by Jane Linfoot
In reality it’s slightly longer, but then he’s back from the side of the castle, and we’re hearing the aluminium clinking against the stone as he extends them up the facade. Seeing him shimmying up the rungs in his Aztec print surfie pants, his bead braids flying, to a window filled with Miranda, it’s weirdly like watching Rapunzel in reverse.
Then he drops out of sight over the frame edge and a few seconds later there’s a shout. ‘Yay, we’re free!’
When Keef reappears at the window, he’s being showered with kisses and adulation from a very appreciative and exceedingly breathy Miranda.
‘My hero, my hero, you saved us, you saved us!’
Keef’s grinning. ‘All in a day’s work.’ He winks at her. ‘You know what they say, Miranda – before you can be free, first you need to open the door …’
As she beams back at him her eyes are dancing. ‘… and then you need to let go … then carpe those effing diems!’ She lets out a husky laugh. ‘We two should go into partnership … empowering sound bites from Cockle Shell Castle.’
Bill’s shouting up. ‘So what was the problem?’
Keef’s shaking his head as he finally disentangles himself from Miranda’s arms and slides back out onto the ladder. ‘Nothing major, these old upside down locks, they’d been turning the key the wrong way, that’s all.’
Which probably says something hugely significant, I’m just not quite sure what.
Thursday
19th December
20.
Worth melting for …
I’d somehow pinned my hopes on a day of tree decorating for today. Realistically, if we don’t do the damned things soon, Christmas will be over and we’ll all be going home again. What I actually mind about more is that if no one wants to decorate them Bill will be proved right about us not needing seventeen trees. And I really, really, REALLY don’t want that to happen.
But as usual, what happens instead is all my own fault. I’d been Googling Instagram opportunities in Bill’s bedroom, and came out super-excited because I’d found an evening Christmas Market down at the harbour in St Aidan on Friday. I mean, think of it – is there anything more Christmassy than market stalls, twinkly lights, delicious food, with the added twist of a backdrop of picturesque fishermen’s cottages, bobbing boats and reflections off the water? And as if that wasn’t enough – pause for a ‘squee’ at this point – there’s going to be ice skating too! I knew I’d unearthed a festive gem, but I hadn’t bargained for what Libby did next.
Before we knew it, she’d stopped Keef mid way across the room with a log basket, turned him straight round and told him to find the event organisers and negotiate a private advance-hire of the rink.
Keef waved away the Amex Centurion card Libby was pressing into his hand, pointed to a wodge of twenties in his surfie pants pocket, tapped his beads against his nose, and said leave it to him, they’d settle up later. Whatever strings or rigging ropes he had to pull, and however much he had to shell out, the end result is, first thing this morning, instead of being elbow deep in vintage baubles and ribbons we’re heading off for a spot of exclusive-use skating on the harbourside outdoor rink.
Which brings me on to the other emerging early-morning castle feature – Bill and Milo’s breakfast wars. And the winner of today’s battle was … pause for a drum roll … Milo!!! He must literally have got up before he went to bed in order to bag his place by the Aga, and stood there most of the night with an industrial sized bowlful of Scotch pancake mixture, poised to cook his drop scones.
If I’m being totally honest, when you think of Bill’s breakfasts, brought to the table from wherever he’s picked them up, delivered with at best a frown and at worst a scowl like thunder, he’s a long way behind in the race. Bill may have the edge on taste, and to be fair Milo does borrow Bill’s pinny. But Bill loses out every other way because Milo cooks in person, flapping around the kitchen with his gentle banter, self-mocking jokes, and his easy smile. Breakfast served from the heart with a radiant beam? Steaming-hot dropped pancakes, served with a choice of blueberry or apricot jam and a smile – some of us accept all three – will beat Bill’s bad moods hands down every time.
The downside is, by the time we make it to the harbour and the rink side, I’m so full of Scotch pancakes when I bend to do up the ice skating boots they give me, I’m popping my jeans. We’re sitting at a cluster of tables at the end of the rink by the skate store and refreshment caravan, watching the fairy lights swinging from the awning edge as the gentle breeze blows in off a sea tinged with deep greens and topaz blue.
I break off to get a really lovely picture of Tiff kneeling down, her tulle skirt spread out across the cobbles, lacing up Tarkie’s skating boots. I have no doubt Libby will dismiss it, but I still love the way the two of them were caught in this really sweet sibling moment.
Then I turn back to Fliss and groan at her as I do up my button. ‘This has to be why Scottish people wear kilts. I may have to sit this one out until my breakfast goes down.’
She’s planned better, and is hauling up the elasticated waistband of her leggings under her huge emerald maternity Elf jumper from last year. ‘Don’t be silly, get out there on the ice and work it off.’
I saw her looking at her phone a moment ago, so take this second to mouth at her, ‘Any news?’
From her grimace it’s not the best. ‘Rob’s pulled yet another all nighter at the office.’
‘Right.’ That’s even worse than I thought. I’m puzzled, because this seems so unlike him. ‘Do you believe him? Could he actually have been working?’
The sleep deprivation circles under her eyes are even darker than usual. ‘Three times in the last week, I can’t help but think the worst.’
I sigh because I know how bad I felt when George left. But mostly that was because he dodged saying goodbye and left me hanging for days and I didn’t know where he was. When I actually found out he’d landed a mega bucks gig in another continent, no longer needed me, but couldn’t face telling me, it came as a relief. But Fliss has so much more at stake. I just had one loser of a boyfriend, she’s got the children and this is her soulmate we’re talking about. And I know, every day the doubts are getting bigger. It’s staring us in the face, we just can’t bring ourselves to believe it. Nothing’s going to make her feel better, but at least it might take her mind off it.
‘Go and skate, I’ll look after Harriet and Merwyn while you and Oscar have a go.’ I know what I’m doing here, Harriet’s in her pushchair, currently sleeping off her own pancake stack. And I’m due a rest. I’ve already made my contribution to today’s Instagram effort by handing out Libby’s label stripy scarves for product placement and to make everyone look colourful against the picturesque backdrop of the harbourside cottages. Coaxing the Edmunson-Twiglets into her hats instead of theirs was as exhausting as it sounds. I mean, one trapper hat is effective, four home-made, crocheted and matching is too much of a good thing. Drab brown may be very up and coming in theory, but it’s still not bringing in the likes yet on Insta.
Fliss is looking over the barrier to where Brian, Bede, Taj and Slater are already zooming around the ice, their assorted rainbow and palm-tree print trousers flapping as they lean into the corners. ‘I thought this was private, what the hell are they doing here?’
I have to laugh. ‘Libby’s hired Keef’s mates in as crowd extras to fill the rink for the pictures.’ I let out a sigh. ‘You have to hand it to Libby, she’s phenomenal at nailing the details. She even got them all to turn up in Santa hats and their #TeamChristmas castle sweatshirts.’
Fliss is looking over to where Libby’s marching around, ordering everyone onto the ice. ‘She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it much though does she?’
I give a shrug. ‘A Christmas production as big as this is a serious business.’ I wrinkle my nose at Fliss as I pull my chair closer to the see-through part of the barrier and push her and Oscar off towards the ice. ‘If you think about it, Madonna doesn’t
smile much either.’ I suspect Libby would take the comparison as a compliment.
Not that I’m being critical, but apart from Miranda and Ambrose, and Milo who I suspect is sunny, upbeat and bounding like a puppy even on his darkest days, I don’t think anyone’s actually having a good time. Sure, we had half an hour yesterday evening with the lights dimmed and tea lights glimmering against the velvety darkness of the windows, sitting in front of the orange glow of log embers, but with Libby always rushing in and out on various missions, it wasn’t exactly relaxing.
And the kids have taken a tower alcove for each family, and get holed up in there. Tiff and Tansy seem to mostly film each other on their phones doing earnest pieces to camera, while Tom disappears inside his coat with his laptop and headphones.
In the other tower, Willow always supervises her crew, and they all talk in Spanish and play Evopolio, which in case you don’t know – I certainly didn’t – is a kind of Bolivian Monopoly, only better. All while burning their own cleansing candles. Whoop di do. The only times they lapse into English they seem to be saying what a shame it is they aren’t actually in South America this year.
And whatever I was saying about Miranda and Ambrose being happy, as Miranda pulls up a chair next to mine, and thuds down onto it with a long groan, I’m having a rethink on that.
‘Everything okay there?’
She takes a last drag on her roll up, stubs out the end on the bottom of her sparkly boot, then blows out a cloud of smoke that disappears into the air as it drifts towards the inky water beyond the harbour quayside. When her blue eyes flash towards me, they’re troubled. ‘Actually, I’m totally pissed off. Yesterday Ambrose completely failed to do something as simple as turning a key to unlock the door he’d just bolted himself. And now he’s in a major sulk because he’s here and shivering rather than at the castle in the hot tub.’ Her nostrils flare. ‘To be honest, I could do without the drama.’
As Ambrose wanders over I dip into my bag for the last of Libby’s scarves. ‘Here, take this, Ambie, you’ll feel warmer if you wrap up.’
He coils the scarf around his neck as he sits down. ‘Lucky for me, I have other warming strategies.’ He pulls out a hip flask, takes a swig. As he offers it to me there’s a blast of whisky on the breeze.
‘Fabulous, but I’ll pass thanks.’ I’m toying with letting him into the secret of avoiding alcohol to keep your body temperature up when Keef arrives, towering over us in his skates.
‘Morning, campers!’ He shakes back his braids, gives Ambrose a gentle fist bump on his shoulder that almost knocks him sideways out of his plastic chair, then turns to Miranda. ‘Naughty, naughty! You promised me you’d carpe those diems, remember – how exactly is settling in as a spectator seizing the day?’
‘Er …’ Miranda opens her mouth, and manages to make her eyes sparkle, but unusually for someone so vocal, nothing else comes out.
Keef’s already got hold of her hand and pulled her out of her chair. ‘You can sit down every day for the rest of your life. But right now we have ice, we have to skate!’
Ambrose and I watch as he takes her over to swap her silver doccies for some skates, and a few minutes later he’s leading her towards the rink.
Miranda shouts as she passes, ‘Won’t be long, Ambie.’
I think we all know she will be. I can’t help feeling sorry for Ambie, the way the stripy scarf is so incongruous on top of his camel wool overcoat. I smile as I mentally namecheck his shoes. ‘Nice loafers, Ambrose.’ Then I put my hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be back.’
Whatever moment Miranda’s seizing now this second, later on it’s going to come down to a choice between six hundred quid’s worth of Horsebit Guccis, or beaten up Animal boarding trainers that look like they could possibly be third hand. Miranda’s heart might be momentarily lightened by the whoosh across the ice and Bill’s dad’s bollock talk of wild moments and free spirits blowing across endless oceans. But with her track record of desperately seeking security, it’s no secret where she’ll finally end up. Even if her men invariably fall by the wayside, if ever it comes to a choice of two, her head and their bank balance win out over her heart every time. Which is how we all know, however much she’s giggling and gazing up at the stars in Keef’s eyes as he steers her around, Ambrose will be laughing all the way to the hot tub in the end. I just hope poor Ambrose knows that, because with every circuit of the rink Miranda makes his face is getting longer.
As he takes another swig he lets out a sigh. ‘The trouble is, I’m just not used to roughing it. Betty and I always went to places with more stars and a hell of a lot more luxury, I’ve got wall to wall Axminster at home with double deluxe underlay.’
‘Betty?’ My heart goes out to how far out of his comfort zone he sounds.
He gives a shrug. ‘Betty was my late wife, we were great cruise fans. Once you’ve had Christmas in a platinum suite with butler service and black tie dining every night at the Captain’s table – well, anything less feels like second best.’ And a castle with stone walls inside as well as out instead of a stateroom must be about as comfortable as rubbing rough sandpaper on his sun tanned skin. Only made bearable by drinking every last drop of whatever comes his way.
I reach over and give his arm a squeeze. ‘I’m sure once Miranda tries a cruise you’ll convert her.’ I’m actually less convinced than I sound. I suspect Miranda’s a little too naughty to rub shoulders with captains any more than once and if I remember rightly she gets very seasick. She’s much more of a boundary pusher and militant protester than someone who rises to expectations. If Ambrose only knew she’d been arrested for a pie in the face incident involving a Tory councillor at the library closure demonstrations in Brighton, we probably wouldn’t see his Gucci loafers for dust.
Ambrose hugs his arms and shivers. ‘I think we’ll definitely head out to Barbados for next Christmas.’
‘Lovely.’ Even though I’m beaming at him, as a measure of how uncomfortable I’m feeling here, I’d actually rather be joining in with Tom and Tarkie at the next table, deciding how likely it is they’ll fall over and get their fingers sliced off by a passing ice skate.
Then as I watch Oscar and Fliss wobbling off the ice towards us, a hand closes on my shoulder. I don’t have to look. Merwyn jumping up and down, snuffling and even barking – little traitor – is the give-away. I turn around into a Paco Rabane cloud, and a beam the width of St Aidan bay and twice as warm as a summery day. ‘Milo, you’ve made it, and you’ve already got your skates on.’
If he was Merwyn, the way Milo wrinkles his nose would be adorable. Seeing he’s human, it’s slightly less cute and frankly a teensy bit unnerving in a ‘stomach withering like a prune’ kind of way. He’s holding out his hand to me. ‘Coming for a twirl?’
It’s very bad timing. I was ready to stagger on and do a few wobbly rounds on my own, but as I’d rather not join in the pairs skating I’m floundering for excuses. ‘Thanks but I think it’s time for hot chocolate and Christmas cupcakes.’ Not very original, but I’m desperate. ‘The skate lady was telling me … they’re home baked from the Little Cornish Kitchen … that’s out beyond the harbour towards the dunes … they’re baked by Clemmie, the receptionist from the solicitors … they’ve got every flavour you can imagine … and they do singles events there too …’
Milo’s looking bemused. ‘But we only just had breakfast, I only just finished washing up!’ Reminding us all what an angel he is in the kitchen too. ‘Come on, twice round, then I’ll treat everyone to drinks and snacks.’ Not that he’s manipulating, but now it seems like everyone’s elevenses are hanging on me going with him.
Fliss perks up as she arrives. ‘Oooo, yes, off you go quickly, Ivy-star, then we’ll all have mid-morning cakes.’ With besties like this, who needs enemies?
‘Fine.’ It isn’t, but I stand up, pull the edge of my pompom hat down as far as it will go, and grab hold of the barrier side. I used to have all kinds of trouble on roller skates,
so how I’m going to attempt to balance on anything as thin as a blade I have no idea. As I begin to haul my way hand over hand around to the gap that leads to the ice I’m regretting all the times I chickened out of the Daniels’ staff club trips to the ice rink. I’m also watching the guys hanging up the lights and putting the finishing touches to the stalls they’re building around the harbour edge, the line of higgledy pastel painted cottages behind them. Thanking my lucky stars that apart from the stall builders who are busy and the odd dog walker making their way down to the beach, the harbour’s deserted, and we’re doing this without an audience.
I’m determined to do this on my own. Girls Aloud singing Jingle Bell Rock is coming out of the speakers, that has to be a good sign. I mean, how hard can it be? Tom and Tarkie have decided to risk their fingers and are staggering around upright more than they’re falling over, and the Twiglets are already pirouetting. As I step down onto the ice, Libby strides past on the harbourside cobbles. I nod at Willow’s daughter, Scout, who’s whizzing round so fast on the spot she’s gone all blurry.
‘That might be good to upload?’ I’m no expert, but from where I’m standing, for a ten year old it’s pretty damned impressive. I just hope her scarf doesn’t tighten and strangle her due to the sideways gravity forces.
‘I don’t think so, Ivy, it looks a lot more like showing off than true interpretive free-style skating to me.’ Libby lets out a snort. ‘That’s home schooling in a nutshell – they’re outshining Jane Torville with their stupendous spins, they could talk Spanish for bloody Mexico, but their social skills are a total disaster. You must have noticed they have zero interaction with anyone and look totally objectionable all of the time.’
I’m too busy thinking she could be talking about her own lot to answer immediately, but she’s obviously not expecting one because she’s already off across the quay.