The one thing there’s no sign of is the toolbox but some of the junk is actually quite interesting; like the old stone cider flagons and pottery bowls and a rusting AA road sign that reads ‘Kilhallon 1, Lands’ End 7.’ I’ve seen stuff like this in the antique shops in St Trenyan and Truro, on sale for silly money to the tourists.
Cal could sell the decent pieces or, even better, we could restore them and use them in the cottages. I pick up one of the pottery mixing bowls and rub the grime off with my finger. The sea-green glaze shines like a jewel in the gloom and it feels cool and smooth in my sticky hands. With a good scrub, it would look really pretty. Holding the pottery up to the light that filters through the grimy panes, a thought stirs in my mind. These pieces would be great in the cottages – and to decorate my ‘cafe’. When we looked over the site earlier, I saw the storage building and almost said something to Cal about it, then. I have to find the nerve to tell him my plans. If I don’t, the cafe will always stay a fantasy.
A dull crash from the farmyard makes me almost drop the bowl.
I run back to the yard to find Cal breathing heavily in the middle of a cloud of dust next to the skip. Damn him, while I was daydreaming in the workshop, he’s moved most of the heaviest pieces of wood. He wafts away the dust, coughs and steps out into the sunlight. His T-shirt is damp with sweat and he can’t hide the wince as he picks up a piece of broken window frame.
‘I looked everywhere for the toolkit but I couldn’t find it,’ I say, feeling guilty that I lingered so long in the workshop.
He doesn’t seem bothered, however. After tossing the wood into the skip, he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Really? I … could have sworn it was in there.’
‘You look wrecked.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You should have waited for me to come back.’
‘I needed to get the job done,’ he says gruffly.
‘Well, I’ll help with the rest of the stuff.’
I hurry into the barn, try to lift a piece of frame and almost topple over with the strain. Cal curses but I drag the frame through the dust and out onto the yard. He joins me, and together we lift the thing over the rim of the skip. Before he can stop me, I march straight back into the barn and pick up a cardboard box of door knobs and window catches.
Cal taps my arm as I’m about to tip them in the skip. ‘Not those. We can reclaim them.’
The brass and iron metal gleams dully in the box. Perspiration trickles into my eye and stings, making me blink. ‘I guess you’re right. They’re too nice to waste.’
‘They’ll save us a lot of money and they’ll look authentic in the cottages. I’ll store them in the workshop,’ he says, softening his voice.
‘Maybe you’ll find the toolbox in there.’
‘Maybe …’
I wait for him in the shade of the barn, glad to be out of the sun. My arms ache, my knuckles are skinned and my nails are crusted with dirt. I think of Isla’s French manicure, Tamsin’s perfect nails and Mawgan’s glittery talons. I had an email from Tamsin about her treatments yesterday. She’s invited me to her mini spa in the village for a trial manicure and facial when I can find the time, not that spending a day shifting window frames with Cal is a bad way to spend my time.
‘Found it!’ Cal lifts the toolbox as he walks back to me.
‘How? I looked everywhere.’
‘It was in the tractor cab where I left it. I must have forgotten.’
A thought occurs to me. Did Cal send me on a wild goose chase to hunt for the toolbox so he could move the heavier pieces of scrap? I don’t know whether to be annoyed or pleased about that. Pleased, on balance … and the idea I had in the workshop is nagging at me though I don’t know if I dare share it with him.
‘Fancy a drink? I think we’ve earned it.’ He smiles at me, looks happy again.
‘Yes. Why not?’
In the farmhouse kitchen, he hands me a bottle of chilled cider. ‘Enjoy.’
We drink the cider along with a pack of tortilla chips and the remains of a salsa dip that I made to go with last night’s chilli.
Cal wipes his hand over his mouth and dumps the empty bottle on the worktop. ‘Wow, I needed that.’
‘Me too.’ I hand him the packet. ‘Last one?’
‘Go on then, then I’d better carry on clearing the yard.’
‘I’ll get back to the barn. Cal, while we were moving all that stuff, I was thinking …’
He scoops up the last of the salsa with the final tortilla. ‘Always dangerous, in my opinion.’
‘I know this may be a pie-in-the-sky idea but I’ve had an idea for the old storage building on the far side of the camp field. You know it’s adjacent to the coastal path?’
‘Yes?’ He stops, tortilla chip halfway to his mouth. I can tell I’ve piqued his interest.
I take a deep breath. ‘Well, have you thought of converting that building into a cafe rather than using it for storage? Once the barn up here is cleared out, that could be used for equipment and spares. Which means the storage building is vacant. It’s got so much character and once it’s repaired and fitted out, it would make a brilliant cafe.
‘In fact, I’ve been taking a closer look at it while I’ve been out walking Mitch. I think it’s the perfect size; there’s room for the catering kitchen, plenty of tables inside and we could have a terrace to one side that overlooks the sea and a big glass area where the doorway is now. Everyone would love it, walkers on the coast path, families visiting Kilhallon Cove as well as our own guests.’
A smile tugs at his lips.
‘Are you laughing at me?’ I ask suspiciously.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Because if you’re taking the piss out of me, I won’t tell you any more.’
He holds up his hands. ‘Demi! I am not taking the piss. If I’m laughing, it’s only at myself for not thinking of it before.’
‘I’ve done a sort of business plan thing, if that helps,’ I mutter.
‘A business plan for the cafe? Already?’ He blows out a breath.
‘Don’t sound so surprised.’
‘I’m not, I’m impressed you’ve got this far so fast. Do you want to bring it over to the office this evening?’
He must notice my disappointment. ‘Or I can come round and look at it now?’
After the ‘meeting’ in my cottage, Cal has been considering my initial ideas for the cafe and has taken them seriously. Which means, deep breath, that I have to take them seriously too – and that scares me almost as much as it excites me.
Since I first mentioned it this afternoon, I’ve spent all my spare time compiling some more detailed proposals and I took them over to his study earlier this evening. Cal has asked me so many questions my head has started to spin. He can be very brusque and sometimes I wonder what kind of charity he actually worked for: Polly told me he was in charge of the logistics, delivering medical and food supplies to refugees. She mentioned the name of it, but I couldn’t find a website so she must have got the name wrong, or it was a small local affair. I don’t like to ask Cal and especially not now.
‘I was at the food fair in Truro when I first had the idea. Do you have any idea how many local producers there are? You can buy almost anything home grown in Cornwall, so we’d try to keep as much produce as possible sourced from within a few miles.’
I show him the leaflets I picked up at the food fair and from a successful organic place near St Ives.
‘You have been busy. Go on.’
‘As well as the cafe we could have a mobile bike stall or a little van next to the coast path for people passing on their way down to the cove, selling real Cornish ice creams and homemade treats. I could make the pasties, the fairings and figgy ’obbin and Cornish splits.’
He folds his arms and those glorious guns bulge. My body heats up and my stomach swirls but I won’t be put off. ‘Figgy ’obbin … I haven’t heard that word since I was a lad.’
�
��Nan used to make it but I didn’t think anyone else knew what it was.’
‘My great great aunt used to make it – that’s Robyn’s great-grandmother – I was still at infants’ school and the name was so weird I wouldn’t touch it. I think I may have cried when offered a piece.’
‘I can’t imagine you ever bursting into tears.’
He smiles ruefully. ‘Go on; tell me more about this fortune-making enterprise.’
‘Are you being sarcastic?’
‘No.’
‘We could use produce from Polly’s hens and home-grown veg and stuff. Mitch would sit by the cafe and look appealing and all the people with dogs would stop. These doggy-mad people are a soft touch …’
‘This is all brilliant, but Demi, there’s only one of you.’
‘I thought of that and we will need some staff but I know I can make it work. I’m not afraid of working hard and at busy times we could have someone to help in the shop. Nina and the girls could do with the extra cash and I’m sure Robyn would enjoy having some money of her own. I’d probably need at least a couple of extra people in the season, possibly more if it takes off …’
His dark brown eyes are intent on me and I feel I might burn up. My hands shake as I stack the leaflets together. He smiles, very softly, and his lips part as if he wants to say something.
‘Cal, why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Like what? Don’t be silly, I’m just thinking.’ His smile fades and his tone is serious. ‘Now, let’s take a closer look at the costings you’ve prepared. If this is ever going to work, we need to have everything planned to the last detail.’
He glances up from his notebook and looks at me. It’s hard to read his expression, impossible to know how he feels.
‘I’ve thought about this morning and night, every day, for the past few weeks and if you can find the finance, I’ll do anything to make it work.’
It’s then I realise that our fingertips are almost touching and it’s like an electric current has jumped between us.
For a second I think our fingers might meet, and that he might lean forward and kiss me, or that I might lean forward and kiss him, but we stay as we are, our skin still millimetres apart.
‘Cal, I’ve never felt so passionate about anything in my life before.’
‘I can see that, Demi.’ He sits up straight, and the connection is lost. ‘In that case, I’d better find the money from somewhere.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Spring is turning into summer at Kilhallon. When I walked Mitch this morning, the little copse behind the house was carpeted in bluebells and hundreds of sea pinks were out in the dunes above the cove, nodding their delicate heads in the breeze.
I’d hardly noticed how fast the time was flying because I’ve been so busy. Cal has been working on the renovations from dawn till dusk, leaving me in charge of plans for the cafe and helping Polly in the garden. When I’m not talking to builders’ merchants, researching or doing admin, I’m helping Polly with her vegetable patch. She showed me how to earth the potatoes to protect them from any late frosts, not that it’s likely this far south in May but she likes to be cautious. We planted some autumn rhubarb and scattered straw around the strawberry plants – which I don’t mind – and did tons of weeding – which I’m not so keen on.
I doubt if we’ll have enough strawberries for the jam and cream teas in the cafe. I’ll have to find some suppliers ready for next spring.
Polly seems different when she’s in her garden; I wouldn’t say she’s happy but she’s way less grumpy. The vegetable patch is one of the things she kept up while Cal was away. In a funny way, I think she genuinely loves him and out of the blue this morning, she told me she always knew Cal would find his way home eventually – that Kilhallon would draw him back.
I wonder why Isla and Luke didn’t have the same faith?
The sun is hot on my back as I gouge a dandelion from the carrot patch but the ring of hooves attracts my attention. Robyn rides into the yard off the moor which is ablaze with red and purple heather.
I haven’t seen her for a few days, since we went shopping in St Trenyan. I bought a lush new skirt and top in the Primark sale with money I’d saved from my pay packet.
I walk to meet her.
‘You’re becoming a real domestic goddess, or is it an earth mother?’ she says.
‘Neither, I hope.’ I wipe the soil from my hands on my work overalls.
‘It suits you,’ says Robyn, climbing off her horse. We hug and then walk to the stable and she tethers Roxy in the next stall to Dexter, Cal’s gelding.
‘If you want Cal, he went out first thing to see the architects in Truro.’ Cal has gone to discuss the costs and feasibility of building a shop and cafe on the site. The hard work involved doesn’t scare me but the thought that my ideas will cost real money is terrifying.
‘I wasn’t looking for Cal particularly. I just wondered if you wanted a coffee but you look busy.’
‘I’m not too busy for a chat. I’ve been slaving away in the garden all morning and I need a drink. Are you OK? Is anything the matter?’
She kicks at the hay. ‘Not really but I’m getting stressy over this engagement party.’
‘Why?’ I ask on the way to the farmhouse.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Dad’s been getting on at me about one thing and another, I think he’s worried about the business, and Isla asked me to be a bridesmaid.’
‘That doesn’t sound so bad, does it? And it’s ages away.’
‘Yeah, but I’m too old to wear a tacky dress. It’s not my thing at all.’
‘No, but if she asked you I suppose it’s difficult to say no.’
‘My dad would be upset.’
I laugh. ‘Robyn, they haven’t even set a date yet and there’s the engagement party to get through first.’
She sighs. ‘I know. Dad’s freaking out about the cost of the party. He insisted on holding it at the house because he says Luke’s like a son to him but I also think he’s picking up a lot of the bill. Isla keeps asking if he can afford it and offering to contribute more, but he won’t let her.’
‘It sounds very posh.’
‘It will be. They’ve got professional caterers in.’
‘Wow. I was a bridesmaid to my auntie when I was fourteen,’ I say. ‘I had to wear a horrible tight, shiny dress and I drank four glasses of cava and was sick in front of everyone. Dad hit the roof and we all had to leave early. The dress had to be chucked out and my auntie was mad because she’d wanted to sell it on eBay. They never spoke to us after that.’
‘What did your mum say?’
‘She wasn’t around by then. It was the year after she died.’
‘I’m sorry, and I know this isn’t the same but I miss my mum too.’
‘What happened to her?’
Robyn sighs. ‘She lives in Sydney.’
‘Oh … I thought that …’
‘She was dead? She may as well be, as far as my dad’s concerned. He goes mad if we talk about her in front of him. She ran off with a surf instructor from Newquay who wasn’t that much older than I am now. They split up but Mum runs a recruitment company over there now and has a new partner.’
‘Do you see her?’
‘I’ve been twice since she left us five years ago. I’d like to go again at Christmas – I’ve saved enough and Mum says I can stay but Dad will hit the roof.’
‘Your dad can’t keep you away from your mother.’
‘I know but it’s not that simple.’ She plonks herself down at the farmhouse table. I’ve a feeling this may take some time. After I’ve got the worst of the dirt out of my nails I find two cans of Coke. Robyn flips the top.
‘I’d love to move out of Bosinney but I can’t afford a flat on my own.’
‘Could you share one with your friends?’
‘Most of my friends are loved-up and the ones that aren’t, I don’t want to share a bag of popcorn with, let alone a flat. They’re not
even house trained. Actually, there is someone but I don’t think Dad would be too pleased.’
‘What is he? A serial killer?’
She hesitates. ‘No. Not that bad … but Dad definitely wouldn’t approve. I depend on him for my college fees and I don’t want to upset him. That might sound crazy and I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘I do understand. I totally do.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I haven’t seen my dad for ages. He had drink problems and they got worse after my mum died. He wasn’t that nice to her while she was alive but I think he felt guilty after she died and I reminded him of how much he’d lost and the things he hadn’t done to show her he loved her. When he found a new partner, it was the last straw for me so I walked out.’
Robyn hugs me. ‘Maybe your dad was just an arse,’ she says fiercely then sighs. ‘I suppose my dad wants me to get married or take over Bosinney, not that we’ll have it for long the way my dad’s business is going, but I want my own life, not the one he had planned out for him and Mum.’
‘You’re right. It’s your life not anyone else’s!’
‘So when I tell Dad that I want to move in with a girl, he’ll have a fit.’
It takes a second for the G word to register. ‘Ah. So the boy you love is a girl.’
‘You mean you didn’t know I was gay?’
‘No. I didn’t. I hadn’t even thought about it.’
‘It’s fine. I’m bi, actually, not that my dad would understand or care,’ she says gloomily. She prods a loose tile with the toe of her riding boot.
‘Are you sure he hasn’t guessed already? I had a gay mate at the cafe; he was terrified of coming out and when he finally did, his mum and his brother were just like “and you have news for us?” They’d known for a long time and were just waiting for him to tell them in his own time.’
Summer at the Cornish Cafe Page 13