Christmas in St Ives
Miranda Dickinson
PAN BOOKS
For Bob and Flo
who love St Ives and make
every Christmas magical
xxx
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Acknowledgements
A St Ives Christmas
Somewhere Beyond the Sea
Chapter One
Chapter One
Cerrie
Thirty pairs of eyes blink up at me. Little chests hold little breaths. And for a rare moment my classroom falls silent. Even the silver foil snowflakes suspended on string from the ceiling seem to freeze in time.
The paper I hold in my hands is about to make history in each young life. I feel a wash of butterflies in my stomach, too, because I love this part of my job. Other teachers shirk the responsibility – which is why I’m in charge of the school Christmas play for the sixth year running – but it’s one of my all-time favourite things.
‘Okay, Class 4, it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Our Christmas play this year is called “Jimbob and the Little Star”, and I’ve written you all a special part in it.’
A huge gasp ripples around my cross-legged class. Seven-year-olds rock. Adults would already be comparing lines, moaning about the people chosen for the main roles or criticising the script I spent hours writing. Not my kids. Class 4 at St Piran’s Primary School are as delighted as a gaggle of Oscar winners and I adore them for it.
I need magic this year. It’s bad enough when someone cheats on you but when that someone is also the deputy head at your school – and everyone knows what happened to split you up – it’s the worst. At least working on the Christmas play with my class of little superstars I can avoid David for a while. Another reason why seven-year-olds rock: they don’t care what’s happened in your life, they just love you – right here, right now. There’s a lot to be said for living in the moment like they do.
‘Miss Austin, can I have wings if I’m an angel?’ Florence Maitliss asks, her eyes wide.
‘Yes, you can. All my angels will have tinsel wings. Mrs Copper from Class 2 is going to make them for everyone.’
Another gasp passes through my class. If only everything in life could be as simply solved by tinsel wings . . .
When the home-time bell rings, I wave off my newly cast angels, shepherds, stars and kings and begin to upend chairs on tables, clearing my classroom before the weekend begins. I like this moment of calm, still buzzing from the plans I’ve shared with the children. Today, it’s also a delaying tactic. Gloria Masters has called a staff meeting for 4 p.m. and I’m dreading it.
School staffrooms can be intimidating places at the best of times, but when they’re filled with your colleagues who will be watching you and your ex like hawks, they are worse than a pit of lions. Being a village school, gossip is the main currency here. I’ll admit to being guilty of indulging in the past – it’s fun to be part of when you’re not the focus. Now I feel like a gnat under a giant microscope. David has avoided me all week but we can’t escape each other in a tiny room with ten other people breathing down our necks. It’s the moment I’ve been dreading, and there’s no escape.
I’m just wondering if I can slip out of school unnoticed when a friendly face beams at me around the blue classroom divider.
‘Ready for the big event?’ Jo Lovage’s smile is warm and welcome, but I can see concern in her eyes.
‘Not really. Think I could get away with faking a migraine?’
‘Possibly. Except you’re cursed with being the healthiest person I know. I don’t think Gloria would buy it.’
Oh well, it was worth a try. ‘Rats. What are the odds of me being abducted by aliens in the next five minutes, do you reckon?’
‘Slim. Come on, lovely.’ She gathers me into a comradely hug. ‘Better to get it over with and out of the way. The others will lose interest after they’ve ogled you and David together for the first time.’
I don’t believe her. I’ve seen these things last for months . . . ‘Remind me again how long you’ve worked here?’
She shrugs. ‘Okay, so maybe you’ll be the resident floorshow for a while. It’ll pass. It always does. My many years working here have taught me that at least. Listen, Cerrie, once he finds a job somewhere else this won’t be an issue. David Myers might be an idiot but he’s an annoyingly talented one. He’ll be off to a swanky headmaster’s position quicker than you think.’
She has a point. David has always had a five-year career plan, which he’s so far been able to follow to the letter. I wonder if cheating on me was part of it, or just an added extra to amuse himself . . .
I catch myself in time. Going over and over the reasons why David threw away our relationship won’t give me answers. It doesn’t make sense. Only to him. If I’m really honest, I don’t want to know why the other woman was so much more attractive a prospect than me. Some things are better not known.
‘I hope you’re right. I hate having to work with him.’
Jo chuckles as she holds open the door for me and we walk across the hall that still smells of school dinners, hours after lunch. ‘Hang in there, sweetheart. It’ll all come out in the wash, as my mum used to say. It’s just going to be toe-curlingly embarrassing until then, that’s all.’
Usually I love my friend’s directness, but this afternoon I wish it wasn’t quite so accurate. ‘It stinks, Jo.’
‘Yes, it does. But it could be worse.’
The staffroom is in sight, through the next set of doors. I can already see several of my colleagues hovering around the small kitchen area. My stomach lurches.
‘How, exactly?’
Jo gives me a wink as we reach the double doors. ‘You could still be with him, not knowing he was shagging that supply teacher.’
It isn’t much of a comfort, but I’ll take it.
As soon as we walk into the staffroom, I see it. That look, mirrored around the room. It’s not pity, more overblown sympathy, but it still makes me feel like shrinking small enough to escape under the cracked edge of the carpet tiles. I smile back, wishing the staffroom hadn’t fallen quite so silent. My stomach rumbles and it sounds like thunder.
‘Cerrie! I saved you a seat!’ Amy Frederick yells, patting the chair next to her. I feel Jo bristle by my side. Great. Now my colleagues are fighting over who chaperones me for this spectacle . . .
‘I’ll get us a chair,’ Jo hisses through gritted teeth, smiling too sweetly at Amy as she passes. Staffroom politics are exhausting sometimes. Like the fact that David isn’t here yet. Of course he isn’t. He’s always been a fan of the limelight and even today, in not-so-flattering circumstances, he isn’t likely to pass up the chance for a grand entrance.
I turn to the sink in the corner of the room and find my mug and Jo’s from the neat lines on the draining board. The hot water urn is unoccupied, thank goodness. Someone has draped a length of gold tinsel around the top of it and each of the sparkly strands is beaded with drops of condensation from the steam. I busy myself with making tea, grateful for the chance to turn my back on the room. It’s a brief respite and I relax a little as the swell of conversation
resumes behind me. Even though everyone is waiting for the big Cerrie-David meet, I know I have the support of lots of people here, so I shouldn’t be as nervous as I am. But the fact is, I never wanted to be the cause of a ‘whose-side-are-you-on?’ debate. I hate being asked to choose: so why would I ever ask anyone else to do it on my behalf?
None of this is my fault. I have no reason to hide.
I feel my back strengthen as I remind myself of this fact. Everybody in the room knows David cheated on me. I’m the innocent party. He can bluster and brag all he likes, but it was my heart that was broken – my dreams that were smashed.
I can do this. It’s just a staff meeting.
And then, as I’m about to turn from the kitchen sink with the mugs of tea, I hear the room hush again. Before I look, I know why.
‘Sorry I’m late, guys. Lots to do.’
Even the sound of his voice hurts.
And I can feel all eyes on me as I turn around and walk straight over to Jo. I don’t even look at my ex – I can’t. Because despite all the lies he told and the careless way he stamped all over my heart, David still expects me to greet him. And everyone knows it. He doesn’t seem to understand he lost any right to that the moment he chose her. So I set my face like Dartmoor granite and avoid his stare.
He waits a moment longer than necessary after I sit before he continues. ‘Now we are all here, let’s make a start. Gloria is just taking a phone call, so she asked me to start the meeting without her.’ He shuffles the papers in his lap like a Hollywood actor trying to upstage his cast. I’ve known David Myers long enough to know the pages are mostly blank – a few lines scribbled on the top sheet in his large, generous handwriting just there for effect, which is, as it turned out, much like a lot of him. Behind that could be lists going back months for all any of us know. ‘Lots to get through. First off, let’s do a run-round of what everyone’s up to for Christmas at school.’ Jo tuts beside me and I know what’s coming. ‘Cerrie? How’s the Christmas production coming on?’
The room pulses with electricity as my colleagues lean forward as one. With every scrap of dignity I can summon, I raise my head and beam my brightest smile. I see the itch of irritation register in his eyes. Good.
‘I cast the parts this morning, David. Gloria loves the script and the children are so excited. I’ll be looking for volunteers to help paint the set in two weeks’ time, so please pop your names on the sheet I’ve put up on the notice board today. The more the merrier. I’ll even shout you pizza.’
This causes a favourable murmur to bubble up around me. I keep my stare straight and steady, meeting David’s eyes. I am not bowing to you, I say to him in my head. This is who you decided to let go.
‘So, um, good . . .’ He gives a cough and drops his gaze to his non-existent notes. ‘I’m sure you’ll have lots of offers.’
‘She will,’ Jo says, and I hear the muted sniggers of several people.
He changes the subject with warp speed, careful to make eye contact with the few people in the room whom he counts as allies. That’s fine, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve survived our first public interaction and I’ve held my own. He mumbles on about a few more agenda items while other teachers cast me congratulatory smiles and I relax a little in my chair.
‘Hi, everyone, sorry, sorry . . .’ Gloria Masters appears at the door, her face a little flushed. I can see someone else just behind her, like a shadow that doesn’t quite fit. ‘I was waiting for our guest to arrive.’ She looks over her shoulder. ‘Come in, they won’t bite.’
‘Much,’ Jo says, as my colleagues laugh.
I glance at David. He looks rattled – I’m guessing Gloria didn’t tell him this was happening.
A man steps into the room and suddenly all my female colleagues are paying attention. He’s tall – my guess is well over six feet – with waves of blonde hair that make him look like a surfer. His white shirt is smooth over muscles and tanned skin and he gives us a shy smile.
‘It’s Thor!’ Jo squeaks under her breath.
‘Hey,’ he says, raising a hand.
An enthusiastic chorus of hellos greets him in return.
‘Everyone, this is Tom Keller. He’s joining us as a full-time teacher from January, but his visa came through early, so he’ll be looking after Evie’s class while she goes on maternity leave.’
My heavily pregnant colleague shrugs in the corner. ‘Trust me to be leaving just as it gets exciting.’
Tom grins and I see the faintest hint of blush across his cheekbones. ‘I reckon you’re the one who’ll be having the most fun.’
His accent is unmistakable – the lift at the end of his sentence is pure Australian sunshine.
‘Definitely Thor,’ I whisper back to Jo, grateful that the attention isn’t on me anymore. Nor is it likely to be for the rest of term, given the sudden interest of my colleagues in the new recruit.
The teachers shuffle up eagerly to make room for Gloria and Tom, David looking increasingly annoyed when the new object of everyone’s attention sits next to him. Gloria does a quick round-the-room introduction and Tom carefully repeats each name as we are introduced. ‘Amy, hi . . . Eric, how you doing . . . ? Chloe, hey . . . Jo, good to meet you . . .’
‘And this is Cerrie.’
Tom nods. ‘Hi, Cerrie.’
‘Cerrie is our Christmas play producer. Tom has a music degree from Sydney University, so I thought he could take piano duties over from you, Cerrie? Free you up to direct our actors? Excellent! That’s settled.’
Funny, I don’t remember agreeing . . . The introductions continue and I feel David’s eyes on me. I don’t risk looking up. He knows how protective of the Christmas production I am and he will have seen I’m annoyed before I can hide it. I can feel his sympathetic stare burning against my brow.
No, David. This isn’t how you sidle your way back into my life.
I hunch down further, wishing I could disappear. So much for winning this encounter . . .
Chapter Two
Seren
I had four orders on my Etsy shop today! Four!
I know Mum and Dad think this is just a hobby for me, but if I keep receiving orders like this it could become more like a part-time job. One step closer to my dream of designing seaglass jewellery for a living. For now, I’m happy to help Dad in his art gallery. I’m building him a sales website, even though he thinks it’s unnecessary. Despite his concerns, I’m determined to drag him into the twenty-first century if it kills me.
‘What about Instagram?’ I ask, already anticipating the answer.
‘What about it?’ He looks tired but his cheeky gene is still firing. ‘Just pretty pictures, Seren. What good does that do? It’s the equivalent of that annoying friend who insists on showing you their holiday snaps.’
Beneath the counter, my chocolate Labrador Molly grumbles in her old wicker basket. She’s long since decided she’s Dad’s dog, as he is the one who sneaks her biscuits most often and brings her to work every day. Dad chuckles and crouches down to give her another bone-shaped dog biscuit.
I sigh and make us coffee in the tiny corner of the stockroom that we use as a kitchen. ‘No, Dad. People see the lovely paintings and sculptures MacArthur’s has in stock and then they go to your website to buy them. People from everywhere, at any time; not just during a one-week holiday in St Ives. People who want to buy our stock in December, instead of waiting until July when they visit.’
He holds up a weather-tanned hand and accepts defeat. Even though it’s December Dad manages to look like he’s spent a week in the Mediterranean. Weather-beaten Welsh farmer genes, he reckons. ‘Fair enough. Do what you think’s best. Just don’t ask me to poke anyone, okay?’
‘You don’t poke anyone on Insta– Oh, never mind.’
His chuckle dances around the walls. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m just an old fuddy-duddy.’ He kisses the top of my head as I hand him his mug. ‘Lucky for me I have a whizz-kid daughter, eh?’
I
grin back despite my frustration. I don’t know about whizz-kid. I certainly wasn’t enough of a whizz-kid to foresee the small graphic design company in Falmouth going into receivership after five years of working there. Then again, none of my colleagues at Grafyx saw it coming, either. Being newly jobless and recently single again – trust my luck to be dumped and made redundant within the space of two weeks – there was little to keep me in Falmouth any more. I’m fortunate Dad offered me work in MacArthur’s – our family’s gallery – and was happy for me to move back home. It feels like a false start but at least being here brought me back to my friends and has helped me to refocus on my jewellery. Working in a tiny, mostly deserted Cornish arts and crafts gallery gives me plenty of time to dream.
You have to be slightly strange to enjoy freezing on a beach in winter just to find bits of sea-smoothed glass, but it makes me happy. I sneak out before anyone else is awake, stealing time from the barely begun day to look for treasure. The times when I’m hunting for seaglass and making my finds into bracelets are the times I feel most alive.
My mind drifts back to today’s early morning beachcomb in the arches on Harbour Beach. In the dank December pre-dawn darkness, my torch picked out a scattering of hidden treasure. More than I was expecting. The storm last night had left handfuls of gorgeous seaglass pieces banked up amongst the sand and twisted seaweed strands against the blackened weatherboards in the arches. My red tin bucket, dented by time and use from my childhood, was half filled by the time I reluctantly turned for home.
I perch on the edge of a display unit and hear Molly yawn as she turns around in her basket. Dad sips his coffee and gazes out through the shop’s single window into the courtyard. It’s quiet today, but winter always is. Some of our friends who own businesses in St Ives only open at weekends, or take the month off entirely. The problem is, our shop has been quiet since the height of the summer, which is supposed to be our busiest time. Dad insists it’s fine, but I’ve started to doubt his confidence.
Being here with Dad has its advantages – and not only the small salary I earn. It means I can keep an eye on him. I’ve been worried about him for a while.
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