A Baby at the Beach Cafe, page 6
‘Max? Alfie? Henry?’ Ed said, but I shook my head. Lovely as they were, none of those names were quite right for him, either.
‘I want something a bit different,’ I said. ‘Something that really connects him to Cornwall and the café. Look at his nose! He needs a good strong name, with a nose like that.’
Ed yawned. ‘Let’s sleep on it,’ he said. ‘Maria said we should sleep whenever he does, for the first few days. The right name will come to us, I know it.’
I still felt so charged up with wild adrenalin that I wasn’t sure if I would be able to sleep at all that night. Besides, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the precious bundle I was holding, who had just given the sweetest, tiniest snore. I nodded, though, knowing that Ed must be done in, from a full day and night at work, followed by our epic birth adventure. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘We’ll get back to you on the name, kid. We’re working on it, all right?’
Chapter Thirteen
Evie
The next day was Sunday and, as news of the birth reached our friends and family, we were deluged by phone calls, texts and good wishes. Lindsey from the local pub sent over a bottle of champagne. Betty from the village shop sent a big shiny ‘It’s a Boy!’ balloon and some chocolate biscuits. One of the midwifery team, Christine, popped by to see how we were doing, and told me that my GP would drop in for a home visit tomorrow. And then came another visitor: Helen.
She walked in with a bunch of white roses and a pile of post that had arrived the day before. ‘I’m sorry – we were so busy yesterday, I just dumped them behind the counter and forgot to give them to you,’ she explained. ‘But enough about that. How are you?’
I was hazy, and wired from lack of sleep and the sudden shock of being a parent. But I couldn’t help noticing that Helen was hovering timidly at a distance. She had been so brilliant the night before, when I needed her, that I could no longer remember why I had ever taken against her.
‘Come and sit down,’ I said. ‘Come and meet the impatient, nameless baby. And thank you so much for everything you did. Seriously, thank you, Helen.’ I could feel myself welling up as I remembered her kindness, her staunch heroism when I was at my most despairing. ‘I’m so, so glad you were there last night.’ I swallowed, feeling as if I owed her an apology. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t seem to hit it off in the café. I’ve been a bit of a control freak, I know, about not wanting to hand things over and . . .’
She put up a hand to stop me. To my surprise, I noticed that her eyes too were wet with sudden tears. ‘I’m sorry as well,’ she said in a low voice. She choked a little on the words. ‘It was me, not you. I’ve been trying for a baby myself, but things keep going wrong, and I was just . . .’
Her fists clenched and unclenched in her lap; her gaze slid over to the baby, but then she snatched it away, as if it pained her to look. She took a long, shuddering breath. ‘I took it out on you. Wrongly. And I’m sorry.’ She reached out and stroked the baby’s hair, her fingers trembling. ‘He is gorgeous,’ she said softly, her mouth buckling. ‘I’m glad it all ended up okay.’
I felt a rush of sadness for Helen then. Sadness that I hadn’t worked it out for myself; sadness that I had misjudged her and that she was clearly so unhappy. ‘That must be hard,’ I said after a moment. Getting pregnant had been stupidly easy for me. In fact it had been a complete surprise to us, as we hadn’t even been trying. But the thought of having that denied to you, and imagining the despair and sadness month after month . . . You wouldn’t wish that on your worst enemy. ‘I’m sorry things have been tough.’ I bit my lip, remembering how Helen had hesitated to come into the flat last night, and how for a moment I thought she would leave me to it, alone. ‘And you still came in and helped me,’ I said. ‘That was such a generous thing to do. Thank you.’
I felt quite tearful, thinking about her kindness and that of so many others towards me in recent weeks. Then I heard my mum’s voice in my head: ‘All mums like to pass things on. That’s just what we do.’ And it gave me an idea. I hesitated for a split second, then thought, Yes, do it.
‘Listen . . .’ I said, scrabbling to reach the clasp of my necklace. I unclipped it and the silver chain coiled in my palm. O Christmas tree! O Christmas tree! I thought to myself. The little silver tree had been a real comfort to me during the last seven and a half months, but maybe I didn’t need it quite so much any more. ‘I know this sounds kind of weird, but . . . I want you to have this. It’s been a bit of a lucky charm for me while I was pregnant. I would like to pass it on to you.’
Carefully I tipped the shining charm onto Helen’s palm. There. You can help somebody else now, little tree.
‘Thank you,’ she said, putting it around her neck. We both looked at it hanging there over her navy-blue T-shirt and smiled at each other. Her smile was wobbly and rather watery, but it was a smile. ‘That’s really nice of you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I said, feeling as if I was a proper mother now. Part of a club. That’s just what we do.
Helen stood up, twitching her ponytail self-consciously off her shoulder. ‘I had better get to work,’ she said, with one last searching look at the baby. ‘What are you going to call him, by the way?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘That,’ I said, ‘is the big question.’
After Helen had said goodbye and went down to open the café, Ed set to work making us an enormous brunch. It was certain, he said, to sustain the most exhausted new mother. The baby was hungry again, so I fed him, sitting on the sofa so that I could gaze out at the beach below us, where families were setting up camp for the day. Windbreaks were being hammered into the sand. Lilos pumped up. Sandcastles decorated. Picnic blankets unrolled. Meanwhile, through the open window I could hear laughter, happy shrieks, the odd seagull and snatches of conversation from the café.
I thought about how much I loved living in Cornwall, and how lucky I was to be here with Ed and our baby. I realised, too, that I had barely given the café a thought all morning. It would be fine without me – of course it would! I thought of Helen behind the counter, looking after my customers, and I felt a twist of sadness for her again. How I hoped she and her husband would be happy in their new lives here by the seaside. I hoped, too, that some of the Cornish magic I had felt might drift their way, bringing them the joyful news they so longed for.
As the baby guzzled and gulped in the crook of my arm, I noticed the pile of post Helen had brought upstairs and reached over for it. One large, thick letter with a Welsh postmark caught my eye. Frowning, I tore it open . . . and out fell a bundle of papers. Copies of old photographs and letters, at first glance.
Tired as I was, my brain could not catch up for a minute. But then I saw one picture – of a twenty-something man with dark, twinkling eyes holding a baby in a white blanket – and I felt a jolt of recognition. Not of the man, but of where he was standing: right in the living room of this flat, where I was sitting now. And . . .
I gasped as I noticed something else. In the background was a baby’s cot – and above it was the exact same shell-mobile that I had found behind our bathroom radiator. The baby must be Morwenna . . . and the mobile must have been made for her!
My heart gave a thump and I snatched up the letter:
Dear Evie,
It was lovely to meet you and come back to the Beach Café. It brought back so many happy childhood memories for me – thank you for sparing the time to chat. I thought you might like to see some old family photos, including a few of me when I was born. Just to add to your café archive! Back in the day, my dad, Jago, was a bit of a local hero in Carrawen. Not only did he set up and build the Beach Café, but he was a volunteer firefighter who helped rescue twenty-seven children when the infant school caught fire. I know he and my mum, Miriam, would have been delighted to see the café in such good hands.
Best wishes for the future – and for your baby, too.
Love Morwenna. x
I leafed through the other papers in delight. More pictures, a recipe for Miriam’s famous cherry shortbread, a clipping from the local newspaper about Jago’s heroics . . . So many snapshots of happy times and smiling faces, years before – in this very same place.
Above all I kept coming back to that picture of Jago holding Morwenna. The man who had built the café, a pillar of the local community. Jago was a good, strong Cornish name, wasn’t it? Perfect for a good, strong Cornish man. Or boy. Or baby . . .
‘What’s that you’re looking at?’ Ed asked at that moment, walking in with a tray of food.
I smelled bacon and coffee and . . . hmm. The pong that told me our son might need a nappy change in the next few minutes. ‘Ed,’ I said excitedly. ‘I think I’ve got it. How about Jago for a name? The man who built the café was called Jago.’ I looked down at our smelly, gorgeous babe and tried it out for size. ‘Jago. Jay for short. Is that your name? Have we cracked it, you little stinker?’ I glanced back up at Ed. ‘Well?’
‘Jago Gray. He sounds like a really cool footballer.’
‘Or a handsome actor. Or an athlete. Or an ace chef.’ We grinned at each other. ‘Do you like it?’ I asked. ‘Are we agreed?’
‘We’re agreed. The chosen one has a name!’
The chosen one – or, rather, Jago – finished his feed and blinked up at me like the most handsome little rascal there had ever been. ‘Hello, Jago,’ I said, and it sounded perfect. The perfect name for someone who had just been born in this Beach Café. ‘Yes, that’s who you are.’ I smiled at him, stroking his soft, round cheek. There was a lump in my throat all of a sudden. ‘I think we’re in for some fun times together, kiddo.’
Ed took Jago away to clean him up, while I fell upon my brunch like a starving lion, thinking happily of all the fun that lay in store for our brand-new family. Rock-pooling and castle-building and wave-jumping. Christmases and birthdays. Photo album after photo album of happy times and sunny days. It was like a magical road rolling out in front of us, as far as the eye could see.
Of course I knew this motherhood lark wouldn’t always feel so relaxed and upbeat. According to my sisters and every other mother I had ever met, we would be in for many broken nights and health scares, and a very reduced sex life for a while. It’s hell, Ruth had told me, more than once.
I was up for the challenge, though. Bring it on! And if my Jago grew up to be anything like as cool as his dad – or, indeed, his namesake – then I would be a very proud mum indeed.
Chapter Fourteen
Helen
At five-thirty that afternoon Helen closed up the Beach Café for the day. There had been a sudden downpour of rain earlier on, clearing the beach, and now the air was cool and fresh. The whole sky seemed to have been scrubbed clean.
She swung a leg over her bike and cycled away, thinking about what a strange twenty-four hours it had been. Talking to Evie that morning had gone better than she could have hoped. She almost hadn’t been brave enough to go up to the flat again. She’d been scared of how she might feel when she saw the baby. Envious. Sad. Bitter. What if the old injustice roared up again inside her? What if she found she couldn’t say anything nice?
But it hadn’t turned out like that. Evie’s gratitude had been so heartfelt that Helen had softened. And then she had dared to look at the baby, and it was okay. She even felt happy for the other woman. Maybe – just maybe – she was starting to come to terms with things. And maybe – just maybe – she was going to be all right.
The wet road gleamed black beneath her tyres, and Helen became aware of the Christmas-tree necklace bouncing against the hollow of her throat. Evie’s lucky charm. Helen was not one for superstitions: she didn’t spook at black cats in the road or single magpies. Yet somehow, today, she felt as if her luck might just be changing. Being with Evie last night, helping her when she was in such pain and distress . . . it had made her feel as if she was a good person again. As if she had faced a challenge and passed the test. And now something dark and heavy seemed to have lifted away from her at last, as if she might just have set herself free.
She turned off the road and onto the cycle path, the damp air salty against her face. What a glorious commute home this was! She would never tire of it. Already her legs felt stronger and leaner from the regular exercise, already she had more energy and slept better at night. She had new freckles, the start of a tan. There was something about being out in the sea air, too, that made her feel good. Alive again. Happy.
As she rounded the corner, Perracombe Bay came into view with its golden sands and fishing boats. What a gorgeous corner of the world this was! She and Paul had got to know a few local people now, and slowly, shyly, she was finding herself part of a lovely new community. Why had she ever doubted their move? It had been the right thing to do.
All of a sudden she could not wait to get home and see Paul. Handsome, kind Paul. Somehow she had lost sight of how much she loved him, but today she was filled with a new sense of awareness, as if she was coming out of a fog. For so long she had been blinkered, thinking only of her own longing for a child. But there were other things to look forward to as well, of course. Things to share. In the autumn they could perhaps hire a camper van and explore the coast together. They could take the diving course Paul had been talking about, have a go at waterskiing. Maybe they could even get a dog.
In the short term, though, Helen was going to hurry home and shower her husband in kisses. They would drink fizzy wine and go dancing and make each other laugh. Whatever happened in the future, they had each other, and so much to be grateful for.
She reached up to touch the silver necklace and then pedalled faster, a smile breaking out on her face.
If you’d like to see more of Evie, Ed and their lives on the Cornish coast, read on for an extract from The Beach Café and find out how it all began . . .
The Beach Café
by
LUCY DIAMOND
A recipe for disaster, or a recipe for love?
Evie Flynn has always been the black sheep of her family – a dreamer and a drifter, unlike her overachieving elder sisters. She’s tried making a name for herself as an actress, a photographer and a singer, but nothing has ever worked out. Now she’s stuck in temp hell, with a sensible, pension-planning boyfriend. Somehow life seems to be passing her by.
Then her beloved Aunt Jo dies suddenly in a car crash, leaving Evie an unusual legacy – her precious beach café in Cornwall. Determined to make a success of something for the first time in her life, Evie heads off to Cornwall to get the café and her life back on track – and gets more than she bargained for, both in work and in love . . .
Chapter One
Family legend has it that on the day I was born, when my elder sisters, Ruth and Louise, came tiptoeing in hand-in-hand to see me for the very first time, my mum said to them, ‘This is your new baby sister. What do you think we should call her?’
Ruth, the oldest twin, thought hard, with all the wisdom she’d gained in her mighty three years of life. ‘We should call her . . . Baby Jesus,’ she pronounced eventually, no doubt with a lisping piety. Ruth had taken the Goody Two-Shoes role to heart from an early age. Either that or she was angling for extra Christmas presents.
‘Mmm,’ Mum must have replied, probably in the same I-don’t-think-so way she did throughout my childhood, like the time I told her I had definitely seen the tooth-fairy with my very own eyes, and no, it absolutely wasn’t me who had wolfed half the chocolate biscuits – it was the others.
‘Louise, how about you?’ Mum asked next. ‘What should we call your new sister?’
Obviously I was only hours old at the time, so I don’t remember anything about this touching bedside scene, but I like to imagine that Louise made the little frowny face she still does, where her eyebrows slide together and the top of her nose wrinkles. According to Mum, she said with the utmost solemnity, ‘I think we should call her . . . Little Black Sheep.’
Little Black Sheep indeed. I’m not sure whether this was a ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’ reference or something to do with the fact that I had remarkably springy black hair from the word go. Whatever the reason, you’ve got to love my sister’s astonishing foresight. Because guess what? That was pretty much how I had ended up at the ripe old age of thirty-two, with not a mortgage, full-time job, husband or infant to show for myself – the quintessential black sheep of the family. Spot on, Louise. Uncanny prescience. I was the freak, the failure, the one they muttered about in patronizing tones, trying not to sound too gleeful as my shortcomings were discussed. Oh dear. What ARE we going to do with Evie? I’m worried about her, you know. She’s not getting any younger, is she?
Hey-ho. I wasn’t too bothered by what they thought. It was better to be an individual, surely, someone who had dreams and did things differently, rather than be an anonymous, ordinary . . . well, sheep, obediently following the rest of the flock without a single bleat of dissent. Wasn’t it?
We have photos from that day, of course, grainy, brown-tinged photos with the rounded-off corners that seemed to be all the rage back then. There I was, cuddled in Mum’s arms, wearing a teeny pink Babygro, with Ruth and Louise leaning over me, both in matching burgundy cord dungarees (this was the Seventies, remember), their eyes wide with what I like to think of as wonder and awe. (No doubt Ruth was already plotting her pocket-money scam, though, which went on for several years.)
I can’t help thinking that there’s something of the Sleeping Beauty fairytale about the picture. You know, when the fairies come to bestow their gifts on the little tot and they’re all really excellent bequests, like how clever and talented and pretty she will be – until the evil old fairy (who hasn’t been invited) rocks up, bristling with malice, and wrecks everything with her ‘She shall prick her finger on a spindle and DIE!’ contribution.
