A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Too long,’ said Shona finally, as we eventually released one another. ‘Far too long.’

  ‘My fault,’ I told her truthfully as we both dabbed at our eyes with our napkins, mine properly streaming, which made us laugh.

  ‘Yes, all your fucking fault, you’re a hopeless correspondent. I’d have been better off with a carrier pigeon.’

  ‘But all your fault for moving about the country so much. Liverpool, Manchester – what the fuck!’

  ‘Yes, OK, but when I did come to London, you weren’t bloody there!’

  ‘I never usually go away. I could have cried. Knew there was a reason why I didn’t. What was I thinking?’

  ‘Fuck knows. I mean, Paris in the springtime – who needs it?’

  Shona swore quite a lot and, sheep that I was, I always joined in as if it was something I routinely did. I found it funny and relaxing and sank into it contentedly now, along with our mutual past and the palest of pink wines which she had already ordered.

  ‘Peter needed the break after his exams. And we only went for three days. But give me more warning next time, there’s a doll?’

  ‘Can’t, I’m afraid,’ she said ruefully. ‘It’s the nature of the current affairs game, the clue’s in the title. And anyway, I’m rarely in London. It’s only if a Cornish story breaks and transfers dramatically like that one did – which couldn’t have ended up being more parochial, by the way. Boy gets shell stuck up nose on Rock Beach and is flown by private helicopter to Great Ormond Street because Russian oligarch parents don’t think Newquay Hospital is up to it.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Swear to God. So your trusty, probing reporter was rushed to the bedside. I bloody nearly whipped out my tweezers and hooked it out myself as we waited for the doctor, it would have been quicker.’

  ‘But at least you’re fronting it all now,’ I said admiringly. ‘I mean, anchorwoman. How cool is that?’

  ‘It’s better,’ she admitted.

  ‘And down here! Presumably this is the gig you wanted? You must have been thrilled when it came up?’

  ‘Oh, hundred percent. Dream come true. Totally where my heart is. Not that I hadn’t lobbied for it, of course. It didn’t exactly come up. I shoved.’ She grinned.

  ‘You don’t say.’

  Shona pretty much got what she wanted in life.

  ‘And to be fair, no one else did, they all wanted London.’ She sipped her wine and her dark eyes flashed at me above the rim. ‘But in ten years’ time they’ll all want this, of course, and I’m not budging. Oh – mussels, please,’ she glanced up at the waiter who was hovering expectantly. ‘And chips. They’re brilliant here,’ she told me.

  ‘The same, please.’ He departed. ‘And Paddy? He likes it here, too?’

  ‘Paddy’s happy if I’m happy,’ she said airily, breaking into her bread roll. ‘Which sounds arrogant and probably is, but temperamentally he could live in a cave, he doesn’t really notice his surroundings. And also, realistically, he can work anywhere, which I can’t. And the kids love it. Can’t keep them off the beach.’

  ‘And he’s working? Writing?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘Just had his second book accepted by Heinemann. And the Tate are backing it up with an exhibition – it’s a biography of Charles the First, who was a demon art collector.’

  ‘Oh wow, that’s amazing.’ It really was. Paddy was a huge, handsome academic. A lovely man she’d met at Durham who wrote biographical history, but it wasn’t always lucrative. Shona pretty much kept the financial wheels on the bus, but this sounded promising.

  ‘That’s the Tate St Ives, not The Tate,’ she told me dryly. ‘But still. He’s got a two-book deal. And he’s unofficially been offered History professor at Exeter University. He hears for sure next week.’

  My eyes popped dramatically at her across the table. I let my jaw drop. ‘Shona – that’s huge!’

  She was deliberately underplaying it, but I could tell she was thrilled. A smile escaped her. ‘Well, it takes us to a dual-income family, which I agree is pretty huge.’

  ‘We should have ordered champagne.’

  ‘God, no. I’m still touching wood about next week. Shit – quick.’

  We hurriedly found a table leg each, shut our eyes, took our feet off the floor and counted to ten, as we had done since childhood. Then we laughed and sank into our rosé.

  ‘And you?’

  I told her much of what she knew already: we’d emailed now and then even though we hadn’t seen much of each other. I told her about my painting and I told her Mum’s news and about Peter’s success at Oxford. She listened. Then she frowned and leaned forward, arms folded on the table.

  ‘OK, well, that much, apart from Peter, I pretty much already knew. And huge congrats to him, by the way, I’ll send him a text. But what about you?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, have you moved on? Found someone else?’

  I laughed and took a nervous sip of wine. ‘You sound like Peter.’

  ‘Well, good. I’m glad he’s on it. Shit, you’re not even Catholic, like me. What’s the problem?’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ I said stubbornly. I was about to embark on my tedious Tim and Rupert lies but found I didn’t have the energy. ‘I hear you saw Tommy,’ I said, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes, he came to the fête.’ She sat back and smiled. ‘I mean, opening a fête, can you believe it? I nearly fell over when they asked me.’

  ‘You’ll be launching ships next,’ I warned.

  She made a face. ‘Talk about scraping the barrel. And Tommy was no help. He insisted on Whipping Up The Crowd, as he called it – such as it was, three men and a dog – clapping and wolf-whistling very loudly when I’d done the deed with the scissors and ribbon. He even brought along a stash of booklets I’d written years ago on Cornish tin mines – fuck knows where he found those – asked people if they’d like them autographed. They bloody did, too, it was beyond embarrassing. So Tommy’s dissolving with laughter, OK, as I have to inscribe one to Maureen, whose sheepdog howls with delight whenever I come on the box, apparently. I told Maureen her dog is probably allergic to me and should be allowed to leave the room.’

  I laughed. But I was surprised all over again. ‘I didn’t know you and Tommy were such mates?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve kept in touch. Years ago his mother got him to write to me, you knew that.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, after that whole hunting debacle. When he went home she could tell something had really upset him and she suggested he wrote. I see him when he’s over. He’s a laugh.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘Oh, and when would I have said, you bloody recluse? And anyway, on the odd occasion I do see you, we only seem to talk about Hugo.’

  I nodded down at my mussels, which had conveniently arrived. Popped in a chip. ‘Yeah, well, that’s all changing,’ I muttered. ‘This holiday has seen to that. I’m embarrassed, actually, Shona. Don’t know what the fuck I’ve been doing with my life.’

  ‘Well, that’s progress.’ She looked surprised, and, if I’m honest, my words surprised me, too. I determined to believe them, though. ‘Tommy told me to work on you but I’ll be delighted to report I didn’t have to. Here’s to a new dawn.’

  She lifted her glass and met mine, mid-air. I sipped thoughtfully.

  ‘Why did Tommy ask you to work on me?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Because like the rest of us he can see you’re wasting your life, I imagine. Thinks the early Christian martyr look doesn’t suit you, perhaps?’

  ‘Tommy.’ I snorted. ‘What does he know? I hadn’t seen him for years.’

  ‘He sees Peter. And me, of course, and I’m not protecting you, so don’t get any big ideas.’ She hesitated. ‘And if you must know, I think he feels a bit responsible. Thinks he should have tried harder to stop Hugo marrying you. Because of Christina, I guess. He feels guilty, OK? Is that so weird?’

&nbs
p; I remembered Tommy and Hugo in the ante-room of Marylebone Registry Office. The fierce determination on Tommy’s face as I interrupted them. That had nothing to do with Christina, he just didn’t like me.

  ‘So if I whip off the sackcloth and ashes and start putting it about as much as he does, he’ll feel better, is that it?’ I said lightly.

  ‘Don’t be glib, he’s not like that.’ I’d been extracting a mussel but I glanced up at her tone. ‘And anyway, he’s been a star as far as I’m concerned. He got my niece an internship at Christie’s in New York which was super kind – his sister knows someone there. And he’s offered us his apartment if we ever want to stay. If I can ever get Paddy away from Charles the First’s personal possessions, that is.’

  ‘Right.’ I felt a peculiar stab of jealousy though. And betrayal. Ridiculous. But it was as if a whole subplot and storyline had been going on without me, behind my back. The Tommy and Shona show. But the truth was I’d been too self-absorbed to notice, or even care. And what I did, painting, only encouraged that inner life. Celia and I knew that. We could go for weeks – months, even – without talking to a soul, and because we had each other, and I had Peter and Mum, it always seemed OK. It wasn’t. I’d neglected friendships. Well, this one, anyway. What else, I wondered?

  The waiter removed our bowls of empty shells and gave us water bowls for our fingers. I swirled mine about thoughtfully.

  ‘Shona, have you had any stories hit your desk recently about the water down here?’

  She put her head on one side and dried her fingers with her napkin. Took a moment. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You have.’

  She made a non-committal face. ‘The water’s always been dodgy down here, you know that. They should bloody nationalize it. Fucking privatization, makes me puke.’

  ‘But the Bellingdons, specifically?’ I insisted, ignoring her polemic and already knowing her politics.

  ‘Well, they run it, Flora. This patch, anyway. Can’t get more specific than that.’

  ‘So you have,’ I said anxiously. ‘It’s just that – well, I know it’s hugely contentious at the moment, but Hugo is so hard-working and dedicated and—’

  ‘Oh, Hugo.’ She threw down her napkin, exasperated. ‘I thought we were forgetting about him?’

  ‘Well, it concerns Peter, too,’ I said defensively. ‘By extension.’

  ‘Only if he goes into the family firm, which I bloody hope he doesn’t. Do I need to have a word?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, he doesn’t want to. He’s sure about that. Actually, I think he’d make a good journalist. So maybe you should?’

  ‘I’d be happy to. Send him my way.’

  I smiled wryly. ‘Although I’m told the BBC is none too keen on public schoolboys these days. Reverse discrimination and all that?’

  She shot me a sharp look. ‘They can take it.’

  ‘Well, quite,’ I said quickly.

  ‘But you’re right, legend has it Frank Gardner was deemed too posh to be a newsreader so he became a foreign correspondent, then got shot, poor guy. Everyone’s got an opinion. I had complaints in Manchester about my accent being too West Country – I’m bloody Cornish, what do they expect! Shit.’ She glanced suddenly at her watch. ‘I’ve got to run. Got a production meeting in literally three minutes – bugger.’ She stuck up a hand and waved extravagantly for the bill. ‘Oh Flora, I’m so sorry!’ she wailed, eyeballing a waiter and scribbling in the air. ‘Forty-five minutes, we’ve had – this fucking job!’

  ‘I’ll do it, Shona, you go.’

  ‘Certainly not, you’re the impoverished artist. I’d never have suggested coming here and letting you pay, and anyway, I’ve got a work account. I’m interviewing you about your important new commission.’ She winked.

  The waiter hurried across and she quickly signed the card he gave her.

  ‘Look at you,’ I said admiringly as she got to her feet and shrugged on a jacket. ‘Quite the high-flying exec.’

  She made a face. ‘Sorry. Not trying to show off, but it’s pretty much the works caff. The office is next door. And let’s not get ahead of ourselves, it is only Truro.’

  I got to my feet to hug her as she came round the table. But it was a different sort of hug to the one when we’d met, which had been one of unadulterated joy. This one had a bit of tension in it; from both of us. Her exasperation with me and my defensiveness had snuck in, despite our best efforts. But it was better than the last time, when she’d been in Manchester and we’d met halfway. At that Italian. When, actually, we’d had words. Or she had. This was better. Had been better. The trouble was, we knew each other too well to pretend. Not knew, loved. We loved each other much too much to be disingenuous: to dissemble and agree, for form’s sake, when we didn’t. Which might explain my lackadaisical approach to emailing. And why I hadn’t always picked up the phone when I’d seen her name on my mobile. Sent a text afterwards. ‘Sorry – I’m painting, will call later!’ And hadn’t. Shona was rigorous. Ruthless with me. Far worse than Celia. Yes, it was why we’d become – not estranged – but distant.

  ‘Come for supper,’ she said urgently. She held my shoulders, her eyes searching my face. ‘And bring Peter. Come next week – you’ll still be here?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll still be here.’

  ‘And you can say hello to my lot. God, is there no peace?’

  A hugely overweight woman with a young man in tow was making for the door from another table, jerking her head urgently at Shona. Shona nodded back. ‘My editor and my sub. He’s heaven, she’s an oversexed nympho. She looked me in the eye the other day and said, “The thing is, Shona, I think about it all the time.” I said – thinking I was being caring – “Maybe you should see someone? There are sex-addiction therapists, you know?” Turned out she was talking about food. Wasn’t a great moment. Oh look, he’s waiting for me, the love, I told you he was heaven. I’m going to have to fly.’ The young man was hovering anxiously by the revolving door. ‘I’ll text you about supper.’

  She left, sweeping elegantly through the tables. As she went, heads turned, certainly at her beauty, but many in recognition. The man on the table beside me turned to his fellow diner and smiled, whispering her name.

  ‘Really? Shona Okafor? Where?’ Her head spun round to look.

  I watched as the young man grinned and grabbed her hand when she reached him, and then they squeezed, laughing, into the revolving door together. Through the huge plate-glass window I saw them race down the street, still laughing. Shona’s face was alive and joyous. Vital. That was the word I was groping for. I sat down slowly and reached for my glass. Sipped from it. The wine was warmer than one might have wished for.

  15

  The Mariners was already in full Saturday-night swing when I arrived. All the tables on the terrace were taken and the pavement was rapidly filling up with the overflow, as standing room only began to apply. I pushed through the throng and went inside to the saloon bar. The small, oak-panelled room, hung with nets and rods and lobster pots and all manner of fishing memorabilia, was already at least ten deep at the bar and hot as hell. Through the crowd already at the bar placing an order, I could see Ted, towering above the rest. He was waving his arms as if conducting an orchestra, surrounded by students. Babs was there, too, helpfully handing out the drinks.

  ‘Coo-ee, darling!’ she cried. She waved extravagantly, clearly loving her role as magician’s assistant. ‘Just like old times, isn’t it? Just getting them in – what’ll you have? One of these?’ She held up what looked like gin with a tonic bottle.

  ‘Please!’ I called back as I retreated to the periphery of the crowd.

  Ted was dispensing more drinks to the youngsters behind him, rolling his eyes as they jumped on the bandwagon with huge endearing smiles. Then with a sudden – ‘That’s your lot!’ – he handed the barman a fistful of money and pocketed the change. Holding the glasses high, he muscled his way through to me.

  ‘Bloody freeloading yobs,’ he
muttered, handing me my drink.

  I grinned. ‘And you wonder why you’re so popular.’

  ‘Oh, total cupboard love, I agree. I’m under no illusions. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘This place has got worse – it’s absolutely heaving,’ I complained as we jostled our way through the crowds on the pavement, trying not to spill our drinks.

  ‘Rather pejorative, surely?’ Ted enquired with a grin. ‘“Buzzing” or “happening” could also apply.’

  ‘Only if you’re a tourist,’ I said wryly, as we made our way, with Babs in tow, to the sea wall on the other side of the road. ‘Trust me, the locals like their peace and quiet.’

  ‘You speak for yourself,’ Babs objected as she and I went to perch on the wall together. Ted stood facing us, gazing out to sea, a view I could tell he was happy with and would easily forgo a seat for. ‘If you live down here full-time it gets jolly quiet in the winter. I don’t mind the merry throng at all.’

  ‘And you can bet the locals don’t turn their noses up at the dosh the tourists bring, either,’ Ted remarked.

  ‘Well, quite. Ken behind the bar didn’t look too distressed when you handed him a wodge.’

  ‘Hang on – I live here! I mean, only recently, but I’m not a bloody tourist. Cheers!’ He raised his glass and we raised ours back.

  ‘Cheers.’ We all sipped together.

  ‘No Celia?’ asked Ted, wiping froth from his mouth.

  ‘No, she said she wanted to work late. She’s somewhere along the coast waiting for a Turner-esque sunset.’

  What she’d actually said, when I’d told her slightly nervously that I’d bumped into Ted for two seconds on the beach and he’d said there was always a crowd at the Mariners and why didn’t we come along, was that firstly she was painting late, but secondly, she’d decided Ted was too outdoorsy for her. Too hearty. A bit big and bear-like. I was used to Celia’s sudden and dramatic changes of heart, but nonetheless I was surprised.