A Cornish Christmas

by Lily Graham

  * * *

  I checked my phone and saw a message from Smudge, who’d left the day before. We’d told her to stay to spend Christmas with us, but she wanted to be home, to try and sort things out with Mark, and to see The Terrorist. She’d told me that it was funny but while Genevieve could drive her so far round the bend she’d feel like throttling her, now that she was going through this, she wanted her mother. It’s definitely something I could understand.

  * * *

  At 3 a.m. the studio was lit with a silver-tinged glow, brighter than I’d ever seen it. Standing in the doorway, I realised that I’d been holding my breath, wondering what the postcard would hold for me today. It had been five years since I’d spent a Christmas with her. Five years of wishing that somehow she would be there; yet she never was. And now, inexplicably, she had found a way.

  The words were already there, waiting for me. The first line was, as ever, a message of love, bringing tears to my eyes.

  Merry Christmas darling

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mum,’ I whispered, my hand on my throat, tears filling my eyes.

  I want you to know how very proud I am of the woman you’ve become

  ‘Oh Mum,’ I breathed out, closing my eyes.

  Things haven’t been easy but you found courage and strength and despite how hard it must have been you haven’t let it change you

  I swallowed, tears sliding down my cheeks, unchecked. Mum’s visits had been filled with love and light – each one precious. But until now, we hadn’t spoken about her death or how hard it had been for me since she’d left. How alone I’d felt and how easy it would have been to let it harden me, especially the years of trying and failing to fall pregnant. To have her say what I needed to hear was perhaps the best gift she’d given me since she’d found me again.

  ‘I thought it had changed me; hardened me in a way. I’d stopped hoping... not just for the big things, you know, but the little things too...’ I answered truthfully.

  I know

  But my darling you can’t let it

  Life is as beautiful as it is brutal and over in the length of a sigh

  Don’t mute it by denying yourself the pleasures of living to protect yourself from ever aching, for it is the dark that makes us appreciate the light

  You cannot know true pleasure unless you have experienced pain; both are an inevitable, exquisite torture

  I took a shuddering breath and nodded. ‘An exquisite torture seems about right.’

  My darling it’s time for you to fly

  ‘What do you mean?’ I breathed, hoping that she wouldn’t choose this moment to be opaque.

  For just a second, I could have sworn I heard her laugh – her sweet throaty chuckle that I loved so much. The light seemed brighter then and it moved across the studio, falling from the writing desk, past the window and onto the desk filled with my latest illustrations of Mr Tibbles and his night-time party in the Fairy’s Forest. My secret project that I’d spent ten years creating, always with the distant promise that one day I would show it to the world, all the while far too comfortable being the one who stood in the shadows. With a silent flutter, the little golden-red moonlight thrush appeared again, to hop just once on top of the papers before it disappeared.

  I closed my eyes and took a breath. ‘It’s time?’ I asked.

  It’s time

  * * *

  I woke to find Muppet and Stuart staring at me. Two sets of brown eyes gazing at me expectantly.

  ‘Merry Christmas?’ I asked, amused.

  Stuart’s smile was wide. Muppet gave me her bulldog beam and settled her considerable weight on my lap, eyes never leaving mine.

  ‘You hungry?’ Stuart asked.

  Muppet turned to look at him hopefully, bottom wiggling.

  I laughed, rubbing my eyes, sitting up with no help from Muppet, who held her doggy ground. ‘Er... maybe in a bit.’

  ‘How about a scone...’

  ‘A scone?’ I said, surprised. ‘For breakfast?’

  He nodded, eyes serious. ‘Good with jam.’

  Good lord! More jam?

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he commanded. ‘Hold out your hand.’

  I did as instructed, feeling something small but heavy placed in my palm. Then I opened my eyes and exclaimed, ‘Strawberry jam!’ I looked up at his wide grin.

  Turning back to the little jar, I peered at the label, which read: Strawberries for Ivy. A Sea Cottage special edition.

  I looked at him, moved beyond words. ‘Just strawberries? No added chilli... fennel or...?’

  ‘Just strawberries and my love for you,’ he said, eyes dancing.

  I grinned, tears springing to my eyes. ‘Have I told you lately how much I love you, Mr Everton?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, been meaning to take it up with you too,’ he said, with mock self-pity and sad brown eyes.

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I mean I spent all day yesterday preparing the ham... stringing the lights, finishing the trifle...’ He sighed theatrically.

  ‘Ooh, trifle! With cherries?’ I exclaimed.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘With cherries,’ he agreed.

  I smiled, beaming. He looked at Muppet sadly. ‘It’s all about food with this one.’

  Muppet looked at him without comprehension, eyes alight at her favourite word.

  ‘Wrong crowd, love.’

  He shook his head, smirking. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So...’ he said, waggling his eyebrows expectantly.

  ‘So?’ I asked.

  ‘So,’ he said, shaking my arm.

  I laughed. ‘Presents?’

  ‘Presents!’ he agreed, dragging me out of bed and racing me down the stairs, where I handed him his Christmas stocking at last, and he exclaimed with a large huff, ‘Finally! Been waiting months.’

  I laughed. ‘It’s only been up a week.’

  He looked nonplussed. ‘A week? Can’t be; must be at least three. At least...’ He began squeezing his stocking all around, taking a guess. ‘A new pie cutter?’ he asked, eyes alight.

  I shook my head.

  ‘A lemon zester?’ he persisted, his expression hopeful.

  I laughed. ‘No, look.’

  He opened it. ‘Bulbs?’ he said, eyes wide with excitement. Laying four envelopes carefully on the table, each with handwritten labels and matching illustrations.

  ‘Kohlrabi?’ he read, looking at the first envelope in confusion at the image I’d drawn of a rather strange-looking green plant.

  ‘Exotic wild cabbage,’ I supplied.

  ‘Really?’ he said, intrigued. ‘Sunchoke?’ he asked, peering at the second envelope and the illustration of what looked like a mealy potato.

  ‘Jerusalem artichoke – can be fermented apparently.’

  His eyes widened at the possibility. ‘Sea Cottage beer?’ he exclaimed, excitedly.

  I winked. ‘Possibly...’

  ‘Romanesco... good lord, feel like I’m on acid – is it an optical illusion?’ he asked, looking down at the drawing on the third envelope with its weird lime green, spiralling wild broccoli that appeared to move while you looked at it.

  ‘Yup, it’s a natural approximation of a fractal.’

  He studied it closely. ‘Oooh, love it when you wax mathematical... So it repeats the pattern at every scale? No wonder I feel like I’m spacing out.’

  ‘Not great for morning sickness, drawing that.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re wonderful, you... Where did you get these?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’d tell you, Mr Everton, but then you know I’d have to...’

  He gave me a pointed look. ‘... Admit that you’d had a secret assignation with Tomas?’ he said, dark eyes amused.

  I laughed. ‘Yes... that,’ I agreed. Thinking of how the old Frenchman, with his grey beard, soil-splattered jeans and permanent green beret had looked at me like I was mad, when we met just after twilight in The Cloud Arms a few weeks before the flood. ‘Eve. Seriousment?
Pah, Anglaise ... and what is wrong with good old-fashioned Engleesh vegetables?’ he asked, bulbous blue eyes wide, touching his beret with a gnarled finger in exasperation. I’d stared at the bizarre sight before me – the only French Anglophile I’d ever heard of – and could only shrug. ‘C’est Ivy,’ I pointed out yet again, and, ‘C’est Stuart,’ I added.

  He’d nodded. ‘C’est vrai,’ he said resignedly at Stuart’s odd yet persistent creative gardening urges. ‘Okay... Eve, we’ll talk,’ he’d said and retreated under the cover of night, till he called by a few days ago with the goods.

  Stuart looked like all his Christmases had come at once. He stared at the pile of exotic bulbs from all around the world and beamed, giving me a hug that swept me off my feet.

  When he set me down, I gave him a kiss. ‘You’re an odd, but lovely man, Mr Everton,’ I said, turning towards the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, only to stop, heart beating wildly in my chest.

  I should have seen it as soon as I came in. It should have captured my eye, and stolen my heart straight out of my chest. For there on the very top of the tree perched a single feather made of moonlight and air, shining brighter than gold, the most whimsical of stars.

  Stuart looked at me strangely. ‘Ivy?’

  I wrenched my eyes away to look at him and smiled. ‘Sorry... spaced out for a second. Just going to put the kettle on.’

  He stood, head tilted to one side, as I left, his frown deepening as his eyes fell on the lone, shimmering feather.

  * * *

  ‘Take a bow,’ said Richard, as Stuart, dressed in his red and white apron, black hair gleaming and dark eyes shining, delivered the enormous Christmas ham, on its silver platter and bed of wild rocket, to the centre of the table, amid applause from the assembled Talty family, my dad, and four of the six members of The Thursday Club, namely Abigail, Robyn, May, and Winifred Jones.

  Smudge was spending Christmas with The Terrorist. We’d offered for them all to come and spend the day with us, but John and Genevieve had some or other benefit that they had to attend the following evening. Oddly, though I felt a sense of relief, there was a small part of me that was disappointed as well. Wonders never cease.

  While we were eating, with appreciative moans, I turned to find Ben tugging on my sleeve.

  ‘Aunty Ivy, watch this,’ he said, green eyes mischievous, red hair vivid against his new Spider-Man outfit. I looked as he whistled and Muppet came out, wearing her dreaded reindeer ears and a length of red tinsel around her neck. I laughed. ‘Well done, Ben. You’re a better man than me... none of us could get it on her.’

  He grinned, showing me the gap where his front tooth had recently fallen out. ‘I have my ways,’ he said.

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Uncle Stuart’s mince pies?’

  He giggled. ‘Yep!’

  The honey-glazed wasabi ham turned out to be a hit, and after trifle followed by coffee, a game of Cluedo and a walk on the beach with Muppet, we said goodbye to the Taltys and the rest of The Thursday Club, who all left with tired smiles and trousers unbuttoned.

  Afterwards, I turned to look for Dad, but he’d disappeared. I found him standing in the living room, staring at the tree. When I entered, he turned and gave me an odd, faraway smile. ‘It’s so strange: just now I could have sworn I heard your mother’s voice. Then when I came in here...’ He shook his head, sighed and touched a little reindeer made of twigs. ‘I can still remember you making this.’

  It was when I was about nine. I admired one in a shop on the way home from school one day, and next thing Mum dragged me off to Usett’s Hardware for a glue gun, saying, ‘We’ll make one, shall we?’ Then we were bundled off in mittens and woollen caps, combing the countryside for twigs while a light drift of snow tickled our faces, and later over several cups of cocoa before the fire, we put him together, twig by twig, till he seemed almost alive.

  We did a lot of crazy-wonderful things like that. My throat constricted at the memory.

  Dad looked up at the top of the tree, rocking back on his heels, turning his head with his Mad Hatter hair upwards, while he frowned at the feather. ‘You know, she always called you her little bird... Funny that you’d put that there,’ he said, with a small, sad shake of his head and shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his maroon cardigan.

  He saw me staring wide-eyed and gave a little chuckle. ‘Never mind me, going daft in my old age.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said with a smile.

  He shook his head again and gave me a kiss goodbye. Very softly I heard him say, ‘Merry Christmas, Alice,’ before he left.

  I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she’d said it back.

  Chapter 17

  Silence Is the Loudest Sound

  I spent the next week in the nursery, painting the Fairy’s Forest and Mr Tibbles’s journey up the lantern-strewn path. We’d moved in the cot that Dad had brought over, which Stuart sanded and varnished, while I had unpacked every last someday vest, miniature one-day bootie, maybe-sometime outfit, and with it, all our unspoken dreams, and hopes.

  After Christmas, I’d travelled up to London to have a coffee with my editor at Rain River Books, Jeff Marsons. Fear was riding high in my chest. Apart from Stuart, and Genevieve, I’d never shown Mr Tibbles to anyone before. But between my mother’s words and, oddly enough, Genevieve’s, I had been finally ready to take the plunge.

  When I opened up my portfolio in the empty publishing house, as most people were away, and showed him Mr Tibbles’s adventures in the Fairy’s Forest, Jeff didn’t say anything at first. Then he looked up at me with a frown, shook his balding head and said, ‘How long have we been working together now? Ten years? And now you show me this?’

  I couldn’t believe how enthusiastic he was about it, and just two days later, I signed my first ever solo book contract.

  Of course, I had to break the news to Catherine. Who demanded that she see my secret project straight away.

  She came in while I was midway through creating the Fairy Forest scene in the nursery, staring at Mr Tibbles with her head cocked to one side, olive green eyes thoughtful. ‘So how come you never told me about Mr Tibbles before?’

  I shrugged as I painted in his little whiskers. ‘Not sure. It was just a little project – something that kept me going... after everything, you know.’

  She nodded, leaning against the door jamb. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve finally sent it to Jeff... Though I wish you’d told me about it.’

  Jeff was talking about a release for summer. I couldn’t believe it. My head was still spinning.

  I smiled and stage-whispered to Muppet, who was lying on the floor next to the reupholstered rocker, with its pink and cream rose pattern, ‘Detective Sergeant Fudge missed a case?’

  ‘Very funny,’ she said, rolling her eyes at us both.

  I shrugged. ‘I thought so,’ I said, returning to Mr Tibbles’s whiskers. I looked up in a minute to see her staring at me rather seriously. ‘Cat...’ I started.

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. It’s just we’ve worked on The Fudge Files for ten years and I love it, truly, but maybe you should have been doing this,’ she said, staring at Mr Tibbles in awe.

  I set my paintbrush down and went to give her a hug. ‘Now listen here, Catherine Jayne Talty. While Detective Sergeant Fudge may be your invention, it was inspired by my dog – I can assure you that I have never regretted working on her stories, it has been one of the biggest joys of my life and I intend to keep working on The Fudge Files until we run out of crimes to solve. Which should be never. I mean, how many books did Agatha Christie write?’ I said, mock sternly.

  ‘Hundreds. Well, all right then. But we will be making time in the schedule for Mr Tibbles too from now on,’ she declared, pointing a long, slim finger at me.

  I shrugged. I’d been playing hooky with the deadlines that way for years already. Best not to tell her that though.

  When Stuart came home, he popped his head into the nu
rsery, blowing us all a kiss. He looked at me, eyes alight. ‘Fairy lights,’ he said approvingly at the little night scene I was working on.

  I grinned, with a nod. ‘Fairy lights... just for you.’

  He held out a little pink bag. ‘For the gem squash,’ he said, eyes twinkling.

  ‘Gem squash?’ asked Catherine from the chair, topping up her wine glass as she watched me work.

  ‘The baby... it’s roughly the size of a gem squash now.’

  She laughed. ‘Stuart...’

  He shrugged, giving us both a wink.

  I took the little package and peered inside. They were a pair of bite-sized pink wellingtons with little strawberries all over. I pulled them out and placed them on the counter. Catherine and I stared at them wordlessly, hearts in our throats.

  ‘As you were,’ said Stuart, giving me a kiss and leaving.

  I looked at Catherine, who shook her head. ‘He’s...’

  I nodded, biting my lip to keep it in myself.

  ‘And the little pink...’

  I came over to pat her back.

  ‘I mean – he’s just so...’ Struggling to find the words. ‘I mean... Richard is a darling, but he’d never just come home with little pink wellies or get excited about fairy lights.’

  I gave her an understanding look. ‘Shall I keep him?’

  She laughed. ‘I think so.’ She turned and narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Especially after the other little thing I found out today, when he was asking if I’d like to stay for dinner... Apparently that’s what he does. He cooks. Every. Bloody. Night. That’s another thing you forgot to tell me about,’ she added, with a pointed glare.

  I hung my head. Some things I didn’t tell her for her own good, but I’m not sure she saw it that way.

  * * *

  When I got to the studio that night, I hesitated at the door. The air felt different and the sounds from outside seemed louder, more intrusive. I went to the postcard and waited, but nothing happened. The room was strangely dark, like spilled ink over my eyes. No moonlight beam shone inside tonight. My heart started to pound.