Just Another Day

by Patricia Fawcett

  ‘Technical or not, they are good,’ Richard broke in. ‘Pamela’s right. Gareth is too modest. He was a big player in that field for a long time. What you might call a high flyer. Isn’t that so, Gareth?’

  ‘I hate that expression, but I enjoyed it while it lasted,’ he said but Francesca could tell he was becoming irritated at the way the conversation was heading. ‘Now I’m happy to leave it to others. As for the books, well they are text books for a limited audience. I’m not going to top the best seller list.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Pamela laughed. ‘Why don’t you turn your hand to fiction, Gareth? Write something sexy and exciting set in the business world instead of dreary technical stuff?’

  ‘Thanks for that, Pamela. I take it you won’t be wanting a signed copy of my new one?’ Gareth asked with a grin, not the least put out by her frankness.

  Francesca relaxed, enjoying the banter between old friends, although it reminded her of the dinner parties with David when he held court. Nobody seemed to notice how quiet she was and she found her mind drifting, looking round the room and thinking how she would decorate and furnish it once the Sandersons had removed their furniture.

  She could not wait to get her hands on it.

  Gareth who had left his car parked more conveniently in town walked her back to her flat.

  The rain had stopped and it smelt clean and fresh, the night air cool, the streets glistening.

  ‘I’ve never met a real life writer before,’ she said, teasing him. ‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.’

  ‘Don’t you start.’ He smiled a little. ‘But it’s not easy. I’ll have you know the dreary, technical stuff as Pamela puts it is very difficult to get across in a simple easy-to-read style. I remember struggling through some stuffy old text books when I was studying and vowing to write one myself one day. It may not be overly exciting, but I do try my best.’

  ‘Don’t you mind people living in your cottage?’ she asked, changing the subject as she decided enough was enough and he was becoming bored with it. ‘Isn’t it a bit risky having strangers staying in your home?’

  ‘I admit I wouldn’t choose to do it if I didn’t have to. I couldn’t do what Pamela and Richard did, run a B&B.’

  ‘You knock up a good breakfast.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He seemed pleased at that. ‘I decided to just provide the accommodation and my guests do all their own catering. I do it for the money because financially it helps a lot. I don’t make much from the books although I do top it up with articles and commissioned work sometimes for trade magazines. The truth is I can’t rely on it so I can’t afford to be too precious about the cottage. I’ve furnished it simply so it’s no big deal if somebody breaks the odd vase. Being on my own it’s no problem camping out in the caravan during the summer. Quite the reverse in fact. If I had a family, it would be different of course.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the upside of being alone. You can do exactly as you like and at least you have nobody to blame but yourself for your decisions. Sometimes I can’t believe that I’ve bought a house, just like that.’

  ‘What did it feel like tonight being back there?’

  ‘Odd. But I hope I’ve done the right thing. I wonder what David would have made of it. I suppose he would have wanted me to go up to Yorkshire and continue his dream but it was impossible without him.’ She smiled a little, surprised that she could talk about David to this man without embarrassment. ‘My friend Selina from London thinks I’m mad.’

  ‘Will she come to see you?’

  ‘I doubt it. She says it’s too far.’

  ‘That is the penalty of moving to the sticks. My friends said exactly the same thing. They said it would drive me nuts, that I would miss being near the smart cafés and bars not to mention the theatre. You did mean it, I hope, when you said you would like to come over to see my place?’

  ‘Of course. I’d love to. I’ll have things to do as soon as I get my hands on the key but I’ll be along the moment I get myself settled in.’

  He reached for his wallet, fished out a card. ‘My number,’ he said. ‘Gareth Bailey at your beck and call, day or night.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  There was an awkward moment as he prepared to leave. Out of politeness, she wondered if she should invite him in for a coffee, but felt the offer might be misconstrued. Seeing him hesitate, Francesca took charge, she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Goodnight and thanks again,’ she said.

  ‘Goodnight Francesca. Promise me you’ll keep in touch.’

  She closed the door on him, leaning against it a moment, finding herself smiling before letting out a slow deep breath and listening to his footsteps going away.

  Chapter Twelve

  FRANCESCA WAS FINALLY living back at Lilac House.

  Pamela and Richard had looked after the house and the survey had revealed no major problems and so the changes she was making were purely cosmetic. It did involve a lot of painting and decorating though, and, following Pamela’s recommendation, she chose a local man who did a superb job leaving Francesca time to concentrate on the prettier aspects such as choosing new carpets and fabrics for the curtains. One of the first things she did though, was to remove the carpet from the hall when she was delighted to see that the lovely tiled floor was undamaged if a little dusty. She spent a whole afternoon on her knees cleaning and polishing it and although it left her with aching arms that was nothing compared to the sense of achievement.

  She had not completely finished, but after weeks of hard work and having the decorators – nice as they were – constantly under her feet and in her kitchen swilling mugs of tea, she decided on a break before tackling the remainder. She wanted the bliss of being alone again.

  She chose a bedroom at the back of the house as her own, leaving what was considered to be the master bedroom with its ensuite bathroom and connecting room for other use. For her room, she chose a calming lavender colour for the scheme with some pretty feminine touches and, with the garden coming along in leaps and bounds under the gardener’s guiding hand she was delighted to fling open the curtains in the morning and gaze out.

  Francesca chose a bright sunny day to visit Gareth.

  Without the benefit of a navigator, satellite or human, she could hear his scarily detailed instructions as she drove, the problems only arising once she actually got herself to Tintagel. At the very last she found she was looking out very unscientifically for a big oak tree sited just before his turn. Blink and you’ll miss it, Gareth had told her all this in his cheerful phone call.

  Predictably, with the car following practically stuck to her back bumper, she did miss the turn and had to drive on a while before being forced to do an awkward goodness-knows-how-many point turn onto the grass verge before retracing her steps. She needed a satnav she reflected although having experienced Selina’s version and the arguments that lady had with it, ignoring it half the time determined it seemed to get the better of the woman’s sure-fire instructions, she was not convinced it would help.

  Gareth was not joking about the condition of the lane.

  The surface was pitted and she drove carefully round the potholes fearing grave damage to the car’s underbelly. The caravan was in a field off the end of the lane, the black and white Cornish flag flying by the entrance, and she pulled up, getting out and stretching her legs, wondering which of the ten or so caravans was his. A stiff coastal breeze caught her hair, whipping it into frenzy and the saltiness of the sea was at once on her lips, the sound of surf pounding away in the distance.

  She saw Gareth emerging from one of the caravans, surprised at how pleased she was to see him. The site was not too large or obtrusive, the small block of caravans discreetly positioned amongst banks of shrubs.

  ‘Hi there. Nice to see you.’ He greeted her with a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Find it all right?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Good. Most people miss the entrance first time. Come and see the cottage fi
rst,’ he told her. ‘Being Friday it’s change-over day so the cleaner will be in but I’d like you to see it.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  He was no gardener and he thought his guests were more interested anyway in having somewhere to park their vehicles so he had turned the front garden over to paving. There was room for three cars if they jiggled about a bit.

  ‘In any case, it’s a fool’s errand trying to keep up a garden in this position,’ he had said. ‘It’s far too windy and there’s too much salt in the air for most plants.’

  ‘Pity,’ she remarked for it would have been so much prettier than the barren concrete area, but she saw his point. This was business and he was quite right about what guests would appreciate.

  ‘Come on in,’ he said, pushing at the door and yelling it was only him.

  ‘Mind the Hoover, Mr Bailey. He’s in the sitting-room right by the door,’ the cleaner called out as they entered.

  Francesca smiled. She had almost forgotten about the lovely eccentricity of this region in crediting things with a male or female gender.

  Entering the sitting room, they obligingly stepped over the cable as he was plugged in ready for the off. The cleaner was busy in the kitchen sorting out the bed linen. She smiled at Francesca as Gareth introduced her, telling him that last week’s guests had left the house in a tidy state.

  ‘It makes a change I can tell you. I don’t know how some of these people live back home. Sometimes …’ she looked at Francesca, shook her head. ‘I could tell you some tales, Mrs Porter. The week before last I came in and I couldn’t believe the state of the place. They had left plates and half eaten takeaways all over the lounge and there was tomato ketchup on the sofa. I had a right old job getting rid of that and in the bathroom … well, you’d think there had been a murder. She left a note to say one of the kids had had a nosebleed. I hope that’s all it was. Have you had a long drive?’

  ‘I live over in Devon. It was about an hour.’

  ‘Right. Very nice too.’ She looked as if she was about to launch into another question but Gareth put pay to that, placing his hand in the small of Francesca’s back, guiding her away, exchanging a smile with her as they went up the narrow staircase.

  His study was the only room he shut off, he told her, as he unlocked the door. His guests had the use of the living area, the three bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen but he preferred that they did not come into this room which was a pity because it had the very best view.

  ‘I keep all my papers in here, things I need for researching my book, bills – that sort of thing – so I don’t want people snooping,’ he explained as she stared, entranced, out of the window.

  When he talked about a cottage, she had formed an impression of a small cramped place with low-beamed ceilings – this was nothing like that. It was in fact rather large, almost as big as her house. This room was simply furnished with a modern desk, filing cabinet and shelves stacked with books. A male room with no fripperies whatsoever but she liked the large old rug covering the wooden floor and the big comfortable looking red leather chesterfield.

  Having taken in the room briefly, she was having difficulty tearing her eyes away from the view from the window.

  ‘Are you booked for the rest of the summer?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m booked solid until September. There are people from Wales due later today and next week a family of six from East Devon. I hope the weather’s nice for them. I feel sort of responsible. Now … are you ready for that walk or would you like a drink first?’ He glanced down at her shoes, sparklingly white brand new sturdy trainers with ridiculously long laces and smiled. ‘I see you took Pamela’s remarks to heart.’

  Gareth was worryingly wearing proper walking boots and thick socks. He was also being evasive as to how far they were going to walk, which was even more worrying.

  ‘Watch the mud by the gate,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t like you to get your new shoes dirty.’

  Francesca glanced sharply at him, suspecting sarcasm, but his face gave nothing away. She walked beside him firmly, matching him stride for stride. Well, not quite but good enough. She had the feeling he was testing her out and she could feel her hackles rising determined not to ask him to slow down even if she was breathing her last. To her annoyance but hardly her surprise, one of her socks was getting bunched up in her shoe just as it used to do when she was a child.

  Some things never change.

  They headed smartly off down a lane much too narrow for cars with high banked-up hedges on either side moving towards the sound and smell of the sea. It was quiet, the sort of quiet you only get in places like this. It made her realize that city folk never really experience this sort of sizzling silence and, if you live life at a constant buzz like Selina, silence and solitude serve not to make you happy, but nervous.

  The pace he was setting was cracking and she was too warm already taking off her casual jacket and tying it round her waist. Gareth had stopped up ahead, rather elaborately waiting for her but she needed to pause for a breather, trying to disguise that fact by rooting around in her bag for her sunglasses. She had packed everything else in her bag, any manner of useless items such as eyeliner for heaven’s sake, but no sunglasses so she would just have to squint and make the best of it.

  Within minutes of crossing over a field full of wild flowers, they walked directly into the view from the study window and at close quarters with a heady combination of ocean and grassy smells it was even more enchanting.

  ‘Would you just look at that?’ Gareth said drawing to a halt beside her, aware that this was the first time she had experienced a view that was so very familiar to him. ‘What do you make of that?’

  She shielded her eyes with her hand and looked.

  No words were adequate. As far as views were concerned this one could take its place with any other in the world. The wonderful thing was that another layer of grief peeled away and lifted off her as she looked at it, at the sheer wonder of nature, mind boggling in its ragged beauty as she looked at the sea tumbling about far below the cliffs, a clear turquoise sea more in keeping with Pamela’s Mediterranean dream than this cooler ocean. The waves were tumbling in, frothy-edged like lace on a nightgown, breaking on the shore, and then as if taking a breath pausing before slipping back. The cliffs to one side of the beach looked sheer, but they were climbable, Gareth informed her, with plenty of handholds amongst the rock and vegetation.

  ‘Have you climbed them?’

  ‘No. That’s not for me. I’m not into rock climbing.’

  ‘Me neither,’ she said, shuddering at the very idea.

  ‘We’ll walk up to the headland over there if you’re up for it,’ Gareth said. ‘Then we can sit down and have a rest.’

  ‘I shan’t need a rest,’ Francesca assured him, irked again that he seemed to think she was some sort of frail little old lady. True, in recent years she was a stranger to walking, other then the few steps necessary to get her from car to wherever she was going, but she would show him that she could still do it. She crouched down and adjusted the offending sock before following him.

  To get to the headland they had to go up and over the gentler slopes of the cliff, although in this context that seemed a misnomer. There were some steps cut into the hill for the non-climbing members of the public which were supposed to make it easier, but somehow made it worse. It was like climbing up a broken down escalator, a very long one, some of the steps depressingly steep, and Gareth was striding along, slowing from time to time to allow her – gasping – to catch up.

  This was proving to be a good deal more difficult than she had expected.

  ‘Want a hand?’ He held out his hand as they neared the top but she shook him away, determined to do it on her own, even though by now her knees were very nearly giving way. She had never before been so glad to see a bench and sink onto it, all pretence of being fit gone. Gareth produced a bottle of mineral water and passed it over.

  ‘Are you all
right?’ he asked and she thought she detected amusement in his voice which was a bit rich considering she might be close to pegging out. She could not speak yet, merely nod as if she did this sort of thing every day. Eventually, she was well enough to take a welcome sip of water.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sorry, I should have known. I wasn’t intending to test you out.’

  ‘Weren’t you?’

  ‘No. On second thoughts it is a bit challenging for a beginner. We should have stuck to the lower walk.’

  She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling as she glanced at him that, despite his protestations he had done it deliberately, the little smile he was trying hard to conceal the giveaway.

  ‘OK. You win, Gareth Bailey. I need to get fitter,’ she admitted once she got her breath back. ‘What can you expect? I’ve been practically living in my car for the last few years and when I was working there was never any time for the gym.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’re young and you’re not carrying any excess weight so you will soon get fit living round here. You should get yourself a dog, take it for walks.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said. David had intended to get dogs when they moved, two black Labradors to complete his new image of country squire. ‘Do you have one?’

  ‘I’m between dogs,’ he said. ‘But yes, I will get another. How’s the house coming along?’

  ‘Fine. You must come for dinner when it’s finished,’ she said, lifting her face to the sun feeling exhilarated now that they had done the climb. Below them, the sea whooshed a little more angrily against the rocks and there were just a few visitors strolling along the path below.

  Gareth said it would be busy in Tintagel itself, privately dismissing the King Arthur thing as pure hype although the visitors it brought to the town were very welcome – its life blood in fact.