Chapter 10
TEN
I woke up before my alarm, realising that there was no way I was going to drift off again.
I gave up trying, and came downstairs to whip up some fresh breakfast muffins and some simple chocolate chip cookies.
The cupboards are not exactly fully stocked, but there was enough for that at least. The repetitive tasks of baking were restorative, as usual, but I’m still not at my best – in fact I’m running on adrenaline and two hours’ sleep.
My dad is a natural at engaging with the guests, and I am not.
I do my best, though, and they are at least quite interested in my almost-American accent.
The five-year-old asks me if I know Bruce Wayne, and I tell him we go to the same dentist, just to see the look of astonishment on his face.
Mr Owen, the man I’d met the day before in the pub, just nods politely and reads his book – the ideal customer.
I manage the cooking with ease, serving up multiple full English breakfasts, topping up toast and coffee, replenishing the little buffet table with cereals and big jugs of juice.
The muffins go down well, and I vow to carry on adding little home-baked treats to the menu.
It will be good for my state of mind to spend some productive time in the kitchen.
I’m clearing up when I hear Dad’s voice coming from the breakfast room, and straight away it’s followed by delighted laughter from the guests. It’s a familiar routine, and it makes me smile even as I’m putting on rubber gloves and plunging the blocked sink.
He wanders in after spending a few minutes chatting to them.
He’s dressed in his usual ‘casual country gent’ attire, smart navy blue cords and white and blue check button-up shirt.
His hair is freshly washed, and he looks bright-eyed and bushy tailed.
I check for signs of fatigue or illness, but come up blessedly blank.
‘Do stop staring at me, dear,’ he announces sternly. ‘I had a very minor stroke, from which I am expected to make a full recovery. You’re looking at me as though you’re measuring me up for a coffin.’
‘Ha,’ I say, passing him the plunger, ‘there won’t be a coffin. I’m just going to strap you to the ride-on lawn mower and point it at the cliffs. Burial at sea.’
‘Sounds marvellous. Maybe you could fire a flaming arrow at me as I go. You might need to rethink though, because I don’t have that mower anymore.
It was older than me, and when it broke down there were no spare parts to fix it.
In the summer I get Clive the Tree to do it for me in exchange for free Guinness. ’
‘Crikey. Is Clive the Tree still working?’
Clive was definitely in his late fifties or early sixties when I left, and the thought of someone of his advanced years being up trees with a chainsaw is alarming.
‘Not full-time. His son Bobby the Tree has taken over the business. Clive just likes to keep his hand in around the village. He does all his work on a barter system – free cakes from Maggie’s bakery, beer here, that kind of thing.’
‘Does he get free ball gowns from Cara’s shop as well?’
‘Well, what a man gets up to in his spare time is his own business. Now, why don’t you go and… be somewhere else for a while? I’ll do the cleaning.’
As we’ve been talking he has effortlessly unblocked the sink – years of practice – but I’m not ready to disappear just yet.
‘Tell you what, how about we cut a deal, Pop?’
I lay on the Americanisms thick, partly because I know it makes him cringe, but while he’s doing that, he’s also not worrying about anything more important.
‘I am your father, not your “pop”. Pop is a fizzy drink.’
‘You mean a soda?’
‘I mean please go away. Shall we meet for luncheon? In Maggie’s café?’
This is news to me, and distracts me from all other issues. Forget my dad, forget Liam, forget everything – this is big! ‘Maggie has a café?’
‘She does. It’s in a big glass conservatory extension at the back of the bakery. Very nice it is too. Would one o’clock suit you?’
‘Sure,’ I reply, standing up on my tiptoes to drop a kiss on his cheek. ‘Sounds great. I’ll get some more stuff done here and then see where the world takes me.’
He grimaces but holds up his hands in surrender.
I leave him filling the dishwasher and go back out into the breakfast room.
Everyone apart from the family has left, and the little boy is looking from me to his mum suspiciously.
I start to gather up their plates, and he says: ‘My mummy says she bets Batman doesn’t have any fillings. Is that true?’
His mum suppresses a laugh, and I reply very seriously: ‘That is totally true. Mr Wayne is renowned for his fantastic dental hygiene. He brushes and flosses all the time and really looks after his teeth.’
The kid looks impressed, and as they leave I hear him asking if he can go back up to the hotel room to use his toothbrush. Ellie Dexter, fighting cavities one fib at a time.
I clear and wipe down the tables, then get the vacuum out of the big store cupboard to run it around both rooms. It takes an age, and my back is slightly sore by the time I finish. I put all the tables and chairs back down ready for the evening and go back in to see my dad.
‘What’s the score with the rooms?’ I ask. ‘Do we still do housekeeping every day?’
‘No, new system these days. If they’re staying for less than a week, they simply request changes of bedding, extra towels, that kind of thing, when they need them.
We go in every two days to clean, empty bins, unless asked not to.
Only Tintagel and Lizard are due to be done today – and I am perfectly fine to do them! ’
I wink at him and scoot out of the room.
I’ll definitely be doing those rooms, I think, grabbing up the master key from behind reception and heading up the stairs.
All of the guest suites are named after famous local landmarks, and I knock on the door of Tintagel.
No answer, and a quick peek inside shows that it’s empty.
I find the cleaning products in the store room, and set to work.
This is one of the jobs I used to help my mum with, and again the muscle memory kicks in as I clean the bathroom and tidy up the bed.
I find that I’m enjoying it – it’s one of those zen activities where you can give your thinking mind a break and concentrate instead on the relatively simple task right in front of you.
When I’m done, I go back to our own part of the building to have a shower.
I drop my mum a quick message as well, because I know she’ll be wondering how I’m getting on.
This must be strange for her as well. Signs of my dad are obviously everywhere in the apartment, but the remnants of my mother’s life here are fainter.
A few ornaments in the main room; a painting that she bought from an auction and left behind.
Not a lot of physical evidence that she ever even lived here.
Physical evidence is one thing, I think, as I get dressed and walk out into the big lounge – but for me, the emotional evidence is everywhere.
The table where she used to sit with me when I was a little girl, craft materials scattered, both of us happy with our paints and glitter and glue-sticks.
The same table where later on, she’d help me with my homework.
The original TV is gone, but that corner of the room is still magical – it was where we used to watch her collection of DVDs.
Her two favourite films were When Harry Met Sally and Gladiator – so different but both brilliant in their own way.
I smile as I remember sitting in this room with her, eating popcorn as we watched movies: A Bug’s Life, Titanic, Toy Story, Pearl Harbor, the entire works of Hugh Grant…
even when I entered my ‘difficult’ period, we still bonded over watching movies.
We were talking about it a few years ago, and she said: ‘When you were about fifteen, everything I did annoyed you. You literally once told me off for breathing too loud. But that same night, we sat and watched The Lord of the Rings together, and you didn’t roll your eyes at me once. It was more magical than Gandalf.’
Now, her presence in this place is held in my mind only.
There is one photo of her – a group shot of the three of us when I was a baby – but it feels like an ancient artefact, a thing out of time.
She has had a great life with Ethan, and there is nothing to feel sad about on her behalf – but I still do, a little.
Or maybe I’m sad for me, or my dad, or all of us.
It always felt like something precious and sacred was shattered here, and I never even understood why.
I shake off the approaching melancholy and decide to go for a walk.
After lacing up my hiking boots, I head out to explore.
I cross the gardens and my feet automatically take me to the steps that lead down to the bay.
I pause at the top, as ever awestruck by the view.
It’s a cold but clear day, the sky a vivid blue, a light dusting of frost and snow clinging to the grass.
I can see one person down there on the sand, and hope I don’t disturb their solitude as I make my way carefully down the stone steps.
At least I’m not carrying a crate of beer bottles this time.
I am relieved when I make it down safely, and stand on the beach for a moment, simply appreciating the place.
I always loved the colours here – the light is so pure, the shades of sand and sea so bold.
The puffed-up white chests of the terns and gulls dot the cliff-sides, and their cries blend with the constant sound of the waves.
It’s a breezy day, and they crash and roll onto the beach, throwing up froth and slamming over the rocks.