Christmas at the Cornish Café: A heart-warming holiday read for fans of Poldark. Phillipa Ashley

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       CHAPTER THREE

      On Wednesday morning I skip down the farmhouse stairs after taking a shower in the bathroom of Kilhallon House. Polly arrives later today so I stayed over at the farmhouse last night while I had the chance. Cal lives in the main house, but, of course, I have my own little cottage across the yard. It’s tiny and the décor’s straight from the seventies: a crazy mix of clashing florals, but I love having my independence.

      My place is one of a row of old farm buildings that was converted for the staff that used to work at the original caravan site in the seventies. We’re converting two of the others into low-cost guest accommodation because Cal wanted to offer something at Kilhallon to suit all budgets, not only catering for people with more cash to spend on their holidays. For those who can afford luxury, there are also four larger ‘premium’ cottages on the estate that have been renovated over the summer ready for our first guests – one of which is occupied by Kit.

      When I walk into the kitchen, Cal is scrolling through his phone. His hair is still damp from the shower and he’s pulled on a crumpled but clean blue long-sleeved T-shirt and cargo pants. Bare footed, he pads over the tiles and pours a glass of water from the tap. Mitch wanders into the kitchen from the yard too and also heads straight for his water bowl, slurping noisily and splashing droplets over the tiles.

      The morning sun streams in through the open door. It’s warmer in here than yesterday, or perhaps I’m glowing after my night-time ‘exercise’. Cal puts down his glass of water and kisses me. The scent of his woody body spray fills my senses, but Cal pulls a regretful face. ‘Sorry I have to leave you, but I need to go down to the yurt field to make sure our guests haven’t decided to leave after the overnight showers. How about dinner here at the house tonight? There’s a nice bottle of Cornish fizz in the fridge.’

      ‘That’s a free sample from the vineyard that I was going to put in one of the welcome hampers for the guests. Sorry, but I’ll be way too busy to stop for dinner. The cafe’s opening tomorrow and there’s still stuff to do.’

      ‘What stuff?’

      ‘I need to clean the floor because the tiler only finished yesterday and it’s still dusty. Then there’s the blackboard to chalk up with the specials because I won’t have time tomorrow, and there’s still a drinks delivery to put away and I need to email everyone to make sure they’re still going to turn up and that no one’s had cold feet about working for us.’

      Cal opens his mouth. ‘Why would—’

      ‘And the courier dropped off the new cafe uniforms here yesterday and they all need ironing. And I still haven’t written a blog post about opening day or scheduled my tweets and I’ll have to upload some photos to Instagram and I need to email the ad department at Cornish Lifestyle to say we do want to be in their pre-Christmas dining feature because the copy deadline was last night and I’m already late.’

      Cal holds up both hands. ‘Whoa.’

      ‘So I can’t have dinner with you this evening no matter how much I’d love to.’

      He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I’ve worked that much out for myself. Tell you what, why don’t we take a picnic down to the cafe and I’ll help you get ready.’

      ‘You’ll write the ad copy and upload my photos?’

      ‘No, but I’ll clean the floor, put away the drinks order and iron the aprons.’

      ‘You do ironing?’

      He tuts. ‘That’s sexist, Ms Jones. I can iron. I did work in a warzone for several years, you know.’

      ‘Yes, but I don’t expect there was much call for ironing in the desert, was there?’

      He smiles. ‘Not often, no. Either way, we’re in this together. I’ll deal with the yurt people and clean the washroom block.’

      I pull a face, glad this isn’t my job.

      ‘And then I’ll meet you at the cafe.’

      By late afternoon, the sun is sinking and the horizon is tinged with orange and pink. The lights are on in Demelza’s, highlighting the sparkling clean floor as Cal hangs the last of the freshly pressed Demelza’s aprons on a peg in the staff room.

      All our perishables and groceries are stored in the correct places and the new steel kitchen gleams so brightly you can see your face in the surfaces. I’ve double checked the fresh and chilled stores and chalked up the specials on the blackboard. In the end, Cal helped me write some copy for an ad and he’s now sending a ‘friendly’ mass text to make sure the staff are OK and ready for tomorrow.

      Throughout the day, I’ve been working on my blog and scheduling some posts for social media. I suspect that it’s going to take all my ‘days off’ when the cafe is closed to get through the admin and marketing.

      Cal scrolls through his phone where he keeps an app to keep track of the park bookings. ‘Great. We’ve just had an Internet booking for Poldark Cottage and had an enquiry about two of the yurts from a family who want to celebrate a fortieth birthday party here next weekend. I’ll have to tell the large party that they can have the yurts at the far end of the copse, away from the other two. We don’t want complaints when we’ve promised people peace and tranquillity, but we don’t want to lose a big booking like this.’

      ‘Oh. If it’s a party, they might want catering provided too.’

      ‘I’m sure they will, but don’t take too much on yet. You’ve got enough to do with the cafe opening tomorrow. I don’t want the cafe manager having a meltdown in the middle of us launching the empire, do I?’

      ‘You’re all heart,’ I say, but I know he means it and I must admit, I’ve been feeling knackered lately, even though I’m ‘living the dream’ right now. I’ve come so far from the day I lost my job and my home and ended up sleeping in the doorway of a fish and chip shop in St Trenyan.

      Mitch woofs a hello from the corner. He seems totally at home in the cafe, which is great. Canine comfort is one of our USPs. Demelza’s is even going to have a special doggy treats menu for all the four-legged guests who will stay at the park and take their owners on a walk along the coastal path that runs past the cafe.

      Cal crouches down to stroke Mitch’s ears. Mitch turns his head this way and that, closing his eyes in pleasure at Cal’s touch. Did I say Mitch was my dog? Even though he’s faithful to me and has stuck with me through a tough couple of years, he’s rapidly becoming our dog: mine and Cal’s dog, even Polly’s dog at times, though she pretends she doesn’t like animals at all, apart from her hens. I caught her sneaking him a treat from the jar when she thought I wasn’t looking, and she let him sit next to her on the sofa while she was watching Countryfile on iPlayer the night before she went to visit her daughter.

      Mitch and I, we’ve become as much a part of Kilhallon as the stone house, or the holiday cottages or the cafe.

      ‘How are the opening-day plans going? Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Cal says.

      ‘I’m sure there’ll be tons tomorrow. СКАЧАТЬ