Christmas at the Cornish Café

by Phillipa Ashley

  ‘Forgive me for speaking frankly, Mawgan, but our business is actually none of your business.’

  ‘Fair enough, but I just thought I’d remind you that you’re here – you and Cal – only because I decided that Kilhallon wasn’t part of my development plans.’

  I just resist snorting out loud. Only Mawgan and I know the real reason she changed her mind about ruining us: because I gave her hell about her behaviour towards us and to Andi and Robyn. Even so, I was gobsmacked that she listened to me. Even though she claimed it was a business decision, I know I touched a very raw nerve with her. Her mum had an affair with Cal’s father and that has led to bad feeling between the families, that and the fact Cal refused to go out with her when they were younger.

  ‘It’s too late now. We’re here to stay.’

  Mawgan runs her finger over the stainless steel prep table. ‘Possibly. We’ll see.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but customers aren’t really allowed in the kitchen area. Regulations.’

  ‘I bet you allow that dirty dog of yours in here.’

  ‘Actually we don’t allow any hygiene hazards in here, human or animal.’

  Mawgan has a hide like a rhino so ignores me. ‘I heard Isla was coming back from London.’

  ‘How do you know that? She only told Cal the other day.’ I kick myself at revealing this snippet of information, but it’s too late; Mawgan’s eyes gleam with delight.

  ‘I have my sources,’ she says.

  Does that mean she’s still in touch with Luke, Isla’s fiancé? They left Cornwall to keep out of Mawgan’s way, because Isla suspected that Luke and Mawgan were getting too close. I doubt it very much, but I wouldn’t put anything past her. Only Mawgan and I know what went on between us in the summer and that our ‘chat’ about her personal life led to her removing her objections to us redeveloping Kilhallon Park.

  Laughter drifts in from the cafe and a car engine fires up outside. I hold out my hand, to show her the door. ‘I don’t want to be rude but the meeting’s over and we need to lock up.’

  Blocking my way to the door, she lowers her voice, ‘I could still hurt Cal. I could ruin him. If I want to.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have my ways. You just bear it in mind. Just because you came to me begging me to save him doesn’t change a thing between any of us, and it isn’t only me who thinks he’s a selfish bastard.’

  ‘You may be bitter and twisted and blame him for your mum leaving you, but any reasonable person would see it’s not his fault.’

  ‘It’s not only me, and the amateur psychology you spouted when you turned up at my house uninvited had nothing to do with my decision to back off.’

  ‘Drop the act, Mawgan. If you want me to think you gave up your opposition to our plans for financial reasons, that’s fine, but we both know there was more to it than that. You just can’t admit you found you had a conscience after all.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re referring to, but I told you that our conversation was private.’

  No one can hear us in the kitchen, but I lower my voice anyway. ‘It was and it is. I kept my word. Cal has no idea that I came to see you or what we spoke about. As far as I’m aware, he also has no idea about your mum and his dad.’

  She snorts. ‘Really?’

  ‘I think he would have mentioned it if he did.’

  ‘He tells you everything, does he?’ she says.

  ‘Not everything. I don’t share everything with him either, but I would have thought that considering the trouble you tried to cause over the summer, he might have told me about the situation if he knew.’

  She sniffs, and seems at a loss for words for a few moments, then her lip curls. ‘I couldn’t care less anyway. You can relax. I’ve decided not to waste my time with little people like you and Cal.’

  ‘That suits us fine,’ I say, glad she can’t see my stomach drop to my shoes. If I never see Mawgan Cade again it will be too soon. Judging by the sneer on her face, I’m guessing she hates having betrayed any weakness to me. I could tell her that it wasn’t weak to allow her sister some happiness, or to let go of her bitter feud with Cal – but she wouldn’t listen.

  ‘Mawgan! We’re going. I’d like a word with you before we leave.’

  Mawgan presses her lips together as Rev Bev pops her head round the door. ‘Goodnight,’ she says tightly. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.’

  Shouldering her neon-pink ostrich-effect bag, she wobbles out of the kitchen on her pointy heels. I focus on loading the dishwasher, reminding myself that Mawgan is full of crap. I won’t let her empty threats hurt me because that’s exactly what she wants. I’m a successful cafe owner, I’ve a film crew to deal with in a few weeks, and Cal was going to say something nice too, although he didn’t actually say it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cal

  My head throbs as I reach for the clock by the bed. The green digits glow in the gloom. Wednesday 9 October. 09.23. Shit. Is it that late? I need to get up. Those old staff cottages won’t renovate themselves.

  I lift my head off the pillow and instantly regret it. Pain pulses in my temples. I’m shivering yet sheened in sweat. No wonder, I’ve woken up to find I’m lying on top of the duvet in my boxers. Last night, after I staggered home from the Tinner’s Arms in the small hours, I must have collapsed on top of the bed. At least I had the presence of mind to get undressed, which is amazing considering I was off my face. I haven’t been to one of the pub’s lock-ins for months. I’d already started to cut back on my drinking since Demi and I got Kilhallon off the ground, and I’m almost back within the so-called ‘healthy’ limit now. Correction, I was in the healthy limit until last night’s lapse.

  Last night Demi went out with her mates to see a film in Penzance. I could and should have spent the evening doing the accounts for the resort, but I needed a break too. I only intended to have a quick pint at the pub, but one turned into two, then more, plus a few whiskies as well. Before I knew it, the landlord had locked the doors, joined his regulars for a game of poker and the evening had become early morning.

  Snatches of conversation from the night before slowly come back to me, along with scenes from my nightmare and memories of my time in Syria. I remember someone talking about the Harbour Lights Festival in the bar. They reminded me of my conversation with Demi on Monday night before the committee meeting.

  I told her I wasn’t having a fun time during last year’s festival. A slight understatement. I remember exactly where I was on that day. I was working in a refugee camp a couple of miles from the front line of a conflict zone, trying to do what I could for hundreds of wounded and displaced people. The sights, the sounds and smells will never leave me. Although I pretend to the people around me that I’ve put that time behind me and it doesn’t affect me, I’m lying.

  I’m fully awake now. After I crashed out, some of the events from Syria came back to haunt me in a nightmare; albeit in a bizarre, jumbled way, like a story where the chapters have been swapped around or are missing altogether. I’m not sure why I had a nightmare or why the memories are so vivid and troubling now. Since I returned to Kilhallon, I’ve tried to lock my time in Syria away so I can try to get on with daily life, but it’s impossible to forget. The guilt I feel about what happened that day will never leave me, and perhaps it never should.

  Lying in my bed now, I tell myself that my bad dream was probably just the result of too much Doom Bar, too many whisky chasers and a very stupid urge to scoff bacon, egg and black pudding at two o’clock in the morning when I eventually staggered into Kilhallon. I lift my head and see a tangle of sheets at the foot of the bed. I must have kicked them off while I was fighting imaginary attackers in my dream. The new sash window is open a few inches and the curtains flutter against the frame. A cold wind keens around the farmhouse, changing pitch every now and then and making my head hurt even more. It was only a dream, I remind myself, as my throbbing temples send a bolt of nausea straight to my stomach.


  Yet the images from that day are still vivid now I’m awake. I remember my friend Soraya lying on top of a pile of bricks and broken furniture. A red checked tablecloth covered her legs; it must have fallen on top of her when the mortar round hit her home. She didn’t have a mark on her beautiful face and her eyes were closed as if she’d lain down to rest and pulled the cloth over her. Her upper body was covered with a fine powder, just as though someone had shaken icing sugar over her.

  I’d been blown off my feet by an explosion and when I came round, I spotted her in the clouds of smoke and dust. From a few metres away, I’d almost believed she was asleep. I’d started to cough, my eyes stinging, and then I looked around for her little girl, Esme.

  No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see her anywhere.

  The sounds and smells come back to me, along with the scene of devastation all round. Clouds of dirt and debris rose up like a fog, yet one that was hot and acrid and burned my throat. My eyes were raw and streaming. Rumbles like thunder shook the ground to one side and the chatter of gunfire echoed on the other. A soldier loomed out of the dust and yelled at me: ‘We’re going. Come with us now or die here.’

  I could not move. All I could do was stare at Soraya sleeping on her rubble bed, knowing she’d never wake up. And then I knew what to do and my feet moved: not to run after the soldier but to clamber over the rubble piles to search for Esme. I knew I had to find her and take her back with me to safety.

  I clawed at the rubble, looking for her. My knuckles were bleeding. I couldn’t find her. Then I heard the soldiers again, their voices, and realised that they weren’t ‘our’ side, but the insurgents who had shelled the town. I had to leave, or be killed. Instinct told me to run and hope I could find Esme at our camp. So I ran, tears streaming down my face. It was too late. Too late for Soraya, for Esme and for me.

  Suddenly, another scene from my nightmare floods my mind and merges with my memories. I was in a dusty room, the sun beating down on the tiled roof, shafts of light piercing the cracks and shining on the dust and blood on the earth floor. A man held my ankles down, the pressure was unbearable. Another face appeared above me with a hose. I remember feeling so thirsty. I couldn’t speak, but I didn’t want this water. I opened my mouth to scream but he pushed a rag over my nose and mouth and the water poured down. I tried to scream but I was drowning – like I was in the cove this summer, only this time there was no Demi to reach in and pull me out.

  Bloody hell, just how much did I have to drink last night?

  Thank God Demi wasn’t staying over with me … Or maybe if she had been, I wouldn’t have stayed so long at the Tinner’s. Demi helps me keep off the booze and from dwelling on the dark times as often as I might do. Trouble is, now that Polly’s here and the businesses demand our time and energy, we’ve had precious few chances to get together, apart from a couple of snatched moments of passion at the cafe.

  I also remember that after Demi and I had made out in the cafe, I was going to ask her to go public and move into Kilhallon House with me. After last night’s talk in the pub, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea, for Demi or for me.

  The bedroom door rattles in a gust of wind. I must get the latch fixed. Anyone could walk in.

  Oh God, it’s 09.45. I have to get up and get on with my jobs, even though hammering and drilling is the last thing my head needs. I suppose it’s some kind of justice for getting pissed last night.

  Still in my boxers, I scuttle downstairs in search of black coffee. There’s singing coming from the kitchen. Something about it being ‘time to say goodbye’. When I walk in, Polly stops her impromptu Il Divo karaoke and stares at me from the sink. She holds a very sharp pair of scissors and is surrounded by leaves, roses and cellophane.

  ‘My God. You look bloody awful, Cal Penwith.’

  ‘Thanks, Polly.’

  Talking hurts. My throat feels like the bottom of a birdcage. Maybe that’s why I dreamed I was choking from the dust and sand.

  She purses her lips at me as if a cockroach has just crawled into the kitchen. Any minute now I expect her to grab the broom and sweep me out of the door.

  ‘I speak as I find. Rough night, was it?’

  ‘I’ve had better.’ Aware that I’m wearing only boxers, I reach for a pair of old trackie bottoms from the nearby laundry basket.

  ‘You’ve no need to get dressed on my account. I’ve seen you naked in your paddling pool and changed your nappy, remember?’ she declares. Nonetheless, she eyes my boxers with obvious distaste, like I’m hiding a scorpion down there or something. Despite my hangover, it is still first thing.

  Her scissor blades glint in the sunlight.

  ‘No, I don’t remember,’ I growl.

  I pull on the trackie bottoms, cringing as Polly continues to observe me.

  ‘Well, I’ve no sympathy if you’ve been drinking again and you should keep off the fry-ups late at night. I’ve washed up your greasy pan and the plate, but don’t expect it to become a regular thing.’

  She points at the upturned frying pan on the drainer.

  ‘I never expected you washing up to be a “thing” at all,’ I growl. ‘And you should have left it to me. It’s my mess. Aren’t you meant to be on reception duty?’

  ‘In a minute, yes. I came over early to arrange these.’ She holds up a long stemmed rose.

  ‘Who bought you those?’ I grunt, but only because she wants me to ask her.

  ‘One of the guests.’

  ‘That’s good of them.’

  With a smile, she snips the bottom of the stem and strips off the lower leaves. I drag myself to the sink and she moves aside so I can fill the kettle.

  ‘It was Kit Bannen. He brought them round this morning.’

  ‘How nice,’ I say, feeling too shitty and too bloody minded to enquire why Kit the-sun-shines-out-of-his-arsehole Bannen has brought expensive flowers for my PA. ‘Want a coffee?’ I ask her, though the effort of moving my jaw to speak makes my temples throb.

  ‘No time. I have to get these in a vase and get to work.’

  Polly finishes snipping and ripping the roses as I drag back a chair. The scrape of wood on tile is like someone playing a violin out of tune inside my ear.

  ‘Right,’ she says as the kettle clicks off. ‘Those will have to do.’ She holds up the vase to the light. ‘I could have kept them at home, but I thought “no”, I’ll have them on display in reception where everyone can enjoy them.’ She glares at me. ‘There’s some Alka Seltzer in the medicine cupboard. And I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you need a shower. You stink of beer.’

  Polly bustles off, proudly carrying her vase. I pour water on some instant coffee and add an extra spoon for good measure. My first sip almost makes me gag. The discarded ends of the stems, with their thorns, still lie on the draining board.

  Bloody Bannen. I don’t like him one bit. The way he’s inveigled his way into Demi’s heart, and Polly’s too, in such a short time. And now I remember the worst thing about my nightmare, which only goes to show how crazy it all was: I swear the guy holding me down had Kit Bannen’s face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Demi

  ‘Wow. What amazing flowers!’

  ‘They’re from Kit.’ Polly beams at me as Mitch snuffles around the reception area, picking up the trail of strange smells left by strange boots.

  I drink in the sweet perfume. The flowers add a touch of summer. There must be a dozen of them, of the palest, almost translucent pink, arranged in a vase with greenery from Polly’s garden. The scent of roses filled my nose when I walked into the reception area. The lights are on even though it’s after ten because it’s misty outside.

  ‘He asked me to call him Kit. He says that “Mr Bannen” makes him feel old and he bought me the roses as a thank-you for sorting out his Wi-Fi the other day. They’re from the proper florist in St Just, not from a petrol station,’ Polly says proudly. She may be referring to the flowers Cal gave her after their latest ‘difference of o
pinion’ over the cleaner we’ve taken on to help with the changeovers. They still had the yellow reduced sticker on them, even though he’d obviously made a half-hearted attempt to pick it off.

  ‘You sorted out Kit’s Wi-Fi?’

  Polly tuts. ‘Don’t sound so amazed, madam. I know how to re-boot a router. Not that Kit needed to give me any flowers for doing that, but I suppose he’s been brought up properly, unlike some.’ She peers at me over the rim of her specs. ‘He’s such a nice man. So polite. Handsome too. If you like blonds, which I don’t as a rule. He’s a bit of a sex bomb.’

  ‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’ I’m gobsmacked at Polly’s reference to Kit as a ‘sex bomb’, not that he isn’t cute in a wannabe surfer-boy way, but she’s never said that about anyone else apart from the guys in her favourite ‘band’, Il Divo. Is she trying to match- make me and Kit? She doesn’t like the idea of Cal and I getting together, that’s for sure, but I’m not clear on who she’s trying to protect, me or Cal.

  ‘I really hadn’t taken any notice.’

  ‘You’re always saying that you don’t take any notice of Cal.’ She peers at me again, this time with pursed lips. She must know there’s something going on between us, even if we’re careful not to drop any hints when Polly or the customers – or anyone – are around.

  ‘Have to go. Must take Mitch for his walk then plan the menus for this film shoot. Bye …’

  Leaving Polly wittering on about Kit and Cal, I jog after Mitch down the fields and over the stile towards the coast path that leads away from the cafe and St Trenyan and towards the ruined engine house and old mine workings. The mist is thicker towards the cliffs and clings to my skin. In patches it’s so dense I can only see a few yards ahead, but in other places, I can see up to the sky, where a few watery splashes of blue are trying to break through the gloom. The mist should clear later but at this time of year, you never know for sure. The days are getting shorter, fast – the cue for St Trenyan Radio to start its ‘festive’ advertising. Half-term week is coming up and we’re opening longer hours to make the most of the business.