The Cornish Affair (20 page)

“More
messages whilst you were out,” he said, passing me a list. I scanned the names, looking, of course for Oliver, but he hadn’t called. Well, if I’d had the phone put down on me, I wouldn’t have called back either. It didn’t stop my heart sinking though.

Martha
had called, so had a few people that I had invited to the dolphin party. I looked out of the window, maybe I could hire a marquee or something for that party if Penmorah wasn’t habitable yet? There was also a message from a Mr Harris who would meet me at Penmorah this afternoon to assess the damage.

I
was itching to get home, and asked Sam if he was ready to go up to Penmorah. He nodded, and I went upstairs to get my stuff together.

“Come
on Baxter, we’re going home!” I carolled to him, stuffing socks and tee shirts into my bag. Baxter obligingly did an impression of a normal happy dog, but I could see his heart wasn’t in it really. He’d much rather laze away his days leaning against the bar at The Ram with his new found drinking companions.

There
was no point trying to drive up to Penmorah, the trees were still blocking the lane – the chainsaw gang hadn’t reached there yet, so we set out on foot.

I
kissed Pritti and assured her that I’d be back for Nelson as soon as I could drive, and we set out. Before we turned away from the village and set our faces towards the hill, we checked out the port. There were a group of people waiting at the harbour, with Judith standing apart from them, watching a fishing boat tie up.

The
Queen Mab was home, safe and sound.

There
were cries and shouts from the assembled group, and the ever present whirr of helicopters buzzing them. I waved at Judith and she raised her hand back, then turned towards the boat again.

“Thank
God,” I said to Sam.

“That
won’t be who Judith is thanking,” he said darkly.

“Sam!”

“Well, ‘tis true,” he said stubbornly.

I
thought it best not to talk about it, so we continued in silence.

“Mind
you,” Sam said, in an effort to be fair, “Kev the Beard, when he’s here is me best customer by far, now that man really does appreciate a pint o’ the-”

“Devil?”
I asked wickedly.

We
laughed, and continued up the road to the lane that led up the hill to home. We passed the last row of cottages, waving at Richard and Will who were on top of Mrs Trevellyon’s roof. The tarpaulin covering it was flapping in the wind, Sam called out that he would be back to help later on.

The
lane was slick and sticky with mud. I contemplated carrying Baxter, but I thought on the whole I’d rather put up with bathing him and his horrid wet doggy smell when I got home, than putting my back out.

The
tramped grass and raw earth, with roots and bulbs visible gave the whole ground an air of neglect.

It
was heartbreaking seeing all the trees that were down, and we had to climb through them as Penmorah came into view.

“There,
it doesn’t look too bad, does it?” I said.

Sam
looked around and refused to comment till he’d walked round the house and saw the cliff top.

Even
that made me stop in my tracks.

The
edge of the cliff was bloody close to the house now.

We
looked at one another, and I started to talk. “Well, I think if I put a wall up, and then had the path underpinned, or whatever the hell it’s called, and then.”

“Let’s
just wait for Mr ‘Arris, shall we?” Sam said ominously.

But
I was convinced that it was worse than it looked. I happily put my key in the door. As I pushed it open, I was assailed by the comforting smell of home.

Chapter Twenty

Sam made a tour of the house, unwilling to leave me alone there. I really couldn’t see why and I felt foolish for having asked Sam to come up here with me. Everything was in working order and I couldn’t see any damage.

I
made Sam some tea and unpacked the milk and bread I’d brought up from Port Charles with me. I flung my jacket over a kitchen chair and sat down to pull off my boots.

“Oh
god, that’s better!” I said, massaging my feet.

We sipped our tea and Sam asked wistfully when Nancy would be back.

“Soon,
she said as soon as she could get here,” I said.

“Hmm,
well, the sooner the better is what I say,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He took out Nancy’s jewellery roll which he had seemingly kept in his chest pocket all the time and gave it back to me. I placed the roll in the customary safe of Penmorah – the deep freeze and said teasingly to him, “You really like her, don’t you Sam?”

Sam’s
cheeks went pink, and he started to splutter. “’Cos I
likes
her, an’ who don’t round here?” He stopped abruptly, and I took pity on him and changed the subject.

We
moaned for a while about the storm and impossibility of understanding insurance claims. I assured Sam for the twentieth time that I was perfectly OK to be left on my own, waiting for Mr Harris, in the end he reluctantly left.

“Be
careful on that ladder if you’re going up Mrs T’s roof,” I called out after him, “You don’t want to end up in bed next to Breadpudding!”

Sam
laughed, and waved at me, picking his way through the fallen trees.

The
sound of the chainsaws was getting closer now, I thought I’d better get ready to start hauling logs away. At least it would be good exercise and provide us with a winter cache of fuel. But first of all I had to find some more comfortable footwear. These boots were killing me. I peeled off my plaster and poked at the pink blister on my heel.

I
went upstairs to find some shoes, and was struck by the feel of silence here. The only noise came from the sea, and the faint whine of the chainsaws. It was a change from the hurly burly of The Ram, but I wasn’t sure if I liked it. It struck me that Penmorah was a house that needed to be
used
. Filled with people… oh god, the party. I willed Mr Harris to hurry up and tell me that the house was safe.

Penmorah
felt reproachful of me, as if I had deserted it in the storm, but I gradually made friends with it again. I wandered from room to room, touching familiar objects. The silver rose bowl that had always been filled, in my memory at least, with Albertine – that most fragrant and delicious of the Edwardian roses my mother had grown here. An amber set of worry beads curled up on an oak table that my father had brought back from a holiday in Egypt.

I
stood for a while at the top of the stairs, imagining the house filled with people for the party. I closed my eyes and imagined the din that they’d make, the noisy chatter, the greetings and gossip, the shouts of laughter.

That
was more like it.

I
made my way down the stairs, followed by Baxter who was unwilling to leave my heels. Perhaps he’d missed me after all?

I
checked the answer machine, there was a gratifying number of messages, all anxiously asking after us here, but none from Oliver. I returned a few duty calls, then dialled Martha’s number.

“Fin!
Thank goodness you’re alright… I saw you on the news of course, what a star you are! I would never have believed that you would end up in front of a camera-”

“Oh
stop, please. I think the less said the better after my little tantrum was broadcast to all and sundry,” I interrupted.

I
was horribly self conscious about the whole thing and couldn’t wait for the fuss to die down. Luckily it would soon be forgotten anyway. That was my fifteen minutes of fame, and frankly, it was fifteen minutes too much.

Martha
asked about the party and I explained about waiting for Godot, in the shape of Mr Harris.

“Either
way, I’m not going to get to London,” I said.

“Oh
Fin, that is a shame, I was looking forward to it,” Martha, bless her, sounded genuinely disappointed.

“Me
too, did you see the state of my hair? I was going to the hairdressers, and dress buying you know...”

She
laughed, and said, “Well, it did have a touch of the Worzel Gummidge about it, didn’t it? But, there must be hairdressers in Cornwall you know, not to mention clothes shops.”

“Not
as we know it,” I said gloomily.

Pam’s
Designs and the local barbers was about it. Unless you were willing to go to Truro which did boast a Marks and Spencer’s, and as much as I was a fan of the white cotton knickers, it wasn’t party dress heaven, if you know what I mean.

“Well,
if the party’s still on, I can always bring you something down,” Martha offered.

“No
thanks, farthingales are not in this season,” I joked, “And that is of you can get down, the trains are probably still buggered up.”

It
seemed Martha had more faith than me in Railtrack, or whoever it is now that owns the damn things, because she airily assured me that it would all be sorted out soon.

“Anyway,
I’m far more interested in what you made of the divine Oliver?” she probed.

I
hesitated. A bit too long.

She
positively
crowed
. “I knew it, I just
knew
it! He’s rather gorgeous, do admit?”

I
admitted.

I
then went on to tell her everything. The after picnic activity with Jace, the kiss with Oliver, the phone putting down episode, the lot. I also told her about Sam’s growing infatuation with Nancy.

“And
I thought the country was meant to be
dull
! You’ve had a fantastic time! God, Fin, what was Jace like, you know? I mean, he’s, well, he’s-”

“Too
young and out of my league? Yes he is, and to answer your rather personal question, he was pretty bloody good, but that’s all over now. I’m more concerned about Oliver, what shall I do?” I wailed.

“Call
him. Call him
now
,” she added promptly. “Are you crazy? Apologise, you know Fin, that’s the word that begins with ‘S’ and ends in ‘Y’ and try to sound as if you mean it-”

“Thank
you Martha for the lesson in etiquette,” I said acidly, but she was in full flow.

“I
mean he’d be perfect for you. Mind you, you’d have to get rid of Baxter and Nelson-”

“Never!”
I protested, bending down to scratch Baxter behind his silky white ears. Not quite white, I have to admit, more mud coloured really. “Anyway, I think you’re jumping the gun a bit, we’ve only
kissed
, you know…”

“More
than I have, and not for want of trying,” Martha said despondently. “If I thought I had a chance in hell with Oliver Dean I’d seriously think about getting rid of the cats.”

“Liar,
liar, pants on fire.”

“Hmm,
well, maybe.”

It
was lovely to talk to Martha, and we carried on in this vein for some time. It made me realise how much I missed not having a close friend down here, I mean obviously I had Nancy, but it wasn’t the same… I wound the call up by promising to call her the minute I knew about the party.

I
tried Harry next, but his secretary said that he was in a meeting. Then I tried his flat, to see if Nancy was there, but only a disembodied voice told me to leave a message.

I
bent down to stroke Baxter again, deciding that much as I would
love
not to, it was now imperative that Baxter have a bath. I lured him in there with false promises of cheese. I honestly think that Baxter would willingly hurl himself from a top floor window in pursuit of a piece of cheese. Stilton was his favourite. But he’d pretty much do anything for a lump of stale cheddar, too.

I
was soaping his little shivering body (although the water was not cold, I think he was merely overplaying his dramatic hatred of it) when I heard the sound of a helicopter flying very low over Penmorah. I rinsed Baxter off, rubbing him dry with a towel and wondering which particular band of brigands it belonged to. I was hoping that it was the coastguard when I heard the very welcome sound of Nancy’s voice.

Baxter
leapt from my arms, cantering downstairs, his wet tail wagging like mad to greet her. I followed, knowing if I had a tail, it’d be wagging too.

We
fell on each other and both talked at the tops of our voices. When we’d calmed down I saw that she wasn’t alone. A late middle aged man, with grey hair and glasses stood some way behind her, clutching a briefcase. He also was carrying a bright yellow hard hat.

“Mr
Harris, I presume?” I said, holding my hand out to him.

“Yes,
that’s right darling!” Nancy enthused, “We flew down together, he’s the worlds expert on erosion, it’s absolutely fascinating, Fin!”

I
glanced sharply at her, who was she kidding? Erosion – I don’t think so. But Mr Harris seemed to have fallen for it. He was smiling bashfully.

He
seemed to have fallen under Nancy’s spell quite happily, and was twisting his hat round and round between his hands. Nancy beamed at him, and he beamed back.

We
clattered our way into the kitchen, with me telling all about the storm, and the flooding in Port Charles.

“We
know, darling, it’s on the news, as you were too, what a star! Isn’t she, Arthur?”

Oh,
so it was Arthur now, was it? I glanced quickly at her, but Nancy was too busy piling on the charm to notice.

“I’ve
told Arthur just how much Penmorah means to us all here darling and he’s going to do his very best to see that everything’s alright, aren’t you Arthur?”

Arthur
ducked his head nervously and stammered out that he would do his best. After refusing tea, or coffee, he donned his hat, and left by the kitchen door.

Nancy
sunk into a chair, sighing dramatically. “Oh, he really is quite the dullest man I’ve ever met!” she stage whispered to me.

I
giggled. The woman was a real pro, Sarah Bernhardt would have been proud of her.

We
had a lot of catching up to do, and I was tempted to tell her about Sam, but decided that I would give him the opportunity to tell her himself.

Nancy
was prowling around Penmorah, checking up on it. Aside from a puddle of water in the hall upstairs, where the rain had found a way in through a leaky window, all was well. We peered out of the window to see what the dullest man on earth was doing. He appeared to stabbing the ground with some sort of electronic metre and making copious notes about his findings.

“Best
leave him to it,” advised Nancy.

We
carried her bags into her bedroom and she started to unpack.

“Oh,
I did have a wonderful time in London! The theatres were surprisingly full, and the galleries sublime,” she was hurling clothes around, littering the floor with swathes of silk and velvet. “Now look, I did buy you something for the party, where is it? Don’t worry, Harry came with me, and we thought you’d look fabulous in it, oh, here it is!” She triumphantly held out a black dress.

“What
do you think?”

I
gazed doubtfully at it. “It’s a bit skimpy, isn’t it?”

“It’s
meant to be, it is a party dress, after all! Anyway, Oliver thoroughly approves.” Nancy said, as if that settled the matter.

“Oh,
does he now? And since when has he been the arbiter of good taste?” I asked sweetly.

Nancy
gave me an old fashioned look, and went to hang her clothes up.

I
wandered downstairs and went to the kitchen. It was lovely being back home, and even lovelier having Nancy back.

It
was getting greyer by the moment, outside, and any promise of summer really arriving had gone.

I
was listless and restless, so I did what I’m paid to do. I made soup.

I
would have done that anyway, even if I didn’t make my living from it. I find it the most soothing of occupations.

It’s
an odd thing, cooking. I love food with plenty of taste to it, but because something is good, it doesn’t mean more of it is better. A gentle hand, combined with zest and dash makes all the difference. I like to release the food’s own tastes and energies, the difference between salt added before, during or after cooking can be simply gigantic,
enormous
. What
sort
of salt? Even that counts… All cooking is a matter of contrasts, distinctions and complements. The knowledge of how to get the most from a potato? How to extract the flavour from a tomato with the right amount of sugar? Why does honey and vinegar work so well together? These things come naturally to some, can be taught to others, and some will never have it.