“You are looking very well, Mrs Nancy,” Pritti said in her sing song voice. (Mrs was a courtesy title only. Nancy had never married, which was a source of constant annoyance to her daughter Bea, who longed when she was young to know who her father was. But Nancy never spoke about it.)
Nancy beamed at her, “So are you my dear. So are you. I do wish you’d change your mind about letting me paint you!”
Pritti waved her slim hands in denial, causing several thin gold bangles to play a small musical cadenza up and down her wrist. She was carrying a bundle of green stuff, and placed this gently on the table, whilst shrinking slightly against Baxter’s enthusiastic greeting. I dragged him away from her, and banished him to his basket.
“For you,” she said, gesturing towards the bundle of herbs on the table.
“Thank you, Pritti,” I said, tweaking a leaf from a stem and crushing it beneath my nose. A delicious smell of curry wafted towards me, and I was, as usual, stunned by just how much a mere leaf could carry that very particular smell. I hung the bundle of stems up in the pantry as they dry very well.
“What are you going to be doing with the onions?” she asked, her beautiful brown eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Pritti had been a great source of help to me in the past, and she adored talking about recipes with me. I was scrupulous in acknowledging her assistance, and often had to resort to underhand methods of paying her as she steadfastly refused any financial rewards for her input. Once, after a highly successful pepper and coconut concoction, I had with the help of Jace, actually bought, and installed a new bathroom for her.
“I’m not sure yet, Jace said you did some in the oven with herbs?” I said.
She put her head on one side and narrowed her eyes in concentration.
“Oh, yes, I know what he is talking about. I will make some and bring them to you,” she said.
“How is Jace?” I asked, innocently.
“He is a very silly boy indeed. If only his father, Rasheed, were still alive, he would say the same. He is old enough to marry, and I have the perfect wife for him from Lahore, but it seems she is not good enough, oh no. We could all settle back there… but he prefers to dally with the local, the local, umm-”
“Slappers? Slags? Tarts?” Nancy added helpfully.
“Nancy, really!” I said, mildly shocked.
Pritti smiled, “No, Mrs Nancy is correct. I think that is the word I too would use, if I had the correct words. I know exactly what I would call them in Urdu.”
Which would undoubtedly sound a whole lot prettier.
“Anyway, I wash my hands. It is my fault. I allowed my children to become part of this country, they took English names, they dress and behave like…” she stopped and smiled apologetically. “Not both of you, you understand, I do not mean that you are both part of the terrible English disease that spits on its past and tramples its older people into these awful homes and…”
“Please don’t upset yourself, children are always perfectly frightful, no matter what we do with them.” Nancy interrupted, placing a cup of tea in front of Pritti, “I mean, look at Fin here, she had a very peculiar upbringing and she’s fine, but my daughter, who I raised single-handedly has deserted me in my old age for Canada, and has married some awful banker and has children that I don’t even see!”
I gave Nancy the benefit of a sideways glance, meant to convey utter disbelief, but she wisely chose to ignore it and continue.
“And anyway, Jace is a very nice young man, who would never shirk any responsibility that he may have. And Pritti, you said yourself that you never wanted to go back to Lahore, remember how much you hated the heat?”
Pritti sniffed.
“In Lahore I would have my own household, and servants, and I would not have to work like a peasant in the fields, and my children would not shame me so!” she cried, tears beginning to run down her face.
To my surprise Nancy burst out laughing, and poked Pritti in the ribs.
“In Lahore you would be shunned as a widow, your children would still shame you, you’d die in the heat and besides, you love growing your vegetables and herbs!”
Pritti laughed alongside Nancy and wiped her eyes.
“Ayiee! You are quite right!”
I shook my head in disbelief at them. I could tell exactly where this evening was going. And sure enough, Nancy stood up and opened a kitchen drawer, bringing out a dog eared pack of cards.
I excused myself, and calling Baxter to me I went to say goodnight to Richard who immediately blocked my view of the computer screen. I had a quick glimpse of some e-mail page, and closing the door on him, said my goodnights to Pritti and Nancy, who completely ignored me.
“Shall we?” Nancy said to Pritti, her eyes dancing with lust.
“Oh yes!” Pritti said, clapping her hands delightedly in front of her.
“What shall we say, a fiver for a hundred?” Nancy said, expertly shuffling the pack like an aging Vegas croupier.
Chapter Five
The following morning was a glorious late spring day. Clear skies, and a sun that danced a thousand reflections on the dark green sea. Sun pennies we used to call those sparkling coins of light. A perfect day for a beach picnic.
Nelson was in a vile mood, and screeched incessantly at Baxter, me, and at the phone. I was reduced to tempting him into his cage with a cuttlefish shell, and then callously threw a cover over him. Even that didn’t stop him, and the language in the kitchen was more reminiscent of a particularly rough port side bar in Liverpool than a Cornish country kitchen.
Nancy came into the kitchen looking very ticked off, and made tea, banging things around. This could only mean one thing – that she’d lost heavily to Pritti last night.
“So, are you about to sell your pearls, then?” I joked.
“It’s no laughing matter, Fin. That woman has the most amazing luck at cards, she cleared me out!” Nancy exclaimed, pouring boiling water over some loose tea leaves in the bottom of the pot.
“How much?” I asked, curiously.
They played an archaic form of cards, seemingly making the rules up as they went along. It was very complicated, although to be fair, that just might be my interpretation of it, as I am hopeless at practically any form of gambling.
“Don’t ask,” Nancy grumbled, “Let’s just say that I bitterly regret offering double or quits at the end of the game, and leave it at that.”
Nelson gave another ear splitting screech, and I immediately put my hand out to answer the phone. It was Doris, asking me if I had any spare paper napkins that I could bring down to the beach.
“Yes, of course I will,” I said, pushing Baxter away from my legs that he was using as a scratching post.
“Rumour has it that Breadpuddin’ has made pasties! Can you believe it?” Doris said in a deeply shocked voice.
Pasties, or rather paasties, as they were pronounced here were strictly Doris’s territory, and woe betide the usurper.
“No!” I said, obligingly in a suitable scandalised tone.
I hung up, and busied myself packing up the various food contributions for the day, making sure to put in all the essential things that I normally forgot, like a corkscrew, or some other equally important object. Baxter had picked up on the unaccustomed frenzied activity of the day and was getting under my feet.
“Oh, Baxter, bugger off, do!” I said irritably, only to have it parroted back to me by the parrot. “Shut up, you bloody bird!” I said.
I heard Nelson swear at me, and shuffle around in his cage. Nancy laughed at me, and offered to pack up the rest of the food.
I escaped upstairs and dragged out various disreputable beach clothes that would do for the picnic. I knew from experience that it might well look warm outside, but after the sun had gone down it was going to be bloody cold. Nancy would complain at my choice of clothes, but I was aiming for warm and comfortable, not chic and glamorous. I pulled on my favourite pink hooded zip up that had peeling letters on the front
that had originally spelt ‘Duffer’ but now merely said ‘Uff’ and took another heavy knit jumper with me for later, that I tied round my hips.
My bedroom always had the air of a dilapidated jumble sale, with piles of clothes over the floor, and sticking out of drawers. I fluffed the duvet, closed the window and stepped over a tangle of shoes, promising myself that I would tidy up later. But why should I? After all, I reasoned nobody was actually going to see it, and I didn’t mind living with a bit of mess.
I’d had this bedroom for thirty eight years and it had undergone many transformations. I had fond memories of the nursery stage, where rather lovely Victorian screens covered in thrilling dragons and fairy creatures had been a mainstay of it, along with a hand painted frieze of wobbly rabbits done by my mother and Nancy. Then teenage rebellion had set in and I had painted everything black – much to my parents scorn and amusement. Then I’d gone for what I rather thought was a sort of sophisticated girlie look - “Just like a Turkish brothel” according to my father (though how he know this to be true was never satisfactorily answered). Now it was a reincarnation of a country house bedroom, I suppose, not very interesting, but comfortable and familiar.
I heard Nelson as I walked down the corridor to the kitchen screech “Double or quits, double or quits,” and smiled to myself. He did a fair imitation on Nancy’s voice, presumably as it had been last night when she and Pritti had their gambling fix. Just how much was owed, I’d never know.
I hadn’t heard from Oliver Dean yet, and was delighted that I hadn’t. I callously decided to make my way to the beach, leaving him to fend for himself at the station, but also knowing that he’d have to get a taxi, and the taxi driver would know where anybody was from Penmorah and direct him accordingly. I had great pleasure in anticipating Oliver Dean staggering down the cliff top path, struggling with an unwieldy suitcase.
“Fin, what do you think?” Nancy asked, giving me a twirl.
She was wearing one of Pritti’s shalwar kameez – and looked fabulous. A below the knee length tunic in heavy silky linen, with embroidered bands round the lilac sleeves and neck line, was on top of matching trousers. An enormous mauve pashmina topped the whole lot off, as well as various necklaces and earrings.
I glanced down at myself, and sighed. Oh well, at least I’d be warm. Nancy would be mingling and chattering away to everyone, whilst I’d be barbequing and slapping food on plates, I was suitably dressed, I reminded myself.
“You look gorgeous Nancy, come on, are you ready?” I said, gathering up as much as I could carry and whistling for Baxter. We set off, clutching bags and boxes, stopping every five minutes to re-adjust the weight of our burdens and to disentangle Nancy’s shawl which got snagged on branches.
We skirted the woods, and headed off down the winding cliff path. It was the quickest way from Penmorah, but it was treacherously steep. Most of the inhabitants from Port Charles took the little road that led to the beach, leaving only us to scrabble like mad goats down the root strewn path. Clumps of sea pinks, and patches of gorse soon gave way to sand, and we were greeted by friends who grabbed our bags from us and dumped them in the sand.
Baxter had a brisk trot up to the sea and then resolutely turned his back on it, making off at a dignified walk to where Jace and Richard were setting up the barbeque.
A small contingent was setting up tables, and a bonfire was being constructed of driftwood for later on in the evening. Beer was being swigged from glasses, and bottles of wine were having their corks popped. A party atmosphere was definitely in the air, and I saw that Jace had given his hair another colour wash for the occasion. He caught me looking at it and he smiled, “Violet – what do you think?”
“Very nice,” I said primly, privately thinking that with hair like his that had the glint of a blackbird’s wing on it, I would have left well enough alone.
“Not too much?” he asked, preening slightly in the sun.
Much too much, and gilding the lily, you silly boy. But I just smiled and shook my head.
I remembered that I once overheard my father talking about Rasheed, telling my mother in tones of deep disgust that he thought the feller dyed his whiskers. Maybe that’s where Jace got it from?
Sausages, burgers, mackerel, lamb kebabs, peppers, corn cobs and prawns were all lined up ready to be cooked, as soon as the charcoal had turned an ashy white. Beach cricket was being organised, Doris’s pasties were being unpacked and dogs and children were running in random excited patterns on the pale sand. A few kites were flying and there were shouts of happy greetings being called out left and right.
Birds were wheeling around the giants thumb, and I saw Jace glance out to sea.
“Going in for the race this year then Jace?” I asked.
“Nah, too bloody cold if you ask me, though I might have a surf later, I bought me board down just in case. How about you?” he said, moving closer, smiling at me showing even, white teeth.
“Me? Me what? Race or surf? I don’t think so to either! Are you mad?”
Jace gave me the benefit of a lingering glance, “I could teach you to surf, you’d enjoy it,” he said simply.
I gaped at him. Was he flirting with me? Impossible.
I laughed, too loudly to hide my confusion.
This was Jace, after all, yeah, OK, he might well be the local Romeo, but we were friends, weren’t we? I allowed myself to imagine Jace teaching me to surf, all that lingering body instruction. Maybe he’d wrap his arms round me… Oh my God, stop it. He’s way too young, I’ve known him all my life and, and he’s too bloody young. What was this? Some sort of mayday madness?
Jace looked puzzled at me laughing, and slowly shook his head. He handed me a plastic glass of wine, which I drank very quickly.
Was it my imagination, or did his hand linger over mine when he handed it to me? I couldn’t tell.
This had to stop.
Perhaps spring had caught up with me, making me read things that weren’t there. After all, animals were pairing off, blooms were flowering, nature generally was making her beastly presence felt. Why should I be immune to it? But Jace? No. I mean, yes, he was gorgeous, but not for me. If I had a romp in the sand after dark with Jace I would never be able to look him, or his mother, or sisters, or Nancy, or anyone from Port Charles in the eye ever again. Everyone would know, from Breadpudding to Doris the gossip would fly – and I know what they would think of me.
Anyway, I might have got it wrong. It did, after all, seem impossible. I glanced sideways at Jace, who was uncorking wine with a slow, lazy grace. His hands were gentle with the bottles and unwillingly I found I was thinking about his hands smoothing my back, would they be as gentle then?… Good God! Stop it. Just stop it! Look upon him as a beautiful creature, something lovely to gaze at. Not to covet. OK, I can do that, can’t I?
I re-filled my glass, and turned away to busy myself with the food. I felt, rather than heard Jace move behind me, and stood very still, a glass in one hand and a pair of tongs dangling a burger in the other.
I could feel his breath on my neck now, and the warmth of his skin close to mine. He was pressing in, his body hard against my back. I jumped nervously away and heard him laugh behind me.
I took a deep breath and turned to face him, “Jace, stop it,” I said.
“Stop what?” he asked, smiling at me.
“You know very well what,” I said sternly, hoping to convey an amused, yet insouciant tone of voice that covered up any lingering rather guilty excitement I might have felt.
He shrugged, and carried on opening bottles of wine.
Baxter was barking at a seagull that was playing a game of tag with him along the hard sand by the sea, and children were running wildly around. Doris waved at me and came over to set up her gorgeous trays of pasties, and the moment of nervous tension between Jace and me passed.
Richard came along to help with the cooking, and I wandered off to say hello to everyone. The whole of Port Charles was on the beach, and there w
as a lot of chatter and gossip to catch up on.
“’Ave you seen Breadpuddin’s pasties?”
“More like ruddy great pies, if you ask me, I reckon it’s a damned cheek!”
“Mornin’ Fin, I’ve got a vegetable what’s growin’ in me garden that I’ve never seen the likes of before, you wanna come and take a look?”
“Jace says you’m got that bloke from off the telly comin’, I reckon you’ll be on TV next, a right star!”
“Salmon looks a proper job, Fin, well done!”
“’Ere Fin, come and try some of me elderflower wine from last year, proper tasty I reckon.”
Every group of people had a kind word or two for me, and I wondered idly why it was that I felt so displaced. I had grown up with these people, but I wasn’t really one of them. I glanced over at Nancy who was joking with Sam from the pub, and longed for her easy way with people. The light was very bright, making everything seem slightly hard and unreal somehow, the sun made everything look harsh and flat. I put my sunglasses on and went to talk to Mrs Trevellyon who was sitting uncomfortably on a deck chair.
Her poor arthritic hands were in a claw like position on her lap, and as I squatted down beside her, she patted me on my arm with one of them, the rings on her fingers cutting into her swollen flesh.
“Fair remind me of your mother, you do, I thought it was her from a distance,” she said.
Whenever this comment was made (and believe me, it wasn’t made that often) I felt a ridiculous glow of pride. I was much taller that my mother, but had the same colour hair. If I’d had half her grace or charm I would be happy.
The mouth-watering smell of cooking was in the air, I passed the barbeque on my way to Sam for a glass of beer. The boys were doing the manly thing of prodding the cooking food with long forks whilst swigging booze. I breezily passed them, avoiding Jace’s eye.
“I’ll do the prawns,” I called out to them.
The Cornish Affair Page 5
