Before and After

“You’re working, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Hardly. I’m just skimming through a few books for inspiration. What would you like to eat with roast onions?” I said, idly turning the pages.

  “Oh, darling, I do wish you wouldn’t ask me that sort of thing. You know I’m just a cheese and pickle sandwich sort of person!” Nancy said, stuffing washing into the ever open maw of the machine.

  Indeed, that was true. Well, to be really honest with you, we both were. People who didn’t know me very well assumed that I spent my life in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. Nothing, in fact, could be further from the truth. I mean, obviously I did cook, but usually by the end of the day if I’d been working on a recipe, I’d tasted so much of the damn stuff, that the last thing I wanted was a meal. And as I made Nancy do a lot of tasting as well, we were both far more likely to be found at The Ram, with a pint and a packet of crisps than sitting down to dinner.

  Nancy wandered away, her dark brown eyes gleaming with determination for her next task, which could well be a spot of gardening, or her painting, or the never ending biography that she was writing of a very obscure French woman artist called Angelique Flavell. The fact that nobody had ever heard of this painter, and there was only one remaining picture of hers left in the world in no way dimmed Nancy’s enthusiasm for the project. It caused Harry endless amusement, and he had promised Nancy that if she ever finished it, he personally would publish it. (Apparently Angelique had led a scandalous life, revolving around absinthe and illegitimate babies and Harry thought he’d make a killing by updating it and turning it into a sort of modern day bodice ripper.) But as she’d been writing it for the past ten years, I don’t think there was any danger of that happening.

  I heard the fax machine whirring into life from my office off the kitchen. It had once been a still room, then had become a general dumping ground for wellington boots, fishing tackle, painting gear, picnic paraphernalia, broken croquet sets and the all round general stuff found in a house like this. I had, in a fit of energy, some years ago cleared it out, painted it a pale primrose, put up shelves and installed an office. I had to have help though, with the setting up of the computer – why is it that all instruction manuals are written in impenetrable gobbledygook? Jace had finally cracked it, scornfully not by reading the book, but by telling me that he had a ‘feel’ for computers, and that really I should have bought an apple. (Nancy had to explain to me that he meant an Apple, not a knobby russet, much to all round general hilarity at my lack of knowledge.) When the damn machine wouldn’t behave itself, Nancy could normally sort it out, telling me to go away and calm down and to come back in ten minutes, muttering, “Just like your father, absolutely no patience at all!”

  I picked up the fax and studied it.

  From: The desk of Harry Richardson.

  To: Finisterre Spencer

  Fin darling, I know that you’ll be spitting feathers, but Oliver Dean wants to come and see you on June 14th. That’s a Friday, and I think he’s expecting to stay for about a week. Don’t worry, he seems very nice, try and catch his show on Channel 4 tonight. Anyway, it’s weeks and weeks away, so it gives you long enough to get over your bad mood about him! I might pop down too… so light the chandelier, dust off the silver goblets and sprinkle the rose petals! Don’t put him in the yellow room, will you? Love to Nancy, and a smack to Baxter. Big kisses, Harry xxx .

  P.S. Don’t forget to tell me all about the beach picnic. Who’s going to get off with Jace this year?

  Hmm, well. The yellow room was out, then. I crumpled the fax up and chucked in the bin. There was no way I’d be watching Oliver bloody Dean tonight anyway, channel 4 was out of the question down here. What we got instead was a shadow image of French TV, interesting in a sort of impressionistic sort of way, but not actually watchable.

  There was a toot outside the kitchen door, and then the cheery sound of Richard calling my name. Baxter burst into life and did a fair imitation of a guard dog, giving excited little barks with his tail wagging, whilst Nelson shifted on his perch, screeching. Richard was a flame haired boy, who delivered (amongst other things) shellfish, fish (caught legally and or not), ice, and his mother’s clotted cream.

  “Afternoon, Fin. ‘Ave I missed Jace, then? I wanted to ask ‘im summat – get down you little bugger! Anyway, I ‘spect I’ll catch ‘im at The Ram tonight.”

  He heaved a parcel on the table, and I noticed with amusement that he too was wearing a pair of the Italian loafers. He caught my glance and did a little soft shoe shuffle.

  “Right proper job, aren’t they?” he said, proudly.

  Hmm, well yes, I suppose they were. At least they would be if they were on a linen suited man from Milan, wearing shades and a posh pong – but frankly, on Richard, no. The thing about Cornwall is that we are, to put it mildly, just a tad backwards on the fashion front. Some of us had natural style, Nancy, and Jace for instance, but the rest of us were rubbish at any attempt towards sartorial elegance. Comfort and weather proof is what we aimed at, not knock ‘em dead glamour. I habitually wore a sweat shirt and a pair of jeans, and considered myself fairly well dressed compared to the other residents of Port Charles. So you can but imagine what the rest of them wore…Although I did buck my ideas up a bit when Harry came down, or if I went out (which was rarely, and only when forced to go to London to sample the delights of a new restaurant that I could claim as research and then constituted the perennial but ultimately quite boring Little Black Dress).

  “What’s in the parcel then?” I asked, gesturing towards the table.

  “Summat for you to cook for the picnic, an’ I got yer prawns in the van. Shall I put ‘em on the bill?” Richard asked.

  I thanked him and switched the kettle on. The boys usually stopped for tea and a chat, but it seemed that Richard was in a hurry. Well, as much of a hurry as anyone was in Cornwall. Perhaps we were all twinned with a county in Mexico where the manana philosophy ruled supreme. It was fun to watch visitors from London get twitchy in shops here, as they had to wait for the shop assistant to finish a leisurely conversation with a friend before they got served. Some visitors seemed on the verge of having a stroke as they waited for the interminable (and mainly indecipherable) chat to finish. But it was hard to complain as the shop assistant invariably turned with a big guileless smile on their face, innocence radiating from their eyes and said, “Now then my lover, what is it you’m be wantin’?”

  Before Richard left, he jerked his head towards my office, and looked enquiringly at me.

  “Oh, go on then,” I said, as I watched him squirm slightly.

  Richard had been using my computer for some time, going on the internet. Other than assuring me that it was nothing ‘smutty’ I had no idea what he was doing on there. I suppose I could have found out, but I wasn’t that curious. If pushed I would guess he was in some chat room or something. Hell, what did I know? He could well have been looking up Wall Street stocks and bonds, although with a limited income from flogging fish it seemed unlikely. This time he was very quick, just about long enough to send an e-mail.

  “Cheers then, Fin. See you at the picnic.”

  I waved him off, and settled back to the cookery book.

  The boys were my lifeline to the world outside that sold any ingredient that couldn’t be found in the Port Charles store – which meant practically anything. The store was a dismal place, it doubled as a post office, and seemed only to stock plastic bread and sweaty processed cheese. Oh, and of course, pre-packaged pasties for the tourists, as they would certainly be the only people who bought them. So the boys were essential. They were the stars of my work really. They left no stone unturned to find exactly what I needed. I suppose with modern technology I could have ordered on-line and had obscure spices delivered to me straight from Fortnum and Mason, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  I got the gossip with the boys, as well as a feeling of continuity. I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that Penmorah was still considered to be the ‘Big House�
�. Certain things were expected of us here… even though we no longer sat in the named pew for us in the church, all of that had died out with my grandparents. We didn’t even employ anyone from the village any more, although my parents had kept a skeleton staff here, they had long gone. When I was a child, I was addresses as Miss Fin, but that too, thank God, had died out. Everyone knew in the village of the appalling debt I had inherited and had been kind beyond words. But there was still a tattered remnant of expectation from me. I had shrunk from it, till I realised that it was something I just couldn’t shake off. If my parents were still alive it would be different, well, everything would be, but they weren’t, and I just had to get on with it.

  I pushed the book back on the shelf, and went to find Nancy. I wasn’t in the mood for onions.

  I eventually tracked her down to the library, a room we rarely used. We still call it that, even though the majority of the books are gone, long sold to a dealer in Falmouth to help pay for a new damp course. The empty acres of mahogany shelves looked reprovingly at me.

  She was lying on her back, breathing heavily.

  “Nancy, what are you doing?” I asked in alarm. It looked as though she was recovering from some strenuous activity, but I couldn’t imagine what.

  “Just finishing off my deep breathing after yoga, you must try it Fin, it’s so invigorating!”

  Nancy was twice my age, and at least as twice as active. It made me feel like a lumpy schoolgirl. I sank into a sofa, and Baxter jumped up on my lap, trying to look ingratiatingly at me. He and I had had this tussle many, many times. I don’t approve of dogs on furniture, but it’s so exhausting stopping them all the time.

  Nancy was holding one nostril closed and breathing deeply out with the other one. At least, I think that’s what she was doing. It was quite hard to tell.

  She gave a big stretch and sat up, gracefully raising her arms above her head.

  “Oh, that feels better. What did Richard bring?”

  “Fish, salmon, I think. I haven’t looked yet.”

  “Oh, how lovely – Fin, are you alright? You look incredibly gloomy.”

  Gloomy was the word alright. I couldn’t quite pin point why though. I know that the idea of Oliver Dean coming here had unnerved me, but it was somehow more than that. A sort of Nordic fog had descended on me and I wasn’t sure why. I hated moaning to Nancy, especially when I didn’t really know what was wrong, it seemed petty and childish. I knew that she missed her sister, and her husband nearly as much as I did, and Nancy’s daughter, my cousin, Beatrice lived in Canada and made but infrequent trips over here to see her mother.

  Nancy looked at me shrewdly, “Fin, darling, there’s no point fretting over the chef, and as for anything else – well, life’s not so bad you know.”

  “I know, it’s just, well, I don’t know really.” I said, feeling a fool. I glanced around the room and remembered what it was like before the absence of the books. A fire would certainly have been lit in the grate, my father would be in his favourite chair, marking his racing tips out in pencil and my mother would be pouring tea. I could almost see them silhouetted in front of the flickering flames, and experienced a sudden ache in my heart. This sort of feeling happened all the time at Penmorah, and usually it could be a comfort. But this wasn’t one of those times. Baxter dug his nails into my leg as he jumped off my lap and went to sit in what had been my father’s chair, turning around and around till he was comfortable and then scratching his ear with his back paw.

  “I just don’t like this room very much,” I said brightly, “It’s enough to make anyone gloomy, isn’t it? Perhaps we should get it painted, what do you think?”

  “I think an evening at The Ram is called for, that’s my opinion, and all though I do say so myself, it’s a damn fine one. Now buck up, and let’s go.” Nancy stood up, dusting herself down.

  She was quite right of course.

  I followed her out of the library, calling to Baxter and firmly closed the door behind me. As I pulled the door shut, I had a sudden intense, almost overwhelming scent of roses that made not just me, but Baxter too, sneeze. The smell was so strong that it momentarily made me feel giddy and I leant back on the door.

  “Where are the roses, Nancy?” I asked, looking around, not having noticed them before.

  “Don’t be daft, darling. They’re not out for ages yet. Don’t say you’re getting hay fever already?”

  I shook my head and went into the hallway and followed the long corridor down to the kitchen. I heard Nancy call that she was just going to change her shoes. Nelson screeched at me as I entered the kitchen and I went over to rub his neck. His feathers were soft beneath my fingers, and I found myself whispering to him.

  “They were her favourite flower, weren’t they Nelson, roses?”

  Nelson winked at me, and I laughed at myself. I heaved the parcel of salmon off the table and pushed it into the fridge, and rinsed the tea mugs, waiting for Nancy.

  It was a glorious evening, bright and windy, and even Baxter deigned to behave like a young dog, scampering down the narrow lane, turning and waiting for us to catch up with him. He even stopped at the end of the lane so that I could tag his lead on. The road to the village was fairly treacherous, being, as is usual in the country without the benefit of any pavements. If a lorry was heard in the distance, you had to press yourself into the hedgerow, praying you wouldn’t get stung by the nettles or scratched by the brambles, or crushed against the high banks that were cunningly disguised with greenery but actually concealed high walls of stone.

  We passed a row of whitewashed cottages and waved at Mrs Trevelyon, who gamely waved back, despite being crippled with arthritis. The stores were busy with a delivery of frozen chips, and the local bakers were just closing up, with Doris, the bakers wife, wiping the shelves in the window. She banged on the glass to us, and mouthed that she too was going to The Ram and would see us in there. That should prove interesting. Doris was the official rumour control around here, and we would no doubt get a full account of Breadpudding from her.

  The Ram is set back from the road, and has a small plot of grass outside with a couple of trestle tables begrudgingly put down for any passing trade that is foolish enough to want to nurse a pint outdoors, the locals have no truck with sitting in the fresh air. A cosy, stone flagged bar, with low ceilings, where they can work up a thick fug is what they want, and is what The Ram provides. The pub sign swung on its post, making the gold and scarlet ram look alive.

  I pushed the door open, and Nancy followed me through. It took a few moments for the eye to adjust to the gloom inside the pub, but I could make out a few regulars inside and called out greetings to them. I turned to Nancy to ask her what she’d like. We both usually drank the local beer (wine really wasn’t an option at The Ram, unless you have a real yearning for something sweet and warm.)

  “No, this was my idea, and it’s my treat,” she announced, leaning on the bar and looking for Sam, the landlord.

  Sam emerged form the other end of the bar, wiping his hands, and beamed at us. He was evidently delighted to see Nancy, and the two of them conducted a ritualistic flirty greeting.

  “Now then, what’ll it be, ladies?” he enquired.

  “I think we should have something different, something to cheer Fin up a bit. I know, we’ll have the drink I was reading in a book the other day, they sounded delicious.” Nancy said confidently.

  “What’s that then?” Sam said, twinkling at her.

  “Two long slow comfortable screws against the wall, please Sam.”

  Chapter Three

  I was so grateful the following morning that Andrews Liver Salts hadn’t changed their packaging. The comforting look of the old fashioned tin, and the fierce little bubbles prickling my throat made me feel that all was well with the world, even if it wasn’t with my hangover.

  Nancy and I positively weaved our way up the lane from The Ram, last night, stopping every five minutes to gaze appreciatively at the full moon that
was hanging overhead. I had gazed for so long at one point, I toppled over, landing heavily on my bottom, to Nancy’s delight. She had shrieked with laughter, and pulled me upright, brushing earth and bits of grass from my hair, whilst pushing Baxter off my stomach where he had so helpfully sat.

  I looked out of the window, and saw that the sky was clear, and the waves were a glassy green – it bode well for the picnic tomorrow, although it was still chill if you weren’t in the sun. The Port Charles beach picnic was that curious mixture of tradition and habit, and no one really remembered why we did it any more. The rumour was that it was in response to the huge palaver they made over in Padstow on mayday. They had the ‘Obby Oss and we had the beach picnic. Of course, they also had TV crews, thousands of visitors, and usually one or two heavy casualties of drink and or a ducking in the harbour. They also had the added advantage of being able to spout a lot of history involving mayday rituals that included crop blessing, finding a sacrificial virgin and various other olde worlde charms. They lined their window sills with cowslips, closed up for business and had a serious party for a day and night. Ours was a more sedate affair, although at dusk when the bonfire was lit, a bit of mayhem could be counted on. More than one Port Charles baby had been conceived in the sands after dark. I suspect it was a lot to do with the Cornish not taking their pleasures easily. A given, set day when we were all allowed to behave badly and let our hair down was considered an all round good thing.

  Ours was a homemade, makeshift job, with people struggling down to the beach with food, booze, guitars, and anything else they fancied. Last year we’d had a jazz band, which had been great fun, although, I admit, not particularly authentic. The Ram lent their huge trestle tables, and donated a barrel of beer, Doris always made tray after tray of proper pasties, Penmorah was expected to contribute something rather sophisticated, and donate the prize for the Thumb Race, which took place at midnight and always caused me a great deal of worry.