A Baby at the Beach Cafe Read online

  A Baby at the

  Beach Café

  Lucy Diamond

  PAN BOOKS

  A story doesn’t come to life until it has a reader. This one’s for you.

  Contents

  Chapter One Evie

  Chapter Two Helen

  Chapter Three Evie

  Chapter Four Evie

  Chapter Five Helen

  Chapter Six Evie

  Chapter Seven Helen

  Chapter Eight Evie

  Chapter Nine Evie

  Chapter Ten Evie

  Chapter Eleven Helen

  Chapter Twelve Evie

  Chapter Thirteen Evie

  Chapter Fourteen Helen

  Chapter One

  Evie

  ‘Evie? What on earth are you doing?’

  I was lying on the bathroom floor, poking the feather duster up the radiator – that was what I was doing. Now thirty-five weeks pregnant, I had taken to nesting in a big way. I could not be in the kitchen for ten seconds without scrubbing something. I could not walk past a cushion without plumping it up. After a lifetime of avoiding chores, my hormones had turned me into a domestic maniac.

  I turned my head to peer up at my husband. ‘I’m cleaning,’ I said.

  He pulled a face that said, Evie Gray you are nuts. He had a point, to be honest. This new obsession had taken me by surprise, too. ‘And you’re lying on the floor like that because . . . ?’ he asked.

  ‘Because it’s easier to get to all the low bits,’ I told him. My belly was so wide and round these days, it was impossible to bend over. Even kneeling felt like hard work. Besides, I was so tired that I would take any excuse to lie down.

  After two years together, and nine weeks of marriage, Ed knew how stubborn I could be. He also knew better than to argue with a crazy pregnant lady. ‘Love, I’m not sure you need to clean behind the radiator,’ he began saying. ‘It’s probably fine as it is . . .’

  I ignored him and gave the feather duster another push. Then came a jingling sound and something fell down onto the floor. Ha!

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Ed.

  I hauled myself into a sitting position to take a closer look. It seemed to be a tangle of dusty frayed string, driftwood and sea shells. A memory flashed into my mind. I remembered being a child here in north Cornwall, back when the Beach Café belonged to my Aunty Jo. We had stayed here with her in this very flat, above the café, for week after glorious week every summer. Hot blue-sky days. Sandy feet. The joy of running at full pelt into the foaming waves. And these same shells jingling, up in the bathroom window.

  ‘It’s a mobile,’ I said. ‘I remember it from when I was a kid. It made lovely clinking sounds when there was a breeze.’ I carefully picked up the largest strip of wood to show him. There were five strings attached to it, each with dangling shells knotted on. The very sight made me feel as if I was eight years old again, gazing up at it as I played with boats in the bath.

  Jo had died two years ago, sadly, leaving me the café in her will. I had taken a chance and moved down here to keep the café going. The first summer was a huge learning curve, but then I hired Ed as my chef, and everything became a million times better. We fell in love, and made a big success of the café together. The flat above the café was our happy little home now, and I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Once in a while, though, something of Jo’s would surface, reminding me that she had lived here for nearly thirty years before us.

  I blew a cobweb off the largest shell, then sneezed. ‘I’m going to clean this up and rethread it,’ I decided. ‘We can hang it over the baby’s cot!’ I beamed at him. ‘See? I knew cleaning behind the radiator was a good idea! Didn’t I tell you?’

  As it was Sunday, we were not due to open the café until midday. Ed went to make us both brunch, while I set about untangling each string and taking off the shells. I washed them in warm soapy water and cleaned the driftwood. Then I hunted through my sewing box for some sparkly ribbon to replace the string. It would look so pretty! I loved the idea of making a connection between Jo and the baby, linking the generations in the café.

  ‘You are going to love this, Walnut,’ I said to my bump, as I set out the pieces on the coffee table. Through the window of the living room I could see the golden sand of Carrawen Bay and the surfers in action on the tumbling waves. It was a view I never tired of, especially on a sunny July morning like today. ‘You can lie in your cot and watch the shells swinging, like a proper beach-baby,’ I added. ‘How cool is that?’

  I felt a squirming inside, as Walnut made a slow watery turn. We had been calling the baby Walnut ever since week eleven of the pregnancy. ‘Your baby is now the size of a walnut,’ I had read aloud from a website, and the nickname had stuck. It was all very well, but I just couldn’t decide on a proper name for him or her. The baby had been ‘Walnut’ to us for so long that no other names felt quite right.

  ‘What are we going to call you then, little swimmer?’ I asked aloud, putting my hands on my belly. At first I had had romantic notions of calling our child after one of our ancestors. But a glance through my family tree was not promising. Not unless I wanted to call the baby Jean, Harold, Edgar, Dorothy or Keith, anyway. Funnily enough, I did not. My sisters had five children between them and they had already used all my favourite names. ‘How about Sasha? Emily? Daniel?’ I said, trying some other names aloud. ‘Arthur? May? Beatrice?’

  ‘Food’s ready,’ called Ed just then I waddled through to the kitchen, where we had a small dining table at the far end. I had already eaten a bowl of porridge and two bananas that morning, but I was famished again.

  Of course, as a chef, Ed couldn’t dish up any old rubbish – he prided himself on making it all look delicious. The bacon was crispy, the sausages were plump. And the toast was buttered slices of the loaf he had made yesterday, golden and crunchy. He had added a glass of orange juice and a Danish pastry, in case I fancied it. (We both knew I would.)

  ‘So,’ Ed said, as we both began tucking in, ‘we really need to start planning for Walnut’s arrival.’

  I nodded, my mouth full. There are a lot of advantages in being married to a chef, believe me. Great breakfast skills come pretty high on my list. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I should write my birth plan.’

  I already had a few ideas for the birth plan. The main one was: make the pain stop. Seriously. I didn’t care how. They could knock me out and I would not object. Also on my list: no whale music or pan pipes. No mean comments about my stretch-marks or big maternity underwear. And no photos or video footage of me gurning through the contractions.

  ‘I didn’t mean the birth plan,’ Ed said, breaking into my thoughts. ‘I meant your maternity leave. We need to sort out some cover in the café for when it all kicks off.’

  ‘Oh, right. Yes.’ At weekends we were helped out by Josh, a seventeen-year-old from the village. Over the last two summers, we had taken on extra staff members too: local teenagers or students. It would be wise to find people sooner rather than later, I supposed.

  ‘When the baby comes, I can call in an agency chef to cover for me,’ Ed said. ‘But we should hire a café manager quite soon. That way, you can have some time off before the birth.’

  I swallowed a lump of toast impatiently. ‘But I’m the café manager,’ I said. I didn’t like the thought of another person taking over. No one else could love the place as much as me, or do half as good a job. Jo had trusted me with the Beach Café when she died. It was down to me to see it through. ‘Anyway, I’m right here, on site. I’m sure we can manage.’

  One of my sisters, Louise, had sent me a parcel of her children’s old baby things the other week, including a sling. I had pictured myself back behind the ca
fé counter almost straight away. The baby would be strapped to me, learning the family business from day one. It would be adorable!

  ‘Evie, you’ll be tired after the birth,’ Ed told me. ‘We don’t know how long you’ll have to stay in hospital. And before then, you should rest anyway. Every time my mum rings, she asks if you’re putting your feet up yet.’

  I pulled a face. ‘Mine, too,’ I said. Everyone kept telling me that. Put your feet up. Just relax. Take it easy. Do nothing!

  I was not very good at sitting still, though. Never had been. Even with my huge belly, swollen ankles and heartburn, I preferred to keep busy. Now that summer was under way, our café was coming into its most hectic period of the year, and there was a lot to do.

  There had been two very hot weekends already this month, when we had served a record number of ice creams and sold out of pasties. The school holidays began in three weeks, and then business would be non-stop until September. I didn’t have time to ‘take it easy’ or ‘do nothing’. I had worked really hard over the last two years to make the café a success. Baby or no baby, I was not about to turn my back on the café. I couldn’t!

  ‘Well, I’m definitely having a fortnight of paternity leave,’ Ed went on. ‘I want to make the most of it, spend some proper time off together – our new family. We’ll never have those first few weeks again, will we?’

  He had a point. And I wanted all that too. Of course I did. When I thought about the brand-new little person inside me, I felt as if I might melt with excitement. I couldn’t wait to meet our baby – William, Kate, Fred, Ginger – whatever we ended up calling this real human being, who was half-me, half-Ed. We were going to be a family!

  I felt confused, though. The baby was still an unknown factor. However excited I was, I could not quite imagine our new life together, three of us rather than two. The café, on the other hand, I knew inside out. And the best way to run it was to have me behind the counter. Why didn’t Ed see that?

  ‘Let’s see how we get on,’ I said in the end.

  Maybe if we stopped talking about it, Ed would change his mind. We could manage without anyone else in my beloved café, I told myself. Of course we could!

  There was only one tiny thing I had not thought of. Ed might be gorgeous and charming and kind but, like me, he was also stubborn. Once he decided something, there was no stopping him. I should have known better.

  It was a cloudless day that Sunday, and we had a steady stream of customers lining up for Ed’s famous bacon-and-egg-roll brunches. Josh and I were so busy that it was a while before I could slip out from behind the counter and clear some tables. We had a large decked terrace at the front of the café, which was always the first place to fill up on sunny days. Mindful of the greedy seagulls, I stacked a tray with ketchup-smeared plates and empty coffee cups. Then I wiped down the tables ready for new customers.

  I was just making my way back inside when I saw the sign. Stuck up in the front window for all to see was a small white piece of card. In Ed’s writing, I read:

  WANTED: CAFÉ MANAGER AND TWO ASSISTANTS. IMMEDIATE START.

  Chapter Two

  Helen

  Was it possible to be bored in paradise? Thirty-five-year-old Helen Fraser had been surprised to discover that the answer was yes. She felt bad even admitting it to herself, though. What was wrong with her? She and her husband, Paul, had moved to Cornwall, a mile from the sea. The scenery was stunning. The weather was lovely. They had left behind their stressful city lives for a relaxing break. Lucky you, their friends had all sighed. And yet here she was, feeling the first stirrings of boredom after just a fortnight. She must be the most ungrateful person on earth.

  Everyone had been shocked when Helen and Paul announced their decision. For years they had run a successful gastro pub in a leafy Birmingham suburb. They had changed it from a run-down old boozer into a light-filled, classy place to meet friends, with the best pub menu around. It had taken them five years to build up a solid business, and the till never stopped ringing. The long hours and hard grind had taken their toll, though. Living above your own pub meant you could never get away: it took over your whole world. Helen had wanted a different sort of life for some time now. They both had.

  ‘Maybe we need a change,’ Helen said back in February, when they had both come down with flu, one after the other. Things had been tough lately. She had been in and out of hospital a few times in the months leading up to Christmas (‘Women’s problems,’ she heard Paul telling a customer, and cringed). They had had a break-in just after New Year. Then there was the awful incident with Leanne Carpenter (Helen was trying not to think about that), followed by the flu. Helen had never felt so poorly. Despite her best efforts to stay healthy, she knew she was run-down. ‘I love the pub and all our regulars, but we could do with a break,’ she said. ‘We can’t go on like this forever.’

  Paul agreed. He was run-down and tired, too. It had taken him a full three weeks to shake off the illness. They had both worked their entire lives, leaving school at sixteen and going straight into jobs. Enough was enough. And so, that spring, they decided to sell the pub and treat themselves to a grown-up gap year. Why not? Life was short, and it was high time they had some fun. Tempted by the idea of a new life by the seaside, they rented a pretty white-painted cottage in Perracombe, north Cornwall, on a twelve-month contract. ‘But what will you do all day?’ their friends asked. ‘Won’t you get bored?’

  Helen and Paul had laughed at these questions. Running a busy pub seven days a week, they could barely remember what it felt like to be bored. Besides, Helen was looking forward to being in a place where nobody knew her, for a change. There would be no whispering voices, no worried looks. Nobody saying, ‘Did you hear what happened with Helen and Leanne? I couldn’t believe it! The police came and everything!’

  They could escape from all that in Cornwall, thank goodness. Bring on the peace and quiet, thought Helen. It couldn’t come soon enough. And please, please let her feel healthy and strong again. Please let this be the right time.

  Yet now here they were, living their stress-free new life . . . and it turned out that peace and quiet could be stressful in its own way. Not for Paul, of course. He had palled-up with a couple of blokes in the village pub – he was that sort of person. He had spent the whole of last weekend away on a forty-mile coastal bike ride with his new mates, returning tired but jubilant. When he wasn’t on his bike, he would get up at dawn to catch the best waves for surfing, or take himself off fishing all day. It turned out that peace and quiet suited Paul just fine.

  ‘Come with me!’ he kept saying. ‘Do you good to get out of the house. It’s a cracking morning.’

  But Helen didn’t want to go surfing or fishing, or put herself through mad cycle rides with a load of blokes. She saw him off each time with a smile, but as soon as he left the house, her smile vanished. The truth was that, for the first time in years, she felt lonely. She was not used to being on her own. At the pub she had her regulars for company, and she had known hundreds of people. Here she was nobody. She felt as if she had forgotten how to chat, let alone make a new friend.

  Had they done the right thing? She wondered one morning, on her own again in the cottage. Paul had gone surfing, leaving before she was even awake. Helen didn’t know what to do with herself. Earlier that week she had pottered about the garden. She had walked to the nearest beach and sketched some of the children playing. She had baked a carrot cake, Paul’s favourite. All lovely things to do – all things she had never had time for, back in Birmingham – but she was on her own the whole time. Left alone, she could feel the bad thoughts creeping back in again, circling like vultures.

  They had given themselves a year here, a year to unwind and recover from hurts gone by. But what if they still couldn’t . . . ?

  She stopped before she could finish the question in her own mind. Stop being so negative, she told herself. Forget what happened in the past. Get over it!

  Fed up with her own c
ompany, Helen jumped up from the sofa. Paul had the right idea. He was out there, enjoying himself. It was time she did the same.

  Before she could change her mind, she pushed her feet into her old trainers, grabbed the house keys and her purse and headed out to the small shed where they kept their bikes. Swinging a leg over the saddle, she took off, pedalling with new resolve. She didn’t have a clue where she was going, but it was another bright sunny morning, too nice to be stuck indoors with only her dark thoughts for company. She had to do something.

  Helen cycled inland for a while, past farms and through tiny villages, admiring the lush green landscape around her. She breathed in the clean salty air – so different from the smog on the Birmingham Ring Road – and tried to relax. It would be okay, she told herself. This was a different way of life, that was all. She just had to be brave, try and get to know people. She had to ‘put herself out there’, as Paul said. Above all, she had to remain hopeful. They both badly wanted Cornwall to be the answer to their prayers and wishes. Neither of them had said ‘last-chance saloon’ out loud, but Helen couldn’t help thinking it, in private.

  The cycle ride helped a bit. She felt her spirits lift as she headed back towards the coast road. She crested the brow of a hill and saw the sea laid out before her, like a glittering blue cape. It was so pretty here, like something from a painting. They were lucky, she thought. This was the real deal.

  She cycled on towards the sea, no longer quite sure where she was. Even better! A real adventure, she told herself, her long brown hair streaming behind her in the wind. She coasted down a hill and a sign appeared on the left, telling her she was entering the village of Carrawen Bay. The name rang a bell. She was pretty sure it was only a few miles from Perracombe. She must have cycled in a large circle.

  Carrawen Bay was very sweet, on first impressions. There was an old stone schoolhouse, a village hall and a small parade of shops. Then the road gave way to sand dunes and the beach. She braked at the bottom of the hill, her nose twitching at the scent of hot bread from the Carrawen Bakery. Delicious! It was a bit early for lunch, but she was hungry after her cycle ride. She was just chaining her bike to the railings when she spotted a café on the beach itself. Perfect.