A Cornish Christmas

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A Cornish Christmas Page 18

by Lily Graham


  I swallowed, fear constricting my throat. Wasn’t she coming?

  I wasn’t prepared for this, not even close. I’d gotten so used to her being here, I’d begun to take it on faith. I wasn’t at all prepared to let her go again.

  I blinked back tears, feeling a silent scream lodge itself in my chest. What if she never came back? What if she never re-entered my life? What if that was all I got and I hadn’t even realised that the last time was the last time... I wasn’t ready for her to leave. Not again.

  In the days since Christmas, her messages had been brief but filled with love. It hadn’t occurred to me to be concerned, as I’d prattled on about my hopes for the nursery, Stuart’s plantings and his plans for the installation of a ‘storm-proof greenhouse’, and that I’d finally sent off the first Mr Tibbles story to the publishers. She’d said nothing of leaving, left no warning that she may not return, and last night all she’d done was repeat her words from Christmas morning. Or at least, that’s what I thought she’d said. That I should hold on to hope, no matter what happens.

  It was only now, when the Mum-shaped-hole in my chest had just begun to mend and had exposed itself again, that it occurred to me to read deeper into her message. She’d been saying something more. Something that I’d missed. So caught up in my newfound bliss and hope for the future, I hadn’t paid attention to her words as I normally would. I’d almost taken it for granted that she’d be there. I closed my eyes feeling infinitely stupid. I hadn’t noticed the warning for what it was. I stood in the empty room, feeling desolate and alone, wondering what she’d meant and if I would ever hear from her again and how I could carry on without her if I didn’t. It seemed impossible. Absurd even. How could I do the one thing she had asked me to do when faced with this endless silence? How could I hold on to hope when it had left with her?

  Chapter 18

  Broken Things

  I awoke the next morning feeling strange. Not ready to face the day. The bed was warm and comfortable. I couldn’t escape the feeling that it was where we should stay all day. Not the best feeling to welcome in the New Year.

  The empty postcard was like a splinter – one that I couldn’t remove – and as I lay in bed, Muppet in my arms, I tried my best not to think of what it meant. What she’d meant by her words.

  No matter what

  Stuart stared at me, his dark head on the pillow opposite mine, his expression uncomprehending. ‘So you want to just stay here?’ he asked, with a frown. ‘All day?’

  I opened my arms wide for him to snuggle in next to Muppet and me. He laughed and put his arm around us, smiling at Muppet’s continuous snores, in unofficial competition with the waves crashing outside.

  ‘Us,’ I said, waggling my eyebrows. ‘Not just me, but the three of us... We could have a little picnic. In fact, I’ll make it. I’m rather good at sandwiches and fetching dog biscuits.’

  He pressed his face against mine. Brown eyes to blue. ‘You must really want to do that if you’re prepared to do the food,’ he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

  I nodded. But he just stared at me regretfully. ‘Love, we have the party tonight and it’s not like we can just skip it.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘We can have our own party,’ I added, giving what I hoped was a lascivious wink.

  He smiled, showing his perfect teeth. ‘I like the sound of that, particularly if you’ll be wearing those all day,’ he said, tracing a finger along the sleeve of my pink flannel pyjamas – the ones with the white rabbits all over them. ‘However, I’m also catering the party, if you remember,’ he pointed out with a shrug.

  I groaned, loudly, and threw the covers over all of us.

  ‘No...’

  Stuart laughed and gave me a kiss under the blanket.

  ‘We can do this all day tomorrow if you like,’ he suggested.

  ‘It’s not that... I just have this weird feeling, like we shouldn’t get out of bed today,’ I said, trying to explain.

  ‘A feeling?’ he asked in surprise.

  I nodded.

  He shook his head. ‘Love, it’s just New Year’s Eve. You get like this every year.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I protested, eyes wide with surprise.

  ‘Yes, you do. Last year we had that big do in London and half way through, you said we needed to go home because you felt weird...’

  I scoffed. ‘That was because I did feel weird... I had food poisoning, remember? Horrid way to start the New Year, just so you know.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, okay, brutal... But then the year before that, we cancelled with Catherine.’

  I shrugged. ‘Because you’d pulled an all-nighter, working with the Hong Kong office... You were slurring, you were so tired,’ I exclaimed.

  He laughed. ‘Hardly. I was tired, but I could have rallied. Red Bull wings...’ he said, eyes dancing. ‘Face it, my love, you just don’t like New Year’s, never have and never will. Any excuse.’

  I sighed. Rallied... really? He had fallen asleep ringing his own doorbell. But okay, if that’s how he chose to remember it. ‘Each case had its own merit. But today... today is different,’ I said, knowing it was hopeless. ‘Can we just drop the food off? I’ll help you get it ready and everything, then we’ll come home? Please?’

  He laughed. ‘Ivy, you know we have to go. Anyway, if we don’t go then I won’t see you in your new dress and you can’t deny a man that. That’s cruel... I mean, it’s lace and everything.’

  I laughed, rolling my eyes. ‘It’s sequins, not lace. Hopeless you are.’

  He made his eyebrows dance. ‘It’s low-cut – that I do remember...’

  I laughed. ‘Of course that bit you remember...’ I knew a lost cause when I saw one. ‘Fine, I’ll go shower then come help you.’

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, giving me a kiss and climbing out from under the covers, singing his made-up gardening song, while putting on his wellies to the tune of James Brown’s ‘I Feel Good’: ‘I see roots... nah nah nah nah nah neh eh... and I know that I shouldn’t ... nah nah nah nah nah neh eh there’s sprouts. So nice... now I’ve got roots.’

  He left, giving me a little hip pop before he swaggered out the door. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  I was probably just being silly. How I wished I could shake the feeling that we should just stay home today.

  I had a long shower. Stuart’s song lodged in my brain, making me giggle as I rinsed out the shampoo. When I got out, I felt better, more at ease. I was determined to put odd feelings, dead mothers, and empty postcards out of my head.

  I had crostini to assemble, vegetables to peel, and flatbreads to brush with herbs and olive oil. Stuart was in his creative element and had given me strict instructions as our kitchen turned into a savoury production line, filled with the mouth-watering scents of cooked salmon, olive tapenade, grilled scallops and caramelised onions that were sure to wow the guests at the Cloudsea Harbour New Year’s Eve Party tonight.

  My job was top stacker really, as neither of us trusted me with any of the actual cooking.

  When everything was ready and all the trays were stacked and covered with cling film for the ride over, we raced upstairs to our separate bathrooms to bathe and change. I touched the dark-grey sequined dress that hung on a hanger at the back of the door with a smile. It was pretty. I wasn’t usually a sequins kind of girl, but this would probably be the last time I’d get to wear a really fancy dress until the baby came. Might as well make the most of it.

  Stuart was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs; dressed in a tuxedo, looking so handsome he took my breath away. His black hair and eyes were shining and he wore that irrepressible boyish smile of his.

  He shook his head when he saw me, eyes widening. ‘No, you’re right, I don’t think we should go out tonight... Let’s just stay here and I’ll take that off of you... very slowly, of course.’ He grinned, so that I blushed. ‘There’s fire, food... the night is young,’ he continued, eyes dancing.

  I laughed, shakin
g my head. ‘I’m tempted, Mr Everton. You look rather fabulous, by the way, but alas we have fifty platters to deliver, as you yourself pointed out this morning.’

  He sighed. ‘Okay, well, just so you know, if you’d put that on this morning when you asked, I would have cancelled,’ he said.

  I grinned. ‘Not for the white rabbits?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

  I laughed and came down to give him a kiss. We put on our coats and with arms linked headed out to the car and set off towards the harbour.

  The harbour’s sparkling display of lights dotting both sides of the quay was one of my favourite things to see. We made our way to the boathouse, the perfect venue for a party, with its spectacular views along the harbour and its beautiful array of lights. It was breathtaking. It was hard to believe that just a few weeks ago a storm had swept through here. I just wished that I could get rid of the inexplicable anxiety that I had woken up with, so that I could enjoy it properly.

  I helped Stuart carry through the trays, which the waiters would soon circulate, and went to say hello to Catherine, who was standing in the back near a white stage, where a jazz band was playing ‘La Vie en Rose’.

  Catherine was looking beautiful in a gorgeous, green silk dress that set off her red hair perfectly. ‘Ivy Everton, that’s some dress,’ she said, giving me a hug hello, and handing me a glass of champagne. ‘It’s non-alcoholic, so no worries.’

  ‘Same for you. Wow, you look stunning!’

  She smiled. ‘It’s nice to feel like a girl... won’t lie. Babysitters – aka Dad – are fabulous. Richard in a tux... I could get used to this,’ she sighed happily, then frowned. ‘But what’s wrong?’ she asked, peering closely at me.

  I shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. Just had this weird feeling all day. Stupid, really.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s New Year’s Eve ... You’re always a little weird about New Year’s Eve...’

  I gave her a look. ‘Not you too. That’s what Stuart said. But this... I don’t know, it feels different...’

  She touched my arm. ‘It’s probably nothing. Pregnancy hormones, they do strange things, trust me.’

  I nodded. Hormones. That made sense.

  I stifled a laugh seeing Mrs Aheary walk past with a pitcher of ale, dressed in a fully lace pink dress with shoulder pads and about a yard of pleating going on around her hips – she looked like an extra from The Golden Girls. I avoided any eye contact, hoping to avoid a lecture on emmets and/or the inevitable decline of the postal service, but she saw me and made a beeline in my direction, calling, ‘Ivy-girl, so glad to see you out and about, though in my day women in your condition didn’t go out in the cold like this!’

  Ah! Who had told Mrs Aheary I was pregnant? Who? I’d kill them. Must have been someone from The Thursday Club... just wait until I saw them...

  Luckily, Mrs Aheary’s lecture was interrupted by the timeous arrival of Bess Willis, who must have taken pity on me for some unknown reason, and took the pitcher of ale from out of her hands and said, ‘Let me help you, Mrs Aheary. Come on then,’ and Mrs Aheary had no choice but to follow after her booze.

  Feeling someone touch my back, I turned in surprise to find Dr Gia Harris and her husband. ‘Dr Gia,’ I exclaimed.

  She beamed at me and introduced her husband, Peter, a fit-looking blond with kind blue eyes. ‘Just wanted to come say hello, Ivy, love,’ said Dr Gia. ‘It’s so lovely to see you out and about. You’re glowing,’ she whispered. I grinned and thanked her, watching as she left arm in arm with her husband.

  I waved at April Blume, the owner of The Cloud Arms, thrilled to see that she was still in town. Her bright magenta hair was striking against an electric blue jumpsuit. She gave me a wink, as her husband swept her onto the dance floor.

  I started when a hand placed itself on my shoulder. ‘Dad!’ I uttered in surprise. He was wearing a slightly shabby-looking suit, his wild grey hair tamed on either side of his head. He gave me a nervous smile and whispered, ‘I think I’m on a date.’ He gestured subtly with a slight turn of his head, eyes wide with shock.

  I blinked, following his gaze to a trim-looking woman with blonde-grey hair opposite the stage, swaying to the music, wearing a black dress and heels. ‘Really?’

  He shrugged. ‘I think so... I said I’d give her a lift. Her name’s Elizabeth Chaney. She’s in my ballroom dancing class. But maybe she thought... well, anyway.’ He shrugged. ‘Not the end of the world.’ He sounded quite pleased at the prospect, if rather surprised.

  I smiled. She looked quite sweet really, very pretty in a Faye Dunaway sort of way... Wait. ‘Dad, ballroom dancing, you?’ Shock had rendered me almost monosyllabic.

  He shook his head at himself. ‘I know! Remember, before Christmas, when you told me to look under the stairs?’

  I swallowed. It had been Mum who suggested that, but still. ‘That’s when you took out the Christmas box, with all the lights, right?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, it was the push I needed to put them up. For so long I was stuck. Well, anyway, there was something else in the box: a pamphlet for dance lessons. Mum wanted us to do it but then she fell ill so we never did. But when I saw it there, in amongst all the Christmas stuff, I... It’s daft but...’ He shrugged, a soft smile about his lips.

  ‘You saw it as a sign?’ I asked, touched.

  He gave a small shrug. ‘And now...’

  ‘Now you might be on a date,’ I said, breathing out. ‘Big day.’

  ‘Big day.’ He nodded, taking a sip of my fake champagne, supposedly to steady his nerves.

  ‘It’s non-alcoholic,’ I laughed.

  He gave a short nervous laugh. ‘Probably better, though it makes little difference... look at what I get myself into sober.’

  I laughed. ‘Go on then, she won’t bite.’

  He gave me a slow, wide-eyed nod, took a steadying breath, gave me a kiss and went back to his date.

  ‘Well done, Mum,’ I whispered. Typical Dad – he would probably have never taken the step on his own.

  ‘Would you care to dance, Mrs Everton?’

  I turned to see Stuart, holding out his hand, impossibly handsome.

  My breath caught in my throat. How did he do that? I nodded. ‘Of course.’ My smile wide.

  He winked at me and then nodded at the band. The singer smiled at us and they began to play Etta James’s ‘At Last’.

  My mouth fell open. ‘I love this song,’ I said, tears stinging my eyes.

  He smiled. ‘I know,’ he said, pulling me into his embrace. Here in his arms, the world righted itself, and I felt completely safe. He cradled my hand in his while we swayed to the music, my heart feeling like it might burst.

  He looked at me, eyes gentle. ‘Have I told you lately that I love you, Mrs Everton?’

  ‘That’s my line,’ I said in surprise.

  He grinned. ‘It’s a good one. Mind if I borrow it?’

  I shook my head, feeling ridiculously happy. ‘Maybe just this once.’

  He leaned over and kissed me, his lips firm, but soft, and my stomach did a little flip. The canopy of lanterns and the twinkling harbour lights faded away. Stuart’s gentle expression, imprinted in my memory. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the moment, feeling the last trace of anxiety finally ebbing away.

  As the song came to a close, I pulled away reluctantly. ‘That was some kiss, Mr Everton,’ I said, staring into his dark, serious eyes.

  ‘That’s nothing. Just wait; come midnight, I’ll give you a kiss you’ll never forget.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  He nodded, giving me a soft kiss on the forehead.

  Terry clapped a large freckled hand on Stuart’s shoulder. ‘Sorry to break the moment, lass, but can I steal yer husband for a wee while? Got a crisis with the crostini,’ he said.

  I laughed, shaking my head. ‘Terry, you know you get more Scottish as the night wears on?’

  He grinned. ‘Ah missus, that or the whisky,’ he winked.


  I shook my head, with a chuckle. ‘Ah, that explains it. Okay, you can have him... just so long as you bring him back before the countdown.’

  Stuart gave me a sweeping kiss, bending me backwards. ‘That should hold you until then.’

  I laughed. ‘Not even close – hurry back,’ I said, and went to join my dad and his date, who were standing rather awkwardly by the punch table, like a couple of shy teenagers.

  It turned out that Dad’s date was rather fabulous: she was a piano teacher who’d lived in Paris for most of her adult life. I spent the next forty-five minutes amazed as she told me about being a teacher at the Sorbonne, and what her daily life had been like. As a Francophile myself, I was a little bit in awe. Most of this was news to Dad, of course, but as the night wore on he seemed to really loosen up, so I filled up both their punch glasses and retreated to let the liquid courage do its magic.

  Just then, someone called, ‘One minute, everyone!’ and the whole party stood to attention for the countdown. I turned, looking for Stuart, but couldn’t see him anywhere. I scanned the room, and saw Terry standing with one of the waiting staff chatting, so I hurried over. ‘Terry, have you seen Stuart?’

  He shook his head. ‘Ah no, I thought he’d be back by now. Sorry, love. Maybe try his cell?’ he said, concerned, before another waiter came past to catch his attention. ‘Sorry, love, got to go sort the champagne,’ he added, leaving me staring at his retreating back.

  ‘What do you mean – back from where?’ I asked, confused, but it was too noisy, he couldn’t hear me.

  I felt a hand touch my shoulder and I turned with a relieved smile and said, ‘Finally.’ But it wasn’t Stuart. I frowned to see Catherine standing there, a stricken look on her face. Two tracks of black mascara trailed down her face and she was cradling a phone to her chest.

  I blinked. ‘What’s wrong?’ I cried.

  ‘Oh Ivy, I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident.’

  My eyes widened in fear. All around me people began to shout ‘ten, nine, eight...’

 

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