The Cornish Affair (10 page)

He
caught my eye and grinned.

“Commando
stylee,” he said.

I
choked on the onion, and splutteringly sipped at my water. Oliver was roaring his head off again.

“It
wasn’t difficult to tell what you were thinking, most women do, when they see me in my kilt,” Oliver said confidingly, still grinning his head off.

Arrogant,
cocky sod, I thought to myself, but I did find myself grinning back at him.

I
asked again, this time owning up to having drifted off. “I’m sorry, what were you saying, something about kids? What kids? Do you have any?”

“No,
no, not my children. The kids at the school I’m involved with, I’ve promised them that the next book will be for them, it should sell well on the back of the TV series, and god knows they deserve it. It’s a bit of a project I’ve got going to get children involved in the kitchen. Don’t let me get on my soapbox, but I really believe that a lot of social problems are caused by families not cooking and eating together.”

I
thought about it, and even I couldn’t find anything to sneer about. I agreed whole heartedly with him. Children do need to potter in a kitchen and learn about good food. Of course they do. It’s an obvious thing that we should all be encouraging.

I
smiled at him, feeling some relief, at least there was something I liked about him.

He
sensed a thaw in the relationship, and took advantage of it by making me sit down with him to decipher my notes so that he could transfer them to his book. As I sat there squinting at my own handwriting, (what
did
‘not virgin, more like old tart’ mean?) I was very aware of his physical presence. It wasn’t just that he was large, but he seemed to take up more than his fair share of space, if you know what I mean. His arm was close to mine, and I made absolutely sure that I didn’t accidentally touch it at all.

“Oh,
I know what it means! Jace bought me some new olive oil to try, and I thought it was more of an old tart than a virgin, if you see what I mean,” I cried out.

Oliver
sighed, and noted in his book that the olive oil wasn’t acceptable.

The
kitchen was remarkably quiet, which was fairly unusual here. The cacophony made by Baxter and Nelson, not to mention Nancy, me and visitors, normally had a background of radio 4, or music (usually chosen by Nancy who had an eclectic taste to say the least, and owned everything from Frank Sinatra to Radiohead) and I missed it. I wasn’t used to this hush. I could even hear Oliver’s pen moving over the paper.

I
stood up, and slotted a cassette into the terribly old machine that we used in the kitchen. It whirred for a minute, and then the unmistakable sounds of The Sex Pistols came bellowing out.

Olive
looked up in surprise, “Good god, I wouldn’t have put you down as an old punk!”

I
turned the volume down, and sat down again.

“No,
I’d love to be able to tell you that I could pogo along with the rest of them, but actually, this is Nancy’s. I think she was a friend of Vivienne Westwood. There wasn’t a lot of punk going on in Cornwall when I was that age, the local kids had to make do with cadging a lift to St Ives or Penzance.”

“What
did you do?” he asked.

I
considered the question.

“Well,
most of the time I stayed in. That probably sounds sad, but it wasn’t. My parents always had loads of parties, and weekend guests, and, well, I sort of had my social life here, I suppose.” I said defensively, aware that it did in fact sound a bit pathetic.

“I
see,” he said neutrally.

The
excitement of greeting guests and showing them to their rooms, used to make me shiver with delight. The preparation of the dinners, the magical evenings spent sitting on the stairs as a child, listening to their grown up talk, I had found thrilling. My father had always made a point of saving me a treat that he would bring up to my bedroom, a scoop of caviar (fish jam and considered not for little girls, which had made it doubly delicious to me) a forbidden half glass of champagne, a chocolate covered cherry had all found their way under my bedclothes.

My
mother too, found ways of including me when I was a child, a hidden look from her at some woman’s outrageous dress, or hairstyle made me feel so grown up, or a sly wink indicating that a guest really was a bit of a eejit, used to make me understand that this was what grown up life was all about.

I
sighed.

We
hadn’t had a party at Penmorah for ages.

Maybe
it was time for another one? How about a dolphin party? That was something worth celebrating. I would look out the old house guest book, and invite everyone – all the artists from the coast, the writers, the boozy poets, the mad playwrights, the lot. Michael and Thea would have approved. The idea seized me, and I began to gabble in my excitement to Oliver.

“I
think you should do whatever it is that’s going to make you happy,” he replied.

Which
did strike me as rather odd, because I am happy. Aren’t I?

“Nancy,
Nancy, Harry!” I called out towards the office, “We’re going to give a party, one of the old ones, a proper party. You know, where everyone gets horribly drunk and there are scenes of debauchery and someone proposes and someone else threatens suicide and nobody leaves till six in the morning and we find an unconscious poet in the bath – it’ll be
great
!”

Chapter Ten

I continued the party plans in my head as we all walked down to The Ram later on. I was determined to invite
everyone
. Not just the people from Port Charles, but all my parents old friends, as well. I hadn’t kept in touch with them as well as I should have done, it was too hard. They all reminded me of past good times, and I had let the connections drift apart.

I’d
invite some friends from London, too. Martha would come down, I was sure, she loved it down here, but I would definitely not let her do the catering or we’d all be eating swan pie or something else equally Elizabethan like minced sparrow fricassee.

The
evening was mild, with a breeze blowing in from the sea. I automatically looked around for Baxter when we reached the road, but then realised with a jolt that he was at The Ram already, probably ordering the drinks in.

“I
hope you like real ale,” I said to Oliver who had been walking beside me.

He
was still wearing his kilt, and I rather relished the reaction of The Ram to it.

He
made a face, “To be honest, I don’t really like beer that much, but I’ll give it a go.”

We
turned into the village and Nancy pointed out various houses to him.

“Who
lives in that one?” he queried, pointing to a small cottage choking in wind chimes and wisteria.

“Miranda,
our local tree hugger. She also reads palms, and has two very beautiful looking children from two different fathers. She makes a lot of tat to sell to all the emmet shops, and does the rounds of all the surfing festivals,” Nancy said informatively.

Harry
laughed, “Oh dear, I do remember her, actually. The last time I was here she made a bit of a play for me in The Ram, she invited me back for a lentil burger!”

Oliver
laughed and hit Harry on the shoulder, “Not madly you?” he said.

Harry
shuddered. “Not madly
anyone
, I’d have thought. Though, in case you hadn’t noticed, this is the country. They do things differently down here.”

“Don’t
be so rude,” I said, pushing open the door of the pub.

I
was delighted that Baxter came straight to me – I had been worried that he wouldn’t be speaking to me, but he was delighted to see me in that over eager way that all canines have which makes us humans feel good.

The
reaction to Oliver was quite satisfactory. Although, if I’m honest I would have enjoyed a bit of stunned silence, instead of the good humoured interest and bantering that went on.

The
word had spread round Port Charles that we had a celebrity amongst us, one from TV, albeit channel 4 which wasn’t as impressive,
obviously
as if it had been the local channel broadcast from Plymouth. Will and Richard, who’d met him earlier on that day, greeted him like an old friend introducing him round the pub, and to Sam.

“What
about doing a book signing down here then Harry?” I said teasingly, “Make a bit of change from The Ivy, don’t you think?”

“It
was the River Café for his last one, actually,” Harry replied absentmindedly, “He’s certainly popular with the ladies, isn’t he?”

I
looked over to the bar, and saw that Oliver was indeed surrounded by the local female population, including Miranda who was wearing a diaphanous bit of tie dye. She was hugging a copy of his cookery book to her, and earnestly asking if he was going to write another, only this time a ‘veggie’ one.

I
looked around the pub, hoping, of course to see Jace here. He normally was. But not tonight.

Nancy
had ordered the drinks, and Sam brought them over to us.

“Proper
star he’m be,” he said admiringly, gesturing towards Oliver with his head. “I wonder if he’d cook that thing off the telly that he did last week, looked a right treat it did.”

“Good
god, Sam! Do you watch cookery programmes?” I asked curiously.

Sam
gave me a scornful glance, “Not all publicans live off pork scratchings, you know,” he said sternly.

I
felt humbled, but also slightly piqued. He’d never asked me to cook anything for him. But then I didn’t write books or have my own show, did I? I was being absurd, I knew, and shrugged it off.

Nancy
sipped at her drink, whilst conducting her usual flirtation with Sam. Harry and I settled into a party planning session.

“Well,
Fin, I do think you might have given me more notice, it’s too bad of you. I’ll have to go back to London and then come down again if you really are going to have it in two weeks time.” Harry said, sipping his real ale, and making a bit of a face.

I
considered what he had said. There was no reason in particular I’d picked the date for the party in two weeks time, I just wanted it soon, before I lost the impetus.

“Well,
Martha could drive you down, I know she’ll come,” I said.

Harry
nodded, and went to the bar to order himself another drink. I was still excited about planning the party, and told all the people I knew in the pub the date I had chosen. Sam offered to do the bar, and Doris asked if I needed any pasties. I whole heartedly accepted both offers.

Doris,
who was wearing a very fetching combo of acid yellow top, and rather short green checked skirt, patted her newly styled hair, “He’s right handsome, isn’t he?” she stage whispered at me, gesturing towards Oliver.

I
was getting used to the uncritical admiration by now, so I merely nodded.

“Mind
you, I’d get Miranda away from ‘im, if I was you,” she added, poking me in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

“Miranda’s
welcome to him,” I hissed back, fed up with the innuendo that I realised was beginning to circulate.

Doris
made a face of surprise at me, “What’s your problem, Fin? Got other fish to fry, have you?” she said, nearly fracturing my ribs this time with her elbow.

“Might
have, might not,” I said, archly. I was horribly aware that my love life, or lack of it, was probably a major topic of conversation in Port Charles, and I really didn’t want to fuel speculation.

Oliver
was leaning on the bar, hemmed in by Miranda, Richard, Will and assorted Port Charles dwellers. I asked Harry if he thought he needed rescuing.

“No,
he
loves
his fans,” Harry said complacently, probably adding up the percentages owed to him by his nefarious book and TV deals. The pub was warm and smoky, and getting more crowded by the minute. Every time the door opened I expected to see Jace, but only a group of fisherman came tumbling through letting in a welcome blast of fresh air. They were obviously celebrating a good catch, as wads of cash were being handed over the bar.

The
usual haul in these parts were pilchard and mackerel, not great money earners, but there were sea bass, shark and crab that supplemented their treacherous living. (I’d once been out with them, just around the harbour and vowed, never, ever again.) These guys were the toughest fisherman around, and I’d seen them weep like babies at a funeral of one poor man who’d been washed overboard. The skipper, Kev the Beard, who was seventy if he was a day, had a state of the art radar equipment on board his very expensive boat, but he still relied on the wind and tides, and his eye and instinct for the catch. They could be gone weeks at a time, so when they were in port, they certainly made the most of it.

Kev
waved at me, and I got up to greet him.

“Good
catch?” I asked.

Kev
picked up my hand and brushed it against his whiskery lips in a parody of arcane courtesy.

“Evenin’
Miz Fin. Yep, a proper beauty, what they didn’t want at Padstow, they’ll ‘ave and pay for in London. What you and Miz Nancy ‘avin? It’s all on me tonight.” Kev slammed his large fist on the bar and roared at Sam for a drink all round.

Kev
was a stocky man, born and bred here, with matted hair and a reddish beard. Gold earrings glinted in the light, and his brown wrinkled face was shiny with sweat. His forearms and hands were a mass of tattoos and scars, caused by rope burns, and many years of slashing fish with lethal knives on a heaving deck. He was rolling slightly at the bar, and smelt very highly of beer. It looked as though The Ram wasn’t his very first port of call.

Foaming
pints of beer were being handed over the bar by Sam and handed around. Kev was in the act of passing one to another fisherman, when his none too steady eye lit upon Oliver.

“Who’s
the pouf in the skirt?” he bellowed, slamming his pint down on the bar, pointing at Oliver with a filthy, dirt encrusted hand.

Oh
god.

“You
a shirt lifter boy? Like old ‘Arry over there?” Kev demanded, his face narrowed with distrust.

Oh
god.

I
glanced at Sam for help, but he was I saw, very cravenly engrossed in an animated conversation with Nancy.

I
gingerly stepped forwards. As did Oliver.

“What
if I am?” he said threateningly.

Patently
he wasn’t but oh bloody
bloody
hell. This was not the time for a gender sexuality lesson.

I
took a deep breath and said as winningly as I dared, “Umm, Kev, let me introduce you, this is Oliver Dean, from London, he’s down working with me at the moment and-”

“Oliver
Dean, the chef from the telly?” Kev sneered suspiciously.

“Umm,
yes, that’s right –“

Oliver
had stepped in front of me, and was glaring at Kev.

“Well,
I’ve got a right bone to pick with you boy! I did yer recipe for monkfish and that poncy Eyetalian bacon, and let me tell you – it were crap! What you want is a nice bit o’ butter on it, thass all yer need, no foreign muck! And as for shirt lifters, one o’ my sons is and finer boy yer couldn’t ask for!” Kev turned to Harry and bellowed, “Come on over ‘ere ‘Arry and give us a kiss!”

Oliver
was grinning his head off and shaking Kev by the hand, delighted to have found such an unlikely fan. There was a general sigh of relief all round, as Kev the Beard was known to be a little rambunctious when he was one over the eight.

Oliver
and he were nose to nose leaning on the bar discussing the best way to treat monkfish, with Harry rolling his eyes at me. I rolled mine back, and the conversation flowed around us once again. I noticed that Kev insisted on buying both Harry and Oliver drinks, treating Harry with an old world rough charm, that he seemingly employed with ladies and ‘shirt lifters’.

Port
Charlesers as they called themselves, could still surprise the hell out of me, I decided.

I’d
lived here all my life, and yes, I suppose there were pockets of bigotry and ignorance, but for the most part people were kind. Their lives had been too hard in most cases for them not to be.

Sam
was shouting from behind the bar, calling for quiet.

“Ladies
and gentlemen, Kev the Beard has bought a drink for us all, I reckon he deserves a toast,” Sam raised his glass at Kev, and we all followed suit.

“Pysk
cober ha sten!” we all bellowed, raising glasses at the skipper.

Oliver
and Harry looked bemused, and I quickly translated for them.

“Fish,
copper and tin,” I explained.

“There’s
only the fish left now, an’ that be goin’ bloody fast,” Kev said, wiping his beer moustache off with the back of his hand.

All
the fishermen nodded their heads sadly at these words from the oracle of the deep, but cheered up when one of them piped up with, “But the dolphins be back!”

There
was a general all round roar of approval, and more drinks were ordered on the strength of it.

I
knew that the dolphins were more than just a good luck talisman to the ever superstitious fishermen. They loved them. They led them to shoals of fish, and guided them through the rough seas. The local people who were not connected with the fishing of the ocean tended to blame the fishermen for the disappearance of the dolphins, but they swore that this wasn’t true. There had been a few occasions that they had snared a dolphin in their nets, but I knew that this caused a great unease amongst them, their feeling being that it was extremely unlucky, (not as unlucky as having a woman on board, of course, but still, unlucky all the same).

I
glanced at my watch, it was getting late, and still no sign of Jace. Nancy caught me looking at my wrist, and whispered, “Getting tired? I know I am, shall we head home?”