A Cornish Christmas

by Lily Graham

  ‘Slugs,’ he moaned in despair, a bucket at his feet into which he dropped the soft molluscs, favouring each one with a pointed glare and a disgruntled shake of his head, as if each little shell-less slug owed him a personal debt.

  ‘Coffee?’ I asked, interrupting his morning tirade against the slugs.

  ‘Bless you,’ he said, crossing the cabbage patch, looking rather fetching in an emerald green jersey that brought out his dark eyes. He gave his runner beans a fondle as he took a cup and joined me, perching on one of the raised cement beds.

  ‘Back to the 2 a.m. patrol?’ I asked.

  ‘Looks like it. Little buggers!’ He glared at the bucket. ‘You will not get my prize lettuces,’ he declared, like a general announcing war.

  ‘Lettuces,’ I mused, ‘is that the plural? Sounds odd.’

  He frowned. ‘Lettuci?’

  ‘That sounds vaguely diseased. Mrs Sprout, I’m afraid you’ve got a nasty case of lettuci...’

  He laughed and took a sip from his cup. ‘I’ll ask Tomas.’

  ‘I’ll Google,’ I said, having more faith in the search engine than an eighty-five-year-old Frenchman who insisted on calling me Eve, despite numerous corrections. Stuart’s vegetable guru lived alone in a small rundown cottage at the end of Cloudsea, where he had placed a collection of handmade ‘Keep Out’ notices in a violent shade of red paint all along a rather grim-looking path of stinging nettles, to his neighbour Gertrude Burrows’s long-suffering despair. The small front garden looked like something out of The Addams Family. Ironic, considering the back resembled something that could be entered in the veggie division of the Chelsea Flower Show. There had been a petition to declare that bit of Cloudsea – the bit belonging to Tomas – as a no man’s land for the last, oh, twenty years. All of which had only encouraged Stuart to get to know the odd gardening recluse who lived there more, because, well, Stuart is Stuart.

  The geriatric Tomas had long grey hair that swept his shoulders, wore a green beret at all times, even inside, had purpled, arthritic fingers that perpetually smelt of kale, and bright blue eyes that got a distinct twinkle whenever he saw Stuart’s long-legged approach up the hill, and a distinctive glint whenever he saw Gertrude Burrows’s more laborious shuffle.

  No one really knew what the old Frenchie was doing here, but the rumours were pretty intense. Some said he escaped the French Foreign Legion, others that he was a Nazi spy, a very small sect maintained that he’d followed his heart and the village baker, Robyn Glass, here, after she holidayed in Marseille – he certainly seemed to blush a ripe prize-winning radish shade every time she handed him one of his favourite iced buns. But I suspected that the truth was stranger than fiction: the old goat was a closet Anglophile.

  For instance, an offering of coffee whenever he came around to inspect the state of Stuart’s polytunnel was met with a distinct shake of his head, as were any other teas except English breakfast, which was greeted with a faint, yet affirmative nod. Once I even caught him grin (when he thought no one was looking) as he dunked a digestive into his ‘Building Tees’, without getting any of it into the mug en route to his gummy maw...

  Stuart snorted, the laughter lines around his eyes creasing.

  ‘So...’ I began.

  ‘So?’

  I gave him a look, waiting for him to say something about the Christmas card.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, pointing his ear towards me, his expression for ‘I’m all ears’, so I threw a bit of toast at him.

  He ducked. ‘It sounded like you wanted to ask me something?’

  I rolled my eyes and smiled. ‘Fine, have it your way.’

  He frowned. ‘Okay, what way?’

  ‘Stuart.’

  ‘Ivy.’

  ‘Stuart...’

  I sighed. Fine. ‘I love his nose.’

  Stuart blinked. ‘Whose nose?’

  I glared. ‘Stuart, stop teasing. I’m serious. Rudolph’s nose, it’s beautiful. I have no idea what you used, but frankly it’s incredible.’

  But Stuart looked at me as if I’d gone crazy. ‘What are you talking about? Who is Rudolph?’

  I stared at him, feeling a bit off-kilter. ‘Rudolph... the little reindeer from my mother’s card. You... you painted in his little missing nose... didn’t you?’

  Stuart’s eyes went wide. ‘Ivy, I would never do that.’

  ‘But...’ I said, feeling suddenly like the ground beneath my feet was shifting.

  He came over, touched my arm, his face concerned.

  ‘But someone did,’ I insisted, feeling my blood turn cold.

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t be, love.’

  ‘It is, I saw it... his nose is there now,’ I exclaimed. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’

  Stuart looked at me, but didn’t move.

  ‘Come,’ I insisted.

  ‘Ivy, love, it was probably you. You know how you get caught up in your work. Maybe you did it without realising?’

  I blinked. ‘Are you serious? I just popped Rudolph’s nose on my dead mum’s old Christmas card and... forgot?’

  ‘Love...’ he began, but I shook my head.

  ‘It’s okay. Next, you’ll tell me that I’m tired, I’m stressed... It’s the pregnancy hormones... But I know what I saw. I didn’t do it. For one, it was... well, luminescent really.’

  ‘Luminescent,’ he repeated in some surprise.

  ‘Yes... It was like, like a really beautiful technique that I don’t know how to do, or special paint because it shimmers... I couldn’t do that.’

  He laughed. ‘Darling, you are one of the best illustrators in the business. Of course you could... and if you thought you couldn’t, why on earth would you think that I could?’

  I stared at him, mouth slightly ajar, hoping that he’d just jump out and say, ‘Gotcha’... Though I’d probably punch him out at this point if he did. ‘I don’t know... I just thought maybe, maybe you had some really great paint,’ I said, somewhat faintly.

  He turned towards me. ‘Some great paint that you didn’t know about? That would be a little like telling Einstein you’ve found a neat way to work out the seven times table. I think the best explanation is that you probably did it without realising. I mean, remember Mr Tibbles’s Moroccan slippers? You drew that one and even you were surprised.’

  ‘That they ended up Moroccan, yes, but I always knew I was drawing a pair of slippers,’ I pointed out.

  Stuart shrugged. ‘A little nose... I mean, it could have happened.’

  I sighed. ‘Maybe.’ Though I knew that wasn’t the case. How could it have been? I was in no state to have done that yesterday.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine... it was just a bit weird.’

  He nodded. ‘I can imagine.’

  I didn’t think he could though because I knew that it wasn’t me who had done it. I would never have just done something like that... something so intricate and unique on autopilot. For one, someone had made sure that I couldn’t, considering that there was no paint for me to do it with.

  Which left, what exactly?

  I didn’t know.

  I was confused and a little anxious. The shimmering nose haunted my thoughts, hanging around like an unwanted guest.

  I cleared up the cups and breakfast things and gave Stuart a kiss goodbye. He was off to sell his wares at a market in North Cornwall and to see a man about Christmas ham.

  So with Muppet in tow, I set off on our regular morning walk on the beach, determined to shake it off.

  Even now, edging nearer to the clutches of winter, I couldn’t believe that we lived here, how fortunate we were. That I could stroll on the beach every day if I wanted. That I could live surrounded by such beauty. My childhood home was further inland, just outside the village of Cloudsea in Tremenara, so the beach, though close, was always a delight.

  As Muppet and I walked along the rocky outcrop that bordered Sea Cottage, breathing in the fresh seaside air, my nose and cheeks turned pink with cold. Muppet r
an ahead and came trotting back every few metres or so until we reached the golden sand. Today the sea was a rich sapphire, the waves thundering at high tide. The wind had picked up and there was no one about except for a few egrets that circled above, their strange caws piercing overhead.

  Muppet ran off to bark in doggy delight though even she wouldn’t dare step her paws in the icy waters.

  Shells dotted the beach, as if the ocean had gently pulled back its skirt to reveal a frothy garter studded with jewels, each one glistening in the spray. I bent to pick up a particularly pretty one. It was purple and lacy black. The fine detail reminded me of an evening dress. I popped it in my pocket. Often I drew inspiration from nature, especially when I captured the fey folk of my imagination.

  Muppet barked at a length of calk and I laughed. The metre-long seaweed was large and full of sinewy tendrils – alien. It looked almost alive.

  Here, now, I was able to shake off the disconcerting events of the morning for a while; the long walk had helped clear my head.

  Afterwards, Muppet and I headed out towards the village. There was a little café, not too far from the beachfront, that we often frequented, called Salt. The owner had a soft spot for Muppet and could always be counted on to offer a tasty treat for her and a cup of tea or hot chocolate for me, while we thawed before the fire and considered the day’s itinerary.

  In truth, it had been a little bit of an escape for my sanity when faced with the likes of pak choi jelly, or the perils of beetroot jam. I couldn’t bring myself to take generic, store-bought food home, but every now and then a little scone with strawberry jam and clotted cream did the illicit trick.

  Today I lounged in the comfy blue and white checked wingback, cradling a tall mug of hot chocolate in my hands while I warmed myself by the fire.

  ‘So, it looks like Detective Sergeant Fudge will be solving The Case of the Missing Brolly and later Mr Tibbles will be throwing a party for his friends in the Fairy’s Forest,’ I informed Muppet.

  Muppet cocked her bulldog head to the side, tongue lolloping about as if she were considering her role in the activities. Which would no doubt involve lying beneath the desk, a rather faithful artist’s assistant, if not a very productive one.

  ‘Can I tempt you with a slice of cake before you solve the case?’ asked Terry, the café owner, in his soft Scottish burr that was at odds with his powerful, over six foot size.

  Just into his sixties, and still fit and trim from his years in the Navy, his hair reflected a vivid shade of burnt auburn in the firelight, sky blue eyes above ruddy cheeks aglow, beefy arms on his red and white striped apron-tied hips.

  I winked. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘We’ve a particularly good chocolate orange, or triple chocolate fudge?’ He raised his faded blond brows, temptingly.

  ‘Good lord, how would one choose?’ I dithered. ‘Long day, so I’m thinking the triple chocolate fudge.’

  ‘Good choice,’ he said, with a slightly crooked smile. ‘Cappuccino?’

  I nodded. ‘You’re bad for me, Terry... one day my husband will find out about us.’

  ‘Not from me. How do you eat what you do and stay so slim?’ he asked, eyes amused.

  I laughed, shaking my head at such blatant flattery. ‘Must be the miraculous powers of pak choi jelly...’

  He grinned. ‘To be fair, it tastes great.’

  I laughed. ‘Well, perhaps... but even though he calls it jelly instead of jam, I still can’t get over the fact that it is in fact jam and that “pak choi” is really just Chinese for cabbage. But if you could get over that, it would be quite good really.’

  Terry sniggered, ‘Jelly is just the American for jam.’

  ‘Don’t tell Stuart, you’ll break his heart.’

  His smile widened. ‘Well, I ordered twenty bottles.’

  I laughed aloud.

  Terry had rather a soft spot for Stuart’s culinary creations, declaring him a man after his own heart. Still, he kept my clandestine cake visits a secret, knowing that woman can’t live on pak choi, or indeed, beetroot jam alone.

  * * *

  Back at the cottage, I found the most welcome of sights I’ve had in weeks sitting amongst the raised vegetable beds, a look of contentment on her face as she stared out at the sea beyond.

  Victoria. Stuart’s sister. Younger by eighteen months. Curly black hair in a constant tumble to her waist, large brown eyes, and a perpetually lopsided smile that made her look naughty even when she was trying to be serious, which was also oftentimes at odds with her rather posh accent. That and her penchant for Converse trainers in every shade imaginable, which she wore with everything, even suits – especially suits – was a sort of finger to her mother, who was the kind of woman who would know just when to wear white and who still believed women shouldn’t wear jewellery in the morning.

  ‘Smudge?’ I said, not daring to believe my eyes.

  Victoria turned to look at me, then started jumping up wildly, as if it was me who had startled her and not the other way around. ‘Ivy?’ she exclaimed in glee, and we went racing into each other’s outstretched arms at a very slow, movie pace, laughing like idiots as we do.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, between giggles. After the emotional residue from the last two days, her presence was exactly what I needed, a tonic.

  Stuart’s sister was a rather famous biographer whose work had taken her all around the globe, trawling through the forgotten libraries of ancient civilisations and the secret tombs of history’s most interesting personalities.

  ‘Manderley...’ she said enigmatically, with a quirk of her lips.

  ‘Du Maurier?’ I breathed. ‘Really? You got approval for the biography!’

  She nodded. ‘It seems an old family friend has recently come forward with some never-before-been-seen letters and, well, I’ve got first pick.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘I’d tell you, sister dearest, but then I’d have to kill you, and, well, I’m used to you being in the family now.’

  ‘Oh shut up!’ I said with a giggle, knowing that Victoria’s network of sources spanned many continents. She had a way of charming anyone, anywhere, and getting information out of the most reticent of people.

  I was delighted for her. Victoria had long wanted to write a biography of Cornwall’s most famous author’s life, but our publishers had been hesitant as, without a new angle, it would simply be yet another tome vying with all the others about the mysterious author who had made Cornwall her home.

  Victoria and I had met at the Christmas party of the publishers we shared, Rain River Books. Though at the time I never did think we would ever meet, as her reputation was so established.

  While I loved what I did, in a room full of Booker-Prize-winning novelists, at events like that, as a children’s book illustrator and co-author you couldn’t help but feel a little like you’d entered through the back door. So when my editor, Jeff Marsons, steered me towards Victoria Langley, the world-renowned biographer, who’d recently scooped up several international awards for her latest biography of a South African anti-apartheid activist, and she had expressed a desire to meet me, I’d somewhat reluctantly agreed.

  He had tapped a tall woman with a mad tumble of curls down her back, who turned to look at us from behind a pair of large, square frames. When she saw me, her eyes widened and she began jumping up and down.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Fudge?’ she said, as if I had morphed into Catherine’s and my creation. ‘Look!’ she commanded, holding up a toy version of Detective Sergeant Fudge that hung off a key chain. ‘I ordered it online. I love The Fudge!’

  My mouth fell open. It was still a surprise that anyone even knew about our books; we had a few promotional type items that you could order off the publisher’s site but nothing extravagant. The Fudge Files was just something that my best friend and me dreamt up one afternoon and started to create, when Catherine said, ‘Imagine if there was a terrier division in Scotland Yard and Muppet was in c
harge?’ I didn’t know if it was the incongruity of this illustrious author with our imaginary detective on her key chain, the ‘Supergirl’ T-shirt she was wearing underneath her stylish black blazer, or the bemused looks on everyone else’s faces who had come over to have an intellectual conversation with this renowned biographer, but after that we were firm friends.

  It was Victoria who had introduced me to Stuart. She still accused him of stealing me. Which, as he pointed out, was payback for coming along, the second child, and smudging the ‘perfect’ family that had existed before she arrived. Where, as the only child, he had been quite literally the little lord of the manor – he’d grown up in a rather stately manor home in London until she came along and ‘smudged’ it all, not only by wrecking the ‘happy trio’ but by being a certifiable genius to boot. Whereby afterwards and forevermore she was doomed to be known to one and all as ‘Smudge’.

  It was true too, she was technically a genius. She had been tested, and had one of those IQs that meant she should be building spaceships or 3D printing our moon colony. While that would probably appeal, she resisted the traditional route of maths and science as she found it ‘too easy’ – somehow I still liked her after this statement. But mostly I liked her because she was also a bit of rebel, as if the cute trainers and superhero outfits weren’t enough of a clue. Though as Victoria maintained, ‘A rebel with a nerd herd.’ Apparently, nerds were her people.

  As someone who hadn’t been cool a day in her life, I suppose I was definitely part of that club. My collection of knitted hats with ears definitely qualified.

  And despite its rather acerbic nature, Stuart’s nickname for her was one of endearment – for few siblings were closer. There were times, like right now, she just knew when she was needed. ‘So I believe you do not negotiate with terrorists?’ she said with a smirk.

  I laughed. The Terrorist. That was their name for Genevieve. Yes, this too was a term of endearment – though actually, sometimes, not.

  ‘Ah... no, no, I don’t,’ I said with a chuckle. ‘So you heard?’

  She nodded. ‘Oh yes! But look, I agree, you have to lie just now in the beginning before she causes World War Three... It’s for her own good, and ultimately, the baby’s,’ she winked.