A Perfect Cornish Summer, page 8
Porthmellow really was on the way up … unless you wanted to borrow a book.
He fumbled in his pockets for some extra change then scrutinised the sign again. There was no option to pay by mobile: the council hadn’t got that far yet, and he was fifty pence short of the required fee. He would have paid with notes but it only took change, which meant he’d have to run to the nearest shop – the newsagents – and get some coins.
‘Shit,’ he muttered. He’d better get a move on because if a warden spotted his fancy 4X4, he’d be sure to slap a ticket on it faster than Gabe could fillet a Dover sole.
‘Gabe? Gabe Mathias? I’d recognise that mane of hair anywhere.’
Gabe turned to find a gnarled old guy stood behind him, showing a set of yellowing teeth, one of which was gold. He recognised him immediately as Troy Carman, who worked for the harbour, or certainly used to. He must be over eighty now but he still looked fit. His forearms were corded and his face was as brown as a hazelnut and weathered like a prune. Gabe braced himself.
‘Hello, Troy. How’s things?’ he said.
‘I’m doing fine. I needn’t ask about you. Nice motor.’ Troy cackled and nodded at the Range Rover.
‘Thanks. Sorry, I was just on my way to the newsagents for some coins. Hadn’t realised I’d need a mortgage to park in the village now.’
Troy cackled. ‘Bet you could buy the whole bloody car park. It’s a sign of the times, lad. Mind you, I’ve got a pass, as an official of the harbour.’
‘I thought you’d have retired?’
‘Retire? Not me. No, I still work as part-time for them. They can’t get rid of me, see, on account of these anti-ageing laws.’ He smirked again. ‘How much are you short?’
‘Fifty pence. Better get my cash before I get a fine.’
‘Oh, you’re all right today. Foxy Seddon is on maternity leave and the council haven’t found a replacement for her yet. I wouldn’t bother if I were you. They send round a temporary warden every now and then, but he was here on Saturday so I doubt he’ll be back.’
‘You’re probably right but I’d better pay my dues,’ said Gabe, thinking of how the villagers and possibly local press would have a field day if it got out that he was too mean to pay for a car park ticket. So Foxy Seddon was a traffic warden, thought Gabe, remembering a fierce girl who’d reminded him of a mini version of Miss Trunchbull when they were at school. Now she was having mini Trunchbulls of her own. He really had been away a long time.
Troy chuckled. ‘Well, I suppose you’ve got to set an example, being a celebrity.’ He dug in the pocket of his baggy blue overalls. ‘Here. I’ve got some change. Hang on.’
‘No. It’s fine. You don’t have to give me money.’ Gabe was dismayed to be given a handout by a pensioner.
‘Save you a trip to the paper shop.’ He held out two twenty-pence pieces and a ten pence on his grubby palm.
‘Thanks. I owe you,’ said Gabe. ‘I’ll pay you back as soon as I get some change.’
‘Oh, no need to do that. I’ll have my reward telling everyone at the Smuggler’s how I gave the millionaire Gabe Mathias a loan.’
Gabe swore silently, but managed a smile. ‘I appreciate it,’ he lied.
Troy smirked. ‘I’ll be looking forward to you buying me a pint while you’re down here. And a nice plate of that fried whitebait you cooked on the breakfast telly the other day. Not that I watch much telly, but my Evie saw you and told me.’
‘Really? How is she?’
‘Arthritis is bad, poor maid, but she still gets about and she loves TV cookery shows. She said she thought you put too much flour in that batter for those seafood pancakes you made the other week. Bet they were lumpy.’
‘Really?’ Gabe said, slipping into the polite and good-humoured tone he’d learned to adopt after years of comments on his cooking. He had always liked Evie Carman, though. She’d been kind to him, and had once stepped in when he was being bullied about his greasy hair and ‘creosote tan’ by some local lads who’d been referring to his Greek heritage. He must have been around twelve and about to tackle the pair of them himself when Evie had told the ‘moronic little sods’ to ‘bugger off’. Although Evie was fifty years older than Gabe, she’d had plenty of experience of abusive comments in her lifetime.
Her Cornish mother, long dead now, had taken the unheard-of step of marrying a black American GI who’d been stationed near Porthmellow in the war. Evie’s parents had settled locally and her heritage meant she stood out in the community ‘like a sore thumb’ – Evie’s words, not Gabe’s. Thank God the world and Porthmellow had moved on since then, thought Gabe. Not far or fast enough by a long way, but sufficiently for Evie to have stayed in the town where she was now a stalwart.
Evie had trained as a teacher and retired a dozen years previously, while Gabe still worked in the chip shop. Her warmth, good humour and firm but compassionate manner had endeared her to the whole community, and to Troy, who was besotted by her, above all else.
And, Gabe reflected, maybe Evie did have a point about his batter … it didn’t show on screen but there were a few tiny lumps. ‘I’ll try to pop in and ask for her tips,’ he said, trying to hide his amusement. ‘Sorry to hear about her arthritis.’
‘Evie would love that. Always had a soft spot for you. Mind you, she’d hardly recognise you. You were a lanky streak of piss when she last saw you, always ready to pick a fight with the world. Now look at you – a regular George Clooney,’ Troy said, chortling at his own joke.
Gabe hadn’t heard anyone chortle in a long time and strangely, Troy’s backhanded compliment raised a smile on his own lips. George Clooney was a great actor and a good-looking bloke, but he was old enough to be Gabe’s dad. Unexpectedly, Troy slapped him on the back. For an eighty year old it was some whack and Gabe lurched forward, which made Troy chuckle even more.
‘Well, I can’t stand here rattling on with you. I’ve a meeting with the harbourmaster about this festival to go to. I’m on the committee, you know,’ he added proudly.
Gabe resisted the urge to rub his back where Troy had slapped him. ‘I didn’t know that. You’re obviously in great demand.’
He showed Gabe his remaining teeth. ‘I am. Oh, and by the way, you’ll doubtless be crossing paths with Samphire Lovell while you’re here. She runs the whole thing with a rod of iron, but you must know that.’ Troy smirked. ‘Can hardly avoid her, can you, lad? Even if you wanted to.’
Still cackling, Troy ambled off over the car park towards the harbourmaster’s office, leaving Gabe staring after him.
It wasn’t often Gabe heard such ‘plain speaking’ from the people around him these days. He was used to criticism in the press and online, but Troy’s direct manner was a breath of fresh air compared to some of the sycophantic hangers-on he had to deal with in London, most of whom wanted to make money out of him. But how refreshing that directness would be when he’d been in Porthmellow for a few days, he wasn’t sure.
He paid for his ticket, stuck it on his windscreen and hurried towards the harbour for his meeting with the estate agent, but Troy’s parting words drummed on his brain.
‘You’ll doubtless be crossing paths with Samphire Lovell while you’re here. Can hardly avoid her, can you, lad? Even if you wanted to.’
He shook his head in disbelief. Troy Carman had managed to imply in one sentence, that he knew Gabe had been sweet on Sam and that he was eager to see her and dreading it too. The cheeky old sod …
Yet Gabe had to admit, the old codger was absolutely right.
Chapter Ten
@CornishMaid: Anyone know what bands are playing at the festival? @Porthmellowchick #Cornishfestival
@Metallicafan: Who cares. They’re always shit anyway. My dog sounds better. #crapmusic #metalrules
Sam was on her way home to Wavecrest Cottage en route from the village salon. After work, she’d gone to the hairdresser’s and while she was waiting to be shampooed, she’d finally given in and googled Gabe Mathias: girlfriend. She’d looked in the past, of course, but not for a few years, knowing that it wasn’t healthy or helpful.
She wasn’t sure whether she liked what she discovered or not. Gossip blogs and past news stories unearthed the fact that he’d been ‘seen with’ several women since he’d opened up his own restaurant, one of whom – a glamorous cookery writer – he’d lived with for a couple of years until last year according to Wikipedia. Sam had already known about that relationship from an old snippet on an Internet site. However, there was no one listed on his Wiki page as a spouse or partner now and the personal life section was surprisingly short. Plus, the Porthmellow gossip mill hadn’t mentioned a partner, or Troy would have said something at the meeting.
So far, no further on …
She’d closed her phone and as usual ended up rattling on about the festival with the stylist. By the time she’d remembered to say: ‘Just a trim, please,’ the floor looked like Bryony’s dog grooming parlour. After she’d left, she caught sight of the smart but scarily short bob in the window of the fudge shop, and let out a squeak of panic.
The hour in the salon had been a brief moment of pamper time in a mega busy day baking for a stint at a paranormal festival in Tehiddy the following evening. Now, walking home, she was enjoying the spring sunshine, which had real warmth in it as summer approached. The chinking of glass and bursts of laughter followed her as she turned in to an alley that led to steep steps that would take her to the streets above the harbour. Despite being used to the climb, she was breathing harder by the time she reached the lane of pastel-coloured fishermen’s cottages that included Wavecrest. Not that Sam could see her cottage, because the street was completely blocked by a large removals van. Its tyres rested on the thin strip of pavement and there was only the thinnest sliver of daylight visible on either side of the van.
A man in maroon overalls was standing at the rear with his hands on his hips, staring at his van.
She jogged up to him. ‘What’s happened?’ she said, although she could have supplied the answer herself. Delivery drivers got stuck on this corner several times a year.
The driver scratched his head. ‘Bloody sat nav led me up here. Now I’m wedged in.’
‘Someone should have said you wouldn’t get through with a vehicle this big. You can’t go forward, there’s an overhanging bay window on one of the cottages around this corner. Your van will damage the building if you try to squeeze through here, and I wouldn’t recommend trying.’
‘I’ve seen the window. I’ve been trying to reverse, but it’s a bloody nightmare with that bend behind. That corner’s so sharp with that road sign right behind and I’m worried I’ll take a chunk out of the white cottage I drove past. That one with the funny stone porch. I can’t risk doing any damage. My boss’ll skin me.’ He peered hopefully at Sam. ‘I was hoping someone could watch out for me, but I haven’t seen anyone over thirteen or under ninety yet. And even with help, I’m not sure I can make the turn.’
She looked at the van and the driver. He was totally nonplussed. ‘So, what are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘Have to wait for another driver to come out and see if they can do it.’
‘I’m guessing that could take a while, even if he or she can move it …’ She paused as a thought formed in her mind. ‘Where are you going by the way?’
‘Big place at the end of this road, I hope, though the lane seems to peter out into a path. Apparently, there’s a house called Clifftop House along there? You heard of it?’
She gawped. My God, if someone was moving into Clifftop House, it had to be Gabe. Which meant his stuff was in this van. She could leave it here, stuck like a cork in a bottle and let Gabe’s driver sort it out. He might be waiting a very long time, she thought with grim pleasure, but that soon evaporated. Gabe was moving in a few doors up from her for God knows how long. This was far worse than she’d imagined.
‘It is up here, isn’t it?’ the driver said anxiously, taking Sam’s shock for ignorance.
‘Yeah. It’s there, but it’s a little way along the track at the end of this lane. You can’t see the house because it’s on the edge of the cliff behind some gates. The owners should have told you to bring a smaller van. Here, hand over the keys.’
He snorted. ‘What? You must be joking.’
‘Why? Because I’m a woman?’
‘No, because you’re not qualified or insured.’
‘One: I drive a pick-up and a converted horsebox with a full kitchen in it down lanes much narrower and twistier than this pretty much every day of my life. And two: I live up here and my sister will be home soon – or she would if she could get past in her car. You’re stopping us from sitting down together for a very large gin and tonic.’ She held out her palm. ‘Keys, please.’
He folded his arms. ‘I can’t do that.’
Ignoring him, she climbed into the driver’s seat.
He stood in the doorway. ‘You … I … shouldn’t really be doing this. You’re not insured,’ he repeated.
‘And what will your boss say when they have to send someone who is qualified to get your van out? And meanwhile, no one can get from the properties above here to the village. There are elderly people in some of the cottages and a lady who’s expecting a baby in a week’s time. What if the emergency services can’t reach a house? Give me the keys, please.’
The man handed them over. ‘I must be mad.’
‘Keep an eye out for traffic from behind, please,’ said Sam.
Still grumbling, the driver went behind the truck. Sam saw him in the wing mirror and started to back up. The van was big and space was very tight, but she knew the lane like the back of her hand, and the exact micro second of when to turn to miss the white cottage with its stone porch. She reversed steadily down the hill and opened the door.
‘Hop in,’ she said. ‘I’m going to take you via the scenic route.’
His eyebrows scrunched together. ‘What? You said this was the only road.’
‘The only road to Clifftop House, yes, but not the only way.’
Shaking his head, he got into the passenger seat.
‘Buckle up,’ said Sam wickedly, before reversing a few yards more and turning the van into a gravel driveway between two cottages. The driveway was a tight squeeze but not as tight as the lane. It led to a concrete track that ran behind some garages at the back of the cottages.
The man had one hand on the window to brace himself as the truck bumped along. ‘Jesus. Is this a road?’
‘Not strictly speaking. It’s unadopted but if you want to get to Clifftop House it’s your only chance.’
‘I’m not supposed to go off road …’
‘Off road?’ she laughed. ‘This isn’t off road. You’ve obviously never been to Cornwall before.’
Carefully watching out for people coming out of their back gates, Sam drove the truck with inches to spare on either side and turned sharp right again at the end onto a dirt track overhung by trees.
The driver swore. ‘’kin hell. This isn’t a track, it’s a footpath.’
‘This section is a green route technically,’ she said as branches snapped and crackled against the van. ‘But look, there’s Clifftop House.’
She slowed down as they emerged from the hedges into a sandy area on the heathland. The sea suddenly came into view. Sam drove slowly along the rutted track and stopped the vehicle alongside the coastal path outside Clifftop House. She daren’t get too close in case she saw Gabe. Hmm. Maybe she should have considered that before she made the offer to move the van.
‘This is as far as I go. You’ll have to buzz the gates to be let in or call the owner, but be careful how you drive over the coastal path. There might be people or dogs about and it’s illegal anyway.’
‘Bloody hell.’ The man blew out a breath as Sam opened the van door.
‘How will I get out of here?’ the man asked, looking in the wing mirror in horror.
‘Sorry, I can’t help you there. I expect your client can help. Ask him to drive you out.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘If he can still remember his way.’
Sam jumped down from the cab. But as her boots hit the earth, she heard a voice behind the van.
‘Hey there! How have you managed to get that huge thing down here?’
Sam slid to the ground and came face to face with Gabe.
Momentarily stunned, he regarded her as if she was alien, but eventually found his voice. ‘Sam? What the hell are you doing?’
The driver called from the passenger seat. ‘I told her she shouldn’t be driving it! I knew it was illegal, but she wouldn’t listen.’
Gabe’s eyes glittered. ‘I bet she wouldn’t.’
Sam exploded. ‘Now hold on. “She” is actually here, you know, and I didn’t force this guy to let me drive. It’s his fault he got wedged on Stippy Stappy Corner in the first place. He was about to take a chunk out of Old Man Garner’s cottage and he’d blocked the road. I was doing my civic duty to move this thing. I mean, who needs a van this big, anyway? Clearly someone with far too much stuff!’
Gabe stared open-mouthed at her while the driver cowered in the passenger seat. Her heart thumped. Obviously, she’d seen him on screen; she’d watched enough reruns of his cheffy appearances, but in the flesh, he was shockingly gorgeous.
‘I was only trying to help,’ said Sam. ‘Anyway, I’ll be on my way now. I was on my way home. I’ve got work to do.’
‘I thought you said you were desperate for a large gin and tonic?’ the driver muttered.
‘That too. Bye.’ She moved away.
Gabe caught up with her. ‘Wait. I was hoping to talk to you.’
She kept on going, striding along the track downhill towards Wavecrest Cottage. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Great. That’s perfect. So, you’re going to ignore me and freeze me out?’
‘I’m the chair of the festival and I’ll behave with total professionalism when it comes to that,’ Sam said coldly. ‘Even if it wasn’t my idea to ask you. Chloe, the deputy chair, had no idea of our … connection, or she would never have suggested it.’
