The Café at Seashell Cove_A heart-warming laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Karen Clarke

  Had I interrupted a burglary? It was highly unlikely robbers would arrive with cardboard boxes to magic away their loot – or that they’d be interested in Nan’s cookery books, which weren’t old enough to be valuable – and there couldn’t be any demand for novelty salt-and-pepper pots shaped like the Queen and a corgi.

  Aware that I’d alerted possible intruders to my presence, I grabbed a bread knife from one of the boxes and crept into the hallway, picturing a pair of masked burglars frozen mid-spree, waiting to cosh me over the head with the one of Nan’s heavy doorstops.

  The normally pristine hallway was also cluttered with boxes and bags and I recognised one of Nan’s favourite blouses billowing out, as well as a stylish winter coat she’d once let me borrow. My breath caught in my throat. Was she moving? Surely Mum and Dad would have mentioned it?

  Heart walloping my ribcage, I tiptoed through to the low-ceilinged living room, where I was greeted by a similar scene: boxes and bags stuffed with cushions, more books, and even the expensive cashmere throw that Mum had bought when Nan revamped the bungalow, which was usually draped along the back of her cream leather sofa. The fireside rug was rolled up and stacked in one corner, leaving the waxed floorboards bare, and the dining chairs were stacked on top of the table.

  Maybe she was having a belated and very extensive, spring clean. It wouldn’t be like Nan, who had ‘more interesting things to do than move dust about’, and although I was no expert on cleaning I was certain you didn’t need to take down every picture. Where was the photo of me as a toddler, cuddling a cross-looking dog (no one knew whose it was) and the picture of her with her mother, who’d been a ‘great beauty’ in her day?

  ‘Nan?’ My voice sounded more querulous than I’d have liked, but as I squeezed around the boxes, heading for the conservatory, I saw her coming in from the back garden.

  ‘Cassandra, sweetheart, you’re here!’ she cried, and I barely had time to put down the knife, and register that there was something different about her, before I was pulled into a hug as soft as a feather-bed. ‘Look at you,’ she said, releasing me to arm’s length to study my face. ‘Pretty as a picture.’

  ‘Hardly,’ I said, automatically. ‘Look at you.’ I stepped back to take her in, temporarily lost for words.

  ‘What do you think?’ She rotated slowly, arms outstretched.

  I continued staring. There’d always been something of the duchess about Nan, with her taste for elegant clothes and her silvery hair, which she kept swept off her face in a silver clasp. Her upright bearing made her appear taller than she was, and my friends used to admire her snazzy outfits, which she’d credited with being half-French, despite having lived in Devon for most of her life.

  There was nothing stylish about her appearance today. Her normally immaculate hair was hanging in a plait down the middle of her back, and the shapeless garment she was wearing reached her ankles and looked to be made of sacking. Clearly making the most of the warm weather, her feet were bare, and her face – normally made up with bronze eyeshadow to complement her blue eyes, and with her trademark ‘tawny’ lipstick (red was for ‘ladies of the night’) – was make-up free, giving her the appearance of a mole that had appeared from underground. Her eyes seemed much smaller and, although her face was remarkably unlined for a seventy-eight-year-old (which she put down to always wearing a hat in the sun), it looked less vibrant, like a faded photograph.

  An icy finger touched my heart. ‘Nan, what’s wrong?’ I gripped her fingers, noticing the knotty veins on the backs of her hands, and that her nails were unvarnished for the first time I could remember, with a rim of dirt underneath. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘What?’ Her eyebrows (so pale, she must have been drawing them in for years) rose in alarm. ‘Of course I’m not ill, ma chère fille!’ she said in the exaggerated French accent that drove Dad mad. ‘I’m winding down, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t understand what’s happening.’

  ‘All of this?’ She wafted a slender arm around, scowling at one of the boxes as though it had sworn at her. ‘I read this wonderful article in a magazine by a Japanese lady called the Decluttering Queen, when I was at the dentist’s last week,’ she said. ‘Apparently, holding on to clutter is holding on to the past and, to feel free, you must let it go.’ Her eyelids closed in a parody of bliss. ‘I’m releasing the past, Cassandra, readying myself for the next life.’

  Ignoring the last bit, I said, ‘But, Nan, decluttering means sorting out some stuff for the charity shop, not getting rid of everything you own.’ I nudged a box containing her sewing machine with my foot. ‘You love your sewing machine.’

  ‘There’ll be no need for it, where I’m going.’

  ‘Stop it, Nan, you’re not going anywhere.’ I plucked a silky top, decorated with pearls, from one of the bags. ‘Didn’t Mum buy you this?’

  Her eyes fluttered open. ‘I’ve made myself some bamboo robes, that’s all I’ll need from now on.’ She fingered the shapeless fabric she was wearing, which looked like the only thing it should hold was shopping. ‘Natural fibres,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d become environmentally friendly while I’m at it.’

  I groaned silently. ‘Where’s the watch we got you for your seventieth birthday?’

  She glanced at the ghost of a watchstrap around her wrist. ‘I don’t need to know what the time is, I can tell by the sun.’

  I glanced behind her. At least the froth of plants and exotic flowers in her beloved conservatory hadn’t budged. ‘What about when it’s raining?’

  ‘I’m just saying, Cassandra, that I’m no longer tied by time.’

  Her overly patient tone was that of someone recently converted to a cult – or maybe someone who was losing their grip on reality.

  I focused my gaze more sharply on her face. ‘Nan, what year is it? Who’s the Prime Minister?’

  The lines on her forehead concertinaed. ‘I’m not losing my mind,’ she said, wagging a ringless finger. Nan had always worn rings, though she’d kept her wedding finger bare since my grandfather died, declaring her marriage null and void despite all her ‘best efforts’. ‘In fact, I’ve never been clearer about how I’d like to live out my final years.’

  ‘Nan, stop saying things like that.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said, with a noble and enigmatic air. ‘I’ve come to terms with it.’ She cast her eyes around and gave a satisfied nod, and I got the feeling this fad was a lot more serious than previous ones – even learning to play the banjo, which had gone beyond the point of reasonableness and had left her with a permanently weak wrist. ‘Possessions shackle you to the past, and there’s been enough shackling in this family,’ she went on, regally. ‘I just wish I’d unshackled myself from my cheating husband a lot sooner, instead of waiting for death to finally unshackle us.’

  ‘Nan, stop saying unshackle.’

  ‘I kept your father shackled for far too long.’ She flexed her jaw. ‘You’ve no idea how guilty and ashamed I am that we put him through what we did, Cassandra.’

  ‘I do, because you’ve mentioned it once or twice, but—’

  ‘The least I can do now is make sure I’m not a burden in my old age because, as fit as I am’ – she flexed her arm for me to squeeze the wiry muscles – ‘it won’t last for ever, and I want to be as healthy as possible as I face the end.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘I’m growing my own vegetables and living off the land and freeing my mind to embrace this nouveau chapitre.’ Another chin-tilted pause. ‘New chapter,’ she clarified.

  ‘Yes, I got that, Nan.’

  ‘When the time comes, I plan to slip quietly away in my sleep—’

  ‘I don’t think it works like that.’

  ‘—and to be buried in the grounds. Your father won’t even need to arrange a funeral.’

  ‘Oh, Nan.’ I wanted to contradict her; to tell her that of course Dad would want to arrange her funeral, and that we didn’t even want to think about her dying, but I could see she genuinely b
elieved she was doing Dad a big favour. I knew she felt dreadful that she’d relied on him so much when he was young – to mediate between her and his father – and I supposed this was her way of trying to alleviate the guilt. ‘You can’t get rid of these photo albums.’ Spotting several of them in one of the unopened boxes, I tugged one out and began flipping through the pages. ‘Dad might want to keep some of these.’ My gaze landed on a photo of him astride a big motorbike, my grandfather holding the handlebars to keep it steady. Dad must have been about ten, his bony knees protruding from a pair of khaki shorts, smiling proudly up at his beaming father.

  ‘Give that to me.’ Nan snatched the album and flung it across the room like a Frisbee. ‘I should have burnt the pictures of that cheating cheval.’

  I had a feeling she’d meant dog, not horse, but it didn’t seem right to correct her. ‘Nan, you’re not being fair,’ I said. My grandfather had undoubtedly been a terrible husband, but he’d been a good granddad and father; something that had conflicted Dad terribly. ‘You can’t wipe him from history, it’s not fair to Dad.’

  ‘It’s my stuff,’ said Nan, her stubborn streak rearing its head. ‘If I want to get rid of it all, I will. It’ll save Edmund having to do it when I’m gone.’

  I sighed. ‘Mum told me they hardly see you these days.’

  ‘They hardly see you either,’ she said, with a trace of reproach. ‘But they don’t complain about that.’

  ‘I live in London and have a very demanding job,’ I pointed out, aware with a stab of panic that neither statement was true. ‘I can’t get home as much as I’d like, but you’re only a mile away.’

  ‘Well, Lydia should be glad I’m not the sort of mother-in-law who’s always on the doorstep.’

  ‘You know she thinks the world of you, Nan, especially not having a mum of her own.’

  Nan’s face softened. ‘I think the world of her too, Cassandra, but I will not be a burden.’

  I closed my eyes, briefly. ‘Do Mum and Dad know about all this?’

  ‘They’re happy for me to do whatever I want, you know what they’re like,’ she said, doing another twirl to take in the box-scattered room. ‘They’re pleased I’ve got my own interests and that they don’t have to entertain me all the time. That I’m not a—’

  ‘Burden.’ I blew out another sigh. I was clearly wasting my breath. ‘What does your… boyfriend think?’ She was bound to have a new one on the go. She’d been making up for lost time since becoming a widow, like a child let loose in a sweet shop.

  ‘I’m done with men.’ She waved a hand, dismissing the entire gender. ‘I’m celibate from now on.’

  Wishing I hadn’t asked, I looked at the boxes and bags. ‘Where’s it all going to go?’

  I wouldn’t have put it past her to have booked a removal van or a skip, and was wondering whether I could persuade her to wait a week or two in case she changed her mind, when she said, ‘Danny’s booked some storage.’ A smile lifted her face. ‘He’s been a godsend,’ she went on. ‘He’s been helping me in the garden too, with my allotment. He’s cleared a space where I can meditate.’

  ‘Danny?’ I said. ‘Danny Fleetwood?’

  Her smile broadened. ‘Weren’t you at school with him?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, briefly wishing I was still at Nina’s, job-surfing and watching re-runs of Criminal Minds.

  ‘Come and see what we’ve done.’ Before I’d had a chance to sort through my scattered thoughts, Nan had taken my hand and was leading me through the conservatory with a casual, ‘All these plants are going, they take too much looking after,’ and out into the wide, hedge-bordered garden, which had been partly transformed into an allotment, with what looked like a wigwam in the middle, twined with leaves.

  ‘I’ll have potatoes, carrots, radishes and cabbages, which I’ll turn into soup every day n’est ce pas?’ Even I knew that last bit didn’t make any sense. ‘And I’m going to get some chickens for eggs, and to fatten up for Christmas – if I’m still here. Much better for body and soul to eat organically. I’ll know exactly what I’m eating, because I’ll know what they’ve been eating.’

  I knew I ought to be protesting against this outrageous plan – surely she wasn’t planning to slaughter birds for food – but my eyes were drawn to a figure stooped over a spade at the end of the garden, his open shirt covering a broad back. He straightened, as if sensing my gaze, and wiped his arm across his forehead.

  ‘Cassie Maitland?’ The flash of his teeth was dazzling as he broke into a grin. ‘Is that really you?’

  And then he was striding towards me and all I could think was, Oh my god, he’s gorgeous.

  Chapter Six

  ‘It’s definitely you, I’d know those eyes anywhere.’ Danny came to a halt on the grass in front of me, rugged and casually groomed, a delighted smile on his face. Where had those cheekbones come from? ‘My schoolboy crush, no less.’ He pressed a palm to his heart, his eyes sparkling. They were a greenish-blue colour. Just like the ocean.

  My smile was lasting a lot longer than I’d meant it to, and my heart appeared to have hiccups. ‘Danny Fleetwood, as I live and breathe.’ I had no idea why I’d adopted an Irish accent, or why a flood of warmth had shocked my body into life. Probably the surprise of seeing him after all this time. He was taller than I remembered, with a suggestion of strength in the width of his shoulders, and his chest – from what I could see – was tanned and well-muscled beneath a downy fuzz of hair. ‘You should button your shirt, you’ll catch a chill.’ I’d intended to sound wry to disguise the effect he was having, but unfortunately my breathing had gone haywire and I sounded as if I was planning to rip his shirt off. ‘At least you don’t wax your chest,’ I added, wondering where all my saliva had gone. My tongue was making an unattractive clicking noise against the roof of my mouth. ‘Or, maybe you do, I wouldn’t know, men do wax a lot more these days, it’s called male grooming.’

  ‘You seem very interested in the topic.’ The width of Danny’s grin suggested he was enjoying every second of seeing me squirm. ‘For the record, I’ve never waxed any part of my body and never will. Apart from the pain involved, I believe we were born with body hair for a reason.’

  ‘Yes, it’s to keep us warm, and to act as a barrier against infection,’ said Nan, reminding us she was there, watching our exchange with open curiosity. ‘I was seeing a GP for a while,’ she added, by way of an explanation. ‘I stopped shaving my bits a while ago.’

  Catching Danny’s look of amused horror, I quickly asked him, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Helping this lovely lady get back to nature,’ he said, raising an imaginary hat to Nan. ‘The allotment’s doing well, and I’ve just finished constructing a composting toilet behind the shed.’

  I looked at her, appalled. ‘Please tell me you’re not going outside, when you’ve got a perfectly functioning toilet indoors?’ Nan merely raised her eyebrows. ‘How has clearing out your wardrobe led to this?’

  ‘I told you, I want to be kind to the environment,’ she said. ‘I saw a television programme about it.’

  ‘Seeing it on TV doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.’ I was glad to have a new focus for my jumbled feelings. ‘Didn’t you read an article at the dentist’s?’

  ‘I did, ma chérie, and then I watched a documentary about how we’re damaging the planet and it spoke to my soul.’

  ‘But weeing in your garden won’t make any difference, Nan. It’s not like getting rid of all the plastic from the sea.’

  ‘No, but every little helps.’ She was infuriatingly calm, as though she’d been given a sedative. ‘Marcus helped me to research it before I ended our relationship,’ she said. ‘He’s not cut out for living the simple life. And by simple life, I mean being self-sufficient. That man practically lives on ready-meals. Tesco’s bangers and mash, to be precise, and you should see all the packaging they use.’

  I looked at Danny, who was studying the patch of grass around his boot-clad feet and rubbing th
e back of his neck. His hair had lightened over the years to a warm, golden-brown shade of toffee or caramel, and he wore it longer than he had at high school, when most of the boys favoured buzz-cuts. ‘Do you think you should be encouraging her?’ I said.

  When he raised his eyes to mine, my breathing faltered again. ‘I’m sure you know perfectly well that Sylvia has a mind of her own.’ He was still smiling, but some of his sparkle had gone, and it struck me that I was bringing the mood down yet again.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said to Nan, who graciously bowed her head. ‘It’s just a lot to take in.’

  A cloud passed over the sun, and a pair of pigeons clattered out of the hedge, making me jump. I fixed my gaze on a giant bee hovering over a spray of pink flowers that had somehow survived Nan’s cull. Presumably they were allowed to stay as they’d grown outside. Their scent mingled with oil paint, wood chips and something like warm skin, which seemed to be emanating from Danny, making it even harder to think clearly. I was glad when Nan broke the silence by saying, ‘I’ll go and fetch you both a drink.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said, gratefully.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Danny at the same time. ‘Ma throat’s as dry as a country road in a heatwave.’

  His Texan accent was a lot more successful than my Irish one, reminding me that he’d had a gift for mimicry at school, particularly the Geordie twang of our art teacher, Miss Finch. As if remembering too, he gave me a crooked smile that sent a blast of desire rocketing through me. It’s Danny Fleetwood I reminded myself, in the sternest voice I could summon (which sounded a lot like Carlotta’s). Danny Fleetwood who’d once invited me to a school leavers’ party and had promptly stood me up. Probably an early indicator of future behaviour. A man who probably went into flirt mode with every female he met. A man who spent his days sign-writing and making outdoor toilets, which wasn’t a proper job. If he hadn’t settled on a career by now, he probably never would, and I doubted he was financially stable.