by Chris Ward
‘You, ah, look nice,’ he said, making Grace cower inside. She had promised Joan, but nothing felt natural about this at all.
‘Thanks. So do you. Shall we go over?’
‘Um, sure. Did you book?’
Grace frowned. ‘Do we have to book?’
‘I don’t know.’
They headed across the road. The Gourmet Garden looked like a regular café and shop on the ground floor, complete with postcard racks, ice-cream counter, and chalkboard drinks menu, but the second floor had an extended veranda, its wall lit up with tastefully arranged fairy lights. From above them came the sound of gentle conversation and laughter.
‘You got a table?’ Jason said to the young lady standing behind the shop counter. ‘Um, for, ah, two?’
The girl picked up a clipboard, ran a finger down a list, then turned and called to someone out of sight through a staff entrance behind the counter. An affirmative cry came back, then the girl turned and nodded.
‘Follow me,’ she said.
She led them up the stairs and indicated a table by the wall at the top. Three other better tables were empty, but theirs was uncomfortably close to the stairs, and the light glaring out.
‘Can’t we sit over there?’ Grace asked.
‘I’m sorry, we have a booking from nine,’ the girl said.
‘But it’s only seven-thirty. We’ll be done by then.’
Glancing at Jason, he looked more hopeful than crestfallen, as Grace had expected. The waitress, however, shook her head. ‘Gourmet Garden has a one night, one booking policy,’ she said. ‘In future, it would be best to make a reservation.’
‘No sittings then, like at school,’ Jason quipped as they sat down, giving Grace an uncomfortable reminder of their school days, of the way Jason had seemed to dribble when he laughed.
The waitress handed them the menus, pointed out a couple of specials, and left.
‘Are we going Dutch?’ Jason asked. ‘I mean, I’m happy for you to be all feminist and take the bill, but I thought I’d ask.’
Grace forced a smile. At least it would be easy to refuse a second date. ‘Dutch is fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a sautéed cod in light batter with primrose oil pan fried potatoes.’
‘Nineteen quid for fish’n’chips? How much is Joanie paying you? Talking of Joanie—’
‘Welcome….’
They both looked up at the woman standing over them who had appeared out of the lights glaring up the stairs like a witch out of a puff of smoke. Grace gulped. It had been some years since she had seen Sophie Baker up close, but the woman whom her mother had once referred to with distaste as ‘the local siren, leading husbands astray,’ had lost little of her once infamous sultriness. Jason, adding more ammunition to the one-date cutoff, stared at her like a puppy at its mother.
Sophie’s hair was like a glossy black curtain, her half-lidded eyes ringed by anemone-like eyelashes which seemed to waver in the breeze like the tentacles of some poisonous creature calling men to their doom, while her full—probably Botoxed—lips parted in the smallest of smiles.
‘Is this your first visit to the Gourmet Garden?’
‘Yes,’ Jason squeaked, his voice suddenly unbroken, reverting him to a thirteen-year-old on the cusp of puberty.
Grace just smiled, wishing Sophie would cast her spell and leave them alone.
‘Today’s special is the locally raised ground pork shoulder patty served with a freshly baked bread roll and fresh garden salad.’
‘I’ll have that,’ Jason squeaked.
Grace channeled Joan’s defiance as she met Sophie’s predatory gaze. ‘And I’ll have the fish’n’chips.’
Sophie’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean the sautéed cod in a light batter?’ she said with a hint of menace.
‘Yes, that.’
‘Drinks?’
‘Two pints?’ Jason suggested, glancing at Grace, who quickly nodded.
‘We serve only Californian wine,’ Sophie said. She leaned down, revealing cleavage which had definitely been enhanced, and flicked over a page of the menu to reveal a wine list.
‘Twenty-eight quid for house red?’
‘The house is a 2014 vintage,’ Sophie said, sounding mildly hostile.
‘We’ll have a glass of that and a mineral water,’ Jason said.
‘Very well. Please be patient. Everything is cooked to order.’ Sophie scooped the menus up with a hand manicured with crimson nails so long she likely used them for scraping the souls from the hearts of sailors. As she departed, Jason leaned across. ‘Eight quid for a glass of wine. Can you believe it? You bang the mineral water and I’ll top you up,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a flask in my pocket.’
‘A flask? What’s in it?’
Jason grinned. ‘Malibu. Isn’t that what girls drink?’
For the first time, the tension broke, and Grace found herself laughing. ‘They do now,’ she said. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ve got another flask in my other pocket. Rum and coke.’
‘I feel like I’m at a beach party.’
Jason grinned. ‘Well, we are, more or less. Listen, since you’re here, I really wanted to ask you—’
‘Entrees,’ came a voice beside them, as the waitress appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘We didn’t order any—’ Grace began, but the waitress shook her head.
‘Entrees come with every meal.’
‘What is it?’ Jason asked.
‘Pan-fried, freshly gathered whelks in a garlic butter sauce,’ the girl said, putting down a plate between them. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
She was gone before either could protest. Both Jason and Grace stared at the plate.
‘Water snails,’ Jason said. ‘So fresh I can see one still twitching.’
Something nudged Grace’s leg. She was about to pull away when she felt the cold touch of metal. She reached down and took the flask Jason was passing to her out of view of the waitress lingering at the top of the stairs.
‘On the count of three,’ he said. ‘One, two … three.’
Both lifted their flasks and drank. Grace winced at the sweetness of the Malibu, but as a little buzz began to kick in, she started to feel better.
‘Right,’ Jason said. ‘Rock, scissors, paper for who goes first.’
‘You are joking?’
Jason smiled. ‘Nope. If we’re being forced to pay for these, we’ve got to eat them.’
The Malibu was giving Grace a little confidence. She spied a small whelk by the side which she would force down if she had to, but there was no way she could possibly lose. Beginner’s luck.
‘Rock, scissors, paper!’ she said, holding out her hand as Jason did the same. Grace frowned. ‘What the hell is that?’
Jason, holding out his hand in a C-shape, shrugged. ‘Tiger’s claw. Beats everything. But you can only use it once. Eat up. And I get to pick. You can eat the massive one in the middle.’
‘Not fair!’
‘You agreed.’
‘Not to be cheated, I didn’t.’
‘Go on. Loads of people eat them.’
Grace stared at the whelk. It was curved like a snail, and had the appearance of a snail. The garlic butter was just decoration. She glanced at Jason, who was watching her with expectation. Perhaps if she just tried to swallow it in one go—
She grabbed a fork and speared it before she could chicken out. Then, with one swift motion, she stuffed it into her mouth.
It was like eating a hard lump of garlic-flavoured rubber. She got two chews in, then an image of a snail popped into her mind, and she was done. She retched, jerking forward, the half-chewed whelk flying across the table towards Jason’s lap.
Like a seasoned cricket pro he was on his feet in a moment, batting the thing away with the palm of his hand, sending it sailing high over the veranda to land in the street below. He sat back down, looked at her, and grimaced.
‘I think I might have got it into the river. You know, set it free and all t
hat.’
Grace could only laugh. She was still laughing when Sophie reappeared, announced the formal names of their food, and then put a hamburger in a bun in front of Jason and a plate of fish’n’chips in front of Grace.
As Sophie retreated down the stairs, Grace popped a chip into her mouth, then said, a little too loudly to Jason, who was still staring wide-eyed, ‘Stop staring at her tits.’
Jason grinned. ‘I can’t help it,’ he said. ‘They fill the entire night sky.’
They decided to pass on dessert, instead heading over to the beach. The tide was low, the sea a distant rumble. With no breeze, the air was warmer than usual for late July. They found a sheltered spot on the sand below the promenade, just out of the glare of a street light.
Grace was feeling a little tipsy, having polished off Jason’s flask of Malibu. Having grown to like him over the course of the evening, she found herself up for anything. She’d never actually done it on the beach, and had only ever heard bad things from people who had—that it was never like the movies, there were always stones, and the sand got everywhere—but now that she was in the position where it might happen, she found herself not against it. Jason was nice enough, if a bit short, and it would certainly make a change from the unwanted celibacy her life had assumed.
Jason produced two cans of beer from somewhere, holding one out to Grace. ‘Cheers for a fun night,’ he said, popping his can and holding it up. ‘I can’t believe we got charged nine quid for those whelks.’
Grace laughed. ‘We didn’t even order them. I now know why I’ve never eaten there before. I don’t think I could afford it more than once a year.’
‘I had a good time, though,’ Jason said, leaning a little closer. ‘I was a bit nervous at the start, but you know, it was fun.’
‘Yeah.’
Grace realised she was leaning closer too. It would only take one swift movement by either of them to close the deal, and then the night could take over. Jason was frowning, though.
‘Listen, I know this might be weird, but I’ve been looking for a chance to bring it up.’
‘Bring up what?’
Jason gave an easy smile, re-establishing the moment Grace had thought was about to pass. ‘It’s just, I wasn’t sure how to ask.’
It’ll be fun, Grace thought. I’m a little drunk, but it’ll be fun. I might regret it in the morning, but probably not that much. Why not? Better to regret what you do than what you don’t. Isn’t that right?
‘It’s Joan,’ Jason said. ‘I wanted to ask you about Joan.’ He smiled again, his face cracking, and suddenly tears were streaming down his face. ‘I’m goddamn obsessed with her. I just don’t know what to say.’
Grace felt like she was in the middle of a bubble that had just been popped, and now she was freefalling to earth with no way of stopping.
‘Huh? Joan?’
‘When you asked me out for dinner, I figured it was a good chance to ask you about it. I’ve been trying, but I’m just scared, and I guess I needed a little sauce to get the words out. She’s just so cool, and whenever I talk to her I feel really relaxed, but you know, she’s in that thing, and I don’t want her to think I like her out of sympathy—’
‘The wheelchair. She’s in a wheelchair.’
‘Yeah, that. I don’t want her to think that I’m just being some kind of Mother Theresa or UNICEF or whatever—’
Grace could only smile as the absurdity of the situation made itself clear. She had been moments away from getting down to it on a cold beach with Jason from the school library. She felt every drop of the Malibu as she started to laugh.
‘You know you just talked yourself out of a shag?’
Jason looked horrified. ‘No offense, but you’re like … Grace from school.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Jason grimaced. ‘You’re nice and all that, but I’m not into sporty girls. And you were like the sportiest.’
‘Isn’t that a bit odd coming from you?’
Jason shrugged. ‘Just trying to keep myself in shape. Not getting any younger, am I? Joan won’t be interested much longer. You reckon I have a chance?’
Grace laughed. ‘You won’t know until you ask her, will you? Tell you what. I’ll give you to next weekend, and if you haven’t done it, I’ll do it for you.’
Jason was practically bouncing up and down. ‘Really? Man, you’re so cool, Grace. I wish I was as cool as you.’
Grace could only smile. As she watched the pure delight on Jason’s face, she wondered what kind of whelk life was likely to throw her next.
23
The library
Joan’s happiness left Grace feeling bittersweet. On the one hand, Grace was delighted because Jason and Joan made such a great couple, but on the other she was disappointed because they were rarely apart, and in many ways she felt like she had lost her best friend. Jason would show up at the café in time for Joan’s lunch break, then take her wheeling off along the promenade for a picnic on the beach, or fish’n’chips out of one of the takeaways farther along the strip. Grace would stay behind with Belinda to deal with the lunchtime rush, feeling both happy for her best friend but frustrated at the same time.
‘It’ll be your turn soon,’ Joan’s mum would say, patting her on the arm, although Grace felt further away from any kind of life-defining relationship than ever.
August ticked around, the local campsites filling up and leaving Grace exhausted after long afternoons of scooping ice-creams and carrying cream teas to the tables outside the café. By the time she got back to her chalet at night, she was often too exhausted to even think about going back out to the beach or to the pub. Many nights she would just take a cup of tea out to the little table on her back patio and sit thinking about the day, listening to the occasional cry of a gull and the distant rumble of the beach.
At least now she felt at peace. The constant battery of emotions which had engulfed her in Bristol on a day-to-day basis had abated here by the seaside. Mornings were the best, when she got up early, took a walk along the beach and then made her obligatory attempt to cycle up Melrose Hill. She was still no closer to her goal, but seeing the shadows shorten over the beach as the sun rose, it was heavenly. There was no place on earth she would rather be.
‘How about we increase the size of the ice-creams?’ she said to Joan, as they waited for the first customers, one morning on the second week of August. ‘Give them a cheeky extra half-scoop. Word will soon get around.’
‘We’ll make no money.’
‘But you’ll get them in the door, and then they’ll buy other stuff.’
‘I’ll ask Mum about it, but I can’t see her going for it. She’ll want to make as much money as possible before she sells up.’
Outside, the Suncrust Pasty van pulled up. A couple of minutes later Steve Hedge pushed through the door, dragging a trolley of pasty boxes behind him.
‘How are you both this fine morning?’ he asked, a larger-than-usual grin on his face.
Joan smiled, and Grace just shrugged. ‘What’s up with you?’ Joan asked.
Hedges set down the trolley and picked up a cardboard sign that had been lying on top of the boxes. ‘Any chance you could put this up in your window somewhere?’ he asked, still grinning.
Grace took the sign and turned it over.
We serve Suncrust Pasties
WINNER – Cornwall’s Choice Awards
‘Congratulations,’ Joan said. ‘When was this?’
‘Last weekend,’ Hedges said, clapping his hands together. ‘First prize in the foodstuffs category. Apparently it wasn’t even close.’
‘What’s Cornwall’s Choice?’ Grace asked. ‘Is that some kind of magazine?’
Hedges shrugged. ‘Dunno. An online blog or something. Doesn’t really matter. First prize is first prize.’
After bringing in another load of pasties, Hedges bade them goodbye and went off to continue his deliveries. Grace waved the signboard at Joan.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘We need to win an award.’
‘For what?’
‘Best café.’
‘And how do we do that?’
Grace clicked her fingers. ‘Leave it with me.’
She needed to get online, something she had been staunchly against during her weeks back in Blue Sands. It wasn’t hard to avoid it; there was no cell phone reception in the cove apart from a couple of shaky Wi-Fi signals, so if she wanted to use her phone she had to walk up Melrose Hill to the village. However, staring at a phone screen for long periods had never been Grace’s favourite way to spend her time, and she didn’t want to ask Joan if she could borrow her laptop. The only option she had left was to use the public computers in the small Upper Blue Sands combined library and museum.
Set among trees on an outcrop of land at the top of the cove’s valley, the library had the best view of the cove below that wasn’t in some rich non-local’s garden. The ground floor was set into the hill, but from the rooftop terrace you could just make out the orange line of the beach at low tide. A young man in spectacles looked up as she entered through a glass sliding door.
‘Is it okay if I use the computers?’ Grace asked as the man adjusted his spectacles and gave her a welcoming smile.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Although you’re supposed to make an ID card.’
‘Okay, right.’
He handed her a sheet of paper and a pen. Grace filled in her details, then passed the sheet back across the counter. The man looked at it, his eyes widening.
‘Grace Clelland?’ he said, looking up. ‘I thought it was you.’
The museum-library had always been run by the Davis family when she was a kid. She remembered Paul Davis from school, but the spectacles aside, there was nothing familiar about him. She guessed it could be him, but the shy, quiet kid with the bland face that no one ever really noticed had grown into a mature, intelligent man.