The Cornish Affair Read Online Free PDF

various other olde worlde charms. They lined their window sills with cowslips, closed up for business and had a serious party for a day and night. Ours was a more sedate affair, although at dusk when the bonfire was lit, a bit of mayhem could be counted on. More than one Port Charles baby had been conceived in the sands after dark. I suspect it was a lot to do with the Cornish not taking their pleasures easily. A given, set day when we were all allowed to behave badly and let our hair down was considered an all round good thing.
    Ours was a homemade, makeshift job, with people struggling down to the beach with food, booze, guitars, and anything else they fancied. Last year we’d had a jazz band, which had been great fun, although, I admit, not particularly authentic. The Ram lent their huge trestle tables, and donated a barrel of beer, Doris always made tray after tray of proper pasties, Penmorah was expected to contribute something rather sophisticated, and donate the prize for the Thumb Race, which took place at midnight and always caused me a great deal of worry.
    The giant’s thumb was a huge jutting piece of granite rock which stood about half a mile out to sea in high tide, that only had sea birds (the charmingly locally named shags) wheeling around it, and the swim out there and back could be treacherous. Of course, all the locals knew the tides, but even so… I was sure that one day someone wouldn’t come back. How they even got into that icy crashing sea was a mystery to me, as well. Perhaps everybody else had a different sort of body thermostat than me? As I was sure that my heart would cease if I even went ankle deep in the surf, let alone dunked my whole body in. Richard assured me that after three pints of heavy, you didn’t really feel anything much, but I wasn’t convinced.
    Nancy came into the kitchen, her long silver hair in a plait draped over one shoulder wearing her heavy satin kimono that I always coveted. It was a thing of extraordinary beauty. Heavy and brilliantly coloured with jewel like flowers, it made her look like an artist’s model from Montmartre.
    She paused by the table, where I was pushing slices of lemon into the wild salmon, ready to poach it, and shuddered.
    “Oh, Fin… It’s too much to look at, after last night! I think some toast for me will do the ticket, how about you?”
    I smugly replied that I’d had mine, and went into the larder to fetch the dill that I was going to use with the salmon.
    “It’s so unfair, you know, hangovers get worse when you’re older, it’s something to do with the liquid surrounding the brain shrinking. Just when you’ve reached the age when the benefits of booze do some good, you’re prevented from taking advantage of it! Bloody unjust, that’s what I say,” Nancy complained, whilst making toast and tea.
    I smiled sympathetically at her and pushed the tin of Andrews liver Salts towards her. She gave another shudder, and shook her head.
    “No, no thanks darling. I’m going back to bed, just think how poor Angelique used to feel, they say that absinthe was the worse hangover possible, although I’ve never had any. Perhaps we should try some one day, just to find out?”
    It was my turn to shudder.
    “Perhaps you’re right, anyway, I’m back to my bed of pain. See you later,” she called out to me, balancing a tray of toast, butter, marmalade and tea in her hands.
    I watched her stately progress up the hall, and wondered if I too could go back to bed. Probably not. Baxter needed a walk, the salmon needed poaching and the damn roast onions wouldn’t come up with a recipe by themselves. I sighed, this was a horrible job sometimes. I didn’t want to think about food at all. Ever again, in fact, but it simply had to be done.
    Nelson shuffled around a bit and piped up with “Bloody TV chefs, bloody TV chefs!”
    “Shut up Nelson!” I snapped at him.
    He regarded me stonily for a moment and then parroted it back to me, “Shut up