The Cornish Café Series

CHAPTER TWO

I thought about the waitress all the way out of St Trenyan, knowing I probably should have said something – that I could have stuck up for her – although I’m not sure what good it would have done or if she’d have thanked me for it. My shining armour turned rusty a long time ago and I’ve stopped trying to solve everyone’s woes. No good comes of crashing in on other people’s lives, no matter how well intentioned.

Besides, she didn’t seem to need my help. In fact, I really admired the way she stood up to the Cades … unlike me. The real truth is I wasn’t ready to face them or, at least, risk being plunged headlong into a confrontation with them.

They’re a local family of businesspeople who are well known in St Trenyan and the surrounding area. Mawgan was at my school, albeit she was a couple of years below me. She’d joined the Cade family empire before I went away and it seems as if she’s relishing her role at the helm. Her father, Clive Cade, is obviously proud of her although his younger daughter, Andi, doesn’t look cut out to be a business mogul. You never know with people, however. Before I left St Trenyan for the Middle East, I wouldn’t have thought Mawgan would become as spiteful and petty as she was towards the waitress.

Ignoring my aching knee, not to mention my niggling conscience, I stride out along the path which lurches its way over every tiny cove and sliver of beach. I’ve already had to change my route a few times where parts of the cliff have dropped into the sea. Judging by the rock falls on the beach, there must have been some almighty storms while I’ve been away.

At the top of one of the cliffs, I duck inside an old whitewashed huer’s hut for a break from the sun. Tankers and a cruise ship are tiny specks on the horizon as they head out into the Atlantic and I can taste salt on my lips again so I know I’m almost home. I shrug the pack off my back and stretch my spine.

The desert boots I had to borrow are caked in Cornish mud now, although I still feel self-conscious in the combats and khaki T-shirt. On the upside, the beanie hat and beard meant that I wasn’t recognised in St Trenyan. If I’d stepped into the row with the infamous Cades, they definitely would have.

Squashing down another pang of guilt, I shoulder my bag again. The path hugs the edge of the cliff, the worst of the climbs are over and I can see the black and white lighthouse on the headland in the far distance. The afternoon sun is mellowing, yet the sweat trickles down my spine. A few yards further on, I reach the milestone, which is just a lump of grey granite spattered with orange lichen. The words weathered away long before I was born but I know what it used to say, all the same.

One way lies Kilhallon Park, my home: the other leads to Bosinney House, my uncle’s house – and possibly to Isla Channing. The report in The Times said she was scouting out the locations for a new drama series and that she’d won an award for her last production. I always knew in my heart that she’d make it big, that she was too good to stay in one small place; with the likes of me. Perhaps that’s why I left in the first place, perhaps not – I’ve had too much time to reflect over the past few months.

On the other side of the valley, a group of ruined engine houses cling to the cliffs and on the moor the tower of the church looms above the trees. Some of them are almost bent double trying to escape the gales from the Atlantic.

For a second, I hesitate in the middle of the narrow path, wondering if I ought to go home to Kilhallon Park or to Bosinney House. Uncle Rory will know if Isla’s back. Luke might even be around too as it’s Good Friday. He’s an old buddy of mine and he works as an advisor for my uncle’s finance company, or rather he did when I last heard from him which was months ago now.

A young guy and his girlfriend shake their heads at me, eager to get past on the coast path which has become very narrow here due to a fresh growth of gorse.

‘Thinking of moving, mate, or will you be here all day?’ the guy says with a grunt.

‘Sorry.’ I press against the scratchy gorse and they squeeze past me, muttering something about ‘losers’.

A moment later, I’ve decided – and turning away from home, I head for Bosinney.

Oblivious to the trouble he’s caused at the cafe, Mitch trots after me along the cobbles of Fore Street. The houses and shops of St Trenyan tumble down the steep cobbled streets to the sea, their roofs and windows shimmering in the afternoon sun. A few marshmallow clouds float across the sapphire blue sky and whitecaps sparkle on the sea. Tourists ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at the shops full of Easter eggs and gifts, hand-crafted chocolate and trendy china, and posh tea towels that cost as much as a morning’s wages. The tang of fish and chips and rich scent of coffee follow me along the street but I need to save every penny now, even more than before.

I was crimson with shame and fighting back tears as Sheila paid me the rest of the week’s wages which I know was more than I deserved. She was almost crying too which made me feel even worse, but she said there was no way she could keep me on. It turns out Mawgan Cade and her family do own the Beach Hut: they bought it when the previous owner, an old lady who’d lived in St Trenyan for eighty years, had to sell up and go into a nursing home. Mawgan hiked the rent up, which is why Sheila’s margins are now so thin.

‘Someone should do something about people like that!’ I said to Sheila, after Mawgan had left.

‘No one dares stand up to the Cades. They have their fingers in too many pies.’

Sheila offered to make excuses for me but I stopped her. In the end I knew the best thing for everyone was for me to leave the cafe as soon as possible before she was forced to sack me. But leaving my job also meant leaving the temporary shelter I’d found too.

‘Come on, boy,’ I say as Mitch sniffs around the bins by the harbourmaster’s office. I find a vacant bench with room for me and my worldly goods. The tourists tend to avoid the working end of the harbour: it’s too far from the souvenir shops and car parks and always smells of fish, but I need time to think. My stomach growls while Mitch curls up at my feet, full of pasty and sighing contentedly. At least he’s happy and, whatever happens, I’ll make sure he’s looked after. I’d let him go to a good home, rather than see him want for anything.

Rubbing my wet face with the back of my hand, I squeeze back the tears and think of happier times, hoping an idea will come. When I was a little girl, Mum used to take us for tea with my Nana Jones every Sunday afternoon. A proper Cornish tea with a brown pot under a woolly tea cosy, flowery china loaded with goodies you don’t see any more, figgy ’obbin, spicy parkin, fairings, and ‘fly pastry’ with currants. She even made a stargazy pie once but I burst into tears when I saw the little fish peeping out of the crust so she never made it again.

Talking of fish, a few yards away from me, a boat has just landed its catch. The gulls circle overhead, fighting and screaming over scraps. The tang of fresh fish fills the air.

‘Maybe they’d take me on as crew?’ I tell Mitch, who drops his muzzle onto his paws. He looks as confident about the plan as I feel.

‘Well, if we’re not going to sea, we need to find a new job and somewhere to stay. Come on,’ I say as much for my benefit as his. Mitch’s ears perk up ready for a new adventure which cheers me up a little too. ‘We’ve done it before and we can do it again,’ I say with a new determination. ‘We’ll just have to make the best of things.’

CHAPTER THREE

By the time I reach Bosinney House, my knee aches like crazy and a young woman I don’t recognise bars the doorway. The frilly white apron round her waist looks odd with the spray-on jeans and pink T-shirt.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asks, reminding me of the waitress, apart from the accent, which is definitely not Cornish but from a lot further east. Krakow? Bucharest? For some reason, she also looks scared of me. Maybe I should have had a shave.

Feeling guilty, I summon up a smile for her. ‘Hi. Is Uncle Rory at home?’

‘Uncle Rory? I do not know who you mean …’ She eyes me suspiciously and I don’t blame her. What with the attitude, the borrowed combats and the beard, she must think I’ve come to tie up and terrorise the household.

‘I mean my uncle, Mr Rory Penwith.’

She bites her lip nervously before replying. ‘Mr Penwith is here but he has guests with him.’

I should have realised that from the row of vehicles parked outside: a Range Rover, an Audi, and a couple of Mercs. Then, it dawns on me that today must be his birthday.

‘I can see that but I think he’ll find room for one more. Tell him it’s his nephew, Cal Penwith.’

She looks me up and down. ‘You are family?’

‘It may be hard to believe but I am. Can I come in? I won’t steal the silver.’

She tightens her grip on the door frame. ‘They are in the big glass room, having drinks.’

‘The orangery?’

Finally, she nods and stands aside to let me in. ‘Yes. I will take you.’

‘There’s no need. I know my way.’

Leaving my pack on the floorboards, I march past her, across the great hall and down the corridor that leads to the orangery, with the girl’s heels click-clacking behind me. The great hall smells faintly of ashes and wood smoke as it does for three seasons of the year. That’s the only part of Bosinney House that hasn’t changed: the rest has been built on over the years. It’s many times bigger than the house on Kilhallon Park and a hundred times grander. Uncle Rory inherited it from my granddad, who left Kilhallon Park to his younger son, my father. Dad never quite got over being treated as second best but I love Kilhallon, even in the state I left it when I went abroad. I’d never swap it for all Bosinney’s grandeur.

The girl catches up with me. ‘I will tell them you are here.’

I stop and turn. ‘Don’t do that.’

Seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, I feel ashamed and soften my tone. ‘I’d like to surprise them. Please?’

With another nod she scuttles off, muttering. ‘I’ll be in kitchen. I’ll fetch more champagne.’

Champagne, eh? Uncle Rory’s idea of extravagance used to be opening an extra bottle of Rattler … maybe they do know I’m coming after all.

The sound of laughter and the pop of corks drift along the corridor. Are they expecting me? It’s not possible or I’d have known about it by now and besides a handful of people, no one knows I’m back in Cornwall.

There’s applause, a few gentle cheers. I didn’t know Rory made a big thing of his birthdays, but maybe this is a landmark one or perhaps he’s made his first million from his financial advisor business. It was doing well when I left, despite the recession.

It occurs to me that I should, perhaps, have warned them first, not just turn up like this … but the truth is that a small part of me was afraid – is afraid – that no one would actually want me back.

The voices become more distinct, glasses chink and I hear a deep laugh – Uncle Rory – and a giggle – my cousin Robyn and my ears strain for the one voice I really want to hear. I walk towards the orangery and pause at the door, observing, assessing … the scene plays out like a surreal movie. These people I once cared for and loved are like actors in a play.

There must be around a dozen people in here, most of whom I recognise. Uncle Rory is downing a whisky – as I thought he would be; my old mate Luke is laughing nervously at something Isla’s mother is telling him. Robyn is handing round a tray of canapés, her face flushed. This is obviously a celebration.

There’s also someone else, whose honeyed hair brushes her bare shoulders, whose dress shimmers in the early evening sunlight and clings to her bottom. Whose slender legs are accentuated in silver heels higher than any I’ve ever seen her in before.

My body tautens like a wire. She hasn’t seen me yet, no one has seen me yet …

‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’

Uncle Rory’s face is purple. He’s lost a bit more hair since I last saw him. Luke’s mouth is open like a goldfish gasping for air. Isla’s mum looks shocked to see me. Robyn freezes, still holding the tray of canapés.

And Isla, she stares at me and her champagne glass trembles in her hand.

‘Cal? Is it really you?’

‘Isla …’ Her name squeezes out from my throat, almost inaudible. I never thought it would be like this. Every ounce of strength has gone.

‘Cal? Bloody hell, I thought you were a ghost!’ Luke suddenly rushes over and gathers me up in a man hug, slapping me on the back so hard I wince.

‘Are you OK, man?’

‘I’m fine. Looking good, Luke.’ And he does. Bigger, beefier, the extra weight suits him and he looks happy. It’s great to see him; I never expected to feel so emotional so I must be going soft. Luke gives me a man hug again, but this time I suppress the wince.

He stares at me. ‘Man, you look thin … I can’t believe this … I just … I don’t know what to say.’

He lets me go and rubs his hand over his face, shaking his head in shock. I don’t blame him. I’ve changed a lot while I’ve been away.

‘Cal! Cal!’ My cousin Robyn launches herself at me, tears streaming down her face, along with the kohl around her eyes. Robyn’s every bit as good a mate as any of the lads – more even. ‘Where have you been? Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?’ Her fingers dig into my forearm but I don’t mind. It’s wonderful to see her again.

‘I don’t know. Admin problems? Leaves on the line? Happy birthday, by the way.’

Uncle Rory downs the rest of his whisky and dumps the glass on a table. ‘It’s not a matter for levity, boy. We haven’t heard from you for months. For all we knew, you might have been dead.’

‘As you can see, I’m not.’

‘Don’t joke! You know damn well what I mean. We thought you’d decided to stay in the Middle East for good.’

‘I almost did,’ I say, with half an eye on Isla, watching me from a few feet away, still dumbstruck and even more beautiful than she looked in that newspaper article. She’s let her blonde hair grow and it’s been cut in a style that manages to be both classy and damn sexy.

‘How long have you known you were coming home?’ Rory asks.

‘A few days.’

His face is almost purple. ‘Then why didn’t you call us? We’ve hardly heard from you in the past two years.’

Isla has abandoned her glass and is hugging herself as if she’s freezing cold. Under the light tan, which I presume she picked up on her last shoot in Cannes, she’s pale as the moon on the sea.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say more to Isla than my uncle. ‘I’ve been … tied up and I couldn’t get away from work that easily.’ I swallow hard. ‘It’s been … complicated.’

‘Too tied up or complicated to phone us or email?’ Luke asks, an edge creeping into his voice. I can’t blame him.

‘Why didn’t you phone or text, if only to say you were on your way home?’ Isla’s voice cuts through the air, more London than in my imagination, yet still with the Cornish lilt. Everyone else may as well be on Mars.

‘It’s complicated,’ I repeat, knowing I can never un-complicate it or tell anyone the real truth. ‘I’ve only been in the UK for a few hours and I did call you.’ With a smile, I switch the focus back to Isla. ‘I tried to call you on the train here but your phone was dead.’

She smiles back, apologetically. ‘Oh … I’m sorry. I’ve changed my phone and my number while you’ve been away. I had to; a fan got hold of it and started stalking me.’

‘A fan?’

‘Isla’s a celebrity now.’ Her mother glares at me like Medusa, obviously hoping to turn me to stone while her dad takes refuge in his champagne glass. He always was a man of few words and he’s lost for them now. ‘She’s an award-winning TV and film producer, you know,’ Mrs Channing adds.

‘I know that. I read about the last one in the newspaper. Congratulations.’

‘So you had time to read the papers?’ Isla remarks. She wrinkles her nose like she used to when she was trying not to cry. Like she did when I left her at the station the night I left Cornwall.

‘Actually I did email you on my way down on the train,’ I go on, refusing to let Isla off the hook.

‘Oh, Cal. I haven’t even looked at my emails since yesterday. We’ve all been completely tied up here all day, organising the party … and Luke forbade me to do any work this weekend, didn’t you?’

‘Forbade you?’

‘I forbade myself.’

She puts her glass down on the table but it’s my hands shaking now as I walk towards her. A huge wave of memories thunders towards me and I pull her into my arms. I’m swept away by the sight and smell and feel of her. She is fragile, delicate, a porcelain figure, always way out of my league. Instinct stirs responses I can’t stop and don’t want to, even in the middle of company. I press her against me and her hands seek my spine through my shirt as if she wants to double check I’m real, not a phantom. I inhale her perfume. It’s a new one, sharper and more sophisticated than the scents she used to wear, or is that my imagination?

‘You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this.’ I breathe the words into her hair, which smells even better than I remember it.

‘Cal …’

Her whisper pushes me away, then I realise that her hands are also pushing me away from her too. No. I won’t let her go yet. I could lift her off her feet if I wanted to, and carry her out of here in a second but she is controlling this moment; this moment I’ve hungered and thirsted for so long. There’s deep pain in her eyes and the realisation smacks me in the chest. ‘Isla?’

‘I’m sorry but things have changed.’ Her voice cracks with emotion and it’s all I can do to hold it together.

Changed? Yeah, I guess. You look even hotter than ever, if that’s possible. You smell wonderful too. I want to say the words out loud but something stops me. Instead I lift my hand to her cheek and feel the soft skin under my fingertips.

She smiles and then flinches away from my hand. ‘Please. Not here. Not now.’

Everyone is looking at us; we’re the dancers in the middle of a circle that no one dares to join.

‘Aren’t you going to congratulate the happy couple?’ Mrs Channing, Isla’s mother, speaks.

‘What happy couple? I thought this was a birthday party? Is there something I’m missing here?’ I make my tone light but my stomach churns with foreboding.

‘It is a birthday party but we’ve just heard some more good news. Isla and Luke have announced they’re getting engaged. Isn’t that wonderful news?’ her mother trills.

‘Engaged?’ Shock constricts my throat muscles. ‘You mean engaged to be married?’

Isla laughs lightly. ‘Well, there isn’t going to be a wedding yet. Not for a while.’

‘But probably this year. Definitely early next year,’ Luke cuts in, with an expression on his face I don’t recognise.

‘We haven’t set a date yet, these things take a lot of organising and I’m so busy with work.’ Isla glances at Luke for confirmation.

Robyn links her arm with mine. ‘They told us just before you came in, Cal. Isn’t it an amazing day? Dad’s birthday, the engagement and you coming home …’

Robyn beams. I don’t think she or anyone realises how much I felt for Isla. Before I went away, we didn’t really have a formal relationship. It was definitely on–off and no one considered it serious. Isla obviously didn’t. But the past few months have made me realise that I did. I’ve been in denial about how much I felt for her and I’d resolved to tell her when I came home, if I came home.

My uncle pats Luke on the back. He seems as proud as if Luke were his own flesh and blood, not the son of his former business partner. Rory always had a soft spot for Luke but now there’s clearly a bond between them that wasn’t there when I went away. It’s as if Luke is Rory’s son now.

‘Aren’t you thrilled for them?’ Mrs Channing’s voice cuts through me and she gives me a calculating glance.

‘Oh yes. Thrilled.’ I echo her because I can’t formulate my own thoughts any more. I can’t even think straight.

‘Cal, darling, I’ll fetch you a whisky.’ Robyn scuttles off.

I glance to Isla, clutching her glass so tightly it could shatter any second but Luke’s arm is around my back.

He clears his throat nervously. He knows I fancied Isla, and that we dated for a while before I left but not how much I really felt for her. ‘Hey, mate, it’s great to have you home. Joking apart, I was worried that you might have decided to stay out there.’

‘I thought the same myself, a few times.’ My smile hides an instinct to lash out like a wounded animal. Anyone will tell you my social veneer was never thick, but now it’s paper thin and rubbed to nothing in places. My time in the Middle East has shown me the worst of human nature, including my own. It was a mistake to turn up like this, an even bigger one to come home and expect to find everything as I left it.

‘Cal?’ Isla’s voice is soft, reminding me that these are the people I love and miss, whose company I longed for, but now I’m here, now I know how much things have changed, I’d rather face the warzone I came from.

Ignoring Isla temporarily, I search Luke’s face, interrogate him. ‘How long have you two been together?’

‘A good few months now.’ His tone is overly casual, his smile over bright. ‘Come through to the sitting room. Have a drink. We’ll talk.’

‘No. No, I … thanks for the offer, mate, but I need to get home to Kilhallon Park.’

‘Wait, Cal! Surely you’re going to tell us where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing lately?’

The answer to Isla’s question is so complicated, and yet so simple, that my brain literally hurts. The blood pulses in my temple, a tight band seems to crush my skull.

‘Not now, I’m tired … and I don’t want to spoil your party with my boring stories. Plus, I really should go and see how Polly is. I left a message on her phone but I haven’t heard back from her yet. I hope she’s been OK while I’ve been out of contact.’

Luke flashes me a sympathetic smile. ‘Polly’s fine but you obviously wouldn’t expect her to cope with managing the whole place on her own, with no money coming in since just before you left, after your father passed away. Rory and I did what we could to keep things from falling into complete rack and ruin but we didn’t want to take over.’

I smile at Luke and his arm tightens around Isla’s waist. The sight of him with her is like a jagged knife sawing through my guts.

‘I can see that. Congratulations,’ I say and walk out.