How can I?
The need for oblivion overwhelms me and I may as well find it at the bottom of my own whisky bottle as one of the club’s. I’ll save myself a fortune too. Turning up the collar of my jacket, I start walking down the drive and away from the lights of the club, hoping I don’t sober up too much on the way back. I don’t want to think about Isla’s words or the way she looked at me; pleading for me to leave her alone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
This morning, I was going to try out the fairings recipe on Cal but instead I’ve been wallowing on the sofa, eating cornflakes out of a mug because the dishes are all dirty, flicking between cookery shows, house programmes and Judge Judy.
I’d arranged to meet up with Nina, Shami and Holly later, some of the waiting and kitchen staff I worked with last night. Nina helps her mum run an animal shelter and she said we could take Mitch and some of the rescue dogs for a walk this afternoon. I was going to ask Cal if I could borrow the Land Rover and drive into Penzance to see a film tonight with her and the other girls.
I doubt Cal will want to lend me the car anyway after last night. I really kicked off and now I’m regretting it. I let Robyn and her friend down, and worse, I let Cal see I was upset, even if he doesn’t know exactly why.
Mitch nudges me with his damp nose.
‘He didn’t give a toss, did he?’ I say to Mitch, inviting him onto the sofa, much to his bemusement. ‘He didn’t come after me. I didn’t even have my phone or a coat and he could see my feet were killing me but he didn’t care.’
Mitch lies across my lap and drools on my bare legs.
How could I slink back to the club after making a scene like that? I knew I’d have to hitch and frankly I didn’t fancy it much. Fortunately, I got my first lucky break of the evening: an empty minicab passed me on the edge of the village and I flagged it down. The driver was a friendly woman called Sandra who reminded me of my mum and she agreed to take me home and offered to charge it to Cal: apparently his business has an account with them. She even offered to call the country club and they asked Robyn to collect my bag and coat.
‘What have I done?’ I ask Mitch, who rightly ignores me. I’ve embarrassed Robyn and her friend and Cal must be furious. What if he sacks me? I’m still on a trial period. How stupid was I to rise to Mawgan’s bait?
‘Oi! Demi, Are you in there?’
Polly bangs on the window. I think about drawing the curtains and ignoring her but instead, I push Mitch off my lap and answer the door.
She looms in the doorway. ‘There’s a phone call for you, your ladyship.’
‘For me?’
‘Well, there’s only one of you round here, thank the Lord.’
‘Who is it?’ It must be the catering manager, Abby, threatening to sue me for ruining the reputation of her business.
‘I’m not your social secretary, madam.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to have made you get up off the sofa but I left my phone at the do last night.’
Polly tuts. ‘So I heard. It’s Robyn. I told her you’d call her back.’
‘Right.’
‘Don’t be on long. That’s Cal’s phone bill.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of abusing his phone bill.’
‘Hmmph.’
She trudges off. Just when I think she’s warming to me, she turns into an ogress again. Anyone would think she’d got it into her head she was Cal’s mum and I was after him or something. Squashing down a sigh, I walk after Polly to return the call from Robyn.
After I put down the phone, I feel even worse, if it’s possible. Robyn was nice, much nicer than I deserved. She asked me if I was OK and kept apologising for Mawgan kicking off, as if it was her fault. She said she’d got my stuff and would ride over with it later, ‘if it was convenient’. She’s so bloody nice and I really like her but I think she lets people walk over her – people like her dad and even Cal, sometimes.
‘Where’s Cal?’ Polly has crept up behind me, which is no mean feat, I can tell you.
‘How should I know? I got a cab home. I’ve no idea how he got back.’
‘He didn’t come home. His bed hasn’t been slept in.’
‘Hasn’t it?’
‘No.’ She eyes me suspiciously as if I might know where he is. ‘Well, I suppose he decided to stay over. Maybe he went back to Bosinney with Luke, Robyn and Isla.’
This is news to me. ‘I don’t really care what he does.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’ Polly smiles as if she knows me better than I do, which makes me even pricklier.
‘I’m going back to my place now. Robyn’s coming over later,’ I tell her, refusing to rise to the bait, but on the way back to the cottage my stomach churns though I don’t know why. Cal probably did stay over at Bosinney House. They are his family, after all … but I know Luke and Isla were staying over too.
Mitch sits in the doorway, giving me evils, which must mean he wants to be let out.
I puff my way up the path that leads from Kilhallon Cove to the ruined tin mine, hoping the faster I walk, the more I can blot out last night’s disaster, but it’s not my lucky day. Cal is walking along the coast path, swishing an old stick at the gorse bushes at either side of the path. There’s no way of hiding from him, and why should I? The truth is that I feel embarrassed about my behaviour last night and stinging at the realisation that he still loves Isla, even though that’s perfectly understandable.
Yet my heart still sinks when Mitch races off ahead of me and leaps around Cal’s feet, barking, like he’s a rock star. Cal bends down and fusses him and Mitch rolls over and presents his belly for a rub. That dog is as much of a man whore as Cal is and no matter how slowly I walk, I’ve got to reach him sometime.
We end up almost face to face at a part of the path that ducks between a large piece of rock and a gorse bush.
‘Morning,’ he says.
‘Is it?’ I’d like to push past him but there’s no room and that would mean I’d have to touch him.
Mitch squeezes through our legs to investigate a rabbit hole.
‘Polly was looking for you,’ I say, shoving my hands in my jeans.
‘Was she?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you get home OK?’ he asks, chopping the grass with his stick.
‘Course I did.’ Close up, his eyes look a bit bloodshot and there are dark smudges under them.
‘It’s a long walk,’ Cal mutters.
I shrug. ‘So?’
‘And dark.’
‘I got a minicab.’
‘Oh. Good. I’d hoped you might.’
‘I was lucky to find one,’ I say. ‘Actually, the driver knows you. Sandra something, she said she’d charge it to the business. I do hope that’s acceptable to you.’
He grunts. ‘It’ll have to be, I suppose.’
We stand in silence. I don’t know why every bone seems to tingle with hurt. I hate it and I can’t explain it.
‘I’d better get back home. I’ve got loads to do then Robyn is coming round with my stuff. Didn’t she say anything about it at Bosinney last night?’
He examines his boots. ‘Bosinney?’
‘Yeah, I thought you must have stayed over. Polly said you might have …’
‘No. I didn’t stay at Bosinney. I walked home. Sort of.’
‘What do you mean, sort of?’
‘I may have called in at Tinner’s on the way. There was a late lock-in.’
I snort. ‘No wonder you look like death this morning if you spent all night at the Tinner’s.’
‘Thanks! It wasn’t all night.’
‘You should watch how much you’re drinking.’
‘Now you sound like bloody Polly!’
‘It’s only because she cares about you. We both—’ I stop myself just in time. ‘Do what you want, I don’t care.’
‘Demi, are you still pissed off with me for dragging you away from Mawgan?’
‘Mad at you? Look, Cal, I couldn’t care l
ess. Honestly. Mitch!’ I run towards him and grab his collar, more sharply than I mean. He yelps but I snap, ‘Come on, you stupid bloody dog!’
‘Demi! Wait!’
Cal’s voice is a scrap of paper snatched away by the wind, whirling round my head. I push past him and dart into a turning in the gorse, stumbling over the tussocks, brambles scratching at my bare legs, my chest tight as a ball of twine. Mitch keeps stopping and turning and looking at me, confused. I’m not confused: I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life: Cal Penwith isn’t worth shedding a single tear over.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It’s been over a fortnight since the ball and Demi still hasn’t forgiven me. I don’t know if it was me dragging her away from Mawgan or spending half the night in the Tinner’s or what but we’ve hardly spoken a word that wasn’t to do with work and she hasn’t been over to the farmhouse for dinner.
I’ve never known anyone work so hard – or work so hard at ignoring me – but that’s Demi: she doesn’t do anything by halves.
I’ve just got back from the bank to find her taking pictures of the progress on the cottages with her new iPad. She’s intent on her work but every now and again she smiles, as if she’s pleased with something. Eventually she catches sight of me, and walks in the opposite direction. She carries herself so proudly and that slender body has more strength in it than I’d realised; she reminds me of the young women in the desert, farming and building homes while their men were away fighting – or dead. Her hair seems thicker than when I first met her and more lustrous, and there’s an air of confidence about her that I hadn’t noticed. You could almost say she’d blossomed here, despite our recent spats.
‘Cal!’ Polly’s face is bright red as she shouts to me. She’s lugging two bulging bags between the kitchen and the recycling bins by the barn. My warning shout about the bottom of the bag is too late and suddenly it bursts. Bottles cascade out and one drops onto her foot.
‘Ow.’ She abandons the bags and rubs her toes, which are peeping out of her sandals. Bottles roll down the cobbles as she hops about, cursing.
‘Here. Give me the bags. You shouldn’t be carting this stuff about.’ I’m angry at myself, not her.
Crouching down to massage her red foot, Polly snorts. ‘It needs doing. Did you know the loo’s blocked again in the office? I need to call the plumber to unblock it.’
‘I’ll sort this mess out while you call the plumber,’ I say as she mutters about broken bones. ‘Why don’t you go and bathe your foot and rest it?’
Polly gives a humph and straightens up. ‘You do know that all of these empties came out of your study? My God, you look rough. You’ll end up like your father.’
My guilt lessens at being hectored by her. ‘Would that be so bad?’
She plants her hands on her hips. ‘Not if you don’t plan on seeing sixty.’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
She pokes the bag of empties. ‘There are more of them rolling round the study floor and you might like to know you’re out of whisky. Demi’s already been out to the Co-op and she didn’t add it to the list.’
‘I’ll live.’
‘Maybe you will and maybe you won’t, if you carry on like this. Staying up all night drinking, working all the hours God sends on those run-down old buildings. Chasing a dream.’
Polly’s brand of tough love is stretching my patience. ‘If I do keel over, you’ll have the major advantage of not having to wait on me, but for your information I don’t want anyone to buy any more whisky. Does that make you happy?’
‘Hmmph.’
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”. Have you contacted the builders about the green roof yet?’
‘No, I asked Demi to do it. She needs keeping occupied. Better to have her working than her daydreaming and moping about like she has been lately.’
‘Moping about? Is she ill?’
Polly snorts. ‘Of course not! She’s as fit as a fiddle but like most of us, she needs to be busy or she has too much time to dwell on things that won’t do her any good.’
‘Dwell on what things?’
‘Sometimes, I wonder why your father ever wasted all that money on your education, Cal Penwith.’
With this cryptic comment, Polly blusters off back to the house, leaving me wondering what she means. Is Demi worrying about her family and if she should contact them? Is she feeling the pressure of her new job here? Has she really been so down? I’ve neglected her while I’ve been working and on my bender. I’ve seen her every day. She’s either stayed in with Mitch or borrowed the Land Rover to go out with Robyn or the girls from the catering firm. Which is great, of course, she has her own life and it’s great to see her making new friends, but I have missed her, especially her banter, and Mitch drooling on my thigh …
The kitchen smells of baking as I walk in. There’s a jar of flowers on the middle of the scrubbed oak surface and an open tin of biscuits which must account for the delicious aroma. Sunlight fills the room, catching the coppery highlights in Demi’s hair as she bends over her iPad. Radio Four plays softly in the background which must be Polly’s doing, surely, because Demi is a Pirate FM addict. A familiar warmth fills me and my chest tightens unaccountably. The sights, the scents and sounds remind me of when my mum was alive so much so that I half expect her to walk through the door, wiping her hands on a cloth and telling me to take my muddy boots off.
‘Hello.’
‘Mmm.’ Demi scrolls through the pictures on her tablet, while munching on a biscuit.
Well, I think that was ‘hi’ but it could have been a growl. Any visions of my mother evaporate, and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want to dwell on how much I miss her.
‘How are you?’
She crunches down her biscuit before replying. ‘Fine. Why, shouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason, except Polly says you’ve been a bit quiet.’
She snorts crumbs and glances up. ‘Polly’s concerned for my welfare?’
‘In a roundabout way, I think she is.’
A smile flickers across her face then she re-focuses on the screen, as if embarrassed that I caught her caring what Polly thinks – and happy that Polly cares about her.
My chair scrapes the tiles as I pull it out to sit on. ‘Are those biscuits homemade?’
‘Yeah.’
‘They look familiar. The smell reminded me of when my mum was here.’
A pause then. ‘They’re fairings. Made to my nan’s recipe.’
‘May I?’
She shrugs. ‘If you like. Polly’s already had three so you’d better grab one while you can.’
The fairing is gingery and melts in my mouth. Demi is trying to see what I think about it but I don’t want to jeopardise this delicate early stage of the peace process by saying the wrong thing.
After I’ve finished it, I help myself to another which I hope will answer her question. ‘Do you want to know how I got on at the bank?’
She glances up. ‘If you want to tell me.’
‘The bank manager agreed to my loan extension. Added to my father’s legacy, we should be able to carry on with the work on the new buildings.’
She beams. ‘That’s brilliant news!’
I feel touched by her enthusiasm and relieved to see her happy again. I’ve missed that cheeky smile so much. ‘It is. Come on, let’s go and check out the state of our empire.’
With Demi by my side, we go outside to survey the park from our vantage point at the top of the yard, from where we can see the part-restored cottages, and half-built campsite amenity building. We’ve achieved so much already, against my expectations, frankly, but there is so much more to be done.
‘It’s really underway,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Nor me but we have to push on. We need to get the glamping business going while we renovate the farm cottages. With luck we could catch the tail-end of the camping season and have the cottages ready for October half-term. I’m going to p
ut Kilhallon back on its feet, if it’s the last thing I do.’
Standing here with Cal, I’m reminded of what Polly told me the other day in one of her gloomier moments. She says that developing Kilhallon will be the last thing Cal does. She says he’s a shadow of the man who went away but I think he looks much better than when I first met him in St Trenyan. He’s stronger and fitter and he doesn’t wince so much when he’s working. He tries to hide how much pain he’s been in but I still notice.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t show any more enthusiasm about his plans but the problem is that they feel like my plans now too.
Cal was out last Thursday night again and didn’t come back till three a.m.: his taxi woke me up and started Mitch barking. Polly reckons he’s been drinking too much at the Tinner’s.
Yet my heart still started pitter-pattering from the moment I heard the Land Rover struggling up the lane after his visit to St Trenyan this morning. Although I hate to admit it, it’s not only the job and cottage that I’ve invested in. I’ve come to feel that Cal, Robyn, even Polly – and me, well, we’re one big dysfunctional family together.
Sometimes, I feel we share more than Kilhallon. I know a little of what it’s like to be an outsider too; to be outside people’s lives, a non-person.
Mitch trots up and nudges a wet nose in Cal’s crotch.
‘Demi …’
‘Yeah?’
He turns to me. ‘Would you give me a hand loading some of this scrap from the old cottages into the skip, please? I’ll shift the window frames and heavy stuff, if you can help with some of the lighter stuff.’
‘I won’t break. I’m stronger than I look.’
‘The frames are heavier than they seem and I don’t want you to sue me for breaching health and safety.’
‘And here was me thinking you actually cared about me.’
He smiles. ‘I do. Let’s get changed into our work clothes and get on with it.’
Back outside, both of us in work gear, ready to move the frames, Cal asks me to fetch his toolkit from the workshop.
‘It should be at the back next to the timber offcuts. And please be careful,’ he warns.
I’ve no idea how anyone gets any work done in the ‘workshop’ because it’s almost as crowded with stuff as the barn was. You can barely see the lathe and other tools for discarded bits of equipment, an old sewing machine like my lovely nan had and a broken food mixer and a set of heavy iron pots and pans. There’s an ancient Aga that’s being used as storage for even more stuff and a new dishwasher, still in its cardboard packing case, that no one has had time to plumb in.
Summer at the Cornish Cafe Page 12