A Cornish Christmas (22 page)

I
asked
them to just drop me off. Even though the prospect of a Stuart-less house was unbearable, I couldn't face company right now. Muppet raced to greet me as soon as I came through the kitchen door. I bent down to give her a hug, to stare into her soft bulldog eyes.

She ran from me, went outside, then back in through the flap again, looking confused, subdued. ‘He's okay,' I said, taking a deep breath, my hands shaking as I touched her soft fur. ‘He's okay... he's okay,' I cried, repeating the words over and over, hoping that they were true. My face twisted in pain, loud, excruciating sobs wracked my body, ripping it apart, and I crumpled onto the kitchen floor, finally able to release the howls that had been kept inside.

Muppet placed her heavy head on my shoulder. Her eyes seemed to understand. She sat next to me for the longest time, the most comforting of friends. When I could stand, I made my way upstairs. Slowly, I undressed, dropping my offending dress on the bathroom floor. I stepped into the shower and let the cleansing water wash over me – I needed its comfort, its warmth.

I was exhausted. My eyes were swollen and raw, yet the tears still came, hot and painful, squeezing out of my barely open lids. I put on pyjamas, pulling on Stuart's green jersey, swallowing as I realised it still smelt of him. I fell asleep with my phone clutched in my hands.

I woke a few hours later, Muppet lying next to me. I checked my phone. No one had called. Visiting hours were only later that afternoon. Four hours away. How could I exist in the hours between?

I lay with Muppet in my arms, dozing fitfully, one eye on the clock screen of my phone in case I overslept.

When my phone buzzed, I started in surprise. It was a message from Dr Gia:

I blinked and re-read the message. I considered her words and took heart:
looking good
. She wouldn't say that if it wasn't true. I closed my eyes. I couldn't think about the other things she'd said. I had never wanted food less. Then painfully, resignedly, I opened them again. She was right: I had to eat. If not for me, then for Holly. I looked at Muppet, who'd offered her sweet, gentle support, tears forming as I wondered: when had she last eaten?

Mercifully, when I got downstairs I saw a note from Dad saying that he'd fed Muppet, Pepper, and Pots that morning. I touched the note in relief. I poured myself a glass of water and made myself eat two slices of dry toast, each painful swallow followed by a sip of water. I felt like time was standing still so I went back upstairs to dress, laid out some food for the animals and left. Early. It was very important that I was there early. I'd rather be there, waiting, than here slowly dying.

When I got to the hospital Dr Harris brought me in to see Stuart. He looked tired, dark circles beneath his eyes. ‘He's still under, but his vitals are looking very good.'

I breathed out. ‘That's good news.'

He looked at me, his eyes full of compassion. ‘It's very encouraging.'

I nodded, understanding. That word again. He didn't want to get my hopes up. He couldn't offer me what I wanted, what I needed, which was a guarantee. ‘Thank you,' I said. He smiled gently. ‘All we can do now is hope.'

I nodded, fighting back the tears. Tired of that word that asked so much and gave so little in return.

I took a seat next to Stuart's bed and held his hand. Tried to swallow past the permanent tightness of my throat. Stuart's face was even more swollen than I remembered from earlier that morning, covered in livid purple bruises that were competing with the criss-crossing gashes. My heart ached as I thought of the pain he must be in.

I held his hand, lifted it to my lips, and gave it a kiss. Tears falling, I whispered, ‘You are my hope.'

G
enevieve and Victoria
arrived a few hours later.

‘Ivy,' said Smudge, enfolding me in a hug, my head resting alongside a Batman logo.

Genevieve just stood there, like a balloon with a puncture. Her usually pristine hair resembled a nest of rat-tails. There was a red stain on her silk blouse, near her heart, as if it were bleeding on the outside. I waited for her to scream. To shout. To throw every last venomous thought that she had at me. To tell me that none of this would have happened if we hadn't moved here, if we had listened to her. Because I'd agree. A thousand times over.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Then there in the silence, in the darkest hour of our pain, her hand found mine and Victoria's, and held on tight.

‘
M
rs Everton
... Hello,' said Maggie, the same pretty brown-haired nurse from earlier that morning, popping her head in as she checked up on Stuart.

I turned and smiled, glad to see a friendly face. ‘You're still here – it's such a long shift?' I said, surprised.

She smiled. ‘I'm meant to have gone home... I just wanted to stay.'

I was touched. ‘Maggie, that's so kind of you. But I can't expect that... You must go home – get some rest.'

She shook her head. ‘He came in so damaged and then when I found out he was your husband, I just felt that I had to stay,' she said.

I looked at her in surprise and she said with moisture in her eyes, ‘I have a son, Adam – he's just turned six – and last year I got a divorce. It was so hard. He was angry and he wouldn't talk to anyone. Nothing we tried seemed to help. My sister bought him a copy of
The Fudge Files
– the one where Bartholomew Badger goes missing...'

I smiled, nodding my head. It was the first one of the series I'd come up with the idea for and Catherine had insisted that I co-write it with her. ‘Of course – where he ran away because Mr and Mrs Badger had a fight and he thought that they didn't love him any more,' I said. I'd thought of the story soon after Mum passed while I attempted to work through my own feelings of abandonment.

She nodded, biting her lip. ‘Well, that's what had happened to Adam; he'd thought that we didn't love him any more.' She swallowed. ‘I think reading it... he got it, you know. He identified with Bartholomew but he also saw how much the Badgers were worried and afraid and I think he realised that it's what was happening with us.' Then she laughed a little. ‘Detective Sergeant Fudge helped solve a case she never knew about... Afterwards I read up about you and the story, and I have always wanted to thank you.'

I wiped away tears and gave her a hug. ‘And you have – this means so much to me, Maggie, truly. I'd love you to meet Catherine, my co-author, and for you and your little boy to meet Muppet, the inspiration behind Detective Sergeant Fudge. I think she'd be very pleased to know she'd helped. She always helps me – a source of unconditional, never-ending puppy love.'

Maggie smiled sincerely. ‘I would love that.'

‘But you must go home and get some rest. I'll cut you the same deal you gave me. As soon as I know anything, I'll let you know – you have my word.'

She gave a slow nod of relief. ‘Okay, thank you,' she said, giving my arm a squeeze before she left.

Sometime later a night nurse came in to check up on Stuart. She was short with a matronly-looking, dependable kind of stoutness. ‘Still the same,' she said, with a sad shake of her head. She touched my arm. ‘I'm afraid visiting hours are over,' she added reluctantly.

I blinked. Being asked to leave always came as the worst surprise.

I stood up and gave him a kiss goodbye, touching his hair, always so sleek and smooth, now matted, full of debris. I swallowed, took a steadying breath and left.

I
felt
like a ghost roaming my empty house. Victoria and Genevieve were staying at a hotel close to the hospital. I was grateful for that. Here I didn't need to speak. To try to find hope. But here, too, I was suspended in limbo while I waited, held prisoner by the hospital's visiting hours. I forced myself to eat a proper meal, tears forming as I realised it was one of several that The Thursday Club had made and stored in our fridge, letting themselves in with the spare key, the one from under the flowerpot; somehow their ‘break-in' felt about the most endearing thing in the world right then.

May had come over to check on me earlier, to give me the same warning that everyone was giving – that I needed to eat, to keep up my strength.

When she was gone, I wandered from room to room repeatedly, unsettled, lost in the emptiness and desolation without him. I prowled the kitchen, my bedroom, the conservatory, finally entering my studio, the room I had long been avoiding because, when I opened that door, I would be opening a door to the one emotion that I'd been trying all day to suppress. The one emotion buried beneath the pain and heartache.

Anger.

Because when I allowed myself to feel something besides the worry, the fear and the heartbreak, I knew that that's what would be waiting for me.

I wasn't even surprised when I looked at my phone and saw that it had just gone 3 a.m – I was past caring about life's cruel little ironies.

My eyes fell immediately on the empty postcard, waiting. Despite the slow bubble of my rage, I couldn't help but hope that she would have some reasonable explanation as to why she'd spent the last few months appearing every night without fail, only to abandon me the night before my whole life fell apart.

I sat and waited.

And waited some more.

But the studio stayed the same: black and empty. The postcard remained unchanged, no accompanying shimmer from the moon to divulge its untold secrets.

Rage.

There it was. Complete white-hot fury ebbed through me, obliterating everything else in its path. I stood up, the chair falling backward. ‘HOW DARE YOU?' I screamed over and over till my throat felt raw.

‘YOU COME BACK TO TELL ME WHAT? UTTER GARBAGE, THAT'S WHAT! RUBBISH ABOUT HOPE AND YOUR GODDAMN RECIPES!' I yelled in disgust, gasping for breath. The cold horror of it all washed over me. ‘YOU FOUND A WAY TO TELL ME ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CORNISH PASTY RECIPE BUT YOU COULDN'T WAIT ONE DAY TO WARN ME... TO TELL ME TO KEEP STUART HOME TO KEEP HIM SAFE... YOU COULDN'T WAIT ONE DAY TO TELL ME THAT?'

I picked up the postcard and crushed it into a ball and threw it across the room. My body heaved with my sobs and I fell to the ground, gasping for air. My world spun and I reached for the wastebasket, throwing up what I'd been pushing down at the bottom of my heart, since my world broke apart, finally came loose, demanding to be felt. I'd never felt so betrayed in my life. When my body finally stopped heaving, I leant my head against my studio door.

‘Hope?' I said with a small, mad laugh, as I wiped my mouth on my sleeve. ‘You asked me to promise you hope, when hope is what you destroyed. The only hope I have left is that you stay gone.'

I peeled myself off the floor, taking my bucket of sick with me, and with cold finality shut the door.

N
o change
.

N
o change
.

‘
I
'm sorry
, Mrs Everton, but there are police officers outside who would like to speak to you.'

I looked up from Stuart's still, comatose face in surprise. ‘Police officers?'

‘It's nothing to worry about, they just want to talk to you – give you an update about the accident,' replied Maggie.

I felt both guilty and relieved that Victoria and Genevieve had gone to the hotel to shower and change. Though having someone there to hear it with me may have helped, there were some things you just had to face yourself.

I took a steadying breath and followed Maggie down the hall. She led me to a room with three seated men and a woman.

A heavy-set, balding officer wearing a uniform came forward to shake my hand. ‘Mrs Everton?' he asked.

I nodded. He held out a thick hand, directing me to a chair opposite. ‘I'm Officer Clark. This is my partner, Officer Turner,' he said, gesturing to the only woman. She was powerfully built, with short black hair and a firm jaw, but it softened when she smiled at me. I nodded hello.

‘And this is Jason and Tim. They were the paramedics on the scene.'

I turned to the two young men, both dark-haired, barely in their twenties, who had helped save Stuart. ‘Thank you so much,' I said, a lump forming in my throat.

They nodded. Tim, I believe, shook his head in awe.

‘He was lucky.'

I was completely taken aback. ‘
Lucky
?' My husband was in a coma, recovering from heart surgery, with multiple broken bones and no one could tell me with any certainty that he was going to wake up. Lucky?

But they all nodded while I tried not to scream.

Officer Clark whistled. ‘Extremely lucky.'

I looked at him, confused, but it was Officer Turner who reached over to touch my hand, her dark eyes full of sympathy, who explained, ‘Mrs Everton, as you know, your husband's car was hit by an eighteen-wheeler truck.'

I shut my eyes, shaking my head quickly. I hadn't known that. To be honest, that was something that I didn't want to know.
Truck
had been enough. This was impossible.

She squeezed my hand. ‘The truck lost a tyre and couldn't stop because of the build-up of black ice.' I looked up, taking a breath, which I held as I gazed into her deep-set eyes as she continued, ‘He was lucky. The car took the impact on the driver's side, and was driven forward into the barrier. There is nothing left of the front of the car. There is no way on earth he should have been able to come through that accident alive. None. But he did. His only chance at survival would have been if he were in the back seat. There was no reason for him to be there. But that's where we found him.'

I stared at her in mute shock.

She nodded and continued. ‘I mean, Mrs Everton, the truly crazy thing is that the seat he was in was the safest place he could have been, not just in the car, but on the entire road. If he'd jumped out, or if he'd been anywhere on that stretch of road he would have been dead – smashed by the resulting impact of the body of the truck as it rounded the corner.'

Officer Clark nodded his bald head. ‘All I can say, Mrs Everton, is that if I believed in guardian angels, I'd want his.'

I stared at them, tears sliding down my face. ‘He was lucky,' I breathed, in shock.

They nodded. ‘Extremely,' said the other paramedic, Jason, shaking his dark head. ‘I mean, even the fact that we got to him so quickly... hey, Tim?' he asked the other paramedic, who nodded his head. Big blue eyes solemn.

Jason continued, ‘The highway was a disaster... If we'd been called from the hospital, he would have had to wait at least forty-five minutes for us. At least. The only reason we could respond so quickly was because we'd had a false alarm in the area just a few minutes before.'

‘It wasn't just us,' pointed out Tim. ‘I mean, the only surgeon on call in West Cornwall on New Year's Eve was just a few minutes away... a heart surgeon, no less.'

Jason nodded. ‘It's true. It's so strange, because none of us should have been there, but somehow we were.'

I stared at them all in shock. ‘I d-didn't know this... any of this,' I said. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much for telling me and for helping to save him.'

They all smiled. Tim's eyes were kind, sympathetic. ‘We're all rooting for him, Mrs Everton. I met him, you know, at the fair a few weeks back. I'm a fairly decent cook, though I didn't win nearly so many prizes, but he was really encouraging. I'll never forget that.'

I swallowed, smiling at him through my tears. ‘Thank you so much – that means the world.'

I left them feeling lighter than I had since the accident. Dad, Catherine, Genevieve, and Victoria were waiting for me in the corridor. Dad's grey hair was even wilder than usual and he was wearing an old frayed jumper that I remembered from my childhood.

Catherine gave me a hug. ‘The nurse said you were speaking with the police officers?'

I breathed out, nodding, and repeated everything they had told me.

Genevieve looked about to faint as I mentioned the word
truck
, but when I finished, for the first time since she'd arrived she was able to speak.

‘He was lucky,' she said in awe.

I nodded.

Dad wiped his grey eyes. ‘It must have been Mum, I'm sure.'

My mouth folded into itself and I gave him a small hard smile. I didn't want to think about her... or her help, ever again.

When I got home, I found Tomas watering Stuart's new plantings in the now restored polytunnel. When he saw me, he turned and I noticed that his green beret – the beret that I'd been sure he never took off – was in his hands. His rheumy eyes were sad.

Heavy with worry, he touched a wrinkly-looking runner bean and said, ‘'e will come through zis, Eve. I'm sure he will.'

I patted his brown and gold tweed-covered arm, not sure if he was talking about Stuart or the beans, but feeling comforted nonetheless, and for the first time, I didn't bother correcting him about my name.

Later that night I passed the closed studio door. I heard a sound, like the flutter of wings. My hand reached out for the doorknob, but I stopped myself. Part of me had been considering Dad's words – if Mum really had helped somehow. But another, larger, embittered part couldn't get over the fact that she hadn't warned me, not during any of our moonlight encounters. I touched my stomach, thinking of the baby. Of Holly. Of Mum, who seemed to know things before they happened: couldn't she have warned me of this?

I
woke
up and took Muppet for a walk along the beach – I needed the cold air to clear my head. The night had been full of fear. I couldn't face sleeping alone in our bed any more. I'd wake up in that place just before sleep, thinking he was there, and every time I'd have to go through the hell of remembering again. It was torture. I wished that I could just stay at the hospital, though I was no use to anyone there. As we made our way back up the barren beach, I saw Dad carrying two steel mugs. We walked over to join him and he handed me one.

‘It's coffee – thought you could use it.' He held up a cellophane-wrapped sandwich and a muffin in one hand. ‘Brought you some food as well... Now, no arguments; you're eating for two.'

I smiled at him. ‘Don't worry, Dr Gia and The Thursday Club gave me the speech too.'

Dad looked relieved. As we walked back up towards the house, I glanced at him. ‘Sorry we ruined your date.'

He laughed and rolled his eyes. ‘Not that I even knew I was on one until I was...'

I smiled. ‘I like her though. She seems really nice.'

‘Me too. No one could ever take Mum's place, but it would be nice to have a friend.'

I nodded. I didn't say anything; I didn't want to think about Mum. I was still too full of hurt that she'd come back to tell me everything except the one thing that actually mattered – that I might lose the love of my life. I wasn't sure if I could ever think of her the same way again. I didn't really know what to think any more.

Back at the hospital, Maggie came in to find me. ‘There's a large red-headed man outside who says he has to see you. I'm so sorry, but he's making a bit of a scene,' she said, annoyed.

I looked up at her with a puzzled frown, then suddenly realised something: ‘Is he Scottish?'

She nodded. ‘And very big.'

I smiled. ‘That'll be Terry.'

‘He said he'd been trying to visit for days but no one would call you and he doesn't have your number.'

I closed my eyes, feeling terrible. Poor Terry. I rushed out to find him just outside the ward. His huge form was crumpled around the corners, hair wild and unkempt; his ruddy face full of remorse.

‘Oh Ivy, lass, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I feel sick, truly,' he said, his eyes red and swollen. ‘No one would let me come find ya – they're all Nazis,' he added, indicating the staff who had barred his entry. ‘I didn't have ya number... or ya address, felt so helpless.'

I patted his arm and tried to give him a hug, which was hard as he was over six foot and near as wide from his years in the Navy. ‘I'm so sorry, Terry. I didn't know... they didn't tell me. But please, it wasn't your fault. It's a five-minute ride home; no one could have predicted this.'

He sniffed. ‘I just feel so responsible. I mean, he was dancing with ya... ya were both so happy and if it wasn't for me...' he choked.

I caught my breath. ‘Terry, don't do this to yourself. You didn't drive the truck and even then... it blew a tyre from the opposite side of the road – it was an accident,' I said, patting his arm – giving him the absolution I couldn't give myself.

Dad rounded the corner and saw me hugging Terry. He came forward and patted both our backs. ‘No one is to blame,' he said, giving me a pointed look.

I pulled my face into a semblance of a smile. I'd had a feeling. An undeniable feeling that we should have stayed home, but I just hadn't fought hard enough. There was no absolution from that.

Terry wiped his eyes and gave me a bone-crushing hug. ‘Can I see him?'

‘Of course, come with me...' I said, leading them back into the ICU wing, towards Stuart's bed.

Terry's face fell when he saw him. ‘Oh Ivy,' he said, touching Stuart's uninjured left arm.

‘Terry, he's okay... he's alive. Actually he's looking a bit better. The bruises aren't so purple any more.' I took a deep breath, processing that thought, gaining strength and telling him everything that the officers and paramedics had told me.

‘He was lucky,' he said, in awe.

‘I think so,' said Dr Harris, who had arrived to check on Stuart, giving us all a smile. His eyes were thoughtful. ‘You know, I wasn't meant to be at that party. I was supposed to fly out to New York for a conference but my flight was cancelled. It was so strange – no warning either – and the next available flight wouldn't have got me there in time. So I decided to stay and go with Gia to the party.'

I stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘You weren't meant to be there?' I said, feeling my blood run cold.

He shook his head. ‘No, it was lucky that I was because I was just around the corner when I got the page. Stuart needed an emergency heart procedure or else he wouldn't have made it to the hospital – it's why he had to be rushed to surgery straight away.'

I could only stare at Dr Harris. ‘None of you were meant to be there,' I breathed. ‘But you were.'

He frowned. ‘Sorry?' he asked, puzzled.

I didn't believe in coincidences, I really didn't. Not any more.

‘It wasn't just you...' I said, shaking my head in surprise as I explained about the paramedics who had been in the area because of a false alarm.

Dr Harris's eyes widened. ‘That's amazing!' he said. ‘I heard that the highway was a disaster with New Year's, though I never thought... hadn't considered that. He's so lucky that the paramedics were in the area... they were right – if they hadn't gotten there... I'm not sure he would have made it.' He breathed out and looked at Stuart. ‘It's amazing!'

I nodded. Amazing was the word. I stood staring at Stuart, a lump forming in my throat. A sudden, undeniable question had begun to form. Had Mum had a hand in this after all? Had she helped? Maybe this was what she meant about not giving up hope. But why like this, why not use the postcard... the way she'd told me so many other things?

Dr Harris finished checking on Stuart, gave my arm a squeeze, and said: ‘Mrs Everton – Ivy, I think he's doing very well. I think he's going to pull through, I really do.'

I touched his arm and swallowed. ‘Thank you.'

He nodded and left.

Terry gave me a hug and patted Stuart's arm. ‘Got to get back, lass. But I'll come by tomorrow. Ya'll let me know if there's any news?'

I nodded. ‘I will. Thanks, Terry, for everything.'

I
t wasn't a Thursday
, and I'd only ever sewn one very wonky piece of a jumper together when I'd tried to help May during the flood. But I awoke to someone gently placing a quilt over me as I lay on the sofa, and opened my eyes to see six pairs of eyes looking at me. Somehow, so very silently, they had all let themselves in.

Robyn handed me a cup of tea. Abigail switched on the light, and said softly, ‘Not looking as peaky. That's good.'

Winifred Jones winked, then held up the Henry. ‘Just going to give the place a quick once-over.'

May straightened the quilt, which I saw was a beautiful patchwork in blues, greys, and pinks. I touched it in awe.

‘We've been making it for yer, got some of yer mum's old pieces in it,' she said, pointing to a piece that looked like an old French garden. ‘Sure, but she got started on this quilt long ago. Funny, but I found it at the bottom of me sewing pile not long after yer showed up on me doorstep, was like she was waiting fer us to find it... So we've been finishing it for her. We thought yer should have it, 'tis only right.'