The Cornish Affair (11 page)

I
nodded. I was tired, and Jace was nowhere to be seen. I suppose I could have asked Will or Richard where he was, and neither of them would have thought it was odd, but I felt a restraint. I didn’t want to.

I
saw that Harry and Oliver were in a huddle of Port Charlesers and fisherfolk at the bar and still had untouched drinks lined up in front of them. Miranda was gazing up adoringly at Oliver, hanging on his every word, much to the disgust of Doris, who was slowly but surely elbowing her out of the way.

“Shall
we leave them here?” I said to Nancy, bending down to rub Baxter’s ears in a farewell stroke.

“I
think they’re old enough to find their way home,” Nancy laughed, “Although with men you can never tell…”

We
waved our goodbyes, and I pushed my way over to Harry and Oliver to tell them to let themselves in through the kitchen, and handed Harry the key. This was fairly common when Harry stayed, usually Sam provided a lock in, and Harry would meander home in a tipsy stupor through the lane, pulling up weeds and flowers to make a straggly bouquet that he would stuff into a jug and leave on the kitchen table for us to find in the morning.

Kev
the Beard gave me a bear hug as I left, nearly crushing my ribs, and promised that he would send up a sea bass to Penmorah in the morning, and Sam enveloped Nancy in a courtly kiss goodnight before we reached the door.

Nancy
and I took great gulps of soft, clean air when we were outside, and soon The Ram was just soft lights and a muted roar of voices behind us. The village was very silent the further we got from the pub, it seemed that there was no-one abroad other than the revellers that we’d left behind.

“I
love it when it’s like this,” Nancy exclaimed, companionably tucking her arm through mine, “It looks like an old smuggling village from a Hollywood B movie, doesn’t it?”

I
knew exactly what she meant. All it needed was a few men lurking furtively in the shadows, rolling barrels of brandy to a safe house and horses with muffled hooves to complete the picture.

The
air was still and the moon was bright. Nancy started to hum a song under her breath as we turned into the steeply banked lane that led home. I had a waft of early honeysuckle from the hedgerow and saw that the dog roses had closed for the night, looking like luminous pearls in the moonlight. An owl flew above our heads on silent wings looking for an early evening snack of a vole of field mouse. We stopped to watch its shadowy outline swoop across the fields. I felt Nancy’s arm squeeze mine slightly.

“Nancy,
“I said impulsively, “Do you ever want to leave Penmorah? I mean, do you stay here because of me, I –“

“Fin,
don’t be silly darling! When it’s time to go, it will be time to go. Now then, why are you having this party and tell me who we are going to invite?” Nancy’s voice was warm and untroubled in my ears. Instead of listening to what she didn’t say, I chose to just hear the words that she spoke.

I
tumbled out a jumble of reasons for holding the party, blessing Nancy that she alone, who had been to nearly every Penmorah party that I could remember, would understand.

“You
know darling, that some of these people that you have such fond memories of may well be too old, or ill, or even not amongst us any more, to RSVP,” Nancy said.

“I
hope you’re not pouring cold water over my lovely idea!” I said, panting slightly as we made our way up the steep part of the lane.

“No,
not at all, I just don’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all. What are you going to wear?” Nancy said, panting not at all. Maybe I should take up breathing through one nostril if this was the result that yoga had, I decided.

“I’m
going to buy a new dress, no, I’m going to buy us both new dresses!” I said expansively, “We’ll go to London and get Harry to come shopping with us, we’ll have the full works, facials, hairdressers, make-up, shoes, the lot! What do you say?”

I
heard Nancy chuckle. “Well, I don’t know what’s got into you Fin, but whatever it is you should do it more often. What a wonderful plan, do you think I could get away with a turban? I’ve always rather fancied one you know, with a peacock feather pinned on to it with a large diamond brooch!”

“If
Bond Street, or wherever it is that they sell posh clothes now, sells them then we’ll buy one, is there anything else that tickles my lady’s pleasure?” I said grandly, thinking that Nancy would probably find one, and then I’d have to buy it. And she’d wear it. I smiled to myself in the darkness and tightened the grip on her arm, blessing the fact that I had such a wonderful aunt.

“Well,
you know, I have seen some wonderful silk harem pants in Vogue that I wouldn’t mind trying on…”

Chapter Eleven

I sleepily kissed Nancy goodnight once we were inside and made my way to bed, missing Baxter’s small comforting company.

“Are
you sure you don’t want any tea?” Nancy called from the kitchen.

I
stopped at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the scratched, old mahogany banister, “No thanks, I’m going straight to bed. I bet Oliver wants to crack on first thing in the morning, that is of course if Harry ever gets him home,” I gave a jaw breaking yawn and started to climb the stairs.

I
had never been scared at Penmorah. The house certainly had its very own presence, almost a personality if you like, without being fanciful. After all, who knows what goes on in old buildings? Maybe past owners leave echoes of thoughts and desires like so many layers of old wallpaper, leaving the new owners with a fleeting feeling of never being quite alone.

I
pushed open the door to my bedroom and flicked the light on. I was tussling with myself about whether to cleanse my face à la all the beauty tips tell you to. Cleanse, moisturise, tone, eye cream, and night cream. I decided it was justifiable to simply drag a wet flannel over my face, clean my teeth and collapse into bed.

The
following morning was overcast and windy. I hurriedly got dressed, pulling on a grey hooded top and making a quick attempt at some semblance of make-up.

I
could tell that Harry and Oliver had arrived late last night, all the signs were in the kitchen. The remnants of two bacon sandwiches, the frying pan neatly washed up, the bottle of HP sauce still out on the table, and a pot of cold tea with two mugs were all the evidence needed. Harry’s jacket was slung over the back of a chair, with a sprig of greenery drooping in it, made the kitchen look like stage set.

Act
One: Return from the pub.

Act
Two: The hangover.

I
thought I’d be generous and make them a healthy smoothie for breakfast. I emptied the last of the good natural yoghurt from Will into the blender along with some fresh blueberries, some frozen raspberries a banana and some orange juice. I dribbled in some heather honey and whizzed the whole lot up.

Normally
the hideous noise of the blender made Nelson screech with annoyance, but the kitchen was unnaturally silent. I switched on the radio to mask the absence of sound, and then jumped out of my skin when there was a knock on the kitchen door, and the door swung open.

It
was Oliver. He looked as though he’d been up for ages, and had gone for a morning constitutional. He looked quite revoltingly healthy and hearty, he obviously wasn’t suffering from the effects of the Cherrywood Devil at all. He swigged the smoothie down in one go, and asked if he could cook some breakfast as he was hungry.

“Be
my guest,” I said, gesturing towards the fridge.

“I
picked these,” Oliver said, holding out a handful of flat dark wood mushrooms, “Would you like some on toast?”

“No,
no thanks, they’re so disappointingly small aren’t they? Once they’re cooked, there’s only enough for one really,” I said, making some tea.

“I
wouldn’t mind sharing,” Oliver said, throwing a lump of butter into a pan, and deftly slicing up the mushrooms.

There
was a small silence between us. Probably only noticed by me.

“It’s
been years since I picked mushrooms, growing up in Wandsworth you don’t get many, although I did when we moved to Kent. Kent was the third pub my parents ran. It was great, I learnt all about what was poisonous or not from the guy who lived there,” Oliver said, helping himself to a mug of tea.

“How
many pubs did your parents have?” I asked curiously.

“Quite
a few,” Oliver said cheerfully, “Though now they’re retired. It’s a funny life growing up behind a bar – very handy mind you when it came to impressing the girls, I can tell you.”

“Oh.”

“And of course, it’s where I first got interested in cooking. I used to help in the pub kitchens. Sunday lunches for two hundred, that’s an awful of potatoes to peel… let’s just say I would have longed for a place like this when I was a kid. You must have loved growing up here,” he said, piling the golden mushrooms on some toast. They did smell wonderful, and my mouth watered.

“Yes,
yes, I loved it.” I said.

I
watched him cut his toast in half, and he pushed one of the portions towards me. “Go on,” he said teasingly. “You know you want to.”

I
laughed, “You’re quite right. Thank you.”

We
had breakfast in a comfortable sort of silence, with a bit of idle chatter about the merits of chantrelles versus puffballs in a risotto.

He
swigged the last of his tea, and tore a piece of bread to mop up the juices in the pan, and laughed.

“What’s
so funny?” I asked.

“I
think you’re the only woman I’ve ever met who can talk about risotto at breakfast without making a face, is that natural greed about food or just professionalism?”

“Both,”
I said shortly. Aware that what I’d just said was sadly true. I loved my food, and would often find myself planning the next meal whilst eating the first.

I
heard Nancy whistling a snatch of Mozart as she came down the corridor into the kitchen.

“Harry
still not up? I’ll take him some tea,” she offered, bustling around in her kimono.

The
day drifted inexorably onwards as days do.

Lunch
was had, work was done and plans were made. The phone rang, and the door opened and closed with visitors to Penmorah, but not one of them was a young man of exotic good looks.

Oliver
and I had finally cracked the roast onions, thanks to a hard afternoons work, and were writing up the recipe, arguing over oven temperatures and timings, and when it was finished, I excused myself and went into the office. I had a real need for some time alone, and although Oliver had been kindly, and had made me laugh, I needed my own company for a while. I thought that I’d make up some party invitations on the computer, and post them all off, as well as phoning up all and sundry to give them the party date.

Nancy
offered to take Harry and Oliver up on the cliff to do a dolphin watch. It was blissful to be by myself.

Admittedly,
my rather grand plans at invitations didn’t come together. I was woefully ignorant of my computer and really needed Nancy there to make sense of it for me. What the hell is a wizard anyway? I clicked and double clicked, lost my temper and ended up with something set off centre in a suitably hideous typeface called Space Toaster. Oh well, I picked up the phone and leafed through the family address book.

The
very first call was not a great success.

“Hello,
this is Fin, Finisterre Spencer here at Penmorah over at Port Charles and I’m having a party the week after next and I’d love it if you could –“

“The
last time I went to a party at Penmorah, I lost my shoes, my ruby and pearl necklace and my husband, so I do hope you won’t be offended if I say I shall be busy that night washing my hair,” came a wryly amused, though I have to say, slightly bitter sounding female voice.

“No,
no of course not, I umm, well, I’m sorry…” I mumbled into what was obviously a dead phone.

I
shrugged and crossed that one off my list, and undeterred, dialled the next number. No reply, and no answer phone either.

The
next one went a little better.

“Finisterre
Spencer? Good god! You must be fifty by now!” A male voice boomed in my ear, making me wince. I held the phone a little way away from me, and continued to talk.

“Umm,
no not quite, but I’m having a party and-”

“Is
Nancy still with you?”

“Yes,
she is, and would love it if you could come to the party-”

“Christ
almighty, she must be ninety by now!”

“No,
not at all. Anyway, we’d love it if you-”

“No
can do my dear, no can do! I only like being with young things nowadays, you all sound far too old for me!”

I
slammed the phone down. “Nasty old sod,” I muttered.

Maybe
Nancy was right, perhaps all the people had drifted away.

I
had a sudden brain wave. I called the arts club in Penzance and explained the situation, a charming woman was very sympathetic and promised to put up a notice in the bar there, so I invited her, too. She said that all the writers would be drifting in around early evening; she’d make sure they got the invite.

My
next call was to the art workshop at the Tate modern. The man there sounded very nice, and was suitably enthusiastic about a party to celebrate the return of the dolphins, he promised to round up all the arty lot, and bring himself along, as well.

This
was more like it.

I
called a few more bars, a theatre, a couple of antique shops, a hotel, and two pubs. That should cover it.

Now
there was only Port Charles and London to do. That was the easy part, most of the village knew about the party anyway. I decided to call Martha, she was excited about the party, and about Nancy and I coming up to London for a bit of retail therapy.

“Yes,
what a good idea, we’ll have you wearing a super party dress in no time,” she said excitedly.

“Martha,
coming from someone whose idea of modern dressing starts with Queen Victoria, I am slightly worried about your idea of a super party dress – anyway, Nancy’s after a pair of silk harem pants, so you see, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

I
heard Martha gurgle with laughter, and the rest of the conversation was taken up with names of shops, and plans for extravagant haircuts.