The Beach Cafe (18 page)

I stopped at Betty’s shop first, bracing myself for some rude comment about how I’d insulted Saffron’s family or committed some other terrible crime. I hoped she wouldn’t turf me out again. She’d been civil to me, if not over-friendly recently, but I wasn’t counting my chickens that I’d won her over yet by any means.

‘I’m closing in two minutes,’ she said as I walked in. She was glaring as if I was the most inconvenient thing that had ever happened to her in her ‘convenience’ store. Excellent customer service as usual, from the sweet-talking Betty.

‘It’s all right, I’m not buying anything,’ I said as I approached the counter, which probably wasn’t the best reply, in hindsight. Her eyes became flintier and her bosoms were thrust out like offensive weapons. I was quailing in my flip-flops, but told myself it was just plain ridiculous to be scared. We were two grown women, for goodness’ sake. How bad could this be?

‘Betty, I was wondering if I could leave some of these leaflets here,’ I said, in my nicest, most non-confrontational voice. ‘We’re opening the café for dinner on Friday night, and trying to drum up some bookings. Is that okay?’

She sneered at the leaflet I held out, pointedly not taking it from me. ‘Was this his idea then, that bloke you’ve got working for you?’ she asked.

I stared at her, slightly nonplussed. ‘Well . . . it was a joint idea,’ I said. ‘But I think it could be really good. Might bring some more people to the village,’ I added, hoping to lead her into thinking she could actually benefit from this too.

She shook her head. ‘There’s something not right about him,’ she said darkly. ‘People are saying he’s not who he makes out. I wouldn’t trust him, if I were you.’

I bristled, certain that this was the exact same bitchy, gossipy tone of voice she’d used when talking to people about
me
. I might not have retaliated if I hadn’t polished off a good half-bottle of wine within the last hour, but as it was, I couldn’t help a reply bursting out of me. ‘Well, I
do
trust him,’ I told her, snatching my leaflets away again. ‘He’s a really great guy, and an excellent chef.’ I was just about to add a ‘So NER’, but managed to shut my mouth in time.

She raised her eyebrows, folding her fat arms across her chest, so that her large bust rested upon them like a shelf. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ she said shortly, and began tidying the counter display with excess fussiness. ‘Anything else?’

‘No,’ I said turning on my heel and walking away. ‘Nothing else.’

Chapter Seventeen

The leaflets didn’t exactly get welcomed with open arms at the Golden Fleece, either. ‘I would take some, but I don’t think our landlady would be too chuffed,’ the tall, good-looking lad behind the bar said. ‘We do our own evening food here, you see, so . . .’

He was polite, at least, which was more than Betty had been. ‘Fair enough,’ I said, feeling stupid for having asked in the first place. ‘I hadn’t thought about that. No worries.’ Then I spotted his name badge: Jamie. ‘Oh, are you Martha’s boyfriend? The artist?’

He seemed pleased to be referred to as that. ‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he said. ‘You’re Evie, right? The one Annie’s been baking for?’

‘The very same,’ I said. ‘Hey, Martha was telling me you’re going to have your artwork in an exhibition soon – how cool is that! I loved the painting they’ve got in their – ’ I stopped talking, as his face had fallen and his whole body seemed to sag. Oh dear. What had I said?

‘It’s been cancelled,’ he said, dejection written all over him. ‘The council have had their arts budget slashed, so the exhibition isn’t going ahead any more.’

‘Oh no!’ I felt gutted for him, he looked so downcast. ‘What a shame,’ I said. ‘That’s really bad luck. Still, you’ve got talent. I’ve seen it, they’ve seen it, other people will recognize it too. I’m sure this isn’t the end for you.’

He didn’t look particularly optimistic. ‘That’s what Martha keeps saying, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I dunno. It’s just so disappointing. I was really looking forward to showing my work to people, getting it seen, you know.’

I nodded sympathetically. I could imagine just how frustrated he must have felt, to have had this exhibition within touching distance and then have it taken away from him. It was almost worse, having had your hopes raised and then dashed, than nothing happening at all.

‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘But don’t give up. You
are
good, and you never know what’s around the corner.’ I gave him a smile, hoping that sounded encouraging rather than patronizing. ‘Nice to meet you anyway. Always a free coffee for you and Martha in the café.’

‘Cheers,’ he said.

It was raining again as I headed for home, and my toes slithered wetly in my flip-flops. The warm tipsiness I’d felt earlier had disappeared, and I couldn’t wait to get back in the flat and into my PJs, with a cup of tea and some trashy TV to watch. That was one advantage of living on my own, at least – I was able to catch up on all my soaps and TV dramas again, free from Matthew’s pained looks and tuts of disapproval.

But then, as I reached the deck outside the café, I saw that Phoebe was back. She was sitting against the front wall, hunched up with her arms round her knees, as the rain spattered down around her. Tonight there was no jumping up and running away. Tonight she seemed defeated and weary, looking up at me as if to say,
Well, here I am again. What are you going to do about it?

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. ‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked. She nodded, and in we both went.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. She stood there, limp, her sleeping bag trailing on the floor.

‘Look,’ I said, turning the lights on. ‘I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but I can’t let you sleep out there in this weather. There’s a spare room here, and you’re welcome to stay. You can have some food and a bath too, if you want. What do you think?’

She nodded again. Bless her, she seemed broken – all the fight had gone from her.

‘Okay,’ I said. I think we both felt a bit weird and awkward about the situation. ‘Come upstairs then, I’ll run you a bath and show you where everything is.’

It struck me again as I led her through to the flat that, yes, I was taking a risk here, asking this girl in when I didn’t know a thing about her. For all I knew, I could wake up the next day and find that all my worldly possessions had been stolen, and I would never see her again. But my gut instinct was that it would be fine, and she wouldn’t do any such thing. And she was only a kid. How could I do anything else, other than take her in? It wasn’t as if I had anything worth pinching really anyway. If she was after jewels and solid silver cutlery, she’d been camping outside the wrong place.

I set the bath running, poured in a splosh of bubbles and found her some clean towels and pyjamas, as well as a dressing gown that had once belonged to Jo. ‘There,’ I said. ‘You have a good old soak. I’ll make you something to eat once you’re out, okay?’

She nodded shyly. ‘Thank you,’ she said again.

‘No problem,’ I said, leaving her to it.

I had a sudden memory of being that sort of age myself, when I’d had a massive row with my parents about going to Glastonbury with my mates. In the end, I’d stormed off to the festival in a rage, ignoring the fact that they’d forbidden me to go. (They were worried I would get in with the so-called ‘wrong crowd’. Ha! Too late. I was already part of the so-called wrong crowd, and having a whale of a time with them.) After the festival weekend was over, I couldn’t face going back to Oxford and had hitched down to Cornwall instead, seeking refuge at Jo’s. I’d turned up knackered, smelly and practically penniless, and she’d simply taken me in, without any judgement or questions. The next morning she’d been on my case about phoning home, yes, but I was always grateful thereafter for that one night of pure acceptance, when she’d opened her doors to me without any hassle.

While Phoebe was in the bath, I called Amber for a chat, which involved a moan about Matthew, a rant about Ruth and some pondering about Ed. She promised she’d accidentally-on-purpose spill a drink on Matthew and Jasmine if she ever saw them in town together, which made me feel better. Then she made me laugh, telling me about her new audition for an advert promoting indigestion tablets and the anguished faces she’d had to pull in front of the casting team. ‘Could have been worse,’ she said. ‘My agent wanted to put me forward for the haemorrhoid-cream ad too, but they clashed, so I got to choose. Don’t LAUGH!’ she scolded, as I couldn’t help a splutter of amusement. ‘You wait, this will pay off one day, when I get snapped up for stardom.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Absolutely. Any day now.’

When we’d finished chatting it was still quiet in the bathroom, so I grudgingly opened the CVs I’d received for the chef ’s job and flicked through them:
Mark Albury, aged fifty-five, previous catering experience: chef for some pub in Devon. Catherine Walcott, aged twenty-two, previous catering experience: none, but she’d been a waitress and she was a quick learner (smiley face and exclamation mark). Jason Grimshaw, aged thirty, previous catering experience: working in a chippy in Wadebridge. Vicki Groves, aged forty-two, previous catering experience: cooking for her four children and baking for the school PTA on numerous occasions.

I put my head in my hands, not feeling enthused about any of them. Mark Albury did have good experience, admittedly, but he seemed to have worked in about ten different places over the last decade. That wasn’t a good sign, surely? Catherine Walcott had irritated me without even having met her, and would need complete training from scratch, which I didn’t have the time or experience for. Then there was the chip-meister, and mumsy Vicki, neither of whom filled me with any kind of excitement. Hopefully some stronger applications would come through the post over the next week or so. Or maybe Ed would reconsider and . . .

I heard the bathroom door opening and light footsteps padding out. ‘I’m down in the café,’ I shouted, stuffing the letters into a folder.

Phoebe emerged, swamped in Jo’s big red dressing gown, with her hair twisted up in a towel turban. ‘That was so nice,’ she said gratefully. ‘Thank you.’ Her face was pink and shiny, and she looked wholesome and healthy, as if she’d just showered after a stint of horseriding or gymnastics, rather than having been out on the streets for days on end.

‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘Um . . .’ It was odd, being hostess to a complete stranger. What would Jo have done? Well, she’d have fed her for a start. ‘What can I get you to eat?’ I asked, prompted by this thought. ‘Cheese toastie? Scrambled egg? Pasty?’

‘Scrambled egg, please,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to help?’

‘All right then,’ I said, surprised at being asked. ‘Come through to the kitchen and we’ll do it together.’

I got her whisking the eggs while I slotted some bread in the toaster and melted butter in a pan. Then she poured in the eggs and I handed her a wooden spoon to stir them, while I buttered her toast. ‘Scrambled eggs on toast is always easier with two people,’ she said chattily while she stirred. ‘It’s kind of a rush, doing it all on your own.’

‘It is,’ I agreed, holding back from asking whom she usually made scrambled eggs with. Her mum, her dad, a sister? ‘That looks perfect,’ was all I said, eyeing the pan. ‘Do you want to dish it onto the toast?’

I poured her some juice and we went back through to the seating area, where she dug into the food with gusto. There was colour in her cheeks now, and she looked a different creature from the bedraggled, pitiful girl who’d been outside with her sleeping bag. It still felt strange, sitting there with her, but at the same time I was sure I was doing the right thing, doing what Jo would have done.

‘Nice?’ I asked, watching her eat.

She nodded. ‘Really nice,’ she replied. ‘Thank you for this, and for the bath. It’s really kind of you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I told her.

I hesitated, wanting to tackle the big, unspoken subject of why she had been on the streets for God-knows-how-long and what her plans were, but I wasn’t sure how best to go about it. I was pretty certain she wasn’t going to make a bolt for the door like last time, especially now that she was in a dressing gown, but all the same I didn’t want to make her feel backed into a corner and wary of me all over again.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but . . . what happened? How come you’ve been sleeping rough?’

She stopped chewing immediately and tensed up. Oh no. Had I blown it again?

She put down her knife and fork. ‘Because I hate my mum,’ she said sullenly after a moment. ‘And I just . . .’ Her eyes glittered with emotion, and a hard, defensive look came over her face. ‘I’d just had enough.’

‘Right,’ I said, deliberately not asking anything else just yet. I was hoping she’d fill in the blanks for me.

‘It’s just – she’s such a fucking
snob
,’ she burst out. ‘Sorry,’ she added in a mutter. ‘But she is. She has no idea.’

‘So, what, you just walked out, did you? Had a row or something?’

‘Yeah.’ She scooped some more egg into her mouth and I thought that was all she was going to say, but then she carried on. ‘We had a massive row because she didn’t like the girls I’ve been hanging around with. She doesn’t think they’re good enough for me, or some crap like that. Well, they
are
. They’re my
friends
. So . . .’ She shrugged. ‘We had a fight, and I just . . . ran away.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘So I take it you’re not from Cornwall, then.’ I already knew she wouldn’t be. There was a toughness about her, an edge, which made it clear she was a city girl.

She shook her head. ‘London,’ she said, still glowering.

‘It’s a long way to come,’ I said. There was a moment’s silence as if she was too polite to tell me I was stating the bleeding obvious. ‘Have you spoken to your mum since you walked out?’ I asked gently.

‘No way,’ she spat.

‘So she doesn’t know where you are?’

‘Nope. Not a clue.’ She seemed proud of the fact. Her chin was up, she was bristling, on the defensive.

I bit back all my other questions, not wanting to interrogate her too much. Not yet anyway. She looked as if she was on the verge of flouncing back out into the rain, dressing gown and all. ‘Want anything else to eat?’ I asked instead.

She shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.’

‘Well, I’m glad you came here,’ I said, getting up and taking her empty plate. ‘This café is a special place, you know. My aunt used to run it, and back when I was a teenager, and having all sorts of problems with
my
mum, and my so-called perfect big sisters, she took me under her wing and let me stay.’

Phoebe was staring at me anxiously, and I couldn’t tell if she’d even listened to a word of my little speech. ‘Evie, you’re not going to . . . phone the police about me or anything, are you?’

I paused. ‘No,’ I said finally. ‘I’m not going to phone the police. But I do think it would be the right thing for you to phone your mum. You don’t have to tell her where you are, but just let her know that you’re safe, and that you’re okay. She must be going out of her mind with worry. Don’t you think?’

There was a silence. She was studying her nails with fierce concentration as if all the solutions to the world’s problems had been encrypted on them, and she was the only person who could decipher the code.

‘Think about it,’ I urged. ‘You don’t have to do anything now, but just think about it, at least. Yeah?’

She nodded, still not looking at me. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it.’

The following morning when I woke up, Phoebe had vanished again. I’d kind of expected it, to be honest; she was like the cat who walked by himself, not the sort to get too comfortable in a place and let her guard down. She’d left a paper napkin on the table with ‘THANK YOU’ written on it and some kisses. She’d also washed up and dried the dirty dishes from last night’s scrambled egg, and left them tidily on the worktop. However much she loathed her mum, the woman had certainly brought her up to have good manners.

It wasn’t raining now, so wherever she’d gone she wouldn’t be getting cold and wet at least. I wondered if she’d be back again tonight, or if my nagging about her mum had put her off.

Still, I’d done my best. She’d been fed and watered, and she’d slept the night in a bed, with a roof over her head. I hoped the reminder of creature comforts might be enough for her to stop being so stubborn and patch things up with her family.

Martha came in at around eleven that morning, holding hands with Jamie, and I couldn’t help comparing the two girls. Martha seemed so happy and chilled in contrast to prickly, vulnerable Phoebe. ‘Hi there,’ I said. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while. How’s half-term going?’