Читать книгу Summer at the Cornish Cafe - Phillipa Ashley - Страница 7

‘Good morning, good people of Kernow! This is your favourite local DJ, Greg Stennack, coming to you live and kicking from The Breakfast Show on Radio St Trenyan. So wakey wakey all you lazy folk still snoring under your duvets! The sun’s shining, the surf’s up and it’s a fabulous start to the Easter weekend. Whether you’re a local or a visitor to our bee-yoo-tiful corner of West Cornwall, remember to stay tuned to the county’s brightest and best independent radio station for the coolest sounds, the hottest news and the tastiest commercials from our station sponsors: Hayleigh’s Pasty Shack. Now, let’s kick off the show with ‘Happy’ by Pharrell. Take it away, Pha—’

After emerging from a nightmare in which a giant pasty was attacking me, I find the ‘off’ button on the radio alarm and cut Greg off in his prime. It’s actually a shame to cut off Pharrell too, but I need to get up, have a shower and get ready for work. I can already hear my boss, Sheila, singing along to the radio in the kitchen of the cafe, two floors below my attic room, even though it’s only six a.m.

Did I say six? With a groan, I pull the duvet over my head again but a wet nose nudges its way under the bottom edge and a warm tongue licks my big toe. It’s not only Greg who wants me to wakey wakey.

‘OK, boy. I hadn’t forgotten about you,’ I mumble through the cover.

My dog, Mitch, clearly doesn’t believe me and I let out an ‘oof’ as four paws land on the middle of my stomach.

I throw off the duvet to find a hairy muzzle in my face and a waft of early-morning doggy breath in my nostrils.

‘Eww, Mitch. What did you eat last night? OK. OK. I am getting up!’

After gently pushing Mitch off me, I drag myself out of bed, and cross to the skylight in the roof of the attic. Standing on tiptoes, I tug back the blue gingham curtain, push the skylight open a crack and peep outside. My eyes blink at the dazzling brightness. Although it’s still early, the sky above the little seaside village of St Trenyan is already postcard blue and I can almost taste the salt on the air. A tractor chugs up and down the beach opposite the cafe where I started work a few weeks ago, raking the sand ready for the deckchairs to be laid out.

The masts of boats bob up and down in the harbour at the far side of the beach. A few people are already up, jogging along the flat sand or flinging balls into the sea for their dogs. As the breeze carries the rattle of the tractor and snatches of distant barks through the window, Mitch yips excitedly. I take a deep gulp of the air and close the window. It’s Easter: the turn of the tide, a fresh day and the start of a new summer.

I wonder what this one will bring.