Summer at the Cornish Cafe

by Phillipa Ashley

  PHILLIPA ASHLEY

  Summer At The Cornish Cafe

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Published by Maze

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016

  Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2016

  Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © May 2016 ISBN: 9780008191856

  Version 2016-04-21

  For Rowena Kincaid,

  One of a kind

  Never give up, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.

  Harriet Beecher Stowe

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Demi’s Recipe Notebook

  Time After Time Is a Fresh and Funny Women’s Fiction Novel, Which Explores the Romantic Paths That Could Have Been.

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Good morning, good people of Kernow! This is your favourite local DJ, Greg Stennack, coming to you live and kicking from The Breakfast Show on Radio St Trenyan. So wakey wakey all you lazy folk still snoring under your duvets! The sun’s shining, the surf’s up and it’s a fabulous start to the Easter weekend. Whether you’re a local or a visitor to our bee-yoo-tiful corner of West Cornwall, remember to stay tuned to the county’s brightest and best independent radio station for the coolest sounds, the hottest news and the tastiest commercials from our station sponsors: Hayleigh’s Pasty Shack. Now, let’s kick off the show with ‘Happy’ by Pharrell. Take it away, Pha—’

  After emerging from a nightmare in which a giant pasty was attacking me, I find the ‘off’ button on the radio alarm and cut Greg off in his prime. It’s actually a shame to cut off Pharrell too, but I need to get up, have a shower and get ready for work. I can already hear my boss, Sheila, singing along to the radio in the kitchen of the cafe, two floors below my attic room, even though it’s only six a.m.

  Did I say six? With a groan, I pull the duvet over my head again but a wet nose nudges its way under the bottom edge and a warm tongue licks my big toe. It’s not only Greg who wants me to wakey wakey.

  ‘OK, boy. I hadn’t forgotten about you,’ I mumble through the cover.

  My dog, Mitch, clearly doesn’t believe me and I let out an ‘oof’ as four paws land on the middle of my stomach.

  I throw off the duvet to find a hairy muzzle in my face and a waft of early-morning doggy breath in my nostrils.

  ‘Eww, Mitch. What did you eat last night? OK. OK. I am getting up!’

  After gently pushing Mitch off me, I drag myself out of bed, and cross to the skylight in the roof of the attic. Standing on tiptoes, I tug back the blue gingham curtain, push the skylight open a crack and peep outside. My eyes blink at the dazzling brightness. Although it’s still early, the sky above the little seaside village of St Trenyan is already postcard blue and I can almost taste the salt on the air. A tractor chugs up and down the beach opposite the cafe where I started work a few weeks ago, raking the sand ready for the deckchairs to be laid out.

  The masts of boats bob up and down in the harbour at the far side of the beach. A few people are already up, jogging along the flat sand or flinging balls into the sea for their dogs. As the breeze carries the rattle of the tractor and snatches of distant barks through the window, Mitch yips excitedly. I take a deep gulp of the air and close the window. It’s Easter: the turn of the tide, a fresh day and the start of a new summer.

  I wonder what this one will bring.

  CHAPTER ONE

  You can always spot the customers who are going to be trouble, no matter how hard you try to please them, but as I grab my notebook ready to take his order, I know that the man at table sixteen won’t be one of them.

  Crammed in a corner under the kitchen extractor fan, that table has a wonky leg and most people only take it as a last resort, but I saw the guy head straight for it, even though there were other seats with better views at the time.

  Sheila’s Beach Hut has the best spot of any cafe in St Trenyan, but he might as well be back in some trendy London espresso bar. He pores over an article in The Times, oblivious to the clotted-cream sand or the turquoise sea with its frilly wavelets or the holidaymakers, of all shapes, ages and sizes, sunbathing and playing cricket on the beach in front of the cafe. The water’s too cold even for a paddle this early in the year, but there are some hardy surfers at the far end of the beach, catching the bigger breakers. The Surf School has pushed out its racks of wetsuits and yellow foam boards, and set up its sign, promising to teach anyone to ride a wave in a two-hour lesson. Like, yeah. I’ve lived in Cornwall all my life and I’ve never managed it so far.

  I flip over my notebook, pen poised. ‘Can I take your order, sir?’

  ‘Hmm …’

  ‘May I get you something, sir?’

  ‘Double espresso,’ he mutters, without even glancing up from the article in the newspaper. It’s in the features section and there’s a picture of a glamorous blonde standing behind a camera on a film set. Perhaps he’s not so highbrow after all?

  ‘Anything else with that? Toastie? Cake? We also have some homemade blueberry muffins.’

  ‘Just the coffee,’ he growls and suddenly flips over the page to the book review section.

  OK.
Fine if you don’t want one of the delicious muffins that I baked this morning, I think. ‘Coming up, sir.’

  ‘There’s no need to call me sir,’ he says, then adds a gruff, ‘Thanks.’

  I could tell him that he’s nothing special and that I say the same to all the male customers, from twenty-five to ninety-five and anyway, I’ve seen his type before. Though I can’t see his face properly, his arms and hands are deeply tanned, even after the winter. His khaki sweatshirt hangs off his lean body and his black beanie hat is pulled over his ears, though the sun is beating down. Typical surfing wannabe, probably on a gap yah from his job in the City. Probably flew straight to Cornwall from Bondi Beach or a French alpine resort. Probably has his skis and surf board in the boot of his 4x4 on the drive of his parents’ holiday home in Rock. Not that I’m judgemental, much.

  Feeling as hot as the pasties in my white shirt and black trousers, I weave my way onto the terrace. Every table, inside and out, is now taken, and people are even perched on the wall overlooking St Trenyan beach. As well as its fantastic views and Sheila’s famous pasties, the Beach Hut has an easygoing atmosphere that makes it a popular spot for surfers, families and dog owners alike.

  ‘Hey, you there!’

  A customer barks at me from table twelve. She can only be in her twenties but has the air of an older, more harassed woman. Judging by the likeness, she’s obviously with her father and a younger sister who looks as if she’s in her late teens – a few years younger than me. Unlike beanie man, the older daughter definitely wants to be noticed. With her fitted black business suit, high heels and heavy make-up, she stands out like a sore thumb from the tourists. None of her party seem happy to be at the cafe, however. The father has a permanent scowl and the teenage daughter is a goth, so maybe she’d look miserable anyway.

  The woman in the suit glances at her diamante watch and purses her lips.

  ‘Excuse me. Did you hear? We’ve been waiting for hours. When are you going to actually take our order?’

  Actually, she’s only been here five minutes but I give her my shiniest smile. The customer is always right and I can’t afford to upset any of them because Mitch and I need this job more than you would ever believe.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, madam.’

  ‘You obviously haven’t planned your staffing levels accordingly.’

  I could tell her the staff consists of me, Sheila, her niece (who turns up as long as there’s no decent surf) and Henry (who called in sick with an infected nipple ring this morning) but I don’t think it would help.

  ‘Apologies. I’ll pass on your feedback to the manager. Now, may I take your order, please, so we can get you served as soon as possible?’

  ‘We haven’t decided yet, have we?’ She throws out the challenge to her family. Her goth sister keeps her eyes fixed on her phone while their middle-aged father frowns at the menu and lets out a bored sigh. Fixing on a smile, I answer a long list of queries about the menu and wait for them to make up their minds.

  Twenty minutes later, having delivered the beanie man’s espresso, served several other tables and taken a load of orders, Sheila shouts to me over the top of the serving counter in the kitchen. Her face is red as she slides steaming pasties and a slice of quiche onto three plates. ‘There you go. One steak, a cheese and bacon and a spinach and ricotta quiche for table twelve. You said they’re awkward customers, so I’ve given them extra garnish.’

  ‘Thanks, Sheila. I’m on it now.’

  ‘And can you clear some tables before you come back, please? It’s mayhem out there but we need to get as many customers as we can over the holiday weekend. I can’t believe the weather we’re having this early in the year. This is the warmest Easter I’ve ever known. If this is global warming, bring it on.’

  ‘No problem, boss.’

  Sheila doesn’t stand for any nonsense but she’s very fair and while the money is only minimum wage, it comes with something far more important to me. She lets me and my beloved dog, Mitch, sleep in the tiny loft conversion above the cafe free of charge. Despite the long hours and the difficult customers, I’m beyond grateful to have a job and a warm place to stay after months of uncertainty, sleeping on couches, in hostels and occasionally even roughing it in the caves along the bay. I don’t mind admitting that it’s been a tough time but Sheila’s kindness had proved there were people willing to help in the world.

  Blowing a strand of hair that’s escaped from its scrunchie out of my eyes, I dump my tray of dirty crockery beside the dishwasher. Sheila carefully heaps fresh salad and homemade coleslaw next to the pasty and the quiche. The spicy aromas waft under my nostrils and make my stomach rumble almost as loudly as the extractor fan, but there’s no time for us to eat yet.

  ‘Demi, wait!’ Sheila calls as I’m half in and half out of the door to the cafe.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can you possibly do something about Mitch’s barking? I don’t mind him staying in the flat while you’re at work but some of the customers have been asking if he’s OK.’

  My heart sinks but I nod. ‘I’ll try to get him to settle down in my break. I’m sorry but it’s new for him here and he misses me.’

  ‘I know but do your best,’ says Sheila with a brief smile. Then she’s gone, already preparing the next order.

  From the flat above, Mitch whines again. I really hope I can settle him down but he gets so excited, with so many interesting canine smells and noises drifting up from the cafe. We already went for a jog together on the beach before dawn and I’ll take him for another walk when I eventually get my break.

  Back on table twelve, the younger daughter of the family brightens a little as I smile at her and hand over the spinach quiche but her sister and father are stony faced as I serve them.

  ‘Here’s your lunch, madam, sir. I’m very sorry for the delay.’

  ‘About time, too. I could have made the pasties myself.’ Her tone is icy. Her eyebrows are also weird, so weird that it’s hard not to stare.

  Gritting my teeth, I offer them cutlery wrapped in serviettes. ‘Once again, I apologise for the wait, madam, and I’ll certainly pass on your feedback to the owner.’

  ‘Make sure you do and you can also inform her we’re not paying for my meal.’

  ‘You tell her, Mawgan,’ says the father to his older daughter, while the young goth sister glances down at the ground, embarrassed. I feel sorry for her.

  ‘I’ll have to ask the owner about your bill.’ I feel faintly sick. I can’t just give away Sheila’s food. She’s only the tenant at the cafe and her profit margins are wafer thin as it is.

  ‘I don’t care … and what’s this? Coleslaw? I specifically asked for no coleslaw.’ Mawgan wrinkles her nose at the pasties.

  ‘I’ll have it removed immediately and bring a fresh plate, madam.’

  Mawgan snatches the plate back. ‘If you do that I’ll be waiting until Christmas.’

  ‘Whatever you wish, madam.’

  Gritting my teeth, I take the tray, desperate to move on to new customers but dreading what Sheila will say about their refusal to pay the bill. It was my fault that the coleslaw ended up on the plate; I must have taken down the order wrong in the rush.

  ‘Would you like anything else?’ I ask in desperation. ‘Condiments? A jug of water?’

  ‘Some mayonnaise,’ Mawgan grunts, leaving me wondering what the objection was to coleslaw anyway.

  Wondering how I’ll break the news to Sheila about the discount, I head for the condiments alcove at the side of the kitchen, and scoop some mayo from the catering jar in the fridge into an individual pot. Maybe Mawgan will change her mind when she tastes the homemade pasties that Sheila and I slaved over this morning? While I carefully place the pot on a tray, I can hear the odd yip from above but I have to harden my heart.

  I reckon no one will hear Mitch anyway above the squawking of seagulls and head back outside. A large group of them has already gathered on the beach wall opposite the cafe, eyeing the l
unchtime chips and pasties with their beady eyes and sharp beaks. They’re a menace all over St Trenyan, but the tourists will keep feeding them. The gulls must think Sheila’s is a drive thru.

  Make that a dive thru. I’m almost at Mawgan’s table with the bowl of mayo, when I spot three of the big birds circling low over a young family at the edge of the terrace. The mother is trying to manoeuvre a buggy with a baby down the steps to the beach while a little girl clambers down beside her. She can’t be more than four and she has a bright pink ice-cream cone clutched in one hand. Her tongue sticks out in concentration as she negotiates the stone steps onto the sand. I’m in two minds whether to leave the mayo and give the mother a hand when there’s a deafening screech.

  Wings beating like pterodactyls, two large gulls launch a double-pronged attack on the little girl. The birds are probably only after the food, but they could do some serious damage by accident.

  ‘Look out!’

  Too late. The mother looks up from the bottom of the steps, there’s a flapping of wings and screeching like nails over a blackboard. The toddler lets out a wail as the gulls attack her ice cream. Dashing forward to try and chase them off, my shin connects with someone’s beach bag, I stagger forward and the pot of mayo flies through the air. It lands, smack onto the back of Mawgan’s jacket, just as if I’d aimed right for it.

  Ignoring Mawgan’s shriek and my throbbing foot, I run over to the mum. The toddler stares at her empty hand which thankfully is still in one piece. Pink gloop trickles down her chubby arm, while the seagulls tear the cone to pieces on the sand.