Summer at the Cornish Cafe: The perfect summer romance for 2018 . Phillipa Ashley

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СКАЧАТЬ remember it to the day and hour. I was eighteen, it was raining and EastEnders was on.

      ‘Do you have any other family?’

      Cal’s voice interrupts my memories and I’m grateful for it. No one wants to be reminded of bad times, especially when there’s guilt attached. ‘A brother but I haven’t seen him for years and I don’t want to see my dad again.’

      ‘Life throws some crap at us, doesn’t it? I know what it’s like to lose your parents when you’re young,’ he says.

      ‘Do you?’

      ‘Yes. My mum passed away when I was a teenager and I lost Dad just before I went away on my last overseas project.’

      ‘God. I’m sorry. Really.’

      ‘It happens, doesn’t it?’ he says. ‘Make yourself comfortable if you can find a spare patch of sofa.’

      I perch on the edge of an old settee between a pile of old garden magazines and for a while Cal remains standing in front of the hearth. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to me; perhaps he’s wondering what to do with me now I’m here. I’m beginning to wonder what I’m doing here myself. Mitch finally settles at my feet: he’d make himself at home anywhere. Unable to look Cal in the eye either, I focus on the room again. There’s a big oak settle by the fire like you get in old pubs, paintings of horses and dogs, seascapes, boats and fishermen and dead rabbits and pheasants.

      ‘Sorry. I’ll have to have a word with Polly,’ Cal mutters, gesturing at the state of the room. ‘She’s not used to having to share the house again but she’s been here as long as I can remember. She worked for my father until her husband died and she’s become part of the family.’

      ‘When did the site last open?’

      ‘About twelve years ago. There used to be dozens of people working here in its heyday.’

      ‘Dozens of people?’

      Cal hangs his jacket on the back of a dining chair. ‘Hard to believe, but yes. We had a small dairy farm, and some arable land as well as the holiday park, but that was gradually sold off. It may not look much now, but thirty-odd years ago there were holiday cottages and a camping and caravan site here. There was even a swimming pool and a clubhouse and the place was packed, apparently, but the good times were over before I was born.’

      ‘It’s a shame a lovely old place like this is in this state,’ I say then bite my lip, worried about offending him. I shift my bottom on the old settee to try and find a more comfortable position. I swear I can feel a spring sticking in me.

      ‘It just gradually went downhill as people decided to holiday abroad. Then my father lost interest completely after Mum died. We haven’t had guests since I went to uni and a place like this goes shabby fast, if it’s not looked after. Other people have made a success of their parks and if I’d wanted to keep the business going, I shouldn’t have gone off to save the world.’

      ‘What did you do? Was it Africa or Syria? That must have been scary.’

      ‘Like I said, I was an aid worker for a charity in the Middle East until I ended up needing aid myself. And that’s all you need to know. Although I’m sure Polly will take great delight in filling you in on what she thinks she knows.’ His voice tails off. ‘Meanwhile, we have work to do. First, I’ll show you the kitchen. I’m afraid we all have to muck in with the chores here but you’re a professional so I’m sure you won’t mind.’

      So he doesn’t want to tell me exactly where he has been. Fine. There are things I don’t want him to know about me. ‘Oh, did Polly make the curry? I can smell it.’

      ‘You’re joking. It was a takeout. Polly’s never been a keen cook.’

      ‘I’ve always loved cooking. I can make a mean biryani and Thai curry, and a vegetable chilli with homemade guacamole. And a lovely fish pie – I used to go down to the harbour and buy the fish straight from the trawlers and I make fantastic pasties, steak, veggie – you should try my bacon and cheese ones. They’re brilliant.’

      He smiles and I realise I’ve been bigging myself up massively. ‘It sounds like we might get on, after all. Shall I show you around the park so you can get your bearings and see what you’ve taken on?’

      Excitement ripples through me. Sensing my mood change, Mitch sits up. ‘Bring it on,’ I say.

      We walk through the farmhouse kitchen and a back porch, also packed with coats and boots, to a large cobbled yard at the rear of the house. A row of cottages faces the house, and they seem to be in better condition than the tumbledown barns and cow sheds at the front, which isn’t saying much. Still, the building across the yard is standing, at least, and has curtains hanging at the windows.

      ‘That’s where you’ll be staying,’ Cal says, pointing to the end cottage with the curtains.

      ‘Were those the holiday cottages?’

      ‘No, they were for staff. The guest cottages are larger and in another part of the park but they need total refurbishment. People want holiday homes that are even better than their own houses these days.’

      ‘I guess they do if they’re paying a lot of money.’

      ‘Yes, but I hope Kilhallon Park will have something to suit everyone’s budgets. Come on, I’ll show you the guest cottages and the buildings from the campsite that I plan to replace.’

      With Mitch in seventh heaven at being out in the country, I walk with Cal through the rear yard and through a wooden farm gate along a short lane that’s in slightly better condition than the one from the main road. Even so, I have to dodge a few ruts with dried mud in them. The lane is edged by Cornish hedges but the field on the coastal side falls away gently, giving us a wonderful view over the Atlantic Ocean. The sun glints on the sea as Cal strides off in the direction of a row of much bigger cottages a few hundred yards down the lane.

      ‘The first thing we’ll need to do is have this lane surfaced so that the builders can get access to the guest cottages,’ he says, splashing through a large puddle in his wellies.

      A few moments later, we stop outside the guest cottages. They are in a row of four, with stone walls and slated roofs covered in moss. I think they were once whitewashed but the walls are grey and moss-stained now. The tiny front gardens – more sitting-out areas really – of each cottage are a tangle of weeds.

      Cal clicks his teeth and lets out a breath. ‘As you’ll see, the shells are sound but they need rewiring, and modern heating and plumbing, not to mention a decorative makeover. We’re going to need to repair the slate roofs too. There’s a lot to do but it’ll be worth it. These old miners’ cottages deserve some TLC.’

      ‘They could be really pretty. Lots of kerb-appeal,’ I say, channelling the TV property programmes Sheila used to record and watch back-to-back.

      ‘That’s what the guests are looking for. Something with character and a great view.’

      ‘All the ingredients are here. You just need to turn them into a great dish.’

      Cal laughs. ‘With a lot of elbow grease, I’m sure we can.’

      Mitch roots among the dandelions in СКАЧАТЬ