Christmas at the Cornish Café. Phillipa Ashley
exactly public-highway standard yet. Behind the lights, I spot two more sets of lamps. The first car stops a few feet from the cafe.
Cal goes to unlock the door and groans. ‘Please, no …’
‘What?’
‘That’s Mawgan’s car.’
‘No. God, I had no idea she was on the committee.’
‘She isn’t, according to the minutes they sent me. What the hell is she doing here?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.’
‘Hello, Demi, how nice to see you again.’
‘Mawgan,’ I reply through gritted teeth while she pulls off crimson leather gloves. ‘What a surprise. We didn’t know you were on the Harbour Lights committee.’
She throws us an angelic smile. ‘Well, strictly speaking, I’m not, because I’m far too busy for a regular commitment, but Cade Developments is making a significant contribution to the fund this year so the chairwoman invited me to join you tonight.’
‘Great,’ says Cal, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Cade Developments takes its responsibility to the local community very seriously,’ Mawgan adds, dropping her gloves on a table and peering over Cal’s shoulder at the cafe.
Yeah, by hiking up rents, blocking our plans and intimidating local people, I think, not that we can prove any of it. I’m amazed the Harbour Lights committee has allowed Mawgan to contribute, though I guess they can’t afford not to, in all kinds of ways.
‘Cade Developments only has a responsibility to make money no matter what the cost to the community,’ Cal replies. ‘So what are you really doing here, Mawgan. Spying?’
‘Cal. We have more customers. Help yourself to refreshments,’ I say to Mawgan, steering Cal towards the door before we all come to blows, verbal or otherwise.
A glamorous forty-something lady in a leather biker jacket, pointy snakeskin boots and a dog collar sashays in. It’s the Reverend Beverley Fritton, the vicar of St Trenyan. If the Rev Bev recognises me, she doesn’t let on. She once bought me a coffee and gave Mitch a meal, all without trying to convert me to anything other than Game of Thrones. She and her much younger curate, who I suspect is also much more than her assistant, made me hot rum chocolate and let me and Mitch bunk down in her snug for the night. She may have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten her.
‘Wow, this is awesome,’ she declares in her broad Birmingham accent, her auburn ponytail swinging round as she does a 360-degree twirl in the middle of the cafe. She sniffs the air and sighs in ecstasy. ‘And what is that amazing smell? Did I forget to set my alarm and wake up on Christmas Eve?’
‘They’re mincemeat cookies: very easy to make. I can let you have the recipe.’
‘I’d love it, though I can barely boil an egg. This place was a wreck of an old barn when I was last up here. What an amazing transformation, isn’t it, Mawgan?’
Though I can tell it’s killing her, even Mawgan wouldn’t be openly catty in front of the Rev Bev and she grinds out a reply. ‘It is. Who’d have ever thought a wreck like Kilhallon would scrub up so well?’
My reply, also involving scrubbers, is a nano-second from escaping my lips, but it’s Cal’s turn to shoot me a warning glance and the Rev Bev continues to torture Mawgan by lavishing praise on the ‘a-maz-ing’ job we’ve done on the cafe. The door opens again and more of the committee troop in. I recognise the harbourmaster – or should I say, harbourmistress – and Josh, the boat skipper, who used to deliver seafood to Sheila’s. Thank goodness Mitch is safely snoozing at the farmhouse, I’d hate him to spend the evening sniffing Josh’s trousers.
‘Have a look round and help yourselves to drinks and cookies while I get the coffee,’ I tell everyone, glad to have something to do that will keep me out of Mawgan’s way. More people arrive and Cal greets them. Soon, the noise level in the cafe is deafening as people help themselves to cookies and drinks, ‘oh-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’.
St Trenyan’s harbourmistress is chairing the meeting and calls everyone to order. Cal joins in, agreeing to make a modest donation to the cost of the lights, though we can’t match Mawgan’s contribution. I pluck up the courage to mention our ‘pop-up’ Demelza’s stall at the festival, which will sell hot food and drinks and showcase Kilhallon as a resort, and manage to wangle a great position for it right on the quayside by the Fisherman’s Choir.
The harbourmistress thanks Mawgan for her ‘generous’ support, which is met by grudging mutterings of thanks. I glance sideways at Cal and see him with his lips pressed tightly together. Mawgan might have backed off from destroying our plans for Kilhallon, but there’s no way she’s given up hating us. I distract myself by working out the menu I can offer at the switch-on. Jewelled cookies to match the lights, perhaps … mulled cider … caramel sea salt brownies …
When the meeting breaks up, most people hang around, helping themselves to more cookies and ‘networking’, aka gossiping. I gather up the used crockery onto a tray and take it into the dishwashing area in the kitchen.
Mawgan appears in the doorway to the kitchen, holding out her empty mug.’
‘This is cosy.’
‘Can I help you, madam?’ I say, sarcastically. I know she’s trying to provoke me and she can’t behave too nastily in this company, especially when she’s trying to act the generous local businesswoman, but I’m on my guard. Most of the people here loathe the Cades, but some rent their business premises from Mawgan’s lettings company and can’t afford to upset her. Even though she’s backed off from some of her worst practices, I don’t believe for a moment that she’s given up on hurting Cal by destroying Kilhallon or wrecking his life some other way. Mawgan’s view of relationships and family is warped to say the least.
She dumps her mug on the drainer. ‘No, thanks. I see you’ve carved out a nice comfortable little niche for yourself up here. You and Cal. So, how’s business? Made your first million, yet?’
‘Forgive me for speaking frankly, Mawgan, but our business is actually none of your business.’
‘Fair enough, but I just thought I’d remind you that you’re here – you and Cal – only because I decided that Kilhallon wasn’t part of my development plans.’
I just resist snorting out loud. Only Mawgan and I know the real reason she changed her mind about ruining us: because I gave her hell about her behaviour towards us and to Andi and Robyn. Even so, I was gobsmacked that she listened to me. Even though she claimed it was a business decision, I know I touched a very raw nerve with her. Her mum had an affair with Cal’s father and that has led to bad feeling between the families, that and the fact Cal refused to go out with her when they were younger.
‘It’s too late now. We’re here to stay.’
Mawgan runs her finger over the stainless steel prep table. ‘Possibly. We’ll see.’
‘I’m sorry, but customers aren’t really allowed in the kitchen area. Regulations.’
‘I bet you allow that dirty dog of yours in here.’
‘Actually we don’t allow any hygiene hazards in here, human or animal.’
Mawgan has a hide like a rhino so ignores me. ‘I heard Isla was coming back from London.’
‘How do you know that? She only told Cal the other day.’ I kick myself at revealing this snippet of information, but it’s too late; Mawgan’s eyes gleam with delight.
‘I have my sources,’ she says.
Does that