“Oh, Nancy, I’m so sorry, I nearly forgot, Bea called last night,” I said guiltily.
Nancy smiled and picked up the phone again to dial the number in Canada. She was an oddly unmaternal sort, I’d never seen her become remotely misty about Bea, or her grandchildren. It was peculiar, as she was such a loving, warm woman.
“Damn, they’re out… oh well, I’ll try later, do remind me Fin, won’t you?”
I nodded and opened a bottle of cider, ready to simmer the gammon in. I added some onions, carrots, a bay leaf and some peppercorns, then lowered the joint into the large copper pan.
“Nancy,” I said impulsively, “Don’t you ever miss Bea? I mean, well, you never really talk about her, and we never mention her. I’ve never known who her father is and-”
I could see by Nancy’s face that I’d mentioned the unmentionable. I floundered on, miserably.
“I’m sorry,” I said, lamely.
There was silence in the kitchen, the only noise I was aware of was the simmering liquid coming to the boil in the pan. I pulled it off the heat and dragged the heavy pan onto the low side of the range.
“No, it’s alright. I should tell you about Bea, but not now.” Nancy said, then added quickly, seeing the look of concern on my face, “It’s nothing too awful, don’t worry.”
Have you noticed when anyone tells you not to worry, it’s the most alarming thing they can possibly say?
I turned back to the range and heard Nancy leave the kitchen. Well, whatever it was she was going to tell me couldn’t possibly be worse than what was going round my head. Maybe Bea was not my cousin, maybe she was my half sister? Surely not. God, I hoped not. I mean, she was perfectly nice, but… well, OK, she wasn’t what I wanted if I had to have a sister sprung on me. She was vanilla ice cream, she was a three piece suite in chintz, she was a bunch of daffs, she was… oh you know what I mean. She was nice. That’s an OK thing to be, but it doesn’t make me love someone. I like a bit of spice, and vinegar. I want passion and originality, I don’t want nice.
I prodded the meat down in the pan, and skimmed some fat from the top of the liquid.
Maybe Nancy was going to reveal that Bea wasn’t her daughter at all, (unlikely, I know, but I was busy speculating on the impossible.) Bea had never even looked like any of the family, with her dark skin and black hair. Maybe Nancy was going to finally tell me who her father was.
I remembered when we were younger that Bea had shown scant curiosity about this. As soon as she could she’d gone to boarding school, and had left home as soon as possible. She married young, and had emigrated to Canada with her new husband. I hadn’t even gone to the wedding, which was a bit of a hole in the corner affair at a London registry office. Nancy sent us a photo, but it had long since vanished from the array of family snaps that were dotted around the place.
I’d always imagined that Bea’s father was a glamorous artist that Nancy had had a wild night of passion with in some Bloomsbury party. Although why Bloomsbury seemed an exotic location, I don’t know, but it did when I was a teenager.
The smell of the simmering ham filled the kitchen with its savoury aroma. I’d let it cook in the liquid and then cool it, carefully peeling away the rind. I’d then criss cross it and smother it with muscavado sugar and mustard, then poke cloves into it and roast it off. The best part of cooking such a wonderful piece of meat was that you could sneak hot slices from it and make your very own sandwich. Cooks perks.
I heaved a cardboard box full of fruit from the floor and sorted the contents onto the table. I was going to construct a centrepiece made form red fruit, in a pyramid that I would dot with gold foiled Abbey chocolates, that were made locally. But I would have to do that tomorrow. Grapes, strawberries, pomegranates, cherries and dusky early plums rolled themselves onto the table. If I could paint, then that it was I would do. The colours alone were enough to make you believe in a god. A glorious mish mash of purples and scarlets made the kitchen light up like a neon strip joint.
I glanced outside and saw Nancy scurrying around the garden, trying her best to revive or save as much as she could. She was embarked on a grand tidying up, too. I skimmed the meat again, and pulled some boots on to go and help her – not that I was any use in the garden, but I was good for donkey work.
It was windy outside, with low scudding clouds, and we worked hard. I think we were both filled with a sort of mad housekeeping feeling, that we had to do as much as we could before the rain came again.
“Where do you want this lot?” I asked Nancy pointing to a barrow full of rose plants.
“We’ll cover them in wet sacking and I’ll re-plant them in a few days, put them behind the wall over there,” Nancy panted, trying to heave a log away from the shattered greenhouse.
“Please wait for some help, Nancy,” I pleaded, “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
We tackled the log together, avoiding the splinters of glass that, no matter how diligently we cleared, seemed to breed overnight. We heaved it into the barrow and I pushed it to the log pile.
We sat together on the garden bench, surveying the garden.
It was still a mess, but a bit more under control. We’d got off lightly, although the roll of barbed wire guarding the terrible drop of the cliff didn’t let us forget the damage caused to Penmorah.
Nancy glanced at her watch, “Come on, let’s go and see if the dolphins are there,” she said, pulling me to my feet.
I groaned.
“Nancy, don’t you ever get tired?”
“Life’s too short for getting tired, as much as life’s too short to start getting misty eyed about some man,” she said sternly, tucking her fluttering purple silk scarf into her jacket.
“Like Sam?” I teased.
“Oh darling… I’m too old to change my ways now. I think I’ll keep Sam for a little romance now and then, now come on, do.”
We trudged up the hill, keeping well away from the edge. The woods on the other side to us had taken a battering. Trees were leaning drunkenly against each other, and bare roots were facing skywards. It looked like some awful apocalyptic film set. If Mel Gibson had come running from the undergrowth with a homemade laser gun, it would be about right.
The bluebells had gone, too. Turned into a pulp on the thick mud.
We reached the top of the hill and gazed out to sea. It still made me shudder to think of The Queen Mab out there during the storm. Apparently two of the crew were concussed, and the hull was dented badly where it had rolled onto some rocks. Nancy told me that Kev the Beard was considered a hero for getting them clear, and the pub had been suitably appreciative of its very own watery champion.
Judith hadn’t stayed long in there, though. But, at least she’d gone. Nancy had sat with her for a while, and so had Doris, but the conversation was hard going. Like pushing glue up hill, Nancy had said.
We stared out to sea. I tasted salt on my lips from the sea spray. We were just about to give up, and turn home for tea, when we both saw the dolphins.
“Look! Over there…”
“Aren’t they wonderful?”
Even though we could see them now practically every day, they were still a treat to watch. They cavorted obligingly for us, and we marvelled at their agility and strength. Then, with a splash, they left.
“Perhaps they’re doing the school run,” Nancy suggested, “You know, they’re always here at this time because they’re picking up the kids…Or maybe shopping?”
“Or maybe they’re just showing off,” I said. “Do they know we’re having a party for them?”
“You should invite them,” Nancy said.
I stood at the top of the hill and put my hands to my mouth, making a trumpet. I shouted as loudly as I could, seawards. “Hey! You lot! We’re having a party tomorrow night, you’re the guests of honour, so I hope you can make it! About eight, no need to bring a bottle!”
Nancy laughed, and then she shouted, too. “Come as you are, no need to dress!”
&nb
sp; A solitary dolphin leapt from the water as if it had heard us. We both laughed in amazement, and stood watching until all the splashes had subsided back into the green rolling sea. The gulls were the only other living creature that we could see, and we turned for home.
I tucked my arm into Nancy’s as we descended, and hoped that she might tell me about Bea. It seemed the right sort of moment for it, out in the open, heading for home, and I wondered how I could bring the subject up, naturally. Of course, that would never happen, I am probably the world’s worst at bringing conversations around to a specific subject. I usually go straight for the kill. It gets it over with, to my mind. I wish that other people were so direct, I that that shilly shallying around – waste of time.
“So, Nancy, what was it you were going to tell me about Bea?” I asked.
“Look at that poor oak tree, it’s so sad Fin, we’ll have to call the foresters in to sort out the wood, it looks positively dangerous!” Nancy said, royally disregarding my question.
I took the hint.
“You mean, shut up, Fin, don’t you” I asked.
Nancy turned her head to look at me, “No, I mean I’ll tell you when I think I should… Soon, I promise, and as I said it’s really not that important you know. Oh look. Is that Sam?” She pointed to the side of Penmorah where Sam and Will were climbing out of a white van.
He had promised me that he would deliver, and set up, some trestle tables for the party.
We quickened our pace to help, although we were waved away.
“Cup o’ tea wouldn’t go amiss though!” Sam called out, struggling with the tables.
Silent Will looked questioningly at me and I guessed that he wanted to ask where they were going. I presented a blank face to him, just to see if he would speak, then felt instantly mean as I knew the torture it was for him.
“In the library, please,” I said.
I put the kettle on and took the meat from the heat of the range. I’d let it cool in its own liquor before I skinned it, but the tantalising aroma was practically irresistible.
I was absurdly excited about the dolphin party. It had turned into something more than just a gathering of old friends. I wanted to re-create the magical feeling that Penmorah parties had always had on me when I was younger. I wanted to catch again that feeling in the air that anything might happen… that someone special was just about to walk in through the door. And we had a lot to celebrate at the moment, the return of the dolphins, the end, I hoped, of the storms and subsequent flooding, and, the slight possibility that Oliver Dean may well be a fixture in my life.
Yes, I had admitted that much to myself. I’d struggled a bit with it, but the truth was – I missed him not being here.
I knew that it would be tricky, his whole world revolved around London, and mine was so firmly rooted here, but…but, well, he loved it here, I could tell. Whether he loved me, or I loved him was too early to tell, but there was an undeniable frisson there and I wanted the time to explore it.
I let my imagination dangerously out to play.
Maybe, just maybe, Oliver would want to leave London for a while? He could write his book here, couldn’t he? He didn’t have to be in London for that, after all. The TV shows would come to a halt, as would the adverts he was filming. What better place to write than here, surrounded by the peace and quiet of –
“Bugger off, bugger off, bugger off-”
Nelsons unmistakable screech filled the kitchen. Where the hell had he come from? I looked out of the door and saw that he was in his cage in the back of Sam’s van. Pritti must have given him to Sam to save me a trip down to Port Charles.
Damn. I’d forgotten Oliver’s bloody allergies.
Baxter had heard him, and with a snarl rushed towards the cage, his top lip curled over his teeth. A furious noise ensued, with Nancy rushing out of the library to help me.
I had hoisted Nelsons cage as far as I could above my head, but Baxter was hurling himself at my legs trying to reach him, barking his head off.
“Bugger off, Bugger off,” Nelson repeated himself in a cackle.
“Shut up Nelson! Baxter get down, I said down you little bastard!” I said, trying to regain the peace and quiet that I thought Oliver might appreciate.
We eventually had to lock Baxter out of the kitchen till he calmed down about the arrival of Nelson. It was like living with Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor at the height of their rows.
I took some tea into the library and admired the tables. Sam and Will had pushed all the furniture around, and there was a lot of space left in the room.
I mean, a lot of space.
“Oh god, supposing nobody comes?” I said, eyeing the huge room nervously.
It looked even bigger now that the furniture had been shunted around.
“Don’t be daft!” Sam said, blowing on his tea, “Party at Penmorah? Course they will.”
“Darling, we’ll be turning them away,” Nancy said loyally.
I did hope so.
I mentally dressed the bare tables with all the bits and bobs that go to making a bar, and put Will and Richard behind it complete with long white aprons. Samina and Sunita were looking forward to helping, and were planning on wearing their best shalwar kameeze. I’d put the music in the corner, the food in the kitchen and cover the rest of the house with any flowers that were still left after the storm and ashtrays. Oh and candles, too.
“Ashtrays!” I said.
Sam laughed and gestures to a cardboard box.
“I thought you’d want some, so I brought ‘em up with me.”
I thanked him and went to open the box. A stack of about thirty ashtrays bearing the legend ‘Wake up with a young farmer!’ painted around the rims stared back at me. Oh great. Not quite the glass crystal effect that I’d been after, but, still…
“Thank you Sam,” Nancy said, smiling fondly at him.
“Yes, thanks. Thanks for everything Sam, you’ve been brilliant,” I said, feeling horribly shallow.
Sam beamed proudly.
“Better be off then, we’ll see you tomorrow,” he said giving Nancy a burning look. “Proper looking forward to it, we are, aren’t we Will?”
Will nodded dumbly.
Chapter Twenty Four
After they’d gone, Nancy and I spent a long time pushing and pulling furniture around until we realised that we’d come to the configuration that Sam and Will had done, so we left it alone.
The library looked poised and ready for action. I gently closed the door on it, promising that it would have its fill of people by tomorrow.
Nancy urged me to try on the dress that she had brought back from London for me, so I went upstairs to wiggle into it.
“Wear the right shoes with it, or it’ll look wrong,” she cautioned me.
I spent the next quarter of an hour on my hands and knees searching under the bed for the afore mentioned ‘right’ shoes. I came up with a dusty pair of orange flip flops, a pair of pink high heeled mules that I knew with certainty were definitely not mine, and a black lacy bra. I knew that I had somewhere a pair of black high heeled party shoes, but where they were hiding was beyond me.
I sank back on my bed and implored the patron saint of lost stuff for some guidance.
“Please help St Anthony,” I asked. (Trust me here, just do it. It works.)
Inspiration struck and I was moved to rummage at the very depths of the linen basket. Sure enough, there amongst the never washed (because never worn, because too tight) jeans I found the shoes. Lovely black, very expensive, high heeled, pointy toed mules – about as useful in Cornwall as being allergic to cream.
I slipped the dress on, and looked in the mirror.
Dear god.
Perhaps it was the underwear that was making it look so odd. After all, white bra straps showing isn’t perhaps the look I was going for. I took the dress off, and the bra. Better. But not much. The dress was a tightly fitted plunge necked affair in an almost elasticity, rubbery horizontally
ridged fabric, where every other band of ridges was see through. I gazed in the mirror, and a reflection of a woman who could happily blend in to a certain sort of hotel bar that could be found round the docks of every major city in Europe gazed back at me.
This wouldn’t do at all.
I heard Nancy calling me, so I tottered to the top of the stairs to give her a twirl.
“Fifi at your service,” I leered down at her, “Tell the gentlemen I’ll be down soon.”
Nancy laughingly protested, “But Fin, it’s wonderful! It’s meant to be sexy you know! It’s a party dress after all!”
I looked sourly at her. “I don’t know what sort of parties you had in mind Nance, but really…!”
Nancy came upstairs and dragged me into the bedroom. She spent some time walking round me in silence, her head on one side.
“OK, I think there’s a couple of things… one, you hair needs to be put up, Two, make up. Three, you need a bit of a tan, your arms are really brown, but not the rest of you. Four, jewellery. I knew it would be the very thing, Harry and I spent ages looking for the right thing, and I think we found it.”
I stared at her.
“Stop looking at me as if I was talking Tibetan! You are going to look fabulous. Now then, sit down and I’ll practice putting your hair up.” Nancy said commandingly.
I sat down.
She started to brush my hair. “Oh, wait a moment, I’ve got the very thing…” she left the room and came back a few moments later, holding something in her hand. She held it out to me, and said, “There, remember?”
I looked at the object held in the palm of her hand. It was a large jade hair slide, set with brilliants.
“Of course I do,” I breathed. “It was mama’s… she wore it nearly every night, didn’t she?”
Nancy beamed. “Yes, yes she did, and now you are going to wear it for the dolphin party tomorrow, so let’s get practicing, I haven’t put hair up for a long, long time.”
She sat me back down in front of my dressing table, and tutted at the mess of half used tubes of hand cream, scrunchies, bottles of perfume and general junk.
Nancy paused in her combing of my hair.
The Cornish Affair Page 21