in her eyes when she registered Penny Leighton’s presence – effectively her husband’s boss.

  ‘Hi, Pen, lovely to see you!’ Charlotte gave Penny a hug. They knew each other well.