The Cornish Affair (3 page)

“Fish,
salmon, I think. I haven’t looked yet.”

“Oh,
how lovely – Fin, are you alright? You look incredibly gloomy.”

Gloomy
was the word alright. I couldn’t quite pin point why though. I know that the idea of Oliver Dean coming here had unnerved me, but it was somehow more than that. A sort of Nordic fog had descended on me and I wasn’t sure why. I hated moaning to Nancy, especially when I didn’t really know what was wrong, it seemed petty and childish. I knew that she missed her sister, and her husband nearly as much as I did, and Nancy’s daughter, my cousin, Beatrice lived in Canada and made but infrequent trips over here to see her mother.

Nancy
looked at me shrewdly, “Fin, darling, there’s no point fretting over the chef, and as for anything else – well, life’s not so bad you know.”

“I
know, it’s just, well, I don’t know really.” I said, feeling a fool. I glanced around the room and remembered what it was like before the absence of the books. A fire would certainly have been lit in the grate, my father would be in his favourite chair, marking his racing tips out in pencil and my mother would be pouring tea. I could almost see them silhouetted in front of the flickering flames, and experienced a sudden ache in my heart. This sort of feeling happened all the time at Penmorah, and usually it could be a comfort. But this wasn’t one of those times. Baxter dug his nails into my leg as he jumped off my lap and went to sit in what had been my father’s chair, turning around and around till he was comfortable and then scratching his ear with his back paw.

“I
just don’t like this room very much,” I said brightly, “It’s enough to make anyone gloomy, isn’t it? Perhaps we should get it painted, what do you think?”

“I
think an evening at The Ram is called for, that’s my opinion, and all though I do say so myself, it’s a damn fine one. Now buck up, and let’s go.” Nancy stood up, dusting herself down.

She
was quite right of course.

I
followed her out of the library, calling to Baxter and firmly closed the door behind me. As I pulled the door shut, I had a sudden intense, almost overwhelming scent of roses that made not just me, but Baxter too, sneeze. The smell was so strong that it momentarily made me feel giddy and I leant back on the door.

“Where
are the roses, Nancy?” I asked, looking around, not having noticed them before.

“Don’t
be daft, darling. They’re not out for ages yet. Don’t say you’re getting hay fever already?”

I
shook my head and went into the hallway and followed the long corridor down to the kitchen. I heard Nancy call that she was just going to change her shoes. Nelson screeched at me as I entered the kitchen and I went over to rub his neck. His feathers were soft beneath my fingers, and I found myself whispering to him.

“They
were her favourite flower, weren’t they Nelson, roses?”

Nelson
winked at me, and I laughed at myself. I heaved the parcel of salmon off the table and pushed it into the fridge, and rinsed the tea mugs, waiting for Nancy.

It
was a glorious evening, bright and windy, and even Baxter deigned to behave like a young dog, scampering down the narrow lane, turning and waiting for us to catch up with him. He even stopped at the end of the lane so that I could tag his lead on. The road to the village was fairly treacherous, being, as is usual in the country without the benefit of any pavements. If a lorry was heard in the distance, you had to press yourself into the hedgerow, praying you wouldn’t get stung by the nettles or scratched by the brambles, or crushed against the high banks that were cunningly disguised with greenery but actually concealed high walls of stone.

We
passed a row of whitewashed cottages and waved at Mrs Trevelyon, who gamely waved back, despite being crippled with arthritis. The stores were busy with a delivery of frozen chips, and the local bakers were just closing up, with Doris, the bakers wife, wiping the shelves in the window. She banged on the glass to us, and mouthed that she too was going to The Ram and would see us in there.
That
should prove interesting. Doris was the official rumour control around here, and we would no doubt get a full account of Breadpudding from her.

The
Ram is set back from the road, and has a small plot of grass outside with a couple of trestle tables begrudgingly put down for any passing trade that is foolish enough to want to nurse a pint outdoors, the locals have no truck with sitting in the fresh air. A cosy, stone flagged bar, with low ceilings, where they can work up a thick fug is what they want, and is what The Ram provides. The pub sign swung on its post, making the gold and scarlet ram look alive.

I
pushed the door open, and Nancy followed me through. It took a few moments for the eye to adjust to the gloom inside the pub, but I could make out a few regulars inside and called out greetings to them. I turned to Nancy to ask her what she’d like. We both usually drank the local beer (wine really wasn’t an option at The Ram, unless you have a real yearning for something sweet and warm.)

“No,
this was my idea, and it’s my treat,” she announced, leaning on the bar and looking for Sam, the landlord.

Sam
emerged form the other end of the bar, wiping his hands, and beamed at us. He was evidently delighted to see Nancy, and the two of them conducted a ritualistic flirty greeting.

“Now
then, what’ll it be, ladies?” he enquired.

“I
think we should have something different, something to cheer Fin up a bit. I know, we’ll have the drink I was reading in a book the other day, they sounded delicious.” Nancy said confidently.

“What’s
that then?” Sam said, twinkling at her.

“Two
long slow comfortable screws against the wall, please Sam.”

Chapter
Three

I was so grateful the following morning that Andrews Liver Salts hadn’t changed their packaging. The comforting look of the old fashioned tin, and the fierce little bubbles prickling my throat made me feel that all was well with the world, even if it wasn’t with my hangover.

Nancy
and I positively
weaved
our way up the lane from The Ram, last night, stopping every five minutes to gaze appreciatively at the full moon that was hanging overhead. I had gazed for so long at one point, I toppled over, landing heavily on my bottom, to Nancy’s delight. She had shrieked with laughter, and pulled me upright, brushing earth and bits of grass from my hair, whilst pushing Baxter off my stomach where he had so helpfully sat.

I
looked out of the window, and saw that the sky was clear, and the waves were a glassy green – it bode well for the picnic tomorrow, although it was still chill if you weren’t in the sun. The Port Charles beach picnic was that curious mixture of tradition and habit, and no one really remembered why we did it any more. The rumour was that it was in response to the huge palaver they made over in Padstow on mayday.
They
had the ‘Obby Oss and we had the beach picnic. Of course, they also had TV crews, thousands of visitors, and usually one or two heavy casualties of drink and or a ducking in the harbour. They also had the added advantage of being able to spout a lot of history involving mayday rituals that included crop blessing, finding a sacrificial virgin and various other olde worlde charms. They lined their window sills with cowslips, closed up for business and had a serious party for a day and night. Ours was a more sedate affair, although at dusk when the bonfire was lit, a bit of mayhem could be counted on. More than one Port Charles baby had been conceived in the sands after dark. I suspect it was a lot to do with the Cornish not taking their pleasures easily. A given, set day when we were all allowed to behave badly and let our hair down was considered an all round
good
thing.

Ours
was a homemade, makeshift job, with people struggling down to the beach with food, booze, guitars, and anything else they fancied. Last year we’d had a jazz band, which had been great fun, although, I admit, not particularly authentic. The Ram lent their huge trestle tables, and donated a barrel of beer, Doris always made tray after tray of
proper
pasties, Penmorah was expected to contribute something rather sophisticated, and donate the prize for the Thumb Race, which took place at midnight and always caused me a great deal of worry.

The
giant’s thumb was a huge jutting piece of granite rock which stood about half a mile out to sea in high tide, that only had sea birds (the charmingly locally named shags) wheeling around it, and the swim out there and back could be treacherous. Of course, all the locals knew the tides, but even so… I was sure that one day someone wouldn’t come back. How they even got into that icy crashing sea was a mystery to me, as well. Perhaps everybody else had a different sort of body thermostat than me? As I was sure that my heart would cease if I even went ankle deep in the surf, let alone dunked my whole body in. Richard assured me that after three pints of heavy, you didn’t really feel anything much, but I wasn’t convinced.

Nancy
came into the kitchen, her long silver hair in a plait draped over one shoulder wearing her heavy satin kimono that I always coveted. It was a thing of extraordinary beauty. Heavy and brilliantly coloured with jewel like flowers, it made her look like an artist’s model from Montmartre.

She
paused by the table, where I was pushing slices of lemon into the wild salmon, ready to poach it, and shuddered.

“Oh,
Fin… It’s too much to look at, after last night! I think some toast for me will do the ticket, how about you?”

I
smugly replied that I’d had mine, and went into the larder to fetch the dill that I was going to use with the salmon.

“It’s
so unfair, you know, hangovers get worse when you’re older, it’s something to do with the liquid surrounding the brain shrinking. Just when you’ve reached the age when the benefits of booze do some good, you’re prevented from taking advantage of it! Bloody unjust, that’s what I say,” Nancy complained, whilst making toast and tea.

I
smiled sympathetically at her and pushed the tin of Andrews liver Salts towards her. She gave another shudder, and shook her head.

“No,
no thanks darling. I’m going back to bed, just think how poor Angelique used to feel, they say that absinthe was the worse hangover possible, although I’ve never had any. Perhaps we should try some one day, just to find out?”

It
was my turn to shudder.

“Perhaps
you’re right, anyway, I’m back to my bed of pain. See you later,” she called out to me, balancing a tray of toast, butter, marmalade and tea in her hands.

I
watched her stately progress up the hall, and wondered if I too could go back to bed. Probably not. Baxter needed a walk, the salmon needed poaching and the damn roast onions wouldn’t come up with a recipe by themselves. I sighed, this was a horrible job sometimes. I didn’t want to think about food at all. Ever again, in fact, but it simply had to be done.

Nelson
shuffled around a bit and piped up with “Bloody TV chefs, bloody TV chefs!”

“Shut
up Nelson!” I snapped at him.

He
regarded me stonily for a moment and then parroted it back to me, “Shut up Nelson, shut up Nelson!”

I
knew when I was beaten, and pointedly ignoring the bird, called to Baxter to go for a walk. Some fresh air was called for.

I
took Baxter eastwards, towards the woods which covered the gentle hill on the side of Penmorah. The woods had been my delight when I was a child, much more so than the beach, where I always felt that the sea was just waiting for a chance to reclaim the land, and I’d felt duty bound to keep a watchful eye on it. The woods, on the other hand, were innocent of such treachery. Still, and almost padded with velvet, so soft was the silence in there. All of the ancient mossy trees had a bend in them where they leant away from the sea wind, from above they must look like a field of green wheat, bending in the breeze.

A
jay flashed in front of me, and Baxter gamely gave chase, letting out excited yelps. He then remembered his dignity, and reverted back to a purposeful trot, tail held high and ears pricked up ready for any danger that may befall us. I say us, because it was quite comforting, but I suspect that if a mad axe murderer leapt out from behind an oak tree, Baxter would most certainly have left me to it.

My
cousin, Beatrice and I used to play for hours here, but she was a domesticated creature even in the dark Celtic woods, and made houses out of twigs and dead branches. Complete with make believe doors and windows and would then invite me in to take tea. I’d always felt resentful of this, they were
my
woods, after all, I certainly didn’t need an invitation to cross the threshold. I smiled at the memory of Beatrice’s cross little face, when I refused blankly to enter her house. Things hadn’t changed that much between us now, I reflected. When Bea did make the trip over from Canada to see Nancy, she still had the ability to get my back up. Treating Penmorah as her make believe house.

Bea
was a sturdy, sensible creature, two years older than me, who did a job in a bank in Ontario that neither Nancy or I understood, although we’d had it explained to us many,
many
times. It was hard to remember that Bea was Nancy’s daughter, she had none of her mother’s charm, or vagueness, but was a hard headed business woman, married to a sensible engineer, with two sturdy sensible sons.

One
of the main jealousies I had with Bea, was that she had been born in
Paris
, which had seemed to me as a child the height of sophistication and somehow deeply unfair.
Paris
… how glamorous. Why hadn’t I been?

Nancy
had invited my mother out to join her there for a sisterly long holiday when my father was out in Australia working on a non-existent gold mine (one of his many failed businesses.) Dorothea had stayed for nearly a year, and had been present at Bea’s birth.

Nancy
was a strangely unmaternal grandmother, who occasionally would guiltily forget her grandsons names, or muddle them up. I never knew if she did this on purpose to unsettle Bea, or if she genuinely forgot. She hardly ever spoke of them to me, but again, that could be her natural sense of delicacy, supposing that I felt I might have missed the boat.

It
couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Having
sensible sturdy sons had never really appealed, besides, I had trouble looking after myself, two pets, my aunt and a very demanding house, let alone a squalling baby. Although, of course, I do see that if you had a husband things might change a bit on that front.

I
sat down in a pool of pale sunshine and leant against the lichen covered trunk of an oak tree. Tightly curled fronds of ferns were sprouting all around me, I let my fingers stroke the sun warmed earth and closed my eyes to feel the shallow heat of the sun on my face.

Of
course, a husband
would
be nice. But where on earth I would find one was beyond me. I‘d given up looking really. Port Charles wasn’t very big on eligible bachelors, yes, Jace was an exceptionally fit young man, but husband material? I think not. I’d conducted an affair with a vet down Bodmin way a couple of years ago. It had fizzled out in the way that those things do, when there’s not really enough affection to keep them going. Patrick, the vet, was nice enough, but… Sometimes, when I was lonely I thought about calling him, but knew that I never would. Nancy urged me to, but then, as I reasonably pointed out to her,
she
wasn’t the one who was going to have to sit listening to him drone on about colic in horses or something equally unattractive.

The
gentle bird song was interrupted by Baxter barking his head off. Oh god, I hope he hadn’t got a rabbit. I jumped up and ran to see what all the fuss was about. He was barking furiously, and scrabbling at a hole he’d found in a steep bank at the side of the path. I pushed him away, and bent down to investigate. Penmorah woods had badgers, and this looked like a set to me. I stroked Baxter’s white coat and led him away.

“You’d
come off worse, in a fight with them, Baxter. I’d leave well enough alone, if I were you,” I cautioned him.

He
followed me with a regretful glance at the bank, obviously marking it down on a mental map for when he was off on one of his solitary romps.

I
clipped his lead on, and headed towards the village. In the distance I could see the mysterious remains of the long abandoned tin mine. It was now smothered in ivy, with briars and nettles crowding around it. There had been some talk about of restoring it, in the hope it would attract tourists, but the project had been long forgotten.

We
strode out down the lane and soon came to the bakers, where I tethered Baxter outside, winding his lead around the lamp post. Doris was serving a customer and in the middle of a story about the beach picnic, and what she was going to bring, so I idled in the shop, waiting for her to finish. It was no hardship, of course, because the wonderful yeasty smell of baking was heavenly.

There
was another smell as well, deep, redolent and almost antiseptic. Saffron, of course. No right minded Cornish bakers would smell of anything else. Us Cornish have conducted a love affair with the fiendishly expensive saffron for centuries. We’ve used it as cough remedies, love potions and of course we bake with it. Buns and cakes. And Doris’s were the best. I breathed deeply, and craning my head round to the back of the shop, I saw her husband, Isaac, pulling out a new batch of buns from the enormous oven.

I
bought a couple to eat on the way home, and a cake for Nancy and me to eat this afternoon.

“I’ll
put ‘em on the account,” Doris said, when I confessed to coming out without any money in my pocket. “Right good night at The Ram, weren’t it? Reckons we’m all getting’ ready for the picnic”

“It
certainly feels like it,” I said, dryly.

She
laughed, “Nancy puts us all to shame, don’t she? Can’t believe she’s pushing seventy!”

I
thanked her for the buns, and went out to retrieve Baxter. We wandered down to the tiny port, and sat on the wall. I saw that a new shop had finally opened in what had been an ironmongers. This was now called, originally enough, Cornish Treasures. I walked over and peered in the window and saw the usual tat of shells, rocks, and sponges. They even had ‘Mermaid Eggs’ which should be placed in water, left for a hundred years and would guarantee the owner luck, wealth and happiness, all for the paltry sum of £25.99. Good grief.

“Good
grief,” I heard a man’s voice say beside me, “Proper shockin’ that is.”

I
turned to see Jace lounging elegantly against the shop window. He bent down to stroke Baxter, and I grinned at him.