The Cornish Affair

by Lockington, Laura

  I told her, and she whistled in approval.

  “And how much of that goes to the Port Charles fund?” Nancy asked.

  I laughed, “I don’t know yet because we haven’t worked out the costings… it’s quite complicated, but it should be a real money maker.”

  We sat a while longer in the sunshine, unwilling to start the day’s activities.

  Nancy tapped me on the knee, “Come on then darling, Bea’ll be back soon. I’m going to make some breakfast, then I’ll call Mr Harris and see how far he’s got with our report. Are you working on the soup?”

  I nodded. Oliver had arranged for Kev the Beard to bring me up a tray of mixed Cornish fish and shellfish. I was going to spend the morning with my trusty recipe books, reading for inspiration. But it all depended on the fish really, as to what we ended up with.

  I wasn’t as convinced as I sounded about the fish soup. It was all so tricky, the quantities were so vast and fishing wasn’t like picking spuds, if the fish weren’t there, they simply weren’t there. Then there was the worry that no matter what I did, or where I sourced our materials from the end product would be beyond the stretch of people’s purses.

  I sighed, and got to my feet.

  I’d give it my best shot. I wanted to make it work, but I knew just how difficult it was persuading the English to buy fish. Unless the divine Delia made a fish pie, stating that unsmoked haddock had to be used, then and only then could you guarantee that the stocks of that fish would run out the following day.

  And stock – I should be making fish stock. But I needed the fish first… I went into the kitchen and pulled down from the groaning shelves a few books. I took them into the garden, and sat at the table flicking through them.

  I glanced up and frowned at the ugly rolled wire at the top of the cliff. I hoped that we could get rid of it soon, it was such an eyesore.

  I poured over the books, thanking Nancy as she plonked a plate of toast down in front of me.

  Thinking about and creating food plays havoc with the appetite. I remember once I had to make a lentil and chestnut soup, and delicious as it was, I had an unreasonable desire to make roast chicken, I have no idea why… maybe the chestnuts just pinged a brain synapse in me that screamed Christmas stuffing, but truly, it was all I could think about. That particular soup took a long time to evolve properly. I just didn’t have the luxury of that now. I concentrated and made a list of all the Cornish produce that I could cram into it, all from reliable producers that I could trust. Oliver and I both agreed that it should be organic (and I’ll stop any discussion right here and now by stating that it tastes better, is good for you, and is the future way on any farming in any civilised country that can afford it. Got it? Good. Enough said.) It had to be honest. I knew that somewhere along the line we would have to compromise integrity with the needs of packaging and distribution, but the original version had to be as good as I could make it.

  I hope you know what I mean by that. It means that the food is not a poor relation to some European idea of what it should be, but that it remains true to itself. For instance, if you have to use a pre-bottled tomato sauce for pasta. Ask yourself why. I mean what could be simpler? Why buy one that is made in Nottingham with added gunk in it: flour, additives, colouring and loaded with e numbers? Just grab yourself a tin of Italian tomatoes, sweat some finely chopped celery, onions and garlic in some good olive oil, add a pinch of sugar and whatever herbs you fancy, maybe a splash of wine of you’ve got a bottle open and simmer the whole lot together for ages. Hey presto, just like mamma used to make!

  I chewed on my pen for a while and started to write in my disgraceful little notebook. A car noise made me look up and I saw Bea arrive with the animals. Baxter seemed happy enough to be home, although you couldn’t really tell, and as for Nelson, well, parrots aren’t really renowned for their animated features, although he did screech out a swear word by means of greeting.

  Bea disappeared inside, calling out that Kev would be up here in about an hour.

  There was the sound of another car coming, it was Jace in his 2CV van, I didn’t hesitate, I gathered my books and papers together and stuffing the toast in my mouth I walked round the side of Penmorah to another table, one that was conveniently placed in a shady part of the wall that was covered by a vine. Jace didn’t have to pass me here, and I told myself that it was because I was busy, but really it was more than that.

  Soon I heard his van go back down the hill again, and I relaxed. I bent my head over my books and worked till lunch time.

  Nelson was back in his usual place when I entered the kitchen, and tricked me completely by mimicking Pritti, calling her daughters. “Samina, Sunita, Samina, Sunita!”

  Bea came into the kitchen and saw that it was Nelson, “Jeez… he’s good, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s probably got his own agent,” I said, throwing Nelson an affectionate glance.

  “You missed Jace… he brought up the fish for you, to save Kev the trip. I put it in the fridge if that’s OK? Oh, and Doris sent you something as well.” Bea said.

  “Thanks, yes that’s fine. I’m going to make some coffee, do you want some?” I asked.

  Bea looked horrified at the idea of the caffeine poison entering her body and opened a bottle of mineral water, taking a swig from it. She perched herself on the edge of the kitchen table, swinging her legs.

  “Do you really think I look like him?” she asked.

  “You know you do!” I laughed, “Can’t you see it, or are you having an attack of false modesty?”

  Bea chewed her bottom lip, “The thing is… I wonder if he knows, or Pritti does, and I still wonder if I, or we, should tell them, what do you think?”

  We’d talked about this before, amongst ourselves and with Nancy and hadn’t reached a conclusion.

  I was itching to open the fridge door and see what Kev had sent me, but Bea wanted to talk, so I let it wait.

  We were discussing this, and just going round and round the same old arguments, when Nancy came in, her arms full of washing which she stuffed into the machine. “There you both are!” she said fondly, as it was obviously still a delight to her that Bea and I were not only here together but actually talking and getting on so well. “Well, I’m going to have an afternoon of Angelique, the poor woman has just painted a portrait by commission of the Duc de Orleans and the swine won’t pay her unless she sleeps with him, but as she’s got the pox at the moment…” Nancy swept into the office and Bea and I were left hooting with laughter.

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she?” Bea said fondly.

  I whole heartedly agreed with her.

  “What are you up to this afternoon?” I asked.

  “Well, I was figuring on a pitcher of lemonade, a good book and a place in the shade… unless I can help you with anything?” Bea said, swinging herself off the table.

  “No, I’m going to be making fish stock… I might need you as a taster though,” I warned her.

  “You can count on me for that, just go easy on the butter and cream, OK?” Bea said, sauntering off.

  The tray of fish in the fridge looked like a still life. All the fish were gleaming with freshness, bright eyes and silver scaled. Blue black mussels, clams and a scarlet and brown Cornish crab completed the picture, it really was a picture, too, as Kev had framed the lot in dark green seaweed.

  I washed my hands, tied an apron, sharpened my knife and got to work. Very soon I had a pot of stock simmering away from the filleted bones.

  I poked around in the box that Jace had brought up and chose with care some shallots and a large feathery head of fennel. I went to open the small parcel that Doris had sent up, and saw with a spark of emotion that she had spared me some of her precious saffron. That would have to go in. A Cornish fish soup without that would be unthinkable.

  Fish stock only needs to cook for about three quarters of an hour, any longer and it will become bitter. I drew the pot off the heat, and set it to one side.


  I gathered my forces together and concentrated all my being on making a soup that would be good enough to represent the good people of Port Charles.

  Food cooked with concentration, skill and love can taste completely different to a recipe that’s exactly the same but made without any of those qualities. I just tell you this because it’s worth knowing.

  The people I was cooking for deserved the best I could put forward for them. I thought of Doris and Isaac working through the long hot summer days and the cruel cold dark winter nights, Sam with his precarious business that he was only too willing to risk in order to help other people, Richard and his new found love, Olga. Pritti, Jace and the rest of the Rampersaud family who had ended up in Port Charles partly due to the recklessness of my mother and her passions, Silent Will and the care he took of his animals, Kev Pharaoh who risked his life every day to feed us, and his wife, the solitary misunderstood Judith, Miranda with her two, admittedly vile children and all the other inhabitants of this small village in Cornwall that we call home.

  So I offered up a quick but heartfelt prayer to the god of taste, and went to work.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  By late summer Port Charles was getting back to normal, although the spiralling cost of repairs was daunting. We all were sick to death of the demands made on us by various officials and the ever present buff envelopes from the insurance companies.

  On the bright side, the soup, now called The Original Port Charles Spicy Fish Soup, was a success. It was due to go into production next month, and although a lot can, and does, go wrong between the first carton off the conveyor belt, I was very hopeful about it, and so was Oliver.

  He was still frantically busy, but to my delight he came down here every weekend. And every weekend Baxter and Nelson moved out to their temporary holiday homes. This state of affairs couldn’t go on much longer as Pritti, true to her word, had put her cottage on the market and was making plans for going to stay permanently with some of her family that were based in Pakistan, much to the general dismay of her daughters. I wasn’t so sure about Jace, he seemed to be looking forward to it, although, to be honest, I didn’t see so much of him now.

  Bea had been with us for a month, and she too was planning to go back to Canada and sort her life out. Her sons were due back home from their summer camp, and she wanted to meet them. She was persuading Nancy to go back with her, but Nancy had other fish to fry. She was setting out for London tomorrow, where Harry was taking her to lunch to meet a publisher who was going to publish Angelique Flavell. We were all wildly excited, and predicted a huge overnight literary success for her. Sam, I think was more pleased than anyone, and demanded that we go to The Ram for a celebratory drink.

  The morning before she was due to go, I woke up, feeling absolutely dreadful. For a couple of days now, I’d felt ill, but this morning, I was sick.

  I came out of the bathroom, and lay down again on the bed. Swirls of nausea caused beads of sweat to stand out on my forehead, and I lay there feeling incapable of moving.

  As always, my first thought was I hoped to god I hadn’t poisoned everyone with anything I’d cooked. I’d served mussels last night, and assumed that I’d had a dodgy one. I lay in bed groaning, and hoping that Nancy and Bea weren’t ill too.

  There was a knock, and Nancy put her head round the door. “Are you OK Fin? I can’t believe you’re not up!”

  I turned my head to look at her, testing whether the movement was going to make me sick again, but all seemed well. I gingerly sat up, and said, “I think I had a bad mussel or something, are you OK?”

  Nancy nodded, “And Bea is fine as well, she’s making some coffee, would you like me to bring you a cup?”

  The very thought of coffee had me running across the room to the bathroom. I made it just in time.

  By mid morning I was OK, and wandered downstairs to join the others. Bea was making some healthy looking concoction out of kiwi fruits and oranges. Nancy was arranging a huge bunch of grasses and leaves in a jug on the table.

  It was a glorious day. The sun was blazing out of a cloudless blue sky. A light breeze fluttered the leaves in the garden, and I saw that the birds were using the rolled wire at the top of the cliff as a sort of gossip post, the gulls were all lined up on it, looking like people in a long post office queue, slightly bored, but happy to pass the time of the day.

  “How you doing?” Bea asked.

  “So so,” I replied, picking up a thick brown envelope addressed to me with little enthusiasm. Probably yet more insurance stuff. Really, the people were astonishingly dull, with endless paperwork that they demanded. Luckily Bea was now in charge of this, so I listlessly opened it, ready to pass it over to her.

  It was Mr Harris’s long awaited report.

  I started to read it, and baffled by the terminology in it, appealed to Bea to read it.

  Wiping her hands she took it from me and she and Nancy read it together. Then they read it again.

  I looked at them in silence.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I still don’t understand, I know that it’s probably me being stupid, but tell me in English what it means, will you?”

  Nancy came to sit next to me, and took my hand, which worried me greatly. “It can’t be that bad!” I said, taking my hand away from her.

  Bea sat opposite me and I saw Nancy and her exchange glances.

  “Fin… he says that, well, that it is not financially viable to underpin the cliff. He advises you that Penmorah will have to vacated within the year,” Bea said gently. She was talking slowly, as if to a foreigner.

  “Well… at least we have the insurance, right?” I said brightly, my heart thudding in my chest. I clenched my hands under the table, to stop them shaking.

  Bea and Nancy did their look again.

  “This would be termed as an act of god,” Bea said, “I’m afraid you, we, are not insured against this.”

  Another wave of sickness swilled over me, and I had to swallow bitter tasting bile to stop throwing up there and then at the kitchen table. I heard Nancy get up and pour me a glass of water, she placed it in front of me, and I sipped at it.

  I gathered my strength and stood up, leaning against the table. “I’m sorry, I have to go back to bed…” I waved offers of help away, and clutching the report, I slowly walked back upstairs to my bedroom. The wallpaper in the hallway swum in front of my eyes - I remembered my mother choosing it, and the laughter there had been when I’d been found, at about the age of six, carefully colouring in some of the flowers on it. My childish efforts at home improvement were still preserved along the skirting boards, a permanent reminder and testimony to the staying power of crayons.

  I walked into my bedroom and sat down heavily on the bed. I forced myself to read the report right through, and then I lay down. I tried a series of deep breathing exercises that I’d seen and heard Nancy do during her yoga to try and calm myself down.

  After a few tries, I gave up. It wasn’t working, and was making me feel sick again.

  How to harness this appalling rush of wild energy and panic that was making me freeze with terror?

  Penmorah vacated within a year? Impossible. I would not allow this to happen.

  There must be a way round this. There must be.

  For a start I’d get a second opinion, then I’d appeal to someone – who? I don’t know. I know! I’d get the land declared an area of natural beauty, or get someone to discover a rare orchid in the woods and then make the council buy it… Then they’d have to repair it… but then it wouldn’t be mine any more. And the house? Well… it was just a large tatty house to anyone who didn’t love it as I did, the National Trust certainly weren’t going to be interested in it. Not unless I could discover a priest hole, or a mural by some famous eighteenth century painter… perhaps I could fake one? Or I could take all the money from the sales of the supermarket soup and divert them to the underpinning of the cliff, I could get a loan, I could – could what, exactly?

 
Losing Penmorah, moving away – to where? This wasn’t happening… I rolled on my side, uncomfortably aware that I was feeling very sick again. I staggered to the bathroom and retched. I wiped a cold flannel over my face and lay down again on the bed. I tried to close my eyes and breathe slowly and calmly, but the panic kept returning.

  I covered my face with my hands and sobbed, inwardly imploring Dorothea and Michael to do something, anything, to stop this.

  I think I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes I could tell, without looking at the bedside clock, that it was late afternoon by the light from my window.

  Someone, Nancy or Bea had put a cup of tea beside me, but it was now stone cold. I shakily got up, and went to the window, leaning outwards taking in deep gulps of the soft clean air.

  I heard a knock on the door and Bea came in, holding a white paper bag from a chemists.

  “Fin, how are you?” Bea said, looking anxiously at me.

  I glanced at her dully. How did she think I was feeling?

  “OK, stupid question, forget it. Look, this is not a good time, but I got you something in Truro.” She held out the paper bag to me and I opened it.

  A home pregnancy testing kit.

  “Are you completely fucking mad?” I screeched at her, sounding just like Nelson in a very bad mood indeed. I threw the bag and its contents across the room. “I’ve got food poisoning or something, and more importantly Penmorah is going to fall into the sea and you buy me a fucking pregnancy testing kit! Do you have any idea how-”

  “Stop. Fin, listen to me. I know how you’re feeling about Penmorah, really I do, but do me a favour, just go into the bathroom and do the test will you? I’ve had two children, and I was just the same when I was pregnant as you are now. Please. Just do it… we’ll tackle Penmorah together, you’re not alone now, OK?” Bea said imploringly, her face strained with emotion.