by Fern Britton
The little group struck up another song, ‘Run Rabbit Run’, and Queenie joined in.
The Colonel explained to Piran that they had been listening to old LPs on Queenie’s ancient Dansette, but the power cut had put paid to that. The Colonel was wearing his customary blazer and MCC tie and his walking stick rested next to him on the arm of his chair.
‘Bert and Sid are widowers, Tony has no family to care for him, but together with myself and Queenie, we make up a little family and we look after each other.’
He pulled out his wallet and took a photo from it, which he proudly showed to Piran. It was of a very young but instantly recognisable Colonel and he was with his regiment. They were all in their dress uniform, handsome and vital, seemingly with no inkling of what lay ahead.
‘Many of us ended up in a POW camp in Korea. I remember one particularly dreadful Christmas when typhus had taken hold; many of my men were sick and some were dying. The conditions were dreadful, the heat and the insanitary conditions were impossible to describe. But we endured and we made the best of what we had. We put on shows, poking fun at the officers and of our captors and we even did a panto. One of our men, Pinky, cobbled together a little newspaper full of funny made-up stories about what was happening at home. I still have no idea how he did it – it was nothing short of a miracle.’
The Colonel stared into the distance, and it seemed to Piran as if he was gazing directly into the past – seeing Pinky and all his old comrades in his mind’s eye.
‘Pinky never made it back to Blighty.’ He put the photograph back in his wallet. ‘It was the camaraderie, the kindness and the compassion that we showed to each other that kept us all going. Many of my dear comrades suffered the same fate as Pinky, but for those that did make it home, it isn’t the atrocities and the degradations of war that we remember now, rather the comradeship and friendship of our fellow men.’
Piran realised he had finished his cherry brandy. Perhaps it was the alcohol that was pricking his eyes, making them feel a little teary, or perhaps it was because he felt humbled in the presence of this small group. Despite the privations and hardships they had endured, they pulled together. They made each other’s lives better by the simple act of just being there for one another. They made it seem so easy.
‘Right!’ Queenie drained her glass and stood up. ‘Now, you’ll ’ave to excuse my manners but Polly will be here shortly and I’d better get me face on. Come on, fellas – look lively!’
Piran said his goodnights to everyone and they all wished him a cheery and heartfelt Merry Christmas.
‘You see,’ Queenie said as she escorted him to the back door, ‘all we have in this life is each other. Living through the war showed me that we’re all just people. Christmas might bring us all together, but goodwill to all men is more than a phrase that you trot out once a year.’ She planted a whiskery kiss on his cheek. ‘You gotta keep Christmas going all year round.’
6
After the warm and cosy fug of Queenie’s living room, the blast of cold air was a shock to the system. Piran pulled his jacket closer around him. Where to now? He felt strangely rootless and the thought of going back to his cold and dark cottage and being on his own again wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate.
For the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, he was actually craving human company. He checked his watch by the lamplight. It was close to midnight. Without being able to explain why, he felt himself being pulled towards the spire of the church. In spite of the darkness of the night, there seemed to be a light emanating from it. As he approached, he could see that the churchyard and the path up to the large open doors were lined with dozens of little tealights and candles inside jam jars, vases and anything that could accommodate a candle without being blown out. As villagers entered the church grounds, they all added their own candles to the carpet of light – a frost was well in evidence by now and the lights lent the damp air an almost dreamlike quality.
The light from the church clock still appeared to be working and Piran thought it probably had its own power source. He could see from the dial that it was a few moments before midnight.
People were still arriving at the church, which was also full of candlelight, and he saw faces he knew and voices he recognised passing through the church door to take their seats. Even though he knew practically every single person in the church, he was anxious not to be seen, so he ducked behind one of the ancient oak trees that lined the path as the final stragglers, including Queenie and her entourage, took their seats.
The clock struck twelve. The sonorous tones of the old bell rang out across the village and the organist struck up the opening bars of the hymn ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’. The voices of the congregation drifted out into the night and Piran found himself being pulled to the entrance, the carol acting like a siren call to his soul.
From the doorway, he saw the backs of the congregation. In the crowd, he was able to pick out Helen, Sean and Terri. Little Summer was asleep on her daddy’s shoulder, her face a perfect heart shape, and Helen was gazing adoringly on her granddaughter while singing lustily, her face glowing in the candlelight. For a moment, she turned her head and looked to the back of the church, as if she was searching for someone. In his heart, Piran knew that it was he that she was hoping to see – he held his breath, hoping he wouldn’t be spotted, but he was well hidden in the shadows and Helen turned away, quickly brushing away the traces of disappointment before her family noticed.
Piran felt a sudden burst of love in his heart for them all. Why wasn’t he there with them? Why couldn’t he simply walk right in now and take his seat next to her? What was stopping him?
With a sinking heart he realised that he knew the answer – he didn’t belong. Love, family and contentment weren’t for the likes of him. That was for other folks. All of that had gone wrong for him before and it would go wrong again – he was a fool if he thought things could ever be different.
Resigned, he turned for home. But as he made to leave the churchyard, something caught his eye. Standing in front of one of the graves was a man. He held a storm light aloft and appeared to be reading the words on the headstone.
The man turned and looked directly at Piran, then held up a hand to him as if in greeting. Who was it? Piran slowly walked towards him and, as he approached, the other man held his gaze, never wavering or blinking.
As he neared, Piran felt a shot of recognition – he knew this man, didn’t he? There was something about him that was so familiar, if he could only put his finger on it. The man was old, perhaps in his seventies or eighties, but it was hard to tell. His face was strong, and though it was heavily lined and weathered, his piercing blue eyes watched Piran intently. The man’s curly hair was grey, but it would once have been the same colour as the few wisps of deep black that lingered on his temples and eyebrows.
Though he gave no greeting, the man continued to regard Piran keenly, as if he was sizing him up. Then he turned his eyes away from Piran and back to the inscription carved into the stone. He lifted his arm slowly and deliberately and pointed to the name. Piran followed the man’s gaze and drew a sharp intake of breath when he saw the name inscribed there:
Perran Ambrose.
Piran knew that this spelling was a variation on his own name. The words below said:
Born 1843. Died 1911.
There was nothing else, no wife interred with him and no dedication or words of committal.
The old man’s voice when he spoke was surprisingly strong. The accent was unmistakeably Cornish and by its inflection, Piran thought he sounded like a local.
‘You know the name?’ He directed the question at Piran, but kept his eyes focused on the headstone.
‘Of course I know the name.’ How could he not?
‘Then you know the name of Ambrose goes back generations here in Pendruggan.’
‘Yes. It’s an old Pendruggan name,’ Piran answered warily, unsure where this was going.
; ‘And you also know the meaning of the name Perran?’
Piran was about to reply testily that of course he knew that too, he was a historian for goodness’ sake. But something stopped him.
‘It means …’ He hesitated. ‘It means dark one.’
‘That it does.’ The man turned his face towards Piran. Now he was closer, Piran could see that the man’s eyes, while a vibrant if watery blue, were somehow empty – blank – almost soulless.
The man continued: ‘Many Ambrose men have been true to their natures. They like to entertain dark thoughts and shun the cosy comforts of life that other men embrace. There’s many of the Cornish Ambrose men chose to live alone, refusing family and the company of their fellow men.’
Piran was filled with the urge to defend the Ambrose men, to say that that there were as many who made good lives and loved their wives and their children and were likewise loved in return, but the words refused to come out.
‘Let me tell you about this Perran Ambrose that lies here,’ the man went on. ‘He was a fisherman who worked the waters in and around Pendruggan, lived out on his own in a cottage by the headland. He kept himself to himself; he bothered no one and no one bothered him. Came and sold his fish on the harbour, but pocketed his money and then went ’ome. He wasn’t one for alehouses nor merrymaking.’
Piran longed to walk away and to hear no more of this story, but his feet were rooted to the spot. His gaze was locked on the man’s eyes, which reflected the flickering lights from the candles.
‘One Christmas Eve, there was a terrible shipwreck off the coast; the HMS Firebrand was caught in a terrible storm and driven onto the rocks. It was a dreadful night; dead bodies filled the water before being claimed by the waves, but there were many who clung to the wreckage. The villagers heard their cries and brought out their boats, risking their own lives to come to the aid of those in the water, picking them up and bringing them safely to shore, many seemingly more dead than alive. But not Perran Ambrose.’
Here he paused for a moment.
‘What did he do?’ Piran heard himself ask, though he was almost afraid of the answer.
‘He refused to help. Kept his cottage door shut and his boat in harbour, despite desperate entreaties for him to come and help. His fishing boat could have taken many men had he come to their aid; no doubt many more lives would have been saved.’
They were both silent.
‘How do you know all this?’
‘You won’t find everything you need to know inside the pages of a history book!’ the man snapped.
How could he possibly know that Piran was an historian?
‘After that, the name Ambrose came to mean something darker in Pendruggan. Perran Ambrose was shunned. No one wanted the fish he brought to harbour. Over time, folks stopped seeing him about. Eventually, they forgot he existed. Then one day he took his boat out and never came back. His body was washed up some time later and he was laid to rest here with no one to mourn him.’
Piran knew that the chill he felt was not merely from the cold air around him. The thought of this man, this Perran Ambrose who shut himself away from life and from his fellow men – who had ceased to care to the extent that he would watch other men drown …
‘But all that was a long time ago and folks forget.’ The man turned once again to Piran and this time he saw something else in those eyes – sorrow? regret?
‘They do well to remember and learn the lessons from the past.’
With this, the man turned his back on Piran and the grave of Perran Ambrose and set off down the path away from the church and towards the road.
‘But who are you?’ Piran shouted after him. ‘What is your name?’
The man turned one last time and, as he did so, the lamp he held illuminated a small gold hooped earring in his ear.
Piran’s heart froze as the man said, ‘They call me Ambrose.’
He watched until the light disappeared into the frozen night air. When at last he turned his eyes up towards the clock, he saw that it was just after midnight. Like a radio being tuned in, the strains of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ once more reached his ears. It was almost as if time had stood still.
Piran shook his head, unable to comprehend what had happened.
What could it all mean?
He took another long look at the grave of Perran Ambrose and thought he now understood. Piran knew exactly what he had to do.
It was early, not long after 7 a.m. when Piran let himself into Gull’s Cry. The house was quiet and still in darkness, though Piran was pleased to see that the nightlight in the hallway was now working, which must mean that the power supply to the village had been restored.
He took off his shoes and his jacket, removed his warm fleece and made his way up the stairs, the ancient floorboards creaking underfoot as he softly opened the door to Helen’s spare bedroom, where she lay, fast asleep. He gazed at her for a moment, drinking in her pretty features; she was still youthful and, here, in the half light of dawn, she could almost be a girl of eighteen. His heart swelled with love for her.
The bedroom door let out a creak as it swung closed and Helen stirred. Sitting up in bed it took her a moment to realise that he was standing there.
‘Piran, what on earth?’
Before she could say more, he moved quickly to the bed and enveloped her in his arms, kissing her passionately.
He pulled away. ‘Please, Helen, don’t say anything. I know I’ve been a miserable old bugger these last weeks and I’m truly sorry. You’ve got every right never to want to see me again, but I love you, Helen – forgive me?’
She took one look at his open and sincere face and her heart melted. ‘Always.’
Folding her arms around his solid frame, she returned his kiss wholeheartedly.
‘You’re freezing.’
‘That’s because it’s cold out.’
‘It’s warm in here.’
‘Maybe I should get in?’
‘Maybe you should. I can think of a couple of ways that you can improve on that apology.’
They had a delicious twenty minutes before they heard the excited chatter of Summer from the other room, wondering if Santa had been to visit. They hurriedly made themselves decent before Terri knocked on the door and she and Summer came to say good morning and Merry Christmas.
Summer threw herself at Piran, who gave her a huge cuddle, enjoying the combined waft of milk and talc that came from her hair and was unique to small children.
‘Come on, Summer, let’s go downstairs and see what Santa has brought us all,’ he said. Then he gave Helen a peck on the cheek, jumped out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown that Helen insisted he keep there and bounded down the stairs.
Helen had never seen Piran this excited before. He was like a small kid, eyes shining as he helped Summer to rip open the shiny wrapping paper to get at her presents. There was a wonderful haul and Summer cooed at the sight of the doll’s house that he had brought with him.
Helen was touched at the trouble he had taken. ‘I had no idea that you were making this, Piran.’
The doll’s house was carved in reclaimed beech and Piran had hand-painted it in a soft pink gloss. It was decorated with a climbing wisteria that he had picked out in purple and green paint. He had stayed up all night in the lamplight to finish it.
‘It’s beautiful. Thank you, Piran.’ Helen touched his hand and kissed his cheek.
‘I’ll make her some furniture too, when she’s ready for it.’
After that, he made them all bacon sandwiches and Helen poured glasses of buck’s fizz so they could drink a toast.
‘Not for me, orange juice will be fine.’
‘Are you sure?’ Helen looked at him doubtfully. ‘It is Christmas.’
‘I know that, Helen, more than you realise. Now, drink up. We’ve got some calls to make.’
Within twenty minutes, they had pulled up outside Brown Owl’s house, which was on one of the new-build developments just outsi
de the village. Piran rummaged in the back seat of his pickup and pulled out a large cooler box.
‘What’s in there?’
‘A peace offering.’
Moments later, he was standing in front of Brown Owl, apologising profusely for saying uncharitable things about the Brownies’ abilities.’
‘I’ve brought you something for the Christmas table.’ And with this he opened the cooler box, reached inside and pulled out a giant live lobster, which wriggled angrily even though its pincers were secured with elastic bands.
Emma burst out laughing. ‘Piran Ambrose! You’re an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wearing a fisherman’s jumper – what am I to make of this! Don’t think I’ve ever cooked a lobster before.’
Her children came running out and were full of oohs and ahhs.
‘Can we keep him in the fish pond, Mam?’ her young son asked.
‘And,’ added Piran, ‘as a further penance, I’ll come and take the Brownies through their knots badge.’
‘They’ll make mincemeat of you!’
All animosity forgotten and with the lobster possibly not even destined for the cooking pot, they climbed back in the car.
‘Where to now?’ Helen asked.
‘Audrey,’ Piran answered.
‘Ah,’ replied Helen. ‘She might not be as forgiving as Emma.’
‘I’m aware of that. But I’ve got an idea.’
Arriving at Audrey’s house, Piran took a deep breath.
‘I think I’ll stay in the car for this one,’ Helen said, and Piran gave her wink and squeezed her hand.
It took a moment for the door to be answered by Geoffrey, who was attended by two yappy cocker spaniels at his heels, both of which made for Piran’s ankles as the door opened, only to be unceremoniously yanked back.
‘Get down, boys!’ said Geoffrey Tipton, hauling them away before eyeing Piran suspiciously.
‘Can I have a word with Audrey, please, Geoff?’ he asked meekly.
‘I’m not she’ll want to speak to you,’ he sniffed. ‘But I’ll ask her.’
While Piran spent a nervous few minutes on the doorstep, he turned to look at Helen sitting in the front seat of the pickup with Jack on her knees. She gave him an encouraging smile, but his heart hammered in his chest as Audrey came to the door. Without her battledress of tweed coat, headscarf and sensible shoes, she seemed small and fragile in her dressing gown and slippers. Piran felt for the first time that here was someone who was just like everyone else, with the same hopes and fears, but who covered up her vulnerability with an armour of bossiness and bluster.