The Cornish Café Series

PHILLIPA ASHLEY

Christmas At The Cornish Cafe

Book #2

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016

Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2016

Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008191870

Version: 2019-03-01

For Charlotte and James,

Nadelik Lowen Ha Bledhen Nowyth Da

(Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year)

And in memory of Rowena Kincaid 1975–2016

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Epilogue

Recipes

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Tuesday October 1st

Demi

‘Good morning, friends! This is Greg Stennack, your favourite local DJ on your favourite local station, Radio St Trenyan. I’ll be bringing you all the latest tunes and news from our great little corner of Cornwall and cheering you up on this wet and windy October the first. Hey, did I just say it was October? Seems like only yesterday that we were slapping on the suncream and stretching out the beach towels to catch some rays. Oh, wait – that was only yesterday! Hey, never mind, people. Christmas is only eighty-five sleeps away. Now, let’s kick off this wild autumn day with ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ by the Eurythmics …’

Hey, thanks, Greg, I’ve nothing against Annie Lennox, but I think I’ll pass.

With a groan, I bash the radio alarm ‘off’ button with my palm and pull the duvet over my head. That was a mistake. Now that Greg’s not blaring down my ear, I can hear the rain lashing against the windows and battering the roof of my tiny terraced cottage. A moment later, I throw the duvet off me, shivering in the cool October morning. I say ‘morning’, but it might as well be evening it’s so dark and gloomy in my bedroom. The late September heatwave we’d been enjoying at Kilhallon Park broke late last night when a massive storm blew in from the Atlantic and settled over our corner of far-west Cornwall.

The bedroom door bangs against the wall and four paws land squarely on my legs and a rough tongue licks my face.

‘Oof!’

My dog, Mitch, stands on my stomach, tongue lolling. ‘Thanks, boy, but I’d rather have a wash myself. In the bathroom, preferably.’

Mitch woofs and jumps onto the floor, wagging his feathery tail.

‘I know, I know. You want a walk, but have you heard that wet stuff falling from the sky outside?’

Mitch leaps off the bed, and stands by, tilting his head this way and that, as if to say: ‘Wuss’.

I give up all thought of staying in bed. ‘OK. You win.’

As I swing my legs off the bed, Mitch scampers to the doorway, hardly able to contain himself, excited at the prospect of a walk. After I’ve pulled on old jeans and a fleece, I trot downstairs, grab a quick glass of juice and pull open the curtains. It’s still bucketing down, and the rain is driven by strong winds off the sea, so it’s almost horizontal.

I grab an old waxed jacket from a peg by the back door and pull the hood over my head. Not only does Mitch need a walk, I need to check that nothing’s blown away from our brand-new guest cottages. I also need to make sure that our new cafe, Demelza’s, is still in one piece ready for its opening day on Thursday.

Since I arrived at Easter, my boss, Cal Penwith, and I have been working hard to transform Kilhallon Park from a run-down caravan site into a boutique holiday resort. With the help of our friends – and despite the efforts of our foes – our cottages and glamping site officially open for business today.

Then there’s Demelza’s.

I persuaded Cal to convert the old storage barn by the coastal path into a cafe. He decided to name it after me, so I’m determined to make it a success – come hell or high water.

And on that note … Outside the front door, the drumming of the rain and the howls of the wind almost drown out Mitch’s woofs. He dashes outside and scampers through the puddles while I linger in the doorway watching raindrops bounce off the cobbles of the yard. But it’s not the downpour that’s stopping me from taking that step outside; it’s the realisation that today’s the day that Kilhallon – and Cal and I – take our leap into the unknown.

I step into an old pair of Hunters that used to belong to Cal’s cousin Robyn. I’m wearing her old coat too: everyone mucks in and shares what they have here. I’ve become part of the Kilhallon tribe since Cal invited me to work for him, even though my own family have become lost to me. I’ve also made some good friends who’ve stuck with me through thick and thin. One of them – Cal – is more than a friend, but we’ll see where that leads.

Mitch dances round my wellies and barks joyfully, as if to say: ‘Come on, what are we waiting for?’

After the tough times we’ve overcome, and the challenges that await us, there’s no going back now. I let out a deep breath and step into the deluge. If you want to see a rainbow, as my Nana Demelza would have said, you have to put up with the rain …

CHAPTER ONE

‘Hello there! Welcome to Kilhallon Park. How was your journey?’

The man scowls from beneath the hood of his jacket and tosses his car keys on the shiny new reception desk at the front of Kilhallon House. He can’t be more than thirty and his face would be handsome if his expression wasn’t even more thundery than the weather. ‘Does it ever stop raining down here?’ he grumbles. ‘It’s been pouring all the way from London and I’ve had a nightmare of a journey.’

‘I’m sorry about that, sir, it must have been awful, but I’m so glad you’re here now and the forecast did show the weather brightening up later this afternoon. We should have a much drier day tomorrow. Would you mind filling in this card with your car registration while I collect your keys and welcome pack so I can show you to your cottage?’ With a smile, I hand him a pen.

He pushes his hood off his face. His dark blond fringe is stuck to his forehead and a raindrop trickles down his nose as he takes the pen and frowns at the card. Meanwhile, I collect his cottage keys and welcome pack from the drawer below the reception desk, hoping that the rain will stop. Instead, a rumble of thunder shakes Kilhallon House and our guest glances around him as if we’re about to be zapped by aliens.

He pushes the card towards me. His writing looks like a drunken spider has been doing the salsa with the felt tip, but I’m not going to ask him to redo it. ‘Your website said there’s a cafe on site. I’d like some lunch. Can you show me the way?’ His voice is tight and the news I’m about to deliver isn’t going to help his mood one bit.

‘I’m afraid the cafe doesn’t open until the day after tomorrow … Mr Bracken.’

‘It’s not Bracken. It’s Bannen. Kit Bannen,’ he adds, stressing each word as if I’m a toddler. Mind you, I don’t blame him, our first guest and I’ve got his name wrong. I should have spent more time preparing, instead of baking.

‘What’s that about the cafe being closed?’ he goes on. ‘The on-site cafe is one of the reasons I chose this place and I’ve held off from having lunch. It looked great on your website and I didn’t dare stop once I finally got moving after all the hold-ups. I’d hoped to grab a late lunch as soon as I arrived.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Bannen, but we’ll be open for coffee on Thursday morning. The website and information we sent you does say our opening days are Thursday to Sunday in the autumn and winter.’

‘That’s no good to me, is it?’

‘I appreciate that, sir, but it’s only two days away … less than that, technically speaking,’ I say, aware that the hours are ticking by fast.

Mr Bannen cuts across me. ‘Is there a pub or a restaurant close by?’

‘The pub’s just over a mile away at the crossroads. You’ll probably have to drive.’ Oh dear, this is not going well. I can understand that he’s tired and grouchy, but there’s no need to be rude.

‘Great. I’ve just spent seven hours crawling down here in the car from London and now I have to get straight back in it.’

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Bannen, but the good news is that there’s a welcome hamper in your cottage, with fresh bread, butter, eggs and cheese and some milk and a bottle of wine. They’re basic but high-quality supplies and enough to rustle up a sandwich or an omelette.’

He glares at me, then frowns. ‘Did you say there was wine?’

‘Yes, a bottle of red from a local vineyard, though I can swap it for a white if you’d prefer. I do have a chilled bottle in the fridge here. There are tea- and coffee-making facilities ready in your cottage, of course, and some Cornish apple juice in your own fridge, if it’s too early for wine …’

‘It isn’t too early for wine!’

I half expect the reception desk to shake.

He sighs and flashes me an apologetic smile. ‘Look, I’m not always this grouchy but I’ve had a fraught time at work and the journey from London was even more crap than I’d expected and it’s pouring down and I’m starving.’

‘I understand, Mr Bannen, and I’m sorry the cafe’s not open yet, but if you like I could sell you some of the spinach and ricotta quiche I made this morning to add to the supplies in your luxury, free welcome pack?’

‘Quiche, you say?’

I smile. ‘Uh huh. Homemade here at Kilhallon.’

‘Hmm. Well, thanks, I may just do as you say and stay in. I do need a break.’

‘Good idea. Now, if you want to follow me in your car, your cottage is only a few hundred yards up the lane to the left of the main farmhouse. I’ll get your keys and show you around Enys Cottage. Would you like some mince pies with your quiche, by the way?’

He frowns. ‘Mince pies? But we’re barely into October.’

‘Yes, um, I’ve been practising some recipes for when the cafe opens.’

‘Practising?’

‘Trialling,’ I correct myself, because he seems worried again. ‘I’ve created a new boozy mincemeat recipe actually, and I’ve been trying out different toppings for the pies. I’ve made glazed stars and cinnamon and orange crunchy crumble tops … the crumble ones are particularly delicious, and I was just about to make some Viennese topped ones when you rang the reception bell …’ I clam up, realising that I’ve been babbling because I’m nervous and rattled by our first guest not being in the holiday mood that I’d expected.

Mr Bannen peers at me like I’m mad and then wrinkles his nose, sniffs the air and unexpectedly, breaks into a smile that transforms his face from grumpy pants to golden surf boy.

‘I thought I could smell something good. You know, I think a mince pie and wine is just what I need after the time I’ve had at work.’

‘What do you do?’ I ask, relieved he’s simmering down.

‘Oh, this and that. Boring admin-type stuff, mostly.’

So, he doesn’t want to tell me. Well, that’s fine. ‘If you’d like to wait here for a moment, I’ll get the food and my coat and you can follow me in your car up to Enys Cottage.’

He humphs in reply, but it’s the quiet humph of a man who’s calming down and feeling a bit guilty for ranting at me. At least, I think it’s that – as he’s our first guest, I have a lot to learn.

I grab my wax jacket from the peg in the hallway that separates the reception area from Kilhallon House, the old farmhouse that forms the heart of the Cornish holiday complex where I work. Then I find the quiche in the fridge and pop it into a square, cardboard cake box – luckily I have some in, ready for the cafe opening. I transfer four mince pies of different types from their tin to another box and carry them into reception.

Mr Bannen is nowhere to be seen.

Oh dear. I hope he hasn’t decided to do a runner after all.

After zipping up my jacket and collecting the keys to the Land Rover, I carry the boxes outside. Mr Bannen is standing at the far side of the gravelled car park by the fence, looking out over the fields that, next spring, will become our camp site. For now, we only have four yurts situated in the little copse just out of view of the car park.

Mr Bannen has his hands spread wide, gripping the wooden rail, and I could be wrong, but think he’s taking some deep breaths of Cornish sea air. It’s still raining, but not as hard, as I stow the quiche and mince pies on the passenger seat. Mr Bannen shows no signs of returning to his car, a large silver BMW that seems too big for one man, but is probably just right for a stressed-out angry person. I haven’t asked, though I have wondered, where his family or friends are.

I pull up my own hood and wait by the Land Rover.

The rain is definitely easing as Mr Bannen finally turns away from the view and trudges back towards me. He seems sad now rather than furious.

‘Sorry,’ he says, reaching me. ‘I needed a bit of fresh air.’

‘I don’t blame you. Are you ready to follow me to your cottage now?’

He nods. He pushes his hood off again. The edges of his dark blond hair are soaked but I can tell his hair brushes his neck. He also has a thin gold loop earring through one lobe, like the fishermen in St Trenyan. He doesn’t look like he does boring admin-type stuff; I’d have said he was the creative type, more advertising or graphic design or something. He’s probably here for the surfing, though there’s no board on the roof rack of the car.

He turns back towards the sea and I follow his gaze. Our soon-to-be camping field slopes very gently down to the boundary of the park. It’s separated by a low hedge from the coastal footpath that skirts our land. A few yards beyond the path, the jagged cliffs plunge down to the Atlantic. He turns to me again, his voice gentler. ‘I’m sorry. You must have lots to do and I shouldn’t have kept you waiting, but the view drew me. I stare at four walls for most of my working life and this is pretty special, even in the rain.’

‘We like to think so,’ I say, delighted that we finally have a visitor and fascinated by the change in him since he saw the Cornish scenery in its full glory.

Mr Bannen shades his eyes and points upwards. ‘Bloody hell, am I imagining things or is that a patch of blue sky over there?’

I follow his outstretched arm and smile to myself. There’s still a hint of rain in the air, and the breeze is bending the branches of the oak trees in the field, but a sliver of blue has opened up between the billowing grey clouds over the sea.

‘It looks like the weather front is blowing in sooner than was forecast. Things can change very quickly at Kilhallon,’ I say, seeing the place through fresh eyes. The same way I saw it the day I first arrived here at Easter, only this time, it’s with pride and not the shock I felt when I saw the rundown mess it was in then.

‘Wow,’ he says, still shading his eyes as a shaft of sunlight breaks out and the chasm of blue widens. I push my own hood off my head and jingle my keys discreetly. I’d love to stand and appreciate the beauty of Kilhallon but I was in the middle of baking when Mr Bannen arrived. It’s just dawned on me how much I still have to do to get the other cottages, not to mention Demelza’s Cafe, ready for our other visitors.

‘Mr Bannen? Would you like to follow me through the gate to the left and to your cottage?’ I ask, noting the puddles that have formed in the car park and thinking of the guests who’ll be staying under canvas, albeit luxurious canvas, in our new yurts. I saw Cal earlier this morning, heading out in the deluge to check they hadn’t leaked.

Mr Bannen takes the hint and pulls his own keys from the pocket of his Berghaus. ‘Thanks … and please, it’s Kit… Well, Christopher, actually but everyone calls me Kit.’ He takes another lingering look at the view before he climbs into his silver BMW. ‘You know, even in the lashing rain with a howling gale and no licensed premises within spitting distance, I can see why you’d want to escape here.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘All I want for Christmas … is youuuuuu!’

Humming along to Mariah Carey, I do a little jig in front of the Aga in Kilhallon House, waiting for the kitchen timer to ping. A few more minutes should just about do it.

I came straight back to my baking after I’d shown Mr Bannen – sorry, Kit – the basics of Enys Cottage. Enys is our cosiest cottage, perfect for two or, in his case, one – so my first guest tour didn’t take too long. I left him not exactly smiling, but opening a bottle of wine and about to tuck in to the quiche. I’m glad that my boss, Cal, and Polly his PA will be taking over management of the park after Thursday, leaving me to concentrate on my main passion, the cafe and its food, of course.

Cal texted me while I showed Kit to his cottage. He was about to greet a group from Surrey who have rented some of our glamping yurts. If Kit’s journey was anything to go by, they’ll be tired and frazzled too. The field is thick with mud after the storm so I don’t envy him having to meet them, although hopefully this sunshine will lift their mood, not to mention the welcome hamper of treats that awaits them in their yurts.

Once all my mince pies are cooked and cooled, I need to set up some shots that I can upload to my Demelza’s blog and use on social media to promote the seasonal menus. The more bookings we can get for lunches and events, the better. I need to repay Cal’s faith in me, not to mention his investment in my cafe. It was my idea, after all.

A peek outside the kitchen door confirms to me that the weather is definitely warming up again, and there is now more blue in the sky than clouds. A late burst of sunshine is just what we need to attract customers to Demelza’s Cafe; I hope it lasts for our opening day on Thursday, and over the weekend. We might get some last-minute bookings for Cal’s cottages and yurts too.

And after the tough time we’ve both had lately, we’re surely due a run of good luck now, right?

‘All I want for Christmas is youoooooo!’

As Mariah hits an impossibly high note, the kitchen timer finally pings. The moment I open the Aga door, a wave of heat blasts my face, instantly followed by the overwhelming aroma of spices and dried fruit. The pies are a perfect shade of light golden brown, the honeyed blond of a surf dude’s tint. The Viennese biscuit topping was a little time-consuming, if I’m honest, so I’m not sure if I’ll add that to the cafe menu, but they look very pretty and smell gorgeous, so we’ll see. Carefully, because the oven mitts in the kitchen of Kilhallon House have seen some action lately and need replacing, I extricate the pies from the oven, knowing I’m about seven seconds from scorched fingers.

I straighten up, clutching the tray in one hand, while closing the door with the other.

‘Phew, it’s roasting in here.’

A familiar voice behind me makes my pies wobble alarmingly. Just in time, I save them from sliding onto the quarry-tiled floor where my dog, Mitch, looks on hopefully from his bed by the back door.

If I thought Kit was wet, Cal looks like Mitch after he’s had a dip in the sea. Water drips from his coat.

‘How was he, then, this Mr Bannen?’ he asks, peeling off his waxed jacket.

‘Oh, you mean Kit?’

Cal raises an eyebrow. ‘First name terms, already, eh? And Kit? Sounds like a dog’s name … or a hamster’s.’

‘I promise you there’s nothing cute and furry about Mr Bannen, and the Kit is short for Christopher. He was stressed out, tired and pissed off about the cafe not being open, but he seemed happy enough when I showed him into Enys Cottage and gave him some free mince pies.’

‘Funny that he’s on his own for two whole weeks.’ Cal holds up his jacket with a grimace. The rain has seeped down his collar to his T-shirt, leaving a large damp patch over the chest. The grey cotton is plastered across his broad shoulders and pecs, and his nipples are like tight little currants. A taut-yet-melty feeling stirs low in my stomach.

Did I say Cal was my boss and more than a friend? That might have only been part of the truth …