Martha pulled a face. ‘I’ve been revising for my exams all week, but Jamie persuaded me to STEP AWAY from the textbooks and get some fresh air.’
‘I’ve got a day off from the pub,’ he said, ‘so I thought we’d hit the beach. Looks a good day for surfing – the waves are huge.’
‘I noticed,’ Rachel said longingly, butting in. Then she looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry, that was really nosy of me, eavesdropping.’ She smiled at them. ‘I’m Rachel. Frustrated surfer. Jealous!’
‘This is Martha and Jamie,’ I said. ‘Martha’s Annie’s daughter – you know, our cake lady? And Jamie’s a fantastic artist who also works in the pub.’
‘Ah, that’s where I recognize you from,’ Rachel said. ‘The Fleece, right?’
‘That’s the one,’ he said.
I made their coffees while the three of them chatted. ‘What sort of art do you do?’ Rachel asked, and Jamie started telling her about his paintings, his expression a mixture of enthusiasm for what he did and a ‘been crushed’ look about his eyes. He was still nursing his disappointment about the exhibition being dropped, I thought sympathetically.
As I turned to set the coffees on the counter, I noticed – for what seemed like the hundredth time – the flaking paint on the nearest wall, and Amber’s words came back to me.
You should do the place up. A lick of paint, some pictures on the walls . . .
And in the very next moment an idea burst into my head. Such a good idea, and such a blindingly obvious solution, that I almost dropped the cup I was holding in excitement.
‘Hey,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘I’ve just thought.’ The words bubbled out of me in my enthusiasm to speak. ‘Why don’t we put up some of your work here in the café, Jamie? I’ve been thinking for ages that it needs brightening up, and I reckon your paintings would look wonderful in here. And if people want to buy them – even better!’
His mouth dropped open in surprise, and then he did a quick, sweeping glance around the room, as if imagining his artwork on the walls. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course I’m serious,’ I said. ‘It’s a no-brainer! The café will look fab for having some cool paintings up. The customers will love it. And it’ll be like you having your own private exhibition – for as long as you want.’
He didn’t speak for a moment. He looked stunned, as if I’d just whopped him in the face with a menu.
‘That would be amazing,’ Martha said, clutching at his arm. ‘How cool is that, Jay? Your own show, right here in the bay.’
‘Awesome,’ Rachel agreed. ‘Local artist, local café – what’s not to love?’
‘If you wanted to, we could even open up one evening specially,’ I said, the idea developing in my head as I spoke. ‘Like a little launch party: you could get all your mates to come, your art teacher, whoever you want. We could have some nibbles and wine, make a real night of it. Hopefully sell some pieces, and then have the others on show over the summer. If that’s all right with you, of course,’ I added hastily, suddenly realizing that he still hadn’t said anything.
He bit his lip and for a second I thought he might actually cry. ‘Would you really do all that?’ he asked in the end. ‘Do you mean it?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course I mean it. I thought the picture at Annie and Martha’s house was fantastic – I’d be honoured to have your work on my walls. And everyone deserves a break. It’s really nice for me to be able to help you. If that’s what you want.’
‘Wow,’ he said, and his face split with a broad grin. ‘Oh wow, Evie, that sounds brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say yes,’ Martha prompted helpfully.
‘Yes,’ he said, laughing. ‘Yes, yes, yes. And thank you. This could be really cool!’
I was grinning too. The delight on his face, the surprise and happiness he so clearly felt, made me in turn feel brilliant as well. ‘Fab,’ I said. ‘Then let’s do it. Have a think about what would be the best date for you, and we can make plans.’
They took their coffees, Jamie still looking rather dazed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a look at my shifts next week and get back to you. Thank you.’
They wandered away, Martha already flipping through a little diary and both of them leaning in to pore over its pages. I felt excited too: for Jamie, as well as for the future of the café. An evening menu, an art show – what else could I do here? I could hire out the space for local groups, evening classes, children’s parties . . . All of a sudden the possibilities seemed endless.
This is only the beginning
, I thought happily, before turning to my next customer with a smile. ‘What can I get you?’
It was another busy day, with lots of customers all wanting food. As ever, this was a double-edged sword – I was thrilled that we were so in demand, and that I was starting to recognize repeat customers who’d returned because they’d enjoyed our pasties, baguettes and cakes (hurrah!), but it was hard work too, and stressful trying to keep on top of the cleaning up as well as the constant stream of orders. I was also conscious that, as the employer of Rachel and Ed, I had to make sure they had regular breaks throughout the day. The last thing I wanted was to be running some kind of sweatshop where I worked my staff into the ground.
So with all that going through my head, when Phoebe walked into the café later that afternoon and began clearing dirty plates and cups from the tables without even being asked, I wasn’t sure if I was more surprised or grateful. ‘Hi,’ I said, with some bemusement as she passed me on her way to the kitchen, her arms full of crockery. ‘Um, what are you doing?’
She gave me a shy little smile. ‘Just . . . wanted to say thank you,’ she said. ‘For last night. And I’ve got nothing else to do, so I thought I might as well help. Is that okay?’
‘Hell, yes,’ I replied. ‘Ed – the chef – will tell you what to do with that lot. There’s a spare apron in the kitchen you can put on, to protect your clothes. Thanks, hon.’
‘Okay,’ she said, disappearing into the kitchen.
She was a total godsend that afternoon, Phoebe. She was sweet and polite to the customers, she worked tirelessly, and she even helped behind the counter when Rachel went off for a break. At the end of the day I put an arm around her and hugged her. ‘You’re a superstar,’ I said. ‘Thank you. I think every café deserves a Phoebe.’
She laughed. ‘I enjoyed it,’ she said.
‘Watch it,’ Ed warned, overhearing. ‘She’ll be roping you in every day, if you start talking like that.’
‘I don’t mind,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.’
I looked at her consideringly. ‘Well, we could use an extra pair of hands, to be honest,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to take advantage of you, so we’d have to work something out . . .’ I bit my lip, my thoughts a muddle. I didn’t even know how old she was, and whether I’d be breaking any employment laws by having her working for me. ‘Let’s talk about it later. Do you want to stay again, or have you got somewhere else to go?’
I saw Ed’s eyebrows shoot up at this, and he glanced from me to Phoebe in surprise.
She nodded, looking up at me through her eyelashes. ‘Do you mind?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I don’t mind. Although I hope you realize I’m going to be on your case about phoning your mum . . .’
‘I thought you might say that,’ she replied. I could see her weighing everything up, her face impassive as she thought. Then she nodded again. ‘Okay. That’s cool.’
‘Yeah? You’ll give her a ring?’ I hadn’t been expecting that.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to tell her where I am,’ she added quickly. ‘Because I’m not going back, ever. But I will let her know I’m okay. Just so she’s not freaking out about it.’
I gave her another hug. ‘That’s brilliant, Phoebe,’ I said. ‘Really brilliant, and really mature. I think you’re doing the right thing.’
That evening, while Phoebe was upstairs phoning home, I sat down in the café with a pad of paper and pen. Encouraging Phoebe to reconnect with her mum had reminded me that I wanted to keep in touch with my surrogate boy, Saul, and I soon became engrossed in writing him a long, chatty letter, telling him all about the beach, and the café, and what I’d been doing here.
If you’re ever in Cornwall on holiday with your mum or dad, do give them my address, as it would be lovely to see you again
, I wrote at the end. I was pretty certain that Matthew would never come down to this part of the country while I was in it – beach holidays weren’t his thing, plus I knew damn well he’d give me a wide berth for fear of any embarrassing emotional scenes that might arise. As for Emily, Saul’s mum, I wasn’t sure what she would think of my letter, but I hoped she’d read between the lines and realize just how fond I was of her fabulous son, and that that would make it all right by her.
Phoebe came downstairs just as I was signing off
Lots of love, Evie
, and sat at the table next to me. ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘How did it go?’
She shrugged. ‘All right.’
‘She was pleased to hear from you, though, I bet?’
She looked very small and young all of a sudden. ‘She started to cry,’ she told me, and her own bottom lip trembled momentarily as if she might burst into tears as well.
‘Oh gosh,’ I said, putting an arm around her. ‘She must have been so worried.’
‘She kept asking where I was and what I’d been doing, and said she’d been doing her nut she was so worried; that she’d reported me to the police as a missing person, and that I’d been on the news, and everyone had been out looking for me.’ Her face crumpled up. ‘And then she was sort of shouting at me, like she was really angry with me, and then saying sorry, and how much she loved me, and that she wanted me to come home . . .’ She seemed shell-shocked. ‘I didn’t know what to say.’
‘Well, she knows you’re all right, that’s the main thing,’ I said. ‘And you can think about everything else in time. How did you leave things at the end of the conversation?’
I noticed she was fiddling with a scrunched-up tissue in her lap, and my heart gave a twist. She must have had a little sob upstairs on her own, poor thing. ‘She asked me to come back and I said no,’ she replied. ‘And that was when she started crying and saying, “Please, please, please”, and telling me she loved me.’
‘That must have been a bit heavy,’ I put in, seeing that her lip was going again.
‘And then she asked if I would phone her again in a few days, so that she could make sure I was all right.’
‘See, she
does
care,’ I felt obliged to say. ‘Did you agree to that?’
She nodded. ‘I had to,’ she mumbled. ‘She was so upset. I’ve never heard her like that.’ She shook her head, lost in thought. ‘I can’t believe there was something about me on
telly.
How weird is that?’
My arm was still around her and I gave her a squeeze. ‘You must have known she’d be upset, you running away,’ I said gently. ‘Any mother would be the same. But it’s just because she loves you so much, I’m sure.’
My mobile started ringing then. ‘Talk of the devil,’ I said, seeing my parents’ number flashing up on the screen. ‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, answering. ‘How are you?’
‘Well, I’m fine, darling, but how are
you
?’ she gushed. ‘Ruth rang to say you were having a dreadful time with the café, that it had all been going horribly wrong, and that you were finding it a terrible struggle . . .’
Did she now. ‘Mum, it’s fine,’ I tried saying, but she was in full flow, barely pausing for breath.
‘Dad and I have been discussing it, and we don’t want you to have a miserable time there this summer, especially if you’ve changed your mind about coming back to start your teaching degree. Which is another thing Ruth told us, so—’
‘Mum, listen, it’s really fine,’ I said again, starting to feel exasperated. I ran my finger across my throat as if slitting it, and rolled my eyes at Phoebe, who giggled. She scribbled something on a paper napkin and skipped away.
It’s just cos she loves u
, she’d written – my own words, parroted back at me.
I stifled a laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’ Mum demanded. ‘I don’t think this is a laughing matter, Evie!’
‘Oh, Mum, stop worrying,’ I said affectionately. ‘Honestly, I’m having a great time. Ruth’s exaggerating, that’s all. She caught me at a busy moment. You and Dad should come down for a visit, when you break up for the summer holidays. See for yourself how well the café’s doing.’
The funny thing was, I meant every word of it, I wasn’t just fobbing her off with a line. I really
was
having a good time now that I’d found my feet, and genuinely did want to show the café off to my parents, wanted to prove that I was actually making a success of something for once, despite their doom-laden predictions. I launched into descriptions of our upcoming evening menu, plans for Jamie’s art exhibition, Annie’s cakes and Ed’s all-round brilliance. ‘And we’re bringing in a profit,’ I said proudly. ‘So there’s nothing to worry about. How are you and Dad?’
As I listened to tales of Dad’s gardening achievements and news about the dog’s latest adventure, my own words about the café kept coming back to me. I’d come a long way in a short time, I realized, feeling a flush of pleasure and pride. And best of all, for the first time in my life I’d found a job and a way of living that I actually felt passionate about.
‘Are you still there?’ Mum asked, when I failed to respond properly to whatever domestic bombshell she’d just recounted.
‘Yes,’ I said, gazing out of the window and admiring the sunset, which was just like a peach melba, with its golden and raspberry-coloured streaks. ‘I’m still here.’
I smiled to myself.
Still here.
I liked the sound of that.
Chapter Eighteen
The next day was Friday, and I was filled with a churning mixture of excitement and nerves about our dinner menu that evening. The order from the cash-and-carry had been delivered, we’d booked two-thirds of the tables, and Annie had promised to pick up some tea-lights and fresh flowers from Wadebridge, but I still had the feeling I’d forgotten something important.
‘Have you contacted the local paper?’ Rachel asked. ‘You should invite them along. With a photographer, preferably, to try and drum up some publicity. Get in touch with the local radio station too, see if they’ll give you a mention.’
‘Ooh, that’s a good idea,’ I said.
She grinned. ‘I used to work at a marketing agency, for my sins,’ she confessed. ‘Old habits die hard. I can write up a press release if you want and email it around?’
‘Fantastic,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Rachel.’
Phoebe hadn’t vanished at the crack of dawn today, which I was pleased about. She was making herself useful again, wiping tables and clearing them, and loading and unloading the dishwasher, even wiping down the laminated menus when she ran out of other jobs to do.
‘Menus!’ I exclaimed, noticing what she was doing. ‘I need to type one up for tonight.’
‘I can do that for you,’ she said, overhearing me.
‘You should have a break,’ I told her. ‘I haven’t seen you stop moving since we opened up. Go on, take yourself off to the beach with a drink. But thanks,’ I said. ‘You’re a trooper – and you too, Rach. I don’t know what I’d do without you both.’
Ruth, Tim and the kids came in and, miracle of the year, we weren’t rushed off our feet at the time, so I was able to make a big fuss of them all and let them spend ages choosing their ice creams. I felt a flush of pride as I handed over the cones, and made drinks for Ruth and Tim.
I am capable, I am managing, look at me, just like a proper café owner
, I thought with a secret smile to myself. I hoped
this
would get reported back to Mum, after the scaremongering earlier in the week.
‘Those cakes look amazing,’ Ruth said, looking longingly at them.
‘They are,’ I told her. ‘Annie’s been making them – remember Annie, Jo’s friend? They’re as delicious as they look, and you know what they say . . .’ I winked at her. ‘Nothing has calories when you’re on holiday.’
She laughed. ‘I wish! But go on then, you’ve twisted my arm. A slice of that chocolate cake, please.’
‘Better make that two slices,’ Tim put in. ‘We
are
on holiday, like you say, and we’ll be back at the gym tomorrow.’
‘Wise choice,’ I said. ‘You’ll be glad you made that decision.’
The children all hugged me when they left – rather stickily, it had to be said, especially Thea, who insisted on kissing me repeatedly with her ice-creamy lips – and I was surprised to realize that I actually felt sorry to see them go.
‘I’m down here all summer, so if you fancy coming back for another visit, you’re very welcome,’ I found myself saying. It had been the first time in my life that I’d ever invited Ruth anywhere. ‘Mum and Dad are hopefully going to pop down soon too. I’m not sure what Lou’s plans are for the holidays . . .’
‘One more kiss, Aunty Weevie,’ Thea demanded, turning her chocolatey face up in my direction. I obliged, feeling quite a lot of the chocolate transfer itself to me in a rather wet and smeary fashion.
‘Hope I can see you again before too long, anyway,’ I said.
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ Ruth agreed. ‘You are lucky, living here, Evie. I’m almost envious!’
I loved that ‘almost’, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to be fully envious. ‘I am lucky,’ I agreed. ‘I’m having a really good time here now.’
She dabbed briskly at my face with a Wet Wipe, as if I were one of her children. ‘Oh dear, sorry. Thea is the muckiest child on this planet.’
‘Aunty Evie,’ Isabelle said shyly, pressing herself against me. ‘I want to have my own café at the seaside when I’m a grown-up lady, just like you.’
I gave her a squeeze. ‘That would be wonderful,’ I said, having a flashback to saying exactly the same thing to Jo, when I’d been around Izzy’s age. ‘We could be neighbours, couldn’t we?’
Her eyes shone. ‘Yes!’
They trooped off, with lots of waving and kiss-blowing, and I felt a warmth spread through me. For once, it had been as if Ruth and I were actually on an equal footing, rather than her looking down on me from her position on high as the ‘success story’ patronizing the ‘screw-up’. There she had been with her family in my café, and nothing – absolutely nothing – had gone wrong. Her kids had liked coming in to see Aunty Evie, just as I’d always liked coming to see Jo. There was a nice symmetry about it, a continuity that pleased me.
When I’m a grown-up lady, just like you
, Isabelle had said, and for once I did feel grown-up, as if I’d passed some kind of test, after all the black-sheep years.
‘How adorable,’ Rachel said, smiling at me as Isabelle darted back for one last beaming wave through the window. ‘And how cool, having an aunty who has her own beach café. Much boasting back at school, I reckon.’
Her words made me glow with pleasure. ‘Do you think?’ I asked. ‘Fancy Isabelle saying she wanted to be like me when she grew up. No one’s ever wanted to be like me – ever.’
‘You’re a role model now,’ Rachel teased. ‘Wouldn’t you say, Pheebs?’
‘A total role model,’ Phoebe smiled, then she launched into the
Jungle Book
song. ‘It’s true-ooh-ooh, we wanna be like you-ooh-ooh . . .’
I elbowed her, laughing. ‘Enough! Stop it,’ I said, secretly loving every minute of it though. A role model! I would treasure Isabelle’s remark for a long, long time, I knew that already. Being looked up to by my niece felt like the nicest compliment I’d had in ages.
That afternoon, once we’d closed the café and Rachel had left, Phoebe helped me cover the tables with some sweet red-and-white gingham tablecloths that I’d bought from the cash-and-carry, and then we dissected the bunches of flowers Annie had dropped off, making lots of smaller posies with just one or two flowers and some leaves, and putting them into stem vases. After that, I printed off the menus, set the tables with cutlery and tea-lights, hung some fairy lights around the counter and threaded another string along the balcony that enclosed the deck. Then I ran to get changed into a plain black shift-dress and bung on some make-up.
‘What else do you want me to do?’ Phoebe asked.
I smiled at her – my loyal, tireless new assistant. ‘Phoebe, you don’t have to do anything, love,’ I said. ‘You’ve worked your butt off all day. You can have your dinner here, as one of the guests, if you want. God knows you’ve earned it, all the work you’ve done.’
Her face darkened. ‘I want to help,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course I do!’ I told her. ‘I’m just saying, you don’t have to. Don’t feel you have to slave all day because you’ve stayed here a couple of nights.’ I looked at her, standing there mulishly with her arms crossed over her chest. ‘But if you really want to help—’
‘I said I did, didn’t I?’
‘Then I’ll give you some tables to waitress. That would be brilliant.’ I wasn’t sure why she was being so tetchy all of a sudden, when she’d been so eager to please for the rest of the day. I put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ she muttered. ‘It’s just . . . I don’t want to be a burden.’
‘You’re not a burden,’ I told her.
‘It’s been really kind of you letting me stay, but—’
‘But what?’ Then I got it, why she was being so uptight. ‘Look, if you’re worried I’m going to chuck you out on a whim, don’t be – because I’m not. All right? You can stay all weekend, and if you pitch in and help, that’s brilliant and I’ll appreciate it. But you know that you can’t stay with me forever, so – ’ I broke off. It was difficult, finding the right words. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or push her away, but at the same time I needed to be upfront and lay out the facts. ‘So you need to start thinking ahead, making plans,’ I told her. I softened, seeing the panicked look that appeared on her face. ‘I’ll help you, whether you decide to stay in Cornwall, or go home, but you’ve got to make some decisions. You can’t just be on the run forever.’
She hung her head and said nothing.
‘What’s happening about school, for instance?’ I asked. ‘I don’t even know how old you are, Phoebe. Are you going to stay on in education, or look for work, or claim benefits, or—’
‘I don’t know!’ she cried. ‘I don’t know, all right?’
Just at that moment, Ed walked in and, with a sob, Phoebe ran past him and out through the door. I let out a groan. ‘Aarrrgh,’ I said, running my hands through my hair. ‘I think I just handled that really badly.’
‘What’s going on? What’s the story with her, anyway?’ he asked.
I explained briefly, feeling wretched and useless. ‘And now she’s flounced off again, and . . .’ I sighed. ‘I know she’s not my responsibility, but I just want her to be all right. She’s so
young
. Too young to be living on her own down here. I wish she could sort things out at home, but . . .’
He glanced up at the wall clock and I followed his gaze. It was twenty to seven, and we’d be opening up before long. ‘Leave her be,’ he said. ‘We’ve got too much to do here to start chasing around after her.’
‘I know, but . . .’
‘But nothing,’ he said gently. ‘Look, you’ve been really kind to her. You’ve been more generous than lots of people would have been in your position. She knows that. She also knows that what you said is right, that she does have to make some decisions and sort herself out. So put her out of your mind for now, and let’s focus on tonight. This is a big night for us. We need to be on top form if we’re going to make this work.’
I nodded. He was right. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘The clock’s ticking. Have a deep breath, and let’s get started.’
The first customers to arrive, just after seven o’clock, were Annie, Martha and Jamie, and as I ushered them in, I saw the café through their eyes, and felt a huge rush of pride. The tables looked so smart with their tablecloths and flower-filled vases, and the candles and fairy lights lent the room a soft, pretty glow. ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ Annie said, hugging me. ‘Jo would have loved what you’ve done, Evie.’
‘It’s great,’ Martha smiled. ‘Really posh – like a restaurant!’
I winked at her. ‘It’ll be even posher with some paintings on the walls, right, Jamie?’
He grinned. ‘None posher,’ he said. ‘By the way, is it all right if we have the show next Tuesday evening?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. ‘Will that give you enough time to invite everyone you want?’
‘Yeah, plenty,’ he said. ‘Thanks again, Evie. I can’t wait.’
I showed them to their table and gave them some menus, and then the next group of people arrived, and then the next. Rachel and I were soon busy taking orders, serving drinks and bringing out the starters. We were running as a BYO, so people had brought along their own bottles of wine for which we charged a small corkage fee. Soon the wine was flowing, the room was filling up and there was a pleasant buzz of conversation and low laughter, and the clink and scrape of cutlery.
More people arrived, some without having booked, meaning that it wasn’t long before every single table was full, inside and out. Rachel and I were madly busy, hurrying from table to kitchen, from kitchen to table, fetching and carrying as fast as we could go.
It was hectic, and we were only just keeping on top of everything, but it was all good. Our customers seemed to be enjoying themselves, eating everything on their plates and telling me how delicious the crab pâté was, and how gorgeous the café looked, and asking if this was going to be a regular thing, opening in the evening, because they’d definitely be back, if so. And I was buzzing with adrenaline and happiness and pride, lapping it up, and loving being able to pass all the compliments on to Ed. In fact, I loved everything about the evening at that point. I loved bringing out the plates of amazing-looking food and hearing people saying, ‘Oooh!’ when I set them down. I loved having the backdrop of the sun setting into the sea as people ate and drank, and the sky gradually turning from pink to purple to navy. I loved the smells of the main courses mingling with the smells of perfume and aftershave. It gave me a kick that people had dressed up in evening clothes to come to my little café on the bay.
There was no sign of Phoebe, though. Every time I had to serve one of the tables outside on the deck, I found myself looking out for her on the beach, wondering where she’d gone. But then in the next moment I’d be asked for more bread, or for tomato ketchup, or another drinks order, and I’d have to snap out of my thoughts and hurry away again, back in waitress mode.
Then things started to go wrong, typically all at once. First somebody accidentally spilled their glass of wine over me, which wasn’t a total disaster, but it wasn’t the nicest sensation to feel red wine dripping into my shoes. Then, when I returned from cleaning myself up, there was a complaint about a steak not being cooked to the customer’s taste, and I had to take it back. (‘There’s always one,’ Ed muttered, tossing it into the frying pan and whacking up the heat.) Then Rachel dropped a salt shaker, sending a long white trail of salt across the floor, which had to be swept up, and then lots of people seemed to finish their main courses at the same time, and all needed their tables clearing and their dessert orders taking simultaneously.
I felt as if everyone was trying to catch my eye and beckon me over for different things, and was becoming more exhausted and stressed and ragged by the second. My feet were killing me, I could feel my face turning pink and the room felt hot, too hot. Two people came through the door just then – more people who hadn’t booked – and I bustled over, all set to apologize that we were full, and could they come back later? Then I noticed that the taller, bulkier one had a large camera, which he was taking out of a bag, and the other had a notepad and pen. Oh, my goodness, was it really the local news guys? Had Rachel’s press release actually worked?
‘Hi, I’m Joe and this is Paul, we’re from the
North Cornwall Gazette
,’ the guy with the notepad said. He had a small, ratty sort of face with patchy brown hair and quick, interested eyes that seemed to take in everything. ‘Is it okay if we get a few pictures?’