Page 8 of And Then There Was You

Five Merryn

‘A pot of tea. A whole bleddy pot! And a plate of biscuits.’

Hours after the incident in question, Ruthie is still furious. I returned from my emergency dash to buy more milk to find her fuming behind the counter. Even an extra-long break and the last two slices of our Carthew Chocolate Cake haven’t pacified her.

‘Maybe he had an emergency,’ I suggest, upending chairs and sliding the seats onto the café tables.

‘Maybe he had a God complex .’

‘Ruthie . . .’

‘Well, what would you call placin’ an order and then leggin’ it without payin’?’

‘Something that just happened. One little blip in a great day of trading.’

‘A little blip ? He didn’t pay!’

‘He didn’t take the stuff, either. So we wasted one pot of tea and two teabags. It’s not a big deal.’

My assistant glares back from the coffee machine she’s cleaning. ‘You’re too nice to ’em – that’s your problem, Mer.’

‘They pay our bills . . .’ I offer, but Ruthie is determined to rant.

‘They’re all the same: think we’re some bleddy theme park they can just take for granted. Never think we might have livelihoods that depend on them. Entitled, arrogant emmets!’

‘One pot of tea,’ I repeat, tuning out my assistant’s still-glowing fury. I understand her frustration – in this job the smallest problem can often unlock the floodgates – but dwelling on it achieves nothing.

Besides, I’m determined to hang on to my good mood today.

The awkward doh-si-doh I did with the good-looking bloke in the street on my way out to get milk is still amusing me, adding to the buzz I’ve felt about the piano and my plans for it.

He was lovely – a slightly blushing, sandy-haired serendipity in my day, with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen . . .

Not that I’ll tell Ruthie about him. That one was just for me.

It’s another sign that I’m surrounded by hope here. St Ives seems full of it today, despite the crowds. I like the positivity, bright like the summer sun. I’m buzzing with ideas for the piano, too: not only of what I’ll paint on it but how it will transform the courtyard with its presence.

A piano is a welcoming thing, its keys inviting anyone and everyone to play.

I’ve seen it in action with the Play Me piano Ruthie and I spotted in Truro last summer, near the cathedral.

People of all ages, from all walks of life, drawn to the instrument to hear others playing it or have a go themselves.

Musical talent didn’t matter there: single-fingered tunes, plonky keyboard experiments, shakily remembered melodies and confident, elaborate recitals sat side by side. It was wonderful.

Our piano will bring that same open welcome to everyone who visits Sweet Reverie. I can’t wait to see it in action.

I complete my regular routine of end-of-day jobs, until the café is cleaned and ready for tomorrow’s trading, and my assistant is standing by the door, ready to leave.

‘Are you sure you don’t fancy helping me paint the piano?’ I ask.

‘Safer not to,’ she replies with the smallest hint of a smile as she opens the door. ‘Mood I’m in the thing would be covered with daggers and skulls.’

Knowing my assistant, this would be a very real possibility . . .

I laugh to myself as I unlock the chain across the stairs and go up to my flat.

The soothing sight of my home lifts my heart, as it always does.

At first, I was hesitant about living above my business, concerned that the temptation to spend all hours downstairs might be too great, leaving little time for rest. But it’s been one of the loveliest decisions I’ve made.

When I’m exhausted after a day’s work, having only twelve steps to get home is such a blessing.

And while my home is small, with hardly any storage space, and feels crowded with more than one person in it, it’s calm, comfortable and always welcoming.

I painted its walls white and chose furnishings in shades of the sea – blues, greens and greys, with a dash of lilac and gorse-flower yellow here and there to remind me of cliff path hues.

When I open the old wooden sash windows I hear seagulls and, when there’s a lull in their squawking, I can just catch the distant sound of the sea.

There’s a small wood burner that keeps the place toasty in colder months and the thickly plastered stone walls keep it cool in the summer.

Rugs cover the floors, cushions rest on the sofa and rescued armchair, and books nestle in an old bookcase the previous owner abandoned.

It’s more than a home; it’s my sanctuary.

And it arrived at the perfect time. Just like the piano.

Going through a divorce I never saw coming and losing the home I’d invested years in making was a blow I didn’t think I’d recover from. But then Seth told me this place was up for rent – falling to bits and unable to keep a tenant for longer than six months – and with his help I secured it.

I’m so glad I took the chance then. Could opening in the evenings be the next step I need? I think I already know the answer, my decision poised at the edge, ready to jump in.

I shower and change into the old clothes I wear for beach cleans and decorating.

The dungarees are my favourites, Cornish blue with shiny orange buttons at the side, worn for everything since I left university.

The T-shirt underneath is an old band T-shirt that’s more holes than shirt now, but so soft after years of washing and wearing that I can’t bear to part with it.

I chuck a pink and white striped shirt over the top, buttons open and sleeves rolled up, that I found in a St Ives charity shop last year and fell in love with.

Then I make tea in my biggest mug and head back down to the café.

It’s time to paint the piano.

It’s the treat I’ve promised myself all day, and I can’t stop smiling as I collect the paint things on my way to the courtyard. I’m secretly glad Ruthie declined the invitation to join me this evening. Painting the rescued instrument feels like a privilege and I want to make the most of it.

I move a small bistro table and chair aside to gently wheel the piano out into the space between the courtyard and the main café.

My sketches from this morning catch the light as I pull the dustsheet off and pool it around the piano’s castors, and my heart lifts again.

Hope – that wonderful, much-missed feeling – returns.

I settle at the foot of the instrument and select the first colour to apply. A sage green for the foliage and leaves. I’ll add darker green accents later, together with white highlights to look like the flowers are basking in the warm Cornish sun.

My paintbrush pauses centimetres away from the old, timeworn wood. I take a breath, surprised to find it shaky. Once the paint is applied, there’s no going back.

The piano we rescued last night is now a firm part of my café. And it sounds strange to admit it, but I feel like this instrument represents the beginning of a new chapter, for my business and for me. I can’t explain why, but neither can I deny the feeling.

In the past three years, signs have become important: any move forward worthy of celebration. I started at rock bottom, everything I’d trusted snatched away. Step by faltering step, inch by inch, I’ve pulled myself up and slowly, painstakingly, rebuilt my life. This feels like another move forward.

I gather up my nerves, steady my hand, and set to work.

The first strokes go on like a dream and soon an hour passes as leaves, stalks and foliage appear. Paint covers the scratches, bumps and chips time has bestowed on the piano, the freshness of colour against the nut-brown wood ultimately satisfying.

‘Shop!’

Seth bounds into the courtyard from the side passage I left unlocked in case he decided to join me.

‘How’s the head?’

‘Better.’ He grins. ‘That thing about three p.m. deadlines for hangovers is surprisingly accurate. How’s the masterpiece?’

‘Coming on well.’

He rounds the piano and takes a moment to survey my work. ‘Lookin’ good, bird!’

‘Thank you.’

‘Welcome. Hungry?’

Now that he mentions it, I am. I didn’t have a break at midday, what with the lunch rush, milk emergency and Ruthie’s post non-paying customer meltdown. My stomach leaves me in no doubt of its opinion of skipping a meal. ‘Very.’

‘Good job I took a detour to Jasmine Garden, then.’ He holds up a white carrier bag, food container edges jutting out of its sides, crowned with a rolled-top brown paper bag I know will contain freshly made prawn crackers.

‘You star!’ I rush, leaving the paint things around the piano as I stand.

‘Can’t have you starvin’ for your art.’

We trade grins.

‘How much food did you buy?’ I ask, amazed at the selection emerging from the takeaway bag that Seth is unpacking on a nearby table.

‘I wasn’t sure what to get, so I just got everythin’ I fancied.’

‘How hungry were you?’

He’s unapologetic. ‘Ravenous. Considerin’ my head stopped me eatin’ most of the day. And I’m guessin’ you skipped lunch today, after your mercy visit to me and the dash out for milk.’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘Ruthie popped in on her way home. Asked me to feed you.’

God bless my assistant and her pesky care of me. I’m supposed to be her boss, but many times I’m left wondering if she’s the one in charge. It’s sweet – not that she’d welcome me telling her that.

I make my excuses anyway, feeling like I should. I don’t want anyone thinking I can’t take care of myself, least of all Seth. ‘It was just busy today. I didn’t have time.’

‘Well, you have time now.’ He lifts a chair from one of the tables and swings it down beside the Chinese food feast like a magician producing a rabbit from his hat. ‘So sit .’

The sight and scent of the food is the only persuasion I need. I thank my lucky stars for friends who watch out for me. In this town, it matters.

Seth joins me and we eat in companiable silence for a while.

‘You missed our celebrity shopper today.’

‘Oh?’