The Cornish Affair

by Lockington, Laura

  Nancy sunk into a chair, sighing dramatically. “Oh, he really is quite the dullest man I’ve ever met!” she stage whispered to me.

  I giggled. The woman was a real pro, Sarah Bernhardt would have been proud of her.

  We had a lot of catching up to do, and I was tempted to tell her about Sam, but decided that I would give him the opportunity to tell her himself.

  Nancy was prowling around Penmorah, checking up on it. Aside from a puddle of water in the hall upstairs, where the rain had found a way in through a leaky window, all was well. We peered out of the window to see what the dullest man on earth was doing. He appeared to stabbing the ground with some sort of electronic metre and making copious notes about his findings.

  “Best leave him to it,” advised Nancy.

  We carried her bags into her bedroom and she started to unpack.

  “Oh, I did have a wonderful time in London! The theatres were surprisingly full, and the galleries sublime,” she was hurling clothes around, littering the floor with swathes of silk and velvet. “Now look, I did buy you something for the party, where is it? Don’t worry, Harry came with me, and we thought you’d look fabulous in it, oh, here it is!” She triumphantly held out a black dress.

  “What do you think?”

  I gazed doubtfully at it. “It’s a bit skimpy, isn’t it?”

  “It’s meant to be, it is a party dress, after all! Anyway, Oliver thoroughly approves.” Nancy said, as if that settled the matter.

  “Oh, does he now? And since when has he been the arbiter of good taste?” I asked sweetly.

  Nancy gave me an old fashioned look, and went to hang her clothes up.

  I wandered downstairs and went to the kitchen. It was lovely being back home, and even lovelier having Nancy back.

  It was getting greyer by the moment, outside, and any promise of summer really arriving had gone.

  I was listless and restless, so I did what I’m paid to do. I made soup.

  I would have done that anyway, even if I didn’t make my living from it. I find it the most soothing of occupations.

  It’s an odd thing, cooking. I love food with plenty of taste to it, but because something is good, it doesn’t mean more of it is better. A gentle hand, combined with zest and dash makes all the difference. I like to release the food’s own tastes and energies, the difference between salt added before, during or after cooking can be simply gigantic, enormous. What sort of salt? Even that counts… All cooking is a matter of contrasts, distinctions and complements. The knowledge of how to get the most from a potato? How to extract the flavour from a tomato with the right amount of sugar? Why does honey and vinegar work so well together? These things come naturally to some, can be taught to others, and some will never have it.

  Soon the aroma of leek and potato simmering together in chicken stock, were pervading the kitchen.

  It’s a simple, cosy, comforting sort of soup, and no matter even if we chill it and call it Vichyssoise, and add double cream and chives to it, or use celery, or non-Cornish butter, or blend it, sieve it, pepper it to death, sprinkle cheese or herbs on it, it will remain good tempered and sweet tasting. A friend, almost. Something you can rely on, and god knows, we all need that from time to time.

  What do they say about soup? It’s the first resort of a special dinner and the last resort of the weary cook. It can be peasant food, or it can be the food of kings.

  It is a salve to the troubled soul (and between you and me, so unreasonably easy to make, I cannot believe that anyone buys my cartons of it).

  In short, it is the food of life.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Mr Harris enjoyed the soup. Or so I hoped, it was difficult to tell. He was monosyllabic, but seemed happy enough, as he smiled a lot, mostly at Nancy.

  After lunch, he disappeared outside again, with his bag of tricks. Nancy and I were sitting at the kitchen table, when Baxter gave a half hearted bark, as if he really couldn’t be bothered pretending any more to be a guard dog, but had better things to do with his time. The door opened and Richard was there.

  He greeted Nancy and told us that he’d got here because the chain saw gang had finished, so the lane was clear and he thought I could do with a hand gathering in the wood.

  I gave him some soup, and put my boots back on I dissuaded Nancy from helping.

  “But I want to see what’s been happening anyway, I’ll just have a little walk around to see if anything needs rescuing,” promised Nancy.

  “Like the plants in the greenhouse?” I said tartly.

  “Oh darling, Jace and I have been growing that for years-”

  “Have you?” I said in surprise.

  I heard Richard snigger. I tried to quell him with a glance but it made no difference.

  “Oh yes,” Nancy continued, “It’s not like we sell it or anything, but I know you don’t agree with it, so we just kept it to ourselves. I suppose it’s ruined, now?”

  “Umm, don’t you just hate it when that happens?” I said, pushing Richard out the door. He was convulsed with laughter.

  When we were outside, he said, “Unbelievable, isn’t she? I thought you musta known about it, seein’ as it’s your greenhouse.”

  “No, it seems there’s quite a few things I don’t know about,” I said.

  We spent the next couple of hours dragging wood on wheelbarrows and stacking it up against the garden wall. It was a very satisfying task, although back breaking after a while. It felt more like autumn than early summer, but the air was soft and the gulls wheeled above our heads in the sky.

  I saw that Nancy was trampling through the muddy garden, propping up damaged plants, generally trying her best to restore some order to the havoc that the storm had made. Baxter, who of course, being newly bathed, tried to find every bit of mud and puddle that he could to roll in, scampered about beside her.

  “Reckon that’s the last lot,” Richard said, wiping his brow with hand, “Been in the woods yet?”

  “No,” I said, straightening my back after heaving the last lot of logs out of the barrow. They gave off a wonderful scent. “I haven’t gone there yet, probably quite a bit of damage.”

  “Me an’ Jace could come up with a saw tomorrow, if you like?” Richard offered.

  “Thanks… but it can wait. There’s quite a lot to do in the village still, isn’t there?” I said.

  Richard nodded gloomily. “Bloody mess, ain’t it?”

  We made our way inside, and I saw that Richard was hovering by the office door.

  “Want to go on line, Richard?” I asked, throwing my boots by the door. I was sick to death of wearing wellies and so were my feet. I felt like an old woman as I sat there rubbing some feeling back in them. What did normal people wear outside? There was probably a whole range of comfortable, warm, good looking foot gear. I bet I was the last person on earth still to be clumping along in hideous rubber boots that gave blisters.

  Richard beamed at me, and disappeared into the office, closing the door firmly behind him. What was it he did in there?

  Nancy came in, with a basket full of rescued blooms and vegetables. “It’s so sad, seeing it like that… but, it’ll all grow back quite quickly. It could have been much worse,” she said, dropping rose heads into a bowl of water. “And the house has stood up well to the storm, these granite places were built to last, thank goodness. I can’t get used to the cliff being so near, can you?”

  “No, it makes me feel a bit sea sick, to tell you the truth. I think I’ll have to get a wall built.” I said.

  “Let’s see what Arthur says… Where’s Richard?”

  I pointed towards the office door.

  “Oh. Well, I hope he’s sorted it all out,” Nancy said vaguely.

  “Sorted what out?” I asked, not really very curious, but still, it would be nice to know.

  “Oh, you know… his wife,” Nancy said, unpacking some young courgettes from her basket.

  “His what?”

  “Wife. Shall I put the
peas in with the courgettes? Or do you want them left out? Not many to rescue, and they’re very early, more like mange touts, or snow peas as Bea calls them in Canada, I wonder why?”

  I stared at her.

  “OK, come on, give. What wife?”

  “Well, you know he never has any success with the girls here, so he’s been looking at this Russian web site that has girls who want to marry British men-”

  “Like mail order brides!?”

  “I suppose so, although it all seems very above board, anyway, he’s been e-mailing Olga now for weeks and weeks, and she wants to come over, mind you, he’s very nervous, I mean, suppose they don’t get on in real life? Or she’s a hunchback or something-”

  “Hunchback? Nancy, what are you telling me?” I was horrified. I thought only sad slightly grubby old men wearing nylon shirts and smelly socks did this sort of thing. Not Richard.

  I thought back, to see if I could ever remember him having a girlfriend, but I couldn’t. He hung out with Jace so much that I thought he must have had ample opportunity to chat up women. Maybe that was the problem? Jace was so good looking… But he was good friends with silent Will as well. Will seemed to have girls after him, maybe they all liked the Gary Cooper type? Maybe his red hair was a drawback?

  “Why don’t I know about this?” I said suddenly.

  Nancy laughed, “Oh Fin, you’re the wrong age darling… I’m an old woman now, so people feel like they can tell me anything. Believe me, they do! You want to hear what Arthur Harris’s wife did to him last year –”

  There was a knock on the kitchen door, and the man himself came into view.

  “Now then, what’s the news?” Nancy cried, drawing him inside, “Are we safe? Or are we all going to tumble into the sea?”

  Arthur Harris would not be drawn. He had to go back to London (the helicopter was waiting for him) He had to make enquiries; he had samples to analyse, other experts to talk to, data to write up, people to see.

  We regarded him in silence.

  “But, Mr Harris, Arthur, what about having a party here, is it safe?” Nancy said pleadingly.

  He regarded us blandly.

  I felt like hitting him.

  “Well… it all depends what you call safe,” he said slowly.

  “Penmorah, the house, is it safe? You know, safe as in it won’t fall into the sea? Safe as in it won’t crumble about our ears? Safe in as –”

  He held up his hand to stop me. “The house is safe –”

  “Thank god!” I said emotionally. Nancy and I clasped hands.

  “As I was saying,” he said gently, “The house is safe, well, safe enough, at the moment, but the land that it is on… well, we’ll have to see.”

  He pointed outside the window. “There has been a serious landfall there, not helped by the underwater stream coming from the disused tin mine, and the weather conditions. This sort of erosion happens here over years, but this has escalated rapidly. You will need serious work done to make it safe… and I’m not sure that it will be financially viable. I will have to find out. I’ll be in touch. It was a pleasure meeting both of you, good day.”

  We watched him leave. I turned to Nancy, “I’m still not sure what he means, are you? I mean, are we safe or not? And I hated the words not financially viable, what does that mean? How much is not viable? Thousands? Or more?… Millions?”

  Nancy looked worried. “I don’t know Fin, we’ll have to wait and see.”

  One of the (many) things I’m not good at is waiting and seeing. Patience, being kind to small children, knowing when to stop drinking, substituting marge for butter are a few of the others.

  “Well, sod it. It’s safe enough for the dolphin party,” I said with a great show of bravado.

  That gave me three days to organise a party. Who needs more? Well, I mean obviously Elton John, the Queen and anyone with any sense does, but not me.

  I went to the phone and started to make arrangements.

  I use the word arrangements very loosely because this is Cornwall, not London. Things are done differently here. I expect in London you could pick up the phone and within ten minutes could have a gourmet meal, with wine, and flowers, and balloons, and a bubble making machine delivered. I bet that if you knew the right people there you could have a chocolate cake made in the shape of anything you desired arrive in a trice, along with Robbie Williams singing at the party, for a large consideration. Here, it’s not so simple.

  Someone’s sister who lived over in Rock knew someone who would deliver the wine, and the glasses, if the tide was in and if she could get the chickens in the back of the van as well.

  It’s not easy.

  In London you can, I am sure, hire staff. The type that turn up on time, do their job, and then go home. Not here, here we have to make do with somebody’s teenage son, who would love to earn twenty quid, but doesn’t have any trousers other than baggy hipster cargo pants and a ripped hot tuna tee shirt. He has had quite a few spliffs beforehand, making him liable to scoff any snack he can get his hands on and wander off with a drink order, never to return. When eventually found he will be being sick in a rose bed and someone (me) will have to drive him home.

  It really isn’t easy.

  I wanted the sort of bohemian, sophisticated, arty party my parents used to have.

  I enlisted Sunita and Samina as helpers, and hoped that I could bribe Will and Richard as barmen for the night.

  I decided that Doris would do her famous Port Charles pasties and I would do the rest of the food. Nancy would decorate Penmorah with greenery and candles at the drop of a hat. The rest was in the lap of the gods.

  It wouldn’t make it into The Tatler but for Port Charles it would be a knock out.

  The phone rang, and I went to pick it up. It was Harry.

  “So what did Mr Harris say?”

  I gave Harry the gist of it.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, I know… Anyway I’m having the party, so you and Martha will come down, won’t you?”

  “Of course! And Oliver?”

  I could sense some fairly malicious glee in Harry’s question, and I decided to override it with sweetness. I didn’t know what Harry knew, or what Oliver had told him about us.

  “Yes… do bring him too.”

  “And the weather there now, what’s it like?”

  I thought of the pervading gloom here at the moment, the grey sky and the mud. Something with a heart was needed, something with colour and pizzazz.

  “Borscht…that’s been made with love and attention and allowed to let all the flavours linger together for a while, oh, yes and served with a huge blob of sour cream and some homemade bread, preferably rye. OK?” Harry laughed.

  “I’m so glad to hear that you’re rallying… the moment I hear you talk about food, I know everything’s OK,” he said.

  Well, there’s OK and then there’s OK, I thought to myself.

  We said goodbye, and I put the phone down. Damn, I knew what I meant to ask him about – music. What sort of music should I have for the party? The library had always been the dancing room, and I searched my memory for the sort of music that my parents had. Nancy would know. But what did they have now? Most of it sounded like a drum kit falling down the stairs. I think it was called drum and bass, more like drum and a god awful noise, if you ask me, but then I’m very unmusical indeed. I have only ever danced unprompted to the sort of tune that gets played so often in our youth that it has etched itself in your brain as dancing music; the legs just go ahead anyway, no matter what the brain says. Perhaps I could ask Jace, or Richard.

  Richard - good God, he was still in the office, chatting away to the mail order girlfriend or whatever it was. No wonder my phone bill had so many noughts on the end of it.

  I pushed the door open and saw that he was crouched over the computer, typing frantically.

  “Hi, Richard, how’s it going?” I asked, edging forward to get a sneaky look at the screen.

  He gave a jum
p, and then turned towards me, his face creased with worry. I saw that he must have been running his hands through his flame coloured hair, as it was sticking up in jagged spikes.

  “Oh Fin… I don’t really know what to do,” he said miserably.

  I settled down in the comfortable chair that I kept in the office. It had been my fathers, and he had always used to write up his accounts. It was a deeply buttoned brown leather affair, very shabby now, but still monumentally comfortable.

  “What is it then?” I asked.

  His hands as if by their own volition sought the comfort of his hair.

  “Well, see, I’ve been talkin’ to this girl, seems really nice,” he added quickly, “From Russia, anyway, the thing is, she wants to come over. Well, no she is coming over.”

  “Really? How exciting,” I said, encouragingly.

  “Hmm, well, she’m only gone an’ got herself a flight. She’ll be here on Saturday!” Richard’s voice rose at the prospect of dealing with her in person.

  I could see that Saturday was a bit quick.

  He squirmed on his chair.

  “So what’s the problem then?” I asked.

  “It only started as a bit of fun, an’ well, now, it’s all gotta bit out of hand,” he said.

  I nodded, not wanting to interrupt him. I was quite curious, I’d read about e-mail relationships, but had never actually met anyone who’d got one.

  “See, I never get the-”

  “Girls?” I added helpfully.

  He nodded.

  “See, I reckons, that being a minger doesn’t help, an’ well, see Will, he’s very quite, never says a word, but they love him! And as for Jace-”

  The less said about Jace the better, I decided.

  “Yes, well, we all know about Jace, don’t we?” I said, shifting slightly in my seat.

  “Anyway, really nice she is. Olga. Had a right terrible life, I think, an’ she sent her photo an’ everything…” he tailed off, looking embarrassed.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “Well, the thing is, I didn’t have a photo of me to send her. So, I used someone else.”

  “Who?” I said, really curious now. I didn’t realise that men thought like this. I thought it was only teenage girls who would send photos of models from magazines as themselves. Most men I knew thought they were so fantastically sexy it wouldn’t occur to them to bother.