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Claude shrugged. ‘I can make a perfectly good coffee at home.’
‘Good point, but I’ve got a craving for a cream tea. I can’t go back to London without having one. So will you join me?’
He was about to refuse, but there was something about this young woman that made him want to spend time in her company. Her youth made him feel old and she talked too much, but her interest in the old days was intriguing, and what was the alternative? Another afternoon in his cottage with faithful Buster while tourists screamed and squealed on the quay outside. If he sat outside smoking his pipe, people tried to take photographs of him.
‘I suppose that would be acceptable,’ he said, before he could change his mind.
Pauline’s tea shop was rammed with braying tourists and noisy children and Claude regretted his decision the minute he saw them. He steeled himself, getting ready to weave his way past the pushchairs, rolled-up windbreaks and backpacks littering the café floor.
But Lettie took one look inside and led him away from the front door to the only empty table on the pavement outside.
‘Shall we sit outside instead? It seems a shame not to on such a nice day.’
Claude sank thankfully onto the metal fold-up chair which was surrounded by an array of flowers in bright pots and stone troughs.
Pauline had done a good job out here, giving it the feel of a Mediterranean street café. Not that Claude had ever been farther than Dieppe. He and Esther had had plans to travel but those had all fallen through. And if you were going on holiday on your own, you might as well stay at home, really. And who would look after his dog while he was off gallivanting? Buster was the latest in a long line of canine companions. You could rely on a dog not to let you down, far more than a human.
‘It’s much nicer out here,’ said Lettie, scanning down the menu on the table. Claude nodded though it was like being in a goldfish bowl. People were staring at them as they went by and several of the locals were doing a double-take when they spotted him sitting there.
‘Claude, fancy seeing you here!’ Pauline stood in front of them, her ash-blonde hair frizzed out around her flustered, red face. She fanned herself with the notebook she was carrying. ‘This hot weather is good for business but it’s about a hundred degrees in the café so you’ve made a good choice to dine al fresco. I don’t reckon our new fans do much except waft the hot air round in there. Anyway.’ She stopped fanning. ‘What can I get you and your lady friend?’
Lady friend? Claude didn’t like the term, especially when Lettie was so young. He was mid-seventies and she must be, what, about thirty? Judging women’s ages wasn’t his strong suit. But Lettie didn’t seem at all put out.
‘I’ll have one of your cream teas, please. And Claude will have…?’
He shrugged. ‘A coffee’ll do.’
‘Are you sure that’s all? My treat.’
‘I’m not hungry. Just a coffee will be sufficient.’
Pauline drew in a breath. ‘Latte, flat white, macchiato, espresso, or Americano?’
When did having a coffee become so complicated? This was why he didn’t frequent cafés. Nothing was simple any more. The modern world was encroaching more and more on Heaven’s Cove. There was a mobile phone mast on the hill he could see from his window, some of the cottages away from the front sported satellite television dishes, and tourists wandered round with mobile phones snapping interminable photos of anything that moved – including him. They didn’t enjoy the beauty of the place because they were too busy adding to their photo collection. Photos they probably never looked at once when they returned home.
Claude ran a finger around the neckline of his old T-shirt. Although he was a local, he felt out of place here.
‘Just an ordinary coffee,’ he said, and Pauline scribbled in her notebook.
‘OK. Flat white it is. Cow’s milk, oat, soya or—’ She looked at the expression on Claude’s face and stopped scribbling. ‘Ordinary milk,’ she muttered, before scurrying off.
The cream tea and coffee took a few minutes to arrive and, all the while, Lettie chattered – about her family and the fabulous view from Driftwood House and re-tracing her great-aunt’s footsteps. She’d obviously loved her great-aunt and it struck Claude that no one would bother to retrace his footsteps when he shuffled off. The only person who would really miss him – rather than just note the passing of a Heaven’s Cove stalwart – would be Buster. That was a shame. He’d have liked a young person like Lettie to give a damn about him.
‘What about you, Claude?’ asked Lettie, as she cut into her warm scone and the smell made his stomach growl. Lunch had been one slice of toast and a small tin of baked beans because his food cupboard was almost bare.
‘What about me?’ he asked gruffly, before taking a sip of his coffee. It tasted good and he relaxed back into his chair, while keeping an eye on the seagull sitting on the wall nearby that was eyeing up Lettie’s scone. Those scavengers would go for anything, given half a chance. Claude had lost track of the number of tourists he’d seen dive-bombed for their fish and chips.
‘Were you actually born in Heaven’s Cove?’
Lettie was still looking at him, her knife poised above the clotted cream.
‘I was, seventy-five years ago, in the cottage next to mine.’
‘You must have been born soon-ish after Iris and her family left the village.’
‘I guess so.’
Lettie glanced down at her plate. ‘Is it cream or jam on the scone first in Devon? I don’t want to upset the locals.’ She grinned.
