A Cornish Christmas

by Lily Graham

  ‘All the better to hear you with...’ I quipped, taking it off and shaking out my hair. ‘Better?’

  ‘Better.’

  I rolled my eyes. Men!

  * * *

  Later, I glanced at my phone and sighed – there were three missed calls from Genevieve, Stuart’s mother. I listened to one, and then tried to take a deep, calming breath. It seemed she was not about to go down without a fight about getting me to visit that fertility specialist she mentioned. I swallowed a feeling of mild guilt that we still hadn’t told her about the baby. The idea of telling her just made me feel... tired. So tired. At this time of the day, I was finding that I could cheerfully just go to sleep for a week – a not-so-great side effect of the pregnancy as oddly enough in the wee hours of the morning I was often wide awake. So I decided to put it off.

  After Christmas, maybe? When I had more energy?

  Perhaps in the New Year? Thinking about how impossible she was likely to be no matter the date, I mentally shook my head. When the sun decided to rise in the bloody west, that’s when we could tell her without having her hijack my sanity. I’d think about that later... possibly.

  I went upstairs with a cup of strawberry tea to soak in the claw-foot tub. Apart from the studio and the conservatory, the bathroom was my favourite room in the house. Painted duck-egg blue, with pale wooden floors, it had a breath-stealing view of the sea. The bath was in the centre of the room and on cold nights its silver toes sparkled in the glow from the open fireplace opposite.

  We’d made the offer for the house shortly after we saw the bathroom. I hadn’t even seen the bedroom yet or the rest of the grounds, but I knew that this was what I needed, a place to soak any troubles away. I had a lot of fun becoming a lady who bathed. Buying scented aromatherapy candles and bath milks. I’d even installed a small bookshelf, where I kept a collection of my waterlogged favourites, so that I could lie back and read in the scented steam to Stuart’s book-preserving dismay.

  He had his own bathroom down the hall and subscribed to the get-up-and-go, power-shower ablution, though he did enjoy visiting my steamy sanctuary on wintry nights.

  As I lounged in the bubbles, thinking about Catherine’s startling revelation earlier, the image of the closed garage door and the running car haunted me. What if she hadn’t got there in time? I wondered how Mum knew and why she never told us about it.

  ‘Place for two?’ Stuart asked, coming in from downstairs and leaning against the open door.

  ‘Always,’ I said with a smile, soaping my arms.

  He smiled, espresso eyes reflecting the firelight, and undressed. I admired my husband from the tub and, as the flickering light played over his silken hair and across his lean muscles, all thoughts of Mum and Catherine’s dad evaporated.

  ‘You’re looking rather fit, Mr Everton,’ I remarked, eyeing his taut stomach appreciatively.

  He smiled, teeth startlingly white and even. ‘And you thought gardening was for the elderly.’

  I laughed as he slid in behind me and leaned against him. ‘Did I?’

  He wrapped his arms around me, moving aside my long, wet hair. ‘No, not really.’ I turned and kissed him. ‘See now, that’s the trouble with us having a bath together... we never actually bathe...’

  He grinned. ‘And that’s a problem?’

  It wasn’t, not really.

  * * *

  I woke at quarter to three, a feeling of excitement expanding in my chest. With a hammering heart, I tiptoed out of bed to the studio.

  I had a theory.

  Born in the seconds before sleep opened its arms to claim me, but I wouldn’t know until tonight if it were true. I crept along the passage and opened the door, hugging my dressing gown to me. The room was still and quiet, the crash of the waves outside oddly hushed.

  I took a seat at the writing desk and waited. Hoping what I suspected, and wouldn’t dare say aloud, was true... If magic existed at all, it would happen in the witching hour, well after midnight – at three o’ clock, to be precise.

  At first, when I saw the flicker of moonlight, I thought that perhaps I’d been wrong. For at first no new apparition, no new dream-spun gift unfolded. Then, before my eyes, a silvery golden thread appeared and began to spin itself into a minute old-fashioned birdcage. Its little moon-spun door opened and a tiny red and gold stardust thrush appeared, fluttering its wings, taking small little hops across the desk. I held out my hand, heart in my throat, as it hopped onto my outstretched palm, softer than the softest kiss.

  ‘How are you doing this?’ I breathed, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, as the little bird sprang from my hand and fluttered across the studio, out the open window.

  As I stared at the desk, the birdcage disappeared, and another glimmer caught my eye. I inhaled sharply.

  The creamy postcard, addressed to me, began to shimmer with an otherworldly light, words etched in silvered moonshine appeared and I watched in awe as letter-by-letter, one by one, three perfect words emerged:

  I love you

  My eyes spilled over as I stared at the shimmering words dancing before me.

  ‘Mum,’ I whispered. Not a question, but a statement of impossible, inexplicable fact. I stared at the card scarcely daring to breathe, hoping against hope that, somehow, she could hear. Then, slowly, the words disappeared and new ones took their place, each letter followed by an answering hammer from my heart.

  Hello Darling

  I gasped, tears flowing freely. Then I closed my eyes for a second, barely able to contain what I felt. My shoulders shook with happy sobs, hands clenched in excitement. I stuttered, ‘How... how are you doing this? Where are you?’

  I swallowed, waiting for her to answer, in fearful desperation that she wouldn’t. But she did.

  There is no language for it

  I sucked in air in surprise; waiting, wondering... then more words appeared, more obtuse than the first.

  As far as a whisper, as close as space

  ‘Are you in heaven?’ I whispered to the moonlit room.

  Nothing happened and I began to fear, heart thrashing in my chest, nothing ever would.

  Then slowly... so slowly, she answered. As before, the silvered words disappeared and new ones formed.

  We do not use words for it, but if words were used, heaven may be one, if what one could say about the sun was that it was round

  The fear that I’d had for years... that there was nothing after we left, was finally taken away.

  ‘But if you’re there... then how, how are we doing this?’

  I was given time

  ‘Time?’

  To be... with you

  I inhaled, closing my eyes. ‘How much time?’

  Enough

  ‘Enough?’ I asked. But she didn’t answer... I suppose that enough was plenty.

  ‘Oh Mum, I miss you so much.’

  I’m always with you. I know it’s not the same but we have this

  The tears slid down my cheeks. ‘This is more than I could have ever dreamt of. I love you, Mum.’

  Love you more

  I grinned, with aching familiarity; it was Mum, despite the mysterious words, and the moonlight magic, it was what she had always said to me – even when I argued that that was impossible, she’d insisted no one could love more than she.

  Her last message for the night, though, was enigmatic.

  Upstairs wardrobe

  The words appeared then slowly faded away. I stared, waiting, yet knowing as the air changed, and the sounds came back to life and the light... the moonlight that had bathed the desk disappeared, that the postcard would not fill again that night.

  I bit my lip, hand clutched to my heart, afraid it would burst, and went to bed. Hours later, I fell asleep, a small smile on my face.

  Chapter 7

  The Hope Box

  When morning came, despite broken sleep and vivid dreams, I was eager to start the day.

  The postcard was like a secret held close to my chest, colo
uring the day with rose-tinged promise, and at around mid-morning I decided to take her message of the night before literally.

  Because, despite the enigma and the mystery and how strange it sounded, Mum had always been practical, and her last message of the night had been no exception.

  I stood before the upstairs wardrobe.

  The one in the passageway between our room and the studio, where I’d put just one box, the only one I hadn’t unpacked. The one filled with all our lost hope, broken dreams, and unfulfilled wishes.

  Before the first failed IVF, the first miscarriage... before we knew not to dare hope at all, I’d planned, and dreamed, and bought. Babygros and teddy bears and palm-sized shoes. I sat back on my heels on the wooden floor, tenderly unfolding each little outfit, feeling the soft fabric between my fingers.

  I didn’t see him come, just felt his fingers brush my hair, the wooden floor creak as he settled himself next to me. I looked up into his brown eyes, gentle, soft.

  ‘I’d forgotten about these,’ he said, touching the silken leg of a Babygro.

  ‘Me too.’

  Fingers playing with my hair, Stuart asked, ‘It’s time? To unpack the Everton Ten: Burnt alive?’

  I bit my lower lip and nodded. It was time, time to dream, time to hope.

  I took a shaky breath. ‘Stuart, we’re having a baby,’ I said, with a big wobbling smile, finally daring to say it aloud, to believe, to trust that if I did then it would all be all right.

  He hugged me close, dark eyes shining with moisture. ‘We’re having a baby,’ he said in wonder.

  * * *

  We had dinner that night at Dad’s, finally breaking the news. He was overjoyed; his wild, grey hair seemed to crackle afterwards, as if whatever emotion he was feeling radiated from its tips.

  I realised – as we sat in the sitting room now empty of Mum’s desk, mugs of hot chocolate steaming while he made plans with Stuart to help set up the nursery and he told us that my old cot was somewhere in the attic and it could be sanded and varnished, that there was the rocker too, which could be reupholstered – that he needed this. Something besides his work as a workshop manager at a freighting company, and his long-held passion for philosophy. I suspected he’d lost the will to feel philosophical about very much since Mum fell ill.

  I grinned at his enthusiasm. The next few months would be filled with decorating and restoring. The sanding, and the massive mural I was planning – well, that was all up to me.

  For the first time, sitting in this room since she was gone, I felt like everything was going to be all right.

  * * *

  At 3 a.m. I was finally in the studio, where I’d spent all day longing to be. Each hour leading past midnight carried a double jolt of excitement through my veins. I didn’t have to wait long.

  The air was alive with the hush that I’d come to recognise just before the magic hour.

  Tonight, the words, made in pen and ink, rather than moonlight and stardust like her messages from the night before, seemed to glow.

  Darling Ivy

  ‘Mum,’ I breathed in excitement, feeling my love rush out as I told her, ‘I unpacked the box, finally told Dad...’

  The words appeared finer than thread but shimmering bright.

  It was time

  I nodded, past caring that each time I sat here the tears couldn’t help but fall. I didn’t ask how she knew that it would all be all right, just trusted that it would.

  If I closed my eyes, I could see hers, soft and blue, her blonde hair fixed in its loose chignon, pearls glowing in the firelight and her gentle, ever-ready smile.

  Dad is happy

  I smiled. ‘He is... happier than I’ve seen him in years.’

  Tell him: under the stairs

  ‘What’s under the stairs?’

  What he’s been looking for

  I frowned. ‘What has he been looking for?’ But she didn’t answer. ‘Can’t – can’t you speak to him too? I know it would mean everything to him. Can I bring him here one night to speak with you as well?’ I asked, daring to hope.

  For a long while she didn’t answer and then she said:

  We only get one

  ‘One? One what?’ I asked, not sure what she meant.

  One life... one to guide

  I frowned, not sure that I fully understood what she meant, except for what I feared. ‘I can’t tell him?’ I asked, my heart breaking for her, for them both.

  You could, but it would be best not as I couldn’t reach him

  Not like this, not like with you

  I swallowed and with sudden, awful clarity, I understood. ‘It was a choice... and you...’

  I chose

  ‘Oh Mum!’ I cried, knowing how impossible that must have been.

  He would understand if he knew

  I stared at her words, watching them disappear, hoping that was true when a new one took its place.

  Holly

  ‘Holly?’ I asked.

  Her name

  And there, once again, appeared the perfect baby bootie made from moonlight and magic. I touched it gently with a fingertip, while my other hand clasped my mouth.

  I gasped. ‘But – but does that mean? It’s a... it’s a girl!’ I exclaimed. Did she know? Could she know that?

  A Christmas name seems right

  Now sleep

  Don’t upset the snow globe

  I breathed out, blinking in the moonlight. A girl... was it possible?

  Snow globe? What did she mean by snow globe? But before I could ask, she had gone. The night returned to dark and I slipped back into bed, knowing, despite her instructions, that sleep would elude me that night.

  * * *

  ‘Everything seems to be fine, Ivy... though you are looking a little tired. Not sleeping?’ asked Dr Gia Harris, my obstetrician. Sleek, black shoulder-length hair tucked behind her ears, eyes concerned as she clicked her pen to make a note on her chart during my check-up the following morning.

  Stuart shook his head. ‘I keep telling her to take it easy,’ he said worriedly.

  ‘I am,’ I denied, knowing they were empty words. ‘I’m fine, I promise.’

  Dr Gia leant forward to peer closely at me, a slight frown on her face. My eye fell to her pen and I couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped my lips.

  There was a small snow globe on top of it. Typical!

  She smiled, looking at it. ‘Ah yes... must get in the spirit. To tell you the truth, it’s my favourite time of year: roasted chestnuts, fires, mince pies...’

  I smiled in return. The red lab coat embellished with little white sleighs that she wore was a bit of a clue too. ‘Mine too, and there’s nothing like Christmas in Cornwall... If you’re going to the village fair in Cloudsea, stop past the market... try one of Stuart’s homemade mince pies.’

  Stuart winked. ‘Secret new recipe... my latest Sea Cottage signature.’

  Dr Gia answered with a swift nod. ‘I will. Peter – my husband – raves about your beetroot jam. He ordered a few from your shop.’

  My eyes bulged. ‘He did?’

  ‘Oh yes... He wants to use it with the ham this year for Christmas.’

  Stuart gave me a long-suffering look. ‘See.’

  I laughed. ‘Okay... well, perhaps it’s better with ham than on toast.’

  Dr Gia crinkled her upper lip in mock disgust. ‘I should think so,’ she grinned. ‘So...’ she said, her face beaming as she passed the scanner around my belly. ‘Do we want to know what we’re getting?’

  I sat up a little straighter, looking at Stuart, who nodded, eyes huge.

  ‘Well... looks like the elves will be bringing a little girl.’

  My grin was enormous, matched only by Stuart’s.

  ‘A girl,’ he breathed.

  ‘Holly,’ I said simply.

  Stuart looked me. ‘Holly?’

  I nodded.

  He shook his head in wonder. ‘That’s...’ He closed his eyes for a second, the last tr
aces of fatigue and worry finally seemed to lift, so that when he opened them, his eyes were full, happy. ‘That’s just... so right.’

  We held hands, beaming at each other like loons.

  ‘I’m blubbering,’ said Dr Gia, reaching across her desk for a box of tissues and handing us a few, because she wasn’t the only one.

  Chapter 8

  Whispers in the Dark

  There was a light on in the polytunnel; it shone like a sentinel from the garden.

  I’d just climbed into bed with a cup of tea, and the latest sketches of Detective Sergeant Fudge, when I saw it from out of the unshuttered blinds.

  ‘Stuart?’ I said. ‘Did you leave a light on outside?’

  A grunt in response.

  I poked him in his side.

  ‘Love, did you leave the light on in your polytunnel?’

  A noncommittal mumbling followed. Muppet opened a bleary eye at me in reproach. I stared and took a sip of tea, deciding on whether I wanted to leave the comfort of the warm room and face the cold garden to switch it off, when I nearly jumped out of my skin. A shadow moved across the polytunnel, a human-shaped shadow.

  Splashing tea on my shirt, I cried, ‘Stuart, someone’s in there!’

  Another mumble followed. This one I could just make out.

  ‘Smudge,’ he said by way of explanation, ‘needed a place to crash,’ he added into his pillow.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I could have got the guest room ready!’

  ‘It’s the spare room, it’s always ready,’ he muttered, turning over and after about three seconds he began to snore loudly.

  I snorted in exasperation and rolled out of bed, changing into a new T-shirt and wrapping myself in an old blanket that I pulled from the little chest by our bed. Smudge had had to postpone our visit to Fowey to see where Daphne du Maurier lived. She’d texted that something had come up and her plans had to change. She’s been a little enigmatic, but then that was Smudge, sometimes it was like pinning down a butterfly’s wing. Still, it did make her late-night visit all the more odd.