Christmas at the Cornish Café: A heart-warming holiday read for fans of Poldark
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He winces. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I remember how I felt after the lights went off and everyone had gone home. The place seemed twice as dead as it had before the switch-on. Mitch and I bunked down in an alley not far from Tamsin’s Spa.’ I also remember the smells of hot food, buttered rum punch, stollen, saffron cake, spicy mulled apple cider, rich hot chocolate, and the way they curled around me and drove me insane. Plus the feeling that I’d never been so lonely or such an outsider. Cal gathers me into his arms. Perhaps I didn’t hide the shiver as well as I thought I had.
‘I’m sorry. It must have been tough.’
Tears sting my eyes and make me wish I’d never mentioned last November. I genuinely don’t want Cal’s sympathy – so why did I have to say so much? ‘Some of the poor people I saw had so many problems, I could have cried for them. Some will never get off the streets. I’m the lucky one. Look at me now: hosting an event for the village bigwigs. Who’d have thought it?’
He smiles briefly. ‘Even so … Feel free to hit me, but have you given any more thought to contacting your family? Your father? Your brother? Sorry, I don’t even know his name.’
‘It’s Kyle. My dad’s called Gary.’
‘OK …’
‘And you’re right, I have given it some more thought and I still don’t want to speak to them. I don’t know exactly what Kyle’s doing now or even where he is and I refuse to ask my dad.’
‘But you know where your dad and his partner live?’
‘Near Redruth, as far as I know, that’s where they were living when I last spoke to him. Last I heard, Kyle joined the army. He left home before I did and went to share a flat with a mate in Truro, but I’m not sure that worked out, so he signed up. We weren’t close and he used to spend as much time as he could out of the house at his mates.’
‘Your dad must have been on his own a lot after your mum died.’
‘I suppose so. I was in the house though; he could have spoken to me if he’d wanted to. He just used to sit in his chair and drink cans and channel surf. I may as well have not existed, but he’s got her now. Rachel.’ I slap on a smile, feeling I’ve already raked over far too many old memories. ‘I thought you were in the army, remember, when I first saw you with the combats and bag?’
Cal rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, I do, but I wasn’t.’
‘Do you remember where you were this time last year? During the Christmas lights?’
He glances out of the window into the darkness. ‘I wasn’t exactly having a fun time, either.’
His phone buzzes from the table, the sound magnified by the table top and the high ceiling of the empty cafe. He grimaces, then glances at the screen.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
He turns back to me, a grin on his face. Goosebumps prick my skin: I know what that look means.
‘No. I was thinking we might have time for a quick bite before the committee arrive. A hot vampire bite.’ He bares his teeth and while I pull a face at him, warm feelings stir at the jokey reminder of the nickname I had for him when we first met. He grazes the skin at the side of my neck with his teeth and it tingles. His breath is warm and I close my eyes in pleasure, trying to blot out the insistent throb of the mobile phone.
‘There’s no time,’ I murmur. ‘The committee will be here in twenty minutes.’
‘So? I like living dangerously. You told me to do it.’ His phone stops buzzing. ‘I told you, they can wait.’
He kisses me, it’s deep and hot and it sparks a swirling sensation low in my stomach. I’m shaky with lust. He tangles his hands in my hair, tugging at the roots without realising, but so gently that the tension just drives me even more crazy.
‘Come on. Into the staff room.’ His voice is husky with desire as he leads me through the kitchen and into the store-cupboard-sized room that serves as our staff room. It’s warm in there, and the air smells of the pine disinfectant we keep in the cupboard. He backs me against the lockers and they rattle loudly.
‘What if they’re early?’
‘They can wait.’
He shuts the door behind us while I pull off my Demelza’s sweatshirt and T-shirt. Cal unzips his jeans and slips them down, along with his boxers. Still standing, with me braced against the lockers, Cal lifts me onto him. We’re face to face and then he’s inside me. I melt like butter on a hot scone under his touch and close my eyes to everything around me. The cafe, the lights, the dark night, the world, all are gone in those few intense, nerve-jangling seconds. There’s only me and Cal, one person, for a brief, dark, hot moment. I wish it could go on and on.
‘Whew.’
My face rests on his shoulder, my cheek skimming the soft wool cotton of his sweater. His fingers rest lightly on my back, beneath my shoulder blades and he whispers to me as I come back to awareness, like a swimmer surfacing in the cove to the sky.
‘Demi, I’ve been thinking.’ His voice is tender, serious and I’m not used to that.
‘Always dangerous,’ I breathe, still half-drowsy after the intensity.
‘That maybe, we should think about, if you don’t mind, well …’
My eyes are open. His phone buzzes again. It’s closer now. I hadn’t realised he’d even picked it up or brought it with him.
‘Damn it.’ Almost falling over, tangled by the jeans still around his ankles, he pulls up his jeans and delves in the pocket. ‘Bloody thing.’
Leave it, I say silently. Leave it and say what’s on your mind.
He glares at his phone, and he mouths at me, ‘Sorry,’ then: ‘Hello, Isla, no, I’m not busy. How are you?’
I don’t think he’s realised that he’s turned his back on me as if he doesn’t want me to hear his conversation. While he’s talking to her, his jeans slip down his hips again, leaving his pants halfway up his muscular bottom. I struggle back into my top and sweatshirt and slip past him into the tiny washroom. I close the door but can hear him, ‘hmm-ing’ and ‘OK-ing’ and the odd ‘fine’ and the final ‘OK, take care, see you soon’.
He comes out into the cafe while I scoop coffee into the filter machine. There’s no time to make cappuccinos and lattes tonight.
‘Sorry for that,’ he says. ‘It was Isla, making arrangements to come down for the shoot in a few weeks’ time. It means opening the cafe especially, because she asked if you’d cater for the cast and crew for the day. It’s extra work, but they have a decent budget and she thought we might as well have the business rather than handing it over to the outside caterers. Will that be OK?’
‘That’s awesome.’ I try to sound cheerful, because we do need the business and the publicity during and after the shoot and when the series – a historical drama about a highwayman and his aristocratic mistress – is aired will be priceless. Isla’s going to be here anyway so we may as well profit from it. It is good of her to help us – Cal – out.
‘It’s only for a day, possibly a day and a half, depending on the weather.’
‘Great. Did you know your flies are still undone?’
‘Hell. No.’ He glances down and then up at me, a wicked grin on his face. ‘That would have shocked the vicar. She’s on the committee.’
‘I’m sure she’s seen it all before. Is that headlights?’
Through the window, I spot twin white beams wavering as a vehicle makes its way over the bumpy track from the farm. The road will serve as access to the camping field in the summer but it’s not exactly public-highway standard yet. Behind the lights, I spot two more sets of lamps. The first car stops a few feet from the cafe.
Cal goes to unlock the door and groans. ‘Please, no …’
‘What?’
‘That’s Mawgan’s car.’
‘No. God, I had no idea she was on the committee.’
‘She isn’t, according to the minutes they sent me. What the hell is she doing here?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Hello, Demi, how nice to see you again.’
‘Mawgan,’ I reply through gritted teeth while she pulls off crimson leather gloves. ‘What a surprise. We didn’t know you were on the Harbour Lights committee.’
She throws us an angelic smile. ‘Well, strictly speaking, I’m not, because I’m far too busy for a regular commitment, but Cade Developments is making a significant contribution to the fund this year so the chairwoman invited me to join you tonight.’
‘Great,’ says Cal, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Cade Developments takes its responsibility to the local community very seriously,’ Mawgan adds, dropping her gloves on a table and peering over Cal’s shoulder at the cafe.
Yeah, by hiking up rents, blocking our plans and intimidating local people, I think, not that we can prove any of it. I’m amazed the Harbour Lights committee has allowed Mawgan to contribute, though I guess they can’t afford not to, in all kinds of ways.
‘Cade Developments only has a responsibility to make money no matter what the cost to the community,’ Cal replies. ‘So what are you really doing here, Mawgan. Spying?’
‘Cal. We have more customers. Help yourself to refreshments,’ I say to Mawgan, steering Cal towards the door before we all come to blows, verbal or otherwise.
A glamorous forty-something lady in a leather biker jacket, pointy snakeskin boots and a dog collar sashays in. It’s the Reverend Beverley Fritton, the vicar of St Trenyan. If the Rev Bev recognises me, she doesn’t let on. She once bought me a coffee and gave Mitch a meal, all without trying to convert me to anything other than Game of Thrones. She and her much younger curate, who I suspect is also much more than her assistant, made me hot rum chocolate and let me and Mitch bunk down in her snug for the night. She may have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten her.
‘Wow, this is awesome,’ she declares in her broad Birmingham accent, her auburn ponytail swinging round as she does a 360-degree twirl in the middle of the cafe. She sniffs the air and sighs in ecstasy. ‘And what is that amazing smell? Did I forget to set my alarm and wake up on Christmas Eve?’
‘They’re mincemeat cookies: very easy to make. I can let you have the recipe.’
‘I’d love it, though I can barely boil an egg. This place was a wreck of an old barn when I was last up here. What an amazing transformation, isn’t it, Mawgan?’
Though I can tell it’s killing her, even Mawgan wouldn’t be openly catty in front of the Rev Bev and she grinds out a reply. ‘It is. Who’d have ever thought a wreck like Kilhallon would scrub up so well?’
My reply, also involving scrubbers, is a nano-second from escaping my lips, but it’s Cal’s turn to shoot me a warning glance and the Rev Bev continues to torture Mawgan by lavishing praise on the ‘a-maz-ing’ job we’ve done on the cafe. The door opens again and more of the committee troop in. I recognise the harbourmaster – or should I say, harbourmistress – and Josh, the boat skipper, who used to deliver seafood to Sheila’s. Thank goodness Mitch is safely snoozing at the farmhouse, I’d hate him to spend the evening sniffing Josh’s trousers.
‘Have a look round and help yourselves to drinks and cookies while I get the coffee,’ I tell everyone, glad to have something to do that will keep me out of Mawgan’s way. More people arrive and Cal greets them. Soon, the noise level in the cafe is deafening as people help themselves to cookies and drinks, ‘oh-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’.
St Trenyan’s harbourmistress is chairing the meeting and calls everyone to order. Cal joins in, agreeing to make a modest donation to the cost of the lights, though we can’t match Mawgan’s contribution. I pluck up the courage to mention our ‘pop-up’ Demelza’s stall at the festival, which will sell hot food and drinks and showcase Kilhallon as a resort, and manage to wangle a great position for it right on the quayside by the Fisherman’s Choir.
The harbourmistress thanks Mawgan for her ‘generous’ support, which is met by grudging mutterings of thanks. I glance sideways at Cal and see him with his lips pressed tightly together. Mawgan might have backed off from destroying our plans for Kilhallon, but there’s no way she’s given up hating us. I distract myself by working out the menu I can offer at the switch-on. Jewelled cookies to match the lights, perhaps … mulled cider … caramel sea salt brownies …
When the meeting breaks up, most people hang around, helping themselves to more cookies and ‘networking’, aka gossiping. I gather up the used crockery onto a tray and take it into the dishwashing area in the kitchen.
Mawgan appears in the doorway to the kitchen, holding out her empty mug.’
‘This is cosy.’
‘Can I help you, madam?’ I say, sarcastically. I know she’s trying to provoke me and she can’t behave too nastily in this company, especially when she’s trying to act the generous local businesswoman, but I’m on my guard. Most of the people here loathe the Cades, but some rent their business premises from Mawgan’s lettings company and can’t afford to upset her. Even though she’s backed off from some of her worst practices, I don’t believe for a moment that she’s given up on hurting Cal by destroying Kilhallon or wrecking his life some other way. Mawgan’s view of relationships and family is warped to say the least.
She dumps her mug on the drainer. ‘No, thanks. I see you’ve carved out a nice comfortable little niche for yourself up here. You and Cal. So, how’s business? Made your first million, yet?’
‘Forgive me for speaking frankly, Mawgan, but our business is actually none of your business.’
‘Fair enough, but I just thought I’d remind you that you’re here – you and Cal – only because I decided that Kilhallon wasn’t part of my development plans.’
I just resist snorting out loud. Only Mawgan and I know the real reason she changed her mind about ruining us: because I gave her hell about her behaviour towards us and to Andi and Robyn. Even so, I was gobsmacked that she listened to me. Even though she claimed it was a business decision, I know I touched a very raw nerve with her. Her mum had an affair with Cal’s father and that has led to bad feeling between the families, that and the fact Cal refused to go out with her when they were younger.
‘It’s too late now. We’re here to stay.’
Mawgan runs her finger over the stainless steel prep table. ‘Possibly. We’ll see.’
‘I’m sorry, but customers aren’t really allowed in the kitchen area. Regulations.’
‘I bet you allow that dirty dog of yours in here.’
‘Actually we don’t allow any hygiene hazards in here, human or animal.’
Mawgan has a hide like a rhino so ignores me. ‘I heard Isla was coming back from London.’
‘How do you know that? She only told Cal the other day.’ I kick myself at revealing this snippet of information, but it’s too late; Mawgan’s eyes gleam with delight.
‘I have my sources,’ she says.
Does that mean she’s still in touch with Luke, Isla’s fiancé? They left Cornwall to keep out of Mawgan’s way, because Isla suspected that Luke and Mawgan were getting too close. I doubt it very much, but I wouldn’t put anything past her. Only Mawgan and I know what went on between us in the summer and that our ‘chat’ about her personal life led to her removing her objections to us redeveloping Kilhallon Park.
Laughter drifts in from the cafe and a car engine fires up outside. I hold out my hand, to show her the door. ‘I don’t want to be rude but the meeting’s over and we need to lock up.’
Blocking my way to the door, she lowers her voice, ‘I could still hurt Cal. I could ruin him. If I want to.’
‘How?’
‘I have my ways. You just bear it in mind. Just because you came to me begging me to save him doesn’t change a thing between any of us, and it isn’t only me who thinks he’s a selfish bastard.’
‘You may be bitter and twisted and blame him for your mum leaving you, but any reasonable person would see it’s not his fault.’
‘It’s not only me, and the amateur psychology you spouted when you turned up at my house uninvited had nothing to do with my decision to back off.’
‘Drop the act, Mawgan. If you want me to think you gave up your opposition to our plans for financial reasons, that’s fine, but we both know there was more to it than that. You just can’t admit you found you had a conscience after all.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re referring to, but I told you that our conversation was private.’
No one can hear us in the kitchen, but I lower my voice anyway. ‘It was and it is. I kept my word. Cal has no idea that I came to see you or what we spoke about. As far as I’m aware, he also has no idea about your mum and his dad.’
She snorts. ‘Really?’
‘I think he would have mentioned it if he did.’
‘He tells you everything, does he?’ she says.
‘Not everything. I don’t share everything with him either, but I would have thought that considering the trouble you tried to cause over the summer, he might have told me about the situation if he knew.’
She sniffs, and seems at a loss for words for a few moments, then her lip curls. ‘I couldn’t care less anyway. You can relax. I’ve decided not to waste my time with little people like you and Cal.’
‘That suits us fine,’ I say, glad she can’t see my stomach drop to my shoes. If I never see Mawgan Cade again it will be too soon. Judging by the sneer on her face, I’m guessing she hates having betrayed any weakness to me. I could tell her that it wasn’t weak to allow her sister some happiness, or to let go of her bitter feud with Cal – but she wouldn’t listen.
‘Mawgan! We’re going. I’d like a word with you before we leave.’
Mawgan presses her lips together as Rev Bev pops her head round the door. ‘Goodnight,’ she says tightly. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.’
Shouldering her neon-pink ostrich-effect bag, she wobbles out of the kitchen on her pointy heels. I focus on loading the dishwasher, reminding myself that Mawgan is full of crap. I won’t let her empty threats hurt me because that’s exactly what she wants. I’m a successful cafe owner, I’ve a film crew to deal with in a few weeks, and Cal was going to say something nice too, although he didn’t actually say it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cal
My head throbs as I reach for the clock by the bed. The green digits glow in the gloom. Wednesday 9 October. 09.23. Shit. Is it that late? I need to get up. Those old staff cottages won’t renovate themselves.
I lift my head off the pillow and instantly regret it. Pain pulses in my temples. I’m shivering yet sheened in sweat. No wonder, I’ve woken up to find I’m lying on top of the duvet in my boxers. Last night, after I staggered home from the Tinner’s Arms in the small hours, I must have collapsed on top of the bed. At least I had the presence of mind to get undressed, which is amazing considering I was off my face. I haven’t been to one of the pub’s lock-ins for months. I’d already started to cut back on my drinking since Demi and I got Kilhallon off the ground, and I’m almost back within the so-called ‘healthy’ limit now. Correction, I was in the healthy limit until last night’s lapse.
Last night Demi went out with her mates to see a film in Penzance. I could and should have spent the evening doing the accounts for the resort, but I needed a break too. I only intended to have a quick pint at the pub, but one turned into two, then more, plus a few whiskies as well. Before I knew it, the landlord had locked the doors, joined his regulars for a game of poker and the evening had become early morning.
Snatches of conversation from the night before slowly come back to me, along with scenes from my nightmare and memories of my time in Syria. I remember someone talking about the Harbour Lights Festival in the bar. They reminded me of my conversation with Demi on Monday night before the committee meeting.
I told her I wasn’t having a fun time during last year’s festival. A slight understatement. I remember exactly where I was on that day. I was working in a refugee camp a couple of miles from the front line of a conflict zone, trying to do what I could for hundreds of wounded and displaced people. The sights, the sounds and smells will never leave me. Although I pretend to the people around me that I’ve put that time behind me and it doesn’t affect me, I’m lying.
I’m fully awake now. After I crashed out, some of the events from Syria came back to haunt me in a nightmare; albeit in a bizarre, jumbled way, like a story where the chapters have been swapped around or are missing altogether. I’m not sure why I had a nightmare or why the memories are so vivid and troubling now. Since I returned to Kilhallon, I’ve tried to lock my time in Syria away so I can try to get on with daily life, but it’s impossible to forget. The guilt I feel about what happened that day will never leave me, and perhaps it never should.
Lying in my bed now, I tell myself that my bad dream was probably just the result of too much Doom Bar, too many whisky chasers and a very stupid urge to scoff bacon, egg and black pudding at two o’clock in the morning when I eventually staggered into Kilhallon. I lift my head and see a tangle of sheets at the foot of the bed. I must have kicked them off while I was fighting imaginary attackers in my dream. The new sash window is open a few inches and the curtains flutter against the frame. A cold wind keens around the farmhouse, changing pitch every now and then and making my head hurt even more. It was only a dream, I remind myself, as my throbbing temples send a bolt of nausea straight to my stomach.
Yet the images from that day are still vivid now I’m awake. I remember my friend Soraya lying on top of a pile of bricks and broken furniture. A red checked tablecloth covered her legs; it must have fallen on top of her when the mortar round hit her home. She didn’t have a mark on her beautiful face and her eyes were closed as if she’d lain down to rest and pulled the cloth over her. Her upper body was covered with a fine powder, just as though someone had shaken icing sugar over her.
I’d been blown off my feet by an explosion and when I came round, I spotted her in the clouds of smoke and dust. From a few metres away, I’d almost believed she was asleep. I’d started to cough, my eyes stinging, and then I looked around for her little girl, Esme.
No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see her anywhere.
The sounds and smells come back to me, along with the scene of devastation all round. Clouds of dirt and debris rose up like a fog, yet one that was hot and acrid and burned my throat. My eyes were raw and streaming. Rumbles like thunder shook the ground to one side and the chatter of gunfire echoed on the other. A soldier loomed out of the dust and yelled at me: ‘We’re going. Come with us now or die here.’
I could not move. All I could do was stare at Soraya sleeping on her rubble bed, knowing she’d never wake up. And then I knew what to do and my feet moved: not to run after the soldier but to clamber over the rubble piles to search for Esme. I knew I had to find her and take her back with me to safety.
I clawed at the rubble, looking for her. My knuckles were bleeding. I couldn’t find her. Then I heard the soldiers again, their voices, and realised that they weren’t ‘our’ side, but the insurgents who had shelled the town. I had to leave, or be killed. Instinct told me to run and hope I could find Esme at our camp. So I ran, tears streaming down my face. It was too late. Too late for Soraya, for Esme and for me.
Suddenly, another scene from my nightmare floods my mind and merges with my memories. I was in a dusty room, the sun beating down on the tiled roof, shafts of light piercing the cracks and shining on the dust and blood on the earth floor. A man held my ankles down, the pressure was unbearable. Another face appeared above me with a hose. I remember feeling so thirsty. I couldn’t speak, but I didn’t want this water. I opened my mouth to scream but he pushed a rag over my nose and mouth and the water poured down. I tried to scream but I was drowning – like I was in the cove this summer, only this time there was no Demi to reach in and pull me out.