Heavy rain outside the open casement window woke Bel. She lay on her back, staring up at the undulations and cracks in the dirty-white plaster of the ceiling and the peeling brown patch in the corner where water must have seeped in from a loose roof slate in the past.
In the grey dawn light, lying alone, the magic of being footloose and fancy-free suddenly seemed a little unsettling and precarious. It was all very well falling in love with the romanticism of a Cornish village and a broken-down stone cottage, kindly neighbours, a farm shop from her fantasies and a dark-eyed, handsome surfer. She’d been here less than a week. This could be one giant all-encompassing delusion.
Events of the previous day began to float back to her, but her clifftop kiss, however delightful at the time, now appeared to be a potential cause for awkwardness. She hoped she hadn’t ruined her friendship with JJ and Micky for that casual moment of pleasure.
Sitting up, Bel felt her head reel with the after-effects of too much red wine, her stomach muscles screaming in protest. All that balancing on the paddleboard had done for her lax, ill-prepared abdominals. Once upright, her thighs joined the throng of complainants, her knees too. It was as if she’d turned ninety overnight. Groaning and in need of a strong coffee – which she did not yet have in the cottage – she threw on her jeans and sweatshirt. She wanted to get to the café before the surfers.
Anorak pulled over her hair, she hurried up the lane. There was no one about, bar one damp dog-walker buried in a massive Barbour duster coat and a wide-brimmed hat. Bel ordered a coffee from Martine, who’d just opened, then scuttled home. She would eat the seeded rye with Kern, and slice one of Brigid’s juicy, misshapen beef tomatoes for breakfast.
‘Dad and I had a falling-out yesterday,’ Bel explained, when she called Flo later. ‘He hung up on me, told me never to darken his door again.’ She was making light of it, although recalling the conversation still upset her.
‘I’ve just left,’ Flo replied. ‘But he was properly on one today. Ranting about how ungrateful you were, et cetera, et cetera. It was kind of embarrassing.’
Bel winced. ‘I’ve tried to call him, but he’s not picking up.’
‘He doesn’t want me to come in any more. Said I was a “sop to your conscience” and he doesn’t need me.’
‘Right,’ Bel said, after a minute. ‘Well, his decision, I suppose. He wasn’t rude, was he?’
‘I didn’t take it personally,’ Flo replied carefully. ‘Listen, I owe you. I’ve only done half the days you paid me for.’
‘Keep it. You’ve earned every penny.’
Flo thanked her. ‘Let him cool off, Bel. He’s your dad. It’s not like he’s actually going to cut you off, never speak to you again.’
‘Is that what he said?’ Bel asked anxiously.
‘He said it, but I’m sure he didn’t mean it.’
Bel knew her father certainly had meant it in the moment. But his moods were traditionally up and down, like Tower Bridge. He would eventually relent, she was certain, even given the example of Aunt Phyllis’s two decades of exile. But if he was refusing to speak to her now … She felt a little spurt of rebellion. Don’t come crying to me, girl, he’d said. Well, maybe she should take him at his word this time, instead of making excuses for what he might have meant to say. If he didn’t want her back …
Inhaling deeply, she went and sat down in the orange chair, tried to put her muddled thoughts in order. Was it such a foolish idea that she stay in Cornwall a while longer, possibly begin to consider a life here, in this village, with these people? Take the job in the farm shop until she could find something with better pay, do the place up … live here. She felt as if she were tugging against an invisible but nonetheless Herculean cord that bound her to her father. I’m here, though, she told herself, with a small thread of pride. I managed to walk away, even if it was only meant to be for a few days.
She began to delineate in her mind all the reasons why she might not be able to do what her heart cried out for: The place is a terrible mess. I could be imagining how much I love it here, after so short a time. Maybe I’ll find it hard to survive financially – and there’s the debt. Winter is probably grim. I’ll be alone. Dad will kick off. Despite forcing herself to dwell on the downsides, though, Bel was aware of only a mild nervousness at the prospect. Her heart was thumping, she realized. But from excitement, not fear.
Now, she turned her attention to the alternative: the city, the flat, her father … maybe for the rest of her life. Her gut roiled and clenched in solid rejection.
For a long time, Bel sat in the quiet room, turning it all over in her mind. And gradually her roller-coaster thoughts began to ease off, settling like tea leaves in a pot, until she had her answer. It wasn’t solid or definitive yet. It still seemed like a hopeful breath of air wafting around her head. But she was setting her intentions. I will stay … for a while at least. The words felt so portentous, she almost laughed at herself. It’s just a cottage in Cornwall. But it seemed like so much more than that to Bel.
Make a plan, she decided, straightening her back. Eyeing the ring of rubbish that surrounded her, almost like a theatrical set, she shuddered, imagining, not for the first time, the bugs and other wildlife contained therein. Then her gaze travelled to the rickety kitchen and her new resolve began to slide. Was this madness? Was it really worth it, to put her meagre resources into the cottage, when her father’s weathervane moods might summon her at any moment, on any pretext … possibly one she couldn’t ignore?
But the sun took that second to send a bright shaft of spring through the window, falling warmly on Bel where she sat. It seemed like a message. She felt her seesaw spirits lift, her heart soar. No, I can do this, she thought, brushing aside the darkness with an imaginary sweep of her hand.
Her brain began to kick into gear. If I stay, I must work. The cash wouldn’t last long once she’d spent money on kitchen equipment, a new toilet seat, fixing the shower, a paint job, kitchen cabinets, bedding – Patsy would need hers back at some stage. And that was just the basics. Plus she had to consider the day-to-day expenses of utilities, logs, food, paying her father back. She knew she could live cheaply but ‘cheaply’ didn’t mean ‘free’.
Bel regretted, now, not keeping the stuff from the Walthamstow flat. But her father had said he didn’t have room and she couldn’t afford to store it. So she’d spent long, dreary hours selling some of Louis’s more high-end kitchen equipment, the oak dining-table, his Eames armchair and more on eBay – giving all the proceeds to her father – and asked the Salvation Army to take the rest. At the time, she’d been in such despair as to be unable to think ahead, even to the next meal, let alone what she might need in the future.
‘So you want the job?’ Brigid asked doubtfully, when Bel rang the number she’d been given. ‘I’ll have to talk to Mr A. He’ll be back in a minute. Maybe you should come in.’ She gave a husky laugh. ‘You haven’t met him yet, of course.’
It sounded like a friendly warning to Bel, but she wasn’t put off. ‘Thanks, I’ll see you later.’
Bel had nothing tidy to wear. Her meagre supply of clothes had all been worn multiple times – she hadn’t yet availed herself of Patsy’s offer to use her washing machine. Jeans and a T-shirt would have to do. It had stopped raining, sunshine dodging the clouds in fitful bursts, but there was still a stiff wind as she set out on her bike.
Turning north on the lane, she cast a quick glance towards the headland. She could usually see the tops of JJ and Micky’s vans above the line of the bramble hedge, but not today. Surf must be up, she decided. The two men would no doubt have been woken by a pre-dawn ping on their WTW (Where’s The Wave?) app, and were currently shivering in the cold sea somewhere, hitched to their boards, waiting for what they hoped might be the best wave of their lives. Remembering JJ’s kiss, she cringed. That was stupid, she thought, with regret. He’ll probably avoid me now.
When she walked across the creaking farm-shop boards, inhaling the delicious aromas she remembered with such pleasure, the place appeared empty, except for a customer poring over the cheeses in the cold cabinet in the smaller area to the right of the main room. Bel couldn’t see Brigid, but she wandered over to the till, then jumped as she noticed a man seated on a wooden chair by the opening to the back room, quietly drinking a cup of tea.
‘Mr Ajax?’ Bel asked nervously.
The man looked amused and sat up straighter. ‘He’s in there,’ he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
‘Sorry.’ She hovered uncomfortably, not sure what to do.
‘Ron?’ he called. ‘Someone to see you.’
Bel shot him a grateful glance as she heard a peremptory shout, ‘In here.’
The owner of the shop was in his sixties, Bel calculated. Bald, except for a wispy tonsure around his ears, he was of medium height, a paunch pushing out the tartan flannel shirt he wore over baggy jeans – both faded and shabby. His expression was ferrety as his small, beady eyes sized up Bel from behind his over-large gold-rimmed spectacles. Brigid had warned her that Mr Ajax was grumpy, but she was surprised that a man with his unwelcoming, chary exterior could create such a lusciously inviting shop.
He was checking a pile of invoices with a calculator on the worktop in the kitchen area – which, to Bel’s surprise, was fitted with impressive, professional-looking stainless-steel counters and a sink, a large, industrial oven. The room was shiny clean and almost empty, but for various boxes of produce stacked on the floor in the corner.
He stopped what he was doing with a sigh. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve come about the job,’ Bel said.
Mr Ajax raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re the one who claims to be good at adding up?’
‘I am good at it,’ she replied steadily.
He almost smiled. ‘Brigid seemed to think you weren’t sure if you were staying down here?’ His accent had the soft burr of the West Country.
‘I wasn’t, when I spoke to her. But I am now.’
‘Right. Because I don’t want to train someone up, just to have them take off a few weeks later.’
‘I won’t.’ She knew she sounded more convincing than she felt.
‘Customer!’ the man drinking tea called through.
Mr Ajax shot her a challenging look. ‘OK, let’s see what you’re made of,’ he said, as he shooed her through to the till, beside which the woman who’d been at the chill cabinet had plonked a full basket of groceries. ‘The prices should be on all the items,’ he told her. ‘You need to weigh the produce on the scales.’ He pointed to a digital scale with a flat metal plate and display screen with fruit and veg images, like the one Bel recognized from supermarkets. ‘Just tot it up, I’ll deal with the rest.’
The man on the chair was looking on with interest. He was tall and lean, long legs – encased in dark cords – sticking out and crossed at the ankle above frayed leather boots. His tanned, handsome face was framed by a mass of brown curls – greying and chaotic – keen grey-green eyes curious as he watched her.
Who is he? Bel wondered, wishing he would stop staring as she set to with her task.
It was easy, she found, despite her nerves. She relished totting up the eleven prices she’d listed on the pad, using the pencil Mr Ajax provided, with lightning speed.
He was apologizing to the customer – who was clearly a regular. ‘She’s never done this before,’ he told her, his tone slightly patronizing.
But the woman shrugged. ‘That was quicker than usual,’ she commented.
‘Ah, but is it correct?’ Mr Ajax asked, clearly sceptical as he snatched the pad. It seemed to Bel that he wanted her to fail.
He checked the figures slowly. ‘Hmm. OK, fine …’
After the customer had left, the man on the chair piped up: ‘Who needs those nasty modern computer things when you’ve got your very own human calculator, eh, Ron?’
Mr Ajax almost chuckled. As he turned to Bel, his expression became suspicious again. ‘Brigid said you’ve no experience?’
‘Not in a shop, no. But I used to run a restaurant.’
He frowned. ‘Why do you want this job, then? Restaurants are crying out for staff and I’m only paying ten pounds an hour.’
‘I like it here,’ she said simply. ‘I think it’s a wonderful place.’
Her words came from the heart, she wasn’t trying to flatter him, but she saw a flush of pleasure colour his pallid cheeks.
‘I’ll second that,’ said the man on the chair.
Mr Ajax exhaled loudly, but seemed to hesitate for the longest time. ‘OK. Monday to Thursday, eight to twelve, ten pounds an hour. Cash in hand. Start a week on Monday?’
She nodded and grinned. ‘Thank you.’ She reached out her hand to shake his dry, gnarled one. Then she turned to the other man. ‘Bel Carnegie.’
‘Harris,’ said the man. ‘David Harrison, a.k.a. Harris.’ He smiled warmly at her as he also took her hand. ‘That was impressive.’
She gave a relieved laugh. ‘Not really. Comes naturally.’
He rose to his feet. ‘Right. Well, now the show’s over, I suppose I’d better get back to work,’ he said, rolling his shoulders up and round in a circle as if his back was stiff. ‘Looks like I’ll see you next week,’ he said to Bel, then took his mug through to the kitchen, where Bel heard the tap running.
‘Wildlife artist,’ Mr Ajax commented softly. ‘Quite famous in these parts.’
Bel said goodbye to her new boss and cycled away, triumphant, her heart lifting with every rotation of the pedals. Forty pounds a day for four days means one hundred and sixty pounds a week … cash in hand. It wouldn’t make her rich, but it would pay for the basics and give her time to fix up the cottage, feel her way in the strange new life that was blooming all around her, like the spring flowers peppering the verge and hedgerows along the road.
When she got home, she would message Vinny at the sandwich shop and apologize, explain that she wasn’t coming back.