A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Ted!’ I shouted.

  He turned. Saw me and smiled, his hand shooting up to wave. He walked across, quickening his pace; pleased, it would appear, to see me.

  ‘Flora! Excellent, that saves me the trouble of coming to find you in town.’ He grinned and gave me a kiss from his great height, the wind in his hair.

  ‘Where’s Shona?’ I asked, glancing about.

  ‘Oh, she’s gone,’ he said in surprise.

  ‘Really? I was meeting her in the café.’ I glanced around at it, perched by the car park. It looked pretty empty. In fact, the whole place was deserted, apart from a man walking a black Labrador in the distance and a couple sitting on the rocks. Everyone was at the regatta.

  He shrugged. ‘She said she had to head off back to the studio. An emergency.’

  I whipped out my phone. Sure enough, another message.

  Sorry sorry sorry!! Change of plan – there’s someone I have to see, I’m on a story. Will ring I promise! HUGE apologies NEVER be a journalist. xx

  I nodded. Pocketed my phone. Gazed at him a long moment. ‘How come you met up with Shona?’

  ‘You mentioned you knew her, so I popped in to see her.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I wanted to ask her if she’d do a piece about the beach clear-ups. Yet another plastic-and-pollution story, obviously, but more positive this time. About what people can do, even when they’re on holiday. How they can help. A rallying cry, if you like.’

  ‘Right. Why didn’t you mention it?’

  ‘What, that I was seeing her?’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t know I had to!’

  ‘Well, you made the connection through me. Might have been polite.’

  He considered this. ‘Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry. I should have done. I just didn’t think.’

  ‘Or think to say, the other night, that you’d been to see her?’

  ‘I only saw her yesterday. But yes, you’re right, I should have texted you or something.’ He put his hands together Japanese-style and executed a formal little bow. ‘Mea culpa.’ Then he dropped his hands. Shrugged. ‘On the other hand, she could have mentioned it to you.’

  ‘She did, just now, in town.’

  ‘Right. Well, yes, I’m sorry I didn’t clear it first and of course I’d have told you about it afterwards. I was coming to find you in town, actually, to tell you all about it. It went really well.’

  ‘You did a piece to camera?’

  ‘Yes.’ He scratched his head sheepishly. ‘Which is far more nerve-wracking than you’d think. Went OK, though, I think. Hopefully we’ll get more support, maybe even local government funds if we can get them involved. It’s just constant bombardment that’s needed. Every radio station, too. I’m trying Radio Cornwall tomorrow and Radio Devon on Wednesday. Plus all the papers.’

  ‘Right.’ I felt a bit foolish suddenly. Ted and Shona were busy people. Professional people. They fired off emails all day long. Shona once told me she got four hundred a day.

  I nodded. ‘Well, I’m sure Shona will give you as much coverage as she can. She’s pretty ecological herself.’

  ‘I know, veered off her Geography degree to do Environmental Science, we talked about that.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must get on, but d’you want a quick coffee?’ He inclined his head to the café. ‘Less of a scrum here than round the coast.’

  ‘Yes, there is a scrum there,’ I said, ignoring the coffee. ‘In fact, the Mariners was packed. I met a friend of yours in there, funnily enough. While you were meeting one of mine. Blonde? Very pretty? Quite young. We saw her at the beach party and she recognized me. Asked how you were. Or, actually, she asked how Professor Fleming was, now that she’d reverted to student status.’

  I watched it drop; the penny. Saw it slowly dawn in his eyes. ‘Ah. Chloe.’

  I shrugged. ‘Yes, perhaps. Chloe.’

  He sighed. ‘OK, so what d’you want to know? That I had a thing with her? I did, last term. But nothing of any consequence.’

  I made a face. ‘Seemed of consequence to her.’

  He frowned. Regarded me searchingly. ‘Not sure I like this, Flora. Am I being questioned about a past girlfriend? Before I met you?’

  ‘She’s very young.’

  He considered this. ‘Yes, she’s young.’

  ‘How old?’

  He hesitated. ‘Twenty-three.’

  I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Yeah, OK. Twenty-one. But God, she’s an adult, not a schoolgirl. It’s not a criminal offence.’

  ‘No. But you were quite coruscating about Peter and Janey.’

  ‘Peter’s seventeen.’

  ‘Which is over sixteen. Therefore an adult.’

  ‘True. And you’re right, I did have an opinion. Perhaps a bit of a guilty, knee-jerk reaction, if I’m honest. But don’t you find people often do that? When a nerve has been touched by something they’re guilty of? People who manipulate will always let you know when others do it, for instance. Because they recognize it in themselves.’

  I gave this some thought. ‘That’s true.’ It had a whiff of honesty about it.

  ‘And you’re right. Ripping into Janey was definitely wrong of me. But, again, not treasonable.’ He met my eyes steadily.

  ‘No, of course not. Not crime of the century.’

  It left a bit of a nasty taste in the mouth, nonetheless, quite so early on, if I’m honest. But he was right. I was overreacting. A bit of a forte of mine. The trouble was I’d got so picky these days. So … unable to settle for anything less than perfect. And I had to admit, it was big of him to admit his faults. I certainly couldn’t call him defensive.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I guess.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘As you’ll discover, if you decide to stick around, Flora, I am far from perfect. But then who is?’

  I sighed. ‘Yes, well, no – I’m certainly not. Where to begin with my litany of flaws?’

  He jerked his head to the beach shack. ‘We could make a list over a drink rather than coffee? I think they have a licence.’

  I grinned. ‘Why not. I could do with one.’

  Later, when we’d actually laughed about what annoyed us about ourselves, taking it in turns to fess up, he drove me back into town. He dropped me off at the quay, going on himself to the university. We kissed in the car before I got out.

  ‘Supper tonight?’ he asked, before I shut the door. He leaned across and held it open, smiling enquiringly.

  ‘Good plan,’ I agreed.

  I walked away, smiling myself now.

  By now, all the sailing races had finished. As I approached the Sailing Club, I realized the prize-giving was in full swing upstairs on the first floor. Up on the balcony, a sea of backs faced inwards, into the famous Stewards’ Room, where it was taking place. Obviously the Bellingdons were in their element, and I saw Belinda and Hugo’s backs amongst the very select, members-only audience who were allowed up there, all quite pickled and merry by now, no doubt. Hugo suddenly turned towards the street. He saw me and gave me a huge smile, indicating I should come up.

  ‘Really?’ I mouthed.

  ‘Yes!’ He nodded vigorously as Belinda turned as well, but too late to interfere. Her smile froze as she realized. I grinned to myself. Sorry. I’m on my way.

  I went through the plate-glass doors and pushed my way through the crowd in the room below, still known locally, and, if I wanted to play a trump card, which I rarely did, still Peter Bellingdon’s mother. As I mounted the stairs, which were crowded with people standing, listening to what was going on above, Bobby Sadler, the harbour master, made them stand aside for me. He gave me a helping hand.

  ‘Up you go, love,’ he said. ‘Your lad’s won a prize!’

  ‘Really? Peter has? Oh, great!’

  Making more haste, I bustled past people, who kindly made way. The stairs emerged at the front of the oak-panelled room, lined with wooden shields and trophy cabinets, heaving with the great and the good. I immediately spotted Babs’ blonde head,
right at the back. She was obviously not down the front where Belinda and Hugo had made their way with the rest of the family, but still rather naughtily in attendance, which wouldn’t have escaped Belinda, whose social smile was now firmly in place for me as I appeared. Hugo waved me over, but I pointed to Iris – rather than Babs – at the back, indicating I’d stand with them. He nodded enthusiastically and turned back to his mother. I couldn’t see Christina, but no doubt she was with the children somewhere. Ah yes, over there, in the corner. How odd, she was already watching me. She gave me a rather weary smile, still in the same old jeans and shirt, I noticed.

  Then all eyes turned to Roger, as, behind the trophy table, and totally in his element like his wife in the morning, he began doling out the prizes. Roger no longer sailed competitively, but his pre-eminence in this field was undisputed if anyone fancied looking closely at the names engraved on the cups and trophies arrayed before him. Trewarren was a small pond, but he was still undoubtedly the biggest fish. I muscled to the back with the naughty girls. Babs was even having a cheeky fag.

  ‘You’ll get struck off,’ I hissed.

  ‘Not sure I was ever struck on, darling. And rather like Groucho Marx, not sure I’d want to belong to a club that would have me as a member. Anyway, I’m practically outside.’ She puffed away merrily.

  As we clapped hard for Matt Featherstone, who’d come third in the Wayfarer class, together with Cindy Hawkins, another of my old hunting buddies, Iris shouted in my ear above the din: ‘Peter’s done well in this class.’

  ‘I know,’ I yelled back. ‘Any idea where he came?’

  ‘Second, I think.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Suddenly my eye caught something. I tugged Iris’s arm to alert her. ‘Is this being filmed? I thought they weren’t coming?’ Tucked away in the corner behind me, I’d spotted the bearded cameraman with a tripod. The soundman was beside him with headphones and a boom.

  Iris looked, then turned back. ‘Yes, they’re putting a voiceover on later, apparently. Shona had to dash off on a story. Shame, I’d have liked to have seen her.’

  ‘Not as much as your sister-in-law would,’ Babs commented. We followed her twinkling eyes to Belinda, who, every time she handed Roger a cup, a role she’d totally invented for herself as Roger was quite capable of picking up the cups himself, would flash a little smile at the cameraman. She was handing her husband the cups rather slowly, too, clearly wanting her moment. Babs found my ear.

  ‘Rumour has it – via Yvonne, our spy in the camp – that Belinda has taken to emailing Shona her movements. Wednesday: Church Roof Committee. Thursday: Ancient Building Trust. Wants to be her NBF. Who would have thought?’

  ‘Yvonne reads her emails?’

  ‘Only when she’s cleaning the computer screen. Or polishing her phone, when it’s left on the island.’

  Iris’s mouth twitched involuntarily. She wasn’t immune to finding Babs amusing, but she declined to comment, never joining in the bitchery.

  Babs was now choking with mirth because Belinda had got Hugo to consult a list, pick up a trophy, then pass it to her, and Babs wondered if perhaps Peter could hold the list, read the name to Hugo, who’d pass the trophy to his mother, who’d pass it to her husband, and then the whole Bellingdon relay would be complete?

  ‘Shut up, Babs,’ Iris told her, trying not to laugh. ‘Ah. Here is my great-nephew.’

  A cheer rang out, not least mine, as Peter went up to get his second-place trophy. Tommy, no doubt, would follow in his wake. Except it wasn’t Tommy’s name which was announced as crew, it was Janey’s, and she was going up beside my son to collect her prize.

  ‘I thought Tommy was crewing for him?’ I turned to Iris.

  ‘He had to work. Janey stepped in instead.’

  My tummy clenched a bit. I watched as Peter, clearly embarrassed by the fuss but nonetheless delighted by the enthusiastic response he was getting, was fawned over by his grandmother. She insisted on shaking his hand with both of hers. He looked on in adoration as Janey collected her ribbon and trophy, and then as they both turned and grinned at the cheering crowd, he glanced again at Janey, eyes shining.

  ‘Popular win?’ asked the soundman, leaning in towards us. He pushed one of his headphones up.

  ‘It’s the chairman’s grandson,’ Babs told him. ‘Peter Bellingdon. You might want to write that down. And his girlfriend, Janey Karachin,’ she added, shooting me a wicked glance.

  I blazed hotly back at her. Babs threw her head back and roared with delight above the applause that was still ringing out. As the winner was announced for first prize, more applause rang for yet another local hero, rather than a second-home owner. The latter were tolerated for the money they brought to the resort but slightly despised for the cottages they bought, which traditionally locals would buy but could no longer afford. I, meanwhile, was making my way to the side of the room, where Janey and Peter were congratulating each other. They were comparing medals, thrilled to bits.

  ‘Well done, darling,’ I breathed, my face hot. I gave him a hug.

  ‘Oh, Mum! Didn’t see you. Yeah, we had a good race. Janey was brilliant.’

  ‘Good. And well done you, Janey,’ I managed for form’s sake. ‘Peter, Adam’s over there.’

  ‘Adam?’

  ‘Yes, your friend, with his father. He was asking after you,’ I lied, although Adam, who I’d spotted at the top of the stairs, did indeed look across, and come over to congratulate Peter. He had no choice but to go and greet his friend.

  ‘Shall we?’ I asked Janey, jerking my head towards the balcony and fresher air. Away from the throng.

  She rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘Did you just say shall we?’ she murmured as she followed me. ‘Isn’t that what the Dowager Duchess in Downton says when she’s about to lay into one of the under-stairs maids? Jeez, I feel about six!’

  I ignored her and muscled my way through, well away from Babs and Iris and the film crew. I led her to the opposite side of the balcony, where there was space in the corner.

  ‘God, if I was Babs I’d be lighting a ciggie for sure for this one,’ Janey told me. Her eyes were shining almost as much as Babs’, who’d spotted us. ‘Tommy tells me I’m hereafter to be known as Cougar Woman.’

  ‘Well, no, obviously not,’ I said nervously, and as reasonably as I could, but with a very real feeling I was about to make a fool of myself here. ‘But the thing is, Janey, he is only seventeen and—’

  ‘A pretty hot seventeen,’ commented Babs, who was on her way out and heading for the stairs.

  ‘Only seventeen,’ I repeated, ignoring Babs, ‘and not terribly sophisticated in the – you know. The ways of the world.’

  Janey frowned. ‘Oh no, I disagree. He’s a terrific kisser.’

  I gaped at her like a goldfish.

  She grinned back at me. ‘Don’t gawp at me like that, he is. But that’s all he is, as far as I know. God, Flora, we went to a beach party, then on into town. I’m so up to here with seventy-year-old civilized chit-chat around the table and the uptight British reserve. We found a club, for God’s sake. Yeah, your son’s got a crush, and yeah, we had a dance, and a kiss, but no, I did not shag him.’

  I breathed heavily into her amused, dancing eyes. I was ridiculously relieved. ‘Right. Well. I mean, obviously I wasn’t asking that—’

  ‘Obviously you were. And you even got Tommy to quiz me. And obviously So What If I Had springs to mind. Jeez, you’ve gotta lay off, Flora, if you don’t mind me saying so. Cut those apron strings.’ She made a snip in the air with her fingers. Her eyes still danced at me as Babs’ would have. Another similarity between them occurred.

  ‘You’re not a mother,’ I told her. ‘You can’t possibly understand.’

  ‘No, but I’m a person. And that makes me a much better objective critic. And trust me, Flora, you’re a great mom, but you’re too on it. Too watchful. Even at supper, wherever, your eyes are on him. Just let go.’

  I stared at her, ready to deny
it, but then I hung my head. It had been on my list. At the café. With Ted. Stop pretending to be a relaxed mother. Be one. I looked up. Wanted very much to tell her it was hard, almost impossible in my situation, as a single mother, with an only child, but I found I couldn’t speak.

  ‘And don’t beat yourself up about it, either,’ she added, more kindly. ‘I told you, you’re a great mom, and he’s a great kid because of it. And despite the rest of his totally weird, fucked-up family. You’ve done a good job, but just let go from here on in. Let him think about America.’ She sipped her drink. ‘It’s not such a bad place, you know.’ She grinned. ‘And we’re not such a bad lot.’

  A loud throat-clearing noise could be heard from the front of the room. We glanced up. Belinda had caught us chatting, which wasn’t in the script at all. She wanted total silence for the final prize of the day, the Admiral’s Cup. We turned our backs on the whole show and leaned over the balcony out to sea.

  ‘You think they’re weird and fucked up?’ I whispered.

  ‘Totally bonkers, don’t you? I mean – where’s the daughter? Etta? Why is she never mentioned? And why is that guy,’ she jerked her head back at Hugo, ‘your ex-husband, totally welded to his mom’s side? What’s with the silent Iris? Who refuses to join in, and is like some Greek chorus, some all-seeing, all-knowing sage, and who I rate, incidentally, but who baffles the hell out of me. And the adorable Roger, who’s escaped, but only so far, and only into Babs’ arms, not her life. He still has to exist in this madhouse. And the sad, inscrutable and fading-into-the-background-by-the-day Christina, also baffling, because I ask myself, what’s in it for her? And then at the top of the tree, at the top of this crazy, bulb-busting Christmas tree, the weirdest, maddest, loony woman herself, Belinda fucking Bellingdon. Fat controller extraordinaire, puppeteer woman, pulling every string, who is now telling her son she misses London – where I gather she’s never lived – and is thinking of buying a little place up there.’