Cressida McLaughlin - The Cornish Cream Tea Bus

The sale of the flat had gone through, and she’d been able to put down the deposit for the work. Now Gertie had gone to stay in Pete’s workshop for the next month, to be gutted and rebuilt, with the necessary water tanks and generators, everything plumbed in, fixed and decorated. Charlie was looking forward to the final result with a heady mix of excitement and extreme nerves. At the same time she had been applying for her food handlers permit and her trading consent. Her food hygiene was up to date from working in The Café on the Hill, and even though she had concerns – mainly from the reactions of some of the locals – that she wouldn’t be welcome in Porthgolow, Cornwall Council seemed happy for her to have a pitch on the hard-packed sand at the top of the beach. Charlie couldn’t help but wonder if that was because, even in their eyes, the village needed livening up.

She pushed open the door of the Porthgolow Pop-In, the general store which, beyond the milk, bread and newspapers, was a treasure trove of weird and wonderful objects. Myrtle Gordon looked up from the Jackie Collins paperback she was reading, her glasses low on her nose.

‘Hi Myrtle,’ Charlie called tentatively.

‘Your dog, ’ees not peeing on my paintwork, is ’ee?’ she called. ‘If ’ee is, you can pay for it.’

Charlie felt herself blush. ‘He won’t, he’s just been— he’ll be fine.’

‘Good to know,’ Myrtle replied coldly, and went back to her book.

Charlie walked down the narrow aisles, marvelling at the Matchbox tin cars, the intricately designed thimbles and the Houdini-themed playing cards that looked as if they’d been there for at least thirty years. Antiques Roadshow would have a field day in here, she realized, as she picked up a figurine of a ballet dancer. It was heavy, possibly pewter, and she wondered who would want it as a souvenir of their time in a Cornish village. Not that she had the nerve to ask Myrtle about her shop-stocking policy. It was clear that the older woman wasn’t a fan of newcomers to the village. Or, at least, not a fan of her.

‘What y’after?’ Myrtle called, after a couple of minutes.

‘Picking up some biscuits,’ Charlie called back.

‘Not down there. Over by the tea and coffee.’

Charlie was about to respond when the bell dinged and a young voice said, ‘Morning Mrs Gordon.’

Myrtle’s voice softened. ‘Myttin da, Jonah. What can I help you with?’

Charlie had established, after a couple of confusing encounters, that “myttin da” meant good morning in Cornish.

‘We need some more sun lotion,’ Jonah said. ‘Dad asked me to come and get it.’

‘Next to the toilet paper.’

‘Cheers. How are you anyway, Mrs Gordon?’ Charlie thought Jonah sounded far too young to be asking such polite questions.

‘Not too bad, cheel. And yourself?’

‘I’m grand, thanks.’

Charlie peered around the corner of her aisle. Jonah, the cheel – or child, looked about eleven, with his blond hair spiky at the front, a bold yellow T-shirt and his legs, below shorts, as thin as sticks.

Jonah turned towards her and held his arm out. ‘I’m Jonah. My mum and dad run SeaKing Safaris from the jetty. Nice to meet you. You’re staying with Juliette and Lawrence, aren’t you? It’s your bus that’s caused a stir, isn’t it?’

‘Wow. News travels fast here.’ Charlie shook his hand.

‘Bleedin’ bus,’ Myrtle muttered. ‘What’s it for, anyway? Driving grockles around?’

Charlie frowned.

‘She means tourists,’ Jonah said, grinning. ‘We take the grockles out on the water, and you’re going to drive them around in your bus.’

‘Unless you are one,’ Myrtle added, drumming her fingers on the table. ‘Juliette said you were staying a few weeks. Tha’ right? Not longer?’

‘I’m going to see how it goes,’ Charlie said, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. Why was everyone so keen for her to leave so quickly? So much for a relaxing holiday.

‘What’s your dog’s name?’ Jonah asked. ‘He’s a Yorkipoo isn’t he? A cross between a Yorkshire terrier and a poodle.’

‘That’s right. He’s called Marmite.’

‘Great name,’ Jonah said, laughing.

‘Bleddy ridiculous if y’ask me,’ Myrtle muttered. ‘Dog and name.’

Charlie wondered if she really needed biscuits after all.

‘You should come on one of our SeaKing trips, if you’re staying for a while,’ Jonah said. ‘They’re great fun, and you get to see all sorts of wildlife. Here’s a card.’ He turned back to the shop counter where Myrtle had a plastic stand full of local business cards and leaflets: The Eden Project, Land’s End, Trebah Garden and SeaKing Safaris.

‘I’d like that,’ Charlie said, taking the card. It seemed Jonah knew how to ride above Myrtle’s curtness. He might only be young, but she could learn a thing or two from him.

‘We’re not too busy during the week,’ he added, not meeting her eye. ‘But if you’re desperate for a weekend slot, I’m sure we could fit you in then, too. Now that you’re local.’

‘Great. I’ll check my calendar.’

Charlie waited while he paid for the sun cream and left, flashing her and Myrtle a winning smile as he closed the door behind him. She put her biscuits on the counter.

‘Lovely lad, that one,’ Myrtle said. ‘Solid head on young shoulders.’

‘Are the safaris any good?’ Charlie blurted, shocked that she was suddenly being spoken to like an equal.

‘Never bin,’ Myrtle admitted. ‘Don’t particularly have sea legs, which isn’t ideal, I know, living somewhere like here. But they’ve a good reputation. You should take ’im up on it. They could do with a few more customers.’

‘I got that impression,’ Charlie said quietly.

The weather had been typical for April; flashes of bright sunshine chased down by heavy rain showers that seemed to linger in the cove. Charlie had already been walking in the rain, sheltering inside a large orange mac, the hood pulled low, the plasticky fabric making her skin sweat. She loved watching the rain patter onto the sea, and had walked to the end of the jetty while the waves churned and broiled around it, the horizon a wavering line of charcoal.

It was understandable that the beach was quiet; it wasn’t swimming weather, unless you were incredibly hardy, and while there was Myrtle’s shop and the pub, a bed and breakfast and SeaKing Safaris, there was no ice-cream shack or café; nothing for families who wanted to spend a whole day on the sand and have the necessary amenities at hand.

‘Aren’t there any public toilets?’ she asked, and Myrtle looked up from her book.

‘Why? You caught short? I’ve one out back if you’re desperate.’

‘Oh no, I just … wondered.’

‘There was a block at the edge of the car park,’ she said, tapping her fingers against her lips. ‘A while ago. But it got so run-down the council demolished it. No funds for a replacement, supposedly, despite a few of us makin’ noise. You’d think Mister High-and-Mighty in his sparklin’ palace might have helped, but no such luck.’

‘Daniel Harper, you mean?’

Myrtle wafted a hand in the vague direction of Crystal Waters. ‘It’s out of place, I reckon. All cold glass and metal in a simple seaside village. He could’ve gone to the Seychelles if he wanted to charge sky-high prices. Or Padstow. He’s an outsider, knows nothin’ about the place. I can see Porthgolow for what it is. Some areas could do with an update. But we’re friendly enough,’ Myrtle added, and Charlie tried not to snort. ‘He’s tarnishin’ that reputation, turnin’ it into a village of two halves. Anyway,’ she said, tapping Charlie’s hand. ‘These your biscuits, then?’