A Rather Remarkable Homecoming (13 page)

“Looks like they’ve got plenty of chow here,” Jeremy shouted to me above the din as we were escorted to our table.

He gestured toward a buffet with an enormous straw cornucopia in its center. Spilling out of the horn of plenty was an assortment of cheeses and fruit; and the rest of the table was occupied with carving boards that were manned by more waiters, who stood brandishing big knives over large roasted hams, turkeys, venison and beef.

I gazed about in amazement, watching all this cheery, convivial activity in the midst of the abandoned side of town. When I glanced up at Jeremy, his smile bore some affection as he said, “It’s one of the last of the authentic neighborhood pubs. Now you see what England was . . . and what it’s losing.”

We studied the chalkboard menu, then Jeremy suggested that we try the shepherd’s pie. He had to shout our order to the waiter. “They brew their own beer,” he said happily, and soon our waiter returned, carrying our glasses aloft on one of those big trays.

Now, shepherd’s pie can vary wildly, depending on the pub and the type of meat used. Tonight we were served one of the very best—a fine homemade piecrust filled with a stew of ground beef, tiny perfect onions, carrots and tender green peas; all massively topped with whipped mashed potatoes that had been browned with butter. The tart green salad that accompanied it had sliced apple and radishes.

We ate and drank so gratefully that neither of us said a word, which was wise in this deafening din. Then, suddenly, the jukebox went silent. A few moments later, the entire crowd did, too. And then, a flood of lights came up on the darkened area where I had supposed that the younger men were moving furniture.

Only now I saw that it wasn’t furniture they’d been fussing with. It was band equipment, erected on a platform. There was a full set of drums at the back, and a keyboard on a stand, and guitars and a bagpipe, and other instruments that I couldn’t quite identify. Several men picked up their instruments, and then the drummer walked in and took his place.

“Jeremy!” I cried. “The drummer. It’s Colin!”

At that moment one of the waiters, a stout man with a bald head and one earring, hopped onto the platform and spoke into a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my great pleasure to present Port St. Francis’ very own ‘Tor Nation’!”

“What’s a tor?” I whispered.

“A Cornish word for a rock formation,” Jeremy answered.

The crowd broke into wild applause as the band members stepped forward. All of them were dressed like Colin—in kilts and black T-shirts with gilt design and lettering. Colin picked up his drumsticks and tapped them together to give the band the tempo, then they burst into what sounded like a strange sort of sea shanty with a rock-and-roll beat. The combination of the
“Eeeeee”
of the bagpipes, the
“Wong”
of the electric guitar, and Colin’s steady beat somehow all blended together in a harmonious, fascinating way, mixing rock motifs, traditional Celtic folk music, and ancient troubadour songs.

“I get it. It’s folk music with drums,” Jeremy said, watching closely with respectful appreciation.

As the band progressed through their set, the crowd started to keep time with the music, tapping their hands against the tables. Finally, when the band took its first break, Colin climbed down from the platform and headed toward us, nodding at a waiter who brought over an extra chair for him at our table. A big glass mug of beer quickly appeared in front of him.

“Well done!” Jeremy told him, clapping him on the back. Colin ducked his head in embarrassed pleasure.

“Celt rocks!” Colin said, raising his fist in the air. “But after the break, we’re going for straight rock-and-roll.”

“Thank heaven you told us about this place!” I said. “We would have starved to death tonight.”

“It’s the last holdout, apart from the sailors’ bar at the harbor where the food is terrible,” Colin said frankly, after thirstily drinking his beer. “When this place bites the dust, we’re done for.”

He smiled appreciatively at me, as if, now that I was in this lively bar-room setting, he was seeing me as a woman for the first time, instead of a married-lady visitor to his mum. With a goodnatured trace of flirtation Colin said teasingly, “So. How do you like Cornwall, heh? Gonna stay on a bit this summer and dig up some history for us?”

“We’d love to,” I answered, “but we’re being thrown to the wolves. Our hotel has informed us that there is no room at the inn until autumn!”

“Bullshit,” Colin said. “We can find you a place to stay. Ah!” he said, suddenly inspired. “See that guy over there holding the bagpipes?”

We all turned to study a very tall man in the band who had a brown ponytail and beard.

“He’s Geoffrey, my brother-in-law,” Colin said. “He and my sister Shannon have a cool farm, and I bet they could put you up in one of their cottages if they knew what you were working on.”

“But we wouldn’t want to impose,” Jeremy said quickly.

“You wouldn’t be,” Colin said, waving to a table of women who appeared to be about my age. One of them had straight, straw-colored hair that was so long it went down past her waist. “Shannon and Geoff are a couple of New Age hippies,” Colin declared, as if that explained everything. “They’re off the grid,” he added. “They grow their own food, they produce solar energy, the whole works. They got sheep and all. They make the best damned cheese you ever ate.”

I thought the idea was fascinating, but perhaps to change the subject, Jeremy began to talk to Colin about music, with the two of them enthusiastically discussing all the unusual instruments and songs that the band had in its repertoire.

“Jeremy had a rock band when he was in school,” I told Colin.

“No kidding?” Colin said. “Guitar?”

“Right,” Jeremy said. Now it was his turn to look embarrassed.

“I thought so,” Colin said, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Can you handle a bass?”

“I suppose . . .” Jeremy said warily. “But I’m out of practice.”

“Ah, nothing to it. It’s like riding a bike,” Colin said. He rose from the table now as his band members signalled for him to rejoin them. His chair made a scraping sound as he did so.

When he reached the stage he spoke briefly to the other band members, then stepped up to the microphone, saying, “Attention, everybody! There’s a friend of mine in the audience who plays guitar. He’s from London, but don’t hold that against him. Let’s invite him to join us, shall we? Jeremy, come on up.”

And he aimed a drumstick at Jeremy, who looked thoroughly horrified as the audience cheered and everyone turned in his direction, smiling expectantly.

“Shit,” he said under his breath to me. “This is all your fault.”

“It is not,” I objected. “You were begging for it, whether you realize it or not.” Then I smiled gently and said, “Do it for England, my boy.”

Jeremy put on his stoic face, and rose and went up to the stage, where he was handed a cherry-red electric bass guitar. He adjusted the guitar-strap around his neck, while the other guitarist plugged it into the large black amplifier, which momentarily rumbled with feedback. The band members had a brief discussion with Jeremy, plinking a few test notes and chords while they worked out an arrangement. Then suddenly they faced the audience, Colin slammed his snare drum, and the lead singer shouted into the microphone, in a perfect imitation of Paul McCartneyimitating-Little Richard, singing
I’m Down
.

I was nearly bursting with pride and pleasure. I’d never seen Jeremy perform before an audience. Even during that very first summer here, despite all his thrilled talk about rock-and-roll, he’d never shown me what he could do.

When they finished the song, the group bowed deeply, and Jeremy, with a wry grin, replaced the guitar in its case, nodded to the other band members, and quickly left the stage. The waiter, smiling, brought him another beer “on the house”.

I waited a few seconds for Jeremy to settle back down into the anonymity of the audience before I whispered to him, “You were great!”

“Yeah, well, you’d better say that,” he growled at me with mock ferocity.

“Honestly, I swear,” I said. “If I weren’t already married to you, I would have fallen in love tonight.”

Jeremy laughed and rumpled my hair, now finally convinced of my sincerity.

“To tell the truth, I hit a few bum notes,” he admitted cheerfully, “but nobody seemed to mind.”

The room was emptying early tonight, because it was a work night. Colin’s sister was on the way out with her group when she stopped by our table and said to me, “Hi, Penny. I’m Shannon. Colin said you’re looking for a place to stay? My mum has told me so much about you two!”

She signalled to her friends to go on without her, then she took the seat the waiter had planted there earlier for Colin. Shannon looked nothing like Colin; she was very tall, and wore a wheatcolored jacket that looked hand-embroidered with purple and russet-colored flowers. She was so eager to show us photographs of the cottages on her farm that all I could say was, “Oh, sure, love to have a look.”

The cottage she had in mind for us really was quite lovely, painted a pale blue, with clusters of flowering shrubs and a white fence. Inside it had a good-sized kitchen, a big brass bed in the lone bedroom, a parlor with a fireplace, and, in the backyard, a small patio and a private vegetable garden. The rent she cited for the month of July was so reasonable that I knew she was giving us a special deal as a favor to Colin.

“The fact is, I hope you succeed in getting landmark status for your grandmother’s house,” Shannon said eagerly. “You see, our farm and wells abut some of the land that the Mosleys plan to develop. I can’t begin to tell you the impact their toxic runoff would have on us. And that would be a real violation of Nature, because we just know that there are ancient ley lines running through part of our farm there.”

At my mystified look, she nodded vigorously and said, “Ley lines are like ancient highways, and the magnetic energy is just fantastic! I don’t know why, but everything we plant in the path of the ley lines grows twice as tall as it does anywhere else. It’s the right confluence of sun, earth, air and water.”

I glanced at Jeremy to see how he was reacting to Shannon’s comments. He had that tolerant but skeptical look that I knew so well whenever people get what he calls “too blissy”. Yet I found Shannon to be quite serious as she showed me more photos of the farm, where, in addition to growing organic fruits and vegetables, she and her husband Geoffrey raised chickens and sheep, and they even spun their own sweaters and blankets, which they sold at the farmers’ market and on their own Web site.

Geoff had left his bagpipes with the band, and he joined us now, dragging over a chair from a nearby table. Shannon concluded her pitch by saying, “So please . . . will you be our guests?”

Geoff gave us an encouraging smile, and said, “Frankly, we have selfish reasons to keep you guys around. The Mosleys could put a lot of folks here out of business. So, whatever we can do to help, just ask.”

Something about the generosity and conviviality from everyone here in this folksy pub tonight must have gotten to me. After all, these people had fed us when we were hungry, and they’d offered shelter when we were about to be turned out on our ear, and, well, I just liked them. So, somewhere along the way, with visions in my head of a great summer of sun, sea, fabulous beach walks and great food, I caved in.

“Let’s do it, Jeremy!” I cried.

Jeremy squeezed my hand and said, “Sure, Penny. If you really want to.”

“Great! I’ll e-mail you a map the farm,” Shannon said, and she rose decisively and went out the door. Geoff shook hands with Jeremy and, just like that, we had rented ourselves a cottage in Cornwall.

I beamed at Jeremy, who said to me wryly, “Did we just agree to go live on a sheep farm?”

“Guess so,” I said with a grin.

Jeremy signalled the waiter for the check, just as the front door was flung open, and a bunch of new arrivals burst aggressively into the room.

They were obviously students from London, quite formally dressed, with top hats and tails and expensive shirts. I could not imagine American college boys ever dressed this way, but these privileged kids seemed perfectly at home in clothes that reminded me of the millionaire cartoon guy from the Monopoly game. I half expected to see one of them wearing a monocle, yet they were young.

And very, very drunk.

They staggered over to the bar shouting their drinks orders in the loud voices of plastered guys who either don’t realize or don’t care to notice that their volume is higher than anyone else’s around them.

“Give us your finest whisky, my good man!” bellowed one.

“And a keg of ale, sir!” shouted another. I thought they were posh students on holiday, or perhaps they’d recently graduated. I couldn’t quite tell. They were different from kids I knew at high school or university. These guys walked and talked like the kind of older men who would be in a private club somewhere in London, ordering around their butlers. One heavy-set lad even had a cigar in his mouth, which seemed so incongruous with his chubbycheeked, youthful face.

Warily but resignedly, the bartender began to line up shot glasses for them. These were downed as quickly as they were filled. None of the locals spoke to these guys, and I could feel people around me stiffening with apprehension.

“Time to go home,” Jeremy warned me.

The newcomers had embarked upon a loud game of darts, but were flinging them wildly in all directions, even making it necessary for some of the waiters to duck out of harm’s way.

Over the din, I heard one of the interlopers suddenly shout, “I love the sound of breaking glass!”

This seemed to be a signal, for they each picked up a glass and hurled it at their own reflections in the mirror above the bar.

I can’t even tell you what happened next, because everything seemed to erupt at once. Suddenly more glass was shattering, and bodies were flying through the air as the locals leaped upon the offending invaders. The waiters tried to pull them apart and ended up partaking in the fracas. Chairs were hurled across the room before I could even see who had flung them. Several young men—some locals but mostly the newcomers—went skidding into the sawdust across the floor.