A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  This, however, and more, was all still to come. As I walked down a winding path with the least treacherous of climbs to the sandy Banfield Bay, deemed the most suitable for beach sports, I could see that the children’s races were already in progress. Roger, in empire-builder shorts, pink, delighted, and hopping up and down with childish excitement, was behind the foghorn, bellowing instructions, oblivious to the fact that his voice was already amplified and there was no need to shout. Belinda, along with some parents and teachers, scurried around the mass of children from the local school, all over-excited and pleased to see each other during the long school holiday and not concentrating terribly hard. Visiting children, those who dared, or whose parents pushed them – certainly the second-home owners liked to consider themselves part of the community – looked nervous and wary as the host children stared and whispered about them. This obviously included Theo and Ibby who, Christina had told me quietly, hated it, but there really was no way out for them. I saw them sitting glumly by and slightly apart, Christina beside them for moral support. She caught my eye and rolled hers. I grinned back sympathetically. I liked Christina, it occurred to me with some surprise, despite her having stolen my husband.

  ‘Line up for the egg and spoon! The egg and spoon! Anyone in Year Four – straight line, please!’ Roger boomed.

  ‘It’s Year Five, you fool!’ Belinda beetled across and told him in a loud hiss, which everyone heard because she was too close to the loudhailer, and as Year Four children obediently lined up.

  ‘Apologies, apologies! As you were, Year Four! Hold hard, stand by your beds! Year Five – quick march! Tight formation!’

  So anachronistic was Roger’s mix of hunting and military commands that bewildered small children wandered around, looking for beds to stand by and hold hard and no one knew what was going on. Belinda got more and more irritated, rushing back and forth in a frock of such voluminous proportions one felt she really might take off and sail magnificently out to sea, contradicting his every pronouncement.

  ‘Number seven wins!’ Roger roared. ‘A very well-deserved victory for little Ryan Trelawney if I’m not mistaken! Knew his great-grandfather! Took me on my first fishing trawler!’

  ‘Number four wins!’ Belinda rushed up to him. ‘Number seven is disqualified for holding on to his egg, are you blind, Roger?’

  ‘Nonsense, shows initiative. I always held mine. Just don’t get caught, that’s all. Well done, Ryan!’

  ‘But he did get caught,’ she seethed, as number four promptly burst into noisy tears on being handed second place. Ryan, a beefy, confident lad, beamed smugly.

  ‘I think we’re going to declare a dead heat for this race!’ announced Roger jovially, whereupon Ryan, miffed at being robbed of solo status, augmented number four’s tears by giving him a hefty shove to the sand.

  ‘Easy, boys! Decorum, decorum!’ Roger boomed as Belinda ran across and grabbed her son by the arm.

  ‘Hugo. Come and take over at once. Your father’s hopeless, as usual.’

  Hugo shrugged and wandered up.

  ‘But I was doing so well!’ Roger protested as he surrendered the foghorn to his son. In reality, though, there was an element of complicity about the abdication, and possibly, one or two tactical forced errors. He’d already officiated over the running race, the sack race and the three-legged race for all age groups. Enormous fun though it was to see the little imps scurrying about, if truth be told, he was keen to join his cronies on the balcony of the Sailing Club, the sun being close to the yard arm, and even if it was a mite short, somewhere in the world it would be over, and a sharpener therefore called for.

  I watched from the rocks with some of the parents as Hugo took the foghorn, flushing slightly at the responsibility. He was prompted all the time by Belinda, standing right beside him, telling him exactly when to announce each race, when to start it, and who the runners were. The constant corrections and bad jokes had departed with Roger, and now Hugo’s lovely calm tones ensured the races went smoothly again. Everyone visibly relaxed. He had that effect on people, I thought as I watched. Reliable, reassuring, kind. Bothering to bend down and congratulate each child on their achievements as they came through the finish line, shake their hands, and encourage those who were not necessarily destined for sporting prowess: the bespectacled, the overweight, and the downright dreamy in the case of one boy who, during the obstacle race, sat down on the fishing net he was supposed to crawl under, to inspect a crab he’d found caught in it.

  ‘A David Attenborough in the making?’ said a familiar voice in my ear. Iris materialized, still in jodhpurs, with Babs beside her, gorgeous in pink jeans and a stripy Breton top.

  ‘Not that that sort of star potential will stop Lady Bountiful,’ commented Babs, as Belinda hurried to chivvy the child down to the finish line, causing him to drop his crab and wail miserably. She took him firmly by the wrist and ran the rest of the race with him, beaming, as if he was enjoying every second of it, holding his wrist aloft as he crossed the line as though he were an Olympic athlete. Hugo, meanwhile, walked down the course and retrieved the precious sea creature, searching the sand to find it. He handed it to the boy, who gulped and pushed his glasses up his nose, sniffing loudly, equilibrium restored.

  ‘Bully,’ muttered Babs. ‘Can’t think how she managed to have such a lovely son. Must be the Bellingdon genes, Iris.’

  ‘Oh, she means well,’ said Iris, never one to be drawn.

  ‘Just gets it entirely wrong. Oh look.’ Babs puffed gleefully on her cigarette. ‘It’s her big moment.’

  A trestle table was being carried across the sand from the rocks by a couple of fathers. An efficient off-duty games teacher in a tracksuit and with a whistle round her neck carried her precious cargo to it: ribbons and medals and a few silver cups in a large plastic crate. Belinda scurried into position behind the table. She busied herself arranging all the medals in a row, whilst Hugo asked the children to very kindly come and sit before it – he and his mother really were Sergeant Wilson and Captain Mainwaring – which they dutifully did. They lined up in their school classes, cross-legged and chattering excitedly. Babs pottered across in her wedged espadrilles and had a word in the ear of one of the fathers she knew. He nodded and looked rather pleased. Then he went across to the table of goodies to relay the information. There was a moment’s excited discussion between the games teacher and Belinda, and then the latter scurried across to her son. She took the foghorn from Hugo.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen and children,’ she announced in her best cut-glass accent with exaggerated vowels. ‘I’ve jarst been informed that the local BBC news crew are here to film the prize-giving. So I hope you’ll all understand if we delay for a few minutes, until they arrive vair shortly.’

  An excited buzz went round the crowd. Belinda seemed to glow and expand in her regal magnificence. She beamed benevolently at the assembled throng. Babs sauntered back to us, smiling.

  ‘What are you up to, you witch?’ Iris asked dryly.

  Babs widened her eyes innocently. ‘Shona’s here, didn’t you know? She’s covering the prize-giving for Look South.’

  ‘She’s here?’ I asked, astonished. ‘Where?’

  ‘Round by the Sailing Club, apparently. With a film crew.’

  ‘And which prize-giving, pray, is she covering?’ asked Iris sarcastically. Belinda, having retrieved her handbag from behind a rock, was busy powdering her nose in her compact mirror. She teased her hair into even loftier waves, applying lipstick now, glancing about expectantly. The children, bored by this time, rolled around in the sand and played, or pinched one another, the games teacher struggling to keep order.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly say,’ grinned Babs. She sashayed off, bottom wiggling, towards the path up the cliff.

  ‘The sailing, obviously,’ said Iris grimly. ‘I’ll go and tell Hugo.’

  Hugo was likewise involved in keeping the children quiet as his mother primped and preened. On listening to the quiet,
assured tones of his aunt, in a rare show of command, and instead of informing Belinda, he took the foghorn. He explained that there’d been a slight misunderstanding, he apologized for the confusion, and confirmed that the prize-giving would now go ahead. Handing over to the gym teacher, who was more than capable of naming each winning child, he went to have a quiet word with his mother who was gaping, astonished. Albeit furious, she had no choice but to congratulate each child and award them a ribbon and a medal, her big moment of the year, the eyes of the village upon her, somewhat diminished. Her smile definitively did not reach her eyes as she shook each child by the hand. I had no time to sympathize with my ex-mother-in-law, however, and increasingly less inclination to these days. Instead I hurried off to find my friend, experiencing only a twinge of jealousy that I hadn’t been the first to know. Although – hang on. I whipped my phone from my pocket. I hadn’t checked it this morning.

  If the trawler race doesn’t go ahead in St Mawes we may be reduced to covering the sailing races at Trewarren. It’s the silly season. Are you about??

  Ah. See? Never doubted her for a moment. I texted back. ‘Yes!!’ And pocketed my mobile with a smile. Then I headed back up the sandy, winding path to the cliff top, and thence to the centre of the village.

  The Sailing Club was almost as crowded as the Mariners next door. Indeed, at this time of year, the narrow street outside which hosted the overflow was a rather pleasing eclectic mix of each respective clientele, the young from one merging with the pillars of the community from the other. Ted had said he’d be around at some point and I had a quick glance about, but couldn’t see him. Roger was unmissable, though. Holding court with his cronies up on the balcony, he was florid and booming, large glass in hand. He saw me and gave a cheery wave, indicating with a huge sweep of his arm and a point at his glass that I should come up immediately for a drink. I nodded and mouthed: ‘Will later!’

  Tommy and Peter were racing the Wayfarer together, which Peter would enjoy enormously. They were no doubt getting the boat ready further down the estuary. I thought about going to chat to them and decided I was the last person they needed before a race. Instead I joined the crush for a drink at the Mariners, which I could then take out to the wall, where I could see Celia and Edward. They were sitting with their backs to me, kicking their heels and watching the dinghy racing. I could perch with them and wait for Shona to arrive.

  As I muscled into the scrum, making it to the bar reasonably quickly, a girl beside me placing her order looked familiar. She likewise glanced at me in recognition and I realized where I’d seen her.

  I smiled. ‘I think I saw you on the beach, at the party.’

  ‘Yeah, you did. How is Professor Fleming?’

  Her formality threw me a bit. ‘Ted?’

  ‘Yeah, well. I did call him Ted. Did call him a lot of things. But I guess I’m a student again now.’ She flashed me a deliberately ironic smile. Then she paid the barman, collected her drinks and moved away from the bar, turning her back on me.

  I gazed after her for a moment. I’d like to say I was confused, but there was no confusion, actually. No disguising what she’d meant. I remembered her leaping up with a friend to dash across and drag him to sit with her group by the fire when we’d arrived: remembered her coming up after we’d kissed by the rocks, when the boys were complaining we’d drunk their wine. She’d said something cutting to him, which I’d missed, but could tell by her tone she was not amused. One of the boys had calmed her down. She’d been more than a student. Clearly.

  Heart pounding, I paid for my drink. As I went out I saw her again with some friends in a group by the window, her profile to me now. I wondered if she was aware I was watching her. Certainly her gestures were self-conscious as she threw back her head and laughed, then ran a tanned hand through a mane of silky blonde hair. She was very beautiful, with fine features and almond-shaped eyes. And very young. Swallowing hard, I quickly walked away. I went, not towards Celia and Edward, but right to the very end of the wall, at the fringe of the crowd. I could pretend I was waiting for someone. Take a moment. Compose myself.

  I sipped my drink. Perhaps she was postgrad, I reasoned. Twenty-three or four. But she didn’t look it. It was so hard to tell these days. And obviously, whatever had happened, had happened before I met him, I reminded myself. So what business was it of mine anyway? And actually, it might just have been a flirtation on her part, a crush. But somehow I knew that wasn’t true. My glass of white wine tasted sour, unpleasant almost, in my mouth. I abandoned it on the wall, my mood plummeting.

  Below me, on the slipway to the beach, an excited commotion was unfolding. I guessed it was Shona arriving. Rightly regarded as a bit of a local hero, she pretty much knew everyone and was greeted warmly wherever she went. Everyone secretly wondered if she might just choose to interview them, about the state of the restraining sea wall which crumbled frequently in the winter as the waves lashed against it. Or perhaps the marauding dog, that killed sheep by the dozen and which no one could catch let alone see, leading to a story about it actually being a black panther. Shona had dutifully followed this up, since a few years earlier a similar story had unfolded on Exmoor, but Peter had shown me a hilarious outtake on YouTube, which had Shona rolling her eyes after she’d done her piece to camera in a windy field, wondering aloud where on earth this panther might have sprung from. St Mawes Cattery? Should she go there next? Eventually a huge Doberman belonging to the Porthmarron caravan-site-owner was caught in the act and shot by a farmer. Shona had to politely decline to show the dead dog on TV, despite the farmer’s insistence.

  I hung over the wall now and watched her. She was springing from the passenger seat of a BBC van with her crew: a cameraman with a beard and a young chap with a furry boom. I was close enough to give her a shout, when I realized she was very much in work mode. She was on her mobile, nipping round to the back of the van in a hurry, wearing white jeans and a navy silk shirt, looking fab. Shrugging on a jacket, she collected her crew, who were still getting their equipment from the back. With a jerk of her head, she led them towards a group of people on the beach. Smiling broadly and shaking hands with them all, she then efficiently sectioned off an important-looking chap in a blazer, who I recognized as a friend of Roger’s, and the captain of the Sailing Club.

  She had a few friendly words before the camera rolled and they looked out to sea at the dinghies. When it was clear they were on air and she was posing a question, it seemed he might dry up. He began opening and shutting his mouth and growing a bit pink, and then with her easy manner she prompted him gently. He grew more verbose, even rocking back on his heels, expanding on his theme: the growing importance of the regatta, the sense of community it engendered, the bonding between tourists and locals. A little group had gathered to watch. Overhead, the throng on the Sailing Club balcony had moved to the railings to listen, amongst them Roger and Belinda, beach duties accomplished. When the interview was over, a small cheer rang out from the crowd. Shona looked up at the balcony and laughed. Seeing so many people she knew, she executed a mock bow. Suddenly she spotted me. She hurried up the beach to the sea wall. I leaned over.

  ‘I’ve literally got one more person to interview round in Kylatter Cove and then I’m free. Shall we meet back here? In an hour? Have some lunch?’

  ‘Yes! Or – so crowded here, Shona – shall I come round to Kylatter? There’s that beach café there.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll see you there.’ She gave me a huge grin and a thumbs up. She was about to speed back to her crew when she turned. Sped back.

  ‘Oh, by the way, I’m meeting that friend of yours there, Ted Fleming? He came and saw me in Truro. Wants to do a piece on the clean-up operations on the beaches.’

  I stared. ‘Oh … right. Gosh … I didn’t—’ But she’d gone, leaving me gaping.

  She hurried back to her crew who threw their equipment in the back of the van and then leaped in themselves. Job done, dinghy racing in the can, it was a bit of loca
l colour which might be useful on the six o’clock news, but if truth be told, could well end up on the cutting room floor if something better came up in the meantime. The cameraman started the engine, and, with the three of them in a row in the front, they roared back up the slipway to the road.

  I decided to walk round to Kylatter. It would take about an hour, which would give Shona time to do what she had to do, and meanwhile, give me a chance to get the wind in my hair and some endorphins pumping in my body. It would also give me time to consider that absolutely no one of my age was ever going to be perfect. That they would always have a past littered with ex-girlfriends and ex-wives. But that it was all history, and I needed to stop being so exacting and jolly well grow up. If only she wasn’t so young, I thought, my tummy churning as I moved away from the crowds towards the cliff path. And if only he hadn’t said that thing about Peter and Janey. About it being inappropriate, because of the age gap. I didn’t mind the fact that he’d had a young girlfriend – although I did mind that she was quite so young. But what I did mind, what I really minded more than anything, was the hypocrisy.

  25

  Kylatter was shallow and long and not the most popular of bays. It was on the shady side of the estuary, unsheltered from the wind, and the small amount of sand it possessed near the shore soon turned to shingle or pebble further back. Amongst the drift of seaweed, wood and stones there was also a fair amount of washed up detritus. Because of its length, it was more of a dog-walking beach than a sandcastle or paddling one, and it was also a fair old leg stretch from the main resort. This, as we know, had been the point of me making the effort, but when I achieved it an hour or so later, suitably windswept and endorphin-pumped, other objectives had not necessarily been achieved. Indeed, I’d only added to my angst. I’d decided, for instance, that a certain amount of secrecy and deception had been involved on Ted’s part in not mentioning to me that he’d been to see my best friend at her office in Truro: that was certainly up there in lights as a Have It Out conversation. As the cliff path plummeted abruptly and the whole bay swept suddenly into view, it was to see the man himself, climbing the last few steps up from the beach. He was approaching the car park.