The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (5 page)

Greg laughed again. "It's not a problem - I need to find out the exact address of my family in Perpignan."

"I'm sure she won't mind; I'll ask for you."

That evening in the Holly Tree was quite different, as were most Fridays. The bar was packed by nine, and Greg was able to make some interesting acquaintances from among the estate employees. Not least were brothers Bart and Simon Cashmore, both of whom made excellent drinking partners. To his surprise, Greg was readily accepted by the pair:  despite having always been told how clannish Cornishmen could be, he met with no resentment at all. Greg had always found this to be the case whilst on holiday there, but suspected attitudes might be different towards
immigrants.

Bart and Si, both in their late thirties, around Greg’s age, looked much older and stockier; each sporting beer drinkers’ bellies and faces. Much brasher than Greg's notion of Cornishmen, he felt at home with them because of their resemblance to their midland counterparts.

By about ten-thirty the trio were quite drunk, though eventually the conversation came round to the situation in Trevelly. Bart and Si made no secret of their anxieties, and Greg was in a good position to sympathise though, despite the beer he’d downed, he spoke little of his own experience.

“I didn’t think such a situation could occur in this day and age,” he commiserated. “Surely they can’t just throw you out on the street - they’ll
have
to find alternative accommodation.”

“It’s alright everyone saying they’ll have to house us,” groaned Bart, “but where? Trevelly’s our home - we were born and bred here – and we could be moved anywhere.”

“Mmm.” Greg nodded. “I suppose there’s more than one way of killing a pig - if they really want rid of you.” He brightened a little as he collected the glasses for refilling. “Let’s not get too glum though - it hasn’t happened yet.”

The trio drank until closing time, and eventually left the Holly Tree holding each other up, as they were to do on subsequent occasions.

*

 The following morning, Greg found it necessary to make an exception to his
ten thirty
rising time, eventually getting up at mid-day. He took Red for his usual long walk, though didn’t enjoy it due to drizzly conditions and a thumping headache.

"One of those days that never gets light properly." He said to Red as he left him lying comfortably in the caravan. "Back soon."

Greg trudged the muddy path to the Holly Tree, almost pleased to see Wheeler propping up the bar. Any company, he felt, was preferable to none on such a day, and a third party - especially Wheeler - provided an excellent foil for Eddy’s banter.

He was surprised to see the bar fill up quickly after his arrival though, his surprise turning to delight when Bart and Si joined him.

“Of course - it’s
Saturday
!” Greg beamed as he called for drinks for the fuzzyheaded pair. "I'm losing track of days let alone dates since I've been here."

Even Jan called in with her boyfriend, Mick.

"It's good of you to remember, Jan," said Greg as she handed him some paperbacks promised earlier in the week.

“You ain't goin' to waste time reading?” said Bart as Greg examined the books. “How you going to find time to read with all the drinking you’m doin'?”

Greg almost panicked as he acknowledged the truth in Bart’s words: he’d done little
other
than drink for almost a week. Eddy picked up one of the books as he cleared some empty glasses from the table.

“Crap!” he almost spat with disgust.

“Have you read it?” asked Jan, a little hurt.

Eddy examined the spine. “No I haven’t, but I’ll tell you what it’s about,” he replied. “The heroine, for want of a better word, spends the first ten chapters avoiding some inconsiderate, surly faced-bastard who doesn’t want anything to do with her anyway. Then for the last couple of pages he finishes up screwing the arse off her in some beach-house in San Tropez!”

“You must 'ave read them sort o’ books then?” observed Simon.

“Just the last couple of pages.” Eddy winked. “I think I'd like San Tropez.”

Jan and her boyfriend Mick then went and sat on their own, until at almost closing time they called Greg over.

“Are you still interested in finding work in the holiday trade?” asked Jan.

Greg replied, honestly, that he'd not given work much thought during the past week. “But I’m prepared to have a crack at almost anything that will bring in money.”

“Well… it’s a bit up in the air at the moment,” explained Jan, “but Sarah Penmaric told me once that my cabin had been a cafe years ago, and had always done well. She mentioned it again the other day; said they might have to consider selling it with the surrounding land. Lot of it there is.”

Greg's smile clouded over. “What sort of price would she be asking though?”

“Never said.” Jan shook her head. “But then she said she’d consider renting it out on a temporary basis.”

“But isn’t the whole lot ready to fold?”

“So it might - that’s why I say it’s up in the air. But there’s a chance of getting the coming season out of it.”

“It would pay a few quid,” suggested Mick. “Better than nothing, and it would keep a roof over Jan’s head - for a while longer at least.”

Mick's summary suggested that the couple's primary concern was hanging on to the cabin, though Greg hadn’t the heart to dismiss what already seemed a futile venture.

“It might be worth a crack,” he said, “you’d have nothing to lose, either of you.”

Mick, pushing sixty despite Jan's reference to him as her boyfriend, shook his head. “That’s the problem. Pay's crap, but I’m in regular employment, so there’s no chance o' me giving it up how things are, and Jan's not ready to move in with me yet. But it would need two to run a cafe, and we thought Jan an’ somebody – p’raps yourself - could have a crack it.”

Greg felt trapped. His immediate reaction was to save the pair from wasting time by being open, but he was muted by reluctance to hurt their feelings.
Play for time
, he thought:
no harm in looking into it, and anything that might keep me out of the pub deserves consideration
. Another benefit that occurred to Greg was that it might gain him access to Penmaric House: he'd been intrigued by the set up there since his arrival.

“Well,” he conceded without sounding too keen. "What sort of rent might she want?”

“So you
might be
interested!” replied Jan to his dismay. “Well, we’d have to go and see Sarah Penmaric to find out.”

Jan went on to explain that the cabin was large enough for both home and business, and that the original catering equipment was still stored in its cavernous apex.

“Bit weathered,” she admitted, “but we'd get by with it I’m sure.”

“I reckon Sarah Penmaric’s clutchin' at straws,” added Mick. “Desperate to grab some cash any way she can.”

Greg forced a smile through clenched teeth, though decided there was little to lose, whatever the outcome.

***

Greg didn’t go out that night for the first time since his arrival, deciding instead to stay and keep Red company. It was a typical Saturday evening in that there was little on television, so he turned it off and pondered whether Jan’s proposal might be worthy of consideration. Although he’d stayed in, Greg wasn’t without the comfort of a spirit bottle, so he poured himself a large drink and sat back, deep in thought.

How, he asked himself, could anyone hope to make a decent living from cream teas and soft drinks in such a sparsely populated area? How would people even know a cafe existed in a remote village like Trevelly – let alone patronise it? Where
was
the cabin? Jan had given him directions, and he'd reluctantly arranged to call late the following afternoon.

Soon find out,
he decided as he reached for his drink.

After two or three large gla
sses, Greg had taken a complete reappraisal of the situation: visions of a holiday empire loomed before him, with Mick and Jan as well-paid staff, and the lads from the pub in his employ. Greg had a vivid imagination, especially after a few vodkas, and he settled back with a book and a cigar as icy rain began pounding the caravan roof...

The following morning he rose at ten thirty on the dot with the now customary headache, and followed his usual routine. The headache had become so commonplace Greg now accepted it as a necessary evil. It soon went away after his first hot drink... liberally laced of course.

He didn't drink much that lunchtime though, intent on remaining alert for his appointment with Jan. She'd suggested that the cabin would be easier to find on foot the first time, and a brisk walk across farmland had appealed whilst the beer had been talking. It had continued to rain heavily throughout the night, however, so after exercising Red he set out in the Frontera instead. It was the first time he'd actually
seen
the village – picturesque by any standards - though as he rounded
a
hilltop ringed as a landmark, he gasped in amazement. It was almost dark, but a rising moon bathed the area, and there in front of him was the sea!

Greg couldn’t believe he’d spent a week within throwing distance of the coastline and hadn’t realised it. He’d thought it miles away. He followed the lane – more of a track - that Jan had drawn, down to where the cabin was. Towards the end, through a break in the hedge, Greg saw the cabin for the first time. A raised wooden building, away up on the hillside, nestling below a densely wooded area. A
real
log cabin, not the prefabricated chalet he’d imagined!

It was cold but the moon was bright, so Greg parked up and climbed out to survey the area around it… He couldn’t believe his eyes. Grey, desolate, bleak, uncared for – yet a magnificent sight nevertheless. Not magnificent in the way one might imagine a building rising tower-like from a barren outcrop, but majestic in its rustic simplicity. Circles of light from the moon and the porch lamp hung eerily in the sterile air, lending it an almost ghostly appeal. It was set to the rear of an open area of hillside, which gave way to the most sheltered bay Greg had ever seen.

He simply couldn’t believe it. The building was flanked by around three acres in roughly equal proportions to either side, though at a lower level. Behind, almost immediately behind, was thickly wooded, and behind that, guessed Greg, must be Penmaric House.

Years ago, long before Greg had married or started in business, he'd taken a caravan holiday in a similar area with a girl he’d been serious about. The experience had proved so stimulating that Greg and the girl resolved to own a similar business when they eventually married. Shortly after the holiday they'd fallen out, and like most flights of fancy the dream had faded. As Greg walked up the shale track to the cabin, he wondered how things might have panned out if he’d actually married the girl.

Only one thing's for sure - I'll never know now.

Greg climbed the pine steps leading up to the raised base on which the cabin stood, whereupon Jan, who'd obviously been looking for him, opened a side door and beckoned him in, a finger to her lips.

“Jamie's fast off; sit down for a minute,” she said with a grin, and directed him to a table, laid for one, in the kitchen.

“Expecting guests already?” Greg smiled as he sat.

 “Yes,” replied Jan as she took a covered plate from the oven, “you!”

“What’s this?” asked an amazed Greg as Jan uncovered a huge meal.

“Food,” was the simple answer. “Does you good now and again, and I don’t suppose you’ve had a proper meal in days. Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” said Greg as he stared at the meal; there was no way he could pretend it wasn’t welcome.

Jan looked on smilingly as Greg cleared the plate, then the pair sat drinking coffee for a few minutes before she showed him round.

“Not in the best of repair I’m afraid,” she whispered as she led him from the kitchen to a hallway that ran the length of the building. The interior was dilapidated, and only sparsely furnished, but although the only form of heating was a bottled-gas heater in the lounge, the building felt comfortable. Greg commented that, despite the elevation and outside temperature, none of the rooms felt cold. This, he concluded, was due to the cabin’s solid wooden construction.

“Jan it’s
great!
” exclaimed Greg. “A
real
log cabin - dog rough but
great
!”

Apart from a few rugs, the floor was covered in cracked lino, and rendered interior walls hadn't been painted for years. Jan had made a few basic attempts at decoration, but the cabin otherwise bore an air of jaded, unlived in neglect.

“And you say she's considered selling?” asked Greg, momentarily forgetting his circumstances: a few months earlier he could have bought the cabin almost on a whim. Back then though, he reflected, he wouldn’t have found enough enthusiasm to consider its potential, so locked had he been in an entirely different world. Jan, observing his vacant stare, brought him quickly back to earth.