The Beach Cafe (6 page)

I got out of the car and locked it, then began walking towards the front of the café. Something rustled behind me and I swung around just in time to see a long, scaly tail flick behind the bin and vanish. Oh God. A rat! I really hated rats. And I was pretty sure that the Environmental Health people weren’t all that keen on having them hanging around cafés, either. Shit. I was going to have to play Bad Cop with the staff, and remind everyone to clear up the rubbish properly. That would go down well.

Shuddering, I hurried round to the front of the café. The beach was deserted after the recent storm, and the sea looked furiously grey, bursting over the rocks with great fountains of white, lacy spray. Wooden steps led up to the decking area outside the café, and as I climbed them, the first thing I saw was an old drink carton lying right in the middle of the deck. More rubbish. Brilliant.

I tutted and picked it up, then noticed that the outdoor chairs had all been left upright during the recent cloudburst and had rain puddles on their seats. Shaking my head crossly, I went around tipping them against the tables so that the water would drain away. God, this wasn’t a good start. I hoped things were better inside.

I took a deep breath, trying to give Carl and the staff the benefit of the doubt. The drink carton might have been dropped just a minute or so ago after all, by someone leaving the café, or perhaps had been blown there by the wind. The bins . . . Well, it was easy to forget them, I supposed. Hopefully once I had given everyone a reminder, it wouldn’t happen again. No real harm was done.

I went inside, badly in need of a reviving coffee after my long journey, but winced immediately at the sound of loud reggae blasting out from the kitchen. Jo had always had the radio on – a cute retro radio that she kept perched on the counter. It wasn’t there any more though. (Had it been nicked? I wondered darkly.)

The café wasn’t busy – an elderly couple sat nursing a pot of tea on a table for two, and a family with two squirming little girls were in the far corner. A petite woman with ash-blonde hair was at the counter and she rolled her eyes when she saw me. ‘Don’t hold your breath for the service,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting here five minutes already. Think he’s having his own private party in there, or something.’

I felt dismayed, and cross too, at this. ‘Sorry,’ I said, going behind the counter and dumping my bag there. I grabbed an apron from the nail and briskly put it on. ‘What can I get you?’

The girl goggled in surprise. ‘Oh! Do you work here?’ she asked.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Well, sort of. What would you like?’

‘Two white teas, a black coffee, a latte and a Coke, please. And have you got any cakes?’

It was only then I noticed that the plates where Jo’s magnificent cakes were usually displayed were empty, save for a few stale crumbs. Nice. ‘I’ll find out,’ I said, scribbling down the order. I felt slightly dazed. I hadn’t expected to get stuck in to hands-on café life quite so quickly. ‘Give me a minute,’ I said. Then I went into the kitchen.

The reggae was even louder in there, making the windows vibrate with the booming bass. Carl had his back to me, stirring something pungent and spicy at the hob, completely oblivious to anything else.

‘Carl!’ I said, bristling with annoyance. What was he playing at? And what was he cooking, anyway? It smelled like curry, and I knew that wasn’t something Jo had ever had on the menu. ‘Carl!’ I said again, when he didn’t seem to hear.

I snapped off the stereo at the wall and the room went quiet. He swung round instantly, and did a double-take as he saw me there.

‘What’s up? What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘I could ask you the same,’ I replied. My voice sounded snotty and cold, but I didn’t care. ‘There’s a customer out there, said she’s been waiting for five minutes. And the music’s too loud, and I saw a
rat
outside, and there’s litter everywhere!’ I stopped abruptly as his face darkened. Oops. So much for not going in on the attack.

‘Chill out, man,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘It’s all under control.’

‘Really,’ I said flatly. ‘That’s not how it looks from here.’ I folded my arms across my chest, feeling my face turn pink. I wasn’t good with confrontation at the best of times. ‘Anyway, can we get these drinks for the customer, please? Oh, and is there any cake?’

‘Cake’s all gone,’ he said. ‘Not my thing. What drinks does she want?’

I rattled off the order, not liking the way he looked at me so sneeringly. ‘I’ll get the Coke,’ I said.

He turned down the heat under the pan of curry and wiped his hands on his apron. ‘I’ll just do everything else then, shall I?’ he said.

I stared after him, fuming at his rudeness. ‘Well, that is your
job
,’ I muttered savagely under my breath. Honestly! How had Jo ever managed to work with such a tosser? Two minutes of being in a confined space with him and I was spitting tacks.

I stuck my head in the store cupboard, wondering what else I could offer the girl, seeing as there were no cakes. The stock seemed very low, I thought, scratching my head as I gazed around. Back when I had worked there, the cupboard had always been full of boxes of different-flavoured crisps, and cartons and cans of soft drinks, as well as industrial-sized packets of tea, filter coffee, sugar and all Jo’s baking ingredients. Today most of the crisp boxes seemed empty – apart from a few lonely packets of prawn cocktail – and there seemed to have been a flour explosion on the floor. And what had happened to all the soft drinks? I couldn’t see any.

Thankfully there were still a couple of cans of Coke in the fridge behind the counter, so I took one out. ‘I’m afraid we’re out of cakes, but we have some crisps, if you want those?’ I asked my customer, holding up a pink packet in each hand.

‘Um . . .’ Her face fell, and she shook her head. ‘No, don’t worry about it. I’ll get something from the shop up the road, thanks.’

‘Sure,’ I said, my smile feeling like an ache.

‘Two teas, two coffees, one black, one white,’ Carl said, dumping them on the counter. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, thanks,’ she said, glancing from me to him. She paid and left, and Carl stalked back into the kitchen, where the music started up again, pounding at top volume.

I stood for a second, wondering what I should do next. What I really wanted was to take my things upstairs to the flat, unpack and have a quick shower to blast away the grubby feeling I always got after a long car journey. But I could already imagine Carl muttering something sarcastic if I slipped away, and didn’t want him to have any reason to have a go at me. No, I needed to stay here, get my hands dirty and show that I meant business.

I noticed that the old lady had winced as the music came back on and was pulling a face at her companion. Neither of them appreciated it, by the looks of things. I bustled over to their table, with damage limitation in mind. ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.

‘Well, no,’ the lady said apologetically. ‘Could the music be turned down a bit, do you think? We can’t hear each other.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Right away. Can I get you anything else while I’m here?’

She shook her head. ‘We were hoping to have a cream tea, but it seems to be off the menu. Will you be getting more scones in tomorrow? Only we always treat ourselves every year when we’re down here on holiday, and . . .’

‘I’ve just got here today, but I’ll see what I can do,’ I promised her. I’d make the flipping scones myself, if I had to, I vowed. If they’d been coming here on holiday for years, looking forward to a cream tea at Jo’s, it felt crucial they could still have that.
The show must go on!
bellowed Freddie Mercury in my head.

I marched into the kitchen and turned down the stereo. ‘It’s really loud out there,’ I said to Carl. ‘A couple of people have complained.’

He just shrugged.
Don’t care. BOTHERED!

‘What are you cooking there, anyway?’ I asked. ‘Is this a new dish for the menu?’ It was good that he was taking the initiative, I told myself. Great that he was experimenting.

‘I’ve got some mates coming over tonight,’ he replied. ‘Said I’d do them something to eat.’

I stared at the greenish-brown curry, then up at him. ‘What – here, in the café?’ I asked. ‘But I thought it was always closed after five?’

Another shrug.
What’s it to you?
‘Friday night is poker night,’ he said. ‘I told the lads they could come over here.’

I pursed my lips. ‘Right. So this curry you’re making – it’s not even to sell, is it? It’s got nothing to do with the business.’

He gave me a look of disdain. ‘Have you got a problem with that?’

I ran a hand through my hair. ‘Well, yes, I have actually, Carl. This is work time – you’re meant to be serving here in the café. And I don’t want this place turned into a . . . a gambling den in the evenings, for you and your mates.’ Snotty, snotty, snotty. I sounded like an ice-princess, but I couldn’t stop myself. Was that where all the soft drinks had vanished to? I wondered. Carl’s mates coming round, helping themselves?

‘Look, love,’ he said, loading the word with sarcasm. ‘You can’t just waltz in, telling me what to do, giving me the I’m-the-boss line. It’s not been easy here, you know – running out of stock, bills coming in.’ He spread his hands wide, glaring at me. ‘Where were you then, eh?’

‘I’m sorry, I—’ I tried, but he was in full flow now, unstoppable.

‘Yeah, exactly. You weren’t here. You don’t know the half of it, so don’t start dishing the shit before you’ve got the full story.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You’re right, I
don’t
know the full story, but when I come in and see the place in such a state, I can’t help but jump to conclusions.’

He made a
tch
noise between his teeth and I took a deep breath.

‘Look, let’s start again,’ I said. ‘We’ve got off on the wrong foot, but I’m here now, so let’s try to straighten things out.’

There was an uneasy silence and for a split-second I thought he was going to tell me to eff off and storm out. Then he nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Good,’ I said briskly, trying not to show my relief. ‘Look, it’s quiet at the moment. Why don’t we both grab a coffee and have a chat.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Milk, two sugars for me.’

Right. So I’d be making them then. It was on the tip of my tongue to say ‘
Please
’, in the way that my mum had always done when we were kids, but I held it back and went meekly to the coffee machine. ‘Um . . .’ I said helplessly, wondering which button to press. This was a much whizzier model than Jo had had when I’d worked here all those years ago.

He’d come out behind the counter and was watching me. ‘Christ, can’t you even work a coffee machine?’ he snorted. ‘I’d better show you, if you’re going to be sticking around. Watch and learn, Boss Lady.’

Gritting my teeth, I stepped to the side while he showed me how to make cappuccinos, americanos and espressos. ‘No problem,’ I said haughtily, although I’d already forgotten half his instructions. I’d swot up with the machine’s manual later on, I promised myself, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of my asking for any more help.

Just then the dad from the family in the corner appeared at the counter looking really pissed off as he held a plate of half-eaten sandwiches. He had rimless rectangular glasses and a prominent Adam’s apple, and he was wearing a pastel-pink polo shirt. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, his Adam’s apple jerking as he spoke. ‘The ham in these sandwiches – I think it’s off. It smells awful.’

I peeled back the bread of one of them, noting the measly scrape of margarine and the soggy shreds of lettuce, and held the plate up to my nose. Then I recoiled in disgust. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘That smells vile.’ The ham was shiny and bright pink, really nasty, cheap-looking stuff. ‘I think you’re right,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry. Let me make you another.’

His lips tightened to a bloodless line. ‘The thing is, my daughter’s already eaten half of it,’ he said. ‘And if she comes down with food poisoning, I’m not going to be happy. In fact, I’ll be going straight to the council. I’m really appalled that you could even serve this up in the first place.’ His Adam’s apple was moving so agitatedly now that I felt mesmerized by it. ‘What’s happened to this café? We’ve been coming here for years and always loved the food. But now . . .’

I felt like crying. I couldn’t look Carl in the eye. Didn’t he have a clue about food hygiene? Even an idiot could see that the ham looked dodgy. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said again. ‘Let me make you something else. Carl, have we got any more ham?’

He shook his head. ‘I said, didn’t I, we’ve been running out of stock?’ he muttered, as if that was any excuse.

‘Yes, but . . . Look, we’ll talk about this later,’ I hissed, before turning back to the man. But he’d already returned to his wife and kids.

‘Don’t eat another mouthful,’ I heard him saying to them. ‘Let’s go and find somewhere else to have tea. This place has gone way downhill.’

My face burned with shame as they walked out, one of the kids bursting into tears as they went. ‘But I’m hun-greee,’ she sobbed, tears plopping from her big blue eyes. I was just about to bung them the prawn-cocktail crisps – ‘On the house!’ – but by the time I’d snatched up the packets, they’d left.

Oh God. I felt myself drooping against the counter with dismay. The man was right. The café
had
gone downhill – worryingly downhill. At this rate, I wouldn’t be able to stop it before it crashed all the way down to rock bottom.

Chapter Six

I got the feeling Carl wasn’t very keen on taking orders from me. Even though I tried to be supportive of him that afternoon – asking in a kindly, managerial manner how I could make things better in the café, and what needed doing – he still wasn’t accepting any responsibility for the way he’d let things slide. That was all my fault, he kept implying, for not being around to look after the place. And yeah, you guessed it, it ended up being me who went outside to clean up the car park later that afternoon, keeping a nervous eye out for ratty interlopers, while he sloped off with his vat of curry, to rearrange the wretched poker night for an alternative venue.

‘How’s it going?’ Matthew asked when I called him that evening. ‘Have you got Rick Stein worried yet?’

‘Ha,’ I said. ‘Not quite. Oh God, it’s been really shit actually,’ I went on, unable to stop myself from breaking into a wail. I poured out my woes: the reaction from Betty when I’d walked into her shop, the litter, the music, the poker night, the ham sandwich, the hundreds of pounds I’d just shelled out at the cash-and-carry to give us any kind of stock. As I reeled them off, the problems all seemed to close in around me like black clouds. What the hell had I got myself into? What kind of fool was I, thinking I could come down here and pick up the reins, just like that?

‘Bloody hell,’ Matthew said, when I’d finally finished. ‘What a nightmare.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘It almost makes me want to go back to work for that pervert at Crossland. It’s that bad. I mean, what if the little girl is really ill after eating that revolting ham sandwich? It could be curtains for the café. History. I’ll be sued, and bankrupt, and—’

‘Talking of Crossland,’ he interrupted, ignoring my dramatics. ‘Your temp agency rang, wanting to speak to you. I’ve given them your mobile number, they didn’t seem to have it.’

I pulled a face. There was a reason they didn’t have my mobile number. ‘Oh God, they’re probably ringing up to bollock me for walking out of that other job. Great. Well, that’s something to look forward to.’

I must have sounded thoroughly miserable because his tone softened. ‘Evie – you don’t have to put yourself through all this, you know. You can just—’

‘Sell it, yeah, I know. I’ve been bloody tempted today, believe me.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘I’d better go, anyway. I need to make some scones for tomorrow.’

‘You?’ He was laughing now. ‘You, make scones?’

‘Yeah, all right,’ I said, feeling defensive. ‘Don’t scoff.’

‘I won’t, don’t worry,’ he assured me, still laughing. ‘Not if you’ve baked them, anyway.’

I laughed as well. ‘Very funny,’ I told him. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you.’

‘You too,’ he said.

I put the phone down, and sank back into the sofa. Jo’s sofa. It still smelled faintly of the Issey Miyake perfume she’d always worn, and I felt a pang of missing her as I breathed it in. She’d lived here for years and years – for some of the time with Andrew, a guy with whom she’d had a long and complicated relationship before he’d died of throat cancer a few years ago. They’d had terrible arguments about this place, though; he wanted her to sell up and for them to take on a bigger and fancier restaurant in Newquay together. She hadn’t wanted to. ‘Never confuse business with your love life,’ she’d been fond of saying. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ And she hadn’t.

Andrew hadn’t been the only one on her case. I’d found out in recent years that my grandparents – Jo’s parents – had always been disapproving of her decision to settle in Cornwall and live the beach life. Back in the day, they’d been keen for her to marry the young vicar from the Hampshire village where Jo and my mum had been brought up, and couldn’t understand it when Jo went off gallivanting around the world instead. Jo and Andrew had never married, and were unable to have children, and therefore Jo had failed in her parents’ eyes. Forget the fact that she was happy, that she had her own successful business, that she was living the life she’d always wanted – that didn’t seem important to them.

‘Well, I thought you were brilliant, Jo,’ I said aloud now as I remembered the tight, pinched expression on my grandmother’s face whenever Jo had been discussed. ‘I thought you got it spot on.’

It was weird being in the flat without her; it didn’t feel right at all. The room I was in, her living room, had the most perfect view overlooking the beach and sea – the sort of view you could never tire of gazing at. She’d painted the walls a warm creamy-white and kept the decor simple and unfussy: a seascape painting over the fireplace, a couple of blue-glass vases and . . . My eyes widened as they fell on a collection of framed photographs above the low whitewashed bookcase. Hey! I recognized those.

I went over, smiling. There were three photos, all of the beach in different lights. One was a sunrise shot, with the first pinky rays reflected in the calm water. One was of a stormy day, much like today, when the beach was grey and deserted, and the waves looked wild and uncontrollable. The third was the classic sunset scene, the sky striped in swathes of apricot, rose and fuchsia, long shadows spreading over the sand.

Tears misted my eyes suddenly, because they were all photographs I’d taken when I’d been staying with her. She was the one who’d first told me I had a good eye for a photo. ‘You frame the shot perfectly,’ she’d said. ‘You’re a natural.’ She’d encouraged me to make a go of it, she’d believed in me; the only person in my entire family who wasn’t trying to shoehorn me into a teaching career. She’d known how I’d felt.

I loved thinking of her walking past my photos every day, maybe straightening them or dusting them now and then. It made me want to get out my camera again, rediscover that triumph of capturing the perfect evocative shot. I’d given up on photography, just as I’d given up on so many other things, but I wished now that I’d taken other pictures for Jo, maybe of Oxford and the Cotswolds, compiled a whole album for her:
The Evie Flynn Collection.
It would have made a great birthday or Christmas present. Too late now, though, of course.

Anyway. This wasn’t the time for what-might-have-beens. I had scones to make, and bloody good ones they had to be too, if the old couple had been looking forward to them all year. No pressure whatsoever, then.

Previously I’d never been much of a cook, but I’d always flattered myself that it was just because I couldn’t really be bothered with all that chopping and grating and whisking. I mean, anyone could
cook
, couldn’t they? Anyone could bung a few things in a bowl and stir them and then stick them in the oven. I was sure I could make wonderful roast dinners and amazing soups and elaborately iced cakes too, if I absolutely tried my very hardest, concentrating fiercely and not being distracted by the radio or a text from a mate.

The thing was, now that I was actually in Jo’s kitchen, frowning at her handwritten scone recipe, it seemed a lot more difficult than that. The butter wasn’t mixing properly with the flour – most of it seemed to be stuck under my fingernails – and I wasn’t sure if golden caster sugar was the same as caster sugar. As for buttermilk . . . ? What the hell was buttermilk? Was it butter and milk mixed together, or what? I’d never heard of it before. I bit my lip, wondering if it would be okay to slosh in some ordinary milk, or if that was a terrible
faux pas.
Would the scone-loving old lady bite into one of my efforts and look shocked at the no-buttermilk taste? ‘I’m sorry, dear, but these aren’t
proper
scones,’ she might say. ‘What a shame. This always used to be such a
nice
café, too.’

Aargh. Why was it so complicated? Why hadn’t I paid more attention when I worked here, asked Jo to give me a few baking lessons? I dithered, my hands still in the mixing bowl as I wondered if it would be too embarrassing to phone my mum and ask her advice. Mind you, she wasn’t a great baker herself. In fact, her advice would probably be ‘Just buy your scones from Waitrose, of course.’

I was fast coming to the conclusion that this might actually be the best option for everyone concerned when I was stopped in my tracks by another glance at the recipe. The paper was sun-faded and creased, there was a greasy fingerprint on one corner as if it had been held by a buttery hand, and there were even traces of flour still visible. This was a recipe that had clearly been well used and well loved. I had a vision of Jo standing right where I was, pinny on, humming to the radio, weighing and mixing and rolling out her scone mixture.

I couldn’t just turn my back on this recipe as if it didn’t exist, and go to Waitrose instead. This recipe was part of the café’s history – it symbolized everything that was real and good about the place.

I took a deep breath and read through the instructions once again. I wouldn’t be defeated by a scone recipe. I would bake the perfect batch if it was the last thing I did.

That’s my girl
, said Jo in my head.

On Saturday morning I woke at six, with the sun streaming in through the window. Right. Big day today. The café’s busiest day of the week. Up and at ’em!

I shut my eyes again, exhausted. I’d been up for hours the night before in my quest to make the best scones in Cornwall. Or even some that were vaguely edible.

The first lot hadn’t risen at all, for some reason – they just looked like pale, doughy blinis. Yuck. Straight in the bin with them; start again. The second lot of scones
had
risen, gratifyingly, but most of them had burned (less gratifying). I managed to salvage three that looked okay, but I wasn’t sure that would be enough. What if we got a rush on cream teas? What if the first customer who tried one said, ‘My God, these are amazing, I need to buy up your entire scone collection?’ My old lady might not get to taste the fruits of my labours. I couldn’t let her down.

The third batch were perfect. No, really, they were. Okay, so they were slightly wonky, but they rose at least, and were a lovely golden-brown. They were so yummy-looking, in fact, I almost sat down with a pot of raspberry jam and some clotted cream and started tucking in myself. The old lady would be pleased. It would make her holiday. That was if she even turned up, of course. She’d better bloody turn up after all this, I thought with a sudden fierceness. If she didn’t, I’d be searching through the village for her with a megaphone.

Giddy with my success, I decided to make a carrot-and-walnut cake next. Jo had always served up carrot cake in the café, she had been famed throughout the village for it. She’d made a three-tier version with lovely fluffy cream-cheese frosting, which had taken pride of place on the counter. I had to get it back on the menu, I told myself. It was what she would have wanted. It was what the customers wanted too, surely.

It was only when I’d put the cake tins into the oven (finally! I never wanted to grate a sodding carrot again, my fingers were in shreds) that my thoughts turned to the icing. That was the moment I realized we didn’t have any cream cheese. Not even a smidgen. Damn – could I get away with ordinary icing? No. Would anyone around here be open and selling cream cheese at eleven o’clock at night? No.

I felt like letting out a great howl of frustration. No doubt Carl would snigger at my un-iced cake in the morning. Word would get back to Betty Doom and she’d look scornful at this further proof that I wasn’t cut out to be here.
She
wouldn’t serve me any cream cheese, would she? She’d probably spit at me if I tried to ask for it. Well, I’d just have to get up at the crack of dawn the next day and go out of the village on a cream-cheese-buying mission.

That had been the plan, but now it
was
the next day, and the thought of cream cheese made me feel distinctly queasy. But I heaved myself out of bed nonetheless and stood under the shower until I felt slightly more alive. Come on, Evie. Jump to it. A whole day with Carl-the-Jerk to look forward to. Bring it on . . .

By nine o’clock I was ready. The carrot cake had been iced (icing was great – it covered up all the dimples and scorched bits of sponge, I realized), the kitchen and dining areas were spotless, I’d had a practice run with the coffee machine and reckoned I could get by on a wing and a prayer, and I’d replenished all the stock we held behind the counter. Oh, and I’d also chalked up a sign on the blackboard saying: TODAY’S SPECIAL: CORNISH CREAM TEA – £2.95. If that didn’t get the punters racing in, I didn’t know what would.

There, Jo. That all right for you?

Humming to myself, I unlocked the front door, turned the sign to ‘Open’, put up the parasols on the outside decking and stood for a moment, gazing out at the beach. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was a soft, misty blue, patterned with small white clouds – a mackerel sky, Jo would have said if she’d been standing there with me. An elderly couple were walking slowly across the sand together, arm-in-arm. A male jogger in a red singlet and shorts thudded along, iPod on, face blank, arms swinging to a soundless beat. I heard the sound of exuberant barking and then a chocolate-brown dog hurtled onto the beach, its tail wagging in joy as it galloped over the sand.

‘Lola! Come on, then.’ A man had followed the dog onto the sand and was holding a green ball up in the air.

Hearing her name, the dog turned and barked again. The man bent his arm back and hurled the ball, which sailed like a green dot through the air. The dog chased wildly after it, head up, watching its arc, her powerful legs propelling her across the damp sand, leaving a trail of prints.

The café was on the left side of the bay as you looked out to sea and, to reach it from the beach, you had to climb up ten wooden steps. I wanted to stay watching from my vantage point, but didn’t want the man to turn and see me staring, so I reluctantly returned inside. Right. Show on the road . . . Tick! The beach café was open for business. Just time to make myself a quick cup of tea before the customers began flooding in.

‘Hello?’

I stiffened as I heard a shout a few minutes later. Oh! Here came the flood already. Or was it Betty and her lynch mob? Then I heard a low, rumbling woof and guessed that it was the man from the beach, and his dog.