Helen, who had rolled her shirtsleeves up and was busily covering the fish fillets in flour, patting them gently before placing them on a clean tea towel ready for the frying pan, turned to him crestfallen. ‘I hate that Camelot wasn’t real. Are you sure?’
‘Aye.’
‘But there was an Arthur, wasn’t there?’
‘There’s no evidence, no.’ Piran carried on focusing on the job in hand, his curls bouncing over his forehead as his strong weathered hands dexterously removed the last remaining bones.
‘So no Guinevere?’
Piran slapped the final fillet on the plate in front of her and pushed his hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. ‘No – thank God. She was supposed to have broken his heart, wasn’t she? Ran off with his best mate. Typical bloody woman!’
‘Typical chauvinist comment.’
He stuck his sharp knife, point down, into the wood of his kitchen table so that it quivered like an arrow. ‘I’m making you supper, aren’t I?’
Helen opened her eyes wide and cooed, ‘You are one hundred per cent new man! Would you pour me a glass of wine?’
He glowered at her for a moment then kissed her nose. ‘Don’t go pushing your luck, maid.’
*
The mackerel were delicious, served simply with hunks of buttered crusty bread and large tumblers of local cider. Helen got up, threw the bones in the bin and made a move to put the plates in the sink but Piran reached up and stopped her. ‘Don’t bother with those. They’ll keep till the morning.’ He found her hand and she felt the roughness of his skin on her palm. ‘You smell nice. Are you staying tonight?’
‘Would you like me to?’
‘I’m not going to beg. Your decision, Helen.’
‘Sometimes I’d like you to beg.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to feel crowded, that you liked your independence.’
‘I do …’ An image of Gull’s Cry, the dream cottage that she’d made a reality, flitted through her mind. Once the children had flown the nest, she’d realised that she couldn’t go on sharing a Chiswick townhouse with her philandering husband. So she’d asked Gray for a divorce and uprooted herself to Pendruggan. She’d settled in so well, it was hard to believe only two years had gone by since she moved in. And after years of playing housekeeper and homemaker to her family, it was a luxury to be free to do her own thing.
She was brought back to the present by Piran squeezing her hand. ‘Something tells me there’s a “but …” coming,’ he said.
‘No – well, sort of. I do like my independence, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate a bit of spontaneous passion now and again.’
‘Why are women so bloody contrary?’ growled Piran in mock exasperation. ‘If it’s passion you want, maid, I’ll sling you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs.’
‘Oooh, would you – right now?’
Her laughter echoed up the stairs as Piran make good on his threat.
*
Piran’s bed was a big old wooden thing, made, he said, out of the wreckage of a fishing boat that had run aground years before. It was the most comfortable bed Helen had ever known. She stretched herself out then curled herself around Piran as he slept with his back to her. Bosun and Sprat lifted their heads as they were gently bobbed about on a sea of tartan blanket, waiting for her to settle. When she was finally still, they put their heads down and curled their tails round their noses. Piran mumbled something.
Helen lifted her head slightly, the better to hear him. ‘What did you say?’
He spoke a little louder.
‘I said, What time is it, cloth ears.’
‘Seven fifteen.’
‘Want a cup of tea?’
‘Yes please.’
For a big man he moved with a fluidity that never failed to amaze her. She watched as he bent down and picked up his discarded T-shirt from the night before, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull it over his head. As all men do, he looked faintly ridiculous and even vulnerable as he stood up displaying his naked lower half. He checked his testicles unconsciously, before shuffling his feet into an ancient pair of leather slippers and reaching for an equally ancient dressing gown that had been draped over a chair.
Bosun and Sprat’s ears pricked up, their eyes watchful in case this was a false alarm or whether it was looking good for breakfast. At the words ‘Come on, boys’ they both sprang off the bed and followed their owner downstairs.
Helen sank back into the tangle of soft cotton sheets and blankets (Piran was never going to be a duvet man) and closed her eyes. She could hear him talking to the cats and the scrape of their food bowls as he placed them on the tiled floor of the kitchen. She could hear the whoosh of the water from the tap as he filled the kettle, and then the radio came on, tuned to the local news. With a sigh she snuggled into the pillow and was almost drifting back into sleep when she heard a loud ‘Oh, for chrissake!’ and the sound of Piran’s footsteps marching towards the bottom of the stairs.
‘Helen, come down here. They’re on the bloody radio.’
‘Who?’ she called back, but he had returned to the kitchen and was out of earshot.
Hurriedly pulling on one of Piran’s old shirts, she made her way to the kitchen. He was standing at the counter, staring at the battered radio and listening intently.
‘What …?’ she asked.
‘Shhh.’
She shut up and listened.
It seemed to be a phone-in. Pam, the show’s presenter, was talking to a female caller:
Caller: The point is, Pam, this is an important and much-loved part of our heritage. The community still uses the Pavilions building and it mustn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of some global coffee chain.
Pam: This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you run three of Trevay’s cafés and you don’t want the competition?
Caller: It’s not about money. It’s about what the Pavilions means to us as a community.
Pam: And when did you last go to the Pavilions?
Caller: That theatre is a piece of Trevay history and should continue to be so.
Pam: When did you last buy a ticket to attend an event there?
Caller: That’s irrelevant. It’s not a matter of when I last went or when you last—
Pam: I last went six months ago, to an antiques fair. I was shocked at the state of the place. It reeks of damp, the window frames are rusted, some of the panes of glass are cracked and boarded up. It needs a lot of money spending on it. Café Au Lait taking over might just be the best thing that could happen to the Pavilions. Let’s see what the caller on line two has to say.
Second caller: Good morning, Pam. My name is Mrs Audrey Tipton. I have lived in Pendruggan for the last forty years. It’s a quiet, unspoiled village with a strong community—
Pam: Audrey, do you think the Pavilions should be preserved as a theatre?
Audrey: Well, yes, that’s my point. Trevay is a ten-minute drive from my house in Pendruggan and offers everything I need for shopping and entertainment. The Pavilions should be fully restored by the council so that it will once again be the top attraction for our summer visitors.
Pam: The council say it’s a white elephant