The Cornish Affair Read Online Free PDF Page A

treacherous, being, as is usual in the country without the benefit of any pavements. If a lorry was heard in the distance, you had to press yourself into the hedgerow, praying you wouldn’t get stung by the nettles or scratched by the brambles, or crushed against the high banks that were cunningly disguised with greenery but actually concealed high walls of stone.
    We passed a row of whitewashed cottages and waved at Mrs Trevelyon, who gamely waved back, despite being crippled with arthritis. The stores were busy with a delivery of frozen chips, and the local bakers were just closing up, with Doris, the bakers wife, wiping the shelves in the window. She banged on the glass to us, and mouthed that she too was going to The Ram and would see us in there. That should prove interesting. Doris was the official rumour control around here, and we would no doubt get a full account of Breadpudding from her.
    The Ram is set back from the road, and has a small plot of grass outside with a couple of trestle tables begrudgingly put down for any passing trade that is foolish enough to want to nurse a pint outdoors, the locals have no truck with sitting in the fresh air. A cosy, stone flagged bar, with low ceilings, where they can work up a thick fug is what they want, and is what The Ram provides. The pub sign swung on its post, making the gold and scarlet ram look alive.
    I pushed the door open, and Nancy followed me through. It took a few moments for the eye to adjust to the gloom inside the pub, but I could make out a few regulars inside and called out greetings to them. I turned to Nancy to ask her what she’d like. We both usually drank the local beer (wine really wasn’t an option at The Ram, unless you have a real yearning for something sweet and warm.)
    “No, this was my idea, and it’s my treat,” she announced, leaning on the bar and looking for Sam, the landlord.
    Sam emerged form the other end of the bar, wiping his hands, and beamed at us. He was evidently delighted to see Nancy, and the two of them conducted a ritualistic flirty greeting.
    “Now then, what’ll it be, ladies?” he enquired.
    “I think we should have something different, something to cheer Fin up a bit. I know, we’ll have the drink I was reading in a book the other day, they sounded delicious.” Nancy said confidently.
    “What’s that then?” Sam said, twinkling at her.
    “Two long slow comfortable screws against the wall, please Sam.”

 
     
    Chapter Three
     
    I was so grateful the following morning that Andrews Liver Salts hadn’t changed their packaging. The comforting look of the old fashioned tin, and the fierce little bubbles prickling my throat made me feel that all was well with the world, even if it wasn’t with my hangover.
    Nancy and I positively weaved our way up the lane from The Ram, last night, stopping every five minutes to gaze appreciatively at the full moon that was hanging overhead. I had gazed for so long at one point, I toppled over, landing heavily on my bottom, to Nancy’s delight. She had shrieked with laughter, and pulled me upright, brushing earth and bits of grass from my hair, whilst pushing Baxter off my stomach where he had so helpfully sat.
    I looked out of the window, and saw that the sky was clear, and the waves were a glassy green – it bode well for the picnic tomorrow, although it was still chill if you weren’t in the sun. The Port Charles beach picnic was that curious mixture of tradition and habit, and no one really remembered why we did it any more. The rumour was that it was in response to the huge palaver they made over in Padstow on mayday. They had the ‘Obby Oss and we had the beach picnic. Of course, they also had TV crews, thousands of visitors, and usually one or two heavy casualties of drink and or a ducking in the harbour. They also had the added advantage of being able to spout a lot of history involving mayday rituals that included crop blessing, finding a sacrificial virgin and