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A customer barks at me from table twelve. She can only be in her twenties but has the air of an older, more harassed woman. Judging by the likeness, she’s obviously with her father and a younger sister who looks as if she’s in her late teens – a few years younger than me. Unlike beanie man, the older daughter definitely wants to be noticed. With her fitted black business suit, high heels and heavy make-up, she stands out like a sore thumb from the tourists. None of her party seem happy to be at the cafe, however. The father has a permanent scowl and the teenage daughter is a goth, so maybe she’d look miserable anyway.
The woman in the suit glances at her diamante watch and purses her lips.
‘Excuse me. Did you hear? We’ve been waiting for hours. When are you going to actually take our order?’
Actually, she’s only been here five minutes but I give her my shiniest smile. The customer is always right and I can’t afford to upset any of them because Mitch and I need this job more than you would ever believe.
‘I’m sorry about that, madam.’
‘You obviously haven’t planned your staffing levels accordingly.’
I could tell her the staff consists of me, Sheila, her niece (who turns up as long as there’s no decent surf) and Henry (who called in sick with an infected nipple ring this morning) but I don’t think it would help.
‘Apologies. I’ll pass on your feedback to the manager. Now, may I take your order, please, so we can get you served as soon as possible?’
‘We haven’t decided yet, have we?’ She throws out the challenge to her family. Her goth sister keeps her eyes fixed on her phone while their middle-aged father frowns at the menu and lets out a bored sigh. Fixing on a smile, I answer a long list of queries about the menu and wait for them to make up their minds.
Twenty minutes later, having delivered the beanie man’s espresso, served several other tables and taken a load of orders, Sheila shouts to me over the top of the serving counter in the kitchen. Her face is red as she slides steaming pasties and a slice of quiche onto three plates. ‘There you go. One steak, a cheese and bacon and a spinach and ricotta quiche for table twelve. You said they’re awkward customers, so I’ve given them extra garnish.’
‘Thanks, Sheila. I’m on it now.’
‘And can you clear some tables before you come back, please? It’s mayhem out there but we need to get as many customers as we can over the holiday weekend. I can’t believe the weather we’re having this early in the year. This is the warmest Easter I’ve ever known. If this is global warming, bring it on.’
‘No problem, boss.’
Sheila doesn’t stand for any nonsense but she’s very fair and while the money is only minimum wage, it comes with something far more important to me. She lets me and my beloved dog, Mitch, sleep in the tiny loft conversion above the cafe free of charge. Despite the long hours and the difficult customers, I’m beyond grateful to have a job and a warm place to stay after months of uncertainty, sleeping on couches, in hostels and occasionally even roughing it in the caves along the bay. I don’t mind admitting that it’s been a tough time but Sheila’s kindness had proved there were people willing to help in the world.
Blowing a strand of hair that’s escaped from its scrunchie out of my eyes, I dump my tray of dirty crockery beside the dishwasher. Sheila carefully heaps fresh salad and homemade coleslaw next to the pasty and the quiche. The spicy aromas waft under my nostrils and make my stomach rumble almost as loudly as the extractor fan, but there’s no time for us to eat yet.
‘Demi, wait!’ Sheila calls as I’m half in and half out of the door to the cafe.
‘What?’
‘Can you possibly do something about Mitch’s barking? I don’t mind him staying in the flat while you’re at work but some of the customers have been asking if he’s OK.’
My heart sinks but I nod. ‘I’ll try to get him to settle down in my break. I’m sorry but it’s new for him here and he misses me.’
‘I know but do your best,’ says Sheila with a brief smile. Then she’s gone, already preparing the next order.
From the flat above, Mitch whines again. I really hope I can settle him down but he gets so excited, with so many interesting canine smells and noises drifting up from the cafe. We already went for a jog together on the beach before dawn and I’ll take him for another walk when I eventually get my break.
Back on table twelve, the younger daughter of the family brightens a little as I smile at her and hand over the spinach quiche but her sister and father are stony faced as I serve them.
‘Here’s your lunch, madam, sir. I’m very sorry for the delay.’
‘About time, too. I could have made the pasties myself.’ Her tone is icy. Her eyebrows are also weird, so weird that it’s hard not to stare.
Gritting my teeth, I offer them cutlery wrapped in serviettes. ‘Once again, I apologise for the wait, madam, and I’ll certainly pass on your feedback to the owner.’
‘Make sure you do and you can also inform her we’re not paying for my meal.’
‘You tell her, Mawgan,’ says the father to his older daughter, while the young goth sister glances down at the ground, embarrassed. I feel sorry for her.
‘I’ll have to ask the owner about your bill.’ I feel faintly sick. I can’t just give away Sheila’s food. She’s only the tenant at the cafe and her profit margins are wafer thin as it is.
‘I don’t care … and what’s this? Coleslaw? I specifically asked for no coleslaw.’ Mawgan wrinkles her nose at the pasties.
‘I’ll have it removed immediately and bring a fresh plate, madam.’
Mawgan snatches the plate back. ‘If you do that I’ll be waiting until Christmas.’
‘Whatever you wish, madam.’
Gritting my teeth, I take the tray, desperate to move on to new customers but dreading what Sheila will say about their refusal to pay the bill. It was my fault that the coleslaw ended up on the plate; I must have taken down the order wrong in the rush.
‘Would you like anything else?’ I ask in desperation. ‘Condiments? A jug of water?’
‘Some mayonnaise,’ Mawgan grunts, leaving me wondering what the objection was to coleslaw anyway.
Wondering how I’ll break the news to Sheila about the discount, I head for the condiments alcove at the side of the kitchen, and scoop some mayo from the catering jar in the fridge into an individual pot. Maybe Mawgan will change her mind when she tastes the homemade pasties that Sheila and I slaved over this morning? While I carefully place the pot on a tray, I can hear the odd yip from above but I have to harden my heart.
I reckon no one will hear Mitch anyway above the squawking of seagulls and head back outside. A large group of them has already gathered on the beach wall opposite the cafe, eyeing the lunchtime chips and pasties with their beady eyes and sharp beaks. They’re a menace all over St Trenyan, but the tourists will keep feeding them. The gulls must think Sheila’s is a drive thru.
Make that a dive thru. I’m almost at Mawgan’s table with the bowl of mayo, when I spot three of the big birds circling low over a young family at the edge of the terrace. The mother is trying to manoeuvre a buggy with a baby down the steps to the beach while a little girl clambers down beside her. She can’t be more than four and she has a bright pink ice-cream cone clutched in one hand. Her tongue sticks out in concentration as she negotiates the stone steps onto the sand. I’m in two minds whether to leave the mayo and give the mother a hand when there’s a deafening screech.
Wings beating like pterodactyls, two large gulls launch a double-pronged attack on the little girl. The birds are probably only after the food, but they could do some serious damage by accident.
‘Look out!’
Too late. The mother looks up from the bottom of the steps, there’s a flapping of wings and screeching like nails over a blackboard. The toddler lets out a wail as the gulls attack her ice cream. Dashing forward to try and chase them off, my shin connects with someone’s beach bag, I stagger forward and the pot of mayo flies through the air. It lands, smack onto the back of Mawgan’s jacket, just as if I’d aimed right for it.
Ignoring Mawgan’s shriek and my throbbing foot, I run over to the mum. The toddler stares at her empty hand which thankfully is still in one piece. Pink gloop trickles down her chubby arm, while the seagulls tear the cone to pieces on the sand.
‘Are you all OK? Is the little one hurt?’ I ask.
Her mum crouches down and hugs her. ‘She’s fine. You scared them off just in time. I was so busy with the buggy I hadn’t realised what was happening.’
‘I’m glad she’s OK.’
‘Thanks to you. Nasty things. Don’t cry, Tasha! I’ll get you another ice cream, darling.’
‘You! Waitress! Have you seen my suit?’
‘Sorry,’ I mouth to the mum. ‘Have to go.’
On the terrace, Mawgan holds up her jacket, her mouth set in a fuchsia line. It’s spattered with mayo, just like a seagull pooped on it.
‘I’m so sorry, madam, you can see it was an accident.’
She thrusts her jacket under my nose. Mayonnaise dribbles down it. Her gaze scythes through me. ‘Maybe it was, but my suit’s still ruined.’
‘I – I’ll pay for it to be cleaned,’ I say, though every word kills me to say it and it will take most of my savings.
‘Cleaned? It’s ruined. This suit cost over three hundred pounds. I expect you to pay for a new one. You or your boss.’
The words leave my lips before I can stop them. ‘Three hundred quid? You’re kidding?’
She gasps. ‘What did you say?’
The hipster lowers his Times and stares at us. His dark eyes glint in the sunlight. He frowns, seems about to speak but then raises the newspaper again. A woman nearby giggles nervously and faces look up from their lattes and pasties at the unexpected free entertainment.
‘I … didn’t mean to be rude, madam.’
‘Oh, really?’ She lowers her voice so that only I and her family can hear her. ‘You do know I can make sure you get the sack and never get another job in this town? I don’t let anyone speak to me like that.’
I hesitate, anger bubbling up in me like the fizz in a bottle of pop. Then my cork blows. Just as quietly I say: ‘Neither do I. Madam.’
I’m on the point of fetching Sheila when loud barks ring out from the side alley of the cafe. They sound exactly like Mitch’s barks but he’s supposed to be safe inside the flat. He can’t have escaped, but seconds later a hairy ball of energy hurtles from the rear of the cafe and onto the terrace. Two Pugs and a Cockerpoo start yapping and before I can blink, Mitch leaps at me, barking joyfully. Mawgan’s eyes flick from Mitch to the back door of the cafe and back at me.
‘I take it that’s your dog?’ There’s ice in her voice.
‘Yes.’
‘And it lives here?’
‘Um. Not as such. He’s just staying in the attic temporarily while I’m at work but he wasn’t supposed to get out.’
‘So, you live here too?’
My stomach swirls with unease but I don’t want to let Mawgan see that she’s rattled me and I’m getting annoyed now. The customer may be always right but she also has no right to interrogate me about my private life. ‘Yes, but I really don’t see what it has to do with you.’
She smirks. ‘Rather a lot, actually. I own this building. Your boss is my tenant so she shouldn’t be subletting the place, for a start, and there are no pets allowed, especially not a great big dirty thing like that one.’
‘Mitch isn’t dirty!’
Mitch glances up innocently then resumes his pursuit of a seagull. Squawks fill the air. My heart sinks to my boots. If I’ve got Sheila into bother I’ll never forgive myself. Even as I think the words, I know I must already have got Sheila into deep trouble. Mawgan raises herself up. ‘In fact, I’m going to see your boss right now.’
‘Mawgan …’ the goth sister murmurs.
‘Keep out of this, Andi!’
Andi caves in like a sunken sponge cake but their father beams proudly and folds his arms.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘You do that, but no one treats me like this and if I’m going to lose my job, I may as well go out with a bang.’ I reach for the nearest cold drink, which just happens to be an abandoned raspberry frappuccino and throw it over Mawgan’s skirt.
Her jaw drops and then she shrieks. ‘You little cow! You did that on purpose.’
‘My daughter could sue you for assault,’ says her father as Mitch skitters back to lick up the bright pink slush from the terrace. I glance over at the hipster but can’t see him any more and despite my bravado, I’m shaking inside.
I rip off my apron. ‘Be my guest. My legal team will be in touch.’
I glance around me defiantly and everyone turns their faces away. No one backs up Mawgan but somehow, I don’t think this is going to help Sheila’s Trip Advisor rating either. Oh shit, what the hell have I just done?
Pink slush drips from Mawgan’s skirt onto her shiny stilettos and her voice is barely more than a hiss. ‘You’ll live to regret this.’
Trembling inwardly, I shrug. ‘Actually, madam, I think I’ll look back on it as one of my finest moments.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u5b913991-420b-5a29-95b8-e116d3e20190)
I thought about the waitress all the way out of St Trenyan, knowing I probably should have said something – that I could have stuck up for her – although I’m not sure what good it would have done or if she’d have thanked me for it. My shining armour turned rusty a long time ago and I’ve stopped trying to solve everyone’s woes. No good comes of crashing in on other people’s lives, no matter how well intentioned.
Besides, she didn’t seem to need my help. In fact, I really admired the way she stood up to the Cades … unlike me. The real truth is I wasn’t ready to face them or, at least, risk being plunged headlong into a confrontation with them.
They’re a local family of businesspeople who are well known in St Trenyan and the surrounding area. Mawgan was at my school, albeit she was a couple of years below me. She’d joined the Cade family empire before I went away and it seems as if she’s relishing her role at the helm. Her father, Clive Cade, is obviously proud of her although his younger daughter, Andi, doesn’t look cut out to be a business mogul. You never know with people, however. Before I left St Trenyan for the Middle East, I wouldn’t have thought Mawgan would become as spiteful and petty as she was towards the waitress.
Ignoring my aching knee, not to mention my niggling conscience, I stride out along the path which lurches its way over every tiny cove and sliver of beach. I’ve already had to change my route a few times where parts of the cliff have dropped into the sea. Judging by the rock falls on the beach, there must have been some almighty storms while I’ve been away.
At the top of one of the cliffs, I duck inside an old whitewashed huer’s hut for a break from the sun. Tankers and a cruise ship are tiny specks on the horizon as they head out into the Atlantic and I can taste salt on my lips again so I know I’m almost home. I shrug the pack off my back and stretch my spine.
The desert boots I had to borrow are caked in Cornish mud now, although I still feel self-conscious in the combats and khaki T-shirt. On the upside, the beanie hat and beard meant that I wasn’t recognised in St Trenyan. If I’d stepped into the row with the infamous Cades, they definitely would have.
Squashing down another pang of guilt, I shoulder my bag again. The path hugs the edge of the cliff, the worst of the climbs are over and I can see the black and white lighthouse on the headland in the far distance. The afternoon sun is mellowing, yet the sweat trickles down my spine. A few yards further on, I reach the milestone, which is just a lump of grey granite spattered with orange lichen. The words weathered away long before I was born but I know what it used to say, all the same.
One way lies Kilhallon Park, my home: the other leads to Bosinney House, my uncle’s house – and possibly to Isla Channing. The report in TheTimes said she was scouting out the locations for a new drama series and that she’d won an award for her last production. I always knew in my heart that she’d make it big, that she was too good to stay in one small place; with the likes of me. Perhaps that’s why I left in the first place, perhaps not – I’ve had too much time to reflect over the past few months.
On the other side of the valley, a group of ruined engine houses cling to the cliffs and on the moor the tower of the church looms above the trees. Some of them are almost bent double trying to escape the gales from the Atlantic.
For a second, I hesitate in the middle of the narrow path, wondering if I ought to go home to Kilhallon Park or to Bosinney House. Uncle Rory will know if Isla’s back. Luke might even be around too as it’s Good Friday. He’s an old buddy of mine and he works as an advisor for my uncle’s finance company, or rather he did when I last heard from him which was months ago now.
A young guy and his girlfriend shake their heads at me, eager to get past on the coast path which has become very narrow here due to a fresh growth of gorse.
‘Thinking of moving, mate, or will you be here all day?’ the guy says with a grunt.
‘Sorry.’ I press against the scratchy gorse and they squeeze past me, muttering something about ‘losers’.
A moment later, I’ve decided – and turning away from home, I head for Bosinney.
Oblivious to the trouble he’s caused at the cafe, Mitch trots after me along the cobbles of Fore Street. The houses and shops of St Trenyan tumble down the steep cobbled streets to the sea, their roofs and windows shimmering in the afternoon sun. A few marshmallow clouds float across the sapphire blue sky and whitecaps sparkle on the sea. Tourists ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at the shops full of Easter eggs and gifts, hand-crafted chocolate and trendy china, and posh tea towels that cost as much as a morning’s wages. The tang of fish and chips and rich scent of coffee follow me along the street but I need to save every penny now, even more than before.
I was crimson with shame and fighting back tears as Sheila paid me the rest of the week’s wages which I know was more than I deserved. She was almost crying too which made me feel even worse, but she said there was no way she could keep me on. It turns out Mawgan Cade and her family do own the Beach Hut: they bought it when the previous owner, an old lady who’d lived in St Trenyan for eighty years, had to sell up and go into a nursing home. Mawgan hiked the rent up, which is why Sheila’s margins are now so thin.
‘Someone should do something about people like that!’ I said to Sheila, after Mawgan had left.
‘No one dares stand up to the Cades. They have their fingers in too many pies.’
Sheila offered to make excuses for me but I stopped her. In the end I knew the best thing for everyone was for me to leave the cafe as soon as possible before she was forced to sack me. But leaving my job also meant leaving the temporary shelter I’d found too.
‘Come on, boy,’ I say as Mitch sniffs around the bins by the harbourmaster’s office. I find a vacant bench with room for me and my worldly goods. The tourists tend to avoid the working end of the harbour: it’s too far from the souvenir shops and car parks and always smells of fish, but I need time to think. My stomach growls while Mitch curls up at my feet, full of pasty and sighing contentedly. At least he’s happy and, whatever happens, I’ll make sure he’s looked after. I’d let him go to a good home, rather than see him want for anything.
