The Cornish Affair (13 page)

“Hmm,
and very interesting it is too, darling. Off to bed?” Nancy said, turning another card over.

I
nodded sleepily and kissed them both good night. On the cheek, I hasten to add.

“Oh
Nancy, I don’t like the look of that one!” Harry said in alarm, pointing at the rather lurid picture on the card.

“Nonsense,
it’s a very lucky card to have, the tower of destruction, all it means is change-”

“I’ll
leave you to it, “I said hastily, knowing that Nancy and Harry could keep this up for hours. “See you in the morning, what time train are you both catching? I’ll drive you to the station.”

“We’re
getting the eleven ten, oh, Harry look at the next one, the King of Cups, now that really is lucky, all that lovely money coming to you from somewhere…”

I
closed the door on them and headed up the stairs. Nancy loved her cards, in any shape of form, but she was far too kindly to say anything terrible to anyone when she read the tarot, and I had noticed that she said the same things to all and sundry when the cards revealed themselves. Harry lapped it up, he was an absolute sucker for any palm reader, or fortune teller around. They must make a fortune from him. He even read his astrology page with an almost religious fervour.

I
lay in bed thinking about the kiss that Oliver had given me. I found that thoughts of the apparently elusive Jace crowded my mind. I prayed that he wasn’t ignoring me, that would make things very awkward. I wasn’t good at dealing with uncomfortable situations. I tended to brace myself for a confrontation (which I inwardly dreaded) or attempted the jokey approach, with mixed confidence that never quite came off.

Tired
as I was, sleep did not come easily. I heard the wind increase outside, and the sound of the sea crashing over the rocks at the foot of the cliff. This was meant to be soporific, I know. I think that you can even buy tapes of it to play to yourself to relax, but somehow it had the opposite effect on me.

I
wondered what the dolphins did in bad weather. Maybe they all gathered together for safety, or maybe they treated the rough water as their own personal Jacuzzi and took it in turns to play in the foam. What did I know? Perhaps I’d go on the internet tomorrow and find out about the sleeping habits of dolphins. Did they even sleep? They must do, I decided, they were mammals, weren’t they? And all mammals sleep. I think.

The
wind was shaking the windows out of their frames, and the boom of the breakers was loud in my bedroom. I flicked on the radio by the side of my bed to mask the noise.

The
shipping forecast was on, and as usual I mourned not hearing my name being read aloud by the mellifluous voice. I learnt by rote all the wonderful names when I was a teenager. I could still quote them now.

Do
names shape you I wonder? Perhaps I would be very different indeed if I had been given the name of Mary, or Anne. What would I have been like if I’d been christened Suki or Britney?

My
parents had told me the story of my christening party often, how they were all trapped in the local church (now an art gallery on the outside of the village) for hours due to the torrential rain. All the gathered great and good had started a party inside the church, placing me inside a very handy cardboard box for safety. The organ had been played by a friend of my mothers, and the church had echoed to the unaccustomed sounds of boogie woogie belting out. The vicar had danced with Nancy up and down the aisle, and my father had organised a game of charades in the vestry.

When
the rain stopped they had all piled into cars and driven through the rain soaked countryside to Penmorah, dragging the vicar with them and only then was it discovered that I had been left behind in the box, at the foot of the pulpit. My mother had shrieked in consternation and swooned (very luckily at the feet of an artist from St Ives who was immediately smitten by her maternal devotion. Or lack of it). I was rescued by Nancy and my father in a mercy dash in the car. I was, by all accounts, gurgling quite happily to myself and none the worse for being temporarily abandoned.

The
radio was now whispering to me a tale of adventure in the outer regions of Mongolia. I tried to concentrate on that rather than the rain smacking onto the panes of window glass. It was a restless noise.

Chapter
Thirteen

Harry was one of those irritatingly punctual travellers. Nancy gave the impression that she still dwelt in the days of phoning the local station and asking the manager to hold the 11.15 for ten minutes or so as she had mislaid her pigskin gloves.

I
could see that Harry was getting more and more anxious, and was chivvying Nancy around like an over eager sheepdog.

“Nancy,
darling, do buck up, we’re cutting it
very
fine, we simply must catch the train… Fin, is the car outside? Oliver, perhaps you could carry out Nancy’s case. Nancy, come on, do!”

I
took pity on him, and guided Nancy out of the door.

Once
we were settled in the car, and had established that Nancy hadn’t left her purse behind, and had told me for the twentieth time that morning that she had hidden her pink suede jewellery roll in the freezer, and I wasn’t to mistake it for bacon, and she
thought
that she’d closed her bedroom window, but wasn’t absolutely sure, and would I check it, we were off to the station.

I
started the car and pulled round the curving gravel drive, only to slam the brakes on,
hard
.

We
all jolted to a stop, and I found myself staring eyeball to eyeball with Jace, who had appeared round the corner in his van like Mr Toad.

He
had been going faster than I had, but even so, I could smell burning rubber from underneath my feet. I could see that Jace was mouthing ‘sorry’ at me, and after checking that Nancy, who was sitting in the front, was OK, I reversed to let him pass. Oliver and Harry had been jolted forwards from the back seat. Harry was complaining bitterly of whiplash, which stopped immediately he saw who had caused the near accident.

I
rolled my window down as I drew level with Jace, “My God, that was scary! I can’t stop, I’m taking Nancy and Harry to the station, see you later.” I gave him a reassuring smile and drove off, delighted to have seen him, but cursing the circumstances. My heart was racing and I didn’t know whether it was to do with the near collision or seeing Jace again.

Oliver
carried Nancy’s bag to the London platform, and I hugged her goodbye, making sure that she’d got her ticket.

“Really,
Fin, anyone would think I’m off on an arctic expedition, I’ll see you in a week or so. I’ll book the hairdressers and everything, so don’t worry. Have fun whilst I’m away!” she said, with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“Oh,
Oliver’ll keep her nose firmly to the grindstone, won’t you?” Harry said, pecking me on the cheek, and shaking Oliver’s hand all at the same time. “Fin, I’ll call you up now and again to check what sort of weather you’re having,” Harry added, looking distractedly around his feet at the growing amount of bags that Nancy travelled with.

I
leant forward and said in a low voice to him, “Well, without you and Nancy here it’ll be strictly carrot and coriander.”

Harry
laughed, knowing it was one of my least favourite soups.

The
yellow snout of the train was visible down the line, and we all gathered ourselves together. Nancy and Harry clambered aboard, and we waved them off.

As
we made our way back to the car, I had to shake off a ridiculous feeling that I was never going to see them both again. Yes, I know, I told you it was ridiculous, it’s something to do with stations, I don’t know why. Perhaps in a past life I was a nurse in the First World War and waving the wounded away in stations now makes me feel gloomy. Not that Harry or Nancy were injured in any way, but, still –

“Sorry,
what?” I said, faintly aware that Oliver had been asking me something.

“Are
you alright?”

“Yes,
fine. It’s something to do with stations, I can’t explain,” I said weakly.

We
drove in silence for a while, Oliver admiring the effect of the overblown early summer hedgerows.

“Do
you want to stop at The Ram and consolidate with Baxter?” he asked.

I
considered. “No, we’ll get embroiled in Port Charlesers, and I hate drinking at lunchtime, it gives me a headache and makes me feel sleepy,” I said primly.

There
was another silence for while.

“I
know! We’ll have a picnic… that’s the only cure for someone who gets emotional at saying farewell to relatives and friends who are travelling to London in high spirits about to pig out on being culture vultures, if that metaphor isn’t too mixed,” Oliver said, looking rather pleased with himself.

“I
am not emotional,” I protested.

“Ha!”

“Ha, yourself,” I said rather childishly.

Still…
a picnic would be nice. It was perfect picnic weather, not too hot, and a gentle breeze blowing, moving the newly clad green leaves in a gentle wave. My mind ran through what was in the fridge that was suitable for a picnic. Was Oliver the traditional retro sort, who wanted hard boiled eggs and a damp bunch of water cress wrapped in a tea towel, or the trendy spiced aubergines in a warm pitta bread type? Oh. Aubergines.
Aubergines
. Jace. Perhaps he was waiting for me at home? I saw that Jace had given a quick half wave of recognition to Harry in the back of the car earlier, and a quick glance of interest at Oliver. I put my foot on the accelerator, willing the car forward, to hurry back home.

“Getting
hungry?” Oliver enquired sarcastically as I took a corner a little too quickly.

“Ravenous,”
I replied happily, ignoring him.

As
we reached the lane to Penmorah, I slowed down, not wanting a repeat performance of earlier on. I saw that Jace’s van was still there, and sure enough, he was sitting on the garden bench smoking a joint. I felt self conscious as I parked the car and got out, walking towards him. After all, the last time I saw him I had my bare bottom slapped by him. I had every bloody reason you could think of to be slightly self aware. I heard Oliver slam his car door, and walk beside me to where Jace sat, looking remarkably beautiful, like a sleek black cat sunning itself.

I
made perfunctory introductions.

Oliver
held out his hand, which, I noticed, in comparison to Jace’s slim bones was twice the size, and
hairy
.

I
found my eyes irresistibly drawn to Jace. He gave me a lazy smile, and like a fool I could feel myself becoming about fourteen as I scuffed the ground with my shoe.

“Been
over Newquay, got a bit too stoned to come back,” Jace offered up the information like a pearl diver, proudly, but modestly displaying his catch.

“Oh,
yes I see. Well, we wondered where you were last night in the pub,” I blurted out.

Fool,
fool,
fool
. I silently admonished myself.

Jace
gave another smile. It crossed my mind that he was either very stoned still or he was practicing being enigmatic. He casually offered his joint to Oliver.

Oliver
shook his head, “No. No thanks, I don’t. You must be the fruit and veg man that I’ve heard so much about?”

I
glanced sharply at him, what the hell did he mean, heard so much about? From who? Certainly not from me. I gave Jace an agonised look, trying to convey that I had said nothing about him at all.

“Tea?”
I said, “How about a cup of tea?”

Jace
shook his head, “Nah, gotta get over to Bodmin, for me deliveries. Goin’ to The Ram tonight?”

I
opened my mouth to speak, but Oliver got there first.

“Shouldn’t
think so. I don’t think I can handle any more cherrywood devil,” he said pleasantly.

“Proper
killer, innit?” Jace grinned, stretching his arms above his head, getting up from the bench in one fluid movement and giving a yawn. “I’ll call you later
Miz Fin
,” he said, giving a heavy touch to the last two words.

I
felt, rather than heard Oliver hovering behind me. His presence any where just seemed to take up so much bloody room. I said goodbye to Jace, receiving from him in return a beatific grin, and watched his van disappear down the drive.

Well,
at least I’d seen him, and there was no feeling of awkwardness between us. On his part. I was too confused to think about it properly. I felt relieved that I’d at least seen him. Other than that I didn’t want to dwell on.

Oliver
busied himself in the kitchen, throwing cheese and bread into a picnic basket that I’d unearthed. I was amused to see that he was definitely not the trendy spiced aubergine sort at all. In fact, it looked as if we were going to have a glorified Ploughman’s Lunch. Perhaps he’d like some cider to go with it? Or mead, or some other god awful rustic drink?

“Are
you really going to stick to your non drinking rule at lunch time, because if you are I’ll put in some cranberry juice, if not there’s rather a good bottle of sauvignon in here,” Oliver said, the top half of his body buried in the fridge.

“No,
really, cranberry is fine for me, but do take the wine if you’d like some,” I said politely.

He
laughed. “No, I think my liver will thank me for the cranberry – it’s a bit of an occupational hazard, over indulging, isn’t it?”

“I
don’t know. I mean, I don’t run a restaurant, or have a TV show or hang out in London bars with the media, do I?” I said tartly. “So I don’t pour bottles of bubbly down my neck at every opportunity…” I trailed off, hearing the rudeness in my voice and suddenly aware that my first encounter with Oliver in the library here I had certainly been decidedly the worse for wear.

Oliver
looked in surprise at me.

“Sorry,
I didn’t mean to be rude,” I said.

He
shrugged, “That’s OK, are you ready?”

I
nodded and we left the house.

“Where
would you like to go?” I asked, heading back towards the car, avoiding looking at him, wishing that we didn’t have to go on this stupid picnic.

“Any
suggestions?” Oliver said.

I
sighed. I didn’t want to go to the woods with him, I had a very immature feeling of proprietary over them and wasn’t ready to share them with him. The moors? Too windy…

“I
know, we’ll go to Fistral beach, it’s where all the surfers go, it’ll be breezy, but then that’s the point for surfers, isn’t it?” I said. At least we’d have something to look at if the conversation ran out.

We
drove the short distance there, Oliver admiringly pointing out the local charms to me, as if I didn’t know. I mean, I’ve only lived here all my life.

“Look
at that granite stone… do you think there’s any truth in all that lay line business, that’s connected to the stones, isn’t it? Hey, look, a field of asparagus, let’s stop and buy some. Oh, is that a falcon, hovering above? Over there, above the hill… Are we going to drive in complete silence, or have I done something to upset you?” Oliver said.

“What?
No, sorry, I was miles away… We’re here now.” I said, parking in one of those peculiarly English car parks that have a hideous brick building in them which denotes the availability of the euphemistically named ‘facilities’. Pay and display units peppered the place like small aliens, along with the obligatory hot dog van, giving off the smell of fried onions. It was, I have to admit, quite dismal. I mean, obviously the beach was great and the sea was there, crashing away at the land. But it was strewn with groups of kids, most of whom looked like they were auditioning for Baywatch. The light was harsh and bright, and I couldn’t think why I had come here.

Oliver
was immune to all of this.

“Great
view!” he beamed at me, unloading the basket from the back of the car.

“Umm,”
I said weakly, feeling a party pooper.

We
walked down the beach, passing groups of wet suit clad bodies carrying surf boards. Oliver spotted what he thought was a suitable place to spread a blanket, a dip in the sand, flanked by a group of hippies with a guitar on one side and a family with two small children which I viewed with a certain distrust, on the other.

Oliver
was impervious though, happily stretching out on the sand, and glorying in the crush of humanity on the beach. I tried to join in the general holiday feeling that he evidently had, but with little success.

“God,
you’re lucky to live here,” he said, reaching out to pour himself some fruit juice.

“Umm,”
I replied, trying to remember the last time I’d been here. Years ago, I think, maybe with Martha, who had wanted to see a typical Cornish surfers beach.