The wind was shaking the windows out of their frames, and the boom of the breakers was loud in my bedroom. I flicked on the radio by the side of my bed to mask the noise.
The shipping forecast was on, and as usual I mourned not hearing my name being read aloud by the mellifluous voice. I learnt by rote all the wonderful names when I was a teenager. I could still quote them now.
Do names shape you I wonder? Perhaps I would be very different indeed if I had been given the name of Mary, or Anne. What would I have been like if I’d been christened Suki or Britney?
My parents had told me the story of my christening party often, how they were all trapped in the local church (now an art gallery on the outside of the village) for hours due to the torrential rain. All the gathered great and good had started a party inside the church, placing me inside a very handy cardboard box for safety. The organ had been played by a friend of my mothers, and the church had echoed to the unaccustomed sounds of boogie woogie belting out. The vicar had danced with Nancy up and down the aisle, and my father had organised a game of charades in the vestry.
When the rain stopped they had all piled into cars and driven through the rain soaked countryside to Penmorah, dragging the vicar with them and only then was it discovered that I had been left behind in the box, at the foot of the pulpit. My mother had shrieked in consternation and swooned (very luckily at the feet of an artist from St Ives who was immediately smitten by her maternal devotion. Or lack of it). I was rescued by Nancy and my father in a mercy dash in the car. I was, by all accounts, gurgling quite happily to myself and none the worse for being temporarily abandoned.
The radio was now whispering to me a tale of adventure in the outer regions of Mongolia. I tried to concentrate on that rather than the rain smacking onto the panes of window glass. It was a restless noise.
Chapter Thirteen
Harry was one of those irritatingly punctual travellers. Nancy gave the impression that she still dwelt in the days of phoning the local station and asking the manager to hold the 11.15 for ten minutes or so as she had mislaid her pigskin gloves.
I could see that Harry was getting more and more anxious, and was chivvying Nancy around like an over eager sheepdog.
“Nancy, darling, do buck up, we’re cutting it very fine, we simply must catch the train… Fin, is the car outside? Oliver, perhaps you could carry out Nancy’s case. Nancy, come on, do!”
I took pity on him, and guided Nancy out of the door.
Once we were settled in the car, and had established that Nancy hadn’t left her purse behind, and had told me for the twentieth time that morning that she had hidden her pink suede jewellery roll in the freezer, and I wasn’t to mistake it for bacon, and she thought that she’d closed her bedroom window, but wasn’t absolutely sure, and would I check it, we were off to the station.
I started the car and pulled round the curving gravel drive, only to slam the brakes on, hard.
We all jolted to a stop, and I found myself staring eyeball to eyeball with Jace, who had appeared round the corner in his van like Mr Toad.
He had been going faster than I had, but even so, I could smell burning rubber from underneath my feet. I could see that Jace was mouthing ‘sorry’ at me, and after checking that Nancy, who was sitting in the front, was OK, I reversed to let him pass. Oliver and Harry had been jolted forwards from the back seat. Harry was complaining bitterly of whiplash, which stopped immediately he saw who had caused the near accident.
I rolled my window down as I drew level with Jace, “My God, that was scary! I can’t stop, I’m taking Nancy and Harry to the station, see you later.” I gave him a reassuring smile and drove off, delighted to have seen him, but cursing the circumstances. My heart was racing and I didn’t know whether it was to do with the near collision or seeing Jace again.
Oliver carried Nancy’s bag to the London platform, and I hugged her goodbye, making sure that she’d got her ticket.
“Really, Fin, anyone would think I’m off on an arctic expedition, I’ll see you in a week or so. I’ll book the hairdressers and everything, so don’t worry. Have fun whilst I’m away!” she said, with a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Oh, Oliver’ll keep her nose firmly to the grindstone, won’t you?” Harry said, pecking me on the cheek, and shaking Oliver’s hand all at the same time. “Fin, I’ll call you up now and again to check what sort of weather you’re having,” Harry added, looking distractedly around his feet at the growing amount of bags that Nancy travelled with.
I leant forward and said in a low voice to him, “Well, without you and Nancy here it’ll be strictly carrot and coriander.”
Harry laughed, knowing it was one of my least favourite soups.
The yellow snout of the train was visible down the line, and we all gathered ourselves together. Nancy and Harry clambered aboard, and we waved them off.
As we made our way back to the car, I had to shake off a ridiculous feeling that I was never going to see them both again. Yes, I know, I told you it was ridiculous, it’s something to do with stations, I don’t know why. Perhaps in a past life I was a nurse in the First World War and waving the wounded away in stations now makes me feel gloomy. Not that Harry or Nancy were injured in any way, but, still –
“Sorry, what?” I said, faintly aware that Oliver had been asking me something.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, fine. It’s something to do with stations, I can’t explain,” I said weakly.
We drove in silence for a while, Oliver admiring the effect of the overblown early summer hedgerows.
“Do you want to stop at The Ram and consolidate with Baxter?” he asked.
I considered. “No, we’ll get embroiled in Port Charlesers, and I hate drinking at lunchtime, it gives me a headache and makes me feel sleepy,” I said primly.
There was another silence for while.
“I know! We’ll have a picnic… that’s the only cure for someone who gets emotional at saying farewell to relatives and friends who are travelling to London in high spirits about to pig out on being culture vultures, if that metaphor isn’t too mixed,” Oliver said, looking rather pleased with himself.
“I am not emotional,” I protested.
“Ha!”
“Ha, yourself,” I said rather childishly.
Still… a picnic would be nice. It was perfect picnic weather, not too hot, and a gentle breeze blowing, moving the newly clad green leaves in a gentle wave. My mind ran through what was in the fridge that was suitable for a picnic. Was Oliver the traditional retro sort, who wanted hard boiled eggs and a damp bunch of water cress wrapped in a tea towel, or the trendy spiced aubergines in a warm pitta bread type? Oh. Aubergines. Aubergines. Jace. Perhaps he was waiting for me at home? I saw that Jace had given a quick half wave of recognition to Harry in the back of the car earlier, and a quick glance of interest at Oliver. I put my foot on the accelerator, willing the car forward, to hurry back home.
“Getting hungry?” Oliver enquired sarcastically as I took a corner a little too quickly.
“Ravenous,” I replied happily, ignoring him.
As we reached the lane to Penmorah, I slowed down, not wanting a repeat performance of earlier on. I saw that Jace’s van was still there, and sure enough, he was sitting on the garden bench smoking a joint. I felt self conscious as I parked the car and got out, walking towards him. After all, the last time I saw him I had my bare bottom slapped by him. I had every bloody reason you could think of to be slightly self aware. I heard Oliver slam his car door, and walk beside me to where Jace sat, looking remarkably beautiful, like a sleek black cat sunning itself.
I made perfunctory introductions.
Oliver held out his hand, which, I noticed, in comparison to Jace’s slim bones was twice the size, and hairy.
I found my eyes irresistibly drawn to Jace. He gave me a lazy smile, and like a fool I could feel myself becoming about fourteen as I scuffed the ground with my shoe.
“Bee
n over Newquay, got a bit too stoned to come back,” Jace offered up the information like a pearl diver, proudly, but modestly displaying his catch.
“Oh, yes I see. Well, we wondered where you were last night in the pub,” I blurted out.
Fool, fool, fool. I silently admonished myself.
Jace gave another smile. It crossed my mind that he was either very stoned still or he was practicing being enigmatic. He casually offered his joint to Oliver.
Oliver shook his head, “No. No thanks, I don’t. You must be the fruit and veg man that I’ve heard so much about?”
I glanced sharply at him, what the hell did he mean, heard so much about? From who? Certainly not from me. I gave Jace an agonised look, trying to convey that I had said nothing about him at all.
“Tea?” I said, “How about a cup of tea?”
Jace shook his head, “Nah, gotta get over to Bodmin, for me deliveries. Goin’ to The Ram tonight?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Oliver got there first.
“Shouldn’t think so. I don’t think I can handle any more cherrywood devil,” he said pleasantly.
“Proper killer, innit?” Jace grinned, stretching his arms above his head, getting up from the bench in one fluid movement and giving a yawn. “I’ll call you later Miz Fin,” he said, giving a heavy touch to the last two words.
I felt, rather than heard Oliver hovering behind me. His presence any where just seemed to take up so much bloody room. I said goodbye to Jace, receiving from him in return a beatific grin, and watched his van disappear down the drive.
Well, at least I’d seen him, and there was no feeling of awkwardness between us. On his part. I was too confused to think about it properly. I felt relieved that I’d at least seen him. Other than that I didn’t want to dwell on.
Oliver busied himself in the kitchen, throwing cheese and bread into a picnic basket that I’d unearthed. I was amused to see that he was definitely not the trendy spiced aubergine sort at all. In fact, it looked as if we were going to have a glorified Ploughman’s Lunch. Perhaps he’d like some cider to go with it? Or mead, or some other god awful rustic drink?
“Are you really going to stick to your non drinking rule at lunch time, because if you are I’ll put in some cranberry juice, if not there’s rather a good bottle of sauvignon in here,” Oliver said, the top half of his body buried in the fridge.
“No, really, cranberry is fine for me, but do take the wine if you’d like some,” I said politely.
He laughed. “No, I think my liver will thank me for the cranberry – it’s a bit of an occupational hazard, over indulging, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t run a restaurant, or have a TV show or hang out in London bars with the media, do I?” I said tartly. “So I don’t pour bottles of bubbly down my neck at every opportunity…” I trailed off, hearing the rudeness in my voice and suddenly aware that my first encounter with Oliver in the library here I had certainly been decidedly the worse for wear.
Oliver looked in surprise at me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” I said.
He shrugged, “That’s OK, are you ready?”
I nodded and we left the house.
“Where would you like to go?” I asked, heading back towards the car, avoiding looking at him, wishing that we didn’t have to go on this stupid picnic.
“Any suggestions?” Oliver said.
I sighed. I didn’t want to go to the woods with him, I had a very immature feeling of proprietary over them and wasn’t ready to share them with him. The moors? Too windy…
“I know, we’ll go to Fistral beach, it’s where all the surfers go, it’ll be breezy, but then that’s the point for surfers, isn’t it?” I said. At least we’d have something to look at if the conversation ran out.
We drove the short distance there, Oliver admiringly pointing out the local charms to me, as if I didn’t know. I mean, I’ve only lived here all my life.
“Look at that granite stone… do you think there’s any truth in all that lay line business, that’s connected to the stones, isn’t it? Hey, look, a field of asparagus, let’s stop and buy some. Oh, is that a falcon, hovering above? Over there, above the hill… Are we going to drive in complete silence, or have I done something to upset you?” Oliver said.
“What? No, sorry, I was miles away… We’re here now.” I said, parking in one of those peculiarly English car parks that have a hideous brick building in them which denotes the availability of the euphemistically named ‘facilities’. Pay and display units peppered the place like small aliens, along with the obligatory hot dog van, giving off the smell of fried onions. It was, I have to admit, quite dismal. I mean, obviously the beach was great and the sea was there, crashing away at the land. But it was strewn with groups of kids, most of whom looked like they were auditioning for Baywatch. The light was harsh and bright, and I couldn’t think why I had come here.
Oliver was immune to all of this.
“Great view!” he beamed at me, unloading the basket from the back of the car.
“Umm,” I said weakly, feeling a party pooper.
We walked down the beach, passing groups of wet suit clad bodies carrying surf boards. Oliver spotted what he thought was a suitable place to spread a blanket, a dip in the sand, flanked by a group of hippies with a guitar on one side and a family with two small children which I viewed with a certain distrust, on the other.
Oliver was impervious though, happily stretching out on the sand, and glorying in the crush of humanity on the beach. I tried to join in the general holiday feeling that he evidently had, but with little success.
“God, you’re lucky to live here,” he said, reaching out to pour himself some fruit juice.
“Umm,” I replied, trying to remember the last time I’d been here. Years ago, I think, maybe with Martha, who had wanted to see a typical Cornish surfers beach.
I scowled at the two children who were whining loudly for a drink the other side of me. They clearly thought I was a witch giving them the evil eye, because they promptly burst into tears and demanded coke, pepsi and a fanta from the van in the car park.
“Poor sods,” Oliver said, pouring some juice into a couple of paper cups. He stood up and carried over the paper cups to the family.
“Here you go, kids, a very special drink for you, it’s called the Fistral Beach Sea Breeze,” he handed the cups to the children, saying to the parents “Don’t worry, it’s cranberry and grapefruit with absolutely no added e numbers, that van is miles away, isn’t it?”
I noticed the mother sit up and automatically suck her tummy muscles in, smiling her thanks at Oliver whilst the father had that look on his face which comes when people know that they’ve seen someone somewhere before, but can’t quite place it.
Oliver sat down again, and said to me in a low voice, “Any minute now, they’ll figure out that they know me from TV, it always happens. I generally give them about two minutes.”
I laughed. He didn’t look as though he hated this when it happened, you understand, but had a proud but pleased sort of rueful grin on his face. It was really quite restrained, especially when I considered what I’d be like if the situations were reversed. I knew that I’d be a vile mixture of gauche self consciousness crossed with a great deal of unnecessary showing off. Pathetic, really.
“Great place,” Oliver said, throwing his arms out to encompass the horizon.
Oh, Fin, just get in the mood of the day. Yes, it was a great place, yeah, OK, it was a bit day trippy, and a bit surf chick, but the beach was clean, the sun was out, the waves were crashing … so why was I in such a niggly mood?
The truth was that Oliver irritated the hell out of me. He was, and I hate to use the word, but I have to, he was – here we go – nice. There, I’ve said it. It’s probably, as has been said before, one of the most damning words in the English language. But he was. I mean, he was clearly, much better than I had expected him to be… no London manners, or TV st
atus ego, and, apart from the kilt, not even the trendy laddish sort that I had expected. But he was, without question irritating. He asked so many questions, he was unrelentingly enthusiastic and had so much self confidence that he made me feel like I was in a witness box all the time. He exhausted me. And there was the goodnight kiss as well.
I lay back on the blanket with my eyes closed underneath my sunglasses, hoping that he’d take the hint and shut up for a bit.
Ha, fat chance.
“So I suppose Nancy and Jace are business partners are they?” he said.
“What do you mean?” I said lazily, covering my yawn with one hand over my mouth. I turned my head to look at him, squinting against the light.
“You know, all the stuff in the greenhouse,” he continued, sipping his drink.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “What stuff in the greenhouse?” thinking he must be talking about the tomatoes that Nancy and Jace grew together. Some exotic yellow sort that I’d never seen, as they kept getting the tomato blight or something.
“The grass. The weed, you know, the marijuana,” he said, speaking to me as if I was an idiot.
“The what?” I said, shooting up into a sitting position.
Oliver looked embarrassed, “Shit, I’m sorry. I assumed you knew, I mean-”
“Are you sure?” I said.
“Oh yes. I mean, you’ve got enough growing in there to keep Port Charles having the munchies for months, I would think.”
Good grief. So, my seventy year old aunt was growing dope in my greenhouse, was she? I sank slowly back on the sand my mind reeling with wonder.
Chapter Fourteen
It was after the picnic that things changed between Oliver and me. Not overnight, not drastically, but gradually we just seemed to get on better.
I avoided going into the greenhouse, though. I firmly believe in a head in the sand approach to things sometimes.
The Cornish Affair Page 12
