The Beach Café Page 8

  I went over, smiling. There were three photos, all of the beach in different lights. One was a sunrise shot, with the first pinky rays reflected in the calm water. One was of a stormy day, much like today, when the beach was grey and deserted, and the waves looked wild and uncontrollable. The third was the classic sunset scene, the sky striped in swathes of apricot, rose and fuchsia, long shadows spreading over the sand.

  Tears misted my eyes suddenly, because they were all photographs I’d taken when I’d been staying with her. She was the one who’d first told me I had a good eye for a photo. ‘You frame the shot perfectly,’ she’d said. ‘You’re a natural.’ She’d encouraged me to make a go of it, she’d believed in me; the only person in my entire family who wasn’t trying to shoehorn me into a teaching career. She’d known how I’d felt.

  I loved thinking of her walking past my photos every day, maybe straightening them or dusting them now and then. It made me want to get out my camera again, rediscover that triumph of capturing the perfect evocative shot. I’d given up on photography, just as I’d given up on so many other things, but I wished now that I’d taken other pictures for Jo, maybe of Oxford and the Cotswolds, compiled a whole album for her: The Evie Flynn Collection. It would have made a great birthday or Christmas present. Too late now, though, of course.

  Anyway. This wasn’t the time for what-might-have-beens. I had scones to make, and bloody good ones they had to be too, if the old couple had been looking forward to them all year. No pressure whatsoever, then.

  Previously I’d never been much of a cook, but I’d always flattered myself that it was just because I couldn’t really be bothered with all that chopping and grating and whisking. I mean, anyone could cook, couldn’t they? Anyone could bung a few things in a bowl and stir them and then stick them in the oven. I was sure I could make wonderful roast dinners and amazing soups and elaborately iced cakes too, if I absolutely tried my very hardest, concentrating fiercely and not being distracted by the radio or a text from a mate.

  The thing was, now that I was actually in Jo’s kitchen, frowning at her handwritten scone recipe, it seemed a lot more difficult than that. The butter wasn’t mixing properly with the flour – most of it seemed to be stuck under my fingernails – and I wasn’t sure if golden caster sugar was the same as caster sugar. As for buttermilk . . . ? What the hell was buttermilk? Was it butter and milk mixed together, or what? I’d never heard of it before. I bit my lip, wondering if it would be okay to slosh in some ordinary milk, or if that was a terrible faux pas. Would the scone-loving old lady bite into one of my efforts and look shocked at the no-buttermilk taste? ‘I’m sorry, dear, but these aren’t proper scones,’ she might say. ‘What a shame. This always used to be such a nice café, too.’

  Aargh. Why was it so complicated? Why hadn’t I paid more attention when I worked here, asked Jo to give me a few baking lessons? I dithered, my hands still in the mixing bowl as I wondered if it would be too embarrassing to phone my mum and ask her advice. Mind you, she wasn’t a great baker herself. In fact, her advice would probably be ‘Just buy your scones from Waitrose, of course.’

  I was fast coming to the conclusion that this might actually be the best option for everyone concerned when I was stopped in my tracks by another glance at the recipe. The paper was sun-faded and creased, there was a greasy fingerprint on one corner as if it had been held by a buttery hand, and there were even traces of flour still visible. This was a recipe that had clearly been well used and well loved. I had a vision of Jo standing right where I was, pinny on, humming to the radio, weighing and mixing and rolling out her scone mixture.

  I couldn’t just turn my back on this recipe as if it didn’t exist, and go to Waitrose instead. This recipe was part of the café’s history – it symbolized everything that was real and good about the place.

  I took a deep breath and read through the instructions once again. I wouldn’t be defeated by a scone recipe. I would bake the perfect batch if it was the last thing I did.

  That’s my girl, said Jo in my head.

  On Saturday morning I woke at six, with the sun streaming in through the window. Right. Big day today. The café’s busiest day of the week. Up and at ’em!

  I shut my eyes again, exhausted. I’d been up for hours the night before in my quest to make the best scones in Cornwall. Or even some that were vaguely edible.

  The first lot hadn’t risen at all, for some reason – they just looked like pale, doughy blinis. Yuck. Straight in the bin with them; start again. The second lot of scones had risen, gratifyingly, but most of them had burned (less gratifying). I managed to salvage three that looked okay, but I wasn’t sure that would be enough. What if we got a rush on cream teas? What if the first customer who tried one said, ‘My God, these are amazing, I need to buy up your entire scone collection?’ My old lady might not get to taste the fruits of my labours. I couldn’t let her down.

  The third batch were perfect. No, really, they were. Okay, so they were slightly wonky, but they rose at least, and were a lovely golden-brown. They were so yummy-looking, in fact, I almost sat down with a pot of raspberry jam and some clotted cream and started tucking in myself. The old lady would be pleased. It would make her holiday. That was if she even turned up, of course. She’d better bloody turn up after all this, I thought with a sudden fierceness. If she didn’t, I’d be searching through the village for her with a megaphone.

  Giddy with my success, I decided to make a carrot-and-walnut cake next. Jo had always served up carrot cake in the café, she had been famed throughout the village for it. She’d made a three-tier version with lovely fluffy cream-cheese frosting, which had taken pride of place on the counter. I had to get it back on the menu, I told myself. It was what she would have wanted. It was what the customers wanted too, surely.

  It was only when I’d put the cake tins into the oven (finally! I never wanted to grate a sodding carrot again, my fingers were in shreds) that my thoughts turned to the icing. That was the moment I realized we didn’t have any cream cheese. Not even a smidgen. Damn – could I get away with ordinary icing? No. Would anyone around here be open and selling cream cheese at eleven o’clock at night? No.

  I felt like letting out a great howl of frustration. No doubt Carl would snigger at my un-iced cake in the morning. Word would get back to Betty Doom and she’d look scornful at this further proof that I wasn’t cut out to be here. She wouldn’t serve me any cream cheese, would she? She’d probably spit at me if I tried to ask for it. Well, I’d just have to get up at the crack of dawn the next day and go out of the village on a cream-cheese-buying mission.

  That had been the plan, but now it was the next day, and the thought of cream cheese made me feel distinctly queasy. But I heaved myself out of bed nonetheless and stood under the shower until I felt slightly more alive. Come on, Evie. Jump to it. A whole day with Carl-the-Jerk to look forward to. Bring it on . . .

  By nine o’clock I was ready. The carrot cake had been iced (icing was great – it covered up all the dimples and scorched bits of sponge, I realized), the kitchen and dining areas were spotless, I’d had a practice run with the coffee machine and reckoned I could get by on a wing and a prayer, and I’d replenished all the stock we held behind the counter. Oh, and I’d also chalked up a sign on the blackboard saying: TODAY’S SPECIAL: CORNISH CREAM TEA – £2.95. If that didn’t get the punters racing in, I didn’t know what would.

  There, Jo. That all right for you?

  Humming to myself, I unlocked the front door, turned the sign to ‘Open’, put up the parasols on the outside decking and stood for a moment, gazing out at the beach. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was a soft, misty blue, patterned with small white clouds – a mackerel sky, Jo would have said if she’d been standing there with me. An elderly couple were walking slowly across the sand together, arm-in-arm. A male jogger in a red singlet and shorts thudded along, iPod on, face blank, arms swinging to a soundless beat. I heard the sound of exuberant barking and then a
chocolate-brown dog hurtled onto the beach, its tail wagging in joy as it galloped over the sand.

  ‘Lola! Come on, then.’ A man had followed the dog onto the sand and was holding a green ball up in the air.

  Hearing her name, the dog turned and barked again. The man bent his arm back and hurled the ball, which sailed like a green dot through the air. The dog chased wildly after it, head up, watching its arc, her powerful legs propelling her across the damp sand, leaving a trail of prints.

  The café was on the left side of the bay as you looked out to sea and, to reach it from the beach, you had to climb up ten wooden steps. I wanted to stay watching from my vantage point, but didn’t want the man to turn and see me staring, so I reluctantly returned inside. Right. Show on the road . . . Tick! The beach café was open for business. Just time to make myself a quick cup of tea before the customers began flooding in.

  ‘Hello?’

  I stiffened as I heard a shout a few minutes later. Oh! Here came the flood already. Or was it Betty and her lynch mob? Then I heard a low, rumbling woof and guessed that it was the man from the beach, and his dog.

  I re-emerged from the kitchen into the serving area. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘What can I get you?’

  He was tall, and in his late thirties, I guessed, with short dark hair, brown eyes and a hint of stubble around his mouth. He was wearing a sun-bleached blue T-shirt and knackered-looking jeans. Through the doorway I saw that the dog had been tied to the wooden balcony outside. She was lying down with her head on her front paws as if worn out by her beach antics.

  The man smiled. A wide, easy smile that showed perfect, even teeth. ‘A cup of tea would be great, please. And some water for the dog, if that’s okay.’

  Phew. So he hadn’t been sent by Betty to set his hound on me, at least. I made us both a tea and put some water in an old margarine tub, carrying it outside and setting it down by the dog.

  ‘So,’ the man said conversationally when I returned, ‘you’re the bad niece then.’

  My hackles rose. Maybe Evil Betty had sent him after all. ‘I’m the what?’ I asked, folding my arms across my chest.

  He grinned. ‘The bad niece. That’s what they’ve all been saying in the pub anyway.’

  ‘In the pub?’ I was like an echo. ‘I don’t understand. Why are people saying that? What do they think I’ve done?’

  He sipped his tea. ‘Well, you’re selling this place, aren’t you? They’ve all got their knickers in a twist about it. Someone wants to turn it into a luxury second home, apparently, and there are enough second-homers here already, and it’s wrecking the village, and they’re upset about your aunt dying, and they’d hoped that you’d take it on . . .’ He’d clearly been doing some major eavesdropping. ‘No skin off my nose what you do, obviously. None of my business. But the rest of ’em – they’re up in arms. Can’t talk of anything else.’

  My cheeks were scarlet. ‘Well, it’s not even true! The café isn’t for sale!’ I shook my head, reeling from this information. I could just imagine them all moaning about me in the pub; I was surprised my ears hadn’t burned to a crisp. No wonder Betty had been so frosty. ‘No one’s talked to me about turning it into a luxury second home,’ I said indignantly. ‘No one’s asked me if they can buy it. It’s all gossip. Meaningless gossip.’

  He shrugged. ‘You know how word gets around these places,’ he said. ‘Chinese whispers. I suppose I should be grateful they’re not discussing me for a change.’ He eyed me over his tea. ‘So, you’re saying you’re not selling?’

  I took a deep breath, feeling flummoxed. ‘I . . . I haven’t actually decided what I’m going to do yet,’ I confessed, leaning back against the tiled wall. It felt cold under my palms. ‘Maybe I will have to sell it eventually. I live in Oxford, so it’s not exactly practical for me to run it. But that’s why I came down here, to work out what to do. I don’t know why everyone’s already jumped to conclusions and started slagging me off, when I haven’t even decided anything yet. God!’

  My voice shook, and he held his hands up. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I should know better than to pass on gossip. I should have known it was cobblers, after the rubbish they invented about me.’

  ‘What’s your story then?’ I asked, to change the subject. ‘Why have you been gossiped about?’

  ‘Oh, lots of reasons,’ he replied carelessly. ‘I haven’t lived here for the last two hundred years, so obviously I’m a suspicious outsider, like you. And I’ve driven them nuts, not telling them much about myself, so they’ve had an utter field day – a field month – speculating and guessing about who I am and why I’m here.’ He grinned. ‘They thought I was some kind of fugitive at first, apparently, on the run from the law. Why else would I be hiding in their village out of season?’

  I grinned back. ‘I’m surprised no one made a citizen’s arrest,’ I told him.

  ‘You and me both,’ he said. ‘The truth is far less exciting, though. I’m dog-sitting for a mate while he’s working abroad for a couple of months. Getting away from it all, you know.’

  ‘Ahh,’ I said. ‘And . . .’ I was about to ask exactly what he was getting away from when a young couple came in with a baby in a sling. I smiled at them politely. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘What can I get you?’

  By the time I’d served them, the man was getting to his feet. ‘Thanks,’ he said, bringing over his empty mug. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Oh God, did I forget to charge you?’ Embarrassment coursed through me. I wasn’t going to win Professional Businesswoman of the Year if I kept giving out freebies. ‘Oops. One pound fifty, please.’

  He handed over the money. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’m Ed.’

  ‘Evie,’ I replied. ‘Nice to meet you, too. And you can tell those gossips from me they’ve got their facts wrong.’

  ‘Will do,’ he said, then turned and strode out. ‘Come on then, Lola,’ I heard him say. ‘Time to go.’

  I had a straggle of customers to deal with – teas, coffees and a couple of rounds of toast – but it was ten o’clock before any of the other members of staff put in an appearance. Seb was first, the lad who helped out at weekends, and he looked horrified to see me there. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, turning bright red. ‘I didn’t think we’d be open yet. Last week, Carl said – ’

  He didn’t finish his sentence, but I could guess the rest. Carl had said not to bother coming in at the usual time as he wouldn’t be opening up till later. No doubt he’d anticipated a hangover after the poker party.

  ‘No worries,’ I said lightly. I was too relieved to have someone else behind the counter to be really cross with him.

  Just then a couple of twenty-somethings came in for a coffee and bacon roll each. Seb and I looked at each other. ‘I’ll do the coffees,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ I said, hurrying into the kitchen before anyone could see the panicked look on my face. It was only bacon, I reminded myself. I could cook that. Anyone could fry up a bit of bacon, even me. It was just . . . Where was Carl? I hadn’t expected to have to do any actual cooking while I was here; it was hardly my specialist subject. Stress!

  I made the bacon rolls without any disasters, and after that we had a steady stream of people in for hot drinks, toast and brunchy things. I could feel myself getting hotter and sweatier as I slipped behind with the orders. Seb’s handwriting was so appalling, I kept having to run back to the counter to double-check what he’d scrawled on the order slips, and he kept muddling things up, forgetting who’d asked for what. Then he burned himself on the milk frother and went so pale and trembly I thought he might faint.

  Saffron, the sulky redhead, finally showed her face by eleven o’clock, and she was slightly more efficient at least, but her customer service was the pits. Even from my hellish bacon-frazzling, toast-burning nightmare of a kitchen, I was aware of the rude, uninterested way in which she spoke to people. ‘Brown or white toast?’ she’d snap. ‘Do you want milk in that tea?’

  I felt scared
for the customers, imagining her shining a dazzling light in their faces as she interrogated them. And guess what? No one – not one single person – had bought a slice of my cake, or asked for a cream tea yet. Ungrateful sods.

  Just as I was starting to have a meltdown over the ninety-seven thousand sandwiches I’d been asked to make, Carl rocked in, looking whey-faced and shambolic in the same T-shirt he’d been wearing the day before. Had he slept in it? I wondered, narrowing my eyes at him. ‘Carl, where have you been?’ I cried. ‘How come you’re so late?’

  He shrugged. ‘I knew you’d be here,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think there was any rush.’

  I felt like whacking him over the head with my greasy spatula. ‘That’s crap, and you know it,’ I retorted. ‘For all you knew, I could have gone out somewhere today. This wasn’t the deal – that you can slack off when I’m around. I’m not going to be here forever, you know.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he said, washing his hands. He dried them on a tea towel before picking up a spatula of his own and ambling over to the cooker, where four pink rashers of bacon were sizzling and spitting. ‘I’ll take over here.’

  I scowled. ‘Very big of you,’ I muttered, spreading margarine on the bread.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said sweetly.

  It was the longest, hottest, most bad-tempered working day I could remember in a long time. Saffron had a stand-up row with a teenage girl who came in – her arch-enemy, apparently, not that I cared about that – and called an elderly gentleman ‘a deaf old giffer’ when he didn’t answer her ‘D’ya want milk with that?’ immediately. Carl was rude and unpleasant the entire day. We ran out of milk, we ran out of bread, we ran out of cheese and, to top it all off, Seb managed somehow to drop my cake. Yes, my carrot cake, my pride and joy, the one I’d slaved over until midnight. I felt like bursting into tears when I saw it split into umpteen spongy shards on the floor.