‘I’m Jake Trebeka and this is my wife Polly and Toby, our son. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My daughter tells me you’re a writer,’ he said.
Ramon nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve written a couple of books of poetry and some short stories,’ he said and his heavy Spanish accent sounded out of place in such an English home.
‘But you’re not here for a book,’ said Polly, putting down the tray of tea. She noticed Ramon’s long glossy hair which she thought could have done with a good cut and the mahogany colour of his intelligent eyes. He was so totally foreign. She had never spoken to a foreigner before.
‘No, Señora, I’m writing an article for National Geographic,’ he said.
Polly’s eyes widened and she looked at her daughter in exasperation. ‘Why didn’t you tell us he was writing for National Geographic, Helena?’ she said, placing her large hands on her round hips. ‘I love that magazine, so does Toby, don’t you dear?’ she enthused, feeling more comfortable now she was able to place him in a familiar box.
‘We love it,’ Jake agreed, impressed. ‘What’s the article on besides
smuggling?’
‘Well, it’s meant to be on the land of King Arthur,’ Ramon explained. ‘But Helena suggested the smuggling idea. I haven’t passed it by the editor, though.’
‘Oh, the land of King Arthur. What a magical idea,’ enthused Polly.
‘No it’s not, Mum, it’s unoriginal,’ said Helena bluntly.
‘Helena’s right, it’s very unoriginal,’ Toby agreed, grinning at his sister.
‘That all depends on how it’s written,’ said Ramon, his shiny brown eyes smiling at Helena playfully.
‘Well, I said I’d show him the haunts and you, Dad, could fill him in on the history,’ said Helena breezily, smiling back at Ramon.
‘I’d be happy to help,’ said Jake. ‘The National Geographic, eh. Now that’s a prestigious magazine. Do you take the photographs as well?’
‘Everything,’ said Ramon. Polly nodded in admiration.
‘So you see, he’s not a murderer, is he?’ said Helena. Polly glared at her. Jake laughed. Toby nearly choked on his tea.
‘I hope not,’ he chuckled. ‘Be sure to show him Crag Creek,’ he added.
Helena beamed triumphantly. ‘I’ll show him everything,’ she said.
Helena and Ramon spent the following ten days cycling around the coast. She showed him places he would never have found without her help. She’d prepare picnics for them, which they’d eat on the beaches, chatting with the familiarity of two people who have known each other for a good many years. They talked to people in pubs and fishing boats, explored caves and creeks and swam in the sea. Ramon had wanted to kiss her from the first moment he had endured the arrogance of her conversation. His chance came after a couple of days when they were picnicking quietly on a remote beach. Helena had only packed one piece of her mother’s chocolate cake. Ramon suggested she halve it. Helena refused and placed the whole piece into her mouth at once, giggling triumphantly.
‘Well I’ll just have to go and get it then,’ he said. Helena tried to stand up, silently protesting with her hands for her mouth was too full to speak. But Ramon was too quick for her. He lay on top of her and pinned her onto the sand with his hands. She glared at him with ice-cold eyes that a moment before had been warm and inviting. But to his amusement she couldn’t refuse him verbally, so he placed his mouth onto hers with his Latin ardour and kissed her chocolate lips. Then he devoured the curve in her neck and the rise of her
collarbone. Finally she swallowed hard and was able to speak.
‘Ramon! What are you doing?’ she protested.
‘Shut up, I’ve heard all I want to hear from you for the moment. Now, relax and let me kiss you, I’ve been longing to from the first moment I saw you in Polperro,’ he said and placed his lips on hers again to silence her. She relaxed as he had instructed and closed her eyes, aware only of his warm mouth and the light feeling in her stomach.
Ramon left Polperro after two weeks. He kissed Helena goodbye on the quay where they had first met. She was too proud to show her sorrow so she smiled at him as if she didn’t care. Only afterwards did she cry into the spongy bosom of her mother. ‘I think I love him, Mum,’ she sobbed. Polly wrapped her arms around her and told her that if he loved her he’d come back for her. If he didn’t then she wasn’t to waste any more of her time on him. ‘Summer romances are lovely things in themselves, dear, sometimes they’re best left as they are.’