Phillipa Ashley - Christmas at the Cornish Café

‘In the storeroom.’

Cal looks around him. ‘It looks great, Demi. You’ve done a fantastic job.’

‘No, we have. All of us.’

‘It’s your baby and you should be proud.’ His eyes shine. I don’t think I’ve seen him quite so happy since the day he showed me the sign for the cafe and persuaded me to stay here at Kilhallon. For a moment, I’m too choked with emotion to reply, then I remember that the staff are relying on me today.

‘Well, I can’t think of a cafe with a better view for miles. It’s a huge selling point if we can just let people know we’re open,’ I tell Cal, feeling the rising sense of panic that I’ve been subduing for the past few days about to overwhelm me like a great big wave. ‘I hope they come.’

‘I think you might have trouble keeping them away. Look.’

He nods to a man and a woman peering through the glass door, as if we’re animals in the zoo.

My pulse leaps. ‘OK. Our first customers are here. Do you want to let them in?’ I call to Nina.

‘No way. It’s your cafe,’ she says with a broad smile that tells me she’s a lot more calm and collected than I feel.

‘I think you should have the honour,’ says Cal. ‘Demelza.’

With a deep breath, and on slightly wobbly legs, I hurry to the door and open it. The couple, a sprightly pair of pensioners in matching hiking boots and navy fleeces, have big grins on their weather-beaten faces.

‘So you are open. We thought you might be training or something.’

‘No. We’re open. Welcome to Demelza’s Cafe. In fact you’re our first ever customers.’

‘Really? We’re the first?’

‘The very first. Look, you can have your pick of the seats. There are menus on the tables and a specials board above the counter over there.

‘We’d love a nice big pot of tea, Graham?’ the woman says to her partner as they walk into the centre of the room, eyeing the scrubbed oak tables, the oak settles and vintage china.

‘I’d like a latte, I think,’ says Graham, sitting down at the table by the window. ‘What a view. Have you really only just opened?’

‘This very minute. If you’d like to place your order at the counter, you can collect your drinks and we’ll bring any food orders across to you. Have you come far?’

‘We were up at sparrow-fart and traipsed from the cove on the other side of St Trenyan. Linda said it would only take an hour but we’ve already been going nearly two. She always gets the timing way out. Thinks I won’t notice she’s trying to con me into believing it’s only a stroll.’

‘Don’t start, Graham. You’re the one who said we shouldn’t take any notice of the walking app and swore blind you knew a short cut. I’ll never forgive you for making me walk through that field of bullocks.’

‘They won’t do you any harm.’

‘Then why were they following us and giving us funny looks?’

‘You’re safe in the cafe, I can promise that,’ I cut in before we have our first full-blown domestic. ‘We’ve got some amazing homemade cakes today and there’s a brunch special. It’s local bacon, sausages from the farm up the hill and eggs from our own hens here at Kilhallon.’

‘Do you do those bacon and avocado toast combos? Our grandkids love those when we’re visiting them in London and we’re hooked,’ Linda chirps up, much to my amazement.

‘We do have some avocado. In fact it’s on the menu,’ I say, glad I’ve done my research, even though I’m not the greatest fan of this latest fad. Cal pulled an icky face when he tried it out and even Mitch refused to touch his bite-size sample.

‘Not for me. I’m going to have a massive slice of this here figgy obbin. Not had any of that since we used to motor down here in the Cortina with the kids.’ Graham holds up the menu.

‘Well, please join the queue,’ I say, gesturing to Nina, standing alone behind the counter, fidgeting with her hat.

Before Graham’s placed his order, the door opens again and a party of ramblers troops in, sighing with relief at reaching us, debating over which table to choose and asking where the toilets are.

‘Thank goodness you’re open!’ declares a middle-aged woman in a yellow cagoule. ‘I’m gagging for a coffee and a wee. Oh, are those homemade apricot scones? I’ve walked bloody miles this morning so I deserve one of those.’

‘We’ve only done a thousand steps from the car park by the main road,’ her friend whispers, showing me her FitBit.

I usher them to the table by the window and listen to them admiring the view. As part of the renovation of the old barn, the doors on one side have been replaced with a large glass window that gives an amazing view over the Atlantic Ocean. From our window seats and terrace, it almost feels as if you could touch the sea. On a stormy day, if the swell is big enough and the wind in the right direction, we might even have some spray on the windows.

It’s only as I put more menus on the outside tables that I realise Cal has gone and left me in charge, but there’s no time to think or worry. More customers drift in and out, some with dogs, some with babies in carriers, some with walking poles and even one in an all-terrain mobility scooter though goodness knows how he made it along the coast path. Jez is calling orders from the kitchen, Shamia’s dealing with a queue of people at the counter and Nina is racing about clearing tables and serving people as if she’s in a triathlon. In no time, we’re dishing up Cornish goat’s cheese paninis, and pasties, quiche salads and sandwiches to an array of people relaxing, chatting, checking their iPads, and all drinking our teas, coffees, and ciders while they scoff our cakes and savouries.

There’s one moment when I have to stand outside the kitchen door to the rear and take a huge gulp of fresh Kilhallon air and pinch myself.

‘Demi – it’s four o’clock.’ Nina pulls me aside as I fly into the kitchen with more dirty plates.

‘You’re joking?’

‘No. Look.’ She points to the clock on the wall, just above the health and safety notice.

‘What? I thought it was about half-past two.’

‘No. It really is. We’ve stopped taking orders.’ Jez pops his head round the door of the staff cubby hole. His whites have been replaced by board shorts, a hoodie and flip-flops. ‘I’m off shift. Hope you’re pleased with how it went?’

‘Yes. Wow. Thanks so much, Jez. But four o’clock? I can’t believe it. I’ve been so busy clearing tables outside that I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Shall I put the closed sign on the door?’ Nina enquires.

‘Yes, I guess so, but we still have people eating, inside and out. I’ll go and tell everyone we’re shutting soon.’

I feel strangely light-headed as I float into the cafe and inform the few stragglers that we’re now closing. One man grumbles but the other customers seem OK and start to finish their food. Has the day really flown by so fast? Can it be real?

I turn over the closed sign on the door and step outside to clear the final tables when a man sprints onto the terrace.

‘Damn it. I knew I’d be too late!’

Kit Bannen’s face is red and he’s breathing hard. ‘Am I too late? I am too late, aren’t I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Damn!’

I laugh. ‘It’s fine. We’re open again tomorrow.’ It’s only a cafe , I want to add.

‘I wanted to be here on your opening day. I was all set to be a difficult customer.’

I lower my voice. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve already had the customer from hell.’

I throw a wave and a smile at a couple from London who are staying in our cottages. Their toddler, George, had a screaming tantrum lasting half an hour and threw every piece of food they offered him onto the floor. George’s wails of protest pierce the air as his parents attempt to strap him into his luxury all-terrain buggy.