It’s only when I turn to the coffee machine that I let my sunny expression slip. Bleddy idiots. Even the absolute worst of the high summer tourists aren’t as rude as Christmas shoppers. Season of goodwill, my ass.
I take a deep breath and turn back, all benevolent smile and angelic attitude.
‘There,’ I say, handing the bolshie bloke the cream dispenser. ‘Probably better if you put your own cream on this time, eh?’
He nods, eyes widening like a kid who’s just been given the keys to a sweet shop. And I wait, taking more than a little pleasure in the thunderous explosion of cream that follows. Tricky little things, those dispensers . . .
They quickly retreat to their tables, too embarrassed by their own mess to complain any further. And my smile becomes genuine. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job and the vast majority of my customers are lovely. I live for my business and nothing makes me happier than a room full of satisfied customers. The awkward beggars just seem to come out of the woodwork at this time of year, that’s all.
‘Please tell me you’ve started your Peppermint-Bark Lattes again,’ says a familiar voice and I turn to see Cerrie Austin leaning on the counter. After the steady stream of difficult customers I’ve had this afternoon, she is a vision of loveliness – an almost-Christmas angel right here in my coffee hut. She looks tired, but then doing what she does for a living I’m amazed she can even stand up at the end of the day. Christmas shoppers are nothing compared with a classroom of kids.
‘Just for you, bird. My cousin sent a bag of Ghirardelli peppermint bark chocolate from San Francisco yesterday.’ I reach under the counter and drop a handful of brightly wrapped chocolate squares onto the counter. She rips one open and bites into it like it’s manna from heaven.
‘Ag, you’ve saved my life,’ she breathes, eyes closed.
I chuckle and fill a coffee arm with rich, dark ground coffee, attaching it to the coffee machine and setting two coffee shot glasses beneath to catch the glossy espresso as it drips down. ‘Tough day?’
‘You could say that.’
‘David?’ I can’t imagine how awkward having to work with your ex every day must be. Poor love.
‘And the rest.’
‘What’s up, lovely?’
She bats away my question with the empty chocolate wrapper. ‘Nothing that can’t wait till Monday. I’ll be fine. I just need one of your magical coffees and then it will all be okay.’
I give her the time it takes to steam the milk to let her enjoy her chocolate without any further probing. She’ll tell me when she wants to. So much of being a good barista is waiting, not just for milk and espresso but also for customers to share what’s on their minds. I’m as much an agony aunt as a provider of refreshments. Add that to the list of necessary superpowers in this job . . .
‘Have you heard from Lou?’ she asks finally, when her festive drink is ready.
‘Only about two hundred times this week. Which, for him, is quite quiet.’
‘He seems really stressed about the Christmas festival this year. More than usual.’
All of us love Lou dearly, but Cerrie’s right – this year he’s been like a terrier with a slipper. Personally, I reckon he just becomes more obsessed every year. I imagine he wakes in the middle of the night sweating about tinsel shortages and Father Christmas getting lost at sea instead of heading into the harbour on the lifeboat. ‘He’s decided he’s in competition with the festival in Penzance. For some unknown reason he thinks they are sending spies into our volunteer teams.’
It’s nice to see Cerrie laugh after her worryingly downbeat entrance. ‘Seriously? Why ever would they do that?’
‘Search me. Maybe they think we have some top-secret formula for fairy lights. You know Lou: when he gets a crazy idea in that head of his not even a force ten storm can shift it.’ I watch her closely, proud of the calming effect the drink I made is having upon my friend. When I make a difference to somebody that appreciates it, this is the best job in the world. ‘You are coming tonight, aren’t you?’
‘Of course. After the day I’ve had I can’t wait to talk Christmas plans all evening.’ Her smile fades a fraction.
‘Want to talk about it?’
She considers my question for a minute, her eyes drifting from me to her latte. Then, she shakes her head. ‘Nah. Better not. Thanks for asking though.’
I grab a cloth from the machine and wipe the counter. ‘My pleasure. All part of the service.’
I love talking to people. Being granted a snapshot of their worlds as I trade coffee for conversation. But lately I’ve felt a glimmer of jealousy when my customers talk about their worlds. Not because I want their lives, but because they have a life beyond the well-loved wooden walls of this place. For so long all I wanted was to be here, to call this my own. But I’ve started to notice the light between the gaps in the weatherboard cladding, the slivers of outside world peeking in at me as I work here every day. It’s almost as if my beloved business is giving me a glimpse of something else.
I don’t ever want to leave here. I’ve worked my butt off to make this coffee hut a year-round success – a big achievement in this town. But I feel like the world is passing by at high speed outside my door. And I’m scared of being left behind.
Christmas makes it worse. I don’t mind being single at all. Compared with my last relationship, every day on my own is a gift. But there’s always a point during Christmas when you suddenly realise everyone around you is talking to someone else, zoning in on a part of their world you’re not party to. Christmas magnifies aloneness when people are celebrating love all around you. It won’t always be like this, I know. But this year I feel it more, like the winter cold slowly seeping into my bones.
I think I want more from my life. I don’t want to only exist behind this bar forever. I feel like the wind is changing, like something new needs to happen.
I just wish I knew what that was . . .
Chapter Five
Kieran
It’s blowing a gale outside the coffee hut and December is doing its darnedest to sneak into our planning meeting through tiny gaps in the old weatherboards. The tea-lights on the tables flicker and I see my friends wrapping themselves a little tighter into their coats. The heaters Aggie plugged in are doing their best to combat the draughts but the storm buffeting this lovely old hut head-on is putting up a fierce battle. If we had more bodies, it might tip the balance. But while we may be few in number, we have hot coffee, spiced apple and mincemeat pie straight from the oven and the scent of cinnamon from the candles to warm us this evening.
We also have Lou Helmsworth, who is quite possibly the most entertaining bloke in the whole of Cornwall.
‘Bigger and better this year,’ he says, tapping the pad clipped to his favourite clipboard with his shiny ballpoint pen. If there’s one thing Lou loves, it’s an agenda. ‘Bolder and brighter . . .’
‘And lots of other things beginning with B!’ I say, raising my coffee mug aloft like a pirate offering a toast. My friends around the table cheer, but Lou doesn’t join them. This is too easy.
‘Unless you have anythin’ sensible to add, Kieran Macklin, I’ll thank you to shush till we open the meetin’ for comments.’
‘I was going to say baubles,’ I grin back, wincing as a sharp kick from Seren finds my shin under the weathered wood table. She gives me a reproachful shake of her head, but she can’t hide her smile.
Lou knows I love him really. Possibly. Anyway, our banter has been a regular feature of every Christmas planning meeting for as long as any of us can remember. He’d miss it if I stopped now.
‘The Christmas Window competition is already in full swing. Excellent work from most of the businesses in town.’ I see him raise an accusing eyebrow at Seren, who holds up her hand.
‘We’re working on it, Lou. Dad sends his apologies.’
Lou seems to lose a little of his bluster and I see his face redden. ‘Yes, well, good. I’ll – um – write that down, a
fore I forget . . .’
It’s an odd slip in his usual swagger as he drops his gaze to his notepad and makes a grand show of writing a single sentence. I catch Aggie’s eye across the table; she’s thinking the same as me. It isn’t like Lou to let anyone off from his annual Christmas chivvying, even his best friend. Does he know something about Mark MacArthur that we don’t? Still, it isn’t enough to call a halt to business as usual – I’m biding my time until the next onslaught on our esteemed leader.
He clears his throat and looks up at us again. ‘Now, lantern parade. The team are already hard at work designin’ the lanterns but we’ll all be called upon to help finish them in time. Turns out some of the festive shapes chosen for the lanterns this year are tricky to say the least and it’s taken longer than expected to cut frames and coverings to fit them. Now, it’s a challenge, but as I said to John Matterson – the leader of the lantern committee – last week, St Ives folks are more than up to the task. What our lot can achieve with papier mâché and parachute silk the rest of the county can only dream of . . .’
He’s on form tonight. It hurts already. My laughter barely stays within my chest. Any more Lou Helmsworth gems and I might well pull a muscle.
‘I’ve been talkin’ with the council and local police and we’ve finally managed to secure a longer route than last year. Fore Street is good, but we need to make it bigger. Bolder and . . .’
‘Brighter?’
Lou gives a sigh weary of several worlds but refuses to look at me.
‘Better. I want us to get more visitors than Penzance did last year. I reckon we can do it too. Now, I hear what you’re all thinkin’ – that lot around the coast have done it for years, well, so they have. But we can do it different. Brillianter and – Kieran, I swear if you say another word I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
I try to stuff my amusement over Lou’s new word into my festive latte. ‘Sorry, Lou.’
Aggie is shaking her head at me now. It’s time to pull back. I grin at her then catch myself admiring the grey of her eyes. In the candlelight they look enormous, like winter sea-pools or the ancient stones in the wilds of Dartmoor . . .
Hang on. What am I thinking?
My urge to laugh vanishes in an instant and I sit back against my chair as Lou’s voice continues to drone on. The peppermint-laced coffee begins to churn in my stomach. This isn’t the first time Aggie’s occupied my mind. It’s been happening more and more since Halloween. I thought it was the drink talking when Aggie danced with me and the thoughts appeared. But I’m stone cold sober now and it’s still going on.
I can’t be falling for Aggie Keats.
I just can’t.
I mean, we’ve been mates forever. From the last year of school when I started hanging around with her and Seren, drinking beer on the hill overlooking St Ives Bay when we should have been studying for our GCSEs. We’re close – really close – but I always thought of her as a pal to prat around with. Me, Seren and Ag: three peas in a pod; the Three Amigos of St Ives. We’ve seen it all together: hook-ups, break-ups, jobs won and lost. Life. But always as best friends. Never as anything more.
So why can’t I stop thinking about her?
I don’t think I’m lonely. It’s been a year since anyone serious but I’ve had a few dates since then. A couple of them lasted a month or so. Nice girls, just . . . not long-term prospects. To be fair to them, I wasn’t settling-down material either. Just fun. I’m still young, the photography work keeps me away quite a bit – all excuses, according to Seren – but I love my career and right now that comes first. I like being able to hike off on assignment whenever one arrives. I’m not looking for something to tether me here, even though this is the best place in the world.
And that’s the problem: because if I fell for Aggie, it couldn’t just be a fun thing. We’ve too much history binding us, too many shared years between us for it to be anything less than serious.
‘What you’ve got to ask yourselves is, what do you want?’
Suddenly I’m back in the room, Lou’s question scarily portentous. Could funny old Lou Helmsworth be a closet mind reader too? ‘Sorry, what?’ I say before I can stop myself.
Lou reddens and Aggie shakes her head at me again. ‘I knew you weren’t listenin’, Kieran Macklin. What do you want? A half-baked attempt folks’ll forget by the mornin’, or the biggest, grandest spectacle south-west Cornwall has ever seen?’
‘Definitely the latter,’ I say, hoping Lou will see my sudden outburst as a wind-up attempt and not because I felt found out.
‘Exactly. So, let’s all focus on our jobs . . .’ He pulls a stack of sheets from his clipboard and deals them out around the table with all the dexterity of a casino croupier. ‘Now, I’ve personally annotated responsibilities for each of you on this schedule. You’ll notice you all have your own highlighter colour . . . And, when I initiate the control centre whiteboard next week at my wife’s shop, you will find corresponding colour-coded dry markers and Post-It notes too.’
Now that is funny. I can’t help myself, my laughter ringing around Aggie’s coffee hut, and even another one of Seren’s kicks and the return of Aggie’s sternness can’t stop it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I gasp, clutching my sides. It feels so good to laugh after the past week worrying about Aggie, even if it’s the most inadvisable and inappropriate time for it to happen.
Lou playfully cuffs my ear as we’re leaving Aggie’s, but follows it with a hearty backslap, so I know all’s forgiven. But later, when I’m home and the lights of St Ives are twinkling far below, I walk out on my balcony with a beer and let a cloud of vape smoke curl up into the bitterly cold night, taking my sigh with it. I was an idiot this evening. I may play the fool when I’m with my friends, but I’m always in control of it. I let things slip this time: I can’t let that happen again. Tonight, my friends dismissed my odd behaviour as my attempt at a joke; next time they might demand answers. And the truth is, I don’t have any yet . . .
Chapter Six
Cerrie
The flat is too quiet. It never used to bother me before David and I met, and I’m annoyed that I’ve been left with such a legacy. I used to like my own company – prefer it to others, sometimes – but lately being alone feels too lonely.
I stare at the tidy lounge, so different now that David’s clutter is gone. I’m not a tidy freak, but the room seems to be able to breathe again. My old armchair is no longer groaning beneath the weight of David’s papers; instead it has two new patchwork cushions and a sunshine-yellow throw. It’s a perfect reading place – when my head is a little less of a mess, I’ll escape into stories there. My books are back in their rightful place after half of them were shunted into the blanket box at the bottom of my bed to make way for David’s sports autobiographies and DVDs. I spent an evening last week lovingly replacing them, listening to James Taylor’s October Road album, which always calms me, and stringing twinkling white fairy lights along the shelves. On the middle shelf I created a book-rainbow – the spines arranged in reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues and violets. For David, who insisted on alphabetising everything, this would be a crime. But I think it looks wonderful. And this is my home now.
But it’s still too quiet today.
I shrug on my coat, wind a winter scarf around my neck and grab my keys and bag on the way out. It’s the weekend and I can’t stay here. I need an adventure.
My parents are great believers in the healing power of the great outdoors. Their answer for every situation – after a nice cup of tea – is a ‘good, brisk walk’ – and it works, every time. They live in Looe now, back along the Cornish coast, but whenever I visit we invariably end up heading outside. When you have scenery as gorgeous as we do, it’s the best remedy in the world.
Outside, the weather seems to be closing in, thick leaden clouds sweep inland from the slate-grey sea. My walk to Lelant station is a blustery one, the December air icy cold on my face. But it’s already better than staring at the chipped pain
t in my living room. That was one job David kept promising to get around to, along with many others. As it turned out, an affair with a bottle-blonde supply teacher didn’t leave much time free for home improvements.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the wobbly Perspex of a bus shelter as I pass. I have to stop thinking about him – about the betrayal. I’m not a bitter person, never have been, so I don’t intend to become one now. He made his decision and that’s it. I can’t change it, so I have to move on.
The Christmas play was meant to be my saving grace, but even that feels tainted by what happened on Friday afternoon. I’m sure Tom Keller is a nice person, but sharing responsibilities for the production will mean having to explain everything at every stage. I can’t lose myself in the creative buzz of it all if I have to constantly consult someone else.
Christmas lights are beginning to appear in the windows of my small village and as I pass by I can see Christmas trees bedecked in all colours of the rainbow. Some are arty, with a few carefully chosen ornaments and lights in a simple palette; some are full-on explosion-in-a-Christmas-decoration-factory fancy. In the last house before the station, a forest of simple spruces fills the front garden, lit by strings of pure white lights. It’s breathtaking. I have to stop to take it in. It looks hopeful, in a strange way. I decide to decorate my tree at home like this. Something pure, bright, unsullied. That’s what I want my life to be from now on.
Coming outside was definitely the right idea.
At the tiny station I huddle on a blue wooden bench waiting for my train. Beyond is the wide Hayle estuary, the sea a strip of blue-grey far in the distance. Seagulls battle with the winter winds overhead, hardly moving in the air despite their flapping wings. It’s wild and sparse, and I love it here. David never seemed to notice. Maybe it was there all along, the thought that he wasn’t my perfect match. I don’t know. Maybe my heart just wasn’t ready to see it.
Christmas in St Ives Page 3