“Come here soon, and we’ll do the roast onions,” she called after me.
I wondered how Oliver would take to that. He didn’t seem the sort that would take happily to gossiping with Pritti in her kitchen whilst fiddling around with vegetables.
It was always a bit of a hit and miss affair with Pritti and her recipes. She had so many traditional things she cooked, that it took a great deal of gentle persuasion for her to allow me to bastardise anything for western tastes. I loved watching her cook though, it was more like viewing a graceful ballet as she glided and swooped down amongst the mystifying range of spices and herbs. She allowed me to watch, and occasionally grind some spices, but that was it. She would boss her daughters unmercifully to wash and chop the food, but I had to remain seated at her table like some sort of visiting dignitary. I’d felt uncomfortable at first, but then realised that she liked an audience, and she was definitely not above playing to the gallery, issuing orders with a raised eyebrow at me if one of her minions got anything wrong.
I drove down to The Ram and pried Baxter out from the back seat where he’d been put to stop him attacking Nelson in the car. He had no truck with gentleman’s agreements, and would have happily bit Nelson whilst he was a sitting duck, so to speak.
I pushed the doors of The Ram open, and found Sam behind the bar, doing the eternal thing that publicans can do in their sleep - polishing glasses.
Baxter went straight to the table that Nancy and I usually sat at, and curled up under a chair. He cocked his head at me, and waited for me to order at the bar.
“No, you daft dog, it’s not even opening time yet. You behave yourself for Sam, you hear?” I said, bending down to stroke his head. He gave my hand a gentle lick, and then put his head between his paws and promptly fell asleep.
“Thanks for this Sam,” I said, moving over to lean on the polished wood of the bar, and dumping the dog food I’d been carrying on to it.
“S’alright. No problem, I like to help ladies in distress,” Sam said, pouring half a pint of foaming dark beer, and holding it up critically to the light. He pushed the glass towards me, and poured one for himself.
“Cherrywood Devil,” he said proudly.
Oh bloody hell. Real ale. I hated it. And Sam would never believe me. I messed around for food for a living, right? Food, drink, it’s all the same, right? Well, no actually, it isn’t. I know very little about wine, and even less about beer.
I took a tentative sip, marvelling at my lack of hangover from last night. Normally after putting away so much alcohol, I would be shuddering at the mere yeasty smell coming from the glass. The beer just tasted like beer to me, but I could see that Sam expected something profound from me.
“Mmm,” I said, feeling foolish, giving a pantomime performance of smacking my lips.
Sam beamed at me, “Reckon I’m on to a proper winner,” he said.
I gave an inner sigh. That was a bit of a problem down here in Cornwall. Even when we did make a Cornish product, we weren’t terribly good at it. Take the local cheese, the Yarg (invented by a farmer called Gray, spell the cheese backwards and see) I mean, it’s OK. The novelty of it being wrapped in nettles had the bonus of employing spring workers in picking the nasty stinging things I suppose, and the cheese itself was an innocuous dry crumbly dairy product of dubious distinction, but on the whole… We’d be so much better off using our best ingredients simply and well. Fish, shellfish, cream, butter, apples. These are the things that we do well. Not some farm invented cheese, or publicans real ale.
“How’s the telly bloke, then?” Sam enquired, looking faintly hurt that I hadn’t downed the Cherrywood Devil.
“Oh you know, very tellyish,” I said neutrally, aware that any hint of criticism would be round Port Charles faster than you could say a pint of heavy. Although it was very tempting to gossip to Sam and tell him that Oliver was wearing a kilt, not to mention very peculiar glasses.
“Is Harry down?” Sam asked eagerly.
This always amused me. For some unfathomable reason, Harry was one of those lucky people that could do no wrong in the eyes of Port Charles. Normally, anyone who dressed, spoke, and behaved like Harry was viewed with absolute suspicion. You know, all talk suspended and every eye silently judging, and finding wanting. But somehow, Harry had charmed them. Men from London, and especially men like Harry were not universally popular here. Doris saved him the last pasty, Pritti fluttered around him, and the fishermen genially slapped him on his back (causing him to wince slightly).
“Bring him in then, he’ll like the ale,” Sam said, sadly taking my glass away from me.
I doubted that, Harry’s tastes lay somewhere between a very strong martini or a decent red. He would undoubtedly have something more interesting to say than ‘mmm’, over it, I realised.
I made my way out of the door, noticing that Baxter had made no move to follow me. I was mildly put out. Dogs were meant to be faithful creatures weren’t they? Not this one.
“Say hello to Nancy for me, give her my love,” Sam called out as I left.
As I drove away I wondered what had happened between Sam and Nancy, maybe they too had shared a moment of moonlight madness on the sands. I found myself heading for the moors, where I thought I’d just have a quick walk to clear my mind, and gird my metaphorical loins for the good fight brewing between Oliver and me.
I stopped the car after driving for about ten minutes, and got out, stretching my legs.
A kestrel was hovering overhead, looking for an early lunch no doubt. The moors rolled out in front of me, covered in gorse, heather and rocky outcrops of granite. I loved being here, it was the one area in a county that had transformed so much to accommodate our visitors that had never changed. It was a bleak, haunted landscape and fitted well with the rumours of smuggling, mermaids, speaking stones, witches and giants. It had seemed like Narnia to me, as a child. A few shaggy sheep moved in the distance, and if I squinted hard at them I could just about transmute them into Narnia’s fabled talking beasts.
I allowed myself a brisk walk, where I did not think about Jace, or the annoyance that was waiting for me back at Penmorah, but tried to concentrate on the beauty in front of me. Naturally, I tried and failed. I gave it up and headed back home.
Glancing around the interior of my Renault which was smothered in seagull poo on the outside and littered with chocolate wrappers on the inside, I was quite glad I hadn’t had to go and meet Oliver. He didn’t seem the sort who would have forgiven the mess very easily.
I headed up the lane towards Penmorah and wondered if Baxter would make his escape from The Ram and find his way home. Probably not. He’s be spoilt rotten by Sam and all the customers. I soothed my remnants of bad temper by doing a very satisfying handbrake stop, sending gravel flying around me, as I parked outside Penmorah.
A most unusual smell hit me as I walked in the back door of the house. Chemical. And slightly reminiscent of swimming pools. Bleach. Yes, that was it, definitely. I saw that the normally littered surface of the kitchen table was not only clear of junk, but was gleamingly scraped clean. As was the floor, work surfaces and the cooker. A gaping hole stood in the very fabric of the room, where Nelsons cage and perch had stood. It was odd not being greeted by various barks and screeches when I walked in. Although, if I confess, it was pleasant not having to separate two animals who loathed each other.
Where was everyone?
I started to call out, but I heard murmured voices coming from the other end of the house. I tracked them down to the living room, and as I put my hand on the door to push it open, I heard my name being mentioned and I stopped to listen. I know that we’re told as children that eavesdroppers never hear well of themselves, but, be honest, it’s impossible to resist.
“…but she’s a pussy cat, really she is, one of the only clients I have that I am genuinely friends with,” Harry’s plaintive light voice came floating out to me where I stood transfixed. Me? A pussy cat? That was news to me.
I heard Oliver make a harrumphing noise.
“Oh, Fin is a darling,” Nancy chipped in, loyally.
“Honestly Oliver, she’s a sweetie, I mean, yes she can be difficult, but you know, I don’t think she’s very happy at the moment. Well, she hasn’t been for some time if I’m honest. I think her parents death knocked her for six, didn’t it Nancy?” Harry continued.
“But you know Harry, that was a long time ago, and, well, I think she gets lonely here.”
There was a brief silence and then Oliver spoke up.
“Were you all very close as a family?”
“Oh, yes terribly close. Too close, probably. You have to remember that Dorothea, that was my sister, and Michael were the golden couple here, they had everything. Looks, charm, romance…oh, they were so happy. They closed off the rest of the world. They became a self sufficient unit. I mean, obviously they saw other people, you know. But they only really ever had eyes for themselves. Fin grew up in a very hothouse atmosphere, I’m afraid. I tried to talk to them about it, but they wouldn’t listen. Why should they? They thought that their way of life would go on forever, they never thought for one moment that it would all come crashing down around them. Mind you, Michael was always a fool over money – I don’t mean that nastily, although he owed me a considerable sum at one time, but that was a long time ago now.” I heard Nancy sigh, and then she continued.
“You know, they wouldn’t send Fin to school even, why? Lack of money, or selfishness? I don’t really know. I mean, she got on perfectly well of course without it. What do they learn there nowadays anyway? Nasty hockey and geography! I ask you! Fin used to long to go away with Bea, you know, my, umm, my daughter to her school… but they said no. They never encouraged her to be very friendly with Bea… but that’s old history now. They were all so happy together here. I used to adore staying here, it was lovely…”
Harry and Oliver made assenting noises.
This wasn’t true, I felt like screaming. This simply wasn’t true. I had never wanted to go to Bea’s school. It had sounded horrid, she had maths homework and had to learn poetry by heart. I was very happy at home, thank you very much. At least I thought I had been.
There was a short silence, and I could hear spoons tinkling against china, and the faintest smell of coffee.
“ After all, Fin looks after so many things, I sometimes think that I should go and leave her to her own life-”
“Don’t be daft Nancy! She adores you, and anyway you don’t want to go, do you?”
I gripped the door handle so hard I could see the whites of my knuckles.
I made an impulsive move forward. I didn’t want to hear Nancy’s reply. I moved into the room, and had the satisfaction of watching Harry squirm slightly, whilst Nancy rattled her coffee cup in her saucer. Only Oliver seemed completely unembarrassed that they had been talking about me.
“Baxter and Nelson are happily settled in,” I said brightly, inwardly cursing Harry and Nancy for talking about me to Oliver. “Now then, Oliver, shall we retire to the kitchen and start some work? After all, I know just how precious your very valuable time is.”
I swept down to the kitchen, seething, not looking to see if Oliver was following me or not. So, I was lonely and difficult was I? Well, there was a grain of truth there I suppose.
As I swished around the kitchen like an angry cat, I mulled over Nancy’s words. My parents were undoubtedly odd in the way they had raised me, but I had been so happy it hadn’t bothered me at all that I never went to Bea’s ghastly sounding boarding school. I’d had odd forays into the education system to know that it wasn’t for me. The only drawback that I could see for an upbringing like mine was the terrible sense of loss when it finally disappeared.
I felt the absence of them more and more each day.
I roughly grabbed a roasting tray and smeared it with olive oil, ready to try out the damn onions. I felt a great annoyance building up inside me, and cursed Harry for bringing horrible Oliver down here. I sliced the top off an onion, and started to peel it.
I’d heard Nancy’s slight disapproval when she’d spoken about my parents. Which was daft really, as I know how much she’d loved them too.
I remembered what it had been like, living here with those two vibrant personalities, Michael and Dorothea. Every day had been a holiday, a laugh, a game, I’d felt enfolded in love. Everything was a pale imitation of that now. Even cooking. And that had always been a solace to me, partly of course, because I associated it so strongly with both of my parents. We would all spend hours faffing round in the kitchen making extraordinary things, time consuming potted shrimps with mace and paprika, dipping rose leaves into melted dark chocolate and peeling them back when cool to reveal perfect chocolate leaves underneath, or making champagne jellies that we suspended the first seasons primroses in, like tiffany jewels suspended in amber.
I remembered as a child Nancy visiting, and the happy sound of laughter echoing around Penmorah. Nancy and Dorothea had been very close, but perhaps underneath it all there was a bit of jealousy? Dorothea had been more beautiful, more vivacious, somehow more alive that Nancy… and of course, she had married my father.
I sliced the top off another onion, and pulled away at the pale papery skin.
Michael had flirted with Nancy and made her laugh, teasing her about her arty ways, and she had loved it.
I slowly prepped another onion.
Maybe Nancy and my father… No, surely not. No. I put the thought from my mind and reached for another onion. I had been too young to uncover adult talk that revealed anything other than a close familial relationship, but maybe? Just maybe.
I jumped slightly as I heard footsteps behind me. Harry was holding the tray of coffee cups, and looked contrite.
“Sorry Fin, did you catch the end of that conversation?”
I nodded, feeling tears start in my eyes and truly not knowing if they were tears of self pity, or due to the onions. Whatever you do with onions they’ll make you cry. Chewing bread, or cutting them underwater, it’s a load of nonsense. I tried to pull myself together, really, what was wrong with me? Of course I missed my parents, and yes, now and again I was lonely, but I’d just had a night of moonlight passion, the dolphins were back and I was being paid a great deal of money to do the job I loved in a place that I loved.
I smiled ruefully at Harry.
“Oh forget it… I’m suffering from the effects of the picnic,” I said, slicing another onion.
“So, what’s the weather like today Fin?” Harry asked in a gentle teasing tone.
My mind flitted to the absence of Baxter and Nelson, the irritation of Oliver Dean, my morbid thoughts on my parents, and sighed.
“Oh, that’s easy. Tinned tomato. Watered down tinned tomato with sliced white bread that’s slightly stale and a scraping of marge.”
I caught Harry’s eye and we burst out laughing.
Chapter Nine
Oliver and I spent the afternoon in the kitchen being very, very polite to each other.
“May I use this chopping board?”
“Oh, please do.”
“Too much sage, do you think?”
“Not sure, what do you think?”
And so on.
The day was mercifully punctuated with various callers who on the pretext of returning various bits of flotsam and jetsam from the picnic (amongst them my jeans – oh god) came to have a good gawp at Oliver Dean. It seemed most of them knew him from TV, or magazines, the kilt wearing went down a treat with a lot of elbow nudges going on. Even Breadpudding arrived clutching a copy of his book for him to sign, much to Nancy’s amusement. “Wouldn’t you know she’d be a star fucker,” Nancy whispered outrageously to me, making me splutter with laughter. Nancy gave me a huge wink, and I winked back, glad that any imagined tension between us was gone.
At one point in the kitchen we had Richard, Will, Mrs Trevellyon (who had been driven up by Will) and Pritti, all sitting around the table drinking tea and commenti
ng on the onions. Oliver seemed a little taken aback by this swarm of people. Harry was in his element, making tea and flirting like mad with everyone.
Everyone but Jace, I realised with a stab of remorse. I was just going to ask Pritti, in a horribly convoluted roundabout way where he was when Harry did the job for me.
“And where is that ravishing son of yours, Mrs Rampersaud? I hope he behaved himself at the picnic yesterday?”
Pritti covered her mouth with her hand, and simpered at Harry. (He had that effect on most of the women in Port Charles, although it was fairly obvious even to the most unsophisticated among us that they were barking up the wrong tree.)
She gave that wonderful side to side nod, waggling her head and said, “I think my son was touched by the sun and the moon yesterday, Mr Harry, he was still lying in bed this morning, smiling at the ceiling. But, I must let him lay there, he is my son and I although I wish with all my heart for him to marry, I know it will not happen if I nag him. So, I took him in his tea, and let him sleep, then he ran off to Newquay with his surfing board thing later on, but I think he will spend all day lying on the beach like a, like a beach bum.”
“He must be very tired,” Harry said gravely, “Perhaps he overdid it yesterday?”
Oliver glanced sharply at me, and I turned away, busying myself at the sink. Damn Harry and his bloody barbed comments. Oliver guessed that Jace was the cause of my drunken appearance in the library, I could tell by his face.
The phone rang, giving me the opportunity to escape. I missed Nelson and his supernatural early warning system. It was my friend Martha calling from London, I excused myself and took the call in my office.
Martha was a food historian and a great pal. We’d met through Harry about five years ago, and had got on famously.
“I hear you have the great Oliver Dean with you, you lucky thing,” her husky voice said with a great deal of laughter contained in it.
I imagined her sitting in her home, surrounded by piles of books and her cats.
“Yes. Yes I have, and half the village at the moment as well.” I said.
The Cornish Affair Page 8
