A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  A familiar figure stood silhouetted on the doorstep. But it was one I hadn’t seen for quite some time, so I was wrong-footed. A pale, sandy-haired man with freckly skin and tortoiseshell glasses, behind which he blinked a great deal, was facing me. He was clutching what can only be described as a man-bag. I would get there, I would. But it was taking me a moment. Celia, coming up behind me, got there before me.

  ‘Edward!’ she called in surprise.

  That’s it. Edward.

  She joined me at the door. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Well I – I just thought I’d come down and see how you were – you know,’ he faltered, ‘how you were getting on.’ It was quite a long sentence for Edward. He blinked rapidly with the exertion.

  ‘Well, what a lovely surprise, come in, come in! You’ve come miles, for heaven’s sake – have you come from London? Surely you haven’t come down for the day? And how come you’re not working? I thought you were working? By the way, we don’t normally live like this – here, sit here.’ She guided him to a barstool, still firing questions at him and not waiting for an answer. She flew around the kitchen like a whirling dervish, on a mission now, to make it gleam like an operating theatre.

  Throwing open the back door to the garden, she then changed her mind about the stool and told him to go outside and look at the view. She generally bossed and scolded him, telling him he looked pale and to get some sun and that she’d bring him a coffee and to sit at the table – no, not in the shade, in the sun – talking at a million miles an hour.

  I gave her a hand as she buzzed around, hangover all forgotten, nothing artistic or fey about her homemaking now.

  ‘Did you know?’ I murmured, throwing a handful of empty eggshells in the bin.

  ‘No!’ she hissed.

  ‘So what’s he doing here?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Shall I make myself scarce?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Right. That was fairly unequivocal. Abandoning whatever greasy pan I’d been about to wash up, I crept upstairs, needing no further prompting. No tragedy at all, actually. I very much needed a lie-down. I stole gratefully back to bed, snuggled under the duvet and hunkered down. I shut my eyes. Edward. Golly. Celia usually had to make an appointment to see him, weeks in advance. And even then he generally cancelled if he was feeling too sensitive. Edward was a very sensitive playwright, frightfully talented, Celia always told me, although it seemed to me the sensitivity kicked in mostly when his plays were panned, or pulled, or not produced at all, which appeared to happen with increasing regularity. Maybe because they were too bloody difficult? I’d loyally been to see a few, usually in some converted warehouse in Tooting, or Peckham. A particularly memorable one involved a man lying naked on stage for two hours whilst various cast members – well, the other two – had a long and boring discussion about him. Celia told me it was very exciting and provocative, but it seemed to me Beckett had done it all years ago.

  My thoughts turned, somewhat frivolously, away from Celia and Edward, to what I might even be so bold as to call my own love life. To Ted, on whom I hoped I hadn’t made too disastrous an impression. And about whom, actually, I was beginning to have some rather warm, glowing feelings, which were remarkably pleasant, and which I hadn’t experienced for a very long time. A small smile escaped me under the duvet and I opened my eyes a touch. We’re not talking thunder bolts here, or a karate chop behind the knees, nothing like that. Just a warm, rosy glow, rather like – yes, rather like a cosy four-ply Aran jumper, if I’m honest. Disappointingly, though, as my mind roved back to kissing him on the beach, which possibly hadn’t been my finest hour but had at least got the ball rolling, the rosy glow didn’t last. Because someone else, also on the beach, loomed large and took centre stage. Peter. I’d thought he was with Janey, but could it equally have been a young student? I frowned. I hadn’t noticed him at all at the party, but he’d obviously been there. Had he met someone?

  I sat up abruptly and reached for my phone. Sent him a text.

  Hi darling – hope all’s well. Think I saw you last night at the beach!

  I waited, ridiculously, impotently, because of course the young don’t text back like we do. They don’t have their phones on volume or they’d be beeping away boringly all day, unlike those who get positively exercised by their occasional music. But then, amazingly, he did. I jumped. Gazed at my screen.

  Yeah, I saw you too. Kissing and taking drugs – look at you!

  I dropped the phone in horror. Both hands went to my mouth. God. How awful! I was about to text back and say I was doing nothing of the kind but that would, of course, be a thumping great fib.

  Instead, after I’d unfrozen, which took a few moments, I scuttled to the bathroom in shame and shut the door. I’d left the offensive phone on the bed where I couldn’t see it, and I crept now to run a hot bath with lots of bubbles. Had he been jocular in tone? Not embarrassed and aghast? Yes, of course he had. Still. I could hardly ask him now if he’d been walking along the beach with Janey, could I? It seemed positively tame in comparison to my antics. And anyway, so what if he had? They hadn’t been arm in arm, I persuaded myself. I don’t know why I’d thought that. No, it was just an innocent stroll, that was all. Golly, you do overreact, Flora. I gently peeled off my clothes. Slowly I immersed my poor, bewildered, traumatized self in the steamy water, hoping not only for a cleaner body, but a cleaner mind, too.

  Celia and Edward were sharing a moment when I came downstairs. I popped my head out of the French windows into the garden. Eyes were locked, cheeks were pink, hands were clasped across the table. He was playing with her fingers: making up little stories about what they were up to in a this-little-piggy sort of way – and who hasn’t found themselves succumbing to such inanities in their time? I popped my head smartly back inside and wondered where else I could make myself scarce. Celia had seen me, though, and was inside in a trice, principally to seize a bottle of wine from the fridge, but also to turn the radio on to cover our voices as she informed me of my duties.

  ‘It was the text I sent,’ she whispered. ‘Dumping him. The one about meeting Ted and not needing him any more. It made him super jealous and he realizes now how much he loves me and doesn’t want to let me go. He’s beetled all the way down here just to see me, can you believe it?’ She had the bottle between her legs and, with an old-fashioned corkscrew, was manically attempting to uncork a screw-top lid. I took it from her, untwisted it and handed it back.

  ‘No. I mean – yes. Of course I can believe it.’

  ‘So listen.’ She came closer, much closer, clutching her bottle. ‘He’s horny, OK, which, as you know, is rare. Really rare. And I badly need a bath. So this is the plan. You go out into the garden and sit, and chat, and have a glass of wine, till I come back. But not too much wine, OK? We might lose it otherwise, right?’

  ‘Lose what?’

  ‘The stiffy.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘So keep it chatty and light. Nothing deep, got it? And don’t ask him about his plays.’ She shoved the bottle into my hands.

  ‘Right. So … what should I … you know … chat about?’ I asked nervously.

  ‘Oh God – anything! Make it up. The London social scene, the weather, whatever. But don’t flirt,’ she hissed, her face very close to mine. ‘Or maybe a tiny bit,’ she said, eyes sliding away, considering. ‘To keep it there, till I get back.’

  ‘Sorry – Celia, am I sitting in the garden helping a man maintain an erection?’

  ‘Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.’ She dithered a moment. ‘Yes. OK. A bit.’ She took two glasses from the cupboard and thrust them into my hands. ‘Just don’t cock it up, all right?’

  I muttered something about this being an unfortunate analogy under the circumstances, but she was already away. Taking the stairs two at a time in her PJs, wild curls springing from her head, her face aglow, eyes shining, something I hadn’t seen since – ah. Yes. That first day. Pai
nting on the cliff, with Ted below on the beach. Right. Golly. Quite a responsibility. No pressure, Flora. Nervously, and with much trepidation, I went gingerly out into the garden.

  Edward was no longer sitting, but standing, hands in trouser pockets, facing the house. Facing me, in fact, and – oh dear God, there it was. Head down and eyes averted, I scuttled to the table, bottle in one hand, glasses in the other.

  ‘Edward, how lovely to see you,’ I said, keeping my eyes firmly on the refreshments. My hand shook a little as I poured a glass and it seemed to me my voice was different, too. More high-pitched. Squeaky.

  ‘So glad I came,’ he said, rather assertively for him, and with, when I dared to glance, an alarmingly wide smile. ‘I thought it was a good decision. But you never quite know till you get there, do you?’

  If only he’d take his hands out of his pockets and stop rocking back on his heels like that.

  ‘No – no, you don’t. Um, Edward, shall we sit down?’ I already was. Firmly. I meant him.

  ‘Yes, OK.’ He came across, still beaming, but disconcertingly, didn’t sit. I handed him a glass without looking. Luckily it made contact with his hand.

  ‘You’re looking so well, Flora!’ he told me admiringly, with – yes, I had to glance, rude not to – a disconcerting gleam in his eye.

  ‘Oh – well, yes, gosh. I have been … well,’ I said, keeping my eyes low and licking dry lips. ‘Threw off that dreadful cough I had for ages.’ I was keen to get away from the aesthetic connotations of Looking Well and on to the more mundane ones of Being Well. He looked a trifle miffed at this and I remembered to flirt a tiny bit.

  ‘But I was just thinking the same about you, Edward. You’re positively glowing!’

  The beam returned instantly and I prayed he’d sit. Just … effing well … sit. Just as he did – finally, thank the Lord – a loud ‘Coo-ee!’ trilled from inside the house. The front door slammed and I swung around in relief. I was fairly sure Edward and I would dry up in seconds on the London social scene, which neither of us participated in, and Babs could surely be relied upon to jabber away flirtatiously until Celia appeared. It was what she did best, after all.

  ‘How are you girls this morning?’ she was calling gaily as she came sailing through the sitting room. Out through the French windows she breezed. She was wearing a gingham sundress and white gym shoes. ‘Have you recovered from your night on the tiles?’

  ‘Yes thanks, Babs. And you, too, I hope?’ I asked pointedly, but her eyes were already on our guest, who was politely, and rather disappointingly, getting to his feet.

  ‘Um, Babs, this is Edward. He’s a – a great friend of Celia’s,’ I finally plumped for, by way of introduction. Babs’ eyes had already travelled low.

  ‘Um – Babs, drink? Do sit, honestly, everyone sit. I’ll get another glass.’ I scarpered inside. Once in the kitchen, I peered back through the open doors. I could see Babs talking and undoubtedly flirting, but was she being dismissive and scary, too? She could be. She often was. I grabbed the glass and scuttled back. Still Edward was on his feet – was he oblivious to his condition? How could he be? Or proud? Encouraging everyone finally to be seated, I kept the conversation light and general. Babs was sizing him up in silence. She lit a cigarette and peered at him through smoke and narrowed, highly amused eyes. Meanwhile I laboured on about which route he’d taken, and the joy of finally getting to Stonehenge. How it took me back to my childhood every time. How, in my day, there were no ropes cordoning it off, and we’d perch on the stones to eat our sandwiches. All the time Babs looked on, and smoked and stared. Finally she cut in.

  ‘So what is it you do, Edward?’

  I nearly lowered my forehead to the table. Indeed, it’s possible I did. Edward’s smile faded and it seemed to me the sun went behind a cloud. The birds stopped singing in the trees, and an icy chill fell upon the garden.

  ‘I’m a playwright,’ he told her.

  ‘Oh, how fascinating! What have you written?’

  He told her and she frowned. ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘But Edward’s shows are mostly in London,’ I told her quickly. ‘They’re not provincial.’

  ‘I come to London. Do you get good reviews?’

  By the time Celia came down from her bath, it was all over. Babs had gone through every one of his plays – three – and asked why he thought they hadn’t worked. Why the critics hadn’t liked them. As he’d told her, at rambling, juddering, stuttering length, she’d finally got bored. She glanced at her watch, drained her glass and said she’d had a lovely time but she really must be going. She was going sailing with Roger. Blowing us dinky little kisses, she got up and swept away down the garden and through the little picket gate, taking the sandy path to the dunes, and the beach below.

  Celia came out into the garden, beaming. She was looking ravishing in a pretty yellow summer dress, her arms already brown from the sun. Smelling gorgeous, she had a touch of eyeliner on, some lipstick, but not a slap job. She was altogether looking hopeful, expectant, and delighted with life. I got to my feet.

  ‘Um, Babs has just been,’ I told her carefully, looking her in the eye. ‘She was asking Edward about his plays. I’m, er … going down to the beach. For a swim.’ I abandoned all further eye contact and turned, cravenly, to scuttle after Babs. No costume, no towel, no nothing. Too lily-livered to dart upstairs to fetch them. Because by the time I came down, the music might well have started. I turned, made haste, and fled.

  18

  Did I mention I was barefoot, such was my haste? Happily it didn’t matter because I was heading to the beach, but, as I did, it occurred to me that I was also incredibly hungry, and, not only did I not have shoes, I didn’t have the wherewithal to silence my rumbling stomach. Since I might have to be gone for some time, this could be a problem. There was a tiny beach café just a bit further along, where they served delicious coffee and toasted sandwiches. I wondered, as I made my way towards it, if I could possibly prevail upon the patrons to advance me a morsel of lunch? Which I would obviously reimburse them for as soon as was humanly possible?

  The café operated out of a pale blue Volkswagen camper van. The small fenced garden was already well populated, the clientele mostly of the young, wave-riding kind. Plenty of wetsuits were being sported and there were a few boards piled up in the corner: music was playing. I went through the garden and tested my idea on the two young surfing dudes who were behind the makeshift counter in their blue-and-white stripy butchers’ aprons. Their bright, welcoming, toothpaste smiles, which had flashed up so promisingly when I’d approached, faded. They looked genuinely upset. The blond boy scratched his woolly, wave-tossed hair.

  ‘You know, we’d really like to say yes, because you’re so obviously kosher, and you’ve told us where you live and everything, but the thing is, we’ve been stung once too often. So we now have this policy? That we don’t run a tab?’

  ‘Last summer,’ added his friend who looked as if he’d been through the washing machine with a tub of Vanish he was so bleached, ‘I’m not gonna lie, not one person came back to pay.’

  ‘Oh, that’s appalling. How dreadful. Yes, of course. I do see, absolutely. No, well, I’m sorry to have asked. Sorry to have put you on the spot.’ I made to move on, thoroughly embarrassed and pretty pink now because there were a couple of people behind me. I was far too old for the begging, urchin look. I should have gone, I realized, to Pam Maynard in the bakery, who’d known me since I was born, although that, of course, would have involved a barefoot pilgrimage down the high street. I turned to go, when suddenly a large, tanned paw came from nowhere, between me and the counter, clasping a tenner. A familiar voice in my ear said:

  ‘Cheese and pickle?’

  I already knew it was Ted. His voice, which was strong and reassuring, had, if I’m honest, sent something of a girlish frisson up my spine. I turned and bestowed what I hoped was my most dazzling smile. His eyes sparkled into mine: they were highly amused.

  ‘Please.
But hold the pickle. I’m in enough of one already.’

  ‘Add to that a toasted cheese and ham,’ he told the boy. ‘And a cappuccino?’ he offered, with an enquiring smile.

  ‘Perfect.’

  The boys looked relieved, and, if I’m honest, rather admiring. I mean, how lucky was that? Talk about a knight in shining armour. They told us they’d bring it straight across when it was ready, and we moved away to sit at a table that was just being vacated, in pole position, right at the edge of the garden. Take one more step and you’re in the sea. Just then the sun came out from behind a very tiny cloud. Perfect.

  ‘Yet again, Mr Fleming, I am indebted to you,’ I said as I sat down.

  ‘Think nothing of it, Mrs Bellingdon. And I don’t think it’s Yet Again, is it?’

  ‘Well, by all accounts you delivered me safely home last night and didn’t take advantage of my riotous condition, which, according to Celia, I gave you every opportunity to. Indeed every invitation.’ I rolled mortified eyes.

  ‘Ah yes.’ He laughed. ‘The skinny-dipping. Which under normal circumstances I’d be more than up for. Do ask again.’

  His eyes held mine. They were warm and tender, not mocking. But although I was enjoying it, I was out of practice and couldn’t do it for long. Mine slid away to the sea.

  ‘This your usual haunt?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Most days, actually. The boys used to be students of mine. They’re nice lads trying to run a business on a shoestring, so I patronize it as much as I can. They could do more with their degrees, but some people, particularly marine biologists, can’t bear to be away from the sea even for a minute. I get it.’

  My eyes came back to him. ‘And the same goes for you? You have to be by the sea?’