The Beach Cafe (7 page)

I re-emerged from the kitchen into the serving area. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘What can I get you?’

He was tall, and in his late thirties, I guessed, with short dark hair, brown eyes and a hint of stubble around his mouth. He was wearing a sun-bleached blue T-shirt and knackered-looking jeans. Through the doorway I saw that the dog had been tied to the wooden balcony outside. She was lying down with her head on her front paws as if worn out by her beach antics.

The man smiled. A wide, easy smile that showed perfect, even teeth. ‘A cup of tea would be great, please. And some water for the dog, if that’s okay.’

Phew. So he hadn’t been sent by Betty to set his hound on me, at least. I made us both a tea and put some water in an old margarine tub, carrying it outside and setting it down by the dog.

‘So,’ the man said conversationally when I returned, ‘you’re the bad niece then.’

My hackles rose. Maybe Evil Betty
had
sent him after all. ‘I’m the what?’ I asked, folding my arms across my chest.

He grinned. ‘The bad niece. That’s what they’ve all been saying in the pub anyway.’

‘In the pub?’ I was like an echo. ‘I don’t understand. Why are people saying that? What do they think I’ve done?’

He sipped his tea. ‘Well, you’re selling this place, aren’t you? They’ve all got their knickers in a twist about it. Someone wants to turn it into a luxury second home, apparently, and there are enough second-homers here already, and it’s wrecking the village, and they’re upset about your aunt dying, and they’d hoped that you’d take it on . . .’ He’d clearly been doing some major eavesdropping. ‘No skin off my nose what you do, obviously. None of my business. But the rest of ’em – they’re up in arms. Can’t talk of anything else.’

My cheeks were scarlet. ‘Well, it’s not even true! The café isn’t for sale!’ I shook my head, reeling from this information. I could just imagine them all moaning about me in the pub; I was surprised my ears hadn’t burned to a crisp. No wonder Betty had been so frosty. ‘No one’s talked to
me
about turning it into a luxury second home,’ I said indignantly. ‘No one’s asked
me
if they can buy it. It’s all gossip. Meaningless gossip.’

He shrugged. ‘You know how word gets around these places,’ he said. ‘Chinese whispers. I suppose I should be grateful they’re not discussing
me
for a change.’ He eyed me over his tea. ‘So, you’re saying you’re not selling?’

I took a deep breath, feeling flummoxed. ‘I . . . I haven’t actually decided what I’m going to do yet,’ I confessed, leaning back against the tiled wall. It felt cold under my palms. ‘Maybe I will have to sell it eventually. I live in Oxford, so it’s not exactly practical for me to run it. But that’s why I came down here, to work out what to do. I don’t know why everyone’s already jumped to conclusions and started slagging me off, when I haven’t even decided anything yet. God!’

My voice shook, and he held his hands up. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I should know better than to pass on gossip. I should have known it was cobblers, after the rubbish they invented about me.’

‘What’s your story then?’ I asked, to change the subject. ‘Why have you been gossiped about?’

‘Oh, lots of reasons,’ he replied carelessly. ‘I haven’t lived here for the last two hundred years, so obviously I’m a suspicious outsider, like you. And I’ve driven them nuts, not telling them much about myself, so they’ve had an utter field day – a field
month
– speculating and guessing about who I am and why I’m here.’ He grinned. ‘They thought I was some kind of fugitive at first, apparently, on the run from the law. Why else would I be hiding in their village out of season?’

I grinned back. ‘I’m surprised no one made a citizen’s arrest,’ I told him.

‘You and me both,’ he said. ‘The truth is far less exciting, though. I’m dog-sitting for a mate while he’s working abroad for a couple of months. Getting away from it all, you know.’

‘Ahh,’ I said. ‘And . . .’ I was about to ask exactly what he was getting away from when a young couple came in with a baby in a sling. I smiled at them politely. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘What can I get you?’

By the time I’d served them, the man was getting to his feet. ‘Thanks,’ he said, bringing over his empty mug. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Oh God, did I forget to charge you?’ Embarrassment coursed through me. I wasn’t going to win Professional Businesswoman of the Year if I kept giving out freebies. ‘Oops. One pound fifty, please.’

He handed over the money. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’m Ed.’

‘Evie,’ I replied. ‘Nice to meet you, too. And you can tell those gossips from me they’ve got their facts wrong.’

‘Will do,’ he said, then turned and strode out. ‘Come on then, Lola,’ I heard him say. ‘Time to go.’

I had a straggle of customers to deal with – teas, coffees and a couple of rounds of toast – but it was ten o’clock before any of the other members of staff put in an appearance. Seb was first, the lad who helped out at weekends, and he looked horrified to see me there. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, turning bright red. ‘I didn’t think we’d be open yet. Last week, Carl said – ’

He didn’t finish his sentence, but I could guess the rest. Carl had said not to bother coming in at the usual time as he wouldn’t be opening up till later. No doubt he’d anticipated a hangover after the poker party.

‘No worries,’ I said lightly. I was too relieved to have someone else behind the counter to be really cross with him.

Just then a couple of twenty-somethings came in for a coffee and bacon roll each. Seb and I looked at each other. ‘I’ll do the coffees,’ he said.

‘Right,’ I said, hurrying into the kitchen before anyone could see the panicked look on my face. It was only
bacon
, I reminded myself. I could cook that. Anyone could fry up a bit of bacon, even me. It was just . . . Where was Carl? I hadn’t expected to have to do any actual cooking while I was here; it was hardly my specialist subject. Stress!

I made the bacon rolls without any disasters, and after that we had a steady stream of people in for hot drinks, toast and brunchy things. I could feel myself getting hotter and sweatier as I slipped behind with the orders. Seb’s handwriting was so appalling, I kept having to run back to the counter to double-check what he’d scrawled on the order slips, and he kept muddling things up, forgetting who’d asked for what. Then he burned himself on the milk frother and went so pale and trembly I thought he might faint.

Saffron, the sulky redhead, finally showed her face by eleven o’clock, and she was slightly more efficient at least, but her customer service was the pits. Even from my hellish bacon-frazzling, toast-burning nightmare of a kitchen, I was aware of the rude, uninterested way in which she spoke to people. ‘Brown or white toast?’ she’d snap. ‘Do you want milk in that tea?’

I felt scared for the customers, imagining her shining a dazzling light in their faces as she interrogated them. And guess what? No one – not one single person – had bought a slice of my cake, or asked for a cream tea yet. Ungrateful sods.

Just as I was starting to have a meltdown over the ninety-seven thousand sandwiches I’d been asked to make, Carl rocked in, looking whey-faced and shambolic in the same T-shirt he’d been wearing the day before. Had he
slept
in it? I wondered, narrowing my eyes at him. ‘Carl, where have you been?’ I cried. ‘How come you’re so late?’

He shrugged. ‘I knew you’d be here,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think there was any rush.’

I felt like whacking him over the head with my greasy spatula. ‘That’s crap, and you know it,’ I retorted. ‘For all you knew, I could have gone out somewhere today. This wasn’t the deal – that you can slack off when I’m around. I’m not going to be here forever, you know.’

‘Thank God for that,’ he said, washing his hands. He dried them on a tea towel before picking up a spatula of his own and ambling over to the cooker, where four pink rashers of bacon were sizzling and spitting. ‘I’ll take over here.’

I scowled. ‘Very big of you,’ I muttered, spreading margarine on the bread.

‘Don’t mention it,’ he said sweetly.

It was the longest, hottest, most bad-tempered working day I could remember in a long time. Saffron had a stand-up row with a teenage girl who came in – her arch-enemy, apparently, not that I cared about
that –
and called an elderly gentleman ‘a deaf old giffer’ when he didn’t answer her ‘D’ya want milk with that?’ immediately. Carl was rude and unpleasant the entire day. We ran out of milk, we ran out of bread, we ran out of cheese and, to top it all off, Seb managed somehow to drop my cake. Yes, my carrot cake, my pride and joy, the one I’d slaved over until midnight. I felt like bursting into tears when I saw it split into umpteen spongy shards on the floor.

‘Oops,’ Saffron said wickedly, eyes glittering as she turned her sharp little face towards mine. ‘That icing’s going to be a bugger to get off the lino.’

Seb looked as if he might cry too. He must have apologized at least fifteen times. I wouldn’t have minded so much if the cake had been almost finished, or at least sampled by somebody, but it was the first slice he’d been asked to cut all day.

Don’t even
ask
how many cream teas we sold.

‘Well, that was a total fucking nightmare,’ I said bitterly as we cleared up at the end of the day. ‘Tell me it’s not always like that.’

‘It’s always like that,’ Saffron replied, just as Seb said, ‘It isn’t usually that bad.’

‘It’s not good, though, is it?’ I asked, pausing in the middle of wiping a table. ‘I mean, we just about scraped through by the skin of our teeth, but I don’t think Jo would have been too thrilled if she could have seen us.’

Seb, who was sweeping up, looked as if he’d been slapped, whereas Saffron stuck her pointy nose in the air. ‘If Jo had been here, things wouldn’t have got so bad,’ she countered. ‘She’d have made us all laugh, made it fun, rather than stamp about looking pissed off all day.’

The cow, I thought. I’d give her stamping about, looking pissed off. ‘What I mean,’ I said, deliberately ignoring her jibe, ‘is that if this is going to work, we’ve all got to pull together. Be a team.’

Seb nodded meekly, but Saffron looked so scornful that I felt like throwing the spray gun at her. ‘A
team
. Pull
together
,’ she scoffed. ‘How can you say that to our faces, when we all know you’re planning to sell this place?’

I sighed. ‘Oh, not you as well,’ I said.

She put her hands on her hips triumphantly. ‘Yeah, we’re not stupid. Word gets around, you know. Lindsay at the pub heard you all talking about it after the funeral. Then we’ve had some prat from the estate agent’s poking around – you recognized him, Seb, didn’t you?’

‘He sold my nan’s house for her,’ Seb explained. ‘Spotted him straight off, I did.’

‘Cheeky so-and-so, did he really come in here?’ I asked, table-wiping forgotten. ‘Are you sure he wasn’t just dropping in for a pasty?’

‘No,’ Seb said shyly. ‘He had a bloke with him, and I heard him telling the bloke how easy it would be to convert the café into a big, fancy house.’

I shook my head. The nerve of the man! ‘Great,’ I muttered. ‘You know, you could just have asked me, instead of jumping to conclusions—’

‘Well, we’re asking now,’ Saffron interrupted. She was very brazen, it had to be said. ‘Are you selling this place or not? Cos we need to know.’

There was silence as she and Seb stared at me. It had all gone quiet in the kitchen too, where Carl was no doubt eavesdropping.

‘Well, I’m . . .’ I began. My heart was thumping. This felt like a really big moment. Should I be honest – tell them I hadn’t a bloody clue what I was doing? Or would that make them all down tools and walk out? ‘No,’ I said finally. ‘I’m not selling. Got that?’

Chapter Seven

Sunday was another busy day in the café. I was up with the lark – or rather the gulls – trying to make a vegetable soup that would warm up anyone mad enough to go swimming in the still-icy waves. How hard could a soup be, after all?

I chopped and cooked the veggies, added some herbs, then whizzed the whole lot up in a blender, but the resulting mixture looked like – well, the contents of a baby’s nappy, if I was honest. Sludgy, sloppy and brown, and not at all the sort of thing you’d want to put anywhere near your mouth.

I put a lid on the soup and went to open up, but when I stepped out onto the deck, something gave me a start. Lying curled up, pressed against the café wall, was a girl in a sleeping bag, her eyes shut. I must have made some kind of exclamation, because her eyes suddenly flicked open and, when she saw me, she was up on her feet, yanking the sleeping bag under one arm and hurrying away down the steps to the beach.

‘Hey!’ I called. ‘Are you okay? Come back!’ She paid no attention, just scuttled off up the sand, her long blonde hair flying out behind her. She only looked about sixteen, poor kid. Where had she come from, and how had she ended up sleeping on my deck? Maybe she was on holiday here and had been to a beach party the night before? I wrinkled my nose doubtfully. No, surely I would have heard a beach party if it had gone on right under my nose.

I wrapped my arms around myself as a cool breeze blew straight off the sea, making goosebumps prickle up on my bare skin. The girl had vanished from sight now, off who knew where. I hoped she had a home to go to.

Once again my first customers that day were Ed and his dog, Lola, who curled up in the same corner of the deck as she’d done previously. ‘Hi there,’ I said, feeling pleased to see him as he strode in.

‘Morning,’ he said, smiling at me. He had a dimple in one cheek, I noticed. Then his smile vanished. ‘God, what’s that awful smell?’

I must have looked dismayed because he immediately apologized. ‘Sorry. That was a bit rude.’ His mouth twitched as if he was amused. ‘But, if you don’t mind me asking, what
is
that smell?’

‘That awful smell,’ I replied, unable to stop a certain haughtiness in my voice, ‘is the Soup of the Day actually.’ Then I gave up on haughtiness and sighed. ‘It didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted it to,’ I admitted. ‘In fact, it looks as revolting as it smells. My advice is: don’t have it. We’ve got scones, though, still very nice, just baked yesterday – well, the day before that, I suppose . . . ?’ My voice trailed away and hot colour surged into my cheeks. ‘No, okay. Bit early for scones. What can I get you?’

‘A coffee and a bacon roll, please,’ he said. ‘The scones do look good, though,’ he added kindly. He leaned a tanned arm on the countertop as I reached for a clean coffee mug. ‘Are you doing the cooking now here, then?’ he asked. ‘Have you given that Carl bloke the boot?’

‘I wish,’ I said without thinking, then slapped a hand to my mouth. ‘Oops. I didn’t say that. And I don’t wish I was doing the cooking at all. It’s not exactly my strongest point.’ I explained the situation to him while I made his coffee. ‘So you see,’ I said, stirring in the frothed milk, ‘it’s all rather up in the air. I haven’t a clue what’s going to happen next.’ I slid his coffee over to him. ‘Right. One bacon roll coming up.’

‘Could you toast the roll for thirty seconds or so, and could I have it with a scrape of butter, please,’ he said. ‘Oh, and the bacon should be crispy. I’ll do the ketchup myself.’

I stared at him.

‘If that’s okay,’ he added quickly. ‘Please.’

I blinked. ‘Sure,’ I said, trying to recover myself. ‘You’re very precise with your bacon-roll preferences.’

He shrugged. ‘I just know what tastes best,’ he replied mildly.

I went into the kitchen and bunged a roll under the grill and slapped a couple of rashers in the frying pan. Then I realized he was peering through the door at me. ‘The bacon’s better if you grill it,’ he said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

I tried not to show my exasperation. He was like the male Sally from
When Harry Met Sally
. In a minute he was going to criticize the way I buttered the roll, and I would have to throw it at him in a fit of pique.
Deep breaths
, I told myself.
Deep, calming breaths.

I took the bacon from the pan and put it under the grill instead. ‘No problem,’ I said evenly. ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring it over when it’s ready?’

He had the grace to look sheepish at least. ‘In other words, stop interfering and shut up,’ he translated, and laughed. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit of a perfectionist about food.’

You’re not kidding, I thought, but gave him a serene smile. Then I did some more deep, calming breaths – so deep and calming, in fact, that my nostrils began to vibrate. Even though he was now sitting down, I still felt stressed out. How long had that roll been under the grill? Yikes, one side was slightly scorched. He would definitely notice if I didn’t slice the offending black bits off. Bloody hell! It was like having Egon Ronay in for his brunch.

Then I stiffened. Oh God, what if he
was
a food critic, taking notes about the place? Was that why he was so pernickety?

My fingers seemed to be all thumbs as I took my knife to the charred bits of roll, then buttered it. A ‘scrape’ of butter, he’d asked for, like he was some kind of supermodel on a diet. Still, the customer was king, et cetera, et cetera. A scrape of butter was what he’d get.

The bacon was sizzling and crispy-looking by now, so I gingerly removed it from the grill and laid the rashers reverently on the roll. Yum – it smelled amazing, at least. I put the whole thing on a plate and carried it through to him, feeling like a lowly minion serving a prince. As I approached, I saw him scribbling something down on a piece of paper and then stuffing it in his jacket pocket when he saw me. Oh, my goodness. He
was
a restaurant critic. Suddenly this bacon roll seemed like the most important thing in the world.

‘Cheers,’ he said as I set it down on the table. He opened the roll, squirted a circle of ketchup onto the bacon, then closed it, bit into it and chewed.

I realized I was holding my breath. Ridiculous. Get a grip, Evie!

‘Bloody delicious,’ he pronounced, sticking a thumb up. ‘Perfect.’

My breath rushed out in relief. ‘Good,’ I said, trying to sound casual, as if this wasn’t at all surprising to me. Put that in your review and smoke it, I thought, with a secret smile.

The door opened just then, and in came a Japanese family, all with sun visors and raincoats, who went on to make the most convoluted and complicated order I’d ever taken, full of changed minds and crossings-out. They were followed swiftly by a couple who’d quite clearly just emerged from a shag-fest, all tousled hair, hand-holding and soft-focus dreamy smiles. And then, by the time I’d served them, Ed had gone, before I could say anything else to him. I just caught sight of him leaving with his dog, and felt intrigued. He probably
wasn’t
a restaurant critic, on reflection, but I couldn’t help wondering what he was doing down in the village, and how he’d been able to come here for two months’ dog-sitting. Did he not have a job?

There was no time to dwell on it, though, as more customers were turning up, with breakfast orders coming in thick and fast. Surprise, surprise – all my staff were late again.

Saffron burst in last of all, stinking of patchouli, with thick kohl rimming her green eyes, and a phone in her pocket that kept ringing and ringing. Yet did she think,
Oh yes, I’m at work now, better not answer this
? Or even,
Oh yes, I’m at work now, better switch it off altogether
? No, she did not.

‘Saffron!’ I cried in the end, exasperated, as I returned from wiping tables and clearing crockery, only to find her once again leaning against the wall, deep in conversation and completely ignoring our queuing customers. ‘Can you turn your phone
off
, please. You’re meant to be working, not yacking all day.’

Her eyes narrowed to slits and the usual hardness came over her face. With a scowl of displeasure, she stuffed her phone into her pocket. ‘Yes?’ she snapped at the luckless customer who happened to be next.

She really wasn’t the greatest waitress to have working for you, I thought, noticing her deftly palm a five-pound note that she was clearly intending to slip straight into her jeans pocket. I went and stood next to her pointedly, until I saw with my own eyes that she’d put it into the till.

Mind you, she wasn’t the only problem. Seb was as big a klutz as ever, spilling a pot of coffee down himself and scalding his leg. Tears glistened in his eyes as if he wanted his mummy to comfort him. As for Carl . . . I was still smarting from his rude comments about my soup.

‘We can’t serve that slop,’ he’d jeered. ‘Evie, thanks, love, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but leave the cooking to me for God’s sake.’

‘I just thought—’

‘Yeah, well, don’t,’ he’d interrupted. ‘Just don’t. I’m the chef, all right? I’m the man in the big hat. You do your thing and I’ll do mine.’

My cheeks had flamed as I’d stormed out of the kitchen on the pretext of needing to serve someone. The man with the big hat had a big blooming ego too, I thought, gritting my teeth. He was so bloody patronizing! So horrible. How had Jo ever stood working with him for so long?

At four o’clock, just as the café was quietening down and I was starting to think about closing up for the day, Annie came in. Annie was Jo’s best friend in Carrawen Bay and I’d known her for years. She was a cuddly, squashy sort of person, with the kindest smile you could imagine. I’d been meaning to get in touch with her ever since I’d come down, but with one thing and another, I hadn’t managed to pick up the phone yet.

‘Hello!’ I exclaimed, swerving out from behind the counter and rushing over to hug her. Her hair was henna-bright, with big, springy curls framing her round face.

‘Hello there, stranger,’ she said, giving me a squeeze. ‘How’s it going? I heard you were down here, looking after the place. Is everything okay?’

‘Well – ’ I began, then stopped abruptly. I didn’t want to launch into a moan about how badly things were going right in front of my staff. ‘I’m getting there,’ I said after a moment. ‘Bit of a steep learning curve, but I’m getting there.’

‘Good,’ she said warmly. ‘It’s lovely to have you here, especially now that Jo – ’ She broke off and I saw tears appear in her eyes. ‘It’s what she would have wanted,’ she said eventually. ‘But anyway. I was just popping in to invite you round for dinner one evening. When are you free?’

I smiled. ‘That would be really nice,’ I said gratefully. Much as I loved staying in Jo’s flat, it was kind of lonely, being there on my own. ‘I’m free . . . well, every night, to be honest. Whenever’s best for you.’

‘How about tonight, then?’ she asked. ‘We’re still at the same place – number ten Silver Street. Why don’t you come over at six? We can have some food and a good old catch-up.’

‘Thanks, Annie,’ I said. ‘That would be great. I’ll see you at six.’

Annie lived in a small terraced house along a quiet road. Long plumes of feathery pampas grass swayed in one corner of her tiny front garden, and there was a collection of bone-white seashells by the front door. I rapped the brass knocker twice and waited.

‘Hello, come on in,’ Annie said, beaming as she pulled the door wide. There were glorious cooking smells wafting through from the kitchen: roast chicken, lemon, garlic. ‘Perfect timing,’ she said. ‘I’ve just put the peas on.’

‘Lovely,’ I said, following her down the narrow white-painted hall. I could hear music playing somewhere upstairs, a cheerful bass throb through the ceiling. She led me into the kitchen, which was small and unfussy, with a couple of pans boiling merrily on the gas stove, and a chicken cooling under foil on the worktop.

I passed her a bottle of wine. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘This is really kind of you, having me round.’

‘Oh, it’s my pleasure,’ she said. ‘I know how much Jo adored you, so it’s nice for me, too, feeling as if I’ve still got some connection with her by inviting you.’ Tears filled her eyes and I clutched her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, making a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. ‘I still really miss her. I just can’t believe she’s gone, Evie, I really can’t.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Me too. It was such a horrible shock.’

Annie nodded. ‘She played a big part in this community,’ she said. ‘It’s not the same without her. Everyone misses her.’ She took a big breath. ‘Still,’ she went on, ‘it’s lovely that you’re here, taking over the place. I think people will be happy about that.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Not everyone,’ I replied, and told her what had happened with Betty. ‘I haven’t dared go back in there since,’ I admitted.

Annie opened the wine and poured us each a glass. ‘Betty is . . . Betty,’ she said gnomically. ‘She’s a law unto herself. But honestly, Evie, her bark’s worse than her bite. She was just worried you were going to flog the place to a developer, that’s all.’ She passed me a glass of wine. ‘Cheers. We’re not too good at change around here, I’m afraid.’

I clinked my glass against hers. ‘Cheers,’ I echoed. ‘Here’s to Jo. I wish more than anything that she could be here with us right now, but we’ll never forget her.’

‘I’ll second that,’ Annie said. ‘Although – ’ she glanced heavenwards briefly, then went over to her cooker, ‘if she
was
here right now, she’d probably be reminding me to get the roast potatoes out of the oven and stop gassing, and bloody well carve the chicken.’

I laughed, because I knew she was right, and Jo would indeed have said just that. She was never one to forget about something as important as food. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I said.

I hadn’t had such an enjoyable evening for ages. Martha, Annie’s seventeen-year-old, who was willowy and doe-eyed, all legs and long blonde hair, was sweet and giggly. The food was delicious, Annie was a great host, and we talked about everything and nothing – Annie’s job (she worked in a health-food shop in Wadebridge, although she was feeling the pinch ever since her hours had been cut), Martha’s upcoming exams (she was particularly dreading French) and her boyfriend, Jamie, whom she went gooey-eyed over whenever his name was mentioned. ‘He’s an artist,’ she said, with the same reverence in her voice as if she were talking about Picasso. ‘He’s really good.’