Nine days in Cornwall

Day one in Cornwall, sitting outside a Truro coffee shop as a sweetly enthusiastic waitress places my order in front of me. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever put a love heart on a flat white.’ She says, drawing attention to my coffee. Libby watches the rise and fall of my gaze. For a moment I am confused, is the waitress trying to tell me something? Is this inappropriate? Then I notice Libby also has a love heart, possibly the waitress’s second, and I understand that this random adornment is an achievement. I want to congratulate the smiling waitress and say what a great job she had done but I resist as her love heart is a swirl of dizzy froth caught upon an eddy of pale brown water and as this might also be her first ever flat white I decide to tell her I would much prefer someone who might be jaded but actually experienced at making coffee. Instead I say great job and drink it anyway.

Day two. In St Clement we have erected a tent in the garden, the elder boys are excited, we are going to let them sleep out, a first taste of camping. In the morning over breakfast we ask how it all went. They look at one another. ‘Ghost cow.’ Says Zack. ‘It was a pigeon.’ Says Jake. ‘Ghost cow, says Zack. ‘Floating above the tent going moo.’ ‘Pigeon,’ says Jake. ‘Sitting in a tree going coo.’ ‘Moo!’ ‘Coo!’ ‘It went poo.’ Says Zack. ‘Who?’ I say. ‘The ghost cow, it went moo and poo, too.’ ‘On the tent?’ I ask. ‘No,’ says Zack. ‘It was ghost poo.’ ‘Ghost poo?’ ‘True.’ ‘What did you do?’ ‘I went shoo!’ ‘Jake, what about you?’ ‘It was a pigeon.’

Day three. Pub lunch. ‘Is that a wasp?’ Asks a dubious Jo (five) pointing at a yellow and black pulling gees above our heads. ‘No, it’s a hoverfly, it can’t sting.’ I say, as it ziggs over to an empty table. ‘A hoverfly?’ Says Jo. ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘It’s in disguise, to fool less clever creatures into thinking it’s a wasp.’ ‘Don’t sit at that table!’ Says an urgent man to his wife, hands out, palms down. ‘Wasp!’ He warns her. ‘I see.’ Says Jo.

Day four. In the park throwing a tennis ball as best I can to my two elder sons. A small presence. ‘Hello,’ she says looking up. ‘I’m Caitlin, I’m seven.’ ‘Hello,’ I reply, scanning for a parent. ‘Are you alone?’ ‘No,’ says Caitlin. ‘I’m here with Nana Knolls but she’s hiding in a bush.’ ‘Oh.’ I say, lobbing the tennis ball nowhere near either son. ‘You’re not very good are you.’ Says Caitlin as the ball comes back and I fumble it. ‘Well, I’m trying.’ I tell her. ‘Try harder.’ Says Caitlin.

Day five. Lunch with older, wiser friends. ‘Power does not corrupt,’ says the oldest and wisest. ‘Power attracts the corrupt.’ ‘Absolutely.’ I say.

Day six. Fish and chips in the Heron. ‘Is that a boat in that bottle?’ Asks Jo. ‘A ship,’ I say. ‘Yes, a ship in a bottle.’ ‘How did it get it in there?’ Asks Jo. ‘Well,’ I say, already pleased with myself. ‘The ship grows on a special tree and when it is a blossom of sails they push the bottle up over it and the ship grows inside.’ ‘Like money?’ Says Jo. ‘What?’ I enquire, slightly derailed. ‘Money,’ Says Jo. ‘You said it grows on trees.’ ‘Nno,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees.’ ‘But ships do?’ Says Jo. ‘Little ships.’ I reply, now feeling like a liar. ‘Ships don’t grow on trees,’ corrects Jake the elder. ‘But they are made from trees, so is money.’ ‘Money is made from trees?’ Asks Jo. ‘Paper money,’ I say. ‘Not coins.’ ‘And ships?’ Asks Jo. ‘Made from trees,’ I confess. ‘Not grown on them.’ ‘Oh,’ says Jo. ‘Then how do they get in the bottle?’

Day seven. Playing family Scrabble, Zack aged nine asks if he can have bumsex. ‘What?’ Asks a tittering Libby. ‘Bumsex,’ says Zack. ‘Six letters, it’s when two people accidentally bump bums on a bus.’ ‘Oh,’ says Libby. ‘I’m not sure that’s a thing, better ask Daddy.’ ‘Daddy?’ Asks Zack. ‘Is bumsex a word?’ ‘Er, I’m not sure either.’ ‘Well can I have it or not?’ ‘Err.’ ‘Bumsex, bumsex, bumsex.’ ‘Please stop saying that.’ I think. ‘We need a decision,’ says Libby, ear to ear. ‘Yes or no to bumsex?’ ‘Okay then.’ I say, feeling ganged up upon. ‘Cool,’ beams Zack. ‘Everybody, Daddy says I can have bumsex!’

Day eight. Leaning over the pond making the fish tickle fingers. ‘Do fish have teeth?’ Asks a giggling Jo as the goldfish nibble his pinkies. ‘Not goldfish.’ I reply reassuringly. ‘Some fish have teeth.’ Says Jake. Jo, looks a little nervous. ‘None in the pond.’ I tell him. ‘Piranhas have teeth.’ Says Zack. ‘There are no piranha in the goldfish pond,’ I say. ‘Or there would be no goldfish in the goldfish pond.’ ‘How do they clean their teeth?’ Enquires Jo. ‘Who?’ I ask. ‘What Zack said.’ Says Jo. ‘Piranha?’ ‘They use a toothbrush.’ Says Jake. ‘And toothpaste.’ Says Zack. ‘Fish paste.’ Says Jake. ‘In their pyjamas?’ Asks Jo. ‘Piranhas in pyjamas.’ Says Jake. ‘Cleaning their teeth.’ Says Zack. ‘Underwater?’ Says Jo. ‘Yup.’ I say, happy to be one of the boys. ‘How do they spit?’ Asks Jo.

Day nine. Our last night in Cornwall, I am taking Libby out for dinner, the boys are staying home with Granny, it will be like they never happened. Having already complimented Libby on her lovely appearance I make the mistake of fishing. ‘How do I look?’ I ask confident of the answer. ‘Very smart.’ Says Libby. I freeze. ‘Very? Smart?’ I repeat for confirmation. ‘Yes.’ Says Libby. I feel all the taxis of mortality crash into the back of each other. Smart is what my mother would say about my father, once he had reached an uncertain age. It meant that his clothes looked nice, the best she could hope for, and that he, the man, didn’t really rate a mention. Dad would be happy with smart, after all the clothes maketh the man. Not in my case, I was wearing shorts and a tee shirt, I did not look smart, I looked… ‘Do I look old?’ I ask sounding as pathetic as this reads. ‘What, suddenly?’ Asks Libby. ‘No no, I er.’ I reply. ‘You look like you,’ she says. ‘The way you always look, the way you will always look to me.’ ‘And now that’s smart?’ I ask. She grins that grin. ‘Would you prefer clever?’ She says.