A Cozy Christmas in Cornwall

by Jane Linfoot

  The smaller boy pipes up. ‘I’m going to tell my dad.’

  Libby’s granite snap hardens. ‘Well good luck with that. It’ll be easier to find Cornish wifi and a Celtic mermaid than get a line in to him.’

  ‘So maybe, tea now?’ I turn to wince at Fliss, but she’s fully occupied grappling with Oscar’s telegraph pole as he powers towards the tree at a hundred miles an hour. Truly, that boy is a one-man demolition team. I’m picturing the ruination he’d have wreaked on the Osbourne and Little wallpaper and the chandelier candelabras in the Cockle Shell palace up the coast if he’d gone tossing his caber in there. And on balance it feels better we’re here, not there.

  ‘Tea?’ It’s Libby. ‘We’re not nearly ready for that, we need photos first.’

  ‘We do?’ Looking at the kids’ angry faces, unless she’s brought some spare Santa sacks to drop over their heads we might be best leaving this until later.

  ‘Absolutely. As many combinations as you can of the staff up their ladders, please.’ As she hands me her phone she’s totally unsmiling. ‘And then we’ll go for a selfie with us and the workforce in front of the tree.’

  I have to check. ‘Everyone here okay with pictures going up on Instagram etcetera?’ I take it from the way they’re holding their poses that they’re all in.

  As I leap about getting different angles, Libby’s shaking her head. ‘It’s so good we set off a day early, any later we might have missed it.’

  With the tree and the staircase, and the ladders and the brightly coloured sweatshirts, it’s almost like a scene from Elf, but I keep that thought to myself and carry on snapping.

  After the selfie with everyone I’m about to hand the phone to Libby when she lets out a cry. ‘Mum, is that you up there! Come out from behind the man in green THIS MINUTE!’ She’s staring at Miranda as if she’s having to look twice. ‘What are you doing here, you said you were arriving next weekend?’

  Miranda’s a lot less prominent than she was on the same step earlier, if you ask me. She’s still skulking slightly as she cobbles her reply together.

  ‘I’ll say hello properly once we finish here. We came early to give Ivy a hand, and it’s a damn good thing we did, we’ve barely stopped.’

  Libby’s frown deepens. ‘We …?’

  Miranda’s smile suggests she’s completely unbothered by Libby’s disapproval and the charm-free interrogation. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you in a bit, you might have seen him in the hot tub as you came through.’ She’s still going. ‘His Range Rover’s out the front, it’s the extra-shiny one with the cherished plate.’

  Libby lets out a groan. ‘You haven’t got engaged again?’

  Miranda hesitates. ‘No … at least … not yet. At the moment Ambie’s just a special friend.’

  ‘Ambie?’ Libby whirls round and looks at me expectantly.

  ‘Short for Ambrose.’ I can’t help thinking about how much she’s paying me, which is why I’m filling her in. ‘He’s great company in the hot tub, drinks gin like a fish and, don’t be fooled like I was, he can hold his breath under water for bloody hours.’ I take in that Tansy is sending me a dead eye. ‘Excuse the swearing.’

  Fliss is rolling her eyes at me. ‘A husband’s for life, not just for Christmas, Mum.’

  Miranda’s shaking her head. ‘Look at you two and your long faces, stop worrying about things that might never happen.’

  Fliss lets out a groan. ‘But they always do, that’s the problem.’

  Miranda’s smile lights up again as she stares down at the surfies. ‘I’ve met so many new friends here too.’ She wrinkles her nose at Keef. ‘It’s not every day a man makes you your dream four poster.’

  It’s good to see Fliss finally smile. ‘Not even you can marry them all, Miranda.’

  And this is why I love spending time with Fliss’s family. They’re enthralling because they live their lives without limits. They call their mum by her first name. You never know what’s going to happen from one moment to the next. I mean, I love my mum and dad, but they’re super-predictable and they’d hit the roof if I ever called them Pauline and Harry. For them, every year is the same – they spend a week in the same guesthouse in Scarborough in the summer, have a day out at Bridlington in the autumn, a trip to the panto, and that’s as much excitement as they can take in a year. Their menus repeat week after week, my dad fishes, my mum knits, and they watch TV. And that’s it. When they once swapped Thursday sausage and chips for an M&S ready meal, they talked about it for months afterwards. When I first met Fliss, her noisy, colourful family were a revelation. One weekend at Miranda’s and the limitations of my own life exploded. Before, nothing seemed possible, afterwards everything was there for the taking.

  I know I’ll never be as brave and out there as they are, there will always be a part of where I came from that holds me back and tethers me to the mundane. But, hell, life is so much more interesting since I spent time with them. They gave me courage, made me see what I could do. It’s like they showed me what was possible, gave me permission to try new things, to explore and expand my world. And I’m so grateful for that. Without them I’d probably just have slipped back home after uni. At best I’d be a couple of streets away from my mum and dad. At worst I’d still be in my old room, having sausage and mash every Wednesday.

  Even if I’ll never have a life as lively as theirs, when I’m in their slip stream they pull me to places I wouldn’t usually go. Like this castle.

  Although right now my bigger picture has shrunk a bit. I over stretched, reached too far, and came crashing down. So for now my courage has diminished. Which is why it’s especially lovely to be back in their wake again. Even if this time it’s less as a participator, more as a spectator and helper.

  Miranda’s laughing. ‘As Keef told me, we’re all diamonds, we just need to be free and let ourselves shine.’

  Bill’s shaking his head. ‘Complimentary life coaching is included in your stay.’

  Miranda’s eyes are flashing at him from up the ladder. ‘Don’t undermine your father, Bill. If you had an iota of commercial sense in you and even a tenth of your dad’s empathy, you’d offer mindfulness breaks in a heartbeat.’

  Bill’s groaning too. ‘Along with naked beach getaways and the branded hats, then.’

  Fliss isn’t letting this go. ‘Free – that means definitely not tied down, Mum.’

  Tiffany’s screwing up her face. ‘How many husbands has granny had now, then?’

  ‘Why can’t granny marry all of them … what’s a naked beach?’ That’s Tarkie.

  Tansy’s musing. ‘When you and Dad split up, Mum, are you going to marry someone else?’

  The way Libby’s closing her eyes for a second, she looks like she’s beaten. But then she bounces straight back again. ‘Guys, give me a break, this is supposed to be a holiday.’

  Tansy’s sniffing. ‘How long before we go home?’

  Despite feeling like I’m on repeat, I’m going to try one last time. ‘What about that tea?’

  Libby’s whirling around to me again. ‘Ivy, I thought you’d never offer.’

  As we make our way back to the kitchen Bill sidles up to me. ‘So that went well … wouldn’t you say …’

  If Libby’s so bad it feels like I’m on Bill’s team, we are in trouble.

  Monday

  16th December

  14.

  Everybody’s having fun …

  After my first five quiet days at the castle, with eight more guests arriving, things were bound to change. First the luggage came in – obviously that was a job for the surfies before they left for Sunday quiz night at the Hungry Shark. Luckily they seem to be as enthusiastic about photo opportunities as they are about everything else in life, and no one queried getting snapped lugging Libby’s humungous cases through the door, up the very picturesque staircase, and at many points between. But it went downhill from there onwards. With six children, all unhappy for their own – very real, very individual �
�� reasons, and all very vocal, the volume of complaining was off the scale.

  When we finally moved on to that tea I’d been talking about for so long, Libby lasted for approximately two sips before she caved in to the kids’ nagging. I nipped into Bill’s bedroom for two seconds’ research, and a nanosecond later she dragged her lot off to the Fun Palace at the Crab and Pilchard down in St Aidan.

  If you can believe the website blurb and the GIFs, they were heading for wifi, turkey nuggets and ball cage play, all watched over by a mechanical Santa, his present-laden sleigh, and eight animated flying reindeer. I pause for a momentary flash-back shudder as I think about that. With staff dressed as Santa’s helpers, piped Christmas music, two for one on Festive cocktails, and one of those trees where the deccies change colour in gorgeous bands going downwards – an idea that I have completely failed to sell to Daniels three Christmases running – well, what’s not to like? I was almost sad to be staying home.

  Who knows what those particular kids will make of it. I get the feeling they’ve always had ‘the best’ in unlimited quantities, which is probably why they’re particularly hard to please. I mean, they came to a castle on the beach and there wasn’t one good thing they found to say about it. Worse still, they couldn’t wait to leave again. It isn’t exactly promising for the next two weeks for the rest of us either.

  But the good part was, with the ‘critical moaners in crisis’ out of the way Fliss and I managed to separate Oscar from his telegraph pole for long enough for us all to enjoy cheese on toast in front of the fire, and be supremely pleased there were no carpets to scrape the molten cheddar off. Then we all crept off to bed, leaving Miranda and Ambie still waving their glasses around in the hot tub.

  After our early night, Merwyn and I were up and out for our walk along the beach early enough to see the dawn spread luminous grey and pink tinges across the clouds above the darkness of the sea as the wind blew our faces off. When we walked back towards the castle, the castellations of the towers were silhouetted against the orange sunrise. We were hoping we’d have the kitchen to ourselves when we got back, but Harriet had woken Fliss and Oscar. They all staggered down in their pyjamas and they’re sitting at the table now looking like the walking dead. Except for Harriet who’s hurling her breakfast fruit at the French window from her high chair, in between bouts of burying her hands in what looks suspiciously like porridge.

  I try not to think how we’ll get that out of the cracks between the broad polished floorboards, hand Fliss a coffee, and join them at the long table. ‘Are you okay?’ She obviously isn’t. Oscar used to be so upbeat and rosy, but as Fliss manages to joke, the morning his baby sister arrived he turned into the honey monster from hell.

  She blinks at me. ‘I’m hanging on, it’ll be better once Rob gets here.’ Which is her state for most days, not helped by his late working. He’s in construction, so the good part is the whole industry shuts down for two weeks over Christmas. The sad part is, that’s not until the Friday before Christmas – in exhausted-mother time, it’s light years away. And we both know with the trust issues she’s had with him lately, a week of him in London and her so far away here could possibly send her round the bend. It was bad enough when he was coming home every night. Him not physically checking in for so long is going to be a total head fuck for her.

  ‘We’ll help if we can.’ That’s actually bollocks. When it comes to mum-support I’ve turned out to be rubbish because I have no clue what to do. When Bill foisted Harriet onto me when they’d just arrived, my first thought was to pass her on before I dropped her. My best bet is always to talk about something else. And much as I know Fliss will be bursting to discuss Rob, we’re always careful not to talk in front of the children. So I opt for neutral but useful. ‘So, any ideas for the Christmas tree in here? That’s my next job. And as I said last night, I’m making my own decorations.’ She won’t mind me reminding her, baby brain’s a terrible thing, we both know she’ll have forgotten.

  Fliss opens her eyes again and takes a sip of coffee. ‘Well, if it’s the kitchen tree something edible would be good.’

  I’m grinning at her. ‘Thanks for that stroke of genius. We’ll have hanging marshmallows!’

  She dips a toast finger in Oscar’s egg and nudges him. ‘Or maybe not marshmallows, Oscar inhales them, don’t you? Ten minutes, and there wouldn’t be any left and he’d most likely demolish the tree at the same time.’ The sad thing is, she’s not exaggerating.

  ‘So what don’t you like, Oscar?’

  Fliss is thinking. ‘He hates pineapple, and he’s not keen on lettuce. Everything else, he devours.’

  I’m trying to visualise branches draped with soggy pineapple rings and shredded cos lamella, then I have a really mean thought. ‘How about gingerbread stars made with extra strong ginger? He won’t try more than one of those will he?’

  Fliss’s eyes light up. ‘That’s a great plan – ginger’s another thing he’s not keen on. We got a warning letter from nursery the other week because he threw his shoe at the St Nikolaus celebration and spat his ginger cake at the class.’

  ‘Poor Oscar, that was a bit harsh.’ It’s not his first warning letter either.

  ‘Why not have ginger stars and gingerbread men?’

  I’m nodding. ‘Gingerbread men will look so cool. There’s only one problem, I’ve never actually done them before.’

  Fliss is staring at me like I’m silly. ‘You made shortbread heart favours for three hundred when we got married, gingerbread can’t be that different.’

  Rob and Fliss’s wedding was something else. His parents are farmers, the family is huge and they insisted on inviting the whole county to a massive marquee in their own meadow. And it’s true, I could make shortbreads for England. I smile whenever I think about us in her kitchen, baking trays full of heart biscuits, two days before they got married. How blissful those days were for her compared to now. On every level.

  ‘As soon as Bill gets up, I’ll nip in and find a gingerbread recipe, then I’ll fly into St Aidan and get the ingredients.’

  Fliss looks up. ‘It’s fine, he already left, we saw him drive off from upstairs. Oscar recognised the sound of the Land Rover.’

  Which is great news. Not that I’ve swapped sides, but I tipped him the wink last night that more of those cranberry swirls might smooth his path with Libby’s lot. I mean, they made my day better, I’m damn sure I wouldn’t have made it through yesterday without them. Fingers crossed he’s out now, picking them up from whichever gifted and talented surfer bakes them.

  St Aidan isn’t far by car, but by the time I’ve parked, then wandered around the aisles, and picked up candy canes and other bits too, it’s all taken far longer than I planned. By the time I’m back, the good news is there’s the pile of warm buns I hinted at, and the less good news is that Fliss has gone. But Libby and her kids are all arriving instead.

  Libby’s darting around, peering into the courtyard. ‘I haven’t seen anyone, where are all the workers today?’

  I smile at her. ‘The staff here are a lot like the tide, they come in and out.’

  She seems to accept that, so I pick up the bun tray and a stack of plates and bring them over to the table. ‘Anyone fancy a warm cinnamon and cranberry swirl?’

  I help myself to one, take a bite, and begin unpacking my bags and looking in the cupboards for baking trays and scales. I know what hungry kids are like when it comes to demolishing baking, so I’m wafting past in the hope of snaffling another before they all go. But as I get to the table there’s a series of loud moans.

  ‘Totally gross …’

  ‘Bleugh …’

  ‘Did we bring Pop-Tarts?’

  Libby’s tutting. ‘For goodness sake Tiff, stop pulling at your tongue.’

  Tiff’s protesting loudly. ‘Those red things are disgusting, I’ve got to pull to scrape the taste off.’

  I’m trying to be friendly. ‘My fault, I thought you might like them, I ate my own body we
ight in them yesterday.’ They’re staring at me without engaging, looking so supremely pissed off, I’m reaching for my trump card without even meaning to. ‘How about we play Elf on the Shelf instead? It’s a hunting game.’ This was a little gem of an idea I got off Pinterest, on offer because, unlike the baubles, the order of a hundred plastic pixies to hide around the castle has arrived. It was meant for when things flagged on Christmas Day, if I’m bringing it out nine days early it’s only because I’m desperate.

  As they lean back in their chairs they’re staring at me blankly. Tansy is first to react, and it’s with another grimace and a head shake. ‘P-e-r-l-e-a-s-e …’

  ‘Just no, totally no.’ Tiff’s got her back. ‘I mean why … just why … would anyone want to look for elves?’

  ‘It might have been fun?’ I think I get the message about that. ‘Well, who likes baking? I’m making gingerbread men in a moment, to hang on the tree. Anyone want to help?’

  They don’t even say, they just stare at me in total silence as if I’m an alien. I sense I’d actually have got a better reaction if I was.

  Libby turns to them. ‘Why not go and watch TV in the family room, CBeebies is bound to be on.’

  A long groan comes from the gap between Tom’s woolly hat and his puffa coat. ‘When are you going to get it, Mother, Postman Pat isn’t doing it for me any more. Why can’t I watch The Wire? Or Game of Thrones? Or Killing Eve?’

  Libby snaps at him. ‘You know why, Tom, twelve is way too young to see women ripping men’s whatsits off.’

  There’s another squawk from Tom’s collar. ‘THIRTEEN … in a month.’

  Tiff’s staring at her mum like she’s interrogating her. ‘Or you could take us to the cinema?’

  Tom’s choking. ‘I REFUSE to watch Frozen 2 again.’

  Tiff’s sniffing. ‘One more time, then I’ll be ready to do my vlog.’

  Tom’s voice rises in protest. ‘I thought your vlog was about make up?’