Jen takes over. ‘Without your ideas and evenings, and the recipe book, we’d only have a fraction of the funds we’ve got now. We’ve still got a little way to go to reach our target, but I’m told that book sales will be ongoing, so thank you, from the bottom of all our hearts.’
Sophie’s giving me a hard stare. ‘We could have a best-seller on our hands here! It’s all down to you!’
I’m looking round at all the lovely residents, thinking how they’ve encouraged me, how they were the ones who first edged me out of my comfort zone, how their enthusiasm showed me what was possible. Without them I’d never have taken the leaps I have.
I swallow hard. ‘I’m actually the one who has to thank you. When I arrived I felt like a pretender, but with your help I’ve learned to perform in front of people. And that has made me feel real and genuine. After all the experience I’ve gained in St Aidan, I wouldn’t be stuffing up onInternet Special Bake Off. But with what I know now, I wouldn’t actually be going on it either. I’m too busy living a much better life.’
Joanie’s dabbing her eye. ‘We’re all very proud of you, Cressy, we always were. And now you’ve got to learn to be a farmer’s wife.’
Ross gives a strangled choke. ‘Hang on, it might be me learning to be a farmer’s husband, more like.’
Walter gives a cough and taps his stick on the floor. ‘That’s another thing I meant to tell you.Thisfarmer’s going to have a new wife too!’
I’m thrilled, but surprised. ‘Really? That’s wonderful. But when did this happen?’
Walter slaps his thigh. ‘You’re not the only fast workers round here, you know!’ His eyes are twinkling, then he stops teasing and carries on. ‘I asked her in the car on the way back from hospital the other morning.’
Joanie looks shamefaced. ‘That sly fox, I’d been so worried, I said yes straightaway.’
I beam at them both. ‘There’s nothing wrong with quick decisions, so long as you know your own mind.’
Walter grins. ‘That’s what I like about you, Cressy, you’ve got your head screwed on. I reckon you’d be the right person to grow watercress down in the brook. It would go nicely with your hens.’
I laugh with recognition. ‘Egg and Cressy? That’s what I used to be called at home as a child.’
Sophie’s eyes are shining, and she nudges Clemmie beside her. ‘We mermaids all have our childhood names. Clemmie Orange, then there’s Nelly Melon, Sophie Potato and Victoria Plum. And now we have an Egg and Cressy too.’
I look down at the sequinned tourniquet around my ankles. ‘Before I take on the challenges of being a farmer, I reckon I need to master walking in my mermaid tail.’
Millie sashays over to me, her scales glinting in the sunlight. ‘If you step over here, I’ll give you a few tips.’
And as I let go of Ross’s hand and falteringly lurch after her, I look back at him over my shoulder. As our eyes meet I know he’s the only person in the world I’d want to make a family with, and I feel so lucky that the time is finally right for us to be together. It’s also a wonderful feeling to be surrounded by our St Aidan family too, because I know they’re the ones who’ve helped me make a life I can be proud of, and brought me more happiness than I could ever have wished for.
PS
If anyone had told me four months ago that I’d only ever go back to London for a weekend, I wouldn’t have believed them. But here I am, like Charlie before me, a brand-new fully fledged resident of St Aidan, looking forward to starting my apprenticeship as a Cornish person. It helps that I have Ross to keep me right. And Walter, Joanie and all my friends at Kittiwake Court, not to mention my wonderful mermaid friends.
And like the waves that rush up and down the beach along the bay, nothing in St Aidan stays still for long…
Walter and Joanie lose no time. Six weeks after the book launch they say ‘I do’ in a tiny ceremony at the local church, and celebrate in style with a singalongSound of Musicevening back at Kittiwake Court.
There’s more good news from there too. Even with phenomenal sales on the cookbook, and a mud run that broke local records, we were still struggling to make the target for the renovations. But it wasn’t the end of the line. So Walter is adding a chunk from the sale of his farmhouse to the fund, because, as he rightly points out, if it wasn’t for Kittiwake Court he wouldn’t be here at all, and he definitely wouldn’t be a happily married man for a second time around. And Charlie is chipping in to make up the rest, because that’s just the kind of loaded he is.
As for Ross and me, Clemmie and Charlie insist that we should stay on in Clemmie’s flat at least until we sort out the basic work on the farmhouse. Clemmie has been feeling as rough as you do when you’re newly pregnant, but she and Charlie are sipping ginger tea together, and taking Diesel out for lots of fresh air and blowy walks. And truly, they haven’t stopped smiling. There’s a long way to go, but somehow we know in our hearts that this time they’re going to get there.
The garden at Seaspray Cottage is filled with curly green metal chairs and tables again, I’ve been helping Clemmie out with her summer events, and carrying on with my own tour of St Aidan’s homes in the name of The Little Cornish Kitchen. For breaking news of caramel evenings, watch this space. And anyone with recipes for the next St Aidan village cookbook, drop them in the Deck Gallery, or Kittiwake Court.
Thanks to Ross cutting his ties with Scotland and the fact, as he insists, that he’s barely been out in twelve years, he, George and Charlie have had their heads together. Between them they’ve come up with a scheme for Ross to buy the farmhouse and farm buildings from Walter along with the orchard and nearby fields, and to rent the rest of the land we need. So our rare breeds country living centre with log cabins, glamping, shepherd’s huts and vintage caravans is on course to emerge very soon.
And when Ross comes up to London with me to pick up my stuff, we do all the things that tourist couples do. We go to the zoo – so he can show off his awesome animal knowledge – and lie in the sun in Regent’s Park with our meal-deal picnic, take selfies by the Thames with the London Eye in the background, and have double-decker burgers and chips with Heinz ketchup at the Hard Rock Café so he can sigh over famous guitars.
We also spend a lot of time in bed, because we seem to have so much time to make up for in that department. Then just to show our minds aren’t completely one-track, we call in to a rare breeds farm on the way back through Devon. And it’s all lovely, but I have to admit, when I’m back in the far field counting sheep next day, it feels a lot like coming home.
Then on a sunny day in late September, Ross and I borrow Diesel and walk into the wind, along the beach and out to Oyster Point. And we clamber out to where the ocean is swirling, now and then colliding with the rocks, and take the bunch of mauve daisies and cornflowers we’ve picked from Walter’s orchard. Then one by one we toss the flower sprigs into the sea, and think about our little one.
The only marker we have of her now is the day she should have been born. But remembering her together, our hands tightly clasped, watching as the petals bob on the swell and sweep out towards the horizon before they disappear completely, makes the moment all the more precious. And afterwards, as we eat ice cream, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the same grassy bank in the car park where we sat on our way back from the hospital appointment in Truro, we can already feel the history we’re making here. Then, hand in hand, with the wind buffeting our backs and Diesel lolloping in the surf, we get blown all the way back to St Aidan again.
And then one day a few weeks later, with the hoods of our waxed jackets clamped around our heads against the rain, we call by George’s office to pick up a large bunch of keys – and Snowdrop Farm is officially ours. It’s one of those unbelievable pieces of luck that isn’t really about luck at all; it’s more about Walter knowing we’ll love and care for the place with as much heart as he has for the last seventy-five years, and being certain he can trust us to look after it in the way he wants. No pressure there then; but Ross reckons we’ve got this, and it’s just as much my dream as his now. I only love him all the more for having it in the first place.
As we run through the horizontal rain around the front of the house, the leaves blowing from the pear tree in the garden are gathering in the gaps where the cobbles are missing. Then as we get to the faded front door, the sun breaks through the slate-black sky, and as we shake the rain off our faces and put the giant key in the lock, the meadows light up.
Ross pulls me inside his jacket, and into a rain-soaked kiss. ‘A rainbow arching right across High Hopes Hill. I hope you appreciate how long it took me to organise that.’ His laugh vibrates through my chest. ‘I’m truly sorry it’s taken so long for us to get here, Bertie – but are you ready for the next bit?’
I can’t actually reply straightaway because he sweeps me into a kiss, then as he picks me up and shoulders the door open, I’m shouting, ‘Yes, Cakeface! Yes, yes, yes, I am!’
Then we switch on the light and walk into the large whitewashed kitchen, and it’s wonderful to know we’re going to spend the rest of our lives here – together.
