The Cornish Affair Read online

  Oliver and I had finally cracked the roast onions, thanks to a hard afternoons work, and were writing up the recipe, arguing over oven temperatures and timings, and when it was finished, I excused myself and went into the office. I had a real need for some time alone, and although Oliver had been kindly, and had made me laugh, I needed my own company for a while. I thought that I’d make up some party invitations on the computer, and post them all off, as well as phoning up all and sundry to give them the party date.

  Nancy offered to take Harry and Oliver up on the cliff to do a dolphin watch. It was blissful to be by myself.

  Admittedly, my rather grand plans at invitations didn’t come together. I was woefully ignorant of my computer and really needed Nancy there to make sense of it for me. What the hell is a wizard anyway? I clicked and double clicked, lost my temper and ended up with something set off centre in a suitably hideous typeface called Space Toaster. Oh well, I picked up the phone and leafed through the family address book.

  The very first call was not a great success.

  “Hello, this is Fin, Finisterre Spencer here at Penmorah over at Port Charles and I’m having a party the week after next and I’d love it if you could –“

  “The last time I went to a party at Penmorah, I lost my shoes, my ruby and pearl necklace and my husband, so I do hope you won’t be offended if I say I shall be busy that night washing my hair,” came a wryly amused, though I have to say, slightly bitter sounding female voice.

  “No, no of course not, I umm, well, I’m sorry…” I mumbled into what was obviously a dead phone.

  I shrugged and crossed that one off my list, and undeterred, dialled the next number. No reply, and no answer phone either.

  The next one went a little better.

  “Finisterre Spencer? Good god! You must be fifty by now!” A male voice boomed in my ear, making me wince. I held the phone a little way away from me, and continued to talk.

  “Umm, no not quite, but I’m having a party and-”

  “Is Nancy still with you?”

  “Yes, she is, and would love it if you could come to the party-”

  “Christ almighty, she must be ninety by now!”

  “No, not at all. Anyway, we’d love it if you-”

  “No can do my dear, no can do! I only like being with young things nowadays, you all sound far too old for me!”

  I slammed the phone down. “Nasty old sod,” I muttered.

  Maybe Nancy was right, perhaps all the people had drifted away.

  I had a sudden brain wave. I called the arts club in Penzance and explained the situation, a charming woman was very sympathetic and promised to put up a notice in the bar there, so I invited her, too. She said that all the writers would be drifting in around early evening; she’d make sure they got the invite.

  My next call was to the art workshop at the Tate modern. The man there sounded very nice, and was suitably enthusiastic about a party to celebrate the return of the dolphins, he promised to round up all the arty lot, and bring himself along, as well.

  This was more like it.

  I called a few more bars, a theatre, a couple of antique shops, a hotel, and two pubs. That should cover it.

  Now there was only Port Charles and London to do. That was the easy part, most of the village knew about the party anyway. I decided to call Martha, she was excited about the party, and about Nancy and I coming up to London for a bit of retail therapy.

  “Yes, what a good idea, we’ll have you wearing a super party dress in no time,” she said excitedly.

  “Martha, coming from someone whose idea of modern dressing starts with Queen Victoria, I am slightly worried about your idea of a super party dress – anyway, Nancy’s after a pair of silk harem pants, so you see, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  I heard Martha gurgle with laughter, and the rest of the conversation was taken up with names of shops, and plans for extravagant haircuts.

  Chapter Twelve

  As we sat down for supper that night, Harry announced that perfect as the dolphins had been, he had to be getting back. He and Nancy were leaving in the morning, for an excursion of theatre going, museum browsing, art shopping and book worming.

  This left me alone with Oliver.

  I gave Harry the benefit of a sideways glance from narrowed eyes, which he wisely chose to ignore.

  “Anyway, you and Oliver will get lots of work done, whilst we are away, and then we can all meet up in London for your shopping extravaganza,” Harry blithely said, ignoring my wild look of pleading not to be left here alone with the TV chef.

  There followed a lot of very tedious chat indeed about train times, car journeys and where Nancy was going to stay in London. Harry wanted her company at home, she wanted to go to her club.

  Nancy poured some more wine in her glass and said, “Oh do stop fussing Harry, you know I adore being at the club, it makes me feel so young!”

  I laughed, and thought of the last time I had been there. She was quite right, the combined age of all the members must be well over a thousand years old. It was a leftover anachronism from the 1930’s, and had probably been founded by some suffragettes, all the women were stout and sensible creatures, with discreet pearls and felt hats. They came up from some country pile for a day’s shopping in town, and they liked nothing better than a pink gin and lamb cutlets in the evening, when they would then compare corns and bunions with each other. Amongst the respectable ladies Nancy cut a swathe of glamour and eccentricity. They loved her there.

  “But they never let me in!” wailed Harry.

  “That’s the whole point, as I’ve told you before. No men. Wonderful idea, I might retire there,” Nancy said, sipping her wine.

  There was a general shout of laughter from around the table. The idea of Nancy not being able to flirt with anyone was inconceivable.

  “Well then, Fin, you’ll stay with me when you come to London, won’t you?” Harry said, turning towards me.

  “Love to,” I said promptly.

  It was always a huge pleasure staying with Harry in his supremely comfortable, built for one (and the very occasional guest) purpose built flat. It was a place that oozed comfort, with acres of warm fresh towels in the fragrant bathroom, and had every magazine you could wish for. It was a bit like a very upmarket nursing home, complete with floral arrangements that were changed every few days by the lady that does.

  “Well, that’s settled, then. Now then Fin, promise me you won’t go shopping with Martha, will you? You’ll end up looking like a Tudor queen,” Harry said, topping up his glass and my own.

  I knew what he meant, Martha had extreme views on clothes, and usually pulled it off as she was a tall, angular creature, with the sort of posture that a Spanish Infanta would have envied.

  “Martha Miller, is undoubtedly one of the best food historians in England, and quite sexy, too, in a strangely compelling way, but a party frock buyer, she ain’t.” Oliver agreed, stretching across the table for the wine.

  So, he thought Martha sexy, did he?

  “She thinks you are, too,” I replied.

  Oliver gave a broad grin, and looked like the cat who’d swallowed the cream.

  “Let’s not forget the local girl, Miranda, shall we?” Harry said teasingly to him.

  Oliver gave another face stretching grin, and shrugged, “Can I help it if I am irresistible to women?” he said.

  Don’t be too sure of that, mate, I thought, reaching for another fig from the bowl in the centre of the table. As I picked it up, I then thought of all those dreadful analogies that that particular fruit had, (always written by men, I hasten to add, peculiar men at that, like DH Lawrence –) and dropped it back into the bowl. I really didn’t want to sit through any chat from Harry, Oliver or Nancy about the sexual significance of eating a bloody fig. Yeah, sure they were ripe and sensual to eat, but that really was it. It was only a fruit. Sometimes Sigmund, a cigar is just a cigar.

  “Don’t you have a, umm, well a g
irlfriend Oliver?” Nancy asked, choosing her words with care. I could tell that she was dying to say lover, or partner, or even wife.

  Oliver laughed, “Oh, you know, none that really counts,” he said easily.

  “Why not?” Nancy pursued curiously.

  I smiled to myself. Nancy had once told me that one of the benefits of reaching seventy was that you could interrogate people till they squirm with no embarrassment.

  Harry laughed, and answered for him, “Oh Oliver likes to play the field, don’t you?”

  Oliver shrugged and changed the subject skilfully enough for us not to notice.

  “Tell me more about the dolphins,” he said, turning towards me.

  “Oh, well, the house is called after them, has been for centuries. They’re not a new thing here at all, but they disappear from time to time, and when they return – well, it’s a huge cause for celebration.”

  I leant my elbows on the table, and fiddled with my wine glass. “History has it that they once saved a drowning man, just off the coast here. They kept pushing him to the surface, and nudging him towards the beach, he was so grateful that he built this house, hence the name.”

  “Do you think it’s true?” Oliver asked seriously.

  I considered. “I like to think it’s true, it’s probably one of those misty legends that abound down here, but it could well have happened. Dolphins have been recorded saving humans from the briny.”

  There followed a general discussion about dolphins, most of it complete nonsense as none of us were marine biologists and the scant information we had was made up from half watched documentaries featuring David Attenborough, or half read articles from the National Geographic in periods of intense stress waiting in dentists surgeries.

  I stood up and began to clear the table, Oliver helped me, leaving Nancy and Harry with a bottle of wine between them and an intense discussion going on about an article Nancy had seen years ago in the News of the World about a man who’d been arrested for having had sex with a dolphin.

  As I left the room with a stack of plates, I heard Nancy say in a plaintive voice, “Well, I don’t care what you say Harry, it seems utterly improbable to me…”

  As I scraped the plates in the kitchen, I realised that I was automatically saving scraps for Baxter. I ended up putting all the scraps in the bin, and thinking what a waste it was. Perhaps I should keep pigs, like they all did during the war, and then nothing would go to waste.

  Oliver had rolled his sleeves up and was tackling the washing up in a no nonsense way.

  “First proper job I ever had, apart from my dad’s pub,” he said, “I started at five in the evening and finished when the very last pot was done, usually about three in the morning. The restaurant was called Ma Cuisine, run by two very excitable Frenchmen. God, it was hard work! I had hands like two steamed hams by the end of a shift and foot ache like you wouldn’t believe. Worst job in the restaurant business. Still, I learnt a lot about food there… I got promoted, if you can call it that, after a while, they then had me scrubbing mussels, and after that it was peeling potatoes…again.”

  I picked up a tea towel and started to dry up, trying very hard not to be annoyed that I was doing the drying. I much preferred washing, which, before you say anything, I know is very petty and small minded of me.

  “I had a knife thrown at me once in a kitchen… chefs are very temperamental creatures. They’re usually drunk, or stoned. They work in an environment akin to hell, the pressure is unbearable, and the hours are anti-social… no wonder we all go mad!”

  “Or end up on TV?” I said cheekily, throwing cutlery into a drawer.

  “Touché,” Oliver grinned at me.

  He continued to wash up, doing, I noticed, a very professional job. You know, glasses first, then silverware, then plates, then saucepans. He was even scouring the bits on the outside of the pans, which I didn’t have the heart to tell him had been there for years, and weren’t likely to come off in a hurry.

  “The copper’s going on this,” he said, looking intently at a small sauté pan that was being given a seeing to by him in the sink. “I can send you a new one, if you like. I have quite a few new ones and-”

  “No, no thanks,” I said hastily.

  I was attached to that particular pan. It had been my grandmothers and I remember her cleaning it with a lemon and some salt. I’d cooked the first mushrooms I’d ever picked in it. The handle was so worn away with use that it fitted perfectly into the contours of my hand. I could, if pushed, given you the history of every damn spoon and pan in my kitchen. Absurd, isn’t it?

  Oliver smiled at me, “No? Well, don’t worry I get like that over bits and bobs too. Crazy, huh?”

  I nodded, and smiled at him gratefully. It was quite nice to meet another person who sentimentalised things. There was probably a word for it, and more than likely a support group somewhere, where people sat round agonising over the rusty colander that they couldn’t bear to throw away. Because it had been given to them by their mum, and they’d used it with great joy to strain the potatoes for the first Christmas dinner they’d ever made for their loving husband, the year before he’d walked out on them with his sultry brunette secretary… Oh, you get the picture.

  “Tell me more about the TV show,” I said, propping dry dinner plates back up on the dresser.

  “Well, it’s a funny thing TV. One day your face fits, and the next day it doesn’t. Unless you’re Delia, of course! My problem is, I don’t really have a gimmick, you know, I’m not a boozy Australian, or a ravishing temptress. I don’t drive around Europe in a camper van cooking up local produce in a cleverly contrived picnic at the side of a road. I don’t have long hair and a foul mouthed attitude, nor do I sing, juggle or tap dance. The only thing I’ve got, I suppose, is that I do care about food. I really do. Maybe that comes across, well I hope it does.”

  He looked questioningly at me and I had to confess that I’d never seen his show due to the impossibility of the TV reception at Penmorah.

  He laughed, throwing his head back, shoulders shaking.

  I have to admit, I was quite impressed. Any other so called ‘TV Personality’ usually took themselves so bloody seriously that it made me cringe. Oliver seemed to be different.

  “Of course, the doing stuff to camera on the show takes a bit of concentration. But once you get the hang of it, it’s OK. These ads, though, well, they’re a pain the arse, let me tell you. Anyone would think we were making a Steven Spielberg epic – it’s a nightmare! I even have my own make-up artist, can you imagine?” he laughed again at the absurdity of it all.

  He’d finished the dishes now, and was swabbing down the range and the table. I stifled the desire to tell him that I usually did that once a week, but I was too tired.

  I gave a huge yawn and stretched my arms in front of me, “I’m off to bed, goodnight Oliver.”

  Oliver walked purposefully towards me and kissed me, quite firmly on the mouth, and then stepped back and wished me sweet dreams. It felt as though I’d been stung, I clapped my hand to my mouth and stared at his departing back view as he strode up the hallway. A goodnight kiss, what was that all about? I told myself it was nothing, a goodnight peck that was all. Why was I even thinking about it?

  I drifted up the hallway after him, and put my head round the dining room door to say goodnight to Harry and Nancy. They glanced up at me, Nancy’s silver hair shining in the light of the candles, Harry looking very debonair with a glass of port halfway to his lips. They had spread a pack of tarot cards in front of them and they looked like two character actors from a Peter Greenway film, all they needed was a dagger on the table to complete the picture.

  “Telling Harry’s future, then Nance?” I said, leaning against the door.

  “Hmm, and very interesting it is too, darling. Off to bed?” Nancy said, turning another card over.

  I nodded sleepily and kissed them both good night. On the cheek, I hasten to add.

  “Oh Nancy, I don’t li
ke the look of that one!” Harry said in alarm, pointing at the rather lurid picture on the card.

  “Nonsense, it’s a very lucky card to have, the tower of destruction, all it means is change-”

  “I’ll leave you to it, “I said hastily, knowing that Nancy and Harry could keep this up for hours. “See you in the morning, what time train are you both catching? I’ll drive you to the station.”

  “We’re getting the eleven ten, oh, Harry look at the next one, the King of Cups, now that really is lucky, all that lovely money coming to you from somewhere…”

  I closed the door on them and headed up the stairs. Nancy loved her cards, in any shape of form, but she was far too kindly to say anything terrible to anyone when she read the tarot, and I had noticed that she said the same things to all and sundry when the cards revealed themselves. Harry lapped it up, he was an absolute sucker for any palm reader, or fortune teller around. They must make a fortune from him. He even read his astrology page with an almost religious fervour.

  I lay in bed thinking about the kiss that Oliver had given me. I found that thoughts of the apparently elusive Jace crowded my mind. I prayed that he wasn’t ignoring me, that would make things very awkward. I wasn’t good at dealing with uncomfortable situations. I tended to brace myself for a confrontation (which I inwardly dreaded) or attempted the jokey approach, with mixed confidence that never quite came off.

  Tired as I was, sleep did not come easily. I heard the wind increase outside, and the sound of the sea crashing over the rocks at the foot of the cliff. This was meant to be soporific, I know. I think that you can even buy tapes of it to play to yourself to relax, but somehow it had the opposite effect on me.

  I wondered what the dolphins did in bad weather. Maybe they all gathered together for safety, or maybe they treated the rough water as their own personal Jacuzzi and took it in turns to play in the foam. What did I know? Perhaps I’d go on the internet tomorrow and find out about the sleeping habits of dolphins. Did they even sleep? They must do, I decided, they were mammals, weren’t they? And all mammals sleep. I think.