The Cornish Affair

by Lockington, Laura

  “Good grief,” I heard a man’s voice say beside me, “Proper shockin’ that is.”

  I turned to see Jace lounging elegantly against the shop window. He bent down to stroke Baxter, and I grinned at him.

  We sat down companionably back on the port wall and I handed him a saffron bun. We chewed on the fruity sweet dough that was sticky in the middle in a friendly silence, letting Baxter catch the crumbs. Jace cocked his head at the new shop, and said in disgust, “Bound to make money, too.”

  I nodded in agreement. It was Catch 22, really. Port Charles needed the tourists, the tourists it seemed needed the tat. I saw out of the corner of my eye two girls, tourists or emmets, as they are known in this part of the world, saunter down the cobbled road that leads around the port. They eyed Jace up, and did the usual girly thing of smoothing their hair and adjusting their clothes. I glanced at Jace, but for once he was oblivious to it.

  In fact, when I looked closely at him, he seemed quite morose.

  “Anything wrong, Jace?” I said, privately thinking that there must be something troubling him for him to ignore such a golden opportunity as two fresh faced emmets.

  “It’s me mum,” he said, gazing out over the sea.

  His mother, the enchantingly named Pritti was a small, determined woman from an intriguing background of Indian, Srilankan, Irish, and Pakistani roots, who ran the family with ruthless efficiency. It can’t have been easy being the only Asian family to have settled in Port Charles, but she had managed it. Jace had been born here, along with his sisters who helped out in the shop. His father, Rasheed, had died many years ago. He had been a charmer, a dandy and a strutting peacock of a man. He wore long Indian silk shirts and carried an ebony cane with a silver top. From what I had pieced together he had squandered all his money, and left Pritti and his family penniless when he died.

  Pritti grew fields full of coriander and fenugreek, which Jace sold along side all his other vegetables. The Rampersauds were a good looking, exotic bunch and seemed to have integrated into the close Cornish community well, or so I had always thought.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “She only wants me to get married, that’s all, to a girl from back home.” Jace said despondently.

  Oh, dear. I could quite see how that would cramp they style of the local Romeo.

  “Have you met her?” I said.

  “Nah, she’s some sorta cousin or somethin’.” He turned to me and giving the full force of his persuasive charm, said, “Look, Fin, when you see me mum, about the onions an’ all, could you have a word? You know, tell her that it’s not on, you know, that sorta thing isn’t done any more and –“

  “Whoa, there tiger. I don’t think I can really do that, can I?” I said uncomfortably, with thoughts of arranged marriages jumping around my head, with another surprising fleeting thought that I wished someone would arrange a match for me. After all, weren’t arranged marriages now thought to be quite a good thing? I don’t mean forced marriages, but properly arranged. I mean, I’m sure if you are a young girl it must be terrifying, but all the statistics proved that a lot of couples were very happy, with the families knowing what was best for their children. Marrying anyone was a huge risk anyway, perhaps this way was one that actually worked? Then again, I was probably justifying it to wriggle out of talking to Pritti.

  Jace heaved a sigh, and looked despairingly at me.

  “I’ll do my best, but I’m not promising anything, OK? Besides, Nancy and Pritti are partners in crime, aren’t they? It’d be better off coming from her,” I said, knowing that I would probably make a mess of it and unwittingly insult Pritti.

  Jace thanked me, and said sloped off, looking like a panther on the prowl.

  I watched him walk away, thinking not for the first time what a stunner he was. The two young emmets certainly thought so as they positively leered at him as he sauntered past them. I could tell he was feeling a little better, as he casually gave them a slow smile. They both giggled and nudged each other with colt like elbows.

  It was tempting to sit in the pale sun and watch the world go by, Port Charles was hardly St Mark’s Square, and therefore not the drawing room of Europe, but it had its charms nevertheless.

  I reluctantly stood up, and giving Baxter a gentle tug, headed for home.

  Nancy was still in bed when I finally arrived back, having been distracted for a good three quarters of an hour by Baxter, who had given me the slip and gone back to investigate the badgers set. I settled myself for an afternoons work in the kitchen, poaching the salmon, making the marinade for the prawns for the picnic and playing around with ideas for the onions.

  Nelson gave his customary pre-telephone ring screech, and I answered the damn thing, wiping my fishy hands on a tea towel.

  “Fin, darling, what’s the weather like?”

  “Hello Harry,” I said, looking out the window. “Hmm, well, I’ve got a bit of a hangover, it’s bracingly breezy and sunny, so I think 12 million Jewish mums can’t be wrong, it’s simply got to be chicken noodle, hasn’t it?”

  “You’re getting very traditional, aren’t you?” Harry teased.

  “That’s as maybe, “I said sternly, “Anyway, I’m in the middle of skinning a salmon, what do you want?”

  “Change of plan, Oliver has a break in his shooting schedule, and wants to come tomorrow and-”

  I interrupted him immediately,” Absolutely impossible, I’m afraid. It’s the beach picnic and-”

  “I know, I know, but Fin, this is very important,” Harry’s voice held a hint of clamp jawed desperation in it, and I guessed that Oliver bloody Dean was in his office.

  “He’s there, isn’t he?” I said accusingly.

  “Umm, yes,” Harry said in a bright voice, trying to sound up beat. “I’m pretty sure that I can get away too, but not for a few days, so how does that sound?”

  “It sounds like hell, if you want to know the truth, and I hate being railroaded, but I see that I am beaten,” I said tartly.

  Harry gave a hearty fake laugh, and I hoped to god that I wasn’t on speaker phone. “I’ll tell Oliver to call you when he gets to the station, shall I? And you can pick him up.”

  “Why isn’t he driving down?” I asked, knowing that there was a fair chance of him getting lost if he did.

  “I don’t know why, would you like to ask him?” Harry said sweetly.

  “No! Oh, OK, I’ll meet him at the station, but it had better be in the morning because I shall be on the beach in the afternoon and-”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. I’ll call you later Fin. Bye darling!”

  Bloody hell. I skinned and sliced a cucumber with quick vicious strokes, slapping them onto the cold salmon, and gluing them in place with mayonnaise.

  Nancy wandered in to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. She glanced down at the fish and said, “Oh how lovely, very ‘70’s isn’t it? Reminds me of Abigail’s Party and Black Forest Gateau, of course Port Charles won’t see it like that at all Fin, I do think you’re clever darling… would you like some tea?”

  “No thanks, I’m going to make up the bed in the Yellow Room.” I said shortly.

  “Oh dear, does that mean that the bloody TV chef is arriving earlier than expected?” Nancy said sympathetically, then looked nervously at Nelson, who for once hadn’t picked up on it. “Whoops, we’d better be careful, hadn’t we?”

  “It won’t make any difference, you could say ‘bluebells are divine’ ten thousand times, and say ‘burn the priests’ once, and you know which one he’d pick up,” I said bitterly.

  Nancy laughed, and squeezed my arm. She whooshed some boiling water around the battered silver teapot that we used in the kitchen and serenely set out her tea things. I motioned to the saffron cake that I had bought earlier and she made a delighted face of appreciation.

  “Oliver Dean might well be a very nice person and we might well like him, and we might, just might all get on very well and have a marvellous time, and he might ha
ve a wonderful idea for the onions and-”

  “And pigs might fly,” I added, smiling at her as I swished out of the room to make the bloody bed.

  Chapter Four

  Upstairs at Penmorah had definitely improved since my parents days. As the money had started to come in, I had gradually decorated, installed plumbing that actually worked, ditto central heating, and replaced the faded and worn linen that made up our bedclothes here. The only room that hadn’t been touched was the yellow room (not a very nice yellow, either, more reminiscent of puppy pee on lino than a cheery sunny colour) and I did hesitate before making up Oliver Deans bed. For a second or two, and then I thought – sod it.

  It was, after all the traditional bedroom that not so welcome guests were put in. It’s only claim to charm was an inscription cut into the window in beautiful copperplate writing of a girl’s name – Arabella Spencer, 23 March, 1789. I’d often thought of Arabella, whiling away a rainy afternoon by scratching her name with a diamond ring into the window. I knew nothing more about her, but had a vision of a lovely girl, sitting aimlessly at the window, staring out to sea on a blustery afternoon, hundreds of years ago.

  I briskly made up the bed, and decided against putting any flowers in the room. It was looking dusty in here, and I begrudgingly made a half hearted attempt at a quick polish. My mother, who hated housework of any kind, had always described it as ‘re-arranging the fluff’ and in truth, that’s what I did.

  As I walked back downstairs I sniffed the air surreptitiously for the evasive scent of roses that I had smelt so strongly the other day. But it didn’t come. The flag stoned hall smelt slightly of lavender, and the raspberry coloured Persian rug gave off a faint whiff of dust, but that was it. A large circular rosewood table stood in the middle of the hall, a traditional dumping place for post, newspapers and loose change, as well as a bust of Queen Victoria that Nancy rakishly kept her selection of hats on.

  I by passed this and went into the drawing room, where I re-arranged the fluff in there, too. I’d once had grand plans for this room, and had spent a lot of money on large pale sofas, light gold thick carpet, dotted with shaggy off white rugs, and low cherry wood tables. It had worked – for about a month, and then day to day living at Penmorah had taken over. A dog’s basket, piles of logs, books, (mine and Nancy’s) knitting (only Nancy’s) empty wine bottles, and piles of papers dotted the surfaces. The pictures had crept back, too. Family portraits, some good in oil, done by reputable artists, some appalling in charcoal, done by rank amateurs jostled the walls alongside Nancy’s bold landscapes and an Andy Warhol soup print that Harry had bought for me after a spectacularly profitable recipe. A particularly ravishing portrait of my mother was over the large slate fireplace, and as always I paused to look at it. A smiling, serene, slightly mischievous looking woman, glanced downwards. Copper coloured hair was drawn into a low chignon, and almond shaped eyes held the promise of a yet to be revealed joke.

  “Hello, mama,” I whispered, straightening cushions and kicking newspapers under sofas.

  If pictures could talk, what would she say? A mental monologue conducted in my mother’s amused drawl took over… Darling, your hair! (even from beyond the grave, I could rely upon my mother to comment on that.) Don’t be sad… we’re very happy you know, look, the sun’s out… Life is for the living, don’t brood so much on us… enjoy yourself my darling… but really, I do think a trip to the hairdresser would help, and don’t go here - jump on a train and go to that lovely man in Fenwicks (the lovely man in Fenwicks had probably been dead for many decades, I realised, with a jolt.)

  I sighed, and gave myself a shake. This definitely wouldn’t do. I didn’t want the Nordic fog to descend again – and really, what did I have to moan about? Being an orphan at thirty eight? Ridiculous.

  I heard Nancy call to me that she was going to put some work in on Angelique, and did I want her to check my e-mails?

  “Yes please, you know I can barely work the damn machine.” I called back.

  I heard Nancy snort with laughter as I walked into the dining room, to tackle that next. As we mostly ate in the kitchen, it was rarely used. The large mirror reflected the moss green walls and velvet drapes; I saw that you really could write your name in the dust on the table. I moved the heavy silver candelabra to give the table a going over, managing to ignore the dripped wax on the surface of the dark wood.

  “Why I’m going to all this trouble over bloody Oliver Dean, I simply don’t know,” I said crossly to Baxter, who being a dog, merely looked back at me in a puzzled way.

  I laughed at myself, and went to the kitchen to brood on roast onions, wondering as I went, if I should indeed book an appointment at a hairdressers.

  Baxter started to bark and snarl at the back door, and I went to open it, pushing the dog behind me with my foot. A large, bashful young man stood on the door step, clutching a tray of eggs.

  “Hi, Will, do come in. Fancy a cuppa?” I asked, marvelling that he could still blush when addressed by me. I’d only known him for all of his twenty years, after all. Perhaps we weren’t on intimate terms yet.

  Will nodded, and placed the eggs on the table. I took a quick look at them, checking that I hadn’t got Breadpudding’s dodgy duck eggs.

  “How are you then? Looking forward to the beach picnic?” I asked encouragingly.

  He nodded again and smiled.

  Conversation with Will was stilted, to say the least. More like pushing glue up hill, really.

  He cleared his throat, in preparation to speak, and I held my breath.

  “Spanish omelette,” he said, solemnly.

  I mulled this over in my mind. Was it a request? Did he want a Spanish omelette suddenly plonked in front of him? Or was it a sort of pass word, letting me in on some secret way of communication that he had? Perhaps it was the latest form of some rhyming slang that I was woefully ignorant about – but what rhymed with Spanish omelette? Nothing that I could think of. I glanced enquiringly at him.

  “Thass what I’m making for the picnic. Had it once when I went on ‘oliday. Smashin’ it was. Thing is, I’m not sure of ‘ow to cook it,” he said confidentially.

  Ah! Got it. He wanted a recipe from me. We had our tea, and I wrote it out for him. As I pushed the piece of paper towards him, he picked it up and studied it carefully, giving me time to look at him, without making him blush. He really was a good looking boy, with silky fair hair, dark brown eyes and a full curving mouth. If only he could talk.

  Nancy popped in from the office and joined us at the table, chatting about the picnic, trying to elicit a response from Will. But it was too much for him, this sudden influx of company and he slunk out of the door, muttering his thanks, turning a beetroot colour.

  We looked despairingly at one another. “Perhaps he was told to shut up constantly as a child?” Nancy mused.

  “Well, it didn’t work with Nelson, did it?” I said.

  “Contrary to what you think, parrots and children really are very different, you know,” Nancy laughed. “Anyway, what’s for supper darling? I’m starving.”

  I glanced at the crate of untouched onions that were lurking on the floor of the kitchen.

  “How about French onion soup?” I said.

  “Lovely, let’s have a glass of red to get in the mood, we can pretend that we’re lurking in the doorway of a seedy club that’s just closed for the night in Paris, we’re huddling from the rain and wondering where we can eat,” Nancy said, reaching for the corkscrew.

  Whilst I cried over the onions, Nancy begged me for some soup facts, which she loved to squirrel away.

  “What sort of facts do you want, then?” I asked.

  “Oh, what about some famous people, you know, did Elvis have a favourite soup?” Nancy asked, pouring some wine into glasses.

  I thought for a bit, but couldn’t conjure up any facts at all on The King. Maybe a banana and peanut butter concoction?

  “Well, I don’t know about Elvis, but in 1577 Erik of Swed
en died after eating a bowl of poisoned yellow pea soup. Oh, and Frederick the Great, you know, the King of Prussia loved beer soup – they made it with sugar and eggs and cream, it sounds horrible. Umm, Charles de Gaulle loved soup so much he ordered a different sort every day, Mozart adored fish soup with dumplings and Madonna eats miso soup for breakfast, there, will that lot do to be getting on with?”

  “Darling, you are clever,” Nancy said admiringly, as she had done since my childhood, whenever I prattled nonsense.

  The evening passed in companionable chatter, and we were just about to loll around on the sofas watching TV, when we heard a van in the drive. Baxter started his growling routine and Nelson helped along with an unearthly screeching noise. I went to open the door and saw Richard clambering out of his van, and then saw the passenger door open and Pritti Rampersaud daintily picking her way over the gravel towards the door. My heart sank, I know that I’d promised Jace I’d try and talk to her about him, but I didn’t relish the conversation at all.

  I quickly filled Nancy in on the subject, as they came in, and she pulled a face at me. I think it was meant to portray togetherness in adversity, or something, but it had the unfortunate effect of making her look like a horrified frog, and I got the giggles.

  “Evenin’ Fin, Nancy,” beamed Richard, “OK if use yer computer? I was comin’ up ‘ere, and Mrs R was walkin’ so I gave ‘er a lift.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, willing the giggles to go (not helped by Nancy pretending to be ignorant of the reason that I was laughing and gazing at me with mock innocent eyes) and turning to greet Pritti. She charmingly put her hands together in a prayer like position and clasped them to her chest, giving a little bow. Nancy and I copied her, although to tell the truth, I always felt a bit of a fool doing it. Richard disappeared into the office, shutting the door firmly behind him. I offered Pritti some soup, anxiously assuring her that it was meat free, but she shook her head.