The Cornish Affair (12 page)

Chapter Twelve

As we sat down for supper that night, Harry announced that perfect as the dolphins had been, he had to be getting back. He and Nancy were leaving in the morning, for an excursion of theatre going, museum browsing, art shopping and book worming.

This
left
me
alone with Oliver.

I
gave Harry the benefit of a sideways glance from narrowed eyes, which he wisely chose to ignore.

“Anyway,
you and Oliver will get lots of work done, whilst we are away, and then we can all meet up in London for your shopping extravaganza,” Harry blithely said, ignoring my wild look of pleading
not
to be left here alone with the TV chef.

There
followed a lot of very tedious chat indeed about train times, car journeys and where Nancy was going to stay in London. Harry wanted her company at home, she wanted to go to her club.

Nancy
poured some more wine in her glass and said, “Oh do stop fussing Harry, you know I adore being at the club, it makes me feel so young!”

I
laughed, and thought of the last time I had been there. She was quite right, the combined age of all the members must be well over a thousand years old. It was a leftover anachronism from the 1930’s, and had probably been founded by some suffragettes, all the women were stout and sensible creatures, with discreet pearls and felt hats. They came up from some country pile for a day’s shopping in town, and they liked nothing better than a pink gin and lamb cutlets in the evening, when they would then compare corns and bunions with each other. Amongst the respectable ladies Nancy cut a swathe of glamour and eccentricity. They
loved
her there.

“But
they never let me in!” wailed Harry.

“That’s
the whole point, as I’ve told you before. No men. Wonderful idea, I might retire there,” Nancy said, sipping her wine.

There
was a general shout of laughter from around the table. The idea of Nancy not being able to flirt with anyone was inconceivable.

“Well
then, Fin,
you’ll
stay with me when you come to London, won’t you?” Harry said, turning towards me.

“Love
to,” I said promptly.

It
was always a huge pleasure staying with Harry in his supremely comfortable, built for one (and the very occasional guest) purpose built flat. It was a place that oozed comfort, with acres of warm fresh towels in the fragrant bathroom, and had every magazine you could wish for. It was a bit like a very upmarket nursing home, complete with floral arrangements that were changed every few days by the lady that does.

“Well,
that’s settled, then. Now then Fin, promise me you won’t go shopping with Martha, will you? You’ll end up looking like a Tudor queen,” Harry said, topping up his glass and my own.

I
knew what he meant, Martha had extreme views on clothes, and usually pulled it off as she was a tall, angular creature, with the sort of posture that a Spanish Infanta would have envied.

“Martha
Miller, is undoubtedly one of the best food historians in England, and quite sexy, too, in a strangely compelling way, but a party frock buyer, she ain’t.” Oliver agreed, stretching across the table for the wine.

So,
he thought Martha sexy, did he?

“She
thinks you are, too,” I replied.

Oliver
gave a broad grin, and looked like the cat who’d swallowed the cream.

“Let’s
not forget the local girl, Miranda, shall we?” Harry said teasingly to him.

Oliver
gave another face stretching grin, and shrugged, “Can I help it if I am irresistible to women?” he said.

Don’t
be too sure of
that
, mate, I thought, reaching for another fig from the bowl in the centre of the table. As I picked it up, I then thought of all those dreadful analogies that that particular fruit had, (always written by men, I hasten to add, peculiar men at that, like DH Lawrence –) and dropped it back into the bowl. I really didn’t want to sit through any chat from Harry, Oliver or Nancy about the sexual significance of eating a bloody fig. Yeah, sure they were ripe and sensual to eat, but that really was
it
. It was only a fruit. Sometimes Sigmund, a cigar is just a cigar.

“Don’t
you have a, umm, well a
girlfriend
Oliver?” Nancy asked, choosing her words with care. I could tell that she was dying to say lover, or partner, or even wife.

Oliver
laughed, “Oh, you know, none that really counts,” he said easily.

“Why
not?” Nancy pursued curiously.

I
smiled to myself. Nancy had once told me that one of the benefits of reaching seventy was that you could interrogate people till they squirm with no embarrassment.

Harry
laughed, and answered for him, “Oh Oliver likes to play the field, don’t you?”

Oliver
shrugged and changed the subject skilfully enough for us not to notice.

“Tell
me more about the dolphins,” he said, turning towards me.

“Oh,
well, the house is called after them, has been for centuries. They’re not a new thing here at all, but they disappear from time to time, and when they return – well, it’s a huge cause for celebration.”

I
leant my elbows on the table, and fiddled with my wine glass. “History has it that they once saved a drowning man, just off the coast here. They kept pushing him to the surface, and nudging him towards the beach, he was so grateful that he built this house, hence the name.”

“Do
you think it’s true?” Oliver asked seriously.

I
considered. “I like to
think
it’s true, it’s probably one of those misty legends that abound down here, but it could well have happened. Dolphins have been recorded saving humans from the briny.”

There
followed a general discussion about dolphins, most of it complete nonsense as none of us were marine biologists and the scant information we had was made up from half watched documentaries featuring David Attenborough, or half read articles from the National Geographic in periods of intense stress waiting in dentists surgeries.

I
stood up and began to clear the table, Oliver helped me, leaving Nancy and Harry with a bottle of wine between them and an intense discussion going on about an article Nancy had seen years ago in the News of the World about a man who’d been arrested for having had sex with a dolphin.

As
I left the room with a stack of plates, I heard Nancy say in a plaintive voice, “Well, I don’t care
what
you say Harry, it seems utterly improbable to me…”

As
I scraped the plates in the kitchen, I realised that I was automatically saving scraps for Baxter. I ended up putting all the scraps in the bin, and thinking what a waste it was. Perhaps I should keep pigs, like they all did during the war, and then nothing would go to waste.

Oliver
had rolled his sleeves up and was tackling the washing up in a no nonsense way.

“First
proper job I ever had, apart from my dad’s pub,” he said, “I started at five in the evening and finished when the very last pot was done, usually about three in the morning. The restaurant was called Ma Cuisine, run by two very excitable Frenchmen. God, it was hard work! I had hands like two steamed hams by the end of a shift and foot ache like you wouldn’t believe. Worst job in the restaurant business. Still, I learnt a lot about food there… I got promoted, if you can call it that, after a while, they then had me scrubbing mussels, and after that it was peeling potatoes…
again
.”

I
picked up a tea towel and started to dry up, trying very hard not to be annoyed that I was doing the drying. I much preferred washing, which, before you say anything, I
know
is very petty and small minded of me.

“I
had a knife thrown at me once in a kitchen… chefs are very temperamental creatures. They’re usually drunk, or stoned. They work in an environment akin to hell, the pressure is unbearable, and the hours are anti-social… no wonder we all go mad!”

“Or
end up on TV?” I said cheekily, throwing cutlery into a drawer.

“Touché,”
Oliver grinned at me.

He
continued to wash up, doing, I noticed, a very professional job. You know, glasses first,
then
silverware,
then
plates,
then
saucepans. He was even scouring the bits on the
outside
of the pans, which I didn’t have the heart to tell him had been there for years, and weren’t likely to come off in a hurry.

“The
copper’s going on this,” he said, looking intently at a small sauté pan that was being given a seeing to by him in the sink. “I can send you a new one, if you like. I have quite a few new ones and-”

“No,
no thanks,” I said hastily.

I
was
attached
to that particular pan. It had been my grandmothers and I remember her cleaning it with a lemon and some salt. I’d cooked the first mushrooms I’d ever picked in it. The handle was so worn away with use that it fitted perfectly into the contours of my hand. I could, if pushed, given you the history of every damn spoon and pan in my kitchen. Absurd, isn’t it?

Oliver
smiled at me, “No? Well, don’t worry I get like that over bits and bobs too. Crazy, huh?”

I
nodded, and smiled at him gratefully. It was quite nice to meet another person who sentimentalised
things
. There was probably a word for it, and more than likely a support group somewhere, where people sat round agonising over the rusty colander that they couldn’t bear to throw away. Because it had been given to them by their mum, and they’d used it with great joy to strain the potatoes for the first Christmas dinner they’d ever made for their loving husband, the year
before
he’d walked out on them with his sultry brunette secretary… Oh, you get the picture.

“Tell
me more about the TV show,” I said, propping dry dinner plates back up on the dresser.

“Well,
it’s a funny thing TV. One day your face fits, and the next day it doesn’t. Unless you’re Delia, of course! My problem is, I don’t really have a gimmick, you know, I’m not a boozy Australian, or a ravishing temptress. I don’t drive around Europe in a camper van cooking up local produce in a cleverly contrived picnic at the side of a road. I don’t have long hair and a foul mouthed attitude, nor do I sing, juggle or tap dance. The only thing I’ve got, I suppose, is that I do care about food. I really do. Maybe that comes across, well I hope it does.”

He
looked questioningly at me and I had to confess that I’d never seen his show due to the impossibility of the TV reception at Penmorah.

He
laughed, throwing his head back, shoulders shaking.

I
have to admit, I was quite impressed. Any other so called ‘TV Personality’ usually took themselves so bloody seriously that it made me cringe. Oliver
seemed
to be different.

“Of
course, the doing stuff to camera on the show takes a bit of concentration. But once you get the hang of it, it’s OK. These ads, though, well, they’re a pain the arse, let me tell you. Anyone would think we were making a Steven Spielberg epic – it’s a nightmare! I even have my own make-up artist, can you imagine?” he laughed again at the absurdity of it all.

He’d
finished the dishes now, and was swabbing down the range and the table. I stifled the desire to tell him that I usually did that once a week, but I was too tired.

I
gave a huge yawn and stretched my arms in front of me, “I’m off to bed, goodnight Oliver.”

Oliver
walked purposefully towards me and kissed me, quite firmly on the mouth, and then stepped back and wished me sweet dreams. It felt as though I’d been stung, I clapped my hand to my mouth and stared at his departing back view as he strode up the hallway. A goodnight kiss, what was
that
all about? I told myself it was nothing, a goodnight peck that was all. Why was I even thinking about it?

I
drifted up the hallway after him, and put my head round the dining room door to say goodnight to Harry and Nancy. They glanced up at me, Nancy’s silver hair shining in the light of the candles, Harry looking very debonair with a glass of port halfway to his lips. They had spread a pack of tarot cards in front of them and they looked like two character actors from a Peter Greenway film, all they needed was a dagger on the table to complete the picture.

“Telling
Harry’s future, then Nance?” I said, leaning against the door.