Summer at the Cornish Cafe. Phillipa Ashley

down. Typical surfing wannabe, probably on a gap yah from his job in the City. Probably flew straight to Cornwall from Bondi Beach or a French alpine resort. Probably has his skis and surf board in the boot of his 4x4 on the drive of his parents’ holiday home in Rock. Not that I’m judgemental, much.

      Feeling as hot as the pasties in my white shirt and black trousers, I weave my way onto the terrace. Every table, inside and out, is now taken, and people are even perched on the wall overlooking St Trenyan beach. As well as its fantastic views and Sheila’s famous pasties, the Beach Hut has an easygoing atmosphere that makes it a popular spot for surfers, families and dog owners alike.

      ‘Hey, you there!’

      A customer barks at me from table twelve. She can only be in her twenties but has the air of an older, more harassed woman. Judging by the likeness, she’s obviously with her father and a younger sister who looks as if she’s in her late teens – a few years younger than me. Unlike beanie man, the older daughter definitely wants to be noticed. With her fitted black business suit, high heels and heavy make-up, she stands out like a sore thumb from the tourists. None of her party seem happy to be at the cafe, however. The father has a permanent scowl and the teenage daughter is a goth, so maybe she’d look miserable anyway.

      The woman in the suit glances at her diamante watch and purses her lips.

      ‘Excuse me. Did you hear? We’ve been waiting for hours. When are you going to actually take our order?’

      Actually, she’s only been here five minutes but I give her my shiniest smile. The customer is always right and I can’t afford to upset any of them because Mitch and I need this job more than you would ever believe.

      ‘I’m sorry about that, madam.’

      ‘You obviously haven’t planned your staffing levels accordingly.’

      I could tell her the staff consists of me, Sheila, her niece (who turns up as long as there’s no decent surf) and Henry (who called in sick with an infected nipple ring this morning) but I don’t think it would help.

      ‘Apologies. I’ll pass on your feedback to the manager. Now, may I take your order, please, so we can get you served as soon as possible?’

      ‘We haven’t decided yet, have we?’ She throws out the challenge to her family. Her goth sister keeps her eyes fixed on her phone while their middle-aged father frowns at the menu and lets out a bored sigh. Fixing on a smile, I answer a long list of queries about the menu and wait for them to make up their minds.

      Twenty minutes later, having delivered the beanie man’s espresso, served several other tables and taken a load of orders, Sheila shouts to me over the top of the serving counter in the kitchen. Her face is red as she slides steaming pasties and a slice of quiche onto three plates. ‘There you go. One steak, a cheese and bacon and a spinach and ricotta quiche for table twelve. You said they’re awkward customers, so I’ve given them extra garnish.’

      ‘Thanks, Sheila. I’m on it now.’

      ‘And can you clear some tables before you come back, please? It’s mayhem out there but we need to get as many customers as we can over the holiday weekend. I can’t believe the weather we’re having this early in the year. This is the warmest Easter I’ve ever known. If this is global warming, bring it on.’

      ‘No problem, boss.’

      Sheila doesn’t stand for any nonsense but she’s very fair and while the money is only minimum wage, it comes with something far more important to me. She lets me and my beloved dog, Mitch, sleep in the tiny loft conversion above the cafe free of charge. Despite the long hours and the difficult customers, I’m beyond grateful to have a job and a warm place to stay after months of uncertainty, sleeping on couches, in hostels and occasionally even roughing it in the caves along the bay. I don’t mind admitting that it’s been a tough time but Sheila’s kindness had proved there were people willing to help in the world.

      Blowing a strand of hair that’s escaped from its scrunchie out of my eyes, I dump my tray of dirty crockery beside the dishwasher. Sheila carefully heaps fresh salad and homemade coleslaw next to the pasty and the quiche. The spicy aromas waft under my nostrils and make my stomach rumble almost as loudly as the extractor fan, but there’s no time for us to eat yet.

      ‘Demi, wait!’ Sheila calls as I’m half in and half out of the door to the cafe.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Can you possibly do something about Mitch’s barking? I don’t mind him staying in the flat while you’re at work but some of the customers have been asking if he’s OK.’

      My heart sinks but I nod. ‘I’ll try to get him to settle down in my break. I’m sorry but it’s new for him here and he misses me.’

      ‘I know but do your best,’ says Sheila with a brief smile. Then she’s gone, already preparing the next order.

      From the flat above, Mitch whines again. I really hope I can settle him down but he gets so excited, with so many interesting canine smells and noises drifting up from the cafe. We already went for a jog together on the beach before dawn and I’ll take him for another walk when I eventually get my break.

      Back on table twelve, the younger daughter of the family brightens a little as I smile at her and hand over the spinach quiche but her sister and father are stony faced as I serve them.

      ‘Here’s your lunch, madam, sir. I’m very sorry for the delay.’

      ‘About time, too. I could have made the pasties myself.’ Her tone is icy. Her eyebrows are also weird, so weird that it’s hard not to stare.

      Gritting my teeth, I offer them cutlery wrapped in serviettes. ‘Once again, I apologise for the wait, madam, and I’ll certainly pass on your feedback to the owner.’

      ‘Make sure you do and you can also inform her we’re not paying for my meal.’

      ‘You tell her, Mawgan,’ says the father to his older daughter, while the young goth sister glances down at the ground, embarrassed. I feel sorry for her.

      ‘I’ll have to ask the owner about your bill.’ I feel faintly sick. I can’t just give away Sheila’s food. She’s only the tenant at the cafe and her profit margins are wafer thin as it is.

      ‘I don’t care … and what’s this? Coleslaw? I specifically asked for no coleslaw.’ Mawgan wrinkles her nose at the pasties.

      ‘I’ll have it removed immediately and bring a fresh plate, madam.’

      Mawgan snatches the plate back. ‘If you do that I’ll be waiting until Christmas.’

      ‘Whatever you wish, madam.’

      Gritting my teeth, I take the tray, desperate to move on to new customers but dreading what Sheila will say about their refusal to pay the bill. It was my fault that the coleslaw ended up on the plate; I must have taken down the order wrong in the rush.

      ‘Would you like anything else?’ I ask in desperation. ‘Condiments? A jug of water?’

      ‘Some mayonnaise,’ Mawgan grunts, leaving me wondering what the objection was to coleslaw anyway.

      Wondering how I’ll break the news to Sheila about the discount, I head for the condiments alcove at the side of the kitchen, and scoop some mayo from the catering jar in the fridge into an individual pot. Maybe Mawgan will change her mind when she tastes the homemade pasties that Sheila and I slaved over this morning? While I carefully place the pot on a tray, I can hear the odd yip from above but I have to harden my heart.

      I reckon no one will hear Mitch anyway above the squawking of seagulls and head back outside. A large group of them has already gathered on the beach wall opposite the cafe, eyeing the lunchtime chips and pasties with their beady eyes and sharp beaks. They’re a menace all over St Trenyan, but the tourists will keep feeding them. The gulls must think Sheila’s is a drive thru.

      Make that a dive