The Captain and the Baker

by Catherine Curzon

  “Thanks.” She smiled. “And Petroc, he’s a lovely bloke, you know. He comes over all gruff and tough but he’s soft as butter. She said to David, your dad’s a miserable old sod, and he isn’t really. He’s just…shy.”

  “Petroc’s a bloody hero!” Jake coughed, too late to hide his words. “Erm…look, I’d like to apologize on behalf of everyone on the crew for what may have been said by certain people. It’s not on, and… Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Do you know? About Jory?”

  Jake nodded. He looked down at his feet. “Locryn told me. I can’t begin to imagine how painful it must’ve—still is. But it won’t go out on telly, I promise.”

  “You’re nicer than you seem on the telly,” Merryn told him with a smile. “Petroc’s a sweetheart really, you know. Last year, him and me were—well, it didn’t work out, but he’s a lovely man.”

  Jake grinned at Merryn. “Did you and Petroc go on a date? Afternoon tea at Locryn’s café?”

  “We went on a few,” she admitted, blushing. “I’ve not had anyone since I lost Jory and it’s been seven years since Bev passed away so we thought, well why not? But he was shy, and… Have you tried Locryn’s afternoon tea?

  “Haven’t had time!” Jake chuckled. Merryn had made a good attempt at changing the subject, but he was curious. “Petroc was shy and…? You don’t strike me as a shy sort of woman, Merryn! You’re a go-getter!”

  Merryn’s blush deepened and she told him, “I was worried about him going out to sea, in case I lost him like I lost Jory. And when I told him that he told me he blamed himself for not getting Jory out of the water quicker. He’s wrong, Jake, but he won’t have it said. He needs some sense knocked into his thick, lovely head!”

  “If the storm they were out in was anything like the one last night—it was bad enough being on land during that. Petroc deserves a medal. And so does Jory. Going back out there for the other crew.” They were on the other side of the harbor now and Jake pointed across at the pirate ship, the sound of drilling and shouting in the distance. “How many of them over there would do that? Some might, but not many of them.”

  And certainly not Fionn.

  Merryn looked out to the horizon, the waves calm and gray. “Locryn tried to talk to him. He’s lovely, Locryn, but he’s not a bloke’s bloke, you know? Petroc thinks the world of him but he’s not one to talk about his emotions and what have you. I just don’t want Petroc to be lonely like he is. He’s doesn’t deserve it.”

  “How does he feel about the wedding, or hasn’t he said?”

  “Oh, he’s happy as anything about that. He thinks the world of those two.” She huddled into her coat. “She asked him to give her away but he said he didn’t think it was his place.”

  “He’s a very modest bloke, this Petroc, isn’t he? And he won’t listen to Locryn, and he won’t listen to you.” From where they were wandering on the quayside, Jake could see Locryn’s café. He smiled, because he was fairly sure he could see Locryn in there, through the tangle of bunting. “What does David say?”

  “That his dad’s a daft old sod who needs a bit of company.” She laughed. “And that Jory’d want him to give Zoe away and take me out too!”

  “Petroc sounds like my dad—stubborn! But underneath, he feels a lot but isn’t sure how to get it out?”

  Merryn nodded eagerly. “That’s it!”

  “I don’t know what to suggest!” Jake chuckled. “But I do have some news for you, and maybe Petroc’ll want to hear it too. About the cake.”

  She waited, her eyes wide. And before Jake even spoke, he knew he’d made the right decision.

  Jake grinned. “Locryn’s going to make it.”

  With a cry of delight, Merryn threw her arms around Jake and embraced him. There were tears in her voice when she said, “Oh, you lovely, lovely man!”

  It had been a very long time since anyone had called him ‘lovely’ and Jake shook his head. “I’m not lovely, I just want to do the right thing.”

  “You are lovely.” At the sound of a bicycle bell Merryn looked round. There was Locryn, heading off into the village, one hand raised to them. Merryn waved back, then told Jake, “You’re both lovely. They should put you on the telly together. You can do the mains, he can do the puddings!”

  Jake laughed. “That’s a nice idea, but…”

  But…

  Why not?

  Chapter Seven

  Jake pottered happily in his farmhouse kitchen, experimenting with pasties and squab pies. He’d find the perfect recipe for Zoe and David, and seeing as Locryn would soon appear with Dorothy if her owners hadn’t been found, he’d try out the recipes on Cornwall’s favorite TV baker.

  As the Radio Times had called him.

  And wouldn’t Locryn be impressed? There were pies and pasties cooling on wire racks across the kitchen table, all ready to be tested on the locals tomorrow. And they’d be filmed sighing and moaning over Jake’s cookery for the show.

  They always sighed and smacked their lips. There was never so much as a single voice of dissent.

  That was the formula.

  As he was surveying his imminent triumph, there came a knock at the door. The sort of knock that belonged to a baker and a stray cat.

  Jake jogged through to the hallway. He went up on his tiptoes to see through the fanlight then, satisfied that it was Locryn and Dorothy, opened the door.

  “Come on in! Can cats eat pasties?”

  “Probably not, but I’m sure she will.” Locryn held out the cat carrier he was holding. “No wicker cod, just a wicker basket! I’ve asked around the village and along the coast and it looks as though little Dorothy must’ve blown in with the storm. Have you got room for a cat in London?”

  Jake took the carrier from Locryn. “I could make space? I’ve got a loft apartment.”

  Locryn frowned and asked, “Is that all right? Would she be better with me, perhaps?”

  “Depends if you want a cat or not. You’ve already got all those goats and everything. And I found her. I kind of feel responsible for her.” Jake lifted the carrier and peered inside. Dorothy blinked at him and started to purr. “My last pet was a goldfish when I was ten. She’s not going to be as easy to look after, is she?”

  As Locryn shook his head, the expression on his face was one of sympathy. He sighed and told Jake, “She’s not. But everyone should have a pet, and I’m sure Dorothy would make herself at home if you’d like to keep her. If you don’t think you can, I’ll look after her for you and you can come to Cornwall and visit whenever you like.”

  “Would you mind?” Jake blinked. “She’s a Cornish cat. I don’t think she’d fancy a view of the Docklands Light Railway. She likes the sea.”

  “You never know, you might just fall in love with Porthavel and decide to move here instead.” Locryn smiled gently. “But if not, I’ll take care of her for you. You’ll still be Dad, but I’ll be…sort of Adoptive Dad. I’ll make sure Dorothy watches all your programs, don’t worry.”

  “I’ll let her watch your shows too. Sometimes!” Jake laughed. What the hell was he doing adopting a cat when he was on the shortlist for a US series? “Anyway, I’ve been cooking. Have a sniff. Can you guess what?”

  Locryn lifted his chin and took a deep breath, savoring the aroma in the air. He closed his eyes and took another, then said as though it were the most wondrous thing he could imagine, “Pastry? Not pasties?”

  Jake guided Locryn toward the kitchen, the cat shifting in her basket as he went. He didn’t know what the landlady would make of a cat, but he was Jake Brantham, she wouldn’t mind. “Oh yes, pasties! I’ve cooked loads of them. And you, Locryn, you get first go!”

  “I need to talk to you about that producer chum of yours,” Locryn said as he unbuttoned his coat and followed Jake. There beneath it was a shirt of bright blue this time, the same shade as his eyes. And Jake tried not to notice the three buttons that were unfastened, revealing a hint of the chest beneath, the chest he had equally tried not
to notice last night. “But nothing comes before pasties. I’m a Cornishman, after all. I can’t wait to see what a Michelin-starred legend does with our humble national dish!”

  Jake stopped just inside the kitchen door. He put Dorothy down in her basket then set her free from it. She crept out, sniffing the air.

  “Take your pick. Variations on a theme,” Jake told him proudly. The pasties lay before them, row after tempting, savory row of golden pastry hillocks. Locryn threw his coat over the back of a dining chair and unknotted his scarf, though he left it hanging around his neck. He peered at the selection, inhaling the aroma again, then he reached out and took one from a rack.

  Jake clasped his hands behind him. He felt the same nerves as when he’d applied for his first job in a kitchen and had made a none-too-shabby soufflé. The head chef then had been bowled over, and Jake smiled, confident in his skills. What was a pasty, at the end of the day? Pastry and a filling. Not hard at all, especially for a bloke with a Michelin star.

  Locryn took a bite. He chewed it, his expression unreadable, then swallowed. After a second or so he took another bite, savoring it like a wine taster with a fine vintage. Only once he had swallowed did he ask, “That’s lovely. What is that? Something they serve in the east end?”

  “In the east end of Truro. It’s a fucking Cornish pasty, Loc!” Jake laughed, slapping Locryn’s shoulder. But Locryn wasn’t laughing.

  “It isn’t. It’s spicy, for starters.”

  “And? It’s seasoning for the meat filling.” Jake pointed to the tray that he’d set on the hob, fresh out of the oven with steam rising from the pasties. “Those have a dash of garlic!”

  “Gar—” That little smile was nowhere to be seen now, replaced by a look of horror as he stared at the pasties as though they were laced with poison. “You put garlic in a Cornish pasty? What else are you going to surprise me with?”

  Jake took a step back and a furious feline howl ripped through the kitchen. He snapped round to see Dorothy underfoot, urgently licking her tail. Then she hissed at him and wrapped herself around Locryn’s legs.

  Jake folded his arms. “Fresh coriander. Cornish-grown, before you ask.”

  “Coriander? It’s a Cornish pasty!” Locryn picked Dorothy up and cradled her, no doubt keeping her from the horrors of the pasties. “Why would anybody in their right mind do this? What were you thinking, Jake? Are you ill?”

  Wouldn’t you like to know?

  Jake swatted the table with a tea towel. The whooshing sound of his pulse had returned to his ears again and the rage he’d missed that morning was rushing back into his veins. “I’m a fucking chef! I’m testing recipes! Garlic, coriander, a bit of spice. Why not?”

  “Then call it a something else pasty and I’ll tell you it’s beautiful, because it is, but—” He gestured toward the table. “Don’t you dare call these Cornish pasties. Don’t even think about it!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot the king of fucking Cornwall had graced me with his presence!” Jake shook his head. Just as he’d thought he’d been accepted by the Porthavelans, he’d transgressed and was the interloper again. But the Cornish love their fish. Jake picked up a plate bearing another pastry-shrouded offering and held it out to Locryn. “Don’t suppose you want to try a salmon squab?”

  And Locryn actually backed away, recoiling as though Jake had offered him a dead rat. He shook his head, his horrified gaze fixed on the pie.

  Fucking king of fucking Cornwall. Burning a big wicker scone with a Cornish pasty perched on top.

  “You can’t put salmon in a squab pie, it’s not civilized.” Even Dorothy snuggled deeper against Locryn’s chest, clearly Cornish to her very bones. “You cannot serve these to Porthavelans. They’ll chase you off with pitchforks!”

  Jake picked up one of his pasties and held it up at Locryn. He squeezed it so hard that the filling started to leak out of the end. “That’s what you think, but I bet the Porthavelans won’t! I bet they’ll love them, and I bet they’ll think you’re a boring old stick-in-the-mud for shoving your nose in the air at my cooking!”

  “Fine. Why don’t you ask them?” He took another step away, backed up against the kitchen cupboards now, unable to escape the terror of the pasties. “We’ll pack them up, pop them in Betsy’s basket and take them to the pub right now! But don’t say you weren’t warned, Jake, because the supposed king of you-know-whating Cornwall did try to tell you.”

  “Where’s your passion, Locryn? Why do you have to set everything in aspic?” Jake’s voice was hoarse with frustration and he started to fling the pasties into plastic tubs. “I don’t mean literally. I mean, you’ve got this fixed idea about what a pasty can be, and I don’t understand. And neither will the folk down the pub!”

  “My passion?” Even Locryn’s voice was raised now. Still plummy, but raised. “Don’t be absurd! Everything I do is with passion!”

  “Is it balls!” Jake tried to tear a length of clingfilm, but it was too full of static and it stuck to his arm. “You’re a fucking great baker, you really are, but…but… What are you holding back? Just—just take the fucking stick out of your arse and let go!”

  And still he didn’t. Still his jaw tightened, his chin lifting with an imperious tilt. What did it take to get a reaction out of the man? What would it take to break through the ‘fiddlesticks’ and ‘crumbs’?

  “Is this how you react to criticism?” Locryn’s voice was clipped. “I have passion, I just don’t feel the need to shout and carry on like you do. It makes people unhappy, and I don’t want to make people unhappy.”

  “Loc, people watch my shows because it makes them happy! I dunno, maybe they can let go vicariously because I can shout bollocks to non-stick! and throw a frying pan into a river when they can’t!” Jake gave up with the clingfilm and chucked it aside. He planted his hands on his hips. “You are so fucking good-looking too, they must be lining up for you, but what are you like with—with your partners? Horlicks, lights off and a hug?”

  “You’re frightening Dorothy.” Locryn pressed a kiss to the cat’s small head, his breathing short, filled with tightly controlled annoyance. But still there was no real reaction. Still he was clenched tighter than… Even Jake couldn’t think what. “Horlicks, lights off and a hug is so me, however did you guess? And sensible flannel pajamas too, all topped off with single beds and no touching on Sundays.”

  Jake shoved his rolling pin into the washing-up bowl with a splosh. “No, you just get turned on by kneading dough. Because dough won’t get upset when you complain that it’s not fucking traditional enough. Except your dough would be, of course.”

  “Don’t be vulgar.” He looked away from Jake. “I don’t get turned on by baking, why would you say—” Locryn settled Dorothy atop his coat and Jake sensed something change in the atmosphere, like it had last night just before the storm hit. But instead Locryn took another deep breath and told him quietly, “I don’t think tradition is a dirty word. We’re proud of our culinary heritage here. And kneading dough is an art form, far more than cooking a pork goujon will ever be!”

  “Well, I’m sorry if my cooking’s not good enough for you. Why didn’t you join in pelting me with paper like everyone else in the village? Shall I just bugger off back to London? Would you be happy, then? Me and my shitty pasties?” Jake packed up the last few pasties, crushing them under the lid. Not that it matters, no one’ll like them anyway. “I s’pose even your Cornish seagulls would clack their beaks if I threw them the ends of the pastry!”

  “Why don’t you?” Locryn asked. “Or better yet, why don’t you just stop trying to be Mr. Shocking, cook a normal pasty and a normal squab pie and give Zoe and David the wedding they want, not the one your ego demands. And then yes, please do go back to London and have a good old laugh about us yokels. No Horlicks and lights off for Jake, you’re too busy swinging off your Michelin stars, I expect, with your leather jacket and your showy London bus!”

  “Is that what you bloody well think,
is it?” Jake folded his arms and stared outside. How stupid of him to think that Porthavel wasn’t so bad after all. And even more stupid to start feeling fond of the place. And of…

  “Locryn, please, I’m trying my best. I want Zoe and David to have a wonderful wedding, I really do. I told Merryn that you’ll—that you might do the cake, and she was over the moon.” Jake stacked up the plastic tubs on the worktop. “And I’m experimenting with the pasties. And I know Fionn’s rubbed people up the wrong way, and I’m fucking furious with her. This is all… Fuck me, it’s all going to pot.”

  “I do have passion, it’s just— Oh, what’s the point?” was all Locryn said. Then he scooped up Dorothy and kissed her head again. “I’ll say goodnight, young lady, and leave you and your daddy to it.”

  “Thanks for bringing her round,” Jake said, subdued as he headed for the hallway. “And thanks for being a great host. I’ll show you out.”

  “I’ll do the cake,” Locryn told him, pulling his coat on. “And the pasties were delicious, they just weren’t Cornish pasties. That’s all I was tryi— I’d be better off telling Dorothy, wouldn’t I? What I have to say is of no interest to you whatsoever.”

  Jake closed his eyes. He regretted every word he’d said. He hadn’t meant to sound angry, he just…

  “I care, okay? That’s all. I care about food. And you do too. We just care in different ways. I’m sorry. Okay? I’m glad you thought they were delicious, even if they were London pasties and not arrrr me ‘earties Cornish ones. Sorry. Fuck me, off I go again.” Jake opened the front door for Locryn. “You’d better go before I say anything else, which would only prove to you that I’m a massive prick.”

  “I’m sorry too.” Locryn gave the hint of a smile and said, “I’d better get home and see how many chaps aren’t lining up round the block to share my Horlicks! You’ll do Zoe and David proud, I know that. Goodnight, Jake.’