by Fern Britton
She pressed the Call End button and silently cursed Piran Ambrose. He’d volunteered weeks ago to come over on Christmas Eve and help her prepare for their big feast tomorrow. It was going to be roast turkey with all the trimmings, and Piran had been the one who’d insisted that the preparations would have to be done in advance if the big day was to be a success. Helen was making a simple starter of smoked salmon with prawn and salmon roe, but there was stuffing to make (Piran would never countenance anything so ordinary as Paxo, though Helen was a bit partial to it herself), parsnips and potatoes to parboil, giblets to be boiled and turned into stock for gravy – for which Piran had some secret recipe – pigs in blankets to prepare, not to mention their little ritual of injecting the Christmas pudding with another syringe full of brandy. They would be lucky if they didn’t set the whole of Pendruggan ablaze when they lit the flame tomorrow, it was that potent.
It wasn’t the end of the world that Piran hadn’t shown up as arranged, but after last night’s rotten business with Audrey at the pub, Helen couldn’t help but feel anxious about him. She gazed up at his window and let out another sigh of frustration. Trust her to bag herself a mercurial so-and-so like Piran Ambrose! But no matter how she tried to pass it off as just Piran being moody as per usual, she couldn’t help feeling that this time there was more to it.
She pushed the thought away, reminding herself that Sean, Terri and Summer were back at Gull’s Cry waiting for her. She was determined to see to it that they had the best Christmas possible, regardless of Piran and his moods. He’d just have to pull himself together, and that was that.
No sooner had she put the key in the ignition than her phone rang. She felt a thrill of pleasure when the caller ID flashed and she saw it was her daughter Chloe.
‘Chloe, darling! Where are you? I miss you so much!’
‘Mummy, hello, I’m fine. Everything is OK here.’
‘Remind me where here is? I keep forgetting!’
‘Oh, Mum, stop teasing! You know full well I’m in Madagascar. We’ve been exploring some of the most remote parts of Masoala National Park – you wouldn’t believe how amazing it is. Tomorrow, we’ll be staying somewhere there’s an Internet connection, so I’ll send photos.’
‘Make sure there are some pictures of you too and not just the monkeys! I want to see you’re all right. You’re still my little girl and it’s so far away, I can’t help worrying. I hope you’ve got nice people out there taking care of you.’
‘Everyone is lovely, Mum, and like me, all they want to do is help protect the environment here. We’re trying to support the locals’ efforts to stop logging companies from destroying any more of the rainforest.’
‘Oh, darling, I know it is what you want to do and I’m so proud, but I do wish you were here with us. Summer is growing so fast.’
‘I know, I Skyped Sean and Terri the other night. They reckon she looks a bit like me.’
‘She does a bit, but she’s got Terri’s eyes.’
‘How is everything else? How are you and Piran getting on?’
‘Oh, you know what Piran’s like.’
‘Impossible?’
‘That’s the word!’
They both laughed. It felt so good to hear Chloe’s voice.
‘When are you coming home, darling? Whenever I see Mack on the beach messing about with his surfboard, he always asks after you.’
‘Soon, Mum. Tell him soon.’
‘I will, sweetheart,’ said Helen. She could hear someone in the background yelling to Chloe to end the call, the bus would be leaving any moment. ‘Bye, Chloe – love you. And don’t forget to call your father!’
‘I won’t! Love you too, Mum. I’ll Skype tomorrow,’ Chloe promised and rang off.
Oh, damn, thought Helen as she started the car. I forgot breadsticks!
*
It seemed the whole of Trevay were busily stocking up on last-minute items, as if the shops would be closed for weeks instead of a few days. Helen darted in and out, picking up a few more crackers, some chocolate decorations that Summer could dress the tree with, more Sellotape, more wrapping paper and a big slab of smoked bacon rashers, which would do for breakfast on Christmas morning and for dressing the turkey with. As she went about her errands she scanned the crowds for a familiar face, but there was still no sign of Piran.
Heading back into Pendruggan, she passed by The Dolphin. Don, the pub’s owner, was busily rolling a barrel from the back of his pickup truck towards the pub. When Helen tooted, he abandoned his barrel and waved for her to stop.
‘What have you got there, Don?’
‘Ah, this, this here is me special Pendruggan Christmas Ale. Comes from a secret brewery that only I knows about and I can only get me hands on one barrel a year. Folks come from far and wide to try this. We crack it open on Christmas morning and it’s all gone by lunchtime.’
‘Secret?’ Don’s wife, Dorrie, suddenly appeared in the pub doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Nothing secret about it at all. He brews it in his shed and drinks most of it himself on the day!’ They laughed good-naturedly at this and Helen laughed along with them.
‘Well, I might be along to try it myself.’
‘Make sure you bring that Piran Ambrose with you ’n’ all. He’s quite partial to a bit of this.’
‘I’ll try, Don – if I ever find him.’
‘Find him? Well, he be down on his boat – I were out over Trevay Harbour way and I saw him. Set to be there all day from the look of ’im.’
‘Oh. I see …’ Piran used his boat the way a lot of men used their potting sheds. It served a purpose that went beyond fishing trips – he used it as a place to think. Or a place to be alone. Why had he gone out there today of all days, knowing that she was counting on his help?
‘Thanks, Don. Save some of that ale for me!’
‘Ah, no special treatment, I’m afraid, you’ll just have to be early doors tomorrow!’ he called after her as she gave another toot of the horn and drove off.
*
When she got home, Helen insisted that Sean and Terri leave Summer to her while they had some time to themselves. They needed little encouragement; within minutes they’d grabbed their coats and set off for a bracing walk along the cliffs.
‘And stop by The Dolphin for a pub lunch,’ she urged as she and Summer waved goodbye from the cottage door. ‘There’s no rush to get back. Summer and I can have an afternoon together, can’t we, darling girl?’
‘Gan Gan!’ Summer gave her another sloppy kiss.
Helen was pleased when Summer went straight down in her travel cot. Her parenting skills – or grandparenting? – were coming back and as she gazed down at her granddaughter’s angelic features, she kept her fingers crossed that Summer’s teething pains wouldn’t disturb her slumber.
Putting her feet up for five minutes, she called Penny and told her about Piran’s disappearing act.
‘Do you think he’ll remember our plans for tonight?’ Penny asked.
That evening, the village green was to be given over to a carol concert and the entire village would be there. A huge Christmas tree decked with hundreds of multicoloured lights had been erected on the green. When darkness fell and everyone gathered round it, the atmosphere would be magical; it was something everyone looked forward to each year. Afterwards, they were all going to head over to Trevay for a curry. It wouldn’t be that late, so Sean, Terri and Summer were going to come along too. Piran adored Summer, but he hadn’t been in to see her since she arrived. Stop it, Helen told herself, knowing that if she thought about it too much she’d get cross.
‘He’ll remember,’ she assured Penny, ‘if he knows what’s good for him. I’ve been looking forward to it for ages, so he’d better not let me down tonight as well.’
*
The rest of the day passed without a peep from Piran. Helen had tried his phone once or twice, each time with the same result. She kept herself busy, and tried to stay jolly with Christmas music playi
ng in the kitchen as she ticked off as many of the necessary preparations as she could. She’d got out the ice-cream maker and had enjoyed making a rich vanilla ice cream. Tomorrow, she was planning to take some of the Christmas pudding and churn it in with the ice cream with a drop or two of rum. She’d then freeze it again into a block and then later on, when their dinner had gone down a bit and they were watching telly, she would cut it into thick slabs, stick the slabs between two wafers and serve them up as a lovely decadent Christmassy take on a childhood favourite.
Despite her best efforts, there was no denying that Piran’s absence had taken some of the enjoyment out of it. Helen couldn’t stop herself running to the window every time she heard a vehicle, hoping to see his battered truck pulling up outside.
It was now early evening and almost time to set off for the carol singing. Terri and Sean had enjoyed their walk and then gone for a little nap upstairs while she and Summer watched Finding Nemo on TV. When her parents started to stir, Summer had insisted on joining them upstairs on their bed. Now Helen could hear them all getting ready, singing songs and enjoying being together. It made her smile to hear them.
This time when she ran to the window at the sound of a pickup on the lane, her heart leapt as she saw Piran climb out, leaving Jack, his faithful Jack Russell terrier, gazing out of the window.
Helen was at the door before he had even got halfway up the path. He looked tired and troubled, but at the same time she could see that streak of defiance in his eyes. His black corkscrew curls were wilder than ever after being blown about on the boat all day and Helen felt slightly annoyed at herself for finding him incredibly sexy when she ought by rights to be angry. She only hoped he had a change of clothes in the car, because he was still in his oilskins and he couldn’t join them for carols and a curry dressed like that.
He remained stubbornly on the path and when Helen opened her mouth to speak, he silenced her with a raised hand.
‘Before you say anything, I’m not coming tonight. I’ve been working on the boat all day and I’m tired.’
‘But why were you working on it today of all days? You knew how much we had to do – and you haven’t even come by to say hello to Summer yet.’
Far from offering an apology, he glowered at her. ‘Why do I always have to fit in with you?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Helen, flummoxed.
‘You know what I mean. These things that we “have to do” are things that you want to do – not me. I don’t remember signing up for anything.’
Helen found herself at a loss. Where on earth had all this bad humour come from – they were meant to love each other, weren’t they? ‘But, Piran, it’s Christmas …’ was all she could come up with.
‘Christmas? What do I care for Christmas?’ Piran’s voice was cold. ‘From what I can see, Christmas is one more excuse for folks to spend obscene amounts of money on useless presents that no one wants, and send each other pointless cards that spout glib phrases like “goodwill to all men” – which no one ever means, let alone acts upon. Christmas means nothing to me and will never mean anything to me, so I don’t care about dreary carols on the green, I don’t care about a mediocre curry in Trevay, listening to Penny drone on endlessly about zed-list celebrities in London, I don’t care about Midnight Mass. I don’t care about Christmas, Helen, and I certainly don’t care about—’
For a horrible moment, Helen thought he was going to say, ‘I don’t care about you.’ But she never found out what he was going to say because they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps.
They both turned to see a troupe of little girls in brown and yellow uniforms marching down the lane and into the village. Wrapped up warmly in hats and gloves, they were ushered towards Helen’s front door by the jaunty Emma Scott, Brown Owl. There weren’t very many of them, but what the Pendruggan Brownies lacked in number they made up for in enthusiasm and they could often be seen around the village, trying to win their badges for map-reading skills or road safety.
‘Good evening and Merry Christmas to you!’ Brown Owl said cheerfully. Helen returned the smile as best she could, despite feeling bruised by Piran’s outburst.
‘We’re doing a bit of carol singing to raise funds for the pony sanctuary before we head over to the green to join in with everyone else.’
Without waiting for a response, Brown Owl turned to the girls and gave the command: ‘Right, after three. One. Two. Three …’
Half the girls immediately put their recorders to their lips while the others began to sing ‘Good King Wenceslas’.
Helen couldn’t decide if it was the discordant recorders that were the problem or the funereal quality to the singing, but either way the performance was lamentable. Still, it was all for a good cause, so she darted inside to fetch her purse. When she came back out, she was dismayed to find Piran standing in front of the group with his hands held up.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Just stop!’
The music trailed off and the children and Brown Owl stood open-mouthed.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Emma.
‘What’s the problem?’ barked Piran. ‘I’ll tell you what the problem is. Without a shadow of a doubt, that dirge that you and your Brownies have vomited out is a crime against nature. A dying nanny-goat would sound more melodious than this lot! What badge are they trying for this time – systematic torture?’
For a moment, there was a deathly silence. Then a small noise came from somewhere in the group and Helen, already horrified by Piran’s outburst, was mortified to see that the little Brownie at the front had started to cry. One by one, the other Brownies followed suit.
Single-handed, Piran had turned the cheerful little pack of Brownies into a wailing mass of misery.
Helen’s shock turned to outrage.
‘Right, Piran Ambrose, this is the final straw! Over the last few weeks, you’ve managed to royally piss off every single one of your friends and upset practically the entire village. But this –’ Here she pointed at the Brownies – ‘this is a new low.’
Having said her piece, she stepped out onto the path and began to shush and comfort the little girls, while their leader stood by, dazed into stunned silence.
‘Come on inside, girls. I’ll make you all a hot chocolate and you can sprinkle marshmallows into it – won’t that be fun?’
The idea of this yummy confection was already starting to cheer some of the girls up as she shooed them into the house.
When the last Brownie had passed through the door, Helen turned to Piran, who was standing in his oilskins, watching in silence.
‘We all know you can be a moody bugger, Piran, but I’ve always believed that you’re a good person. It looks like I might have been wrong. Maybe the message of Christmas does get lost sometimes, but turning yourself into a latterday Ebenezer Scrooge is much, much worse. I never thought I’d say this, but unless you have a major personality transplant, you’re not welcome here. Not on Christmas Day. Not ever!’
She was about to head inside when she turned back for one parting shot:
‘Oh, and for the record, Penny never, ever drones on about zed-list celebrities in London.’
With that, she firmly shut the door behind her.
Turning on his heel, Piran marched back to his pickup.
Christmas, he said to himself. Bah, humbug!
3
The lock on Carrack Cottage was inclined to be temperamental but Piran had no patience with it tonight as he rattled the key in the hole, wanting nothing more than to get inside and shut the rest of the world out.
A traditional fisherman’s cottage of grey weathered Cornish stone, Carrack stood in glorious isolation at the end of a dead-end track on the outskirts of Pendruggan, not far from Shellsand Bay. There was nothing twee or touristy about the place; the only adornments on the outer walls were an old gas lamp, which had been converted to electricity, and a distressed and battered life buoy from HMS Firebrand that hung on a hook above the doorway. Th
is was his inner sanctum, and he had no intention of sharing it full time with anybody. Nobody with two legs, at any rate.
Jack trotted ahead of him into the low-ceilinged room and went straight to the tatty old sofa, disturbing the two stray cats who had adopted Carrack Cottage as their home. Sprat the tabby and Bosun, who was as black as coal, jumped down from their usual spot on the cushions, leaving a trail of cat hairs behind them. Piran often suspected they didn’t care who lived there as long as they got the best seats.
The cottage was filled with old furniture that had seen better days, but Piran saw no need to replace or refurbish anything. It suited him just the way it was. Evidence of his profession as an historian littered every surface. Ancient rolled-up maps of Cornwall were propped against the walls and the dusty bookshelves were crammed with tomes on everything from local history to works by Pliny. And then there was the paraphernalia relating to his other obsession: fishing. The TV stood on a lobster pot; the hallway and the pantry leading out into the small back yard were cluttered with lobster nets, fishing rods, tackle and fly lines; the cooler boxes he stored bait in were standing ready by the back door, alongside his waders.
Still in the blackest of moods, he took off his oilskins and hung them up, then began rummaging through the cupboards for a tin of pilchards to feed the cats. Something brushed by his heel and he turned to see Jack, soulful brown eyes following his every move. He reached into the cupboard for a second tin of pilchards. They’d have to do for Jack as well.
The smell of the pilchards made Piran’s stomach rumble, so when he’d finished dishing out the gooey mixture of fish and tomato sauce, he went to his ancient fridge in search of sustenance. The tiny freezer compartment was permanently frozen up and he stared dispiritedly at the fridge’s contents: half a packet of unsalted butter, half a lemon and a bit of slightly tired cheddar. The bread bin was empty. Piran cursed. Of course there wasn’t anything to eat. He was supposed to be staying at Helen’s place for the next few days, so there’d been no reason to stock up with supplies. The phrase ‘biting off your nose to spite your face’ popped into his head. Dismissing it, he set his lips into a thin line and went back to the cupboard for a third tin. If pilchards were good enough for the dog and cats, then they were good enough for him.