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

‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Kit holds up the bin lid while I throw in the rubbish. ‘If I do, I’ll have to get some ear plugs or turn up my music to full volume.’

I wince. ‘Sorry about George. I’m guessing you came here for some quiet away from the office.’

He glances away from me then throws me a pained smile. ‘Actually, I may have been economical with the truth about working in an office. I tend to take my office with me wherever I go. I’m a writer.’

I resist shouting ‘Yessss’, because I knew he did something creative and arty. Instead I ask politely. ‘Oh, do you write books?’

‘Yes. Thrillers. Correction: a thriller. I haven’t even finished my first yet, though my deadline’s racing up fast.’

‘Sounds exciting. Do you have a pen name?’ I ask him. To be honest, I’m doing most of the clearing up while he talks but I’d much rather it was that way.

‘I will do, I expect. I don’t know for sure because I’ve only just got my first book deal and it’s all new to me. I was a journalist before I became an author and before you ask, it was as an editor for a very dull trade publication about renewable energy. My new thriller is about a woman scientist who finds a way to generate power from water that’s going to change the whole world and do away with the need for fossil fuels. Naturally a lot of countries with less than ideal human rights records aren’t very pleased about that, while others would do anything to get their hands on her research.’

‘That sounds … intriguing,’ I say. ‘I don’t have tons of time to read anything except recipe and business books at the moment, but your book sounds right up Polly’s street. She loves crime and thrillers, the gorier the better. Sometimes I worry she might secretly be plotting to murder us all in our beds.’

Kit’s sea-green eyes glint with humour. ‘I’ve already met Polly earlier today. I popped up to your reception to pick up some leaflets about the local area. She’s certainly an interesting woman. I reckon I could get enough material for a whole series of novels from her tales about the local area, if I wanted to set a book here.’

‘She’s definitely unique,’ I say, surprised that Kit has charmed Polly so fast, and even more surprised that she’s made such an impression on him. Polly is a hard woman to please and can be plain speaking to the point of rudeness, but Kit is a guest so she was obviously being polite.

Kit is silent, thoughtful, for a second or so, toeing a clump of grass with his running shoe. ‘Look, I’m sorry I was such a grumpy sod when I turned up yesterday. You must have thought “miserable git, hope all the guests aren’t going to be like this”.’

‘No … I was thinking poor you, arriving in stinking weather after a terrible journey.’

‘You’re a good fibber, Demi.’ He opens the bin again for me to throw in the final bits of rubbish.

‘No fib. It’s true.’ Or half-true, I think. I was sorry for him, but I also did think he was a miserable git.

‘OK, you’re good at the customer relations, then. I’d never be any good at serving the public. I’d cause any place that I ran to be closed down or I’d be bankrupt within a week. I’m not very good at hiding my feelings, you see. It’s a good job my work requires me to be where people are not.’

‘Isn’t it very exciting, being an author?’

He smiles again, as if I’ve missed a huge point. ‘Most of the time it’s squalid. Spending far too much time in your own company, with the terror of the blank page. You know how it is …’

‘Not really. I tend to have terror of the soggy bottom.’

He does a double take.

‘Of my pies and pasties. If you don’t get the temperature right.’

‘Ah.’ He laughs politely at my lame joke. ‘You do have a proper job, however, whereas I make up stories for a living. Or not, at the moment. I’ve been struggling with my plot lately. And my characters. And the actual words.’ He grimaces but in a charming way, a tiny bit like Cal. He really is handsome when he smiles, though nothing like as handsome as Cal, and of course Kit is blond, whereas Cal has dark, brooding good looks. I guess blonds can be brooding too. I snap out of my thoughts as Kit goes on.

‘You must have thought I’d come here to get away from work, but the reason I was so tetchy was because I’ve come here to work. Normally, I tend to avoid telling people I’m a writer because they ask all sorts of awkward questions. Some people think having a book published is like winning the lottery: just an unexpected lucky windfall you landed on top of your regular job, but you know yourself that any degree of success takes a lot of hard work,’ he says with a nod at the cafe.

‘That’s true. I imagine some people think that running a cosy little tea room would be a great way of escaping a real job too. I’ve worked in catering before so I had an idea of what was involved, but it’s a completely different ballgame being responsible for the cafe rather than simply serving customers.’

He nods and pauses, looking awkward. ‘Sorry I was grumpy when I arrived. I promise to behave from now on.’

‘It’s fine. I know how to handle tricky customers.’

‘Yes, I’ve experienced your people skills first hand. You were very good at calming me down. In fact, you’re very good at all of this.’

He waves a hand at the cafe and the park. I feel myself blushing. I’m not used to the flattery, and not sure I like it that much.

‘I think that will do for out here. Let’s go back inside,’ I say.

Kit follows me in. Shamia is wiping down the last few tables inside the cafe while Nina washes up the items that can’t or didn’t fit into the dishwasher. Without the spurts and gurgles of the coffee machine and the buzz of customers, it seems quiet. The dishwasher hums softly and there’s the odd thunk and clink of pots being washed as a backdrop. Jez has gone so the girls chat to each other about some of the stranger requests and comments we’ve had today. Robyn offers to check the online review sites. I think she cajoled her student friends into writing a few. I’m not sure I can face reading them, but I know I have to, to get some feedback and politely respond to any negative comments.

That thought makes me feel faintly sick. I remember Sheila ranting when she steeled herself for her weekly reviewers’ ordeal. That pleasure’s now all mine. Suddenly, I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth, but there’s still work to do. Closing the door on the customers is only the start of the end of our day.

‘I need to mop the floor,’ I say, feeling as if I don’t even have the energy to lick an envelope.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you do look like you need a break,’ Kit says.

‘I don’t have time.’

‘Yes, you do. Do as he says.’ Nina pulls back a chair from the table.

‘She hasn’t stopped all day and hasn’t eaten anything,’ Shamia tuts.

‘I had that broken fairing at lunchtime.’

Kit smiles. ‘Not enough to keep a flea alive. I think you should do what your staff say, boss.’

‘But the floor needs a mop. I can’t sit around while the team are working.’

‘Chill. We’ll manage to clean the floor round you both. Now, sit down! We’re going to bring you a nice apple and elderflower presse and there’s one slice of bacon and tomato quiche left.’ Nina turns to Kit, every inch the seasoned professional. She’s blossomed in just one day. ‘And what can we get you, sir?’

‘I’ll have a cider, please, and thanks for the offer of food but I already ate in St Trenyan. My research trip took longer than I’d expected.’

‘Not even an apricot scone?’

Kit pauses then says. ‘Oh, go on then. I can’t resist.’

Delighted to have persuaded him, Nina scuttles off to the kitchen. The moment my bum makes contact with the seat, I realise how knackered and weak I feel. I haven’t eaten or drunk much and I’ve been running on adrenaline and excitement since six o’clock this morning.

It’s weird to sit in the cafe with the staff working around me, chatting to a guest about how I started the cafe business and Kilhallon, but this is my life now: it’s begun to sink in that I’m in charge and living my dream, even if that dream is harder work than I ever imagined. Slowly, the tension ebbs from my body and in between devouring the quiche and the slice of figgy obbin that Nina brings me for dessert, I finally begin to relax and realise that for today, at least, it’s job done.

‘This is a stunning location,’ Kit says, accepting his scone from Nina with a dazzling smile that brings pink to her cheeks. ‘I can see why you and Cal fought so hard to keep it going.’

His remark catches me off guard. It seems a bit funny that he’s talking about Cal as if he knows us already but I suppose Polly’s been gossiping to him and we should make the guests feel like old friends.

‘You wouldn’t believe the difference between the park today and when Cal first showed me round at Easter. The location itself is fantastic. The views are incredible, even when you’ve lived round here all your life, you realise that. The moment I saw the barn that was here, I knew it would make a great cafe.’

‘I chose this place because it had last-minute availability and it was good value, thanks to your opening offers. It also seemed to be out of the way of distractions, apart from the Internet, that is. Sadly, I need that to keep in touch with my agent and editor and I still do a bit of freelance work for my old trade publication.’

‘I knew you must do something creative, even though you said it was boring admin. I thought you’d had enough of work and didn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Yes, and no.’ He grins. ‘Talking of which, I was going to ask you a favour.’

‘Ask away,’ I say, suddenly wondering – I don’t know why – if he’s going to ask me out for a drink or something. No, that would be silly. He would never do that here with everyone around and he’s not here for long and he must have guessed I’m ‘with’ Cal – except I’m not, in any formal sense. We’re not living together or even acting like a couple in public. Which I’m fine with, I remind myself.

‘Miraculously, I’ve managed to get on with my novel pretty well so far this week and I put that down to the peace and tranquillity here. People can hardly drop in and ask me for a pint or to help them fix their bikes. The setting’s inspirational too. Even the storm and the rain. Especially the rain.’

Tell that to the yurt people, I think, although judging by the noise last night, they were having a good time.

‘Glad you’re enjoying it,’ I say, wondering where the conversation is leading and thinking it doesn’t sound like he’s about to ask me on a date.

‘And I know I only intended to stay for two weeks but I was wondering if you might be willing to negotiate on a longer-term let. It’s a long shot because you may be booked up.’

Relief floods through me. ‘I’m not sure. I know Enys is booked at half term but it might be free until then and afterwards, it’s our quiet season so I can probably let you have a discount then.’ I harden my heart, knowing I can’t do him a deal until after half term. ‘How long were you thinking of staying?’ I ask.

‘Until the week before Christmas, if you have the availability.’

‘Christmas!’

He breaks into a grin. ‘Don’t sound so surprised. There are worse places to stay, you know.’

‘I know. Kilhallon’s great but it won’t be cheap … and what about your place in London?’ I say, knowing I’m doing a terrible job of selling the site. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nina and Shamia watching us from the servery.

‘I’ve a friend who’d be happy looking after my flat. He’s just finished a contract abroad and wants a short-term place to stay in London while he hunts for a new job and his rent will cover my stay here. Plus there are trains, you know, if I can’t face the drive back when I need to go to a meeting.’

‘I didn’t mean to be nosy. Of course, Kilhallon’s perfect for peace and quiet and I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. I’d have to ask Cal, of course.’

‘Of course, if you need to square things with him, as he’s your boss …’

Something in Kit’s tone irritates me and I remind myself that I don’t need Cal’s permission to take a booking from a guest. ‘I’ll check the bookings when I go back to the house. I’ve got the live booking chart on my phone, but the signal’s not great down here.’

Kit puts his hand on my arm to stop me leaping to my feet, not that I could leap, my legs feel wobbly. ‘No rush,’ he says. ‘Later will do and as for the phone signal: that’s another reason for staying here. My agent can’t keep ringing me to ask how the book is going, and no one else can reach me either.’

‘OK. I’ll come round or call you later when I’ve checked, but it should be fine for a long-term let, even if you have to move cottages halfway through.’

‘That won’t bother me. Great. Now that I know I’m staying, I can settle into my novel. It’s a relief, to be honest, I was dreading having to go back to the smoke. There’s something about Kilhallon that really inspires me.’ He flashes me a smile then tips the cider bottle to his lips. He really is very good-looking when he turns on the charm, but I can’t quite fathom him out. When he first arrived, you’d have thought he was furious with the whole world.

He reminds me of Cal a little: one moment sunshine and the next showers, but Cal doesn’t seem to be able to switch the seasons on and off in the same way that Kit does. I’m not sure Cal’s so in control of his climate, and to be honest, I prefer it that way. Cal’s unpredictable in a predictable way, but Kit’s just unpredictable … Oh sod it, he’s only a guest. As long as he doesn’t start wailing the place down and chucking food on the floor like George, he can be as quirky as he likes. More importantly, his money’s as good as anyone else’s and it looks like we’re going to get rather a nice chunk of it.

CHAPTER SIX

Our opening long weekend of trading has been exhausting, but that’s way better than having to stand around with nothing to do. My marketing efforts are paying off and word has got round that we’re now up and running. I know a lot of locals will have turned up out of curiosity over the weekend and that we need to work hard to keep them coming back, as well as attracting tourists, but I was so happy to see the cafe buzzing on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. There’s no time to let up, however, and I’ve spent today – Monday – trying to catch up with admin, ordering and planning.

I must admit I could have quite happily collapsed in my cottage this evening, but tonight is another important occasion for Kilhallon. We’ve opened Demelza’s especially to host a meeting of the St Trenyan Harbour Lights committee. The Harbour Lights Festival, held on the last Friday in November, attracts thousands of people to the village, both from Cornwall and further afield at a time of year when St Trenyan really needs a boost.

‘I still can’t believe Kit Bannen wants to stay here for so long,’ Cal says to me midway through laying out mince pie cookies on a table in the cafe.

‘Until the week before Christmas, according to Kit. I meant to tell you sooner, but we’ve both been so busy with work that I forgot. The resort’s your job, of course, but I checked out the booking calendar while you were at the wholesalers and I’ve already said he can have Enys Cottage. We had another couple booked into Enys for half term but it’s easier to upgrade them to Penvenen than move Kit out just for a week. Was that OK?’

‘I guess so but this longer-term stay will cost him a lot of money. Why does he want to hunker down in the middle of nowhere at this time of year?’

‘Boy am I glad you’re not doing the marketing for this place,’ I say with an eye roll.

‘You know what I mean. I can understand him staying a couple of weeks but why would a metrosexual like him want to be away from London?’

‘A metrosexual? Kit? Nah. He’s much too rugged for that. He wears a Berghaus coat, for a start.’

Cal eyes me sharply and raises an eyebrow at my comment.

‘Stop laughing at me. He just doesn’t strike me as a hipster. He’s too blokey for the self-obsessed trendy type.’

‘“Rugged” and “blokey” eh? Not that you’re interested in the blond hunk, Kit Bannen, of course. He’s only a guest.’ Cal swipes a mince pie cookie from the plate.

‘I didn’t say he was a “hunk”, you did and actually he has a deadline on his book and he said he can get on with it better away from the distractions in London. It’s a techno-thriller.’

Cal huffs. ‘A techno-thriller? He obviously talks to you more than me. He hardly even bothers to nod a hello at me if we come across each other, not that I’m bothered, as long as he pays the bill. You must have charmed him.’

‘No. Kilhallon has charmed him.’ Do I detect a hint of jealousy from Cal? That would be nice … then I snap out of my fantasies. Kit isn’t interested in me and vice versa, and I doubt Cal’s really jealous.

‘What else do we need?’ he asks.

‘Nothing. I’ll set the coffee machine going just before we have a break and bring it out here. People can help themselves to hot water from the machine for their teas.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be impressed. This place looks great and the smell of these cookies is delicious.’

‘I thought the spices would get everyone in the mood. Thanks for helping me. I can’t ask the staff to stay on. They’ve done enough this week.’

‘It’s no problem.’

Cal chats to me about the accommodation bookings while we push some tables together to make one long ‘boardroom-style’ table for the meeting. We still need to fill two of the cottages for Christmas, and Warleggan is vacant at New Year. The yurt season will be over after half term until next Easter.

Cal goes into the kitchen to collect some mugs and plates while I add a jug of milk and sparkling white bowls of demerara sugar cubes to the refreshment table. It may be only a meeting, but I want everything to look perfect tonight. One of the tourist officers is coming, along with influential locals, to discuss plans for the highlight of the St Trenyan calendar.

The festival starts with a lantern procession to the harbour before the big switch-on. The old harbour is decorated with lights in the shape of boats, Christmas trees, stars, shells and starfish, all made up of thousands of jewel-bright bulbs. It’s quirky, random and very pretty. Until Twelfth Night, the quay and nearby pubs, shops and houses are illuminated, the colours reflected in the coal-black waters of the sea.

There are stalls selling hot food and drink, gifts and a mini funfair on the quayside. The evening ends with sing-along carols with the St Trenyan Fisherman’s Choir. It’s a massively popular tradition with everyone, and it marks the ‘real’ start of Christmas, even though all the shops will already be selling gifts and cards well before then.

I spot myself reflected in the large window, almost perfectly mirrored by the blackness outside, and think of a time, less than a year ago, when I wasn’t part of the celebrations but an outsider left in the cold. A lump forms in my throat.

‘How many are you expecting?’ Cal calls to me from the servery where he’s filling two jugs with water.

Shaking off the memory of darker times, I join him. ‘A dozen, maybe a few more. I looked at the list and recognised a few of the names. Local businesspeople, councillors, fishermen and the vicar. Are you definitely staying for the meeting?’ I ask Cal.

‘Normally I’d rather stick pins in my eyeballs than join a committee, but I’ll make an exception for this one. A lot of the people coming will want to ask questions about Kilhallon. Some of them came to our promo event in August and they’ll be keen to see how we’re doing. Or not.’ He smiles wryly, knowing a couple of the committee members run holiday-let businesses themselves.

He tears open a blue bag of ice and empties the cubes into the water jugs. ‘Besides, Mum was on the committee for a few years before she became ill. She helped with the fundraising and used to really enjoy it. I think it was a welcome distraction from Dad’s shenanigans.’

Cal doesn’t mention his late mother very often but I know he misses her. ‘I didn’t know she was part of it. She’d be pleased you’re keeping up the tradition.’

‘Yeah, well, Dad couldn’t be arsed to help out so maybe I should do it, if only to show them how much Kilhallon has changed. We should mention our bookings are healthy, of course, even if it’s not strictly accurate, but that we also want to do our bit for community spirit.’ He winks at me. I envy his lashes, damn him.

‘There are some lemon slices in a tub at the bottom of the fridge,’ I say, feeling myself growing warm again as I think of Cal’s eyes on me, and his hands too.

Cal finds the tub and drops the lemon slices into the water while I select a large bottle of apple juice from the chiller. ‘November’s looking a bit thin, but that’s always a dead time of year and hopefully the Christmas lights will lure people into the cottages for the final week of the month, especially now the cafe’s open,’ he says.

I try to refocus on the business in hand. ‘I must blog about the meeting and post some pics of last year’s lights and some menus for the pop-up cafe we’re having at the festival.’

I fill another jug with the apple juice and we carry them to the table. The first of the committee will start to arrive in a few minutes. There’s a small parking area behind the cafe that should accommodate most of their cars. Cal opens his tablet and nods at me to look at the Harbour Lights website. It’s a ‘homemade’ site but I think the quirkiness is part of its charm. The photos of the twinkling snowmen and a giant shark fixed on the harbour walls make us both smile. ‘I loved the harbour lights when I was little, even when I was a teenager we looked forward to going down into St Trenyan with our mates.’

‘You and Luke? I’d have thought you were too cool for fairy lights.’

‘No way. It was a chance for Luke, Isla, Tamsin and me – plus a few others from school – to go down into St Trenyan for a night out without our parents keeping an eye on us. When we were in the sixth form whoever had a car would drive us down and the rest of us would try to sneak into the pubs or persuade someone over eighteen to buy us drinks that we could take outside. There were so many people around drinking and eating in the streets and the stalls that no one would notice. One year we got lashed on dodgy mulled wine from a stall and were as sick as dogs.’

‘Serves you right,’ I say, realising that Cal has definitely cut down on his drinking lately. Polly used to nag him about it when he first got home from the Middle East and was even worried, but since Isla left for London – and even before then – the empties have greatly reduced. I didn’t like to see him so pissed every night: it reminded me of my dad, who was even more of an ogre when he’d had a few drinks. After Mum died, he hit the bottle hard, met a new girlfriend and eventually I couldn’t stand the situation any longer and left home.

‘I haven’t been to the lights switch-on since I was young, though. I was either away at uni, or too cool or working abroad. Last year, the Christmas lights were the last thing on my mind.’

His tone takes on a bitter edge; the same edge that I used to hear all the time when I first came to Kilhallon. It surfaces less frequently now but I know that his disappointment gnaws at him. His father passed away not long before he went to the Middle East on an aid project. Although that was two and half years ago, he’s bound to miss his dad and regret that they didn’t have a closer relationship. Then there’s the loss of Isla, of course, but there’s something else that causes him pain. Memories, worries, something to do with what he saw or went through in the Middle East. Something unimaginable that I’m sure still affects him way more than he ever lets on.

He pushes the tablet away. ‘What about you?’

‘I never really took much notice of the lights. My main aim last year was finding a warm place for Mitch and me to stay. I’d just lost my job in Truro and was sofa surfing around friends and friends of friends. On the night of the lights, I was between sofas and hanging about until the people had left and the lights had been turned off until sundown the next day.