Summer at the Cornish Cafe: The perfect summer romance for 2018

Slowly, the feeling returns to my limbs. The early morning sea mist has seeped through my clothes and I’m sure someone used the doorway as a toilet during the night. I hope that’s not why my sleeping bag is so damp.

‘Well, you bloody well can’t stay here. I daren’t have you back to work at the cafe but I’ve heard about something on the grapevine that might suit you. It comes with accommodation.’

I stand up, wincing at the pins and needles in my feet. ‘Really?’

‘Don’t get too excited. It might not come to anything and it was only a word from a friend. She works at a caravan site.’

‘A caravan site? Er … that sounds interesting, but if there’s work going?’

She grimaces. ‘It’s in the back of beyond, which is why I shouldn’t get too excited, but you never know. Come to the cafe for a bit of breakfast before we open. I don’t care if Mawgan Cade sees you. I’ll throw something over her myself if she says anything.’

At the mention of breakfast, Mitch jumps to his paws. I gather up my sleeping bag and my rucksack and follow Sheila. I lied to her. There is no friend or parents’ house. There never was. I’ve been sleeping rough for the past three days since the run-in with Mawgan. Since I left home after a falling out with my dad and his new partner, and had to leave my previous job, I’ve never been in one place long enough – not even a shop doorway – to make long-term friends, and definitely not ones with room to put me and Mitch up. As for the housing office, I want to try and find my own live-in job first. There are hundreds of people who need council accommodation a lot more than I do.

Sheila slaps a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me and refills my mug of coffee. ‘Here you are. Get that down you.’

Mitch has already demolished a bowl of Chum and is snoring in a patch of early morning sun.

The smell of crispy bacon fills my nostrils. ‘You’ve got to open in an hour. I should go when I’ve had this.’

‘Not until I know you won’t be on the streets.’

‘Have you got the number of this friend with the caravan site?’

She scribbles on an order slip. ‘Here it is. It’s called Kilhallon Holiday Park.’

‘Never heard of it? Where is it?’

Sheila grins as I lick a trail of egg yolk from the corner of my mouth.

‘Around five miles out of town on the coast road. Like I said, I’m not sure the job will suit you but any port in a storm, as they say, and I’ve heard they’re looking for a live-in worker.’

‘What about Mitch?’

‘It’s in the country, so they might be more accommodating of him. Polly’s lived there for years and I expect she’ll tell you more. All I know so far is that the owner of the place has decided to re-launch the park and needs someone to help out fast so I guess that means they want someone cheap too. So don’t let them exploit you.’ Sheila wipes her hands on some kitchen paper.

‘I won’t. Can I use your laptop and do a bit of research on it? Then I can call this Polly woman when they open. If the job’s not advertised yet, I want to get in there first before anyone else.’

‘Course you can but don’t get your hopes up. Kilhallon Park may not be what it was.’ She smiles.

‘They haven’t seen me yet, have they? I could be exactly what they need.’

She shakes her head and laughs. ‘Good luck. You and Mitch … and by the way, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you want to have a shower and freshen up, first?’

With my damp hair wrapped in one of Sheila’s fluffy towels, I put down the phone. Mr Penwith must be really keen for staff because Polly Tregothnan said he’d meet me this afternoon in St Trenyan. She asked for some details so I gave my address as the Beach Hut and said that Sheila had to let me go for ‘financial reasons’ but was happy to give me a reference.

Not that Polly listened much, she was too busy barking at me and telling me ‘not to be late as Mr Penwith was a busy man’ and ‘had I written down the name of the chain coffee bar he’d meet me at because young people these days never listened to anything in her experience.’ She claimed to be his PA but she sounded more like his mother, to be honest.

Sheila says Polly can be a ‘bit of a Tartar’, whatever the hell that is, but also reckons Polly has a ‘heart of gold’ which probably means she’s even scarier than she sounded on the phone. I also decided not to mention Mitch at this stage of our conversation.

After I left the cafe, with an extra bacon butty wrapped in foil and some pouches of food for Mitch, I hung around town looking for waitressing job ads in the cafe windows but in all honesty I liked the sound of working at a holiday park far more. There ought to be more opportunities, despite what Sheila said about not getting my hopes up.

The meeting is scheduled for twelve-thirty so by twelve-fifteen, I’ve already bagged a table outside a big name coffee bar, and I’m pretending to read the newspaper. However, I don’t think I’ve taken in a single word my stomach is churning so much. Half-past twelve comes and goes, and my hands are smudged with the newsprint. It’s now almost quarter to one and I push the paper away, nerves taking over my brain completely. I glance up the street for the umpteenth time, my heart banging away every time any lone bloke approaches the cafe. I don’t even know how old Mr Penwith is. He could be anything from thirty to seventy.

The woman who’s clearing the tables comes over to me. ‘Are you going to buy anything?’

‘Yeah but I’m just waiting for a … colleague.’

She raises an eyebrow.

‘He should be here soon,’ I say firmly.

‘Course he will be.’ She shrugs and goes to clear the neighbouring tables.

It’s ten to one now, and there’s still no sign of Mr Penwith. Has he changed his mind? Has he already got someone else? Has word of the frappuccino incident already spread beyond St Trenyan? Do Mawgan Cade’s tentacles reach as far as Kilhallon park?

I laugh out loud, but it’s only nerves and my heart sinks again.

‘He isn’t coming,’ I say to Mitch, who dozes in a pool of sunlight.

Wait. A man has caught my eye. He’s hanging about outside the Shell Shop on the opposite side of the street but he’s watching the cafe and frowning. He wears jeans and a white shirt and a jacket: smart casual. He’s not seventy, that’s for sure. He checks his watch, seems to make a decision and weaves between the queuing cars to my side of the street.

Slowing his pace, he walks up to the outside tables and glances around him. Oh my God, surely he can’t be Mr Penwith?

Yet by the way he scans the customers, it has to be.

I jump up. ‘Mr Penwith?’

He looks at me, his tanned forehead creases and his eyes flicker to Mitch. ‘Don’t I know you?’ he says.

‘Oh God, yes … and I’ve seen you. You were at the cafe when I … That was a one-off, of course. I don’t usually chuck stuff over customers … I mean, that’s not how I usually behave when I’m working …’

His expression doesn’t change which is not a great sign. ‘So you’re Ms Jones?’

I squirm with embarrassment. ‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. I see. You’re not what I was expecting.’

‘What were you expecting?’

‘Someone …’ His voice trails off.

‘Older?’ My heart sinks.

He nods. ‘I guess so. More experienced.’

‘I told your PA I had extensive catering experience. She mentioned you wanted someone who could turn their hand to a multitude of tasks.’

‘My PA?’ He frowns. I don’t think he’s over thirty but he already has fine lines in his face.

‘Mrs Tregothnan?’

‘Ah, you must mean Polly. I was thinking of someone with admin skills and previous experience of running a business like a holiday park.’

‘I’ve had plenty of experience of dealing with tourists and the public and I can definitely multitask.’ He raises his eyebrows, probably recalling my ability to chase off seagulls, throw a frappuccino over a customer and get the sack, all within five minutes, but I press on. ‘Look, Mr Penwith, You’ve come into town and we’ve both made time from our schedules so you may as well interview me now.’

‘My schedule?’ He smiles and immediately I revise my original opinion of him as being a surf hipster. He doesn’t look how he sounds. His face is tanned, his hair is dark brown with a hint of natural highlights from the sun. It’s also wild without the beanie to tame it and suddenly I realise that he reminds me a little bit of a hot vampire from a TV show that I used to watch when I lived at home. That seems a very long time ago now.

‘Shall we have a coffee and discuss the role in more detail?’ I ask, more in hope than expectation, while trying to banish the words Hot Vampire from my mind in case they slip out by accident.

He sighs and his mouth curves into that smile-that-isn’t-really-a-smile thing again. ‘As we’ve both cleared a spot in our busy schedules, I suppose it won’t do any harm.’

He drops a set of car keys on the table. The key fob is a bit of polished wood tied to them with an old piece of string. ‘So, Ms Demi Jones,’ he says, turning the words over like they’re treasure. My name sounds almost sexy in his accent. ‘What’s that short for?’

‘Demelza,’ I mutter, cringing at having to reveal it. ‘It was my nan’s name and I loved my nan but I’ve always hated it myself. No one else at school was called anything so weird,’ I say, trying to get a grip. How did I not notice how gorgeous he was at the cafe? ‘Just Demi will do.’

He smiles. ‘Fine. I’m Cal. Short for Calvin, also an old family name that I could have done without.’ He holds out his hand. I take it, feeling self-conscious even though the contact is firm but brief. His skin is warm but his palms are rough like he’s been working a lot with them recently.

His bushy eyebrows knit together. ‘What’s the matter?’

Feeling my face heat up, I glance away. ‘Nothing.’

I shrug because there’s no way I’m going to tell my potential new employer that he looks like a hot vampire, even if he does. He runs his hand through his thick hair. ‘Want a coffee and we can talk?’ he offers, still sounding unsure if it’s a good idea to interview me.

‘Yes. I’ll get them.’ I dig in my purse and hold out one of the precious notes.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get these,’ he says and disappears into the dark of the cafe. My stomach gurgles and Mitch’s wet nose pokes at the threadbare patch on the knee of my jeans.

He sets down coffees and cake on the table and I try not to devour them like a ravenous beast. After we’ve finished, he examines me like I’m some weird creature he discovered in the jungle. I swallow the last of my cake as he sips his espresso. The silence is killing me.

‘Sheila’s Beach Hut wasn’t my first job, you know. I’ve a lot more experience than that.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘I worked in a cafe in Truro for a couple of years. I started off by clearing the tables and washing-up then they trained me as cook.’

‘I bet you were a good cook.’

‘Not bad. What makes you say that?’

He smiles. ‘You obviously like cake.’

‘Thanks! I didn’t only make cakes. I made wicked pasties, lovely quiches and pies and I already had some training and my hygiene certificate which is why Sheila took me on. She was going to send me to catering college to do some more courses.’

He checks his watch. I feel as if I’m about to lose something important.

‘Are you in a hurry?’

‘A bit. I need to go to the bank to sort out my account.’

‘Does it have lots of money in it?’ I meant this comment as a joke but I blush the moment the words are out of my mouth. Cal laughs, but not like what I said was funny. ‘I doubt it, unless someone dumped a load of extra cash in it that I don’t know about while I was away.’

A penny drops in my mind. ‘Away? Was that while you were in the army?’

‘No, I wasn’t in the army. Why would you think that?’

‘When I saw you at the cafe you were in combat gear with one of those big bags soldiers carry.’

He smiles. ‘Anyone can get that stuff at an army surplus store. I used to work for a medical aid charity.’

‘I don’t need aid,’ I say quickly.

He smiles. ‘I’m sure you don’t. On the contrary, the way you handled Mawgan Cade, I doubt you need any help at all.’

‘You know her?’

‘Yes.’ He reaches for his car keys from the table. ‘Look, thanks for meeting me but I’m not sure you’re quite what I’m looking for.’

I panic. ‘Wait! You don’t really know what you’re looking for, do you?’

He stares at me, as if I just said the cleverest thing in the world. ‘Maybe not but I do need someone who can do everything. It’s a – um – fledgling business and it’s going to take a lot of energy and enthusiasm to get it off the ground. There’s a lot to learn. For both of us,’ he adds.

‘Then I’d be perfect. I want to develop my career in leisure and tourism too.’ I fold my arms in what I hope is a confident gesture.

He hesitates. ‘Even if you did work for me, I can’t afford to pay you much.’

I sense he’s weakening so I move in for the kill. ‘We can negotiate on the terms. I’ve never been afraid of hard work.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t.’

‘And I won’t throw stuff over the customers. It was only Mawgan who got my back up.’

He smiles, properly this time, and my stomach does a funny little flip but it’s only the excitement and adrenaline of being so very close to getting this job and a new home.

‘Believe me, you can throw a whole bucket of anything over Mawgan. However, on a serious note, in addition to dealing with customers, there’d be a lot of fetching and carrying and cooking and cleaning and boring admin. We all have to muck in at Kilhallon.’

‘I can do all that.’

‘What about building work?’ He eyes my skinny arms as if they’re twigs. ‘Any experience in gardening? Plastering? Roofing? Carpentry?’

‘I can learn,’ I say defiantly.

He stares at me, biting his lip briefly. He is wavering. ‘Yes, I’m sure you could but you won’t have to, that was a joke.’

I try to laugh but I’m too wound up, waiting for a definite offer.

‘I’m afraid the accommodation is a bit poky. It’s only a little cottage.’

‘A cottage?’ I try not to get too excited.

‘A tiny cottage that needs refurbishing. I’m sure you’d want something bigger and smarter,’ he adds.

‘No way. I mean … I’m sure I could manage if I had to and I could refurbish it myself. Look, everyone deserves a second chance, don’t they? And let’s face it, you look like someone who needs the help fast; or why would you have come straight down here today to interview me? Give me a trial period – we can both see how we like each other and if you change your mind or I do, there are no hard feelings. Go on, take the risk, live dangerously.’

He leans back in his chair, his eyes wide. Even before I finish speaking, I realise I’ve probably gone too far, ruined my chances again with my big mouth and my attitude.

‘I must be mad,’ he mutters.

Well, I think that’s an offer. I try not to punch the air in triumph.

‘I can’t offer you much money – not much more than the living wage – until I get the place back on its feet, which could be a while, if any time,’ he says, jangling his keys.

I point to Mitch who pricks up his ears at the mention of his name. ‘What about Mitch? He’d need accommodating too,’ I say, fizzing with triumph, knowing I have the upper hand now.

‘Right. Well, of course, I suppose Mitch can come too. I need a dog that can pull his weight.’

‘He doesn’t work.’

‘OK, then I need a dog who can look appealing and pathetic.’

‘You won’t regret this,’ I say, wanting to run round the cafe terrace shouting ‘yessss!’.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. ‘No … but you might.’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘This is your car?’

Demi wrinkles her nose as I kick the brick from under the front wheel of the Land Rover. I don’t trust the hand brake on the sloping car park perched above St Trenyan harbour, until I can get the car serviced.

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘You should lock it. There are thieves around.’

‘One, the door lock’s busted and two, do you really think anyone would want to steal this?’

She takes a longer look at the rusting paintwork, the dented side panel and bumper hanging off and curls her lip. ‘For scrap, maybe.’

I’d like to smile at Demi – she has a habit of making me want to smile – but my facial muscles seem to have seized up after my trip to the bank. Demi took Mitch for a run on the beach while I saw the manager. The probate from my father’s estate was sorted out before I left, and I’ve transferred most of his legacy from my savings to a business account. There wasn’t a huge amount but I own Kilhallon Park and with careful management and some extra investment, I should be able to make the changes I need to re-develop the site. I open the rear door. ‘Mitch can travel in style.’

‘In you go,’ she says, as Mitch hangs back. ‘Come on, get in, you daft dog.’

‘Maybe he’s worried about getting into a strange man’s car,’ I say.

‘He’s probably got more sense than I have.’

Demi hesitates too, her arms folded, her chestnut hair flying in the wind, like the flames of a bonfire.

‘I’m not desperate, you know.’

‘I know you’re not desperate.’ Actually, I think she may be more desperate than she’d ever let on but I can’t take advantage of that: she deserves better, and I don’t want to exploit her. There’s enough of that going on round here from what I can see.

She laughs at me. ‘It’s too late to back out now, Cal Penwith.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Now, get in. We’ve got a lot to do,’ I say, more gruffly than I mean to.

The Land Rover groans up the steep hill from the harbour and onto the moor road. The tax has run out, though Polly told me I can do it online now, and its last MOT was before I went off on my last aid project. I’ll sort it all out soon, for now I have more pressing concerns. I glance at Demi but she’s staring out of the window.

‘How long had you been sleeping rough before you started working for Sheila?’

She turns sharply. ‘How do you know I was sleeping rough?’

‘I can tell someone who has had a tough time. I worked for a charity, remember?’

She shrugs. ‘I do but I told you, I’m not a charity project.’

‘I know that.’

A glance tells me she’s staring out of the window again but then she finally answers. ‘I slept rough for a couple of months.’

‘In St Trenyan?’

‘Truro too. Penzance for a week or two but here mostly.’

Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed her but I’d like to know more about the new employee who’s going to be sharing my home. ‘Any particular reason?’

She waits before replying. ‘I fancied a change, I suppose.’

I leave it, figuring she’ll tell me more when she’s ready. I’m hardly in a sharing mood myself and more importantly, Kilhallon is around the next corner. The road dips, curves sharply and the Land Rover shudders its way around the bend, then I press the gas pedal to the floor to make it up the other side of the hill. I turn the wheel sharply and we rattle over a cattle grid through two stone pillars that frame a narrow gap in the wall. The sign lies on the ground by the pillars but half the letters have weathered away so it now reads Kil l Park.

‘Oh my God,’ Demi mutters.

‘What’s up?’

‘Sheila said this was the back of beyond and now I know what she means.’

‘That’s how I like it.’

‘You must do … I mean, it’s, er, very peaceful and wild out here.’

While steering the Land Rover between the larger potholes, I try to keep a straight face while taking a sneaky glance at her. She holds her rucksack tightly in her lap while Mitch starts snuffling and whimpering in the back. When I put out the feelers for a new assistant, I never bargained on someone like Demi, let alone a great shaggy hound. I’ve no idea what variety he is.

She lets out a squeal as the Land Rover bounces over a particularly deep rut and into a pool of water. ‘There’s no need to look so terrified,’ I say.

‘I wasn’t until you said that.’

‘Thanks.’ I turn the engine back on and coax the Land Rover out of the puddle. ‘Soon be there.’

She wrinkles her nose. It’s a very pretty nose, I have to admit, even though it’s turned up at the moment. Freckles dot her face; she’s so vulnerable and yet fierce too. An image flashes into my mind out of nowhere of a painting my mother hung at Kilhallon of a beautiful girl floating in a river, surrounded by willow trees.

I stop the car in the middle of the yard that was once our car park. Demi stares at the dandelions and grass sprouting between the gravel.

‘Is that it?’

‘Yup.’ I jump down onto the yard, wondering if she’s ever going to get out of the car. Finally I open the door and she slides down reluctantly from the passenger seat, her rucksack in her arms. She looks around her, at the old office block on one side of the yard, and the peeling wooden veranda that served as our reception and the moss-coated 1970s touring caravan blocking the entrance to the barn.

‘You said it was a holiday park …’ she says, her eyes widening as she takes it all in.

‘It was. It is. There’s a lot more to the place than this.’

She glances at me, agonised.

Still clutching her rucksack, she wanders up to the barn, eyes wide at the decaying, tumbledown wreck that confronts her. I wouldn’t blame her if she turned right round and ran back to St Trenyan.

‘I can see we have a lot of work to do,’ she says.

‘You did say you weren’t afraid of it.’

As she walks towards the reception, Mitch scoots past her to a pile of rusting signage that once read ‘Welcome to Kilhallon Park. Your holiday starts here.’

Then he cocks his leg and proudly pisses all over the signs.

I don’t blame Demi for being less than impressed by Kilhallon but when someone who’s been sleeping in a shop doorway is shocked by the state your place is in, well, there’s something seriously wrong. I was a bit taken aback myself when I walked home from Bosinney after crashing Uncle Rory’s birthday party. Though I have to say that the state of my house was somewhat dwarfed by the state of my mind on finding out that I’d lost my girl to my best mate, and it was all my own fault.

Now I’m seeing the place through fresh eyes – Demi’s – and the scale of the task that lies ahead of me comes painfully into focus. Resurrecting Kilhallon is going to be a huge challenge. Why would anyone want to come here on holiday when it’s in this state? After my meeting at the bank I’ve also decided I’ll need to drum up some extra money to refurbish the place in the way I want to.

I know Polly thinks I’ve gone mad but I need to focus on something or I really will go nuts. I can’t do anything about Isla for now but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on her. She’s not married yet; there’s still time for her to change her mind, although I’m sure Luke would have something to say if he knew how I felt. I keep trying – and failing – to feel guilty about my resentment of him. I ought to wish him well, but the pain is still too raw and I can’t see our relationship healing any time soon.

But first, Demi.

‘There’s Polly,’ I say as our housekeeper bustles out of the front door. She looks younger since she dyed her hair an ash blonde while I’ve been away. The neat bob has taken years off her, not that I’d dare risk such a personal remark to her. However, judging by the glare on her face, she doesn’t look ready to roll out the red carpet for our new employee. But Mitch seems to have taken to Polly and races forward and leaps up at her.

‘Get that dog off me!’ Polly’s from hardy Cornish farming stock. She’s a formidable woman, even though she’s now in her mid-fifties. She pushes Mitch away, not roughly but firmly enough to startle him.

Demi dashes forward and grabs Mitch’s lead. ‘Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.’