by Jane Linfoot
‘Is the castle haunted, do ghosts groan with pleasure? That’s going to crack us up for years to come.’ He stops smiling, then starts again. ‘I could sing a Wet, Wet, Wet song if you’d rather? I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes … That’s got a festive version too, as a Christmas obsessive you’d have to go with that.’
He – or more to the point, the surfers he bribed with toast – might have pulled off a fabulous tree here, but he’s not getting away with cheek like that. ‘Bill …’ I wait until I have his full attention. ‘Frig off.’
He stops in mid hum. ‘And we’re inside and you’ve got your hat on. Again. Did you know?’
Whatever I said about not being cross, scratch it. ‘It’s a hat, it’s no big deal. My hair was still hanging in rat tails, as I didn’t have hours to mess with my drier and my tongs, I took refuge under my pompom. Anything else?’ It’s fiction made up on the spot, but I’m past caring.
‘Maybe a bit more reaction to the tree would have been nice?’
I’m rolling my eyes. ‘It’s great. Which I’d have mentioned already if you hadn’t filled the talking space with your humming bollocks.’
From the faraway look in his eyes, he’s talking to himself as much as me. ‘We used to love Ghostbusters, as kids we acted it out for weeks at a time.’ It’s strange to think of Bill as a child, somehow he looks like he landed in his fully perfect adult form.
‘Good for you – and it’s a lovely tree.’ If I say how truly wonderful it is he’ll only ridicule me, so that’s as much as he’s getting. As it stands it’s only half dressed, I have a serious amount of shell collecting to do before we can fully finish it, but I’ve already got a butterfly storm in my tummy when I let myself think how it’s going to look. I’m finally letting my gaze slide down to the huge wooden barrel it’s standing in, the stack of toboggans in front I arranged earlier. Thinking how great a stack of wrapped presents would look too, maybe a couple of gin boxes in the pile to keep the theme going. Then as my eyes drop onto the stone flags I take a step back. ‘What the hell is that on the floor?’ I stoop down and pick up a brown clod.
Bill takes refuge in one of those all too familiar shrugs. ‘Patina – isn’t that the word you’d use?’
I’m examining my palm. ‘Bill, this isn’t patina, it’s mud. Earth. Soil.’ The main lights are dimmed and as I look more closely, I can see it’s spread right across the floor.
‘Whatever fancy name you want to call it, there’s no need to make a fuss, it’s only a bit of dirt.’ He’s underplaying it.
‘It’s not only a bit, it’s like a bloody ploughed field in here.’ There’s a scattering of fine soil, then bigger chunks and lumps. ‘Look, there are even skid marks.’
He gives a sniff. ‘So, they dropped a bit filling the pots, you got your trees, didn’t you?’
‘And half the grounds too by the looks of it.’ As I stare up the stairs the scattered lumps carry on as far up as I can see. ‘What’s it like further through?’ As I follow him into the chilling spaces I should be gasping at the scent of pine needles and the twinkle of another gorgeous undressed tree, feeling excited about the way the chairs look, so cosy and inviting clustered around the fireplace. But instead I’m groaning at the floor. ‘Again, a great effort, spoiled by the muddy footprints. It’s like you had Young Farmers trampling around here in their wellies, not silver surfers.’ And I just know it’s going to be like this all over the castle.
He gives a sigh. ‘These guys are at home with sea and sand. When it comes to soil or housework, they have less idea.’
Now I’ve heard it all. ‘Is this more of Bill’s bollocks?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘I wish it was. They’re mostly ex-stockbrokers, until they got their Y-O-L-O tattoos and took to the waves, they all had staff. Real life is still a novelty, that’s why they’re so enthusiastic, but the downside is the gaps.’
‘Like the mud?’
‘Exactly.’ He’s looking shifty. ‘You must be blinded by the stuff, because you haven’t spotted the other deliberate mistake yet.’
I must be too tired to see it, or possibly the mud heaps are too high. ‘Tell me.’
‘The dining furniture isn’t here yet. It depends on the hangovers when that happens.’ He pauses to pull a face. ‘Since the guys discovered craft cider, Sunday mornings aren’t pretty.’
My groan’s so loud I could rival Miranda. ‘So did you get anywhere tracking the parcels?’
The way his face drops I know the answer before he speaks. ‘Shit. Damn. No news there yet.’
My voice soars. ‘One thing, and you didn’t do it?’ He just isn’t getting this, what’s more, he took one chair upstairs, then didn’t lift a finger all day.
He’s shuffling from foot to foot. ‘It’s fine, I’ll do it now.’
‘Actually Bill, it isn’t fine at all. I admit some tiny bits of it are, like the trees. But then even the good bits get stuffed up and suddenly the whole place is full of mud. Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take to clean these floors? And what the hell’s the point of trees when there aren’t any sodding decorations to hang on them? You care so little, you can’t even be bothered to spend five minutes trying to discover where the effing decorations are!’ I’m so angry I’m shaking. I’m also sparing a second to send a silent but heartfelt plea to every Christmas elf in the area to speed the decorations our way. If they arrive first thing we might just be saved. ‘The whole of your life for the next two weeks hangs on Libby’s first impressions. When we wake up tomorrow morning, we have twelve hours. And it’s your choice. Either you step up, take responsibility, and get involved. Or I’m leaving you to it, and you’re on your own.’
His eyes are wide. ‘Great. I’ll bear that in mind.’ From the grating wobble in his voice he’s shaken. Which has to be a first.
And actually, I’m not going to work my butt off until I know he’s committed, because unless he is, there’s no point to any of this.
‘Right.’ I smile down at Merwyn. ‘Merwyn and I are going for a walk, then we’ll be going to bed. And depending on our hangovers … and how lazy we’re feeling … and how many pages of figures we find to pore over … you may see us in the morning … but you may not see us until lunchtime. Or even later. So over to you, it’s your call now, Bill.’
And as we turn and stomp back to the kitchen I can’t help noticing how good Merwyn’s getting at marching off beside me, right in step, with his nose in the air. And as we make our way out onto the beach and watch the moon’s reflection splashing across the sea as we walk, I know whatever I say, I won’t be able to stay in bed too long in the morning. Simply because I can’t wait to see how Bill’s going to play this.
Sunday
15th December
12.
Wrap up!
Me, bribed by baking? I’m really not that shallow. But when we come back from our before-breakfast walk to find a tray of cranberry and cinnamon swirl buns, still warm from the oven, I have to admit, my mouth is watering. When I find a note saying Ivy, help yourself (not for dogs!) mainly I’m struck by the writing. It’s slightly italic, and despite the (very bossy!) condition, it’s friendly and relaxed, with neat even letters that are confident and clear, without being showy. Handwriting and cranberry buns can tell you a lot, they’re like a secret view into a person’s soul. And it’s actually fine to exclude Merwyn, because he’s only allowed dog specific food anyway.
By the time I’ve gone through every surfer in my head plus Ambrose and Miranda to guess a match I’m already on my third bun and counting. There’s something about the delicious doughy crunch, the snowy drift of icing sugar on the top, the way the juice of the berries is shot through with heat as its tartness hits my tongue. And whatever Bill claimed about hangovers, someone is up and about and working all kinds of magic with the Magimix.
Then because I really don’t want to show up too early, I creep into Bill’s room and fire off a couple of ‘see you very soon’ messages to F
liss and Libby, which really mean, ‘arrive as late as you like’. When neither of them reply it’s fine – we all know what a nightmare last minute packing is. If they haven’t even set off yet it means all the more time for us to get the place perfect.
If I’m extra mellow as we finally make our way through to the castle entrance hall, it’s because I’m stuffed. Like Merwyn after his favourite turkey dog-dinner blow out, as I swing the bag of shells I collected on the beach and added ribbon loops to last night, I’m waddling rather than walking. I also have zero expectations about what I’m going to find. Let’s stay real here – even if Bill’s not in his room, why should he pull his finger out with the castle when he hasn’t this far?
Then as I push through into the entrance hall my jaw drops. ‘Stepladders!’ It’s one of those times I’m so surprised I end up saying exactly what I’m looking at instead of anything more sensible.
‘That’s the one, Hat-girl. Wearing the furry pompom indoors five days in a row? We’ll be thinking it’s deliberate.’
Obviously that was Bill, and obviously I’m not going to reply, especially when he’s calling me that. Although if it’s a choice between jokes about my hat and jokes about ghostly orgasms, or falling on top of Christmas trees, or my untimely leap into the effing hot tub, or worse still, my supposedly desperate hunt for a man, I’ll take the head gear every time.
‘And Taj too!’ I’m still startled and stating the obvious. ‘First one here, working through your hangover?’
He’s sliding a second set of steps into place. ‘Head’s clear as a bell, and I was actually last to arrive. When word got out about those cranberry twirls it caused a surfie stampede.’ He dips into a box and pulls out a miniature gin bottle. ‘So we’re hanging these on here with some shells? How about we make a start and you come back in five minutes and see if we’re doing it right?’
‘Great.’ For once it actually is. I hand him the bag of shells, then I turn to Bill. ‘What’s that you’re leaning on?’
Bill steps back and holds up the stick, to show what’s on the end. ‘It’s a mop, we’re all hard at it in there, I can personally guarantee every floor will soon be patina free.’ He’s pushing on the door. ‘There’s something through here I know you’ll want to work on too.’
As I follow his dark tousled curls past the sofas and fireplace and groups of easy chairs, I’m pinching myself to check I’m not dreaming. Much less productively, I’m mentally tracing the lines of his back muscles through his jumper. Watching the back of his neck flexing as he turns his head to grin at me over his shoulder, and hating myself for it. ‘Charcoal – it’s a good colour for cashmere.’ I’ve no idea where that blurting came from either.
He glances back at me. ‘There you go again, Ivy, completely missing the bigger picture. After all that carrying too.’ He steps to one side and takes a breath. ‘So what do you think – or are they so transparent they’re invisible?’
For a second I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about and then I see – the three long glass tables from the distillery arranged in the empty space beyond the sofas, surrounded by my favourite perspex chairs. ‘Oh my, are they spectacular, or what?’ It’s like they’re there, but they’re not. Sure, they’re big, but because they’re see-through it’s as if they don’t take up any space.
‘Good call of yours, Pom Pom. They actually look so good they may have to stay forever. Are you putting lights on the chairs?’
‘I’ll do that now.’ It’s a shock he’s even remembered. I dive into a box I left here yesterday, and pull out the sets of the prettiest tiny see-through perspex stars on strands of copper wire along with the tape to stick the battery boxes to the chairs. ‘And maybe if you have some larger empty gin bottles, we could have them in clusters down the table centres, with the tea lights in jars.’
As I hear Miranda’s laugh approaching I’m expecting her to sweep through in her dressing gown. Instead she’s in navy leggings and lots of woolly layers with flashes of brightly flowered silk, all topped off with a shimmery gold puffa coat, and she’s carrying pots full of pine branches. ‘Had a lovely lie in, sweetheart? We’ve been at it for hours, where do you think for these, I’ve got another eight outside?’
I’m picking my jaw up off the floor. Again. For all the reasons. ‘How about along the long wall between the trees. They’ll be a great way to break up the rockiness of the walls.’
She’s purring at me. ‘You’ve got such a good eye, Ivy-leaf, I knew you’d know.’ As for being called Ivy-leaf, no one loves a pet name quite as much as Miranda. This one stuck on my very first visit to Brighton when I accidentally blurted that my mum called me Ivy after the ivy-leaved toadflax which grew in our back yard when she was pregnant. They’re like tiny purple snapdragon weeds that scramble in nooks and crannies on walls and everyone seemed to think it was hilarious they were the only flowers we had. It could have been worse, they could have called me Toadflax, and at the time I remember loving that I had my own special name.
But getting back to the present, I’m hot on the trail of my mystery baker. ‘And those lovely buns in the kitchen, Miranda, were they down to you?’ She used to hate cooking, but with Paul Hollywood flexing his pecs in the Bake Off tent, she wouldn’t be the first hopeless cook to be inspired to brush up on her sponge skills.
She lets out a hoot of laughter. ‘I can’t take the credit for those, Ambie and I would starve before we switched the oven on.’ So that’s them out of the running. As she turns to Bill she changes from a velvety purr to a spit. ‘So here we all are, totally clothed and working our little tushes off for you, have you got anything to say to me?’
Bill shrugs and half closes one eye. ‘Your jacket is looking fabulously tinselly?’ Is that seriously the only glittery word he knows?
Miranda’s not backing off. ‘You might like to try again?’
‘Nice pine twigs?’
There’s a low laugh, a flash of neon orange and the rattle of hair beads, and Keef bursts in. ‘Don’t listen, he’s winding you up.’ His joggers are streaked in a shepherd’s delight sunset, but there’s no sign of any giveaway traces of flour dust. ‘If you’re after a four poster, Miranda, I’m your man. Say the word, my Milwaukee is at the ready.’
As Miranda unwinds her scarf and readjusts her layers a large expanse of bare chest comes into view. ‘It’s never too early for cocktails!’
Keef laughs. ‘I’m talking about my Milwaukee drill, not my drinks cabinet. Super-fast four poster conversions are my speciality. Do you fancy scaffold poles, ash saplings or rope-tied sail battens?’
Totally entranced doesn’t begin to cover her expression. ‘It all sounds very hands on! How about you come up and give me a demonstration or two, talk me through the options?’
As he turns to follow her he leans across and pats my arm. ‘Stress less, live more, Ivy. You’ll be pleased in the long run.’
‘Me, stressed?’ I’m so incensed it comes out as a shriek.
He’s wiggling his eyebrows at me as he heads for the door. ‘Stop waiting for perfect, don’t forget to play, carpe those effing diems!’
Merwyn and I exchange WTF? glances, then I turn to Bill. ‘Would you like to translate?’
Above the corners of his pulled down mouth Bill’s eyes are dancing. ‘That’s just Dad giving you the benefit of his YOLO repertoire. Think yourself lucky you didn’t get You’re a diamond, let yourself shine.’ He’s rubbing his hands. ‘Anyway, no time to lose, we’d best push on, what are you onto next?’
I’m still opening and closing my mouth at the sheer audacity when Taj’s head appears around the door. ‘We’re fine for bottles out here, Ivy, but you’re going to need a hell of a lot more shells.’
‘Right.’ At least this way it sounds like my idea. ‘I’ll get the lights on these chairs then I’ll head straight off to the beach.’
Bill’s on his way out but he hasn’t quite left. ‘I was going to stock up the wood baskets, but I could come with you instead
– give you a hand?’
‘No, totally not, all your hands are needed here.’ Bossing people around. Keeping the crew in order. I’d rather eat my own head than go for a walk with Bill. Just saying.
‘Okay, your loss. Well … busy, busy.’ He points to his mop. ‘Catch you later, then.’
I sort out the chairs, and there are enough lights left to put them into jars down the tables too. Although I say it myself, as I tiptoe away it looks so amazing and magical I have to go back for another look – three times. Then Merwyn and I hurry out across the sand to collect shells, as I bob to scoop up whelks and cockles, he’s chasing sticks and trying to catch the bubbles as the waves rush up the beach. The sea is iron grey, streaked with foam slashes and as we pick our way along the high tide line, and as my stomach starts to growl with hunger and I still haven’t filled the bag, I’m slightly cursing myself for being hasty and not accepting Bill’s help. But, jeez, spending any more time with the guy than I already have to would simply not be worth the agony.
When we get back to the kitchen it’s wonderfully Christmassy, with the lights on the tree and the fairy lights I’ve strung around the door. As I drill holes in the shells, then thread them with pink and orange hanging ribbons, with my favourite festive playlist on my phone, a frothy hot chocolate, and the rest of the cranberry whirls to dip into, it’s the first truly relaxing moment I’ve had to myself since I arrived. However much bollocks Bill’s dad talks, by the time I’m swinging towards the entrance hall with my second bag of shells I’m pretty chilled. Then I open the door, see most of the surfies plus Miranda hanging off the ladders and my jaw hits the floor, followed closely behind by my stomach.
‘But what are you wearing?’ It comes out as a whimper.
Miranda beams down at me from a top step. ‘They’re Cockle Shell Castle sweat shirts, aren’t they lovely, isn’t this a gorgeous shade of yellow?’