A Cornish Christmas

by Lily Graham

  Mark wasn’t my favourite person, but I never thought he’d cheat on Victoria.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not really, I saw a few texts... I know I shouldn’t have looked but he was being weird. There’s some trainer from the gym he’s mentioned a few times, she’s been putting him through his paces – I mean, Mark, the gym?’ She laughed but there was no humour in it. ‘The messages weren’t explicit but there’s something going on... flirty, you know...’ she added, her voice catching. ‘I mean, what did I expect? I’m never home.’

  ‘That’s not an excuse!’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s reality, something I’ve got to face. We haven’t spoken about it though, not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m just tired. God, that sounds pathetic, but it’s the truth. I don’t know how to explain. When I saw it, I just wasn’t up for another epic fight, had to catch a flight here for work, so I just left. It seems all we do when we see each other is fight, even without bloody, pretty personal trainers involved. I mean, he’s finished up in Rome now, and he wouldn’t come down here, doesn’t want to be “my little tag-along” as he put it the other day. He never used to be like that, I thought it was that he... you know, gets a bit funny about my work, but now, well, maybe it’s because he wanted to be with her.’

  I swallowed. This was bad. ‘You can’t know that though...’

  ‘I know – I go back in a few days, will deal with it then. Though, I may just go to that gym and see Miss Thing for myself.’

  ‘Do not do that,’ I warned. ‘That could be a recipe for a disaster...’

  She sighed. ‘See, this is why you are my sister, if only to help me avoid prison. When is The Terrorist leaving?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Ah okay, so I’ll come for dinner then, all right?’

  I laughed. ‘All right – I’ll help you come up with a plan of attack.’

  ‘Oh, on the gym bunny?’ she said.

  I giggled. ‘Er, no... for Mark. I’m thinking drawn and quartered...’

  She snorted. ‘I like what you’re thinking. See you tomorrow – oh, but Ivy, don’t tell Stu till I’m there, ’kay? He’ll go crazy...’

  ‘Please, I’m not stupid. He threatened to put Mark in hospital the last time he forgot to fetch you from the train station... can you imagine what he’d do now? On second thoughts, maybe that bastard deserves it...’

  ‘Maybe, but still... See you tomorrow.’

  I hung up, cradling the phone to my chest. Poor Smudge. Forget Stuart, I was ready to go there and wring Mark’s bloody neck myself. I knew he was a whiny arse, but I hadn’t thought he was a right cheating bollocks to boot.

  * * *

  That night, as I entered the studio, a sound made me jump. ‘Ivy? Is that you?’ came Genevieve’s voice from behind.

  I startled.

  That strange light that always accompanied the postcard lit the studio. I looked at it in fear, then back at Genevieve, wondering if she saw it.

  ‘Why are you up so late?’ she said. ‘Please don’t tell me that you’re working? I heard you walk past my room as I was sending off a report.’ She gave me a pointed look that seemed to imply that if that was my plan it was a bad one.

  I sighed. If I said yes, she’d lecture. I was in no mood for it. And the postcard wouldn’t wait forever, either. I swallowed my impatience, and just said, ‘No, I, er... heard my mobile ringing and thought maybe I left it in the studio...’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, turning to enter the studio, to my horror. ‘I’ll help you look.’

  ‘No, no, that’s fine. Go back to sleep, you’ve got a long drive tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s okay, James is fetching me, I’ll be able to get some sleep then.’

  I sighed. James, her poor abused assistant, seemed to think nothing of driving five and half hours straight to come and fetch her.

  I closed my eyes in annoyance as she entered the room. The light from the postcard was still shining bright. I held my breath, but she didn’t mention it. Next thing, she switched on the lamp, and the light from the postcard faded completely.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, her eyes scanning the studio. I felt a lump form in my throat, while I resisted the urge to scream. To demand that she get out. But she simply started rummaging through my things, lifting up drawings and sketches. She looked up, saw my face and faltered. ‘Don’t worry, Ivy, we’ll find it. I’m sure it’s nothing.’

  My voice shook as I asked, ‘What’s nothing?’

  ‘The phone call. If it was serious, I’m sure they’d try Stuart too. Tell you what, let me get my phone and ring yours... then we’ll hear it,’ she said, then rummaged in her bathrobe, pulled out her phone, and started to ring mine.

  I tried to smile. She was being kind but all I wanted to do was tell her to get the hell out.

  ‘It’s okay, Genevieve,’ I managed. ‘Let’s just go to sleep.’

  We heard the phone ringing from the bedroom. On the nightstand, where I left it, and Stuart’s voice from the receiver, sounding tired but worried. ‘Mum? Where are you, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh nothing, love, sorry,’ she answered. ‘Ivy thought she heard her phone ringing in the studio, we were looking for it, must have been in the room then.’

  My eye crept towards the postcard. No light shone from it now, just the cold light from the bright fluorescent lamp.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Genevieve, a worried look creasing her forehead.

  I nodded, fixing a smile in place with what felt like screws. But I wasn’t okay. Mum had come every night since that first night, but how long would it last? All I wanted to do was wait. Wait to see if she’d come back, but Genevieve led me slowly and carefully out.

  ‘I’ll make us some chamomile, shall I? It always helps me sleep,’ she said. Her offer of a cup of tea to help me fall back asleep right then seemed more insult than comfort. I tried with every step that she led me down the stairs to stop thinking like that, to stop wishing she’d just get out of my house. Stuart’s living, interfering mother, who right then was preventing me from spending the precious, magical time that my own had somehow managed to find for us. I was grateful in the dark kitchen that she couldn’t see the tears that had begun to form and burn their way down my throat.

  * * *

  In the morning, I awoke feeling better than I had the night before, but grateful nonetheless that Genevieve would be leaving that day. I knew that last night all she had been trying to do, really, was help. She’d been kind, even. But it was the first time her presence had truly stung, though for once through no fault of her own.

  Later, Genevieve and I took the rest of the things we’d bought and put them in the cupboard in the nursery. Now without the company of ghosts I could value the time she’d spent with us. Just having her here to help us get started on the baby’s room had helped.

  When I rolled out the cans of paint I’d ordered though, I saw her frown.

  Of course she had ideas about the colours we should paint it. Seeing the tins of black paint I’d bought, however, it looked as if she might faint. ‘Don’t worry, this is just the base coat,’ I said.

  ‘O-kay.’

  I waited. Counted to one, two, three – impressive. Then: ‘Base for what exactly? I mean... I’m sorry but you’re a children’s book illustrator, why on earth would you want to paint your child’s room black?’ she finally exploded.

  I stifled a laugh. ‘Ah you know, just to be a bit different... I’m sort of tired of how light and fluffy my day job is... I mean, this will be soothing afterwards, I think. I mean, it is me who will have to be here most of the time so it should reflect what I like, right? I mean, it’s just so old-fashioned to have the nursery be more about the baby than the mother, don’t you think?’

  Her mouth opened and closed in shock.

  ‘I’m kidding!’ I explained. The poor woman had turned an odd shade of purple. So I hastened over with my watercolour drawings of Mr Tibbles in th
e Fairy’s Forest, complete with glittering fey folk, fairy lights, Feathershloop the owl, the Red Fairy, all of which were rather enchanting looking, if I did say so myself.

  ‘I’m going to do this,’ I said with a smile.

  Her mouth fell open again. She clutched my arm. ‘Oh my goodness, it’s beautiful!’ she cried. Looking up at her, I was alarmed to see a faint outline of tears. Genevieve had a whimsical side? ‘It’s so magical... Ivy, this is wonderful.’

  Then she laughed. ‘God, for a second I thought...’

  ‘Goth baby?’

  She grinned. ‘Something like that. But this is lovely,’ she said again, scanning the drawing. ‘Is this a new project?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said, then told her about Mr Tibbles. ‘He was sort of a secret project for a while... Something to help, you know, when things were a bit tough...’

  She bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry about what I said the other day, about your work being child-like. I didn’t mean it. I was just lashing out.’

  An apology from Genevieve?

  Then she looked at me and shook her head. ‘I don’t think he should be kept secret,’ she said, touching Mr Tibbles, who was looking rather fetching with his raincoat on, and a pair of flying goggles. ‘He’s just too adorable,’ she added with a genuine smile making her look so much younger for it, and I found my eyes starting to well up.

  ‘What a fun home my grandchild is going to be coming into, with parents like you two. You know, my own mother was a hard woman. I used to draw, just a hobby, you know... nothing like this... She always wanted me to be busy: “Make yourself useful, Genevieve,” she’d say. She grew up after the war, they had to be very practical. Any time any of us kids were doing anything that she felt was a waste of time she’d put us to work. It’s only now, as an adult, that I realise maybe I carried a bit of that with me when I became a parent too.’

  When she left, I gave her a hug. It was the first time I’d ever done that.

  * * *

  When Smudge came over, I poured her a glass of wine while she filled us in about her and Mark, telling Stuart to keep calm as his face grew pale and when he looked ready to kill.

  ‘Oh sit down,’ she told him with a laugh as he jumped out of his seat in rage.

  ‘I phoned Mark...’ she told me. ‘After I spoke to you, I don’t know... It was like a rush of fire to the brain or something, decided to just rip the bloody plaster, you know.’

  We both nodded. Stuart was sitting gingerly near the open fireplace, where Muppet snored on, oblivious.

  ‘Of course, he denied it...’

  ‘That lying bastard!’ exploded Stuart.

  Muppet opened an eye, then turned over in a huff.

  ‘Hey!’ I said, widening my eyes at him. ‘Keep your pants on...’ Turning to Smudge I continued, ‘Carry on, what exactly did that lying bastard have to say?’

  Stuart and Smudge laughed. ‘Well, he said they were just friends, you know. Then he told me that maybe if I were home more he wouldn’t need to make friends with his bloody personal trainer, like it was my fault. Like he doesn’t have any other bloody friends, the arse.’ She shook her head. ‘The trouble is he has a bit of a point.’

  ‘What? No, he doesn’t!’ I cried. ‘You said yourself he could have come here with you as he was back from Rome. It’s not like you guys haven’t done that for years – travelled wherever the other was working when you could. It’s why your marriage worked in the first place, because you both don’t have conventional jobs or kids.’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, exactly. I said that too, but we just go around in circles. The thing is he wants more of a stable life now. That’s what he said. Eventually, he admitted that there’s a spark between him and this... personal trainer. Jess,’ she said, with a twist of her lip.

  ‘Jess?’ I mouthed. ‘What kind of a name is Jess for a man-stealing personal trainer?’

  She nodded. ‘I know, right... should be like Amber or something,’ she added with an empty laugh.

  ‘A spark!’ shouted Stuart. ‘That sleazy little arsehole, I’ll show him some bloody sparks...’

  I looked at him. ‘Look, love, maybe you should, you know, go get us some crisps or something. ’

  ‘What?’ he said, looking at me as if I’d gone mad. ‘You want crisps now?’

  ‘No, I want you to bloody bugger off or calm down,’ I said, making a move to shove him out the living room.

  He glared at me. ‘This is my sister,’ he huffed. ‘You bugger off!

  Smudge snorted as my eyes popped in rage. ‘It’s okay, you guys, oddly this is helping... Lets me know that I’m not going mad – Mark seemed to think I was overreacting.’

  ‘What?!’ exploded Stuart and I together.

  She nodded. ‘It’s just a harmless flirtation, that’s what he said... “If it bothers you, Victoria,”’ she said, putting on a poncey-sounding voice just like Mark’s, ‘“I’ll just stop doing anything at all, while you flit around the world doing whatever you fancy, while I get fat and be your house husband ready and waiting like a big fat pussy for whenever you decide to come home...”’

  ‘Seriously?’ I asked, my mouth falling open in utter shock. ‘He seriously said that?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’m going to kill him,’ hissed Stuart.

  ‘Me first,’ I said.

  ‘I love you idiots,’ said Smudge.

  * * *

  That night as I slipped into a hot bath after we’d insisted Smudge spend the night in the spare room, I couldn’t stop thinking about her and Mark. I couldn’t believe he was acting this way. I knew she had a big decision to make. I hoped that they’d be able to work it out but, to be honest, I didn’t see how. He seemed to resent Smudge for everything. It looked to me, at least, like he was using his personal trainer as a bit of an excuse. As I lay in the water I realised just how tired I really was. Pregnancy was no joke. I was used to feeling tired for most of the day, but it was so much worse after the events of the last few days.

  It hadn’t helped that I hadn’t slept much last night after Genevieve had interrupted my time with Mum. When 3 a.m. rolled around, this time I was waiting, despite feeling dead on my feet.

  When that magic hour rolled around, light and stardust seemed to fill the room and, in the moon-bright glow, I smiled.

  ‘Oh Mum, I love you,’ I said, holding back the fear that after last night, when Genevieve had broken the spell, she wouldn’t be back. I couldn’t, didn’t know how I would handle that.

  When the postcard began to write, I felt my shoulders sag in relief; it was just what I needed right then.

  Love you more

  Proud of you

  Now go get some sleep

  Chapter 16

  Birds of a Feather

  The night before Christmas, I placed the last little ornament on the tree: a silver-gold box that I’d made in secret during the night. I sat back on my heels and admired the room: the crackling fire, the fairy lights twinkling around the French doors and the beautiful tree filled with homemade decorations, which Mum and I had crafted together over the years, sparkling amongst the white Christmas lights.

  Dad had surprised me with a small package filled with our decorations, from paper snowmen to elves and sprites made of twigs, glitter, and glue, saying they belonged with us, as we started our new family.

  I touched the little paper box I’d made, thinking of Mum. Every year, on Christmas Eve, she used to make a secret decoration just for us. From silver-winged angels to tiny, hand-sewn teddy bears with brown button eyes, our names embroidered on the chest. They were always more beautiful and intricate than any we could imagine. It was this that I looked forward to the most, perhaps even more so than the real gifts because they always seemed more magical than the others, more filled with love.

  It had been that much harder to put up the tree since Mum had gone, knowing she wouldn’t be there to surprise us come Christmas morning; we’d wake only to encounter yet again our loss.
/>   This year though, because of Mum, I’d found something that I thought I’d lost: hope.

  Stuart came in from the kitchen and set two mince pies and a glass of milk onto the coffee table. ‘For Santa?’ I asked with a raised brow.

  ‘Or Pepper and Pots, whoever gets there first,’ he said, eyeing the pair of cats curled up around Muppet, declaring a rather surprising Christmas truce.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, as he inched towards the Christmas stocking hanging off the hearth.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, acting rather too innocent.

  ‘Stuart.’

  ‘Ivy.’

  ‘Stuart, back away from the Christmas stocking,’ I warned.

  He grinned sheepishly, looking like a young boy. ‘I was just going to give it a little feel...’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Uh-huh. No touching the sock. Rule five.’

  ‘See, you’re just making up rules now,’ he complained.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I agreed. ‘Keep going and we’ll have a fifty-foot restraining order too.’

  He backed away slowly. Muppet looked at him with one eye, while she lazed by the fire, her tongue out.

  ‘She’s got her eye on you for sure,’ I said, laughing.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Cheeky madam, who feeds you?’

  She waggled her bottom.

  ‘I do,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Good point,’ he laughed.

  Muppet sat up to stare at him as if to say that it was fine by her if he’d like to change their arrangement. When he ignored her, she made a rather artful move where she feigned going for the kitchen and went past the coffee table from the other side instead, stealing a mince pie faster than we could blink and running out the room as quick as her short wrinkly legs would carry her.

  I laughed aloud, while Stuart chased her up the stairs, declaring, ‘That’s it, madam. I was going to save you from your mother. You didn’t know this, but there are reindeer ears in your future... I was going to protect your dignity, but no more...’