9
Trenowden Trenowden Trenowden, The Harbourside, St Aidan
Home truths and a sweet tooth
Thursday
The morning after what I’m now calling ‘the V&A debacle’, Kit came around first thing and pressed a bundle of twenty-pound notes into my hands. And later a card and a lovely hand-tied bouquet arrived from Amery and Vic too. So even though I’ve put that day behind me, I’m still smelling the roses, real and proverbial.
Later that afternoon Nell drags me to her other half’s office down on the harbourside, saying she’s gasping for a cup of tea and that George needs to see me too. As George was acting for Ivy with the sale of the beach hut, I used a solicitor from Stoke Newington High Street, so I’m assuming George has something else to pass on from Ivy – fingers crossed it’s a key for the padlock on the little outside toilet behind the hut, as that’s the only thing still outstanding.
Lucky for us, Trenowden Trenowden Trenowden, Solicitors, is a dog-friendly office. The minute George sees that we’ve come with confectionery he brushes away my concerns about Shadow’s trail of sandy paw marks on the deep-pile carpet and shows me to a smart leather tub chair while Nell commandeers his huge executive swivel.
She rubs her bump then slides a cardboard box from the bakery down onto the gigantic oak desk. ‘Is it daft how much I’m longing for George to have a picture of our baby to put on here?’
George gives her a hug, steps back as his assistant brings in some mugs of tea, then nods at me. ‘Would you like to open the cakes, Floss?’
When I undo the string, pop up the box lid and breathe in the smell of confectioner’s custard and fresh strawberries I give Shadow a run for his money with my drooling. ‘I’d forgotten how delicious Crusty Cob’s fruit tarts are. I don’t know why I struggled to make scones the other day when I could have bought them from there or Clemmie’s.’
Nell grins. ‘Now you’ve done your first home baking, you won’t look back. Something tells me those customers were pretty picky and you came through for them.’ She watches me closely. ‘They wouldn’t have sent flowers if they weren’t happy.’
I pull a face as I remember. Considering how small and crusty the scones looked, Vic and Amery were remarkably kind about them. ‘Next time I’d use a bigger cutter, roll the mixture thicker and make more of them.’
‘More?’ George’s left eyebrow goes up. ‘If you’re making them again, let us know when, and we’ll be there!’
I need to make myself clearer. ‘I was talking hypothetically. Those scones were a one-off in someone else’s emergency, therewon’tbe a repeat performance.’
Nell lets out a shriek. ‘There you go again, Mrs, spouting your fancy London bollocks that no one understands.’ Her eyes twinkle. ‘If George doesn’t stop eating for two he’s not going to fit behind his desk.’
I laugh. ‘I won’t be baking for the public again, so you don’t need to worry about your waistlines.’
Nell helps herself to a profiterole, George takes a cream horn and I sink my teeth into a tart and decide to move this on.
‘So, Nell says you may have a key for me, George?’
George brushes a pastry flake off his chin and gives me a hard stare. ‘I didn’t ask you here to talk about locks.’
‘Damn.’ I can’t help myself. ‘I don’t know why I’m disappointed, I don’t even use the outside loo.’
George clears his throat. ‘If it’s the toilet door you’re worried about, I’ll send a locksmith along tomorrow. This is another matter entirely. Something quite unexpected, in fact.’
Nell’s eyes are like saucers. ‘Well, don’t keep us in suspense, George! Hurry up and tell us what it is!’
George presses his fingertips together. ‘David Byron, from the High Tides Hotel, has asked me to let you know that he is interested in buying your beach hut and the surrounding land.’
My gasp doesn’t express the kick-in-the-guts feeling this has brought on. ‘Excuse me?’
George’s tone is measured. ‘He would have tried to buy it previously, but it didn’t ever reach the open market.’
I give a sniff. ‘You mean Ivy wouldn’t sell to him?’
Nell’s eyes are flashing. ‘And good for Ivy for selling to someone local.’
‘I’m hardly…’
Nell shushes me. ‘David Byron is from Australia and so long as we overlook your fancy London expressions, you’re Cornish through and through.’
George’s nod is hardly perceptible. ‘He claims to have lived here at one time, though I’ve yet to meet anyone who remembers him. But the sum Mr Byron is offering for your hut is substantial. It would be more than enough for you to buy a much larger, more comfortable cottage in the town.’
