59 Memory Lane

by Celia Anderson

  ‘I’m so sorry to drag you out in this filthy weather,’ she says, her eyes on his sour expression.

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t being grumpy about fetching you, it was just the smell of grease,’ he says hastily, but her look says she doesn’t believe him. He sighs.

  They hurry out to Andy’s car. Emily’s got a flimsy folding umbrella but the wind is getting up and she almost loses it before it turns itself inside out – a twisted mess of multi-coloured PVC. She hurls it into a skip at the side of the car park in disgust and climbs into the front seat as Andy takes off again, at a reasonable speed this time.

  ‘So, how do you know this guy we’re fetching?’ he asks, through gritted teeth, negotiating a reckless cyclist who’s weaving all over the road after a gust of wind catches him and threatens to blow him under Andy’s wheels.

  ‘We met at a publishing party in New York,’ says Emily, closing her eyes as the cyclist swerves in the opposite direction and just misses a tree. ‘He’s an author.’

  ‘Will I have heard of him?’

  ‘Maybe. He writes crime thrillers under the name of Damion Wintersmith. Psychological stuff. A bit weird, to be honest.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, I’ve read one of his.’

  ‘Only one?’ She grins at him and Andy feels his tense shoulders relax slightly.

  ‘It wasn’t really my thing.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I do like crime thrillers but there was a bit too much … um …’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘No, just a bit too graphic – I was thinking more of the blood and gore side of it. Somebody fell out of a high building and landed on some spiky iron railings on the first page. The description was stomach churning. I’m not usually squeamish but it put me right off my dinner.’

  Andy spots the first signs with pictures of planes on just up ahead and slows down. His heart sinks at the thought of seeing Emily greet this mystery man. ‘I’ll drop you at the entrance and go and park,’ he says.

  They coast into the airport and Emily leaps out and rushes towards the arrivals area as soon as the car stops. Andy hopes she won’t be long. The more he thinks about meeting Max, the less he wants to. Why should the man assume he’s got the right to just turn up here with no warning? It doesn’t suggest much respect for Emily’s plans. Is she supposed to drop everything and fit in with Max? What makes her even consider doing that if they’re supposed to have broken up? His mood isn’t improved by the lack of available car parking spaces and he cruises round for several minutes, cursing small airports everywhere.

  At last, he sees the pair of them emerge from the main door. Andy tries to wipe the surly look from his face and jumps out of the car to meet them.

  ‘Hello there,’ he says, holding out a hand to shake Max’s.

  Max has both hands full with his luggage and grins apologetically. ‘Sorry, can’t do the proper British greeting at the moment, buddy,’ he says, swinging his bags towards Andy as if he’s a porter.

  Andy opens the boot, takes the bags and throws them in unceremoniously. ‘Welcome to Cornwall,’ he says.

  ‘Emily says you’ve been her knight in shining armour today,’ Max replies, opening the front passenger door and leaving Emily to clamber into the back. ‘I sure do appreciate your assistance.’ Then, just as she fastens her seat belt, he changes his mind and gets into the back with her.

  Feeling like the chauffeur as well as the porter now, Andy sets off to drive home, not surprised to see that the rain has stopped and a watery sun is trying to come out. Why wouldn’t it, with Max here? Despite his instant dislike of the interloper, he can sense the man’s charisma. Rumpled from the flight, bleary and somewhat travel stained, Max still exudes a powerful charm. Emily seems to have a lot to say to him. They murmur to each other and he can’t catch what they’re talking about. Why didn’t she get in the front with Andy when she realised Max was getting in the back? This is just plain rude. Andy seethes silently.

  Max is looking all around now as they head for the coast road to Pengelly. ‘Hey, this Cornwall of yours is kind of cute,’ he says, ‘but these roads! Jeez, why don’t they widen them, or make some better ones? It must take for ever to get anywhere.’

  ‘Cute? Well, yes, I suppose that’s one word to describe us,’ Andy says. ‘And they don’t widen the roads because they would have to knock down these ancient hedges and walls and take over fields that have been farmed for generations.’

  ‘And that’s so bad … exactly why?’

  Emily begins to gush about the scenery and the joys of living in such a beautiful place but Andy isn’t mollified. This man is a total knob, in his opinion. Why would Emily hook up with such a pompous idiot? Just being a famous author doesn’t make you a worthwhile citizen. Max isn’t listening to Emily anyway; he’s too busy checking his phone and tapping out messages. Who could be so important that he can’t pay proper attention to his beautiful ex-girlfriend? Emily seems to have come to the same conclusion.

  ‘Who are you texting, Max?’ she asks, a chill in her voice.

  ‘Oh, just my agent, babe,’ he says, shoving his phone into his pocket. ‘No rest for the wicked; ain’t that what you guys over here say, Adam?’

  ‘My name’s Andy.’

  ‘Sorry, sport. I’m crap at names. Always have been,’ says Max brightly.

  ‘That’s OK, Malcolm,’ says Andy.

  ‘But my … Oh, I get it. The British sense of humour. Very funny.’

  ‘What does Ned want?’ asks Emily. ‘He should give you a break when you’re on holiday.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it, kiddo – he’s here too, on vacation with his family. He’s staying in some place not far from here. They’ve got a cottage almost on the beach. His kids are surf crazy.’

  ‘Ned’s in England? Don’t tell me: you already knew that when you decided to come over.’

  Max is ignoring her now, texting again. They drive in silence for the next few miles, until the village comes into sight. Emily nudges Max with her elbow.

  ‘This part’s called The Level,’ she says. ‘It’s the centre of Pengelly. There’s a shop, two churches, a garden centre and the pub where my grandpa used to wait for me whenever I was expected home. Oh, look – someone’s put a poster up for the farmers’ market.’

  ‘Life on the edge, babe. You guys sure know how to have fun.’

  Emily’s eyes meet Andy’s as he glances into the rear-view mirror, and she blushes. He remembers the happiness he felt as they drank their beer outside the pub just a couple of days ago and inwardly curses Max for spoiling everything.

  ‘But you can see why I love coming here now, can’t you? Smell that sea breeze,’ Emily says, winding her window down.

  ‘It’s pretty, sure enough,’ says Max, dismissively, getting out his phone again as it buzzes.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to go to your hotel fairly soon?’ says Andy.

  ‘Oh, there’s no rush. Emily says her grandmama wants to meet me first. I can call a cab when it’s time to go, so there’s no need for you to be waiting around for me.’

  Andy blinks in amazement at the man’s effrontery. As if he’d be spending his evening hanging about just in case Max needed a lift? Not likely.

  Emily opens her door as soon as Andy’s pulled up outside Julia’s cottage, and hops out. ‘Thank you so much,’ she says, hovering near the driver’s door as if she wants to say more. He stays in the car and nods in acknowledgement, as Max gets out and waits. Emily looks at him, frowning, and then seems to get what the problem is.

  ‘Oh, could we just get Max’s bags out of the boot, please?’ she says.

  Andy gets out of the car as slowly as he can and retrieves the case and holdall, both made of soft, pale brown leather and clearly very expensive. Max takes them without comment. Maybe he expects me to carry them into the house for him, thinks Andy, fighting the urge to punch the smug git.

  ‘Right, well, I’ll be off then,’ says Andy, but Max is already striding down the path, having
spotted Julia standing in the open doorway.

  ‘Hey, beautiful lady – surely you cannot be the grandmother around here? It’s just not possible,’ Max says, dropping his bags as if he can’t waste a moment to be grasping Julia by the shoulders and kissing her on both cheeks. Andy thinks he might be sick. His phone bleeps in his pocket and he sees a text. Candice. Could this day get any worse?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emily wakes just before the dawn chorus starts. The events of the day before run through her mind like a bad home video. As the birds finally begin to sing, she gives up on sleep and slides out of bed, treading carefully on the polished boards so as not to wake her grandmother. Julia waited up for Emily last night and must be ready for a lie-in today – she looked exhausted. It’s way too early to jolt her from her slumbers and the thought of bacon and eggs makes Emily’s stomach lurch. She dresses quickly, putting on yesterday’s denim shorts and T-shirt, adds a thick sweater against the morning chill and pushes her feet into flip-flops, the easier to kick off and paddle when she reaches the beach.

  As Emily jogs barefoot down to the sea, she hears a familiar bark, and Buster barrels towards her, tongue hanging out of one side of his mouth in his happiness at seeing a friend. He’s closely followed by Bruno, who woofs delightedly and licks Emily’s knees.

  ‘Hi, Tristram,’ Emily shouts, waving.

  Tristram is busy flipping stones into the waves further down the beach, expertly skimming them to skip three, four, sometimes five or six times. He turns away from the sea and joins his dogs at Emily’s side. ‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘You’re up early again. Trouble sleeping, or just high on life?’

  ‘High on life? I wish!’

  ‘What’s up, sweetheart? I heard you had a visitor from foreign shores yesterday. Didn’t he live up to expectations?’

  Emily gazes at Tristram. How can this man who doesn’t know her at all put his finger on the problem so perfectly?

  ‘My ex turned up out of the blue,’ she says. ‘And I agreed to have dinner with him. It was a mistake. It’s left me feeling queasy and grumpy.’

  Tristram grins. ‘No need to say more,’ he says. ‘Sometimes that happens.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, in my experience, something that seems pretty good in its own setting doesn’t transfer to everyday life. It’s like holiday romances, isn’t it? You must have had that happen to you in your teens?’

  ‘It was already over, but go on. This is like a masterclass in relationships from an expert.’

  Tristram laughs heartily at this, making himself wheeze so much he has to bend double and clutch his knees to recover. ‘Expert? You’re looking at the man who keeps a small-town divorce lawyer in business.’

  ‘OK, I get your point, but any advice you can give me will be gratefully received. I feel a total fool today. I’ve wasted so much time on a man who turns out to only be in love with himself. I should have been concentrating on my own career, not his.’

  Buster has quickly become bored with the conversation. They watch him leaping in and out of the shallows for a few moments, while Tristram ponders on this and Bruno settles down for a short nap. The sky is bright now, and the sunrise is spectacular, with cloud formations that seem to be made of spun gold, and pink and purple streaks spreading right across the bay. Even as they watch, the colours fade and the morning light settles into normality. Emily thinks that’s probably a good thing. Too much of this sort of splendour would be hard to bear.

  ‘How about coming back to the restaurant with me and the boys for coffee and a croissant or a nice sticky Danish? My lass will be up and have the kettle on by now,’ Tristram says. ‘I think you need to get a few things off your chest, young ’un.’

  Emily’s eyes smart. Her grandpa had often called her by that pet name. She nods, and follows the man and his dogs along the beach. They fall into step as if they’ve been walking together for years.

  ‘Have you always been in the food industry?’ she asks.

  ‘That’s a funny way of putting it. It’s not so much an industry as a way of life. I love food, see? And I love watching folk enjoying it, knowing I made that happen for them. If I can make a living doing that, I’m happy.’

  ‘And your daughter feels the same?’

  ‘She does, luckily. I didn’t push her into it. She’s always been a good organiser. Then she married Vince, and together they made it all work better for me. They were living in York for years but they decided to come home because I … well, I wasn’t feeling so good for a while.’

  ‘Really? You look so fit and healthy.’

  ‘Oh, I am.’ He taps his chest. ‘It was a problem with my old ticker, but the doctors fixed it good and proper. I had to have a triple bypass,’ he says proudly, ‘and I never even knew I was ill. They tried to make me retire afterwards but I told them no way – you’re a long time dead. What would I do all day?’

  Emily’s having trouble keeping up with Tristram now as he strides across the beach. Is he trying to prove something? He certainly looks well, with the bronzed cheeks of a seasoned sun lover and plenty of laughter lines around his eyes. He carries on telling her about his business as he walks, and Emily ups her pace.

  ‘So anyway, my place was a high-class chippy before that: Andy was spot on there. It was doing OK but it was never going to make the Michelin guide, if you know what I mean? Then Gina and Vince burst in and put us on the map. We found the new premises, and the view’s as good as the grub. It’s Rick Stein without the bank loan needed to get in. Jamie Oliver without the flannel.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see it.’

  ‘You don’t have to – we’re here.’

  Buster bounds round the back of the low building in front of them in search of snacks but Bruno flops down on the front step and Emily stops next to him to take it in properly. Set right on the headland at the far end of the bay, Tristram’s restaurant has wide coastal views in both directions. It’s almost all glass on the beach front, and the roof is covered with weather-worn green tiles.

  ‘You must have done so much work on this,’ Emily says, taking in the silvery grey paintwork and the floor-to-ceiling windows. Either side of the door is a flourishing olive tree in a dark green pot, and herb beds surround the walls: mint, thyme and rosemary rubbing shoulders with other more exotic plants that Emily doesn’t recognise. The painted wooden sign has a picture of a plate of giant prawns decorated with black and green olives and slices of lemon, simple in design but striking, and the words ‘The Shellfish Shack’ are picked out in black, gold and silver. There’s a covered terrace with rustic tables and chairs, where diners can eat and watch the waves at the same time.

  Tristram stands with his hands on his hips, surveying his livelihood proudly. ‘It’s been a team effort,’ he says. ‘Come and meet the others. Round the back you go, Bruno-boy,’ he encourages the dog. ‘They’re not allowed front of house, Emily. They’d have me shut down.’

  Inside the restaurant, all is warm and cosy. The fragrant smell of coffee brewing and pastries baking makes Emily’s stomach rumble loudly, and Tristram laughs. ‘That’s the effect we want,’ he says. ‘Gina, Vince, this is Emily – she’s Julia’s granddaughter, over from New York.’

  The voluptuous woman by the sink turns and smiles. She exudes comfort, with her wild black curls and rosy cheeks. She’s wearing a huge pinafore but there’s quite a lot of cleavage on view too, and her lipstick is scarlet. Vince, the chef, is busy chopping vegetables, and beams at Emily. He reminds her of a friendly bear.

  ‘We heard you were down here,’ he says. ‘It’s great for Julia to have you around. She’s told us all about you.’

  ‘This place is fantastic,’ Emily says, looking round admiringly at the half-boarded walls hung with delicate watercolour paintings of sea urchins and other sea life. ‘Whose are the pictures?’

  Tristram raises a hand and looks mildly embarrassed.

  ‘He was going to bin them, would you believe it?’ says
Gina. ‘We rescued them from the back of the car when he was doing a run to the tip.’

  ‘People often ask to buy them, so it’s time you did some more, Tris. We’re not letting these go,’ says Vince, pouring coffee for them all and getting a tray of crisp golden croissants out of the oven.

  ‘I might well do that, but not until I’ve bought myself some new paints. The old lot are all dried up and my brushes have seen better days. It’s my birthday soon, though,’ Tristram says hopefully. ‘I’ll be eighty.’

  Gina and Vince exchange glances and smile but Tristram doesn’t notice. He’s busy making sure everything they need is in front of them. They sit around one of the tables that have been set ready for the lunchtime rush and drink their coffee. Emily finally begins to relax as, famished now, she eats her second croissant, loaded with apricot jam.

  ‘Can I ask you all something, guys?’ Emily says, as she leans back and discreetly loosens the top button of her shorts.

  ‘Ask away.’ Vince is up and clearing the table now, and Gina’s already at the sink again but they both stand still, waiting for Emily’s question.

  ‘Have any of you noticed anything … different about my gran lately?’

  ‘What sort of thing were you thinking of?’ asks Tristram.

  ‘Oh, anything at all really. She seems a bit more forgetful than usual, as if there are sort of holes in her memory. And yesterday when she came back from May’s she was acting very strangely.’

  ‘What was she doing?’ Vince sounds intrigued rather than concerned. ‘I haven’t seen any changes in Julia, though, have you, love?’

  Gina shakes her head, frowning. ‘So, what was she doing yesterday?’

  ‘Just wandering around with a vacant look on her face, as if she’d had a shock.’

  ‘Maybe rereading those old letters is upsetting her?’ suggests Tristram. ‘It must be quite painful digging up all the memories that you’ve buried for years.’