by Fern Britton
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 sure 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.
‘Audrey, I—’
‘Please make this quick. It is rather cold out here.’ She made no move to invite him in.
‘I came to tell you that I deeply regret the things I said the other night.’
Audrey regarded him coldly. ‘There are things, Mr Ambrose, that once they are said, cannot be unsaid.’
‘I appreciate that, Audrey, and I know that you’ll find it hard to forgive me. But I want you to know that we all feel … I feel … that this village wouldn’t work without you. You’re the oil that keeps the wheels turning and if it wasn’t for you, this would be one more Cornish village like many others instead of the special place that we all know Pendruggan is.’
Audrey didn’t speak for a moment, but Piran thought, or prayed, that he saw a softening in her eyes.
‘Actions speak louder than words, Mr Ambrose.’
‘I agree, Audrey, and that’s why I’m going to prove it to you. One day a week, I’m going to put myself at your disposal. Whether it’s ferrying pensioners to the old folks’ lunch or weeding the flower beds on the village green, I’ll do whatever you want me to.’
Audrey considered his offer. ‘One day a week, you say?’
‘I’ll make it two!’ he added recklessly.
She put her head to one side and after a short pause appeared to make up her mind.
‘Very well. But I shall hold you to this – as your word of honour?’
‘I won’t let you down, Audrey. I promise.’
‘Good day to you,’ she said, and made to close the door but then added, ‘Mr Ambrose …’
‘Yes, Audrey?’
‘A Merry Christmas to you.’ She gave him a small smile.
‘And a very Merry Christmas to you and Geoff,’ he said, returning her smile.
This time, Piran found that he meant every word.
*
‘Why, Piran, they’re beautiful!’
Simon examined the figurines from the wooden Nativity set that Piran had set down on the steps of the altar. As vicar, he’d been up for a while; Christmas Day was the busiest day of the year for him, but he had a quiet couple of hours before the midday service and then afterwards there would be mulled cider outside the church, drinks in the vicarage and lunch with family and some of the key church helpers.
‘I made this years ago for the children in the hospital. Jenna’s idea.’
Piran picked up the wooden Baby Jesus in the manger, which he had finished painting in the small hours. ‘I thought you could put them under the tree for your Jenna, Simon.’
‘Where did you find them?’ asked Helen.
‘In my shed. When Jenna was killed, nothing else mattered for a long time. And by the time it did, I’d forgotten about these. Until last night.’
He and Helen held each other’s gaze for a moment. She squeezed his hand tightly.
‘And now?’
‘Now they need a new home. Will you take them in, Simon?’
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’ Simon thought of his own daughter, also called Jenna, and of how her face would light up at the sight of these beautiful figures. ‘They’ll have pride of place here at the front, where everyone can see them.’ He turned his eyes from the manger to his friend. ‘And, Piran …’
‘Yes?’
‘Welcome back!’
They exchanged warm smiles.
‘Thanks,’ said Piran. ‘It feels good.’
‘Where are you both off to now?’
‘Ah!’ said Piran mysteriously. ‘We are going – and this includes you, Reverend Canter – for a swim. Grab your trunks!’
*
As they left the church, Piran asked Helen to wait for a moment.
‘There’s one more thing I’ve got to do. You don’t need to come with me.’ She gave him a puzzled look, but let him go.
Piran walked towards the churchyard. It seemed different in the weak winter sunshine and he was worried that he wouldn’t find what he was looking for. But there it was, in the same place as last night – the final resting place of Perran Ambrose.
Piran knelt before the grave and read the inscription again. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, unable to believe that what he was seeing was true. But no matter how many times he blinked and read it again, the words were there, literally carved in stone:
Perran Ambrose.
Born 1843. Died 1893 aged fifty.
Below was an inscription:
In loving remembrance of Perran Ambrose who on the twenty-fourth day of December 1893 attended the shipwreck of the HMS Firebrand, which foundered off the coast of Pendruggan.
Perran Ambrose and other Pendruggan men selflessly set out in their fishing boats to rescue as many as they could and toiled for hours in order that they might save those who lay in the water.
A mighty storm raged and while other boats were beaten back, Perran Ambrose continued his quest, though he was thrown from his boat and drowned, but not before many men were saved who owe their lives to his sacrifice.
This headstone was donated by the men and woman of Pendruggan and is dedicated to his memory.
In paradisum deducant te angeli
How could this have changed in one night? Perhaps he had misread the headstone in the darkness, but Piran thought not. Other things had been at work last night and Piran was grateful for the change in his heart and for the new ending for Perran Ambrose. Perhaps it was best if he didn’t question events too deeply.
As he turned to leave he spotted a small snowdrop growing in the grass beneath the headstone. It seemed to him a symbol of hope and of new beginnings.
‘Rest in peace, Ambrose,’ he said gently and made his way back to the car.
*
‘You can’t be serious – that water is freezing.’ Helen and Penny watched, horrified, as Piran and Simon stripped down to their trunks on Shellsand Bay.
Sean, Terri and Summer, along with little Jenna and Simon’s family, all marvelled at the throng of people lined up along the shore, eager to see who would win this year’s Christmas Day swim.
‘Helen, you haven’t lived until you’ve swum out to the buoy on Christmas morning,’ Piran said, laughing, jumping up and down to keep warm.
‘I’ll take your word for it!’ she replied, snuggling deeper into her warm fleece-lined coat. She couldn’t help thinking that he looked pretty darned good for a man of his age, six-pack still in evidence.
‘Piran Ambrose, as I live and breathe!’ Don’s voice boomed out and he gave his old adversary a slap on the back. Don was now landlord of The Dolphin and was as much a fixture of Pendruggan life as he had always been.
‘Don! Not taking part yourself this year, I see?’ Don was well wrapped up in winter outdoor gear and Piran could see that he and his wife, Dorrie, were manning the barbecues.
‘The days of freezing me bollocks off are well behind me. Think the doctor would have a fit if I even so much as contemplated it – dodgy ticker and all that.’ He tapped his c
hest with a finger.
‘Rubbish, Don. You’re scared of the competition – like always.’
After a bit more joshing and banter, there was no time for further chat as Peter, still officiating after all these years though long since retired, rang his bell for the off.
Piran and Simon lined up with the rest of the competitors.
‘Remind me why we’re doing this, again?’ questioned Simon through chattering teeth.
Piran gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Because it’s Christmas, of course!’
*
To the sound of deafening cheers, Piran raised his pint of Christmas Ale to his lips and took a long, satisfying draw.
‘Now that, is pure Ambrosia – excuse the pun!’ Piran thought that nothing had ever tasted so good before.
Helen threw her arms around him for the hundredth time.
‘I can’t believe you won!’
‘Neither can I!’
‘It was incredible, you were miles ahead of everyone else. How on earth did you do it?’
‘I’ve no idea – perhaps this year I’m just blessed. I feel blessed, anyway.’ He gave her a loving kiss on the head and then raised his voice to be heard above the crowd of voices in The Dolphin.
‘To make up for being such a grumpy old wanker, I promise that if Audrey will let me, I’ll give Pendruggan their best ever Window Twanky in next year’s panto!’ This news was greeted by whoops and cheers from the whole pub.
‘And I’d like to dedicate my win and this wonderful pint of Pendruggan Christmas Ale to all of the Piran Ambroses past, present and future who never forgot and never will forget what goodwill to all men really means.’
He downed his drink. ‘Merry Christmas!’
PROLOGUE
Channel 7 Studios, London, 2000
The floor manager of Skool’s Out, Channel 7’s hit children’s TV show, watched the action play out in front of him in a state of high anxiety, rather like a budgerigar left in charge of a cattery, never sure from which direction the danger was going to come from. The programme always went out live at 5.15 p.m. on a Friday and the whole operation was a test of nerves, patience, forbearance and arse-licking for the entire crew. Despite the old show business adage about never working with animals or children, the set was always filled with dozens of hysterical pre-teens, plus that week’s line-up of novelty acts. This typically consisted of an assortment of pet dogs that could whine the National Anthem, a nine-year-old who could fart at the same decibel level as a car horn and some idiot intent on breaking a silly world record, like how many times you can kick your own butt in one minute. On top of this the crew had to contend with the fragile egos and sometimes ridiculous demands of the celebrity guests, combined with the inflated ones of the show’s presenters. Anything could go wrong, and it was a fine balance between giving the show’s trademark anarchy full flight while keeping things under control.
The set was designed to look like a school where the kids had taken over. Walls were daubed in graffiti, there were ‘detention’ cells that the guests could be placed in if they displeased the ‘kids’ and everything had a slightly sinister quality that was pitched somewhere between St Trinian’s and a Tim Burton movie.
The floor manager heard the director’s voice from the control room through his earpiece. ‘Dave and cameras move over to the cell area for Robbie’s detention skit.’
‘Yep.’ On the set, Robbie Williams had been placed in one of the cells and was being lambasted by the show’s irreverent star, a puppet called Brian the Cat – a mass of tatty black-and-white fur and Denis Healey eyebrows who spoke in the thick Mancunian tones of his puppeteer. Brian was lambasting Robbie from outside his cell accompanied by his sidekick, a young presenter called Kirsty.
‘Robbie Williams, the studio audience have unanimously decided to give you detention on account of not only crimes against music …’
The audience howled with laughter.
‘… but also, for eating all the pies!’
Cue more hysterical screaming.
Ed Appleby, the studio runner, watched tensely from his position behind the camera crew. He could see Robbie’s PA and his publicity manager watching stony-faced from the wings. If things went too far and Robbie got upset, there would be hell to pay. Ed took his Joe 90 glasses off, gave them a quick wipe before putting them back on and then ran his hand anxiously through his dark curly hair.
Brian the Cat was egging the audience on. ‘What do you reckon? Shall we let him go home now, kids? Has he done his detention?’
‘Splat him!’ the children screamed. Robbie grabbed the cell bars and shook his head vigorously, mouthing something Ed couldn’t hear over the roaring of the audience, but which looked suspiciously like, Bollocks to that.
‘Let him have it!’ declared Brian triumphantly, and a bucket that had been hovering above Robbie’s head tipped over and released a yellow goo over his head.
‘Camera one, zoom in,’ said the director over talkback.
The camera zoomed in to see Robbie’s expression as the yellow gunk slicked down his face and chest.
Robbie wiped the gunk away from his eyes with his fingers and licked his lips. There was an anxious pause in the room before Robbie said in his soft Northern accent, ‘Mmmn, lemon curd, nice. Can I have a jar to take back to me mam, sir?’
As the audience cheered their raucous approval, Ed saw the faces of Robbie’s people relax.
The camera moved away to Kirsty. ‘Ha-ha! Now let’s see the new video from 5ive – they’re going to be here next week and we’re going to give them a proper Skool’s Out welcome, aren’t we?’
Ed’s shoulders relaxed briefly, but they immediately tensed again as he felt someone sidle up to him and gently pinch his bottom. He turned sharply and was immensely relieved to see Charlotte Finney, the show’s design director, standing next to him. They were virtually the same age, but, while Ed was still working his way up the ranks as a lowly junior, Charlotte was responsible not only for the way the show looked, but also the tone and feel. All the senior managers took her seriously, though, judging from her expression, she was feeling anything but serious. She gave him a cheeky wink.
‘Thank God it’s you!’
‘Who else were you expecting to make contact with your sexy arse, Ed?’ she said huskily.
‘God knows in this madhouse,’ he whispered back. ‘I’d better go.’
There would now be a brief three-minute video interlude for everyone to get to their new place, make a quick costume change and prepare for the next segment.
Ed shot Charlotte a look that said sorry and raced over to release Robbie from his temporary cell. A posse of Robbie’s people and studio assistants followed hot on his heels, bringing hot towels and clean clothes for the star. Declining their offers of help, Robbie took off his T-shirt and used it to wipe away the yellow slime while flaunting his taut and tanned six-pack.
‘Keith, you fucker, I’ll get you back for that!’ he said good-naturedly to Brian’s puppeteer, Keith Puckley, who had extricated himself from Brian’s undercarriage.
‘Didn’t they tell you at stage school that this would happen, Rob?’ Brian shot back.
‘Fuck off!’ Robbie grinned, and playfully poked Keith’s middle-aged paunch. ‘Who ate all the pies, eh? I think we know the answer to that one!’
‘Must mean I’m in with a chance as your replacement in Take That – give your mate Gary Barlow a call and tell him I’m free.’
Before they could trade further insults, Ed interjected: ‘Keith, you’re not free yet – Brian has to judge the burping competition in one minute. Robbie, we need to get you cleaned up for the finale. You’re singing us out with “Rock DJ”.’
‘Oh yeah, ace.’ With a final grin at Keith, Robbie headed off to make-up, entourage of flunkies in tow.
Ed and Keith looked at each other. Only another thirty agonising minutes to go, then they could all breathe out.
*
An hour and a half later,
Robbie had been dispatched in his limo, the kids had all been loaded on the coaches that would take them home to Milton Keynes or wherever it was they had come from, and Ed was sitting on the steps at the rear entrance of Channel 7’s Soho studios, smoking a crafty cigarette. The doors behind him opened with a crash as Keith, still accompanied by Brian the Cat, emerged. The puppet was operated from below with a combination of levers and sticks, which allowed his limbs to function. Brian’s head and body lolled lifeless over Keith’s arm.
‘Thank fuck that’s over for another week,’ said Keith with feeling as he plonked himself down on the step next to Ed. ‘I’m getting too old for all this shit.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Ed. ‘The show wouldn’t work without Brian. You love it, you know you do.’
Keith grunted something unintelligible in reply, lighting up his cigarette and pulling heavily on it.
The back door opened again and Charlotte stepped out. He wasn’t aware of it, but Ed’s face lit up as if it had been illuminated by a thousand-watt light bulb. Charlotte was dressed in green army combat trousers and a fitted black T-shirt that showed just a hint of her soft creamy belly when she lifted her arms up. Her choppy, layered red hair, probably a shade of red that didn’t occur in nature, framed her oval face and made her green eyes greener. Charlotte had told Ed that she was actually a blonde, but he didn’t care. He thought she was utterly gorgeous.
‘Keith Puckley, put that cigarette out now!’ She pointed at Keith accusingly. ‘If Brian gets a fag burn it’ll be Muggins here that’ll have to sit up all night stitching him, or, God forbid, making another one from scratch – which I’ve already had to do once, thanks to the Christmas party shenanigans.’
‘Sorry, Charlotte,’ said Keith meekly. ‘I was gasping.’
‘Oh, all right, but be careful.’ Charlotte softened and ruffled Brian’s fur affectionately. ‘God knows why, but I’ve become attached to the horrible little bastard.’
‘You wouldn’t want to be as attached to him as I am. Feel like I can’t get away from the little bugger,’ he said gloomily.
Charlotte patted his arm sympathetically. ‘Maybe it’s time to put Brian back in his box, Keith. It’s been a long day.’