by Liz Eeles
Nineteen
The next morning I’m due to drive Storm to the station first thing so Emily is on breakfast duty. It’s all arranged that Storm will spend a week with her mum and half-sisters in London and she spent yesterday evening packing. But ten minutes before we’re supposed to be leaving, she stomps into the kitchen without her suitcase.
‘Are you ready to go?’ asks Emily as she slides a stack of pancakes into the Aga to keep warm. She’s taking breakfast duty very seriously and Jacques will have a mini-feast awaiting him when he appears.
‘Not going,’ grumps Storm, dropping onto a chair and yanking petals off the wild flowers Emily’s arranged in a vase on the table.
‘Why not?’
Emily moves the flowers out of Storm’s reach and brushes purple petals off the table into her hand.
‘My mother rang on the landline a few minutes ago and said Perfect Pia’s argued with her boyfriend and come back early from her holiday so there’s no room for me.’
‘Who’s Perfect Pia?’ I ask, shoving my car keys into my jeans pocket.
‘Their perfectly stupid au pair from Croatia or Slovenia or somewhere. I sleep in her room while she’s away and the walls are covered in Peter Andre posters.’
‘Can’t you sleep on the sofa so you can still go?’
Storm’s been moaning non-stop about spending time with her half-sisters Poppy and Eugenie but it’s all for show. I know she was looking forward to seeing her mother today. She hasn’t seen her in weeks.
‘I said I was used to sofa-surfing but Amanda told me their sofa is handmade in Italy and very precious so not for sleeping on. She thinks, or rather Simple Simon thinks, I’ll drool over it in my sleep.’
I’d have thought a daughter was rather more precious than a piece of furniture but I hold my tongue. ‘Mum’ has become ‘Amanda’ so Storm must be very upset indeed.
‘Could you go next week instead?’ says Emily, putting a plate of bacon, egg and beans in front of Storm, who never says no to a full English.
‘They’re going to their villa in Tuscany for a fortnight.’
‘You can go with them then. That’ll be amazing.’
‘No room.’ Storm pushes a rasher of crispy bacon around her plate. ‘They’re going with some poncey friends and can’t take me too. I won’t fit in apparently.’
Whether she won’t fit in the villa or fit in with Amanda’s posh friends, she doesn’t say. And it doesn’t really matter because, either way, it hurts.
‘But I didn’t want to go to sad London or Tuscany anyway so it’s not a problem,’ says Storm, standing up so quickly her chair falls backwards onto the kitchen tiles. Without stopping to pick it up, she runs into the hallway and we hear the front door slam shut behind her.
‘That is totally out of order,’ huffs Emily, dropping a pan into the deep enamel sink. ‘My mum’s a pain sometimes but at least she’s always pleased to see me.’
Steam curls up from the sink towards the ceiling as I pick up the chair and push it back under the table. Poor old Storm. Having a dysfunctional family sucks but at least when my mum was absent it was because she was ill and stuck in her own head, rather than living miles away with some toffee-nosed banker in Richmond.
Absent-mindedly, I spear the bacon on Storm’s abandoned plate with a fork, dip the rasher into her runny egg yolk and take a bite. It’s cooked to perfection but my head is filled with Storm’s problems and I hardly taste it.
‘You’d better go and talk to her, Annie, because she’ll listen to you. Ooh, here he is.’
Emily plasters on a smile when the door opens and Jacques steps into the kitchen. He’s wearing smart grey cord trousers today and a white polo shirt with a discreet gold logo that I don’t recognise.
‘Good morning, Jacques. Did you sleep well?’ asks Emily, dipping slightly like she’s curtseying.
‘As you say, like a topping,’ smiles Jacques, making a rare faux pas with his English.
‘And did you enjoy your evening?’ Jacques drove into Penzance late afternoon after finishing his report and didn’t return until bedtime.
‘I did, thank you. I looked around the town and found a pleasant restaurant for my evening meal. Though I would have eaten less if I’d known what you would serve me for breakfast.’ He nods at the food mountain that Emily’s currently building on his plate and smiles. ‘This looks delicious – a traditional English breakfast.’
Emily blushes with pleasure and piles another rasher onto Jacques’ loaded plate, determined to kill our B&B guests with kindness and cook away our profits.
Jacques takes a seat at the table and tucks his serviette into the neck of his shirt to catch egg drips. ‘I saw Storm leaving the house and she looked a little upset.’
Eek! Rule number one of running a successful B&B business must surely be: Never involve your guests in family traumas.
‘She’s fine,’ I assure him, ‘though I really ought to go and find her if you’re OK here with Emily?’
Jacques nods with his mouth full of baked beans as Emily stands over him with a plate of toast in one hand and a pan of scrambled egg in the other.
* * *
Leaving Jacques with Cornwall’s answer to Mary Berry, I rush along the garden path but hesitate when I reach the gate. Where has Storm gone? She doesn’t ‘get’ exercise so won’t have taken the cliff path but she might have headed for the Whistling Wave’s Wi-Fi to slag off her mum on social media. Or maybe she’s gone to see Jennifer. The two of them have struck up an unlikely friendship since Storm started working for her – the fifty-something shopkeeper and the stroppy teenager. It’s hardly a match made in heaven but it seems to work.
Ah! I suddenly realise where Storm will be.
After fastening the latch on the gate, I wander towards the harbour where Storm can often be found stroking the stray black cat that stretches out on the sand at low tide. Like me, she finds solace in this gorgeous part of the village where the land disappears and the ocean goes on forever.
I spot Storm straight away, sitting on the harbour wall dangling her legs towards the lapping waves. The sea is grey today and mirrors high grey cloud that’s blocking the sun but will have burned away by mid-morning.
Storm continues gazing across the water as I get closer and doesn’t move when I sit next to her on the cold stone. Ahead of us, seagulls are bobbing about on the waves and brightly coloured boats are specks on the horizon.
‘I’m really sorry you’re not off to London later.’
‘Why, do you want me out of the house while Jacques is around?’
‘You know that’s not what I mean.’
Storm shrugs, eyes still fixed on the undulating sea. ‘It’s not really London anyway because there’s too much countryside.’
She’s such a city snob when it comes to Richmond, which lies on the very south-western edge of the capital.
‘Richmond definitely has far too much fresh air,’ I agree, taking a deep breath of a salty Cornish breeze. ‘I guess it’s difficult for your mum if Pia’s come home earlier than expected.’
Storm’s head whips round. ‘Are you taking Amanda’s side?’
‘No, I’m just trying to make you feel better.’
‘Well, you’re doing a rubbish job and there’s no need ’cos I’m fine.’
The muscles in her jaw have tightened so much, her mouth is hardly moving. She’s very much like Josh when trying to suppress emotion and it breaks my heart. Josh is coming out of his shell now, thanks to lots of encouragement from me, and Storm is too – or at least she was until the mother who abandoned her dropped this latest bombshell.
We both sit in silence while a grey seal swims into the harbour. Its sleek grey head bobs above the water as it watches two humans drumming their heels against the wall.
After a minute or two, Storm pulls up her feet and tucks her legs under her. ‘I know your mum was a bit’ – she pauses – ‘different, but she cared about you, didn’t she?’
‘She
cared about me and for me as much as she could in the circumstances, when she wasn’t too unwell.’
‘Yeah, I know she was a bit mad.’ Storm catches my eye and a flush spreads across her cheeks. ‘Mentally ill. Sorry. But at least she never ran off with a dickhead and left you on your own.’
‘But you weren’t on your own. You had Barry.’ When Storm winces, I have to laugh. ‘OK, that’s probably not the best thing to say but it’s true and Barry might be hopeless at times but he does love you.’
It’s the first time I’ve used the L-word when talking about our father and Storm’s lower lip wobbles. ‘I s’pose he does though he’s away most of the time now with his new band.’
‘They’re going to be famous, don’t you know.’
‘Of course they are. Especially now his song’s being played on the radio.’ Storm snorts and wipes her nose up and down her sleeve until I pass her a tissue.
‘He was still going on about that song when he rang last week to see how we were all doing.’
‘That’s ’cos he’s like totally deluded. A couple of years ago he reckoned Robbie Williams was copying him when he wore leather trousers on telly just after Barry saw him on the King’s Road. Like one of the most famous pop stars in the world is going to take fashion tips from a washed-up wannabe he spots in the street. But at least Barry likes seeing me.’
She scrubs at her eyes and rests against me when I snake my arm around her shoulders. Poor old Storm. It’s bad enough being a hormonal teenager without the double whammy of feeling unwanted as well. At the moment, I’m doing a better job of being her mum than Amanda is – and I haven’t got a freaking clue.
When Storm mumbles something into my shoulder, I bend my head towards hers. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said you won’t leave me, will you?’
My heart melts and I hug my awkward, difficult sister tight. ‘Nah, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me and Josh.’
‘And I won’t have to leave this daft village either. Promise me.’
‘I promise that I’ll do my very best,’ I say, feeling the ton-weight of responsibility that’s sitting on my head get a little heavier.
‘Good.’ Storm relaxes into me and we sit like that for a while, gazing across the ever-changing sea while seagulls screech overhead. Sisters united against the big scary world outside Salt Bay.
Twenty
After persuading Storm to visit Josh’s sister Serena – the thought of her moping about all day is unbearable – I head into the village because there’s something else to sort out. Our mysterious visitor had a strange effect on Jennifer yesterday and I want to check she’s OK.
I’m also eaten up with curiosity and imagining all kinds of unlikely Jennifer-Jacques scenarios. But mostly I’m feeling a tad responsible for the upset seeing as Jacques is staying with us. The last thing I want is to introduce problems and instability to this wonderful village that’s given me a new life.
Jennifer glances up when the bell above her shop door pings but goes back to arranging magazines on the shelf above the newspapers.
‘The delivery van got stuck in a traffic jam on the A30 so it was late again this morning. Flaming emmets! They turn Cornwall into a car park every summer.’
‘They also buy an indecent amount of ice cream from your shop so it’s not all bad.’
‘Huh,’ harrumphs Jennifer, popping Cornwall Life in pride of place at the front of the shelf. She slowly gets up off her knees and stretches out her back. ‘You’re on your own then.’
‘Yeah, just me. Josh is teaching summer school, Storm’s in Trecaldwith with Serena and our B&B guest is probably still having his breakfast. Emily’s force-feeding him a full English.’
‘How nice,’ mumbles Jennifer who’s looking more soignée than usual for a Tuesday morning. She’s swapped her trademark M&S skirt and blouse combo for a flattering mink-coloured dress, and her blonde, viciously backcombed hair is held in place with a diamante clip. Curiouser and curiouser.
Now, I could beat about the bush and get to the point via lots of small talk but, to be honest, I can’t be bothered. And if there’s one thing coming to Salt Bay has taught me it’s that secrets are best shared. So I go straight for the jugular.
‘What’s going on between you and Jacques?’
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ says Jennifer. She turns her back on me and makes a great show of tidying up the chocolate selection that’s already pretty tidy.
‘You know exactly what I mean.’ Pulling up Jennifer’s stool, I plonk myself on it and fold my arms. ‘Look, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to but is it going to be a problem if Jacques stays with us for a few more days?’
A wave of emotion flits across Jennifer’s face and her fingers tighten around the tube of Munchies she’s clutching. ‘I suppose everyone in the village is talking about me? It’s a shame they haven’t anything better to do.’
‘Don’t worry, I haven’t said anything to anyone and I don’t think Roger would have either.’
Jennifer thinks for a moment while the Munchies get ever-more squidged. ‘No, he probably wouldn’t. Did Monsieur Bouton tell you anything?’ When I shake my head, she leans against the counter and folds her arms beneath her generous bosom. ‘Monsieur Bouton – Jacques – and I know each other.’
‘I’d gathered that much.’
‘You’re very nosey, aren’t you,’ tuts Jennifer, the nosiest woman in Salt Bay. Then she gives a little sigh as though she’s come to a decision. ‘I knew Jacques a long time ago when I was studying in France as a young woman. Have I told you that I studied music in Paris?’
Only like a million times. I bite my lip to help me keep a straight face. ‘You have mentioned it in passing, yes.’
‘Well, that’s when I first met Jacques. His business was taking off, I got a part-time job in one of his pâtisseries and we had a—’ She stops and nods at me, willing me to end her sentence. What does she expect me to say – a friendship, a laugh, a shag?
‘A relationship?’ I venture.
‘Yes, absolutely, a relationship. It was very intense – my first love affair after a sheltered and often unhappy upbringing in Cornwall.’ She gazes into the distance for a moment. ‘But he was—’ She stops again and looks at me, opening her eyes wide.
‘Older?’
‘Yes.’ She nods her head impatiently. ‘And—’
This really isn’t any fun. I hold out my hands, palms to the ceiling, and shrug.
‘And married,’ she says crossly. ‘Obviously.’
Blimey! Jennifer, who calls local Laura a hussy for having it away with a married fisherman from Perrigan Bay, had a torrid affair with a sexy French bloke who was married at the time.
‘There, so now you know.’ Bright pink spots are flaring in Jennifer’s cheeks. ‘Are you disappointed in me?’
‘Of course not, this isn’t the 1850s, Jennifer. I’m just surprised.’
‘Me too because I’m a different person now. The years have changed me. You’re different as well.’
‘Me? Different in what way?’
‘Different from the brittle person you were when you first arrived in Salt Bay. Experiences change us. They either chip away at our defences or build them up. You’ve softened whereas I’ve got harder.’
She waves her hand when I go to protest and the Munchies clatter onto the counter. ‘No, it’s true. What happened in Paris made me a different person but that’s fine. I like who I am now.’ She gives a short laugh. ‘Mostly.’
‘The affair didn’t last then?’
‘Obviously not,’ says Jennifer sharply, then she sighs. ‘It was the usual story – he kept promising to leave his wife and I was naïve and foolish enough to believe him until—’
She bites her lip as I shift uncomfortably on my stool feeling like a voyeur into long-buried pain.
‘It’s OK, Jennifer. I shouldn’t have been so nosey, and you don’t have to tell me anything else.’
‘It’s strange but I really want to tell you. I haven’t talked about it for such a long time.’
Jennifer walks to the shop door and flicks the latch across so we won’t be disturbed. Outside three young children in shorts and T-shirts run screaming towards the harbour without a care in the world.
‘I got pregnant. Contraception wasn’t so good in those days and it was a mistake. But once I got over the shock, I thought it might encourage Jacques to leave his wife. He told me their relationship was loveless and she didn’t understand him. I was very naïve back then.’ She smiles, softer somehow. ‘Anyway, surprise, surprise, he didn’t leave his wife, who turned out to be pregnant herself and I found myself alone and pregnant in Paris with no support from my family. I lost the baby with the stress of it all which was probably for the best. Single mothers had a hard time back then.’
She shrugs but her eyes are full of pain. ‘After all that I became quite unwell’ –she winces and whispers the next word – ‘mentally. So I abandoned my studies and Paris for good and came back to Cornwall.’
She sucks in air and breathes out slowly. ‘I have shocked you now. I’m not the perfect person you thought I was.’
Slipping off my stool, I walk over to her feeling profoundly sad. Life is hard and we’re all damaged by traumas that remain buried within us.
‘You’re as perfect to me as you ever were,’ I say diplomatically, putting my arms around her and pulling her in for a hug. Jennifer is one hundred per cent not a huggy person but it’s the only appropriate response to what she’s just told me.
Jennifer allows herself to be held for a few moments. She smells of gardenias and there’s what feels like an industrial grade girdle underneath her dress. Then she pulls away and purses her lips. ‘Everything I’ve just said is between you and me, all right? So there’s no telling that young man of yours or blabbermouth Kayla and definitely no word of it to Storm. She’s put me on a pedestal and I don’t want to crush her. Promise me.’