The Cornish Affair Page 14

  I snorted with laughter, “You mean ylang ylang Sam.”

  “Whatever it is, it fair turns me stomach. Scented candles, I ask you!”

  Oliver appeared in the kitchen doorway laden down like a pack horse.

  “Are we ready?” he asked.

  I saw that he was carrying his suitcase, and I had a sinking feeling.

  “Are you leaving?” I asked.

  He grinned at me, “I have to make every attempt to get back to London tomorrow, otherwise Boo will kill me.”

  Who the bloody hell was Boo? It sounded like a dog, but I knew it couldn’t be due to his damn allergies.

  “Sorry, Boo’s my producer. We start shooting the next series the day after tomorrow, and then the TV ads, so, you see, I have to leave.”

  Sam grunted. “I wouldn’t ‘old your breath boy, the roads an that are somethin’ awful. Now come on yous two, let’s go.”

  I pleaded for another five minutes, as I ran around Penmorah locking windows and closing doors.

  I heard Sam calling for me so I hurried downstairs and zipped myself into that most unattractively designed garments in the world – the waterproof. We distributed the bags amongst ourselves, and as I closed the front door of Penmorah behind me, so the thunder began to roll again. It was some way in the distance, but we all found ourselves looking nervously at the sky, trying to judge if it was coming this way again.

  The rain was heavy, and as we skirted the turn of the drive, I caught a glimpse of the destruction in the woods. Trees had fallen along the drive, and we had to climb through the branches. It was a curious topsy turvy experience, clambering through the top branches of a tree. What had only been touched by the birds, was now under our feet.

  I should have felt sad, I know. But in a strange way it was exhilarating. The rain was stinging full in our faces as we struggled through the fallen debris, and as we pulled the bags over the branches of a fallen sycamore, I slipped, and fell down hard on my bottom.

  “Ouch, that bloody hurt!” I complained, as Oliver and Sam hauled me to my feet.

  “Once we get in the lane, we’m be alright, no trees along there,” Sam said encouragingly.

  He was right, the high hedgerows of the lane protected us well from the rain and wind, but the water underfoot made the going treacherously slippery. Rivulets of water were streaming downhill, pushing the sandy looking soil along with it. Huge puddles were in the ruts of the lane, now overflowing. We scrambled and slipped our way downwards. The road at the end of the lane leading into Port Charles was under an inch of water, but the walking was easier once we were on tarmac.

  There were no lights on in any of the cottages that we passed, but there were a few glimmers of candles in windows.

  “Do you think we should stop at Mrs Trevellyon’s?” I said loudly, to make myself heard over the rain and wind.

  “Doris be with ‘er,” Sam shouted back, anxious to get home.

  As we turned into Port Charles, I could see only one small fishing boat being hurled around on its moorings in the small harbour and great gouts of water were flowing from the road over the cobbled hard into the sea. The Ram had never looked so welcoming, despite the pub sign swinging wildly in the wind. We burst through the door, gasping for breath.

  A wall of heat and light hit us, and we struggled to remove our wet coats. Baxter was wildly excited to see me, and I picked him up to give him a hug. He behaved almost like a normal dog for a minute of two, he waggled his tail and even licked my hands. He soon squirmed to be put down, making a bee line back to his cushion where he settled down with a grunt.

  The pub was quiet, the only people who were in there were Pritti and her two daughters. They sat huddled by the fireplace, with Nelson’s cage that was draped with a towel. They looked very glum.

  “Pritti, how are you? What happened?” I asked, sitting next to her and putting my arm around her shoulders.

  “Floods, we are used to those, the monsoons at home are terrible, but this, this wind, this thunder! I do not like it Fin, I do not like it at all. My roof, phhh!” she waved her hand over her head, “Gone! Just like that! No warning, nothing! Terrible, I tell you…” she wiped away a tear with one hand. Her two daughters tried to comfort her, but she brushed them aside.

  “Where’s Jace?” I asked.

  “He is struggling with Will to cover the roof with a tarpaulin, but I wish he would come in. It is too windy and dangerous out there…”

  I glanced at Oliver, who raised his eyebrows at me, and gestured with his head, offering to go and get him.

  I nodded.

  I heard the pub door close behind me.

  “Right, OK. Let me dump these bags, and let’s go in to the kitchen Pritti. That OK with you Sam?” I said.

  He nodded, going to the window and looking out at the ever rising stream of water pouring down the street.

  “Got any sandbags?” I asked.

  “Yes. Time to get ‘em, do you reckon?”

  I ushered Pritti into the kitchen, setting her and her daughters to work. I knew that everyone would be in The Ram tonight, and we had to feed them. I also knew that Pritti wanted to feel useful, and would be better off working than worrying.

  I went to help Sam build a small wall out of the exceedingly heavy sandbags that he’d got in his cellar.

  I was very soon out of breath, lugging the bags up the steep dark stairs of the pub. I placed a lit candle in the cellar, and the flickering flame lit up the dirty brick ceiling. I bet this place had seen some stories; it was a perfect smugglers den. We heaved the last bag into place, and went to peer outside at the weather. Dusk had given way to night, and the rain was still falling steadily.

  I saw three hooded figures splashing down the road towards us. Jace, Will and Oliver were heading back. Sam sighed, and pulled on his rainproof again.

  “I’ll do the rounds, reckon they’ll have to come with me,” he said.

  “OK, don’t forget Breadpudding, her bungalow is near the river, isn’t it?”

  Sam nodded, and went out to meet the others. I saw Oliver raise his hand to me in a wave, and I waved back, calling out that they should bring everyone back who didn’t have any food for a meal. Sam raised his hand in acknowledgement, and they went down the road. I stared up at the sky again, willing it to stop raining. Oh well, at least the wind had dropped.

  I lifted the corner of the towel that was slung over Nelsons cage and put my hand through the bars to ruffle his feathers. His yellow eyes opened momentarily.

  “Hello Nelson, are you alright then?”

  True to form, Baxter, who had been happily asleep, but could sense an opportunity for misplaced jealousy even when chasing rabbits in his dreams, trotted across the floor and barked.

  “Oh stop it Baxter,” I said reaching down to stroke him, which I know before you say anything is wrong as all the dog behaviour books say that you are merely re-enforcing bad behaviour with a reward. Which is all very well, but exhausting in the long run.

  Nelson put his head on one side and opened his beak, ready to screech. I hurriedly replaced the towel, and shooed Baxter back to his cushion, and made my way behind the bar to the kitchen.

  “Jace is going to get married, Jace is going to get married,” Nelsons voice squawked for under his cover.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  Was he now? Well… I knew that Nelson would pick up anything that was repeated often enough. Maybe this was all that was being said in the Rampersauds quarters?

  I walked slowly into the kitchen, in a daze.

  I started to chop vast quantities of spinach for a vegetable curry that Pritti was making. She had ample time to scold her two daughters, Samina and Sunita into submission and was, as far as I could tell, thoroughly enjoying herself.

  Rich aromatic smells were wafting around, and it made me realise how hungry I was. I stole a taste of a lentil dish that Samina was making, and then a bit of chapatti from the every growing stack that Sunita was in charge of. Delicious. Pret
ty much all of Port Charles adored curry, I think it must a national trait, I really don’t know anyone who doesn’t. But just in case, I quickly peeled some potatoes to mash to go along with the now de-frosted venison casserole. It was hard to know how many we were catering for, but quite a few, I guessed.

  Pritti was chattering away, mostly about the terrible state of her roof, and what damage it would cause, and I wondered how I could pop the subject of Jace into the conversation without it seeming to be obvious. I then decided I was being completely ridiculous, after all, until a week or so ago I would quite naturally have asked after him – so what had changed? Well, quite a lot… but no-one else need know that, I reasoned.

  All my thoughts of asking about him ceased for a moment as we all stopped what we were doing at a sound that was familiar to us in Port Charles. A helicopter was flying very low overhead. It was an air ambulance, we all rushed to the door to see what direction it was going in. The rain made it hard to see, but from the sound of the chopper which had disappeared from view behind The Ram, I guessed it was near the farm.

  We stepped back inside and went to prod and stir various dishes in the kitchen. I put Samina and Sunita in charge of finding as many plates and cutlery as they could manage to lay out on the bar. I guided Pritti to a seat by the fire. She looked exhausted.

  “Aiyee!” she complained, as she sank down in her seat, “Oh my poor feet! How I wish that Jace would come back, I worry, you know-”

  “Well, do try not to, Pritti. I know he’s fine, he’s out helping everyone, same as Sam, and Oliver. It really could be worse, you know, at least it’s not winter and freezing cold, think how awful that would be!”

  She smiled at me, and we both wondered aloud who the helicopter was for.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” I said, praying that everyone was OK and the helicopter was picking up something minor like a sprained ankle or something.

  When the pub door opened, I expected to see the men back. I wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of Miranda and her children.

  Baxter made a low growling noise in his throat – he’s had experience of the two devil children before. Admittedly, they looked divine, but as we all know appearances can be deceiving. Sienna, who was about nine, and Willow (and people ask what’s in a name?) who was seven going on a very delinquent fifteen started to rampage around the pub.

  “Oh it was just, like, so dismal at home, we had to get out, didn’t we kids? And with no electricity or anything we didn’t know what to do – so here we are!”

  I noticed that Miranda who only ever put on some sort of homemade face cream made from crushed seaweed and rancid yoghurt was in full fig, including a dark red Dior lipstick. Her eyes were scanning the pub, looking, I assumed for Oliver or Jace. Or both.

  I rescued Sienna from helping herself to a packet of crisps from behind the bar, telling her very firmly that she wasn’t allowed behind this wooden barrier, or Sam would lose his license. I warded off Willow from poking Nelson through the bars of his cage with a biro, telling them both that Nelson and Baxter were capable of really hurting them and to leave them alone.

  Miranda gave me a pitying smile, and said “Oh, you know, I think kids have to find things out for themselves really, there’s no point in being fascist about rules and stuff.”

  I was saved from behaving like Mussolini by Baxter giving Willow a nip on the ankle after she’d poked his eye with the biro I’d tried to take from her. She burst into tears and Baxter slunk towards me, tail wagging delightedly.

  “Good dog,” I said, bending down to stroke him, checking out at the same time that Willow’s skin wasn’t broken (it wasn’t) but she was trying to make it worse by pushing her (red) biro into her leg, and squealing at the top of her voice that “It hurts, Randa, it hurts like buggery!”

  Miranda was soothing her by telling her that the nice woman (I looked around wondering who the hell she was talking about, and then figured it must be me, because Pritti was smothering her giggles in the corner of the pub and avoiding eye contact with anyone) would say sorry to her and then get her something really nice to eat.

  I sighed as I turned away in time to stop Sienna kicking the paint off the bottom of the door.

  Feeding Port Charles I really didn’t mind, but playing nanny to these two monsters was beyond me. I had a sudden brainwave. I whispered to Samina and Sunita that I would give them twenty quid each if they took the children upstairs and kept them out of trouble and quiet for a while.

  Samina looked doubtfully at them. “Make it twenty five, and it’s a deal.”

  The door of the pub opened again and one by one the orphans of the storm limped in. Oliver was carrying Mrs Trevellyon, much to her scandalised delight and Sam and Will were helping Doris with a large bundle of clothes and pictures.

  “She’m wouldn’t leave them behind,” Doris gasped, piling the belongings up in a corner of the pub.

  They looked like a bunch of refugees.

  “It’s high tide, and the rain’s getting’ worse,” Sam said grimly, moving to his customary place behind the bar.

  Miranda, who was patting her hair and smiling at Oliver, brightened again when Jace appeared, with Richard and his mother. They all looked very worried.

  “The helicopter – it were for Breadpuddin’ an ‘er ‘usband,” Richard informed us importantly, “She’m got a broken leg, ‘es gone with ‘er.”

  A few more villagers arrived, carrying food and candles, photos and silver teapots. The pub soon took on the air of an eccentric immigrant’s camp, Pritti and I doled out food.

  Oliver was behind the bar with Sam, having a whispered conversation to do with Sam giving everyone a drink and Oliver paying for it. I could tell that Sam’s pride didn’t like this, but on the other hand, the pub was getting full, and money, as ever here, was tight.

  Oliver got his way and soon foaming pints or glasses of dark spirits were in everyone’s hands. The candles were all lit, and if it wasn’t for the worry etched on the faces it could well have been a party.

  The talk was, of course, centred around the storm.

  “Not in bleedin’ Kansas, are we?”

  “Global warmin’.”

  “What about the weather forecast? Never said nothin’!”

  There was a chorus of sympathetic moans from most of the women, as the local TV weather man, a suspiciously deeply tanned smoothie was a housewives favourite.

  “Not be his fault!” Doris cried, “I reckon’s it’s all some computer’s fault in London, no offence, Oliver.”

  There as a shout of laughter at this, which after the afternoon we’d all had was a relief to hear.

  The pub door was opening with regularity now, and more news was filtering in. The shops down by the harbour were flooded, the roof of the church, now art gallery, was gone, the defunct tin mine chimney had toppled, and trees littered the roads, and to my secret delight, there were no trains.

  The pub was a roar of gossip and speculation, and the noise level had risen dramatically. It all died down, though, with the next person to enter The Ram.

  An elderly woman, her hair still jet black and curly, a dark red shawl pulled tightly round her shoulders, streaming with water stood in the doorway. She was living proof, if any were needed that centuries ago the Phoenicians had traded the precious Cornish tin, her blood was definitely foreign, although she was born and bred here. Her dark colouring, the set of her eyes, and the high cheekbones all told the tale of ancient traders. She stared slowly round the pub, taking in the glasses and food, the smiles, and the atmosphere.

  “He’m still not be back,” she said simply.

  We all felt a jolt of guilt and fear.

  It was Judith Pharaoh, Kev the Beard’s wife.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Judith was not a popular person in Port Charles. It was difficult to pin point why exactly – but she wasn’t. I suppose in any small, tightly knit community there is always one person that just simply doesn’t fit. It could be said that e
ccentricities are not welcomed, but this wasn’t true… Nancy and I were certainly not like the rest of the village, but then again, we had the tradition of the big house, the squire, the gentry, whatever it is that it is now called, behind us and we were tolerated. No, more than that, we were indulged. Our eccentricities were something to boast of and be treasured. But Judith? No.

  Her manner was not sympathetic; she didn’t mix with the other villagers, when Kev was at sea she kept herself to herself. Her two sons had left Cornwall and had gone ‘up country’. One was a builder in Plymouth and the other one, the ‘shirt lifter’ was a hairdresser in London.

  Rumour had it that Judith drove them away with her silent manner, her coldness, and that her house was dirty (although I would like to state that all Port Charles women were obsessed with cleanliness. In all houses, with the possible exception of Miranda’s, and the certain exception of Penmorah, you could quite literally eat off the floor. If you didn’t mind the slight hint of disinfectant, that is, tainting your lunch.)

  Worse than all of that was the rumour that she made a monthly trip to Bozcastle. This will mean nothing to you of course, unless you are Cornish… Let me explain.

  Bozcastle is a tiny harbour town in the north of Cornwall. It’s a pretty, tourist holiday village. It boasts a fantastic ice cream shop, a few pubs, a dubious chip shop, a picture postcard harbour and a pretty hysterical witches museum.

  The museum is that lethal combination of semi truth and badly displayed artefacts, inducing the giggles in sophisticated emmets. Scantily clad mannequins dressed in 1970 Anne Summers risqué lingerie drink fake blood from a plastic chalice. Sad stuffed cats, ritualistic daggers, besom brooms and faded tracts of history jostle for space in a wooden hut. Then there’s the shop attached to the museum, now that is fun – you can buy spells and potions, love charms and talismans, oh yes, they do a very attractive pointy black hat too, for toddlers. That’s about it. We all smile knowingly at it, and mostly ignore it.

  Apart from some.

  OK, Bozcastle was, and probably still is, a centre for the ancient art. That’s what it’s called here, witchcraft. And yes, before you start, I know that most so called witches were nothing more than midwives, or healers that had some folk knowledge of herbs. On the whole, I agree with them, I find nothing objectionable to it at all. I don’t think that they drain the blood of babies, nor do I think that they consort naked with Old Nick (though quite frankly, on a wet weekend in Bozcastle in the middle of winter I do see the attraction of a party, whoever the host is). I think the way that herbal remedies have sold like hotcakes, the fact that we all turn to any religion that we think will suit us, says a lot about our sophisticated society.