Blue Comes Through

Chapter Five

Back at the cottage, I make Will lunch, feeling a bit guilty as I microwave a ready meal for him. M & S do a range for children which is too convenient. I picked a few meals up at the train station. I justify the laziness with the fact that the cottage has just a microwave and a hob, so I'm limited to what I can cook. Truthfully though, I'm limited by my own uselessness in the kitchen and if I cheat occasionally with plastic containers and a few pricks in a cellophane lid, Will gets a variety to his meals which would otherwise be impossible.

Mealtimes are messy at the moment. Will feeds himself with his own spoon and it's hit and miss how much food makes it to his mouth. I act as back up, managing to get the odd spoon straight in and redirecting the food from his cheeks and chin. He cheats with the odd handful which is not ideal with shepherds pie. He's not a fussy eater though and clears his plate with relish. I wipe his face and hands clean before we go again with dessert, a banana chopped up into a custard.

Usually, Will would nap after lunch, but today he's not going to cooperate, objecting vehemently when I try and lay him in the cot. After a few minutes of noisy protesting, I give in and take him back to the living area. I turn on the TV, finding the kids channel and settle him on the rug with some toys. He watches whilst half heartedly playing with a shape sorter. He's tired but stubborn. This will be a grumpy afternoon if he doesn't sleep.

I raid Gwen's hamper and make myself a sandwich with crusty bread and cornish cheddar. I pour a glass of juice and settle on the sofa.

Will's muttering and grumbling as he plays, losing his temper when he picks the wrong shape. I do my best to ignore him as his mood deteriorates, pretending I'm engrossed in the television. When a shape goes flying across the room, I have to intervene.

"If you'd just go to sleep, you'll feel a lot better." I sigh, lifting him onto my lap and attempting to cuddle him. He wriggles and squirms to get down with a stubborn 'No. No. No' and stands and glares at me. With a resigned sigh, I abandon my own lunch, button him into his coat and head off back outside.

I strap him in the pushchair with 'dog' tucked in beside him and start walking towards the beach. He still fights sleep for a bit, trying to sit up a couple of times, but with the cunning of a desperate mother, every time he tries to sit, I tip the pushchair back towards me slightly, so that the effort for him to get upright is greater. My strategy works and the fresh air and movement of the pushchair soothe him to sleep.

I walk down the steep path of the hotel grounds. A small bridge leads from the cliff path to the first floor entrance of 'Fistral Gallery.' It has a handwritten sign 'Opening today' so I decide to kill some time and have a browse.

Fistral Gallery is actually a café cum gallery cum bookshop. I walk in to the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

It's a large space and the far wall is a curve of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the beach. Sunlight is shining in and the space is light and airy with a high ceiling and pale wooden floors.

French doors lead out to a curved balcony with tables and chairs and there is more café style seating alongside the windows. The views of the beach and sea are stunning.

Clusters of sofas and low chairs are scattered around the central area of the gallery with a corner full of toys and children's books and furniture. Book shelves line one wall and the other walls are dotted with paintings and photographs. There is a central counter which is also a bar and barista station.

A good looking guy in his thirties is standing behind the counter, dressed in jeans and a thin navy jumper. A girl a similar age, is emptying boxes which seem to be full of paintings and books. They both look up and smile at me as I enter. I feel a little self-conscious as I'm the only customer, but the girl comes over to hold the door as I manoeuvre the pushchair inside.