A Cornish Christmas (12 page)

T
here is a saying
amongst the members of The Thursday Club that you don't get to the end because every stitch is perfect. You get there because of the one that came before it and how you proceed from there. You get there by going stitch by stitch.

The truth is in life, as in sewing, things fall apart; it's how you deal with it that counts.

Since I was a little girl, I'd been hearing one of my mum's old sewing club members tell me that same sage advice whenever I needed it.

When I was learning how to ride a bicycle and came inside with scraped knees, and an exhausted dad who'd been running behind me up and down the street, to launch myself in a flood of tears into my mum's arms, while I wailed that at age seven I was a hopeless failure, that I'd never get it. I'd be
twelve
and I still wouldn't get it. Being in the double digits and not knowing how to ride a bicycle seemed to me back then the worst thing that could happen in the history of the world.

Mum had looked at me with her kind eyes, lifted a sewing needle and said, ‘Ivy, darling, it's
stitch by stitch
, my girl, that's how you'll get there. Now go on then, dry your eyes.'

And they'd all nodded, while Mum gave me a gentle shove to get going, followed by my reluctant father, who gave them a tired smile, his long legs no doubt aching from riding the little pink bike I'd made him get on time and again so he could prove to me just how ‘easy' it was.

Robyn, the baker, told me the same thing, when a year later Catherine and I had our first real fight, when she admitted that her aversion to cats stretched even to Fat Albert. Instead of acknowledging her bravery in being honest with me, I was sure this was the end of our friendship. How could I continue to be friends with someone who couldn't see the many delights that was Fat Albert, chief of cats, the most lovable of creatures, whom I was sure proved the exception to every non-cat-loving rule? Which is what I told The Thursday Club with crossed arms, while ignoring poor Catherine's pleading knocks on the door outside.

Robyn, herself a cat lady, and proud of it, said, ‘Ivy, everyone is entitled to their opinions. You can't force someone to agree with you, it's how you get around that difference that makes the friendship richer as a result. It's like this stitch right here,' she said, lifting up a bright orange swathe of knitted yarn, with a vividly interesting pattern, that was no doubt intended for Hastings, or Morpeth, one of her many tabby cats. ‘It was meant to be a loop stitch, like in the pattern, but I made a mistake and it turned into a knit stitch, so I kept it going, and it's a much better piece as a result. You'll see, the same thing will happen with your friendship. Things start to get really interesting when you trust each other enough with the truth.'

‘Even
rroses
are made more bea-uti-ful, when they turn out to be not as they seem,' said the beautiful Flavia in her molten Italian voice, like rich chocolate gelato. ‘We always think of
rroses
as being perfect ... but they are not always – zey only get zere because of the care and attention we give zem,' she said, rolling each
r
.

‘Stitch by stitch,' agreed Winifred Jones, the grouchy headmistress, who clacked her needles together fiercely in response.

The circle bopped their heads in agreement. Being a wilful child, though, it had taken me a few weeks to see what they meant. That, and the fact that Catherine cornered me at school and told me that actually she was wrong, Fat Albert
was
the exception to the rule. She was lying, of course. We both knew it, but I did love her for it.

Throughout the years their motto had helped me, and when I faced a life without Mum, I would think:
Stitch by stitch
, which was sometimes translated to:
Minute by minute, hour by hour
.

When we failed to conceive. When we finally did, only to miscarry, twice. Somehow, I'd think:
Stitch by stitch
, and somehow, beyond the dark abyss that seemed ready to swallow me whole, I'd find my way to the other side.

I couldn't help but wonder just what Mum had meant by sending me this message now; what did I need to face, what more could I possibly face?

I'd just finished up the latest drawings of Mr Tibbles when the phone rang. Not realising that I would need Mum's words more than ever after the call.

Somehow, despite the fact that it was a number I didn't recognise, a part of me knew:
Genevieve
.

I didn't need Victoria's warning to know that The Terrorist wouldn't stop trying to get us to do things her way – such as visiting that specialist –even though we'd asked her to.

She'd sent the news clipping from the
Telegraph
the other day, the one that outlined the fertility specialist, Marcus Labuscagne's, technique, with a note saying that if I wanted to change my mind, she'd set up the appointment for me.

I had decided to ignore it, which perhaps wasn't the best plan.

A few days later, I'd gotten a call from the specialist, Dr Labuscagne himself, who no doubt had been paid a small fortune to give me his sales pitch, which lasted for forty-five minutes to the dot, obviously making sure he got his full money's worth despite my
many, many
protestations, which went something like this:

‘Yes, er... thank you for your call, she did tell me but I'm afraid that at this point, we're really just not interested—'

‘I understand, that's, er, really great that you've managed to squeeze us onto a two-year waiting list but—'

‘Yes... I understand she was royalty and she was moved off the list for us—'

‘But—'

‘Yes, that's, er, very—'

‘As I was SAYING, it is unnecessary as we won't be needing your—'

‘Yes, I do understand that it's a really impressive tech—'

‘Yes, a sixty-eight percent success rate is unheard of, BUT—'

‘Yes, that's really—'

‘Look, please, I'm not trying to be rude but I have to—'

‘Oh? Well, yes, I walk every day, but what has that got to do with—'

‘Yes, I understand that physical health on the outside doesn't necessarily reflect on the inside, but—'

‘No, I won't tell you my age!'

‘How did you get all that information? How dare she send it to you!'

‘Oh... yes, well, I am relieved you told her that I wasn't near the end of my fertility cycle, thank you for that... but please—'

‘No, I can't come this Tuesday, as I've already said—'

‘Look, please, I have to go—'

‘I'm sorry to be rude but—'

‘I hardly see how that's any of your business!'

‘He's very... er, virile, ugh, now please—'

‘Excuse me, I have a job to do so if you don't mind...'

‘I'm hanging up now.'

Which was what I should have done from the beginning.

Then a few days after that, I was sent the brochure for the Collingswood House, our dream home in Knightsbridge, which Stuart and I had always loved, and said we would love to buy if ever we won the lottery and it came on sale. Well, it turned out it was finally for sale. I suspected Genevieve had placed her rather heavy hand in this as well, however. I couldn't even imagine what she must have told the Pattersons to make them finally put their house up for sale.

And now that it was finally for sale, Genevieve wrote to us and kindly ‘offered' to make us a present of it so that we could have our own London base while I did the treatments she had booked with the insufferable Dr Marcus Labuscagne, the fertility specialist, the first of which she said would occur the following Tuesday.

She was good, I'd give her that.

She'd give Genghis Khan a run for his money. The Collingswood House was a low blow.

I scribbled a note of polite thanks and apology. One that was firm and to the point, saying we were not now or ever going to be seeing that specialist and while we did once love the Collingswood House, we loved Sea Cottage much more.

Now, a few days later, I'd gotten another phone call.

This time from a number I didn't recognise. A posh-sounding male voice asked me to hold for a Genevieve Everton and, before I knew it, I was once again ambushed. I'd been so careful to ignore her subsequent calls, to let Stuart deal with her instead of me... Perhaps that was the problem: the more I avoided her, the worse the ensuing well of emotion that came out of her eventually was, including the sheer vitriol that spouted from her mouth when we finally spoke. After a second's rather impolite introduction, she informed me, rather insultingly, ‘While the success of your “picture books”,' as she referred to
The Fudge Files
, ‘is, I am sure, fulfilling to some extent, spending all day imagining cute adventures about your dog is sweet in a very child-like sort of way. Thankfully, you've had some success with this, but it shouldn't get in the way of having a family, or be at the expense of Stuart's hopes and dreams of becoming a father. I'm sure your child-like pursuits can help foster your creativity, but really, Ivy, you need to put on your adult cap now, and push through. I know you've had heavy, painful setbacks, but if you're ever to succeed, you need to keep going. Trust me on this – your body won't wait for ever.'

Shock made me speechless. Had she honestly just termed my entire career a ‘child-like pursuit'? And my wanting to have a break from the pain and heartache of failing to conceive was ‘childish'?

While my brain whirred at the avalanche of insults, Genevieve continued, perhaps to offer some measure of an explanation for her unwarranted cruelty. ‘Look, I'm a straight-shooter, Ivy, I just tell it like it is, and I'm just going to say it, I know I shouldn't, I know he won't thank me for it, but I'm his mother and if I can't stick up for him, well then... I'm not a very good one, am I? My fear is that my son loves you, Ivy, so much so that he'll do whatever he can to make you happy. He'll mortgage his house twice, rather than accept our help to pay for all those IVF treatments because you didn't want to be in our debt—'

‘That was a joint decision!' I interjected. It was Stuart who said that if he accepted her financial aid, as she put it, we'd never be able to get rid of her. She'd see it as an investment, one that we had to pay off. Perhaps not financially, but one that may have even included visitation rights to her unborn grandchild until well into adulthood... or perhaps an insistence that it went to Eton if it was a boy or joined some godawful finishing school if it was a girl. I mean, who knows what she'd have asked... Her children didn't call her ‘The Terrorist' in a hyperbolic way, they meant it. And Stuart was adamant that the one thing you didn't do was negotiate with her. Because you'd lose. Every. Single. Time. Which is why the Everton children's family motto was very similar to that of the United States: ‘We do not negotiate with terrorists'.

Genevieve sighed impatiently. ‘I know he
said
that
but he only said it because it would upset you if you thought you owed us something. That's the trouble. He would rather put himself into serious debt and give up the career he'd been working towards just when it had finally paid off than dare to upset you. Then when your royalties paid out enough to buy a house, instead of buying his dream home in Collingswood here in Knightsbridge, which is finally for sale by the way, he agreed to move down to Cornwall with you, so that you could be closer to your dad. Meanwhile he had to give up his whole family... I mean, do you even know how much Victoria needs her brother right now? And your best friend, Catherine. I mean, you just left her in Chelsea.'

I spluttered in rage – how dare she bring up
my
friend in all of this? The woman was relentless. ‘What real prospects are there for my son down there? It's a holiday place. Unless, like you, you're lucky enough to be independently financed, there aren't that many jobs. I mean, this little business venture of his... it's ludicrous. For God's sake, the man has a PhD in marketing and advertising! This isn't what he worked so hard for. To be what? A glorified farmer?'

‘It's what he wanted!' I protested. ‘It was his suggestion – and so what? What's wrong with being a farmer? Anyway he's a smallholder, with a small business, and he loves it! And yes, we both loved the Collingswood House, but that was only because Cornwall wasn't an option. Once we had enough money that we didn't need a mortgage any more we were able to choose what we really wanted – and we chose this!'

Genevieve harrumphed. ‘I know my son. He agreed because he thought that down there away from the stress and bustle from London you'd be focused on getting pregnant. Except you're not. You'd rather just give up. He's given up everything that he ever wanted and now that you've achieved a degree of celebrity, you've decided it's too hard to try again.'

My mouth fell open and closed at her harsh, cruel words. Words that I attempted to deny.

‘It's not true, Stuart wanted Cornwall, we both did... he wanted a change,' I said, dashing away a tear, my throat constricting. ‘It might have been my suggestion but he wanted it... he was tired of the long nights and how awful the corporate politics were...'

I heard a snort of derision. ‘Really, Ivy? So that's why before you and Catherine were given that big print deal, he phoned me, more excited than I'd ever heard him, to tell me that he'd just been offered the position of vice president at the Red Agency – you know, the company that he always wanted to work for, the one that does the marketing for some of the biggest brands in the world, that one?' she said sarcastically, as if I didn't know which one she meant. ‘He was going to surprise you by putting in an offer on the Collingswood House to celebrate...'

‘Vice president?' I repeated numbly. Why hadn't Stuart said anything?