Читать книгу Christmas at the Cornish Café: A heart-warming holiday read for fans of Poldark - Phillipa Ashley, Phillipa Ashley - Страница 14

Cal

My head throbs as I reach for the clock by the bed. The green digits glow in the gloom. Wednesday 9 October. 09.23. Shit. Is it that late? I need to get up. Those old staff cottages won’t renovate themselves.

I lift my head off the pillow and instantly regret it. Pain pulses in my temples. I’m shivering yet sheened in sweat. No wonder, I’ve woken up to find I’m lying on top of the duvet in my boxers. Last night, after I staggered home from the Tinner’s Arms in the small hours, I must have collapsed on top of the bed. At least I had the presence of mind to get undressed, which is amazing considering I was off my face. I haven’t been to one of the pub’s lock-ins for months. I’d already started to cut back on my drinking since Demi and I got Kilhallon off the ground, and I’m almost back within the so-called ‘healthy’ limit now. Correction, I was in the healthy limit until last night’s lapse.

Last night Demi went out with her mates to see a film in Penzance. I could and should have spent the evening doing the accounts for the resort, but I needed a break too. I only intended to have a quick pint at the pub, but one turned into two, then more, plus a few whiskies as well. Before I knew it, the landlord had locked the doors, joined his regulars for a game of poker and the evening had become early morning.

Snatches of conversation from the night before slowly come back to me, along with scenes from my nightmare and memories of my time in Syria. I remember someone talking about the Harbour Lights Festival in the bar. They reminded me of my conversation with Demi on Monday night before the committee meeting.

I told her I wasn’t having a fun time during last year’s festival. A slight understatement. I remember exactly where I was on that day. I was working in a refugee camp a couple of miles from the front line of a conflict zone, trying to do what I could for hundreds of wounded and displaced people. The sights, the sounds and smells will never leave me. Although I pretend to the people around me that I’ve put that time behind me and it doesn’t affect me, I’m lying.

I’m fully awake now. After I crashed out, some of the events from Syria came back to haunt me in a nightmare; albeit in a bizarre, jumbled way, like a story where the chapters have been swapped around or are missing altogether. I’m not sure why I had a nightmare or why the memories are so vivid and troubling now. Since I returned to Kilhallon, I’ve tried to lock my time in Syria away so I can try to get on with daily life, but it’s impossible to forget. The guilt I feel about what happened that day will never leave me, and perhaps it never should.

Lying in my bed now, I tell myself that my bad dream was probably just the result of too much Doom Bar, too many whisky chasers and a very stupid urge to scoff bacon, egg and black pudding at two o’clock in the morning when I eventually staggered into Kilhallon. I lift my head and see a tangle of sheets at the foot of the bed. I must have kicked them off while I was fighting imaginary attackers in my dream. The new sash window is open a few inches and the curtains flutter against the frame. A cold wind keens around the farmhouse, changing pitch every now and then and making my head hurt even more. It was only a dream, I remind myself, as my throbbing temples send a bolt of nausea straight to my stomach.

Yet the images from that day are still vivid now I’m awake. I remember my friend Soraya lying on top of a pile of bricks and broken furniture. A red checked tablecloth covered her legs; it must have fallen on top of her when the mortar round hit her home. She didn’t have a mark on her beautiful face and her eyes were closed as if she’d lain down to rest and pulled the cloth over her. Her upper body was covered with a fine powder, just as though someone had shaken icing sugar over her.

I’d been blown off my feet by an explosion and when I came round, I spotted her in the clouds of smoke and dust. From a few metres away, I’d almost believed she was asleep. I’d started to cough, my eyes stinging, and then I looked around for her little girl, Esme.

No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see her anywhere.

The sounds and smells come back to me, along with the scene of devastation all round. Clouds of dirt and debris rose up like a fog, yet one that was hot and acrid and burned my throat. My eyes were raw and streaming. Rumbles like thunder shook the ground to one side and the chatter of gunfire echoed on the other. A soldier loomed out of the dust and yelled at me: ‘We’re going. Come with us now or die here.’

I could not move. All I could do was stare at Soraya sleeping on her rubble bed, knowing she’d never wake up. And then I knew what to do and my feet moved: not to run after the soldier but to clamber over the rubble piles to search for Esme. I knew I had to find her and take her back with me to safety.

I clawed at the rubble, looking for her. My knuckles were bleeding. I couldn’t find her. Then I heard the soldiers again, their voices, and realised that they weren’t ‘our’ side, but the insurgents who had shelled the town. I had to leave, or be killed. Instinct told me to run and hope I could find Esme at our camp. So I ran, tears streaming down my face. It was too late. Too late for Soraya, for Esme and for me.

Suddenly, another scene from my nightmare floods my mind and merges with my memories. I was in a dusty room, the sun beating down on the tiled roof, shafts of light piercing the cracks and shining on the dust and blood on the earth floor. A man held my ankles down, the pressure was unbearable. Another face appeared above me with a hose. I remember feeling so thirsty. I couldn’t speak, but I didn’t want this water. I opened my mouth to scream but he pushed a rag over my nose and mouth and the water poured down. I tried to scream but I was drowning – like I was in the cove this summer, only this time there was no Demi to reach in and pull me out.

Bloody hell, just how much did I have to drink last night?

Thank God Demi wasn’t staying over with me … Or maybe if she had been, I wouldn’t have stayed so long at the Tinner’s. Demi helps me keep off the booze and from dwelling on the dark times as often as I might do. Trouble is, now that Polly’s here and the businesses demand our time and energy, we’ve had precious few chances to get together, apart from a couple of snatched moments of passion at the cafe.

I also remember that after Demi and I had made out in the cafe, I was going to ask her to go public and move into Kilhallon House with me. After last night’s talk in the pub, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea, for Demi or for me.

The bedroom door rattles in a gust of wind. I must get the latch fixed. Anyone could walk in.

Oh God, it’s 09.45. I have to get up and get on with my jobs, even though hammering and drilling is the last thing my head needs. I suppose it’s some kind of justice for getting pissed last night.

Still in my boxers, I scuttle downstairs in search of black coffee. There’s singing coming from the kitchen. Something about it being ‘time to say goodbye’. When I walk in, Polly stops her impromptu Il Divo karaoke and stares at me from the sink. She holds a very sharp pair of scissors and is surrounded by leaves, roses and cellophane.