A Spirited Girl on Cornish Shores

by Laura Briggs

  "Frivolous lawsuits aren't quite as common in England as they are in your country," Sidney pointed out. "But if he touches Riley, he could go to jail himself. It's unlikely he'll follow through with his threats, anyway ... not if he values his wife's reputation as he claims." His scissors made deft cuts through a folded piece of construction paper. "Ta-da," he said, unfolding an accordion chain of black cats. "Admit it. I'm much cleverer with a pair of scissors than you imagined."

  "That's fantastic. Teach me how to do that," I said, tying off the garland's end.

  "Can't. Sheer luck, I'm afraid," Sidney answered. "Usually they finish upside down." I rolled my eyes at this corny joke, for which Sidney's seriousness utterly failed him in the end. "Let's string the garland across the windows," he said. "Mrs. Graves would normally fuss a bit about crumbs on the carpet, but twice yearly she forgives it."

  "What times are those?" I had yet to meet the vicar's housekeeper, who must be fond of spotlessness, judging from the state of the antique rugs and the number of antimacassars and doilies protecting the sofa and chairs.

  "Allantide and Christmas," answered Sidney.

  "Allantide?"

  "The Cornish name for Halloween," said Sidney. "Or one of several, rather, since it’s also known as Saint Allan’s Day and a few other names besides. Don't tell me you've never heard of the legendary Cornish festival it represents." He looped his end of the garland above the vicarage's old-fashioned windows, which appropriately faced the back of the graveyard. "Tonight's village party will light a fire in honor of the little-known Cornish Saint Allan—or Arlan, since his name has a few variations as well. A bonfire to keep warm by, more than a true tindle fire ... then again, this event's generally a bit rowdier than the Allantide of old. Must be the influence of pirate blood in the village." He grinned at me.

  I folded a piece of orange paper to cut a string of paper pumpkins. I wasn't thinking about the decorations for the vicar's party as much as I was the question of whether Sidney had been reading my manuscript. I was resisting the urge to ask. I didn't really want to know if he hated it ... or, quite possibly, laid it aside out of boredom for a crossword puzzle in the Times.

  "So ..." I began, drawing a deep breath. "Read anything good lately?" I lifted my eyes to his as I asked. "Or anything bad?" I waggled my eyebrows.

  He rolled his eyes. "Would I keep you in suspense if I had?" he asked. "I've only had it two days, Maisie. Hardly time to give it attention, especially since a certain someone forbids me to read it if they're within earshot of its pages turning."

  "Don't exaggerate," I said. "I'm sorry. I'm just ... curious to know what you think."

  "I will tell you what I think the moment I finish reading it," said Sidney. "If you're available, that is." He dodged the crumple of orange paper I threw at him, forgetting about Mrs. Graves's tidy carpet getting covered in little paper scraps.

  "Time to fetch some apples," said Sidney, reaching for his coat after the garland's free end was secured. "They're essential for a Cornish Halloween, you know." He grabbed a basket from the kitchen table and opened the back door which led to the vicar's garden, where Sidney had obviously neglected to repaint the trim on the little greenhouse.

  "Are we bobbing for them?" I asked. "Covering them in caramel and nuts?" I zipped my orange cardigan and accepted the basket as Sidney lifted his bicycle's kickstand. "Those are my favorites."

  "Hop on," he said.

  "Not this time," I said. "I'll walk. But thanks." He sighed.

  "Suit yourself," he said. "But now I'll have to pedal really slowly, whereas the two of us could be speeding along, faces to the autumn wind —"

  "Tell me about the apples, will you?"

  "They're not for candying. They're an Allantide tradition, apparently," said Sidney. "Big, bright red ones. Maybe Saint Arlan was fond of them, and that's why they used to give them for good luck. Allan markets used to sell them — you'll see in the greengrocer's window."

  He flicked a lock of my hair back from my forehead, a touch so light that I mistook it for the breeze for a moment. "No flower today," he said. "Last of the daisies were scattered by the night winds."

  "Guess so," I answered, thinking of the breeze that blew open the windows that night at the Penmarrow — unless it was the ghost of young Will who opened them. "I'll find a substitute."

  "Nothing but daisies will suit," answered Sidney, who pedaled ahead now with a burst of speed — so like a boy that I almost stomped by foot with childish frustration. He glanced over his shoulder, giving me another devilish grin, then whistled under his breath as he crossed the lane to the grocer's.

  There were indeed big bright red apples filling the window, spilling from a willow basket. They were polished and waxy, displayed among ears of golden wheat. I had seen others like them adorning wreaths and fall harvest displays decorating doorways, archways, gardens and gates throughout Port Hewer, although I hadn't realized they were something more than a pretty decoration.

  Sidney parked outside the shop. "Do you want some caramel and nuts? Some cinnamon sweets?" he asked. "To satisfy your taste by dipping a few?"

  "I used to make them with my mom," I answered, shrugging my shoulders. "I may not have grown up in 'hometown America' exactly, but we had a few traditions that were pretty homespun. Not that my mom was Martha Stewart." I picked up a crisp green apple from one of the baskets, which looked just like the ones we used to dip. There were some sweet pink ones also, but the majority were red ones, ruby and scarlet ones with the occasional freckle or patch of yellow.

  "Three dozen, please," said Sidney to the grocer. "And I need some chocolate, and some of the boiled lemon sweets that Hannah makes." He dug a list from his pocket, along with a button, a bent paper clip, a pocketknife, and a folded book page, the rest of which he tucked back in place. "A few other things as well. Mrs. Graves had quite a list of requests."

  "For the vicar's party, is it?" said the grocer. "My three can't wait for it. Leastways the two youngest can't ... you know how the older ones can be. Growin' up and thinkin' that fun's only fun if it's mischief."

  "They only pretend not to like the party," said Sidney. "So long as the reverend doesn't make them play at ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’."

  "Be needin' some pumpkins? Or is it turnips this year?" said the grocer. "There'll be a fair share of modern fancy dress for the kids, so they'll probably want those plastic things with the LED bulbs what change color ... though there'll be a pirate or two among the number, I'll wager." He counted Sidney's change back to him, then shoved the burlap bag of apples across the shop counter.

  "Turnips?" I helped him haul the sack into the bicycle's basket.

  "For carving, as he said," said Sidney. "Like in the auld country," he added, in a thicker Celtic brogue. "The Celts didn't have the benefit of American pumpkins for warding off spirits."

  "So you were serious before. I didn't realize the Cornish carved turnips too," I said. "Tindle fires, good luck apples — anything else traditional I've missed?"

  "How should I know? I'm an outsider, too," Sidney reminded me, as he rolled his bicycle off the pavement and lifted its stand.

  "You know, you gave the apples my spot in the basket," I said. "How did you intend to give me a ride back?"

  "Who said I did?" He pedaled forward, but not quickly enough to lose me.

  "What's this basket on my arm for, if you were planning to buy that big sack of apples?" I asked.

  "For a different stop," said Sidney. "Turn right at the next lane. We'll take the long road home."

  The 'long road home' was a wooded path that diverged from the village street. The ground was thick with golden leaves, and splashes of autumn fire decorated the limbs above. It was brighter than the wood which bordered Dean's cottage, so that I felt as if I was strolling through one of Tolkien's novels.

  Before reaching an old, rustic bridge crossing a stream, Sidney paused. "There it is," he said, pointing. An old apple tree, thick and gnarled with age, was roo
ted nearby. Great snarled roots twisting at the bottom, bent and curving limbs covered with rough bark crowning above, on which the last of its yellowing leaves and a few small apples still clung. They were smaller and paler than the ones in the shop, with soft blushes of greenish-yellow on their cheeks, and a pinkish hue along the stems.

  "What are they?" I asked. Sidney had clambered partway down to the stream's edge, and now held out a hand to me, an offer to help me down if I wanted it.

  "Who knows? Some crossbreed variety — some forgotten wild seed or the last of an old orchard," said Sidney. "You're the storyteller. Imagine their history and it'll be as true as anything I could tell you about it."

  For a moment, I clasped his hand as the heel of my shoe met a sharp stone instead of grass; I felt the sure, firm set of fingers close around mine, a feeling which I had told myself many times that I should try harder to avoid liking.

  My basket came in handy for gathering up the fallen apples that weren't rotten or touched by frost, along with the stragglers hanging from the tree. I took a bite from one, tasting a crisp tartness that reminded me of little green apples, and of a candied apple pastry that a bakery near my old Los Angeles neighborhood made sometimes.

  "These are delicious," I said. "Are these what they call pie-baking apples? Or the cider ones?" I could never tell the difference between them, even when Raul's restaurant made me peel a dozen of them for his Mexican apple pie pastries every November.

  "Do you know how to carve apple head dolls?" asked Sidney, tossing me a few extra from the other side of the tree.

  "No," I retorted. "I told you, we weren't artsy or craftsy."

  "Are those words quite real?" he teased, lifting one eyebrow.

  "A good writer knows how to create their own," I answered, loftily, as I lifted the basket from the ground. I let out a small grunt. "I think these are heavier than the burlap bag's worth," I said.

  "Really?" There was a touch of concern in Sidney's voice.

  "Kidding," I said. His next apple hit my knee. "Ouch!" I said, with a protest and a short giggle. "That packs the wallop of a golf ball. Aim at the tree next time."

  "Sorry." He scrambled over the tree's roots to the same side as me again.

  From the bridge, we watched the wind blow some leaves onto the water, sending them downstream like bright orange boats. Between us, an appropriate space for two friends, and the basket of apples resting just below the rails. I pondered what it would be like to skip one of the small apples across the water, watching it bob low in the clear green waters as it traveled to a river or the sea.

  "Did you really come here just because of Alistair Davies?" asked Sidney.

  His question surprised me. I blushed, briefly. "Yes," I said. "It's true enough, I guess." I shrugged my shoulders afterwards. "Only maybe ... I had an idea that if I met him, he might help me with some part of my work. It's crazy, I know, but I felt this sudden impulse to try it. And I ended up here, in a little Cornish village I had never heard of. It's not in any Daphne du Maurier novel I've ever read."

  I looked at the water below us as I reflected on the excitement I felt when I first learned Alistair Davies spent time at the village's hotel. Imagining that the famous writer really meant it when he said he would help a budding author enter the running for the prestigious Ink and Inspiration.

  "It's not the only reason I'm here, though," I said. "Not anymore." I glanced at Sidney with a smile, and I thought I detected a blush on his face in return.

  "Good," he said. There was something pleased in his smile as he turned away again, but the blush was still there. Was I crazy, or was Sidney jealous of Alistair Davies?

  My cheeks felt as pink as the apples in the basket. I managed to hide my feelings by the time Sidney turned around to face me, resting his elbows against the bridge's rail. I twirled a leaf to the stream below, where an eddy whirled it around so the stem became its stern as it floated away.

  Sidney pushed himself free of the bridge, and lifted his bicycle from its resting spot. "So what's next, with your famous author unavailable for questioning?" he teased.

  "He's not just famous," I corrected him. "He's brilliant. There's no living author like him, in my opinion, and if you haven't read one of his books, you have to. I'm telling you, he's that powerful with words."

  "I hope it's not a requirement for friendship with you," said Sidney. "Is there a list of other things one must love to be friends with you? Or to be something more?" He added this last part with a look that threatened to bring the autumn blaze back to my cheeks.

  "It's not a requirement," I answered, casually. "I thought my saying I stayed for this place and all it had to offer would be enough without enduring the third degree. Do you have the third degree here?" I added, hoping Sidney liked American cop shows.

  "Point taken," said Sidney, as he wheeled the bicycle along beside me. "I told you this place would grow on you, didn't I? So it happened after all." He grinned.

  "I didn't need your prediction," I corrected him. "It's this place alone. It's full of layers of mystery, beautiful scenery, unimagined stories. I feel like ... like Rebecca coming home to her breathtaking Cornish manor on the edge of the sea."

  "I assume you've read Daphne du Maurier's classic novel to its end?" queried Sidney, amused.

  "I meant without the tragic fire — obviously," I answered. "And the torturous, creepy housekeeper." Brigette had nothing on Mrs. Danvers, after all. "The beauty before me, the wide-eyed innocence I felt when first seeing a place steeped in history and secrets. That's the part I have in common with the story."

  "Will you be the heroine of a story yourself, someday?" Sid asked, with a curious smile. "Or do you plan to stay Rebecca forever?"

  "I guess I'll have to find out," I answered.

  My glance met his, and we exchanged smiles. A handhold's distance was between us, but our hands were occupied by baskets and bicycles instead of interlocking fingers as we walked side by side beneath the tree-lined path, leading us back to the vicarage's lane.

  _________________

  'Calan Gwaf' is the old Cornish name for Halloween, at least for its pagan self before the saint Allen or Arlan was gifted it in honor of his mission work among the Cornish people. It wasn't the saint's day of good luck apples to begin with, although the hearthside 'tindle fires' had certainly been jettisoned for Port Hewer's idea of a Celtic celebration as Sidney predicted, blazing bright with sparks outside of a room filled with the raucous of music, noise, and a little ale that could tip the spirits in any number of directions.

  This was what Sidney had been talking about when he said the local party could be 'a bit rough.'

  The old barn was only a short distance from town, the big blaze outside ringed by carved turnips, whose weird faces were aglow from candles lit within. Big sheaths of wheat stalks and dry husks, garlands of bright red apples, and a few pirate flags decorated the old stone walls made cheery by the light of electric lanterns. The band was playing lively folk tunes, and plenty of people here knew the steps to a folk dance of some kind that looked too complicated for me to try out of sheer curiosity.

  "Someone must be making a good bit of applesauce with all these, come tomorrow," commented a woman I recognized from the local bakery, and who was wearing a pirate's hat. I saw the grocer here in an eye patch and scarf, a young postal worker whom I recognized only by the voice from beneath a werewolf mask, and there were others from the Penmarrow's staff, including Gomez chatting up a very pretty group of girls wearing glittery felt or paper masks like mine. Norman, of course, was sitting in a dark corner with a sour expression on his face as he watched the dance.

  "It's exciting here, isn't it?" said my coworker Molly as she joined me, tucking her hands in the pockets of her jumper. "Are you going to dance? The band's a bit loud, and Jerry's too fond of the rock riffs in solos for the sake of the old folks, but they still play a very good tune."

  "I'm not sure that I'm ready for it yet," I said.

  Parties
like this one were new to me, since I hadn't grown up in the country — and hadn't been the girl who was invited very many times to the parties held in condemned city buildings or abandoned houses. This was cheerier and far more atmospheric than those high school mischief gatherings, although the essence of All Hallows Eve lingered in its smoke, like a weird, palpable mist in the shadows that bided its time to roll in, as my imagination saw it. It gave me a little shiver, though entirely a fantasy-based one. There was no trouble or superstition brewing here, probably.

  "I could teach you," said Molly. "It's always a good way to meet the local boys. Some of them are quite keen on the old ways, especially if there's a good excuse to light some torches, do something silly, have a bit of ale — you know how they are. But most are really interested in football and rugby."

  "And surfing?" I caught a glimpse of Sidney across the room in the crowd.

  "That's to the northeast, really. Newquay's lot," said Molly. "Lots of people here like swimming and boats. I like the water myself. Sometimes I go out on a boat ... my friends Ricky and Terrence once took me up the coast to Newquay and we had tea at the big hotel. They thought it was a proper joke — me working at the hotel here and all. You know, Terrence is single," she added, shyly. "He's not such a bad lad ... and he's decent-looking also."

  "Is he?" I answered, politely. "He probably has lots of interested admirers." Across the way, Sidney caught my eye for a moment, a smile of recognition on his face. I couldn't see what kind of paper mask he was wearing, since it was pushed up past his forehead.

  "I'll introduce you, if you like," offered Molly. "He's got very big muscles, Terrence. He worked at a quarry all this past summer."

  "Muscles aren't that important, really," I answered. Sidney's carelessly-rolled shirtsleeves outlined a pair of well-toned arms. I was definitely thinking opposite thoughts from what I was saying to Molly at this moment.

  "So are you interested?" When that question collided with my thoughts, I skidded back to the present.

  "In what? Your friend?" Not Sidney, right? I rewound Molly's remarks in my head. "I ... don't know. I still think it's a little soon for me to be dating anybody."