Chapter 1: Breakfast at St Just.
The morning of June 17th began much like any other morning in the coastal town of St Just. Mr. Wesley woke with the first rays of dawn, a habit he had never been entirely able to shake off, despite the imminent approach of the summer solstice. By this time of year, few others were willing to brave the brisk 5am air, preferring to rest and relax until a saner hour. But, Mr. Wesley thought to himself, when had he ever been sane?
Throwing on an old blue dressing gown, feet bare and hair still bedraggled from sleep, he quietly began to make his way down the old wooden stairs. After ten years living in this house, he had come to know every creaky step, every loose bar, every slight gap or chip. For sure, he thought, he had the funds and time to have it fixed, but he felt these small faults and defects to be a part of the house's identity, its soul. Sometimes his neighbours laughed at the way he thought of this old building, which had passed through so many hands in its three hundred years of life, but they accepted it as just another of his little idiosyncrasies.
Smiling almost imperceptibly, Mr. Wesley made his way to the kitchen, what he considered to be the heart of his home. And, like every day, he began to bake. First, the bread – he measured, weighed, mixed and stirred, before putting the mixture in the oven to cook. This was soon joined by a variety of pastries – éclairs, danishes, raspberry tarts, small apple pies, and a single plain croissant for Mrs. Salzen from down the road, dozens of light and tasty treats for his beloved guests. The food seemed to come into his hands as disparate bags and bottles and spices, and almost instantly they were cooked and steaming slightly upon the trays near the windowsill, beneath the first rays of the morning sun, without any of the anger and frustration and mess characterised by other kitchens. It was like magic, some thought.
Like every morning, Mr. Wesley then made his way back upstairs; less careful now, as he knew most of his guests would be awakening already, unwilling to waste the best hours of their holidays. He liked to call them 'guests', as if they were his own friends and family, rather than those cold terms like 'customers', and he knew the villagers thought this because he had no family of his own. Really, though, it was because he wanted them to feel welcome, warm, wanted. In Mr. Wesley's world, everyone was welcome.
A few short minutes later, Mr. Wesley was back by the stove, now fully dressed in loose grey jeans and a slightly crinkled chequered shirt, having no woman around to do the ironing and never having cared for it himself. As on every other morning, seven o'clock found the coffee brewing and the tea-kettle whistling merrily, as he juggled the numerous plates of bacon and eggs and sausages and potatoes and mushrooms and tomatoes and onions, which filled the homey brown and gold dining room with their tantalising scents.
By this time, a small crowd had begun to gather around the rough wooden tables and old three-legged stools, filling the small room with lively chatter. Every morning, this same crowd would gather for Mr. Wesley's famous home-cooked breakfasts – some old, some young; locals, their children, their guests, and one old man even brought his dogs with him. Everyone was welcome, and Mr. Wesley never charged more than they could afford, though it was widely believed he could do far better with his skills than this isolated little village. But neither money, nor fame, nor respect seemed to matter to him, and he seemed simply content to cook his pastries and wander his grounds, with every day the same as the last. And the customers kept on coming.
By nine, the locals were joined by those few people staying in the house itself, as the village had few visitors without family to stay with. On this particular morning, there was a young family of four from London, who quickly found themselves becoming part of the crowd. The children of the village not still in bed, some six or seven of them, soon found themselves with an extra playmate or two, as they ran through outstretched arms and under the wooden tables and into the recesses and cupboards in the kitchen itself, totally absorbed in some simple childhood game. Horrified at her children's behaviour, the mother began to apologise to Mr. Wesley, but he simply smiled and shook his head before retreating shyly into the kitchen.
Bewildered, she made to go after him, but was grabbed by a middle-aged gent from a nearby table. "Don't ye go worrying, Miss," he said with a smile, "That's just how Mr. Wesley is."
Brow furrowed, she questioned, "So he doesn't talk to anyone?"
Her response was a laugh. "Oh, he talks, and he has a fair mind too; he's just no good with crowds. If you got him one on one like, you'd find him to talk a bit more, though you'd carry the larger part of the conversation for sure. But in these situations he prefers to stay in his kitchen and cook. He likes it there, don't ask me why!"
"And he has no problem with the children running amok and under his feet? Wouldn't they get in his way?"
"No, he loves the children, always has time for them, no matter how busy or preoccupied he is. Eyes like a fox, that one. He's probably off giving them his special gingerbread biscuits or somethin' right at this moment. He doesn't feel uncomfortable around them like he does around us adults, despite how we've tried to make him feel at home. Just one of those solitary sorts, I suppose."
Shrugging, she let him be and made her way back to her husband, quickly finding herself absorbed in a conversation on the latest political news with a man who liked like he might once have been a reporter, in the days before he retired. And so the morning went on, locals and visitors alike united by good food, hot tea (or coffee), and the friendly atmosphere of the St Just B&B.
It was probably nearing midday when the door opened once more, though, being Sunday, little attention was being paid to the time. To slight murmurings, it revealed Mrs. McElroy from Campbellson house, right on the other edge of town. Her husband long since deceased, Mrs. McElroy was getting on in years and very rarely seen outside of her own, over-large home, which seemed constantly full of cats. However, Mrs. McElroy was as welcome as any other in Mr. Wesley's dining room, her mind still quick despite failing eyesight.
No, the real surprise was the sight seen behind her, emerging hesitantly from the shadow of the heavy oaken door. His golden hair was streaked with green and carefully spiked, and his nose was studded with what looked like some sort of dragon. With his dangling earring, tight black pants, and ragged T-shirt bearing some sort of rock emblem, he looked like some young punk, right out of the city, though his slightly jaded blue eyes were a testament to his real age.
"Everyone," Mrs. McElroy said quietly, to a respectful silence, "This young man is a distant cousin of my late husband, by the name of Mallory Blanc." The aforementioned man shifted uncomfortably under their intense stares, as the villagers slowly took in his outlandish appearance, one mother even forcing her daughter to avert her eyes. "His mother requested that he stay with me for a few months, as a break from his strenuous teaching job, and I know he'll fit right in." Waving at Mr. Wesley over in the kitchen, who returned it with a wave of his own, she slowly made her way back to the waiting car, closing the door behind her.
In the now silent room, Mallory smiled wanly and made a half-hearted attempt at a bow, before awkwardly making his way to the nearest corner, as if to shield himself from their disapproval. And as the other customers backed away from his pale form to mutter and stare, it was quite clear that he didn't belong there.