The Cornish Affair (23 page)

I
yawned. “Come on Baxter, I’m going back to bed.” I took my mug of water with me, and climbed the stairs. I threw my clothes off and fell onto my bed, it had never felt so comfortable. Within minutes I was sound asleep again. Even the dawn chorus didn’t keep me awake.

I
was making tea in the kitchen when the familiar sight of Nancy drifting down the corridor in her kimono, her silver hair in a braid bouncing on her back, came in.

“Morning
Nancy, tea?”

She
nodded, and then stretched her arms and yawned, “It was great to be back in Port Charles, you missed a good evening in the pub, Kev the Beard came in,
with
Judith! She asked me to send you her love… most unusual, I think you’ll agree.”

It
was indeed. Judith never indulged in polite greetings at all. And she never went to The Ram with Kev.

“Damn,
I wish I’d gone now,” I said, making some toast.

Nancy
was telling me about the latest news down in the village, (mostly outrage at the idiotic caperings of the local council workers who were monitoring the fresh water supply, and the rumour that Breadpudding had discharged herself from the hospital because of the food) when the phone rang.

“Fin?
Hello, it’s Oliver.”

Shit,
shit,
shit
.

It
was far too early in the morning to deal with this. I took a large mouthful of toast that I had spread liberally with butter and Nancy’s homemade ginger marmalade.

“Thank
you for your messages last night, most illuminating,” Oliver said acidly, “Though I didn’t quite get the reference to, what was it you called it? Oh yes, puppy dog gumbo. I don’t think I even want to
know
what that was all about. All I can assume is that you were very pissed. Am I right?”

I
tried to say something, but a large wodge of toast was in my mouth, and talking was impossible.

I
heard Oliver laugh.

“Don’t
tell me, let me guess. You’re eating something, right?”

I
made a strangled noise.

“Hmm,
I thought so!”

I
was frantically trying to swallow. I knew I was flustered, because Nancy was looking at me very strangely.

“Listen
Fin, I can’t talk for long, but I’ve got a great idea to raise some money for Port Charles, I’m going to try my hardest to get to the dolphin party, and we can talk about it then. OK?”

“OK,”
I managed to spit out.

“Right.
Oh, one more thing before I have to dash, and no putting, replacing, or even slamming the phone down, alright?”

“Alright,”
I agreed, intrigued.

“I
meant what I said, no fooling around with veg boy, and yes, I do know he’s got a name. I just prefer not to say it. Oh and by the way, this is the sound of a phone being slammed, yours was merely being put down firmly.”

Then
the cheeky bastard did actually slam the phone down and I was left listening to the dialling tone purring in my ear.

Nancy
continued to look strangely at me.

“What?”
I said, “What are you looking at?”

She
put her head on one side and considered me. “Well, you look a little bit like the cat who swallowed the cream,” she said, picking up her mug of tea and drifting back down the corridor. She stopped at the end, and paused before setting her foot on the stairway.

“Oh,
and Fin?” she called.

“Yes?”
I said, trying to stop a very daft smile spreading across my face.

“And
the look suits you darling!”

She
moved like a queen carrying a chalice up the stairs.

Chapter
Twenty Three

I devoted the day to the party. Which was
tomorrow
, I kept reminding myself frantically.

There
was to be two types of food, caviar, crab and lobster for the Port Charles contingent, (who would appreciate the posh nosh) whilst the writers, artists and London lot would love the rustic grub, home cured ham, home baked bread and local fruits. All day long the boys delivered the goods.

The
local council made an appearance by banging in the danger signs all along the top of the lawn, swaddling rolls and rolls of barbed wire across the top of the churned up grass that dropped off steeply to the cliffs. It looked like Colditz, as Nancy remarked to me.

“Very
festive,” I agreed, looking out of the window with dismay. Could I decorate the barbed wire with something? Bunting, maybe? Or would it really make it look like something from the blitz?

Sam
called to say that he would bring the trestle tables tomorrow afternoon. He would also bring up the pasties from Doris.

“Sam,
thank you. You are a star,” I said gratefully.

“My
pleasure Fin… Is Nancy there?”

I
held the phone out to her, and she spoke into it, talking softly. It was my turn to look strangely at her now, as she was, I swear, practically
purring
.

When
she’d finished talking, I raised an eyebrow at her and she laughed.

“No,
darling, it’s not what you’re thinking at all… He’s a sweetie and a very,
very
nice man, but no, not the one for me I’m afraid.”

I
wondered if there ever had been. The one.

“Oh,
Nancy, I’m so sorry, I nearly forgot, Bea called last night,” I said guiltily.

Nancy
smiled and picked up the phone again to dial the number in Canada. She was an oddly unmaternal sort, I’d never seen her become remotely misty about Bea, or her grandchildren. It was peculiar, as she was such a loving, warm woman.

“Damn,
they’re out… oh well, I’ll try later, do remind me Fin, won’t you?”

I
nodded and opened a bottle of cider, ready to simmer the gammon in. I added some onions, carrots, a bay leaf and some peppercorns, then lowered the joint into the large copper pan.

“Nancy,”
I said impulsively, “Don’t you ever miss Bea? I mean, well,
you
never really talk about her, and we never mention her. I’ve never known who her father is and-”

I
could see by Nancy’s face that I’d mentioned the unmentionable. I floundered on, miserably.

“I’m
sorry,” I said, lamely.

There
was silence in the kitchen, the only noise I was aware of was the simmering liquid coming to the boil in the pan. I pulled it off the heat and dragged the heavy pan onto the low side of the range.

“No,
it’s alright. I should tell you about Bea, but not now.” Nancy said, then added quickly, seeing the look of concern on my face, “It’s nothing too awful, don’t worry.”

Have
you noticed when
anyone
tells you not to worry, it’s the most alarming thing they can possibly say?

I
turned back to the range and heard Nancy leave the kitchen. Well, whatever it was she was going to tell me couldn’t possibly be worse than what was going round my head. Maybe Bea was not my cousin, maybe she was my half sister? Surely not. God, I hoped not. I mean, she was perfectly nice, but… well, OK, she wasn’t what I wanted if I had to have a sister sprung on me. She was vanilla ice cream, she was a three piece suite in chintz, she was a bunch of daffs, she was… oh you know what I mean. She was
nice
. That’s an OK thing to be, but it doesn’t make me
love
someone. I like a bit of spice, and vinegar. I want passion and originality, I don’t want
nice
.

I
prodded the meat down in the pan, and skimmed some fat from the top of the liquid.

Maybe
Nancy was going to reveal that Bea wasn’t her daughter at all, (unlikely, I know, but I was busy speculating on the impossible.) Bea had never even looked like any of the family, with her dark skin and black hair. Maybe Nancy was going to
finally
tell me who her father was.

I
remembered when we were younger that Bea had shown scant curiosity about this. As soon as she could she’d gone to boarding school, and had left home as soon as possible. She married young, and had emigrated to Canada with her new husband. I hadn’t even gone to the wedding, which was a bit of a hole in the corner affair at a London registry office. Nancy sent us a photo, but it had long since vanished from the array of family snaps that were dotted around the place.

I’d
always imagined that Bea’s father was a glamorous artist that Nancy had had a wild night of passion with in some Bloomsbury party. Although why Bloomsbury seemed an exotic location, I don’t know, but it did when I was a teenager.

The
smell of the simmering ham filled the kitchen with its savoury aroma. I’d let it cook in the liquid and then cool it, carefully peeling away the rind. I’d then criss cross it and smother it with muscavado sugar and mustard, then poke cloves into it and roast it off. The best part of cooking such a wonderful piece of meat was that you could sneak hot slices from it and make your very own sandwich. Cooks perks.

I
heaved a cardboard box full of fruit from the floor and sorted the contents onto the table. I was going to construct a centrepiece made form red fruit, in a pyramid that I would dot with gold foiled Abbey chocolates, that were made locally. But I would have to do that tomorrow. Grapes, strawberries, pomegranates, cherries and dusky early plums rolled themselves onto the table. If I could paint, then that it was I would do. The colours alone were enough to make you believe in a god. A glorious mish mash of purples and scarlets made the kitchen light up like a neon strip joint.

I
glanced outside and saw Nancy scurrying around the garden, trying her best to revive or save as much as she could. She was embarked on a grand tidying up, too. I skimmed the meat again, and pulled some boots on to go and help her –
not
that I was any use in the garden, but I was good for donkey work.

It
was windy outside, with low scudding clouds, and we worked hard. I think we were both filled with a sort of mad housekeeping feeling, that we had to do as much as we could before the rain came again.

“Where
do you want this lot?” I asked Nancy pointing to a barrow full of rose plants.

“We’ll
cover them in wet sacking and I’ll re-plant them in a few days, put them behind the wall over there,” Nancy panted, trying to heave a log away from the shattered greenhouse.

“Please
wait for some help, Nancy,” I pleaded, “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

We
tackled the log together, avoiding the splinters of glass that, no matter how diligently we cleared, seemed to breed overnight. We heaved it into the barrow and I pushed it to the log pile.

We
sat together on the garden bench, surveying the garden.

It
was still a mess, but a bit more under control. We’d got off lightly, although the roll of barbed wire guarding the terrible drop of the cliff didn’t let us forget the damage caused to Penmorah.

Nancy
glanced at her watch, “Come on, let’s go and see if the dolphins are there,” she said, pulling me to my feet.

I
groaned.

“Nancy,
don’t you ever get tired?”

“Life’s
too short for getting tired, as much as life’s too short to start getting misty eyed about some man,” she said sternly, tucking her fluttering purple silk scarf into her jacket.

“Like
Sam?” I teased.

“Oh
darling… I’m too old to change my ways now. I think I’ll keep Sam for a little romance now and then, now come on, do.”

We
trudged up the hill, keeping well away from the edge. The woods on the other side to us had taken a battering. Trees were leaning drunkenly against each other, and bare roots were facing skywards. It looked like some awful apocalyptic film set. If Mel Gibson had come running from the undergrowth with a homemade laser gun, it would be about right.

The
bluebells had gone, too. Turned into a pulp on the thick mud.

We
reached the top of the hill and gazed out to sea. It still made me shudder to think of The Queen Mab out there during the storm. Apparently two of the crew were concussed, and the hull was dented badly where it had rolled onto some rocks. Nancy told me that Kev the Beard was considered a hero for getting them clear, and the pub had been suitably appreciative of its very own watery champion.

Judith
hadn’t stayed long in there, though. But, at least she’d gone. Nancy had sat with her for a while, and so had Doris, but the conversation was hard going. Like pushing glue up hill, Nancy had said.

We
stared out to sea. I tasted salt on my lips from the sea spray. We were just about to give up, and turn home for tea, when we both saw the dolphins.

“Look!
Over there…”

“Aren’t
they wonderful?”

Even
though we could see them now practically every day, they were still a treat to watch. They cavorted obligingly for us, and we marvelled at their agility and strength. Then, with a splash, they left.

“Perhaps
they’re doing the school run,” Nancy suggested, “You know, they’re always here at this time because they’re picking up the kids…Or maybe shopping?”

“Or
maybe they’re just showing off,” I said. “Do they know we’re having a party for them?”

“You
should invite them,” Nancy said.

I
stood at the top of the hill and put my hands to my mouth, making a trumpet. I shouted as loudly as I could, seawards. “Hey! You lot! We’re having a party tomorrow night, you’re the guests of honour, so I hope you can make it! About eight, no need to bring a bottle!”

Nancy
laughed, and then she shouted, too. “Come as you are, no need to dress!”

A
solitary dolphin leapt from the water as if it had heard us. We both laughed in amazement, and stood watching until all the splashes had subsided back into the green rolling sea. The gulls were the only other living creature that we could see, and we turned for home.

I
tucked my arm into Nancy’s as we descended, and hoped that she might tell me about Bea. It seemed the right sort of moment for it, out in the open, heading for home, and I wondered how I could bring the subject up, naturally. Of course, that would never happen, I am probably the world’s worst at bringing conversations around to a specific subject. I usually go straight for the kill. It gets it over with, to my mind. I wish that other people were so direct, I that that shilly shallying around – waste of time.

“So,
Nancy, what was it you were going to tell me about Bea?” I asked.

“Look
at that poor oak tree, it’s so sad Fin, we’ll have to call the foresters in to sort out the wood, it looks positively dangerous!” Nancy said, royally disregarding my question.

I
took the hint.

“You
mean, shut up, Fin, don’t you” I asked.

Nancy
turned her head to look at me, “No, I mean I’ll tell you when I think I should… Soon, I promise, and as I said it’s really not that important you know. Oh look. Is that Sam?” She pointed to the side of Penmorah where Sam and Will were climbing out of a white van.

He
had promised me that he would deliver, and set up, some trestle tables for the party.

We
quickened our pace to help, although we were waved away.

“Cup
o’ tea wouldn’t go amiss though!” Sam called out, struggling with the tables.

Silent
Will looked questioningly at me and I guessed that he wanted to ask where they were going. I presented a blank face to him, just to see if he would speak, then felt instantly mean as I knew the torture it was for him.

“In
the library, please,” I said.

I
put the kettle on and took the meat from the heat of the range. I’d let it cool in its own liquor before I skinned it, but the tantalising aroma was practically irresistible.

I
was absurdly excited about the dolphin party. It had turned into something more than just a gathering of old friends. I wanted to re-create the magical feeling that Penmorah parties had always had on me when I was younger. I wanted to catch again that feeling in the air that
anything
might happen… that someone special was just about to walk in through the door. And we had a lot to celebrate at the moment, the return of the dolphins, the end, I hoped, of the storms and subsequent flooding, and, the
slight
possibility that Oliver Dean may well be a fixture in my life.