The Cornish Affair (16 page)

I
rescued Sienna from helping herself to a packet of crisps from behind the bar, telling her very firmly that she wasn’t allowed behind
this
wooden barrier, or Sam would lose his license. I warded off Willow from poking Nelson through the bars of his cage with a biro, telling them both that Nelson and Baxter were capable of really
hurting
them and to leave them
alone
.

Miranda
gave me a pitying smile, and said “Oh, you know, I think kids have to find things out for themselves really, there’s no point in being fascist about rules and stuff.”

I
was saved from behaving like Mussolini by Baxter giving Willow a nip on the ankle after she’d poked his eye with the biro I’d tried to take from her. She burst into tears and Baxter slunk towards me, tail wagging delightedly.

“Good
dog,” I said, bending down to stroke him, checking out at the same time that Willow’s skin wasn’t broken (it wasn’t) but she was trying to make it worse by pushing her (red) biro into her leg, and squealing at the top of her voice that “It hurts, Randa, it hurts like buggery!”

Miranda
was soothing her by telling her that the nice woman (I looked around wondering who the hell she was talking about, and then figured it must be me, because Pritti was smothering her giggles in the corner of the pub and avoiding eye contact with anyone) would say sorry to her and then get her something really nice to eat.

I
sighed as I turned away in time to stop Sienna kicking the paint off the bottom of the door.

Feeding
Port Charles I really didn’t mind, but playing nanny to these two monsters was beyond me. I had a sudden brainwave. I whispered to Samina and Sunita that I would give them twenty quid each if they took the children upstairs and kept them out of trouble and quiet for a while.

Samina
looked doubtfully at them. “Make it twenty five, and it’s a deal.”

The
door of the pub opened again and one by one the orphans of the storm limped in. Oliver was carrying Mrs Trevellyon, much to her scandalised delight and Sam and Will were helping Doris with a large bundle of clothes and pictures.

“She’m
wouldn’t leave them behind,” Doris gasped, piling the belongings up in a corner of the pub.

They
looked like a bunch of refugees.

“It’s
high tide, and the rain’s getting’ worse,” Sam said grimly, moving to his customary place behind the bar.

Miranda,
who was patting her hair and smiling at Oliver, brightened again when Jace appeared, with Richard and his mother. They all looked very worried.

“The
helicopter – it were for Breadpuddin’ an ‘er ‘usband,” Richard informed us importantly, “She’m got a broken leg, ‘es gone with ‘er.”

A
few more villagers arrived, carrying food and candles, photos and silver teapots. The pub soon took on the air of an eccentric immigrant’s camp, Pritti and I doled out food.

Oliver
was behind the bar with Sam, having a whispered conversation to do with Sam giving everyone a drink and Oliver paying for it. I could tell that Sam’s pride didn’t like this, but on the other hand, the pub was getting full, and money, as ever here, was tight.

Oliver
got his way and soon foaming pints or glasses of dark spirits were in everyone’s hands. The candles were all lit, and if it wasn’t for the worry etched on the faces it could well have been a party.

The
talk was, of course, centred around the storm.

“Not
in bleedin’ Kansas, are we?”

“Global
warmin’.”

“What
about the weather forecast? Never said nothin’!”

There
was a chorus of sympathetic moans from most of the women, as the local TV weather man, a suspiciously deeply tanned smoothie was a housewives favourite.

“Not
be his fault!” Doris cried, “I reckon’s it’s all some computer’s fault in London, no offence, Oliver.”

There
as a shout of laughter at this, which after the afternoon we’d all had was a relief to hear.

The
pub door was opening with regularity now, and more news was filtering in. The shops down by the harbour were flooded, the roof of the church, now art gallery, was gone, the defunct tin mine chimney had toppled, and trees littered the roads, and to my secret delight, there were no trains.

The
pub was a roar of gossip and speculation, and the noise level had risen dramatically. It all died down, though, with the next person to enter The Ram.

An
elderly woman, her hair still jet black and curly, a dark red shawl pulled tightly round her shoulders, streaming with water stood in the doorway. She was living proof, if any were needed that centuries ago the Phoenicians had traded the precious Cornish tin, her blood was definitely foreign, although she was born and bred here. Her dark colouring, the set of her eyes, and the high cheekbones all told the tale of ancient traders. She stared slowly round the pub, taking in the glasses and food, the smiles, and the atmosphere.

“
He’m still not be back,” she said simply.

We
all felt a jolt of guilt and fear.

It
was Judith Pharaoh, Kev the Beard’s wife.

Chapter Sixteen

Judith was not a popular person in Port Charles. It was difficult to pin point why exactly – but she wasn’t. I suppose in any small, tightly knit community there is always one person that just simply doesn’t fit. It could be said that eccentricities are not welcomed, but this wasn’t true… Nancy and I were certainly not like the rest of the village, but then again, we had the tradition of the big house, the squire, the gentry, whatever it is that it is now called, behind us and we were tolerated. No, more than that, we were indulged. Our eccentricities were something to boast of and be treasured. But Judith? No.

Her
manner was not sympathetic; she didn’t mix with the other villagers, when Kev was at sea she kept herself to herself. Her two sons had left Cornwall and had gone ‘up country’. One was a builder in Plymouth and the other one, the ‘shirt lifter’ was a hairdresser in London.

Rumour
had it that Judith drove them away with her silent manner, her coldness, and that her house was dirty (although I would like to state that all Port Charles women were obsessed with cleanliness. In all houses, with the possible exception of Miranda’s, and the certain exception of Penmorah, you could quite literally eat off the floor. If you didn’t mind the slight hint of disinfectant, that is, tainting your lunch.)

Worse
than all of that was the rumour that she made a monthly trip to Bozcastle. This will mean nothing to you of course, unless you are Cornish… Let me explain.

Bozcastle
is a tiny harbour town in the north of Cornwall. It’s a pretty, tourist holiday village. It boasts a fantastic ice cream shop, a few pubs, a dubious chip shop, a picture postcard harbour and a pretty hysterical witches museum.

The
museum is that lethal combination of semi truth and badly displayed artefacts, inducing the giggles in sophisticated emmets. Scantily clad mannequins dressed in 1970 Anne Summers risqué lingerie drink fake blood from a plastic chalice. Sad stuffed cats, ritualistic daggers, besom brooms and faded tracts of history jostle for space in a wooden hut. Then there’s the shop attached to the museum, now that is fun – you can buy spells and potions, love charms and talismans, oh yes, they do a very attractive pointy black hat too, for toddlers. That’s about it. We all smile knowingly at it, and mostly ignore it.

Apart
from some.

OK,
Bozcastle was, and probably still is, a centre for the ancient art. That’s what it’s called here, witchcraft. And yes, before you start, I know that most so called witches were nothing more than midwives, or healers that had some folk knowledge of herbs. On the whole, I agree with them, I find nothing objectionable to it at all. I don’t think that they drain the blood of babies, nor do I think that they consort naked with Old Nick (though quite frankly, on a wet weekend in Bozcastle in the middle of winter I do see the attraction of a party, whoever the host is). I think the way that herbal remedies have sold like hotcakes, the fact that we all turn to any religion that we think will suit us, says a lot about our sophisticated society.

But
Port Charles was
not
sophisticated, the Calvinist streak ran deep here. And Judith tried the patience of these, on the whole, good, kind people. She paid no lip service to the yearly rituals here, she didn’t bake a simnel cake at Easter, she didn’t put cowslips on her windowsill – hell, she didn’t even send Christmas cards. This in itself wouldn’t be enough to alienate her, Nancy could have easily got away with far more outlandish behaviour. It was the monthly trips that did it.

It
mattered not that she had a sister who lived there. The witch association stuck. And then, of course, there were the rumours.

Groups
of women were seen in the Green Man pub over there, barring men from entering on certain nights – a post-feminist piss up? I’d ventured to enquire, only to be hushed. A tragic accident involving a rival fishing boat family, where a small boy had drowned, a cat that had been run over, a chicken coop where no fox could enter, yet all the chooks had been decapitated. You know, that sort of ever so charming rural madness.

Judith
stood in the doorway, and repeated herself. “He’m still not back.”

Her
eyes were an inky black, her manner of a woman about to lose control.

I
wished with all my heart that Nancy was here, she’d know what to do. I felt the eyes of the pub on me. They all obviously thought that it was my role to do something,
anything
. It seemed collectively that none of them were going to budge.

I
moved towards her, my mind reeling with all the things I should be saying to her. Things like Kev had a boat full of satellite navigation, radar, had she called the coast guard? Had she heard from any of the crew’s families? I put my arm around her wet shoulders and drew her into the pub. The silence was still going on, and for a moment I cursed them all.

“Judith,
come in. Have you eaten anything?”

I
knew that I sounded like a Jewish mother, but I truly couldn’t think of anything else to say at the moment.

She
shook her head. Her eyes staring round at all of her neighbours. The very same people who’d had a drink bought for them by her husband only last week.

Oliver
came forward, a glass of red wine in his hand that he offered to her. She took it automatically, and drank from it.

It
gave me time to throw Sam a glance of entreaty, which thank god, he picked up, and he too came forward, talking about how seaworthy Kev’s boat is, and how she mustn’t worry.

The
rest of the pub had started to talk again, but it was muted, and I saw that they had all moved away from her, as if they were children at a party who had just discovered that there was one with the chicken pox in their midst.

“When
was he due back, Judith?” I asked, drawing her to sit at a table. Oliver joined us, and I gave him a quick look of gratitude. I wasn’t sure that I would be equipped to deal with her on my own. Sam had moved back behind the bar, shrugging his shoulders at me, no doubt trying to convey that this was way out of his depth, and better left to women.

“The
Queen Mab was due back this mornin’ early. They’d been out far, a good cod haul, he reckoned,” her voice was flat.

That
was deep water, a long way out. I nodded encouragingly, but she seemed to have nothing else to say.

“But
that’s good news,” Oliver said enthusiastically, “The further away he was, the better! He must have known about the weather and gone to shore, or outrun it. He’ll be sheltering somewhere, away from the rough stuff and be waiting it out.”

Now,
my guess was that Oliver had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. It made good sense to me however, and I joined in as best I could. The picture I had in my mind of the raging sea was not something I could dismiss lightly, much as I’d like to help Judith out.

Pritti
appeared at my elbow holding a plate of food. She placed it on the table and pushed it towards Judith. The two women did not acknowledge one another. I saw Oliver glance curiously at me, and I gave an imperceptible shrug.

I
positively
longed
for Nancy to be here… I was feeling uncomfortable, small talk with Judith was something I had never been able to achieve, and under these circumstances it was beyond me. I looked at Oliver for some help, and thank god, he picked up on it. He started to ask Judith about what it was like to be a fisherman’s wife.

“You
say goodbye a lot,” she said, her mouth starting to curl slightly at the edges.

I
left them to it, and went to order another round of drinks from Sam, asking for them to be put on a tab for me. He nodded and started to pour drinks. I saw Miranda edge her way towards Oliver and Judith, so I callously cut her off at the pass and asked her to help me to collect plates.

I
was balancing five empty plates in one hand and a couple of empty, sticky glasses in the other when I heard a shriek. I turned towards the door and saw that Doris was standing, pointing at the floor.

“It’s
coming through!” she cried out.

Sure
enough, water was seeping under the door. It had obviously risen over the sandbags, and was now trickling into the pub.

Shit.

That meant that nearly all the cottages from here down would be flooded.

We
all sprang to our feet, but didn’t really know quite what to do. It was as if we were all mesmerised at the inexorable stream of water, slowly gathering force on the floor.

“Right,
let’s get what we can upstairs,” I said, after a while.

The
Ram became a blur of action, with everyone helping to carry what we could upstairs. I noticed that for the boys, this meant many trips down to the cellar. Bottles and casks soon littered the side of the steep stairs. Will, Richard and Jace climbed out of the window. They ran splashing down the road to do the same in Mrs Trevellyons house, whilst Miranda decided that Oliver should help her to move her loom and her candle making stuff from her kitchen into her bedroom.

Doris
gave a great nudge in the ribs, “Trollop! She’ll do anything to get that man in ‘er
boudoir
– loom, I ask you!” Her voice rose to a shrill cry, “Watch it! The water, it’s fair comin’ in now!”

We
all watched water swimming over the floor of the pub, helpless before its path. I heard Judith groan, and cover her face with her hands, “Everywhere I look, there’s water,” she sobbed.

I
gave her a disapproving look. I mean, I know we were in a pickle, and I know that she was worried about Kev, but she was carrying the Greek tragedy queen a bit too far. I half expected her to say that we were all doomed, doomed forever. The house of the Beard was about to fall.

Oliver
winked at me, and I winked back, absurdly happy that he and I were obviously sharing the same thoughts, which of course, then led to a bewildering series of mind bending feelings which took a split second. How did I feel about Jace? Was Oliver really interested in me? Could I get him to throw away that bloody kilt? Was there enough food for tomorrow? Where was I going to sleep that night? And, more importantly, would there be enough room for two? Oh yes, and let’s not forget, how was I going to get bloody Miranda the hippie earth mother off his back? How could we get Mrs T home? Had Baxter and Nelson mauled Willow and Sienna? Was Penmorah safe? Were the dolphins alright? You know, the average things you think about when water is lapping round your ankles at ten o’clock at night in a pub in south Cornwall.

The
night wore on, with the rain never ceasing, not for a minute. It provided a constant background noise, and like muzac in a lift, after a while you simply stopped hearing it.

Oliver
did go and help Miranda, but was back in double quick time, looking slightly shell shocked (I’d guessed he’d seen the state of her bedroom, and for such a clean man was quite shocked – bless him.) Mrs T was tucked up, along with Pritti, Samina and Sunita in Sam’s bedroom, which I had, I was enchanted to discover a four poster bed in it, complete with scarlet drapes. Baxter, who knew when he was on to a good thing, joined them.

“Good
god, Sam, it looks like a bordello!” Oliver exclaimed.

Sam
beamed with pride, “Right proper job, innit?”

I
choked with laughter. The evening had definitely taken on a touch of surrealism.

We
then all climbed out of the window and wearily splashed over to the bakery, helping Doris and Isaac to move anything we could upstairs. Sacks of flour, by the way, are very, very heavy. After having shifted my fair share of them, I can say without a shadow of doubt that I will never need to go to a gym again in my life.

Doris
clutched a gaudily painted tin to her bosom, and looked around her bedroom for a safe place to store it.

“What’s
in there then Doris, the family pearls?” I teased.

Doris
looked faintly shocked, “Lord no! ‘Tis the saffron!”

She
was quite right to guard it. It was, quite literally worth it’s weight in gold.

“Iranian?”
Oliver asked, genuinely curious, I knew.

“Don’t
be daft,” Doris sniffed, “Valencia’s finest,” she boasted. Oliver whistled approvingly.

I
flopped down on her bed, wrinkling the shiny purple eiderdown, suddenly exhausted. Doris joined me, then Oliver. I could hear Isaac directing Sam and the boys up the stairs, they were carrying the last of his baking equipment.

“First
time the ovens won’t be lit for comin’ on twenty five years,” Doris said, sadly.

Oliver
patted her hands, and I could see that she was close to tears.

“It’s
not me I mind for, it’s Isaac,” she said, twisting her wedding ring round and round with her right hand. “He works so hard, and for what? We never even had an holiday, he gets up so early in the mornin’s, still dark it is. I don’t like this place any more, I tell you!”