A Cornish Christmas (19 page)

‘I'm kidding!' I explained. The poor woman had turned an odd shade of purple. So I hastened over with my watercolour drawings of Mr Tibbles in the Fairy's Forest, complete with glittering fey folk, fairy lights, Feathershloop the owl, the Red Fairy, all of which were rather enchanting looking, if I did say so myself.

‘I'm going to do this,' I said with a smile.

Her mouth fell open again. She clutched my arm. ‘Oh my goodness, it's beautiful!' she cried. Looking up at her, I was alarmed to see a faint outline of tears. Genevieve had a whimsical side? ‘It's so magical... Ivy, this is wonderful.'

Then she laughed. ‘God, for a second I thought...'

‘Goth baby?'

She grinned. ‘Something like that. But this is lovely,' she said again, scanning the drawing. ‘Is this a new project?'

‘Not really,' I said, then told her about Mr Tibbles. ‘He was sort of a secret project for a while... Something to help, you know, when things were a bit tough...'

She bit her lip. ‘I'm sorry about what I said the other day, about your work being child-like. I didn't mean it. I was just lashing out.'

An
apology
from Genevieve?

Then she looked at me and shook her head. ‘I don't think he should be kept secret,' she said, touching Mr Tibbles, who was looking rather fetching with his raincoat on, and a pair of flying goggles. ‘He's just too adorable,' she added with a genuine smile making her look so much younger for it, and I found my eyes starting to well up.

‘What a fun home my grandchild is going to be coming into, with parents like you two. You know, my own mother was a hard woman. I used to draw, just a hobby, you know... nothing like this... She always wanted me to be busy: “Make yourself useful, Genevieve,” she'd say. She grew up after the war, they had to be very practical. Any time any of us kids were doing anything that she felt was a waste of time she'd put us to work. It's only now, as an adult, that I realise maybe I carried a bit of that with me when I became a parent too.'

When she left, I gave her a hug. It was the first time I'd ever done that.

W
hen Smudge came over
, I poured her a glass of wine while she filled us in about her and Mark, telling Stuart to keep calm as his face grew pale and when he looked ready to kill.

‘Oh sit down,' she told him with a laugh as he jumped out of his seat in rage.

‘I phoned Mark...' she told me. ‘After I spoke to you, I don't know... It was like a rush of fire to the brain or something, decided to just rip the bloody plaster, you know.'

We both nodded. Stuart was sitting gingerly near the open fireplace, where Muppet snored on, oblivious.

‘Of course, he denied it...'

‘That lying bastard!' exploded Stuart.

Muppet opened an eye, then turned over in a huff.

‘Hey!' I said, widening my eyes at him. ‘Keep your pants on...' Turning to Smudge I continued, ‘Carry on, what exactly did that lying bastard have to say?'

Stuart and Smudge laughed. ‘Well, he said they were just friends, you know. Then he told me that maybe if I were home more he wouldn't need to make friends with his bloody personal trainer, like it was my fault. Like he doesn't have any other bloody friends, the arse.' She shook her head. ‘The trouble is he has a bit of a point.'

‘What? No, he doesn't!' I cried. ‘You said yourself he could have come here with you as he was back from Rome. It's not like you guys haven't done that for years – travelled wherever the other was working when you could. It's why your marriage worked in the first place, because you both don't have conventional jobs or kids.'

She nodded. ‘Yeah, exactly. I said that too, but we just go around in circles. The thing is he wants more of a stable life now. That's what he said. Eventually, he admitted that there's a spark between him and this... personal trainer.
Jess
,' she said, with a twist of her lip.

‘Jess?' I mouthed. ‘What kind of a name is Jess for a man-stealing personal trainer?'

She nodded. ‘I know, right... should be like Amber or something,' she added with an empty laugh.

‘A spark!' shouted Stuart. ‘That sleazy little arsehole, I'll show him some bloody sparks...'

I looked at him. ‘Look, love, maybe you should, you know, go get us some crisps or something. '

‘What?' he said, looking at me as if I'd gone mad. ‘You want crisps now?'

‘No, I want you to bloody bugger off or calm down,' I said, making a move to shove him out the living room.

He glared at me. ‘This is
my sister
,'
he huffed. ‘
You
bugger off!

Smudge snorted as my eyes popped in rage. ‘It's okay, you guys, oddly this is helping... Lets me know that I'm not going mad – Mark seemed to think I was overreacting.'

‘What?!' exploded Stuart and I together.

She nodded. ‘It's just a harmless flirtation, that's what he said... “If it bothers you, Victoria,”' she said, putting on a poncey-sounding voice just like Mark's, ‘“I'll just stop doing anything at all, while you flit around the world doing whatever you fancy, while I get fat and be your house husband ready and waiting like a big fat pussy for whenever you decide to come home...”'

‘Seriously?' I asked, my mouth falling open in utter shock. ‘He seriously said that?'

‘Yep.'

‘I'm going to kill him,' hissed Stuart.

‘Me first,' I said.

‘I love you idiots,' said Smudge.

T
hat night
as I slipped into a hot bath after we'd insisted Smudge spend the night in the spare room, I couldn't stop thinking about her and Mark. I couldn't believe he was acting this way. I knew she had a big decision to make. I hoped that they'd be able to work it out but, to be honest, I didn't see how. He seemed to resent Smudge for everything. It looked to me, at least, like he was using his personal trainer as a bit of an excuse. As I lay in the water I realised just how tired I really was. Pregnancy was no joke. I was used to feeling tired for most of the day, but it was so much worse after the events of the last few days.

It hadn't helped that I hadn't slept much last night after Genevieve had interrupted my time with Mum. When 3 a.m. rolled around, this time I was waiting, despite feeling dead on my feet.

When that magic hour rolled around, light and stardust seemed to fill the room and, in the moon-bright glow, I smiled.

‘Oh Mum, I love you,' I said, holding back the fear that after last night, when Genevieve had broken the spell, she wouldn't be back. I couldn't, didn't know how I would handle that.

When the postcard began to write, I felt my shoulders sag in relief; it was just what I needed right then.

T
he night before Christmas
, I placed the last little ornament on the tree: a silver-gold box that I'd made in secret during the night. I sat back on my heels and admired the room: the crackling fire, the fairy lights twinkling around the French doors and the beautiful tree filled with homemade decorations, which Mum and I had crafted together over the years, sparkling amongst the white Christmas lights.

Dad had surprised me with a small package filled with our decorations, from paper snowmen to elves and sprites made of twigs, glitter, and glue, saying they belonged with us, as we started our new family.

I touched the little paper box I'd made, thinking of Mum. Every year, on Christmas Eve, she used to make a secret decoration just for us. From silver-winged angels to tiny, hand-sewn teddy bears with brown button eyes, our names embroidered on the chest. They were always more beautiful and intricate than any we could imagine. It was this that I looked forward to the most, perhaps even more so than the real gifts because they always seemed more magical than the others, more filled with love.

It had been that much harder to put up the tree since Mum had gone, knowing she wouldn't be there to surprise us come Christmas morning; we'd wake only to encounter yet again our loss.

This year though, because of Mum, I'd found something that I thought I'd lost: hope.

Stuart came in from the kitchen and set two mince pies and a glass of milk onto the coffee table. ‘For Santa?' I asked with a raised brow.

‘Or Pepper and Pots, whoever gets there first,' he said, eyeing the pair of cats curled up around Muppet, declaring a rather surprising Christmas truce.

‘What are you doing?' I asked, as he inched towards the Christmas stocking hanging off the hearth.

‘Nothing,' he said, acting rather too innocent.

‘Stuart.'

‘Ivy.'

‘Stuart, back away from the Christmas stocking,' I warned.

He grinned sheepishly, looking like a young boy. ‘I was just going to give it a little feel...'

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Uh-huh. No touching the sock. Rule five.'

‘See, you're just making up rules now,' he complained.

‘Yes, I am,' I agreed. ‘Keep going and we'll have a fifty-foot restraining order too.'

He backed away slowly. Muppet looked at him with one eye, while she lazed by the fire, her tongue out.

‘She's got her eye on you for sure,' I said, laughing.

He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Cheeky madam, who feeds you?'

She waggled her bottom.

‘I do,' I pointed out.

‘Good point,' he laughed.

Muppet sat up to stare at him as if to say that it was fine by her if he'd like to change their arrangement. When he ignored her, she made a rather artful move where she feigned going for the kitchen and went past the coffee table from the other side instead, stealing a mince pie faster than we could blink and running out the room as quick as her short wrinkly legs would carry her.

I laughed aloud, while Stuart chased her up the stairs, declaring, ‘That's it, madam. I was going to save you from your mother. You didn't know this, but there are reindeer ears in your future... I was going to protect your dignity, but no more...'

I
checked
my phone and saw a message from Smudge, who'd left the day before. We'd told her to stay to spend Christmas with us, but she wanted to be home, to try and sort things out with Mark, and to see The Terrorist. She'd told me that it was funny but while Genevieve could drive her so far round the bend she'd feel like throttling her, now that she was going through this, she wanted her mother. It's definitely something I could understand.

A
t 3 a.m.
the studio was lit with a silver-tinged glow, brighter than I'd ever seen it. Standing in the doorway, I realised that I'd been holding my breath, wondering what the postcard would hold for me today. It had been five years since I'd spent a Christmas with her. Five years of wishing that somehow she would be there; yet she never was. And now, inexplicably, she had found a way.

The words were already there, waiting for me. The first line was, as ever, a message of love, bringing tears to my eyes.

Merry Christmas darling

‘Merry Christmas, Mum,' I whispered, my hand on my throat, tears filling my eyes.

I want you to know how very proud I am of the woman you've become

‘Oh Mum,' I breathed out, closing my eyes.

Things haven't been easy but you found courage and strength and despite how hard it must have been you haven't let it change you

I swallowed, tears sliding down my cheeks, unchecked. Mum's visits had been filled with love and light – each one precious. But until now, we hadn't spoken about her death or how hard it had been for me since she'd left. How alone I'd felt and how easy it would have been to let it harden me, especially the years of trying and failing to fall pregnant. To have her say what I needed to hear was perhaps the best gift she'd given me since she'd found me again.

‘I thought it had changed me; hardened me in a way. I'd stopped hoping... not just for the big things, you know, but the little things too...' I answered truthfully.

‘What do you mean?' I breathed, hoping that she wouldn't choose this moment to be opaque.

For just a second, I could have sworn I heard her laugh – her sweet throaty chuckle that I loved so much. The light seemed brighter then and it moved across the studio, falling from the writing desk, past the window and onto the desk filled with my latest illustrations of Mr Tibbles and his night-time party in the Fairy's Forest. My secret project that I'd spent ten years creating, always with the distant promise that one day I would show it to the world, all the while far too comfortable being the one who stood in the shadows. With a silent flutter, the little golden-red moonlight thrush appeared again, to hop just once on top of the papers before it disappeared.

I closed my eyes and took a breath. ‘It's time?' I asked.

It's time

I
woke
to find Muppet and Stuart staring at me. Two sets of brown eyes gazing at me expectantly.

‘Merry Christmas?' I asked, amused.

Stuart's smile was wide. Muppet gave me her bulldog beam and settled her considerable weight on my lap, eyes never leaving mine.

‘You hungry?' Stuart asked.

Muppet turned to look at him hopefully, bottom wiggling.

I laughed, rubbing my eyes, sitting up with no help from Muppet, who held her doggy ground. ‘Er... maybe in a bit.'

‘How about a scone...'

‘A scone?' I said, surprised. ‘For breakfast?'

He nodded, eyes serious. ‘Good with jam.'

Good lord! More jam?

‘Close your eyes,' he commanded. ‘Hold out your hand.'

I did as instructed, feeling something small but heavy placed in my palm. Then I opened my eyes and exclaimed, ‘Strawberry jam!' I looked up at his wide grin.

Turning back to the little jar, I peered at the label, which read:
Strawberries for Ivy. A Sea Cottage special edition
.

I looked at him, moved beyond words. ‘Just strawberries? No added chilli... fennel or...?'

‘Just strawberries and my love for you,' he said, eyes dancing.

I grinned, tears springing to my eyes. ‘Have I told you lately how much I love you, Mr Everton?'

He shook his head. ‘No, been meaning to take it up with you too,' he said, with mock self-pity and sad brown eyes.

‘Really?' I asked.

‘Yes, I mean I spent all day yesterday preparing the ham... stringing the lights, finishing the trifle...' He sighed theatrically.

‘Ooh, trifle! With cherries?' I exclaimed.

He rolled his eyes. ‘With cherries,' he agreed.

I smiled, beaming. He looked at Muppet sadly. ‘It's all about food with this one.'

Muppet looked at him without comprehension, eyes alight at her favourite word.

‘Wrong crowd, love.'

He shook his head, smirking. ‘Indeed.'

‘So...' he said, waggling his eyebrows expectantly.

‘So?' I asked.

‘So,' he said, shaking my arm.

I laughed. ‘Presents?'

‘Presents!' he agreed, dragging me out of bed and racing me down the stairs, where I handed him his Christmas stocking at last, and he exclaimed with a large huff, ‘Finally! Been waiting months.'

I laughed. ‘It's only been up a week.'

He looked nonplussed. ‘A week? Can't be; must be at least three. At least...' He began squeezing his stocking all around, taking a guess. ‘A new pie cutter?' he asked, eyes alight.

I shook my head.

‘A lemon zester?' he persisted, his expression hopeful.

I laughed. ‘No, look.'

He opened it. ‘Bulbs?' he said, eyes wide with excitement. Laying four envelopes carefully on the table, each with handwritten labels and matching illustrations.

‘Kohlrabi?' he read, looking at the first envelope in confusion at the image I'd drawn of a rather strange-looking green plant.

‘Exotic wild cabbage,' I supplied.

‘Really?' he said, intrigued. ‘Sunchoke?' he asked, peering at the second envelope and the illustration of what looked like a mealy potato.

‘Jerusalem artichoke – can be fermented apparently.'

His eyes widened at the possibility. ‘Sea Cottage beer?' he exclaimed, excitedly.

I winked. ‘Possibly...'

‘Romanesco... good lord, feel like I'm on acid – is it an optical illusion?' he asked, looking down at the drawing on the third envelope with its weird lime green, spiralling wild broccoli that appeared to move while you looked at it.

‘Yup, it's a natural approximation of a fractal.'

He studied it closely. ‘Oooh, love it when you wax mathematical... So it repeats the pattern at every scale? No wonder I feel like I'm spacing out.'

‘Not great for morning sickness, drawing that.'

He shook his head. ‘You're wonderful, you... Where did you get these?'

I shook my head. ‘I'd tell you, Mr Everton, but then you know I'd have to...'

He gave me a pointed look. ‘... Admit that you'd had a secret assignation with Tomas?' he said, dark eyes amused.

I laughed. ‘Yes... that,' I agreed. Thinking of how the old Frenchman, with his grey beard, soil-splattered jeans and permanent green beret had looked at me like I was mad, when we met just after twilight in The Cloud Arms a few weeks before the flood. ‘Eve. Seriousment?
Pah, Anglaise
... and what is wrong with good old-fashioned Engleesh vegetables?' he asked, bulbous blue eyes wide, touching his beret with a gnarled finger in exasperation. I'd stared at the bizarre sight before me – the only French Anglophile I'd ever heard of – and could only shrug. ‘
C'est Ivy
,' I pointed out yet again, and, ‘
C'est Stuart
,' I added.

He'd nodded. ‘
C'est vrai
,' he said resignedly at Stuart's odd yet persistent creative gardening urges. ‘Okay... Eve, we'll talk,' he'd said and retreated under the cover of night, till he called by a few days ago with the goods.

Stuart looked like all his Christmases had come at once. He stared at the pile of exotic bulbs from all around the world and beamed, giving me a hug that swept me off my feet.

When he set me down, I gave him a kiss. ‘You're an odd, but lovely man, Mr Everton,' I said, turning towards the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, only to stop, heart beating wildly in my chest.

I should have seen it as soon as I came in. It should have captured my eye, and stolen my heart straight out of my chest. For there on the very top of the tree perched a single feather made of moonlight and air, shining brighter than gold, the most whimsical of stars.

Stuart looked at me strangely. ‘Ivy?'

I wrenched my eyes away to look at him and smiled. ‘Sorry... spaced out for a second. Just going to put the kettle on.'

He stood, head tilted to one side, as I left, his frown deepening as his eyes fell on the lone, shimmering feather.

‘
T
ake a bow
,' said Richard, as Stuart, dressed in his red and white apron, black hair gleaming and dark eyes shining, delivered the enormous Christmas ham, on its silver platter and bed of wild rocket, to the centre of the table, amid applause from the assembled Talty family, my dad, and four of the six members of The Thursday Club, namely Abigail, Robyn, May, and Winifred Jones.

Smudge was spending Christmas with The Terrorist. We'd offered for them all to come and spend the day with us, but John and Genevieve had some or other benefit that they had to attend the following evening. Oddly, though I felt a sense of relief, there was a small part of me that was disappointed as well. Wonders never cease.

While we were eating, with appreciative moans, I turned to find Ben tugging on my sleeve.

‘Aunty Ivy, watch this,' he said, green eyes mischievous, red hair vivid against his new Spider-Man outfit. I looked as he whistled and Muppet came out, wearing her dreaded reindeer ears and a length of red tinsel around her neck. I laughed. ‘Well done, Ben. You're a better man than me... none of us could get it on her.'