A Cornish Christmas (20 page)

He grinned, showing me the gap where his front tooth had recently fallen out. ‘I have my ways,' he said.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Uncle Stuart's mince pies?'

He giggled. ‘Yep!'

The honey-glazed wasabi ham turned out to be a hit, and after trifle followed by coffee, a game of Cluedo and a walk on the beach with Muppet, we said goodbye to the Taltys and the rest of The Thursday Club, who all left with tired smiles and trousers unbuttoned.

Afterwards, I turned to look for Dad, but he'd disappeared. I found him standing in the living room, staring at the tree. When I entered, he turned and gave me an odd, faraway smile. ‘It's so strange: just now I could have sworn I heard your mother's voice. Then when I came in here...' He shook his head, sighed and touched a little reindeer made of twigs. ‘I can still remember you making this.'

It was when I was about nine. I admired one in a shop on the way home from school one day, and next thing Mum dragged me off to Usett's Hardware for a glue gun, saying, ‘We'll make one, shall we?' Then we were bundled off in mittens and woollen caps, combing the countryside for twigs while a light drift of snow tickled our faces, and later over several cups of cocoa before the fire, we put him together, twig by twig, till he seemed almost alive.

We did a lot of crazy-wonderful things like that. My throat constricted at the memory.

Dad looked up at the top of the tree, rocking back on his heels, turning his head with his Mad Hatter hair upwards, while he frowned at the feather. ‘You know, she always called you her little bird... Funny that you'd put that there,' he said, with a small, sad shake of his head and shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his maroon cardigan.

He saw me staring wide-eyed and gave a little chuckle. ‘Never mind me, going daft in my old age.'

I shook my head. ‘I don't think so,' I said with a smile.

He shook his head again and gave me a kiss goodbye. Very softly I heard him say, ‘Merry Christmas, Alice,' before he left.

I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if she'd said it back.

I
spent
the next week in the nursery, painting the Fairy's Forest and Mr Tibbles's journey up the lantern-strewn path. We'd moved in the cot that Dad had brought over, which Stuart sanded and varnished, while I had unpacked every last someday vest, miniature one-day bootie, maybe-sometime outfit, and with it, all our unspoken dreams, and hopes.

After Christmas, I'd travelled up to London to have a coffee with my editor at Rain River Books, Jeff Marsons. Fear was riding high in my chest. Apart from Stuart, and Genevieve, I'd never shown Mr Tibbles to anyone before. But between my mother's words and, oddly enough, Genevieve's, I had been finally ready to take the plunge.

When I opened up my portfolio in the empty publishing house, as most people were away, and showed him Mr Tibbles's adventures in the Fairy's Forest, Jeff didn't say anything at first. Then he looked up at me with a frown, shook his balding head and said, ‘How long have we been working together now? Ten years? And
now
you show me this?'

I couldn't believe how enthusiastic he was about it, and just two days later, I signed my first ever solo book contract.

Of course, I had to break the news to Catherine. Who demanded that she see my secret project straight away.

She came in while I was midway through creating the Fairy Forest scene in the nursery, staring at Mr Tibbles with her head cocked to one side, olive green eyes thoughtful. ‘So how come you never told me about Mr Tibbles before?'

I shrugged as I painted in his little whiskers. ‘Not sure. It was just a little project – something that kept me going... after everything, you know.'

She nodded, leaning against the door jamb. ‘Well, I'm glad you've finally sent it to Jeff... Though I wish you'd told me about it.'

Jeff was talking about a release for summer. I couldn't believe it. My head was still spinning.

I smiled and stage-whispered to Muppet, who was lying on the floor next to the reupholstered rocker, with its pink and cream rose pattern, ‘Detective Sergeant Fudge missed a case?'

‘Very funny,' she said, rolling her eyes at us both.

I shrugged. ‘I thought so,' I said, returning to Mr Tibbles's whiskers. I looked up in a minute to see her staring at me rather seriously. ‘Cat...' I started.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry. It's just we've worked on
The Fudge Files
for ten years and I love it, truly, but maybe you should have been doing this,' she said, staring at Mr Tibbles in awe.

I set my paintbrush down and went to give her a hug. ‘Now listen here, Catherine Jayne Talty. While Detective Sergeant Fudge may be your invention, it was inspired by my dog – I can assure you that I have never regretted working on her stories, it has been one of the biggest joys of my life and I intend to keep working on
The Fudge Files
until we run out of crimes to solve. Which should be never. I mean, how many books did Agatha Christie write?' I said, mock sternly.

‘Hundreds. Well, all right then. But we will be making time in the schedule for Mr Tibbles too from now on,' she declared, pointing a long, slim finger at me.

I shrugged. I'd been playing hooky with the deadlines that way for years already. Best not to tell her that though.

When Stuart came home, he popped his head into the nursery, blowing us all a kiss. He looked at me, eyes alight. ‘Fairy lights,' he said approvingly at the little night scene I was working on.

I grinned, with a nod. ‘Fairy lights... just for you.'

He held out a little pink bag. ‘For the gem squash,' he said, eyes twinkling.

‘Gem squash?' asked Catherine from the chair, topping up her wine glass as she watched me work.

‘The baby... it's roughly the size of a gem squash now.'

She laughed. ‘Stuart...'

He shrugged, giving us both a wink.

I took the little package and peered inside. They were a pair of bite-sized pink wellingtons with little strawberries all over. I pulled them out and placed them on the counter. Catherine and I stared at them wordlessly, hearts in our throats.

‘As you were,' said Stuart, giving me a kiss and leaving.

I looked at Catherine, who shook her head. ‘He's...'

I nodded, biting my lip to keep it in myself.

‘And the little pink...'

I came over to pat her back.

‘I mean – he's just so...' Struggling to find the words. ‘I mean... Richard is a darling, but he'd never just come home with little pink wellies or get excited about fairy lights.'

I gave her an understanding look. ‘Shall I keep him?'

She laughed. ‘I think so.' She turned and narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Especially after the other little thing I found out today, when he was asking if I'd like to stay for dinner... Apparently that's what he does. He cooks. Every. Bloody. Night. That's another thing you forgot to tell me about,' she added, with a pointed glare.

I hung my head. Some things I didn't tell her for her own good, but I'm not sure she saw it that way.

W
hen I got
to the studio that night, I hesitated at the door. The air felt different and the sounds from outside seemed louder, more intrusive. I went to the postcard and waited, but nothing happened. The room was strangely dark, like spilled ink over my eyes. No moonlight beam shone inside tonight. My heart started to pound.

I swallowed, fear constricting my throat. Wasn't she coming?

I wasn't prepared for this, not even close. I'd gotten so used to her being here, I'd begun to take it on faith. I wasn't at all prepared to let her go again.

I blinked back tears, feeling a silent scream lodge itself in my chest. What if she never came back? What if she never re-entered my life? What if that was all I got and I hadn't even realised that the last time was the last time... I wasn't ready for her to leave. Not again.

In the days since Christmas, her messages had been brief but filled with love. It hadn't occurred to me to be concerned, as I'd prattled on about my hopes for the nursery, Stuart's plantings and his plans for the installation of a ‘storm-proof greenhouse', and that I'd finally sent off the first Mr Tibbles story to the publishers. She'd said nothing of leaving, left no warning that she may not return, and last night all she'd done was repeat her words from Christmas morning. Or at least, that's what I thought she'd said. That I should hold on to hope, no matter what happens.

It was only now, when the Mum-shaped-hole in my chest had just begun to mend and had exposed itself again, that it occurred to me to read deeper into her message. She'd been saying something more. Something that I'd missed. So caught up in my newfound bliss and hope for the future, I hadn't paid attention to her words as I normally would. I'd almost taken it for granted that she'd be there. I closed my eyes feeling infinitely stupid. I hadn't noticed the warning for what it was. I stood in the empty room, feeling desolate and alone, wondering what she'd meant and if I would ever hear from her again and how I could carry on without her if I didn't. It seemed impossible. Absurd even. How could I do the one thing she had asked me to do when faced with this endless silence? How could I hold on to hope when it had left with her?

I
awoke
the next morning feeling strange. Not ready to face the day. The bed was warm and comfortable. I couldn't escape the feeling that it was where we should stay all day. Not the best feeling to welcome in the New Year.

The empty postcard was like a splinter – one that I couldn't remove – and as I lay in bed, Muppet in my arms, I tried my best not to think of what it meant. What she'd meant by her words.

No matter what

Stuart stared at me, his dark head on the pillow opposite mine, his expression uncomprehending. ‘So you want to just stay here?' he asked, with a frown. ‘All day?'

I opened my arms wide for him to snuggle in next to Muppet and me. He laughed and put his arm around us, smiling at Muppet's continuous snores, in unofficial competition with the waves crashing outside.

‘Us,' I said, waggling my eyebrows. ‘Not just me, but the three of us... We could have a little picnic. In fact, I'll make it. I'm rather good at sandwiches and fetching dog biscuits.'

He pressed his face against mine. Brown eyes to blue. ‘You must really want to do that if you're prepared to do the food,' he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

I nodded. But he just stared at me regretfully. ‘Love, we have the party tonight and it's not like we can just skip it.'

‘Why not?' I asked. ‘We can have our own party,' I added, giving what I hoped was a lascivious wink.

He smiled, showing his perfect teeth. ‘I like the sound of that, particularly if you'll be wearing those all day,' he said, tracing a finger along the sleeve of my pink flannel pyjamas – the ones with the white rabbits all over them. ‘However, I'm also catering the party, if you remember,' he pointed out with a shrug.

I groaned, loudly, and threw the covers over all of us.

‘No...'

Stuart laughed and gave me a kiss under the blanket.

‘We can do this all day tomorrow if you like,' he suggested.

‘It's not that... I just have this weird feeling, like we shouldn't get out of bed today,' I said, trying to explain.

‘A feeling?' he asked in surprise.

I nodded.

He shook his head. ‘Love, it's just New Year's Eve. You get like this
every
year.'

‘No, I don't,' I protested, eyes wide with surprise.

‘Yes, you do. Last year we had that big do in London and half way through, you said we needed to go home because you felt weird...'

I scoffed. ‘That was because I did feel weird... I had food poisoning, remember? Horrid way to start the New Year, just so you know.'

He nodded. ‘Yes, okay, brutal... But then the year before that, we cancelled with Catherine.'

I shrugged. ‘Because you'd pulled an all-nighter, working with the Hong Kong office... You were slurring, you were so tired,' I exclaimed.

He laughed. ‘Hardly. I was tired, but I could have rallied. Red Bull wings...' he said, eyes dancing. ‘Face it, my love, you just don't like New Year's, never have and never will. Any excuse.'

I sighed. Rallied... really? He had fallen asleep ringing his own doorbell. But okay, if that's how he chose to remember it. ‘Each case had its own merit. But today... today is different,' I said, knowing it was hopeless. ‘Can we just drop the food off? I'll help you get it ready and everything, then we'll come home? Please?'

He laughed. ‘Ivy, you know we have to go. Anyway, if we don't go then I won't see you in your new dress and you can't deny a man that. That's cruel... I mean, it's lace and everything.'

I laughed, rolling my eyes. ‘It's sequins, not lace. Hopeless you are.'

He made his eyebrows dance. ‘It's low-cut – that I do remember...'

I laughed. ‘Of course that bit you remember...' I knew a lost cause when I saw one. ‘Fine, I'll go shower then come help you.'

‘Good girl,' he said, giving me a kiss and climbing out from under the covers, singing his made-up gardening song, while putting on his wellies to the tune of James Brown's ‘I Feel Good': ‘I see roots... nah nah nah nah nah neh eh... and I know that I shouldn't ... nah nah nah nah nah neh eh there's sprouts. So nice... now I've got roots.'

He left, giving me a little hip pop before he swaggered out the door. I couldn't help but laugh.

I was probably just being silly. How I wished I could shake the feeling that we should just stay home today.

I had a long shower. Stuart's song lodged in my brain, making me giggle as I rinsed out the shampoo. When I got out, I felt better, more at ease. I was determined to put odd feelings, dead mothers, and empty postcards out of my head.

I had crostini to assemble, vegetables to peel, and flatbreads to brush with herbs and olive oil. Stuart was in his creative element and had given me strict instructions as our kitchen turned into a savoury production line, filled with the mouth-watering scents of cooked salmon, olive tapenade, grilled scallops and caramelised onions that were sure to wow the guests at the Cloudsea Harbour New Year's Eve Party tonight.

My job was top stacker really, as neither of us trusted me with any of the actual cooking.

When everything was ready and all the trays were stacked and covered with cling film for the ride over, we raced upstairs to our separate bathrooms to bathe and change. I touched the dark-grey sequined dress that hung on a hanger at the back of the door with a smile. It was pretty. I wasn't usually a sequins kind of girl, but this would probably be the last time I'd get to wear a really fancy dress until the baby came. Might as well make the most of it.

Stuart was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs; dressed in a tuxedo, looking so handsome he took my breath away. His black hair and eyes were shining and he wore that irrepressible boyish smile of his.

He shook his head when he saw me, eyes widening. ‘No, you're right, I don't think we should go out tonight... Let's just stay here and I'll take that off of you... very slowly, of course.' He grinned, so that I blushed. ‘There's fire, food... the night is young,' he continued, eyes dancing.

I laughed, shaking my head. ‘I'm tempted, Mr Everton. You look rather fabulous, by the way, but alas we have fifty platters to deliver, as you yourself pointed out this morning.'

He sighed. ‘Okay, well, just so you know, if you'd put that on this morning when you asked, I would have cancelled,' he said.

I grinned. ‘Not for the white rabbits?'

He shook his head. ‘Sorry.'

I laughed and came down to give him a kiss. We put on our coats and with arms linked headed out to the car and set off towards the harbour.

The harbour's sparkling display of lights dotting both sides of the quay was one of my favourite things to see. We made our way to the boathouse, the perfect venue for a party, with its spectacular views along the harbour and its beautiful array of lights. It was breathtaking. It was hard to believe that just a few weeks ago a storm had swept through here. I just wished that I could get rid of the inexplicable anxiety that I had woken up with, so that I could enjoy it properly.

I helped Stuart carry through the trays, which the waiters would soon circulate, and went to say hello to Catherine, who was standing in the back near a white stage, where a jazz band was playing ‘La Vie en Rose'.

Catherine was looking beautiful in a gorgeous, green silk dress that set off her red hair perfectly. ‘Ivy Everton, that's some dress,' she said, giving me a hug hello, and handing me a glass of champagne. ‘It's non-alcoholic, so no worries.'

‘Same for you. Wow, you look stunning!'

She smiled. ‘It's nice to feel like a girl... won't lie. Babysitters – aka Dad – are fabulous. Richard in a tux... I could get used to this,' she sighed happily, then frowned. ‘But what's wrong?' she asked, peering closely at me.

I shrugged. ‘It's nothing. Just had this weird feeling all day. Stupid, really.'

She smiled. ‘It's New Year's Eve ... You're always a little weird about New Year's Eve...'

I gave her a look. ‘Not you too. That's what Stuart said. But this... I don't know, it feels different...'

She touched my arm. ‘It's probably nothing. Pregnancy hormones, they do strange things, trust me.'

I nodded. Hormones. That made sense.

I stifled a laugh seeing Mrs Aheary walk past with a pitcher of ale, dressed in a fully lace pink dress with shoulder pads and about a yard of pleating going on around her hips – she looked like an extra from
The Golden Girls
. I avoided any eye contact, hoping to avoid a lecture on emmets and/or the inevitable decline of the postal service, but she saw me and made a beeline in my direction, calling, ‘Ivy-girl, so glad to see you out and about, though in my day women in your condition didn't go out in the cold like this!'

Ah! Who had told Mrs Aheary I was pregnant? Who? I'd kill them. Must have been someone from The Thursday Club... just wait until I saw them...

Luckily, Mrs Aheary's lecture was interrupted by the timeous arrival of Bess Willis, who must have taken pity on me for some unknown reason, and took the pitcher of ale from out of her hands and said, ‘Let me help you, Mrs Aheary. Come on then,' and Mrs Aheary had no choice but to follow after her booze.

Feeling someone touch my back, I turned in surprise to find Dr Gia Harris and her husband. ‘Dr Gia,' I exclaimed.

She beamed at me and introduced her husband, Peter, a fit-looking blond with kind blue eyes. ‘Just wanted to come say hello, Ivy, love,' said Dr Gia. ‘It's so lovely to see you out and about. You're glowing,' she whispered. I grinned and thanked her, watching as she left arm in arm with her husband.

I waved at April Blume, the owner of The Cloud Arms, thrilled to see that she was still in town. Her bright magenta hair was striking against an electric blue jumpsuit. She gave me a wink, as her husband swept her onto the dance floor.

I started when a hand placed itself on my shoulder. ‘Dad!' I uttered in surprise. He was wearing a slightly shabby-looking suit, his wild grey hair tamed on either side of his head. He gave me a nervous smile and whispered, ‘I think I'm on a date.' He gestured subtly with a slight turn of his head, eyes wide with shock.

I blinked, following his gaze to a trim-looking woman with blonde-grey hair opposite the stage, swaying to the music, wearing a black dress and heels. ‘Really?'

He shrugged. ‘I think so... I said I'd give her a lift. Her name's Elizabeth Chaney. She's in my ballroom dancing class. But maybe she thought... well, anyway.' He shrugged. ‘Not the end of the world.' He sounded quite pleased at the prospect, if rather surprised.

I smiled. She looked quite sweet really, very pretty in a Faye Dunaway sort of way... Wait. ‘Dad, ballroom dancing, you?' Shock had rendered me almost monosyllabic.

He shook his head at himself. ‘I know! Remember, before Christmas, when you told me to look under the stairs?'

I swallowed. It had been Mum who suggested that, but still. ‘That's when you took out the Christmas box, with all the lights, right?'

He nodded. ‘Yes, it was the push I needed to put them up. For so long I was stuck. Well, anyway, there was something else in the box: a pamphlet for dance lessons. Mum wanted us to do it but then she fell ill so we never did. But when I saw it there, in amongst all the Christmas stuff, I... It's daft but...' He shrugged, a soft smile about his lips.

‘You saw it as a sign?' I asked, touched.

He gave a small shrug. ‘And now...'

‘Now you might be on a date,' I said, breathing out. ‘Big day.'

‘Big day.' He nodded, taking a sip of my fake champagne, supposedly to steady his nerves.

‘It's non-alcoholic,' I laughed.

He gave a short nervous laugh. ‘Probably better, though it makes little difference... look at what I get myself into sober.'

I laughed. ‘Go on then, she won't bite.'

He gave me a slow, wide-eyed nod, took a steadying breath, gave me a kiss and went back to his date.

‘Well done, Mum,' I whispered. Typical Dad – he would probably have never taken the step on his own.

‘Would you care to dance, Mrs Everton?'

I turned to see Stuart, holding out his hand, impossibly handsome.

My breath caught in my throat. How did he do that? I nodded. ‘Of course.' My smile wide.

He winked at me and then nodded at the band. The singer smiled at us and they began to play Etta James's ‘At Last'.

My mouth fell open. ‘I love this song,' I said, tears stinging my eyes.

He smiled. ‘I know,' he said, pulling me into his embrace. Here in his arms, the world righted itself, and I felt completely safe. He cradled my hand in his while we swayed to the music, my heart feeling like it might burst.

He looked at me, eyes gentle. ‘Have I told you lately that I love you, Mrs Everton?'

‘That's my line,' I said in surprise.

He grinned. ‘It's a good one. Mind if I borrow it?'

I shook my head, feeling ridiculously happy. ‘Maybe just this once.'

He leaned over and kissed me, his lips firm, but soft, and my stomach did a little flip. The canopy of lanterns and the twinkling harbour lights faded away. Stuart's gentle expression, imprinted in my memory. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the moment, feeling the last trace of anxiety finally ebbing away.

As the song came to a close, I pulled away reluctantly. ‘That was some kiss, Mr Everton,' I said, staring into his dark, serious eyes.

‘That's nothing. Just wait; come midnight, I'll give you a kiss you'll never forget.'

‘Is that a promise?'

He nodded, giving me a soft kiss on the forehead.

Terry clapped a large freckled hand on Stuart's shoulder. ‘Sorry to break the moment, lass, but can I steal yer husband for a wee while? Got a crisis with the crostini,' he said.