A Cornish Gift

by Fern Britton

  ‘Don’t be writing cheques your butt can’t cash, boy.’ He poked Don’s stomach good-naturedly.

  Jenna joined them and put an arm around each of their shoulders as they towered over her petite and slender frame.

  ‘Ah, my two favourite Pendruggan boys!’

  ‘Who are you putting your money on, Jenna?’ Simon asked through chattering teeth.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ she replied enigmatically, refusing to be drawn, but she eyed Piran’s tanned and taut six-pack admiringly. Simon saw a look pass between them and decided that things had definitely moved on since their night in The Dolphin.

  At that moment, the sound of a loud bell rang out across the water. The adjudicator was the landlord of the pub, Peter. He was holding a large church bell, the same one he used to call time, and was exhorting the gathered participants to take their places.

  The men and women who were taking part lined up and, when Peter fired the starting pistol, they all plunged into the sea. The coldness of the water took Piran’s breath away. The last time he’d swum in the sea it had been in the warm waters of a crystal-clear Greek lagoon, but this was something else entirely. He forced himself to focus on keeping his limbs moving and progressed quickly through the water. He sensed that Don was a little way behind him – they were both strong swimmers but Piran’s active summer seemed to be giving him the edge today and his pace quickened as the adrenalin coursed through his body, energising his muscles. He approached the buoy and risked a glance around. To his surprise and elation he was well out in front. Don seemed to have dropped back.

  Having reached the buoy, Piran turned over in the water and kicked off for the return leg. He passed other swimmers on the way, all intent on reaching the buoy, but Don wasn’t among them. Slightly ahead, between him and the shoreline, he could see a figure in the water. His immediate instinct was to adjust his course in order to avoid a head-on collision, but then he realised that the person in the water was Don. How had he managed to get this far ahead? Stung into action, Piran picked up speed in the hope of overtaking him. But as he passed, some sixth sense made him slow and turn his head. It was then he realised that Don was in trouble, desperately treading water, his face ashen.

  Within moments, Piran was by Don’s side. ‘What’s wrong, buddy?’

  It was all Don could do to gasp out two words: ‘Can’t breathe.’

  Piran looked towards the beach, trying to make out the lifeguard, but it was difficult to see from this distance. It was going to be down to him to get Don back to shore – and fast.

  ‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do,’ he commanded. ‘Put your arms around my neck from the back and I’ll swim us to shore, like they do in the movies.’

  Too weak to argue, Don gripped Piran as best he could and they progressed slowly through the water, Don’s rasping and ragged breath sounding in Piran’s ear. Piran was beginning to tire when Simon came alongside to help. Before long they were nearing the shore, where the lifeguard paddled out in his canoe to meet them.

  *

  Don puffed hard on his inhaler. He was sitting on a camping chair, wrapped in towels and blankets, flanked by Jenna, Simon and Piran. The colour was back in his cheeks and his asthma attack was now well under control.

  ‘Felt a bit wheezy this morning, but didn’t wanna miss it.’

  ‘You dafty. You could have drowned out there,’ Jenna chided, but she was too relieved that her brother was going to be OK to be angry with him.

  ‘Just glad I brought this with me. Don’t have much call for it these days. Thought I’d grown out of the old asthma.’ He took another puff. ‘But it’s thanks to Blackbeard here that it weren’t worse. Good of you to help out, mate.’ He looked gratefully towards Piran, as did Jenna, whose eyes shone with admiration and gratitude.

  ‘Anyone would’ve done the same,’ he replied, scoffing at the suggestion his actions had been in any way heroic.

  ‘Not sure they would have if they was in the lead and looking forward to that Christmas Ale.’

  ‘Who won in the end?’

  ‘Not sure … come on, let’s get down to The Dolphin and find out – we can’t have them drinking all that ale without us now, can we?’

  With that, the four friends headed off to the pub, singing ‘Rudolph the Red-Knobbed Reindeer’ …

  *

  ‘Jenna never did take that job in London,’ said Piran, the long shadows cast by the candlelight flickering against the living-room walls.

  ‘She went to work at Trevay Juniors, didn’t she?’ said Simon.

  ‘She loved it there. Really got a kick out of seeing the kids thrive.’

  ‘I remember how good she was with children. Always giving of her time. Didn’t she volunteer at the hospital over the holidays?’

  ‘That’s right – and she usually managed to rope in a few others as well. She was nothing if not persuasive.’

  ‘Tell me about it!’ agreed Simon. ‘On one of my first Christmas visits home after joining the seminary, she had me dressed up as Father Christmas, giving out donated presents to the kids in the children’s ward at Trevay’s old cottage hospital.’

  Piran remembered it well. ‘Didn’t one young boy accuse you of being a fake because everyone knew Santa didn’t have ginger hair and glasses?’

  They both laughed at the memory.

  ‘Then there was the other Christmas.’ Piran’s face clouded over again.

  ‘The one where she …’ Simon hesitated.

  ‘Died. That’s the word you’re looking for, Simon. Yes, the Christmas where that bloody maniac … The hit and run … Police never got him.’

  They both fell silent, thinking back to that terrible time. It was Simon who broke the silence.

  ‘Bad things happen all year round, Piran. Good things, too. Christmas is just a reminder of how we should be three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. It isn’t always possible and we’re only human, but we can strive. What was it that Scrooge said, after his moment of epiphany?’

  Piran’s eyes narrowed – what was this obsession everyone had with Scrooge?

  ‘I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.’

  ‘You’re too idealistic.’ Piran shook his head dismissively. ‘Folk only care for themselves.’

  ‘I don’t agree with you, my friend. Look around and you’ll see. There is hope and love everywhere.’ He stood. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going. Some of the villagers will be anxious in this blackout and might need help. I suggest you might do the same yourself.’

  Piran followed Simon out to the door.

  ‘Goodwill to all men is usually found at the bottom of a glass of mulled wine and disappears along with the hangover.’

  ‘You’re so cynical these days.’ Simon turned to face Piran. ‘I remember something that Jenna said to me once: “A man who doesn’t keep Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree.”’

  He pulled on his gloves and hat. ‘Goodnight, Piran, and a Merry Christmas to you.’

  Then he was gone.

  5

  Piran didn’t care what Simon said, he was too naive and trusting to know much about human nature. He wasn’t worldly wise. But his words had pricked at Piran’s conscience – the vicar was good at that – and anyway, he was wide awake now and might as well take a walk out and see what was happening.

  Taking a torch from the ledge over the front door, he headed out towards the back yard. Opening the door to the shed, he shone his torch in, knowing that somewhere in the piles of boxes was a heavy-duty rechargeable lamp that would be more useful than the small Maglite one. Piran’s shed was not a shed like most men’s; it served as a workshop, with a long workbench down one wall and a dusty and cracked window overlooking the fields behind. It was packed with fishing paraphernalia, as well as several carpentry projects in various stages of development. His grandfather had been a shipwright and carpentry seemed to run in their blood. One of those projects was a doll’s ho
use that he had been making for Summer. Recently, he’d lost heart in the project and had struggled to finish it. He comforted himself with the thought that she was too young for it yet, anyway. Turning away from the abandoned project, he began rummaging through the boxes, which held everything from spanners to old copies of Sporting Life.

  ‘Where is the damned thing?’ he cursed as he pulled another dusty box down from the shelf.

  Some of these boxes had been here for decades. What was in this one? He placed it on the work counter.

  He shook it – nothing breakable – and then peeled away the yellowed and no-longer-sticky Sellotape that had been used to seal the box. His heart gave a jolt as he saw the contents. A hand-carved and painted Nativity set. One by one, he took out the figures: a shepherd, a donkey, one of the three kings, Mary and Joseph … Finally, rummaging around in the bottom, he found the manger containing Baby Jesus. Unlike the others, this remained unpainted and unfinished. Piran remembered making these. He had lovingly created every piece and now here they were – forgotten and useless. When was the last time he had made something like this – made it for the joy of simply doing it and because he could?

  He sighed and placed the figures back in the box.

  Eventually, he found the missing lamp and headed out into the night.

  *

  Piran had always thought that the light was different in Cornwall and tonight it seemed especially so. This Christmas Eve, the night was clear and the stars lit up the sky like a luminous carpet. The crescent moon was low in the sky and the dew on the grass shimmered like diamond dust on the fields.

  He wasn’t sure where he was going exactly but headed in the general direction of the village. There was something about the surrounding darkness that accentuated the sounds around him. Not far from the headland, he thought he could still hear the waves crashing on the shore. This part of Cornwall felt defined by the sea. He imagined this was how Pendruggan would have been before the adoption of electricity, with seafarers totally dependent on the lighthouse to keep them clear of the treacherous coast. Cornish folk had held onto the old ways for longer than many, and he remembered that even when he was a boy, some of villagers still made do with gas and candlelight, and horses and carts continued to be a fixture of village life.

  Gradually, he left the headland behind and the comforting sound of the sea, and a silence seemed to fall around him as he neared the collection of houses that made up the village. It was almost as if the land was holding its breath for something. Piran wasn’t easily spooked but he felt unnerved – was he being watched?

  He heard something crackle behind him, as if someone or something had trodden on a twig. An owl cried out in the distance and the hedgerows rustled.

  Watched? Or followed? He shone his lamp into the fields.

  ‘Who’s there?’ His voice sounded strange to his own ears as it echoed in the silence.

  Nothing. He continued on his way, shining the torch again.

  There it was again, another crackle to his right.

  He swung round, thrusting his torch over the dry stone wall that separated him from the field.

  To his utter horror, an unearthly, grotesque face loomed out of the darkness at him. Its eyes were two black pools of darkness and its mouth was a red gash containing sharp yellow teeth.

  ‘Dear God!’ he cried out.

  ‘Keep yer ’air on! It’s only me!’

  It took Piran a moment to realise that he recognised that voice and, when he did, he immediately felt like a complete fool. It was Queenie, of course, the octogenarian proprietor of the village shop. Her bright-red lipstick and NHS dentures had taken on a rather sinister aspect in the glaring light of his lamp. She peered out at him from underneath a bobble hat that resembled a tea cosy. There was no getting away from it, though – her eyes really did look like two black pools of darkness.

  ‘What on earth are you doing out in the dark?’ he asked her.

  ‘Sorry, Piran, did I give you a fright?’ She gave him one of her trademark cackles. ‘I was trying to find Monty – she’s gone missing. Ain’t seen ’er, ’ave yer?’

  ‘Who the hell is Monty?’

  ‘She’s a stray kitten that seems to ’ave adopted me. I called her Monty when I thought she was a boy, only she ain’t. Vlad the Impaler would have been a better name. Always out on the hunt, she is, but she’s as black as the night and now we got no lights I’m worried she’ll get lost and not be able to find her way back.’

  Piran glanced doubtfully at Queenie’s birdlike legs.

  ‘Queenie, cats can normally look after themselves, even kittens. Little old ladies wandering around in the dark don’t always fare so well.’

  ‘Oi, less of the old.’

  ‘Come on – give me your arm. I’ll walk you home.’

  They headed back up to the village, Queenie all the while calling out to Monty. Piran could see in the lamplight that, despite being in darkness, the village was a hive of activity. Neighbours were darting into each other’s houses, some of them carrying candles and torches, others laden with Thermos flasks filled with hot drinks.

  Shortly, they were at the village store and Queenie opened the side door and let them in. It was rarely locked.

  ‘Come in and have a snifter, why don’t ya?’

  ‘No, thanks, Queenie. I’d better be off.’

  ‘Why, where you going? Don’t be such a bloody misery guts.’ She grabbed his arm and dragged him through to the back lounge, where Piran was surprised to see Colonel Stick and Simple Tony, plus a couple of old lags, Bert and Sid, that he recognised from the pub. There seemed to be a party of sorts going on in the candlelight and Queenie was thrilled when she saw Monty sitting in Tony’s lap. The kitten was licking her paws and seemed very pleased with herself.

  Queenie’s back parlour was jam-packed with comfy old furniture and on every wall and surface were photographs of Queenie and her late husband, Ted. Piran couldn’t remember ever coming in the back before; there was a cosy clutter to the place that brought to mind a gypsy caravan filled with trinkets, keepsakes, crocheted cushions and huge glass ashtrays. A warm and lively orange fire burned in the grate.

  ‘She got a rat!’ Simple Tony dangled the rat for Queenie to see.

  Despite the un-PC nickname, Tony was loved by the villagers, particularly Queenie. When his mother had died, the thought of the poor lad fending for himself had bothered Queenie so much that she’d arranged for him to take up residence in a shepherd’s hut, where she could keep an eye on him.

  ‘Fer Gawd’s sake, get rid of it!’ Queenie cried, shooing Tony outside, then proceeded to make Piran a drink.

  She thrust a Babycham cocktail glass into his hand, which was filled with a purple liquid. Piran took a sip and had to fight down his gag reflex.

  ‘Nothing like a cherry brandy and Coke to give you that Christmassy feeling!’ she cackled. ‘Cheer up, Piran! Anyone would think you’d found a quid and lost a fiver!’

  The others all joined in the laughter and Piran felt his mood lift a little. Maybe it was the cherry brandy.

  Colonel Stick stood and went over to look out of the window.

  ‘People have been so kind. We’ve had everyone knocking at the door to make sure we’re all right.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Queenie, pouring herself a generous drink. ‘Polly’s going to bring us up to church just before midnight. It’s good to know people care.’

  Having made sure everyone else was comfortable, Queenie sat down. Minutes later, Tony joined them, having disposed of Monty’s conquest and opened another can of Fanta for himself.

  ‘When you’re my age, you’re quite used to this sort of thing, you know,’ Queenie said. ‘I remember once, when I was very young, growing up in London, we got caught in an air raid. This would have been Christmas 1940 – that winter saw some of the worse bombing in the Blitz. We came from the East End, but my mum and dad loved Christmas and they took us up to Oxford Street to see the window displays. It was excit
ing being there. Even though the city was on its knees, it never seemed to stop people going about their daily business. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the windows in Selfridges – I’d been looking forward to seeing them for ages, the store was famous for its window displays even in those days – but the place had been bombed a few months before and the windows were all bricked up. I started crying and my dad made it up to me by taking me into the big Woollies and buying me a liquorice stick and a toy rabbit. Then we had our tea at the Lyons Corner House. That jam scone was the loveliest thing I’ve ever eaten. No scone ’as been as good before or since.’

  Queenie took another sip of her drink, enjoying the memory.

  ‘It was getting dark when we came out and the Luftwaffe decided they’d start early that night. The sirens went off and we had to get down below as quickly as possible. Oxford Circus station was the closest and we had to hole up down there for what seemed like hours. The smell of all those bodies could be a bit much, but there was never any argy-bargy or trouble – we was all in the same boat, you see. We sat around, singing songs, and Mum had wrapped up a bit of fruit cake in a hankie and we lasted on that and a bottle of squash between us. It was one of the happiest memories I’ve got of them – we all sang “Knees Up, Mother Brown” and “Roll Out the Barrel” …’

  At this remembrance, she broke into ‘On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep’ and the others in the room all joined in. Even Piran and Tony, who didn’t know the words, couldn’t resist humming along.

  Queenie continued: ‘Not long after that I was evacuated to Pendruggan. My mum couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from me but London was just too dangerous by then.’ She paused and took another gulp of her drink. ‘It wasn’t long after I came ’ere that I got the news they’d been killed when an incendiary fell on the house.’

  Tears shone in her eyes. ‘Bloody Jerries. Our street in Bethnal Green might have been a slum, but we called it home. I don’t remember much before Cornwall, but I’ll always remember that day out in London.’