The Cornish Affair (8 page)

My
heart sank. I plastered a smile on my face, and banishing every thought of last night’s undignified encounter, walked towards him, holding my right hand out to say hello.

He
stood up and we shook hands.

We
both muttered the obligatory ‘pleased to meet you’ and ‘how do you do’ and there was a slight pause. He had an amused smile (or sneer, I hadn’t quite decided yet on his face) and I knew he was thinking about last night’s meeting in the library which, I was
not
going to mention.

“Hi,
I’m Oliver Dean, or, as I understand from your parrot, Oliver
bloody
Dean,” he said, with a wry smile on his face.

I
refused to be embarrassed, and ignored it.

“Are
you Scots?” I said.

“No.
Why?”

I
gestured towards his kilt.

“Oh,
I see, no. More of a fashion statement, really.”

Wouldn’t
you bloody know it.

I
harrumphed down my nose, which seemed to amuse him even more. We both then started to speak at once, and then just as abruptly stopped at the same time.

“No,
after you-”

“No,
no really-”

“Look,
all I was going to say is that I’m sorry to impose myself, and my very annoying allergies on you and your aunt, but work is really hectic at the moment, and it’s the only spare time I’m going to have for quite a while. I hope we can get on OK, it’s difficult, I know, working with someone you don’t know, but Harry’s very persuasive, isn’t he?”

I
nodded, smiling grudgingly at him.

He
continued, “Anyway, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I loved that lemon and artichoke dip you did last year, by the way. Very nice.”

I
felt slightly mollified, it’s always good to be complimented on something you do, isn’t it? Then, of course he went on to ruin it.

“Bit
too much garlic, I thought, though.”

I
glared at him, but he took no notice at all.

He
sniffed the mild air appreciatively, as Londoners do, I notice when they wake up down here, suddenly bereft of their daily dose of exhaust fumes.

Then
he was off, firing questions at me with the force of a water cannon. Where did I source my ingredients? Where could he go to find fishermen who would take him out on a boat? Where did I get my herbs from? What had I done about the roast onions? Did I make my own bread? Did I think that it was impossible to use organic produce in mass produced food? What variety of apple tree was in the garden? What did I grow in the greenhouse? It was endless, I felt like I was being interrogated.

I
sank down on the bench, still clutching my mug of lukewarm tea. All of the answers would have to wait till after breakfast. I would just going to chance my luck, when Nancy stepped out from the doorway into the garden, beaming with delight.

“Well,
I’ve had a wonderful response from everyone. Sam’s going to take in Baxter at The Ram, think of the fun he’ll have there! Pritti will have Nelson. I’ll run them down in the car and-”

“Whoa
there, hang on a minute, what’s going on?” I said, alarmed at what was happening so quickly.

Nancy
looked pityingly at me, “Oh Fin, poor Oliver can’t possibly stay here with the animals, so I’ve asked our friends to have them, just till you two have finished working together, of course.”

He
was poor Oliver now, was he? And when had all this been decided? I gave Nancy a truculent stare, aware that I looked like a sulky teenager throwing a moody. I felt out manoeuvred, and gave in with a bad grace.

“Now then, do you think I should take Baxter’s basket, as well as his cushion with me to the pub?” she continued, smiling brightly at me.

“I’d
take along some dog aspirins as well, he’s going to wake up with a hell of a hangover every morning living there,” I muttered grumpily.

I
wondered what he was going to instigate next. No doubt he’d have Nancy going teetotal and me on a diet.

Chapter
Eight

In the end, I volunteered to drive Baxter and Nelson to their respective holiday homes. I needed some time alone to think, and it seemed the only way was I was going to get it was in the car. I left Harry and Nancy washing away all traces of fur and feather from Penmorah. Oliver strode around the gardens, poking around in the greenhouse, looking like a modern day Bonnie Prince Charlie.

I
dropped Nelson off at The Rampersauds home, along with a supply of sunflower seeds and a cuttle fish shell. I’d seen as I drove up that Jace’s van wasn’t there, and felt a curious mixture of mingled relief and disappointment. I implored Pritti and Sunita (one of her enchanting looking daughters) to teach Nelson some acceptable phrases in Urdu.

“The
picnic was lovely, was it not, Fin?” Pritti enquired, looking, it seemed to me anyway, astutely at me.

“Yes,
lovely,” I replied brightly, clambering back into the car and waving my goodbyes.

Oh
God, please don’t let her find out about Jace and me, I found myself silently praying.

“Come
here soon, and we’ll do the roast onions,” she called after me.

I
wondered how Oliver would take to that. He didn’t seem the sort that would take happily to gossiping with Pritti in her kitchen whilst fiddling around with vegetables.

It
was always a bit of a hit and miss affair with Pritti and her recipes. She had so many traditional things she cooked, that it took a great deal of gentle persuasion for her to allow me to bastardise anything for western tastes. I loved watching her cook though, it was more like viewing a graceful ballet as she glided and swooped down amongst the mystifying range of spices and herbs. She allowed me to watch, and occasionally grind some spices, but that was it. She would boss her daughters unmercifully to wash and chop the food, but I had to remain seated at her table like some sort of visiting dignitary. I’d felt uncomfortable at first, but then realised that she liked an audience, and she was definitely not above playing to the gallery, issuing orders with a raised eyebrow at me if one of her minions got anything wrong.

I
drove down to The Ram and pried Baxter out from the back seat where he’d been put to stop him attacking Nelson in the car. He had no truck with gentleman’s agreements, and would have happily bit Nelson whilst he was a sitting duck, so to speak.

I
pushed the doors of The Ram open, and found Sam behind the bar, doing the eternal thing that publicans can do in their sleep - polishing glasses.

Baxter
went straight to the table that Nancy and I usually sat at, and curled up under a chair. He cocked his head at me, and waited for me to order at the bar.

“No,
you daft dog, it’s not even opening time yet. You behave yourself for Sam, you hear?” I said, bending down to stroke his head. He gave my hand a gentle lick, and then put his head between his paws and promptly fell asleep.

“Thanks
for this Sam,” I said, moving over to lean on the polished wood of the bar, and dumping the dog food I’d been carrying on to it.

“S’alright.
No problem, I like to help ladies in distress,” Sam said, pouring half a pint of foaming dark beer, and holding it up critically to the light. He pushed the glass towards me, and poured one for himself.

“Cherrywood
Devil,” he said proudly.

Oh
bloody hell. Real ale. I hated it. And Sam would never believe me. I messed around for food for a living, right? Food, drink, it’s all the same, right? Well, no actually, it isn’t. I know very little about wine, and even less about beer.

I
took a tentative sip, marvelling at my lack of hangover from last night. Normally after putting away so much alcohol, I would be shuddering at the mere yeasty smell coming from the glass. The beer just tasted like beer to me, but I could see that Sam expected something profound from me.

“Mmm,”
I said, feeling foolish, giving a pantomime performance of smacking my lips.

Sam
beamed at me, “Reckon I’m on to a proper winner,” he said.

I
gave an inner sigh. That was a bit of a problem down here in Cornwall. Even when we did make a Cornish product, we weren’t terribly good at it. Take the local cheese, the Yarg (invented by a farmer called Gray, spell the cheese backwards and see) I mean, it’s OK. The novelty of it being wrapped in nettles had the bonus of employing spring workers in picking the nasty stinging things I suppose, and the cheese itself was an innocuous dry crumbly dairy product of dubious distinction, but on the whole… We’d be so much better off using our best ingredients simply and well. Fish, shellfish, cream, butter, apples. These are the things that we do well. Not some farm invented cheese, or publicans real ale.

“How’s
the telly bloke, then?” Sam enquired, looking faintly hurt that I hadn’t downed the Cherrywood Devil.

“Oh
you know, very tellyish,” I said neutrally, aware that any hint of criticism would be round Port Charles faster than you could say a pint of heavy. Although it was very tempting to gossip to Sam and tell him that Oliver was wearing a kilt, not to mention very peculiar glasses.

“Is
Harry down?” Sam asked eagerly.

This
always amused me. For some unfathomable reason, Harry was one of those lucky people that could do no wrong in the eyes of Port Charles. Normally, anyone who dressed, spoke, and behaved like Harry was viewed with absolute suspicion. You know, all talk suspended and every eye silently judging, and finding wanting. But somehow, Harry had charmed them. Men from London, and especially men like Harry were not universally popular here. Doris saved him the last pasty, Pritti fluttered around him, and the fishermen genially slapped him on his back (causing him to wince slightly).

“Bring
him in then, he’ll like the ale,” Sam said, sadly taking my glass away from me.

I
doubted that, Harry’s tastes lay somewhere between a very strong martini or a decent red. He would undoubtedly have something more interesting to say than ‘mmm’, over it, I realised.

I
made my way out of the door, noticing that Baxter had made no move to follow me. I was mildly put out. Dogs were meant to be faithful creatures weren’t they? Not this one.

“Say
hello to Nancy for me, give her my love,” Sam called out as I left.

As
I drove away I wondered what had happened between Sam and Nancy, maybe they too had shared a moment of moonlight madness on the sands. I found myself heading for the moors, where I thought I’d just have a quick walk to clear my mind, and gird my metaphorical loins for the good fight brewing between Oliver and me.

I
stopped the car after driving for about ten minutes, and got out, stretching my legs.

A
kestrel was hovering overhead, looking for an early lunch no doubt. The moors rolled out in front of me, covered in gorse, heather and rocky outcrops of granite. I loved being here, it was the one area in a county that had transformed so much to accommodate our visitors that had never changed. It was a bleak, haunted landscape and fitted well with the rumours of smuggling, mermaids, speaking stones, witches and giants. It had seemed like Narnia to me, as a child. A few shaggy sheep moved in the distance, and if I squinted hard at them I could just about transmute them into Narnia’s fabled talking beasts.

I
allowed myself a brisk walk, where I did not think about Jace, or the annoyance that was waiting for me back at Penmorah, but tried to concentrate on the beauty in front of me. Naturally, I tried and failed. I gave it up and headed back home.

Glancing
around the interior of my Renault which was smothered in seagull poo on the outside and littered with chocolate wrappers on the inside, I was quite glad I hadn’t had to go and meet Oliver. He didn’t seem the sort who would have forgiven the mess very easily.

I
headed up the lane towards Penmorah and wondered if Baxter would make his escape from The Ram and find his way home. Probably not. He’s be spoilt rotten by Sam and all the customers. I soothed my remnants of bad temper by doing a very satisfying handbrake stop, sending gravel flying around me, as I parked outside Penmorah.

A
most unusual smell hit me as I walked in the back door of the house. Chemical. And slightly reminiscent of swimming pools. Bleach. Yes, that was it, definitely. I saw that the normally littered surface of the kitchen table was not only clear of junk, but was gleamingly scraped clean. As was the floor, work surfaces and the cooker. A gaping hole stood in the very fabric of the room, where Nelsons cage and perch had stood. It was odd not being greeted by various barks and screeches when I walked in. Although, if I confess, it was pleasant not having to separate two animals who loathed each other.

Where
was everyone?

I
started to call out, but I heard murmured voices coming from the other end of the house. I tracked them down to the living room, and as I put my hand on the door to push it open, I heard my name being mentioned and I stopped to listen. I know that we’re told as children that eavesdroppers never hear well of themselves, but, be honest, it’s impossible to resist.

“…but
she’s a pussy cat, really she is, one of the only clients I have that I am genuinely friends with,” Harry’s plaintive light voice came floating out to me where I stood transfixed. Me? A pussy cat? That was news to me.

I
heard Oliver make a harrumphing noise.

“Oh,
Fin is a
darling
,” Nancy chipped in, loyally.

“Honestly
Oliver, she’s a sweetie, I mean, yes she can be difficult, but you know, I don’t think she’s very happy at the moment. Well, she hasn’t been for some time if I’m honest. I think her parents death knocked her for six, didn’t it Nancy?” Harry continued.

“But
you know Harry, that was a long time ago, and, well, I think she gets lonely here.”

There
was a brief silence and then Oliver spoke up.

“Were
you all very close as a family?”

“Oh,
yes
terribly
close. Too close, probably. You have to remember that Dorothea, that was my sister, and Michael were the golden couple here, they had everything. Looks, charm, romance…oh, they were so happy. They closed off the rest of the world. They became a self sufficient unit. I mean, obviously they saw other people, you know. But they only really ever had eyes for themselves. Fin grew up in a very hothouse atmosphere, I’m afraid. I tried to talk to them about it, but they wouldn’t listen. Why should they? They thought that their way of life would go on forever, they never thought for one moment that it would all come crashing down around them. Mind you, Michael was always a fool over money – I don’t mean that nastily, although he owed me a considerable sum at one time, but that was a long time ago now.” I heard Nancy sigh, and then she continued.

“You
know, they wouldn’t send Fin to school even, why? Lack of money, or selfishness? I don’t really know. I mean, she got on perfectly well of course without it. What do they learn there nowadays anyway? Nasty hockey and geography! I ask you! Fin used to long to go away with Bea, you know, my, umm,
my
daughter to
her
school… but they said no. They never encouraged her to be very friendly with Bea… but that’s old history now. They were all so happy together here. I used to adore staying here, it was lovely…”

Harry
and Oliver made assenting noises.

This
wasn’t true, I felt like screaming. This simply wasn’t true. I had never wanted to go to Bea’s school. It had sounded horrid, she had maths homework and had to learn poetry by heart. I was very happy at home, thank you very much. At least I thought I had been.

There
was a short silence, and I could hear spoons tinkling against china, and the faintest smell of coffee.

“
After all, Fin looks after so many things, I sometimes think that I should go and leave her to her own life-”

“Don’t
be daft Nancy! She adores you, and anyway you don’t want to go, do you?”

I
gripped the door handle so hard I could see the whites of my knuckles.

I
made an impulsive move forward. I didn’t want to hear Nancy’s reply. I moved into the room, and had the satisfaction of watching Harry squirm slightly, whilst Nancy rattled her coffee cup in her saucer. Only Oliver seemed completely unembarrassed that they had been talking about me.

“Baxter
and Nelson are happily settled in,” I said brightly, inwardly cursing Harry
and
Nancy for talking about me to Oliver. “Now then, Oliver, shall we retire to the kitchen and start some work? After all, I know just how precious your very valuable time is.”

I
swept down to the kitchen, seething, not looking to see if Oliver was following me or not. So, I was lonely and difficult was I? Well, there was a grain of truth there I suppose.