A Cornish Christmas (17 page)

I put a hand on Stuart's arm and shook my head. ‘No,' I said.

He looked at me in shock. ‘What?'

I picked up Genevieve's bag and said, ‘You are not going anywhere. Don't you know you've got a really important job to do?'

She frowned at me. ‘What do you mean?'

I grinned. ‘Well, Genevieve, it turns out that you're going to be a granny. Now, I'm sorry we didn't tell you before, but I was going to tell you this week, but you were away at that conference in New York.'

I saw her eyes smart. It looked a little like she was fighting two sides of herself. Like a sea, fighting against the tide, I could see part of her wanted to defend herself.

‘So I suggest,' I added, giving Stuart a look, ‘that we put all of this behind us. It was wrong of me not to have told you, because I was afraid of how you might act...'

She took a breath. ‘Just as it was wrong of me to imply that you did something to lose it the last time. I blame myself and that's the truth, if...' she took a shuddering breath, ‘if I hadn't have interfered, and got that horrid nurse, maybe you wouldn't have gotten yourself so stressed...'

I touched her arm. ‘It's not your fault. Pregnant women feel stress... it's normal, a small bit of stress like that wouldn't have caused that...' To my own surprise, I found myself reassuring her, finding as I spoke the words how true they were.

‘We're on the same team here, Genevieve, just, I know it's hard... because you're... well, very used to being in charge, but...'

‘I'm more like co-captain?' she said, making a joke.

Stuart grinned, ‘Sorry Mum, that's my job, you're the...'

‘Granny,' I supplied.

She closed her eyes, and bit her lip. When she opened them she looked younger, less severe. ‘That's plenty.'

I grinned. ‘So tell you what, let's all get ourselves down to the cellar to wait out this storm, shall we? And I'll tell you all about your grandchild and just how big she is.'

Genevieve gasped. ‘It's a girl?'

We each shared massive grins. Outside, the storm waged on, but for now, we were exactly where we wanted to be.

G
enevieve stayed
for four days and three nights. In many ways she was the model guest. Despite the fact that her phone rang constantly as her company flailed hopelessly without their captain.

No one was more surprised than I when she put it on silent and said, ‘They can just bloody well wait, or figure it out themselves...'

She listened attentively as I told her about Dr Harris and the progress of the baby. I didn't know what it must have cost her to ensure that she never uttered a word against our obstetrician's rural pedigree.

She made a half-hearted attempt to get me to see an obstetric friend, but stopped herself, shaking her head. ‘Sorry, no ... this, er, doctor has gotten further than any of the others and the fact that she actually burst into tears of happiness when it finally happened, well...' She twiddled her watch. ‘You can't buy that, can you?'

I shook my head in wonder at her. ‘No, you can't,' I agreed.

Still, she sighed every time she passed the window, her eye falling on the garden outside, while Stuart tried his best to salvage what remained of his winter crop.

There were nineteen squabbles. Five mentions of the Collingswood House. Three mentions of the job at the Red Agency.

Two occurrences of slamming doors (me). Seven apologies and two occasions in which I escaped to May Bradley's house for a much-needed breather. At these moments, each time Muppet came along too.

I believe that Genevieve's comment about the benefits of having a Labrador – a real ‘walking dog' as opposed to a dog that slept more than it spent time awake – had even offended her rather indomitable canine sensibilities.

May was turning out to be a great, sympathetic friend.

Her house, like May herself, was ever so slightly wacky. Painted a deep blue, she had mosaicked it in blue, white, and yellow tiles, so that it looked like something out of a Moroccan bathhouse. The locals referred to it as ‘May's Mad House' in a proud sort of way, like she might be
weird
. But she was
their
weirdo, dammit.

She was constantly working on some or other knitting project. Her hands always busy, but now even more so, as The Thursday Club made it their mission to get through as many jumpers and animal jerseys as they could possibly manage in light of the recent storm, which had resulted in the largest flood in Cloudsea history.

Luckily, May's house, like mine, was built higher up on the hill so it had survived the storm relatively unscathed. ‘That battle-axe driving yer mad?' she asked, looking up from her sewing, peering over pink-rhinestoned glasses that perched at the end of her long nose, as I pounded up the stairs and came into her living-cum-sewing room that was dominated by a large, dark wood table with space for exactly seven chairs. You never needed to knock when you came over as she could see you coming from a mile away from the span of windows.

Shelves lined the walls and on every available surface bolts of fabric, yarn, needles, and spools of thread sat companionably in a helter-skelter fashion. On one small fold-up table close to the main one was a kettle, toaster, assorted cups, and biscuits. May was a great believer in biscuits. Which was perhaps why at a young age I was a great believer in May...

‘Yeah,' I sighed, Muppet at my heels.

‘You too?' she asked, giving Muppet a look.

I laughed. ‘Apparently, she sleeps too much.'

May sighed. ‘As if you hadn't any right,' she said in her lyrical brogue, with a shake of her head at Muppet. She patted the seat next to her, and Muppet and I both took it.

‘But yer good to mend the fences and all, sure me and me own mam-in-law was at each other's throats fer half our lives... Then when she was gone, can yer believe I missed the old goat? Used to go and see her up at the old age home in Doolin, asked her to move in with me and everything.'

‘Really?' I said in shock, as she switched on the kettle to put on a pot of tea. She laughed, as she brought down two old chipped mugs from the dresser and plopped a bag of Miles tea into each. ‘She told me ter go feck it.'

‘She didn't?'

‘Ah, well, she was right... we'd have half killed each other in a matter of weeks, ta be sure. Lookit, it's never easy, is it? Sometimes ye get lucky, like me sister Susie, she liked her mam-in-law better than our own mam, though hardly surprising as ours was a right bollocks.'

She made a hand-holding-a-bottle gesture to her lips. ‘Liked her cups, did me old mam, but she had seven kids... I mean, now that I think about it, I mean, who wouldn't? Bred like rabbits in those days, bless 'em.'

I laughed again.

‘It was a different time back then ... Times were hard, ah shame, sure she tried her best, we was loved, that's what's important I always think... and yer mam-in-law, she loves yer, that's why she drives yer so mad.'

I couldn't argue there.

I took a sip. ‘This is us getting on,' I said with a grin. ‘I've decided for the sake of our relationship that when I'm near that point of wondering if I could sell her to a wandering gypsy and I start to wish to God one would come past, that it's time to get some fresh air... Yesterday, that only happened three times, so you know, it's progress.'

May patted me on the hand. ‘Aye, that it is,' she said with a nod. ‘Why don't yer stay fer supper... stretch it that little bit longer? Sure yer hubby will understand... I mean, we can say that yer helping me with this here jumper, and yer could actually feckin' do it fer once, yer lazy arse!'

I giggled, and picked up a set of needles. ‘You're a hard taskmaster, May Bradley,' I said with a fake sigh.

May shrugged and gave the dog a wink. ‘But don't yer worry, we won't tell anyone about yerself. Get yer shut eye, sure, but you'll be needing it fer later.'

I could swear Muppet gave her a grateful look before she promptly fell asleep.

S
eeing
the destruction that the flood had wrought on the town was heartbreaking. I'd never seen anything like it before. The storm had washed away roads, swept into homes, eaten up paths, and left many stranded. Some of the worst affected were in our village, people with businesses, like our friend Terry, the owner of Salt, whose entire kitchen was sitting in three feet of water.

Water that, really, had nowhere to go. So it just sat, a living thing, twirling itself around the ankles of buildings, like a cat.

The Blumes' pub, The Cloud Arms, stood empty. They had sunk all of their savings into restoring the fine old Grade II listed building that dated back to Tudor times, only to see much of their efforts washed away. It was heartbreaking to see April looking so lost. Even her bright magenta hair seemed to have lost its customary sheen as I came past. ‘'Tis a fine pre-Christmas present, isn't it?' she said sadly, as I offered her a cup of tea from a flask.

‘You won't leave though, will you?' I asked. It would be hard to imagine the village without the Blumes, or the cheery warmth that was The Cloud Arms.

She shrugged. ‘I don't know... honestly... thanks love,' she said, handing me back the cup and following her husband Jeff back into the pub, as he and a group of men carried some of their things out into a nearby van.

Stuart and I traversed the waterlogged path together, our wellington-clad feet not able to withstand the ever ready eddies of water, which entered the gaps at the tops of our shins, turning our toes numb with cold.

Mrs Aheary passed us by. ‘Told you there was ter be a storm, though none of us could have predicted this. I'm sure we'll have to close up shop for good now,' she said, jerking her head towards the post office up the lane, which alone had remained impervious to the storm's assault.

I shook my head. How she could moan when the rest of the village looked the way it did was beyond me. Still, I'd never ignore her storm warnings after this though, that was for sure.

We passed by Bess Willis, the owner of the launderette, giving her a sympathetic look as she attempted to guide Gertrude Burrows, Cloudsea's geriatric busybody, back up the hill and away from the swirling water that could knock a rhinoceros off its feet, while she moaned, ‘I'm not bloody feeble, just let me go... Been through more floods than any of you lot...'

We found Terry standing outside Salt, a massive figure with his crimson beard and hair, arms crossed, his grey eyes reflecting the hungry torrent that sucked at the town.

He greeted us with a sad smile. ‘We won't know how bad it is until the water recedes, and no one knows how long that will take.'

It was strange to see the café so empty. The armchair that I always sat in by the fire with Muppet while I planned out my schedule for the day over a cup of Terry's finest cappuccino and a slice of one of his mouth-watering cakes, or scones with Cornish clotted cream and strawberry jam, was shoved on top of a table at a precarious angle. Even from here I could see that the velvet was ruined. I felt a sense of indefinable loss.

‘You will carry on though, Terry, won't you?' I asked, tremulously, heartbroken at the idea of so many businesses like the Blumes packing it in.

Stuart clapped Terry on the back. ‘We're here to help if you need us... We hope you won't go.'

Terry rubbed his eyes. ‘Aye, I suppose...' He gave us a rueful grin. ‘You know us Scots don't give up... pretty much, ever. But I have no idea how I'm going to do it. Most of me team has had to go. I couldn't afford to keep them on without an income, and in two weeks' time there's the New Year's Harbour festival, which I'm supposed to cater.'

He pointed towards the ruined kitchens. ‘Though how I'm going to do it without a kitchen and no staff is beyond me.' He ran a hand through his hair, then looked suddenly at Stuart. The two of them shared a smile. ‘Unless...'

‘Unless?' said Stuart with a wide grin.

‘Well, you'd really be helping me out, mate... I've tried your stuff, it's amazing! I can handle the bigger things like the roasts, but how would you feel about doing the canapés? We can discuss the terms later, but let me know, think about it...'

Stuart shrugged. ‘Nothing to think about. Count me in,' he said, and the two shook hands, Terry looking a lot happier than when we first arrived.

As we left, Stuart wrapped his arm around me, and we squelched off while he tried out various canapé suggestions on me.

‘How about tripe with pak choi jelly?'

‘You're joking?'

He chortled. ‘No, okay, I'll leave out the jelly, tripe is a delicacy.'

‘Mr Everton, let's not make Terry regret his decision.'

Stuart shot me a mock offended look. ‘Terry is Scottish, they eat sheep's stomachs...'

‘Good point, but as I'd prefer that you both to stay in business, may I make a suggestion?'

He turned to me, lending me his ear. I poked him in the ribs.

‘Yes?'

‘Well,' I said, scanning the horizon. ‘How about crostini and goats' cheese?'

‘Oooh, with spinach?'

‘Definitely.'

‘Also, quiche.'

‘Quiche,' he said, eyes lighting up. ‘Oh yes, with some of my turnip jam?'

I sighed. Sometimes there was just no use arguing.

T
he village rallied together
to do what it could to help.

Abigail Charming, the American heiress and owner of the Senderwood Estate, who lived in my old village in Tremenara, let out all her rooms to the families, free of charge. Meanwhile Robyn Glass attempted to bring as much cheer as she could by supplying the children and adults with a steady stream of muffins, iced buns, and bread.

The rest of us did what we could, bringing along food and spare blankets, opening up our homes and inviting friends and families to ride out the flood in spare rooms and attics. Some people were living in caravan parks while they waited to see what the damage to their homes had been. When finally the waters had receded, town planners, engineers, and all manner of experts began working on the problem, trying to see what had caused the freak flood, with part of the problem apparently being the ageing sea wall.

Some people like the Greens, who were hardest hit, simply left, abandoning their cottage, and leaving word that they would be considering selling when the weather finally improved.

‘It's already driven down property prices,' said Robyn when I caught up with her and May in her lime green van, which they'd dubbed the ‘Cat Napper' as they trawled the streets looking for any animals that had gone into hiding or lost their way. ‘People forget about the animals,' she added sadly. ‘They'll come together, bring soup and bread for the families, but the animals so often get left behind... The same thing happens during war.'

‘But surely not here in our village,' I said in shock, thinking of how animal-friendly it was. Salt, along with most of the establishments, was supremely welcoming to pets; it was one of the reasons we felt so at home.

‘Yer would be surprised,' said May, giving John Usett, the hardware store owner, a sour look as we drove past. ‘Himself there had a dog stuck in the garden behind the shed, still tied up. Sure that old goat had been in and out of that garden seven feckin' times. I saw him meself, while I was helping Fiona Bream – his neighbour – ta move her couches out to the dry, so it's not like he didn't see the dog, but he just left. Didn't come back the whole day. That's when Fiona broke in and rescued him – shivering wreck he was. The vet said that if it had gone any longer the dog would have died of cold. As it is they don't know if he'll keep the limb. He tried so hard to free himself, tore the ligaments right out.'

I gasped. John Usett had always been a bit of a crabby man, but I never imagined that it ran to cruelty. I certainly would think twice about getting anything else from him at the hardware store from now on...