Page 5 of New Beginnings At Pencarrow Bay
Into the silence, Quentin asked, ‘So, are you going to swim? Or have I put you off for good?’
She wanted to say she was gung-ho, quite unconcerned by the prospect of rubbing her bare legs up against the smooth grey body of a huge shark, basking or otherwise.But she wasn’t going to lie. ‘Might give it a miss today,’ she said, pulling a face.
Quentin looked stricken. ‘That’s terrible. I’ve gone and ruined your morning dip– probably for nothing. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have worried you, but I panicked.’ He shrugged. ‘Toby says there are lots of sharks around the Cornish coast– there was another spotted in St Ives recently. We have dolphins and seals and all sorts, of course, but I doubt the sharks come this far into the harbour,’ he added, not sounding sufficiently doubting to Peggy’s nervous ear.
‘I’m glad you warned me. Anyway, you’d have looked pretty silly if you’d sat there and watched me screaming my head off because you didn’t want to make a fuss.’
He laughed as he began to struggle upright from the rock. ‘Well, I must say it’s nice to have my anxiety validated for once– even if I was mistaken.’ Steadying himself, he added, ‘I’d buy you one of Ted’s excellent coffees and a bun as compensation for messing up your day, but I imagine you get them for free, so my company would be your only gain– if it is, indeed, a gain.’ He hesitated, then went on, ‘Even if you’ve had enough of my company, my shiny new cripple’s chariot is up the top and I’d be so grateful if you could help me to it. I didn’t bring my stick, stupidly, and Rory insists I shouldn’t go down on the beach alone.’
‘I’d love a coffee,’ Peggy assured Quentin, as she concentrated on steadying him on the wet sand.
They began to make their way slowly across the beach and up the slope, stopping every few minutes so Quentin could rest on one of the benches lining the steep tarmacked path. His red mobility scooter sat glinting in the sunshinebeside the sea wall, tucked into the hedge on the shore road. Peggy wondered what was wrong with Quentin’s back, and how long he’d been so physically compromised, but she didn’t feel she knew him well enough to ask.
‘I’ll just go and get my things,’ she said, as he sank gratefully into the black seat of the buggy. As she hurried back to the rock where she’d left her clothes and began to dress, she felt rather excited to have made this charming new acquaintance. Sliding into her canvas shoes, she found herself looking forward to telling Ted the shark story.He’ll laugh at me, she thought, with a smile.
When she got back to Quentin, he was texting laboriously. Looking up, he said, ‘Just telling Rory what I’m up to. He worries.’
‘So you’re not the only one,’ she joked.
He smiled. ‘Ah, but Rory only worries about me. I worry abouteverything else.’
They made slow progress up to the castle, pulling in to let the cars pass. It wasn’t as busy as it would be later in the summer, but Peggy had noticed a sharp increase in traffic since Easter. They chatted easily, Quentin filling her in about the houses and inhabitants they passed.
‘That one used to be owned by a super-rich crook, think his name was Philip something, who ran off with his company’s pension fund. A lovely couple, can’t remember their names, bought it for a song, and actually live in it full time. The small one on the corner with the lattice windows is Teresa’s. She used to be our brilliant sub-postmistress, but was implicated in that Horizon horror show– cleared, obviously, but it ruined her mental health. And her life. Even now she’s been vindicated, we hardly see her outany more. That sweet little place behind the hedge with the French shutters and green front door?’ He pointed up one of the narrow lanes. ‘That’s the prettiest house on the planet inside. I long for it. It belongs to Florence Bywater, the writer. We’re friends. But she’s in her nineties, and seldom visits now.’
Peggy was really enjoying herself. Quentin was amusing and very informative. He hadn’t quite got the hang of the controls on his buggy, so he would suddenly lurch forward then come to an abrupt halt, which was concerning with cars coming through. But they got to the crest of the hill without incident, where they bumped into a tall, barefoot man with a voluminous purple cloak edged in gold brocade, blond locks flowing dramatically down his back, striding at some speed and purpose towards the village.
‘Hi, Ken,’ Quentin called. The man came to an abrupt halt.
‘Quentin, how are you? I hope you’re coming to my reading?’
‘Uh, sorry, not this time,’ Quentin replied, with a kind smile.
Ken raised an imperious eyebrow, waved goodbye and set off again.
‘Silly old bore,’ Quentin said fondly, when Ken was out of earshot. ‘He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Morton Nance, who was the Grand Bard of Cornwall in the thirties. That’s why he gave me such a dirty look when I called him Ken. We’re told we have to address him as Morton now. Ridiculous.’
Peggy laughed. ‘He’s doing a reading?’
‘Oh, yes. He camps out at Morvoren’s feet– tail, Isuppose I should say– and drones on about the imminent resurgence of Cornish culture. The tourists love him: bit of eccentricity, local colour. I’m all for Cornish culture resurging– although I suspect Ken and his nonsense do it no favours.’
‘Maybe the shark’ll get him,’ Peggy joked, and they began to giggle.
4
As Peggy and Quentin neared the coffee van, she was surprised to notice Ted was not behind the counter. Shona, Ted’s main employee, was serving a couple of walkers. She was conveniently flexible in her hours, normally working one, occasionally two days a week, then filling in, ad hoc, if Ted had something he needed to do and she could fit it around her business studies course at Falmouth University. She was keen to earn money, Ted keen to keep outgoings to a minimum. So it was a balance.
When renovations on the house were finished, Peggy had suggested she do shifts at the coffee van sometimes, instead of Shona. But Ted hadn’t taken to the idea. ‘If you’re working when I’m not,’ he’d said, ‘and I’m working when you’re not, we’ll never see each other, except possibly cramped in the van together on a busy day. Shona can give me time off that I can spend with you.’ Peggy couldn’t argue with Ted’s logic in theory– but in reality, it seemed these days, when he wasn’t working, he wasn’t spending time with her either.
Shona’s strident South African tones, beach-blonde ponytail swinging seductively down her back and earthy, infectious laugh were clearly captivating the two men for whom she was making coffee. Now Peggy remembered the reason she was there. Ted had a meeting that morning, with a supplier of takeaway cups, which claimed tobe more environmentally friendly than the ones he was currently using. She was disappointed, hoping to arrive with a flourish in Quentin’s company, show Ted she was on the up and making friends with his friends, throwing off the mantle of lonely incomer that worried her and, she thought, worried Ted too.
Quentin having told her which coffee he would like, she approached the stall. Greeting Shona warmly, she asked, ‘Has Ted gone to see the cup person?’ Bolt, she noticed, was not in his tartan basket beside the van.
‘Uh, no, that’s at twelve. He was here a moment ago…’
Peggy nodded, thanking Shona and picking up the coffees plus two of the lemon and blueberry tarts she was sure, even on such short acquaintance, Quentin would like. Back at the table– his buggy tucked in where a chair normally stood– they settled down to their drinks. The resident robin immediately flew over, checking them both out, its head on one side. It was there every day, gathering crumbs from the tables. Now, seeing there were no pickings on offer, it puffed out its red chest dismissively and skittered off again, making them smile.
‘That’s us told,’ Quentin joked, devouring the tart in two appreciative bites– no morsel left for the robin. Then he asked, ‘So go on, then, how did you two meet?’
