Summer at the Cornish Cafe. Phillipa Ashley

can’t offer you much money – not much more than the living wage – until I get the place back on its feet, which could be a while, if any time,’ he says, jangling his keys.

      I point to Mitch who pricks up his ears at the mention of his name. ‘What about Mitch? He’d need accommodating too,’ I say, fizzing with triumph, knowing I have the upper hand now.

      ‘Right. Well, of course, I suppose Mitch can come too. I need a dog that can pull his weight.’

      ‘He doesn’t work.’

      ‘OK, then I need a dog who can look appealing and pathetic.’

      ‘You won’t regret this,’ I say, wanting to run round the cafe terrace shouting ‘yessss!’.

      A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. ‘No … but you might.’

       CHAPTER FIVE

      ‘This is your car?’

      Demi wrinkles her nose as I kick the brick from under the front wheel of the Land Rover. I don’t trust the hand brake on the sloping car park perched above St Trenyan harbour, until I can get the car serviced.

      ‘Yeah. Why?’

      ‘You should lock it. There are thieves around.’

      ‘One, the door lock’s busted and two, do you really think anyone would want to steal this?’

      She takes a longer look at the rusting paintwork, the dented side panel and bumper hanging off and curls her lip. ‘For scrap, maybe.’

      I’d like to smile at Demi – she has a habit of making me want to smile – but my facial muscles seem to have seized up after my trip to the bank. Demi took Mitch for a run on the beach while I saw the manager. The probate from my father’s estate was sorted out before I left, and I’ve transferred most of his legacy from my savings to a business account. There wasn’t a huge amount but I own Kilhallon Park and with careful management and some extra investment, I should be able to make the changes I need to re-develop the site. I open the rear door. ‘Mitch can travel in style.’

      ‘In you go,’ she says, as Mitch hangs back. ‘Come on, get in, you daft dog.’

      ‘Maybe he’s worried about getting into a strange man’s car,’ I say.

      ‘He’s probably got more sense than I have.’

      Demi hesitates too, her arms folded, her chestnut hair flying in the wind, like the flames of a bonfire.

      ‘I’m not desperate, you know.’

      ‘I know you’re not desperate.’ Actually, I think she may be more desperate than she’d ever let on but I can’t take advantage of that: she deserves better, and I don’t want to exploit her. There’s enough of that going on round here from what I can see.

      She laughs at me. ‘It’s too late to back out now, Cal Penwith.’

      ‘Don’t you believe it. Now, get in. We’ve got a lot to do,’ I say, more gruffly than I mean to.

      The Land Rover groans up the steep hill from the harbour and onto the moor road. The tax has run out, though Polly told me I can do it online now, and its last MOT was before I went off on my last aid project. I’ll sort it all out soon, for now I have more pressing concerns. I glance at Demi but she’s staring out of the window.

      ‘How long had you been sleeping rough before you started working for Sheila?’

      She turns sharply. ‘How do you know I was sleeping rough?’

      ‘I can tell someone who has had a tough time. I worked for a charity, remember?’

      She shrugs. ‘I do but I told you, I’m not a charity project.’

      ‘I know that.’

      A glance tells me she’s staring out of the window again but then she finally answers. ‘I slept rough for a couple of months.’

      ‘In St Trenyan?’

      ‘Truro too. Penzance for a week or two but here mostly.’

      Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed her but I’d like to know more about the new employee who’s going to be sharing my home. ‘Any particular reason?’

      She waits before replying. ‘I fancied a change, I suppose.’

      I leave it, figuring she’ll tell me more when she’s ready. I’m hardly in a sharing mood myself and more importantly, Kilhallon is around the next corner. The road dips, curves sharply and the Land Rover shudders its way around the bend, then I press the gas pedal to the floor to make it up the other side of the hill. I turn the wheel sharply and we rattle over a cattle grid through two stone pillars that frame a narrow gap in the wall. The sign lies on the ground by the pillars but half the letters have weathered away so it now reads Kil l Park.

      ‘Oh my God,’ Demi mutters.

      ‘What’s up?’

      ‘Sheila said this was the back of beyond and now I know what she means.’

      ‘That’s how I like it.’

      ‘You must do … I mean, it’s, er, very peaceful and wild out here.’

      While steering the Land Rover between the larger potholes, I try to keep a straight face while taking a sneaky glance at her. She holds her rucksack tightly in her lap while Mitch starts snuffling and whimpering in the back. When I put out the feelers for a new assistant, I never bargained on someone like Demi, let alone a great shaggy hound. I’ve no idea what variety he is.

      She lets out a squeal as the Land Rover bounces over a particularly deep rut and into a pool of water. ‘There’s no need to look so terrified,’ I say.

      ‘I wasn’t until you said that.’

      ‘Thanks.’ I turn the engine back on and coax the Land Rover out of the puddle. ‘Soon be there.’

      She wrinkles her nose. It’s a very pretty nose, I have to admit, even though it’s turned up at the moment. Freckles dot her face; she’s so vulnerable and yet fierce too. An image flashes into my mind out of nowhere of a painting my mother hung at Kilhallon of a beautiful girl floating in a river, surrounded by willow trees.

      I stop the car in the middle of the yard that was once our car park. Demi stares at the dandelions and grass sprouting between the gravel.

      ‘Is that it?’

      ‘Yup.’ I jump down onto the yard, wondering if she’s ever going to get out of the car. Finally I open the door and she slides down reluctantly from the passenger seat, her rucksack in her arms. She looks around her, at the old office block on one side of the yard, and the peeling wooden veranda that served as our reception and the moss-coated 1970s touring caravan blocking the entrance to the barn.

      ‘You said it was a holiday park …’ she says, her eyes widening as she takes it all in.

      ‘It was. It is. There’s a lot more to the place than this.’

      She glances at me, agonised.

      Still clutching her rucksack, she wanders up to the barn, eyes wide at the decaying, tumbledown wreck that confronts her. I wouldn’t blame her if she turned right round and ran back to St Trenyan.

      ‘I can see we have a lot of work to do,’ she says.

      ‘You did say you weren’t afraid of it.’

      As she walks towards the reception, Mitch scoots past her to a pile of rusting signage that once read ‘Welcome to Kilhallon Park. Your holiday starts here.’

      Then he cocks his leg and proudly pisses all over the signs.

      I don’t blame Demi for being