The Cornish Village School – Breaking the Rules

by Kitty Wilson

  ‘Did he… did he… lick me?’

  ‘Um… it did look like he might have.’ The young girl by her side scrunched up her face. ‘He was kinda going full toad. I’ve never seen that happen before. Let me grab you some wet wipes.’

  No amount of wiping was going to make Rosy’s cheek feel saliva-free again, but she was still going to scrub until it was a good red colour. And then a bit more. Rosy and the girl watched as Simon loped off down the road in the opposite direction to Rosy’s car, seemingly oblivious to the trauma he had caused. She waited another five minutes, still scrubbing, until deeming it safe, before heading back to her car and home.

  But instead of happy thoughts of her sofa and a large tub of praline ice cream, a picture of Perfect Hair canoodling with her neighbour popped into her head. That was a sight she could live without seeing tonight, although she should probably brace herself for millions of sick-inducing glimpses of the pair of them in the future. Probably just at times like these where she was feeling as if she would never have any luck romantically.

  Sitting in the car, she took her phone out and sent a text to Lynne, who, fully aware of Rosy’s crazy date-every-Saturday-night habit immediately rang back and demanded she stop in on her way home for a debrief. Perfect.

  Plus, Lynne would bang on about the perils of online dating, which would mean Rosy, who knew this particular script off by heart, could enjoy her friend’s company whilst not listening at the same time.

  It wasn’t that she was a disloyal friend or didn’t respect the wisdom Lynne divulged. It was just knowing what she was going to say meant she knew she fundamentally disagreed with her. Could not be more clear on how much she disagreed with her.

  Lynne was of the view that Rosy was a beautiful woman who would meet her Mr Right when she was meant to. Rosy was of the view that one went out looking for opportunities rather than just sitting back and waiting for them to turn up.

  Lynne believed that only sociopaths and lunatics signed up for online dating sites. Rosy thought that this may or may not be testament to the fact that she herself was using them. Well, one of them. She accepted this may have once been the case but now it was the normal place busy young professionals went to find love rather than a hunting ground for Norman Bates types. Plus, surely she had met every sociopath or social inept Devon had to offer now? She had to hit the jackpot soon!

  And that was another thing Lynne was very vocal about – she did not understand Rosy’s policy on dating outside Cornwall. Rosy knew she was at fault for not explaining the full reasons for it, but was aware that a throwaway explanatory comment about a rough experience whilst at university was not just trite but insufficient and would eventually lead to the full story being coerced from her. This in turn would result in an open-mouthed reaction, inevitably followed by hand-stroking and banal nonsense about how it couldn’t be that bad, the past was the past, blah, blah, blah – none of which she could stand, and all of which made her want to scream. However, trying to explain that she was just a very private person never seemed to work, and certainly not with Lynne.

  Lynne would suggest that a very private person would not go out for dinner or drinks with a stranger every Saturday, and that by doing so she was selling herself short. Rosy didn’t quite understand this point of view. Dross and gold, frogs and princes – surely everyone knew how these things worked? And she had to start somewhere.

  Then her friend would tentatively pitch the ‘nice young farmer down Wherry’s Lane’ or (God help her) Miles’s father or maybe Ellie’s dad. Blurring of professional boundaries was not an argument Lynne seemed to understand. But regardless of whatever her friend had to say about this date, it was still going to be nice not to have to go home early, lonely and deflated.

  Maybe she should do as her friend suggested, not stop the Saturday night date thing forever, just take a break for a bit? There was only so much weekly disappointment a girl could take. Surely having her face licked by a stranger, and in public, was reason enough to pause?

  However, as Lynne answered the door to Rosy, all wrapped up in her dressing gown, with something a bit too fluffy for Rosy’s taste on her feet, she didn’t look at all prepared to launch into her usual anti-dating rant. Instead, she grabbed Rosy by the arm and dragged her into the living room.

  ‘Are you all right, Lynne?’

  ‘Yes, yes, sit down. Oh, it’s so exciting!’ Lynne was pulling her onto the sofa and scrabbling with her fingertips, like a cat, on Rosy’s knee.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman! I haven’t seen you this hyped up since you saw your fruit bowl in Kirsty Allsop’s kitchen.’

  ‘Oh my. Rosy, this is even more exciting!’ Lynne pointed to an array of celebrity news magazines spread all over her coffee table. She was completely freaky over such things. She could tell you the details of every single family member of anyone who had ever appeared on Made in Chelsea. She could list the nail colours of each woman on TOWIE in chronological order, going back a full three months. She could probably tell you the inside leg measurement of the Duchess of Cambridge, if pushed.

  Rosy loved her friend, her loyalty, her forthrightness, her patience, but just didn’t understand the celebrity obsession thing. Yes, she too could leaf through a magazine and enjoy grimacing at an overdecorated house or a dress that was cut out a bit too much but Lynne, well, Lynne was obsessed. And for the life of her she wasn’t sure why.

  ‘Go on, guess. Guess what has happened today?’

  ‘Um, you bumped into Colin Firth in Asda?’

  Lynne giggled good-humouredly. ‘No, although that would have been amazing! It could happen one day.’

  ‘Probably not!’

  ‘Don’t be so negative. That’s not like you. Of course it could. It happens all the time. Especially with all the filming down here. Debbie Anderson’s mum bumped into the guy from Poldark in the pub the other night.’

  ‘Poor bloke.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, he might not come back. But anyway, this is like that. But better.’

  ‘Better than the bloke in Poldark?’

  ‘Well, OK, maybe not. But I am a happily married woman so there’s not much I could do if I bumped into him anyway,’ Lynne said, nodding over at Dave, who was gently snoring in the armchair.

  ‘Dream, Lynne. You could dream. That’s what the rest of us do.’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ Her friend smirked. ‘Anyhow, you’ve lost focus. Guess what happened today?’

  ‘How on earth can I do that? It’s a mile open. The answer could be anything. Did you sell Dave’s kidney? You found out Marion Marksharp is an international arms dealer? I don’t know. Give me a clue.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t, I’d give it away.’

  ‘Well, can I get up and put the kettle on whilst I pretend to guess?’

  ‘No, no. Oh well, yes of course, but I’m going to tell you.’ Lynne took a deep breath and clasped Rosy’s arm for support. ‘I saw Angelina in the village! That’s right! Angelina! In this village!’

  ‘Angelina Jolie in Penmenna? Are you sure?’

  ‘Angelina Jolie… No, don’t be daft! Just Angelina. You know, Angelina!’

  ‘Lynne, you can say it five times or twenty but no amount of repetition or inane grinning is going to make this clearer to me. If you don’t mean the only Angelina I have ever heard of – oh no that’s not true, there’s the ballerina, of course – then I don’t know who you are talking about. Unless you’re trying to tell me there’s a human-size fictional dancing mouse wandering around the village.’

  ‘Oh my God, you’re so useless.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, you are, about the important stuff, I mean.

  ‘The important stuff? I don’t even know where to start with that.’

  Lynne bent over and rifled through the ridiculously large pile of magazines on the table.

  ‘Look, here, and here. There she is. She’s a model, and got chucked out of Celebrity Big Brother this year for being a bitch. But she’s had counselling
and it’s completely changed her and she’s the nicest person you could hope to meet now. Everybody says so. And she was in the village today! She was walking past the butcher’s, and Pat had the ferret tied up outside again, she didn’t even flinch. She’s so cool!’

  Rosy rolled her eyes, briefly considered if the reverential tone in Lynne’s voice was enough to warrant an intervention, and took the magazine off her friend to glance at the figure that was causing so much excitement.

  Wouldn’t you bloody believe it! There was Perfect Hair smiling at the camera, flicking her oh-so-captivating mane and clinging on to some kind of celebrity beefcake. Great, so not only was she physically perfect, she was super rich, known by millions up and down the country and apparently good with ferrets. Who wouldn’t want her as their neighbour?

  Chapter Five

  ‘Look, your bag is there, but I’ve got to get off now before the train leaves. I love you lots. Try and remember to be human—’

  ‘Oh, do fuck off!’

  ‘I’m going, but seriously, I’m not around the corner any more. Remember that last anger management woman, she was helpful, what did she say? Try and wait patiently in queues, smile if people ask you for your autograph— Ow!’ Matt quickly sidestepped Angelina’s swipe at his legs and grinned. ‘And try and keep person-to-person violence as low as possible. Nil, ideally!’ Laughing now, he started to back away down the train corridor as she swatted at him as if he were a particularly persistent mosquito.

  ‘I don’t think you understand how difficult my life is,’ his sister shouted after him. He could hear the smirk in her voice.

  ‘Oh, I do! Love you!’

  ‘The world is full of idiots!’

  Matt speed-walked away, as years of experience had taught him to. He couldn’t help but notice the peaceful nature of the station as he headed for the exit. Posters advertising surfing on the north coast and tours of moors dotted the walls, with a card for Jonny’s Mackerel Trips and a mobile phone number. A seagull flew under the cast-iron bridge that straddled the tracks and was followed by three more, cawing messages back and forth, planning their next picnic. If he were in London he would have been menaced by a one-legged, one-eyed psychotic-looking pigeon by now, and the posters would be reminders about unattended luggage and Tube strikes.

  He left the platform and headed out of the tiny station, just in time to hear Angelina’s squawk outdo even the gulls.

  ‘Seriously, are there no conductors on this bloody train?’ Her voice was one that could carry.

  He adored his younger sister. She had always been the spoilt baby of the family and that had contributed to the person that she had become. Matt and Angelina had lost their parents when they were still very young. Their mother had been widowed soon after Angelina’s birth and then, plagued with grief-induced depression, had eventually taken her own life when Matt had been eighteen. A difficult age at the best of times but to lose his mother in such a fashion had been more than devastating. He was just old enough to take responsibility for his sister but not really old enough to understand the enormity of his choice. It had been a steep learning curve.

  He knew that he had a tendency to worry that Angelina may take the same path, and found that throughout her childhood, and still as an adult, he was constantly checking for any signs that she was struggling with mental health issues and was unable to ask him for help. This perpetual fear was his mother’s legacy and as yet there was no shred of evidence that Angelina was anything other than over-indulged with a love for the dramatic, but still that worry was there, niggling and ever-present.

  Immediately after their bereavement he had retreated into a world of his own creation, finding solace in the allotment his mother had taken on and dragging Angelina there in all kinds of weather. He would lose himself in soil and seedlings, digging and weeding, and Angelina, who had no interest in any of it, would be overindulged by a whole posse of gardeners who showered her with colouring books, cupcakes and adoration. If she hadn’t known how to play to an audience before, she very soon did.

  Somehow they had managed to grow into well-rounded adults.

  Matt smiled again as he pondered this. ‘Well-rounded’ may be a bit of a stretch for Angelina, but she was a devil of his own making and she did have her good side. As the baby of the family, a cute freckled curly-haired eight-year-old, and all he had left, she had been spoilt rotten by both him and the allotment crew, his grief channelled into making life as easy as possible for her. With the inheritance his mother had left them, Matt had not just been able to feed them and maintain the family home, but he had been able to make sure his baby sister had wanted for nothing. He had overindulged her, laughed at her extremes and failed to chastise her even when she would throw stones at his head. Which she did with frequency.

  He had, in fact, created a monster, but a much-loved one. A monster that had gone on to astonishing success as a person famous for being famous and not much else. Terribly short skirts, complicated hair and no apparent cut-off point seemed all that was necessary. And she was pulling in more money than anyone could have dreamt of.

  As he approached his car he watched as Scramble, with paws on the driver’s-side window, leapt onto the passenger side where he pretended to be snoring. Scramble then did his whole oh-I’ll-just-have-a-stretch-after-my-doze routine before yapping a hello as Matt unlocked the door.

  ‘Hmm, despite all your protests I think you and my sister have far too much in common!’ As he scuffled the dog’s messy head, Matt glimpsed his boots on the floor of the car and decided to head straight to work. Every time he had been to Penmenna Hall it had been full of people. For him to get a solid idea of where he wanted to take things, how he wanted to shape them, he preferred silence, and from there things would begin to make sense.

  Working in the allotment after his bereavement hadn’t just provided focus for his grief but had gone on to shape his whole adult life. His younger self wouldn’t have considered becoming a gardener but that was exactly what he had done, very successfully.

  In his early twenties he had won a place as apprentice to the famous French plantsman, Jean-Jacques La Binette, and under his tutelage had been involved in designing gardens across the world: New York, Hong Kong, London. However, leaving Angelina under the care of family friends for extended periods as he worked abroad hadn’t felt right so with Jean-Jacques’ support and the last of the inheritance he had started his own consultancy – one in which he not only designed but implemented his ideas. Over the years he had, according to magazines, gained a reputation for ‘bold new design combined with encyclopaedic knowledge and endless charm’. He wasn’t sure about the end bit but the rest he quite liked. The solitary nature of his work appealed deeply but as his reputation grew, a host of wealthy clients scrabbled for his creative stamp on their gardens and he spent less and less time by himself.

  Indeed, his clients had developed a tendency to follow him around offering refreshments and, well, all sorts. They seemed to be particularly present, some armed with camera phones, when he was digging. The nature of the work meant he’d have to be all gung-ho and shirtless, and whilst it had amused him when he was in his twenties, as he got older he began to feel resentful and a little bit grubby.

  However, his reputation – thanks to both these predatory older women (who all seemed to have remarkably good contacts) and Jean-Jacques – was what had secured him the chance to escape. The husband of one of his biggest clients ran a well-known production company and Matt had been asked to host a TV show, to be aired more or less as it was filmed, based on a Cornish estate that had been recently rediscovered. He wasn’t entirely sure whether it was because of his own professional expertise, his relationship to the now famous Angelina, a ploy to get him away from the TV executive’s slightly rapacious wife or perhaps an amalgamation of them all – but with an itch to do something new it had come at exactly the right time. Hence his move to this part of the world and this new project. He was expected to develop plans for the g
ardens that would grow over time to become a spectacle and ensure it was filled with plants that would look equally stunning in the short term whilst the others developed. A Herculean task – but one he was going to love.

  He enjoyed projects that seemed insurmountable; his work had made up for all sorts of gaps in his life. Deliberately made gaps in his life. Growing up looking after his sister had left him with a healthy respect and love for women. A healthy respect and love that he didn’t mind sharing with lots of women. But a lifetime of Angelina’s knickers left in the hallway, make-up all over (all over!) the bathroom and the fact that his sister synchronized menstruation with a full moon had put him off commitment. Angelina was enough. He wasn’t writing off marriage and children and all that went with it – he was just going to wait till forty. That way Angelina would be settled by then (surely) and he would have had long enough by himself to accept those female touches all over his house once more. It would be just his luck to have seven daughters and not a son in sight. As lovely as he would find it at the time, he wasn’t ready for that risk just yet.

  But even with his non-commitment policy, which he determinedly made clear at the start of any dalliance, there always seemed to be fallout. Moving to Cornwall was a break from it all; he would not be getting involved with anyone. No one. Not a soul. Keira Knightley could turn up in her wellies and a negligee and he’d still say a firm no. This year he would be concentrating on work, having some time to himself and not dealing with the messiness that women seemed to bring to life. Besides, he had read somewhere that celibacy was good for creativity, and creativity was mandatory when starting a new project. Yes, celibacy was the way forward for him for the next little while, and he was going to embrace it.

  He pulled up outside Penmenna Hall and took a moment to appreciate the rosy fingers of sunlight dappling the granite of the old house, warming it far more than it should on such a cold February afternoon. He was going to concentrate on developing the old vegetable gardens first, plant them up with heritage vegetables and try and recreate the exact look and feel they would have had when the garden and the house were at their peak.