A Cornish Christmas (6 page)

‘How's the great jam experiment coming along?' she asked, changing the subject.

I snorted. ‘Splendidly. You very narrowly missed out on turnips...' I said with a chuckle.

We heard footsteps approach, then, ‘Ah, I thought I heard your dulcet tones! Hullo Smudge,' came Stuart's voice from behind.

She rolled her eyes. Smudge's voice was a bit high-pitched, not overly so, but it could get extremely high-pitched when we had had a few glasses, which was when Stuart said she was able to break the sound barrier with her giggles. Sibling love...

She quirked her brows. ‘Turnip jam?'

His shoulders started to shake in laughter. ‘Touché! It seemed like a good idea at the time, a bit like you, Smudge,' he said, face deadpan.

She glared at him, and elbowed him in the ribs. Then they linked arms and he took her on a tour of the polytunnel, while I brewed us a pot of tea, glad that Victoria was here. I knew that Genevieve's latest call had been weighing on Stuart's mind, and Victoria was one of the few people who would be able to ease his worries. It was hard for him not to tell his mother about the baby, and I knew that he felt bad about our decision to keep it to ourselves, even if it was for a good reason.

Victoria had about an hour before she had to get to her appointment, so I made us a quick lunch – simple cheese sandwiches with Stuart's homemade bread. (Stuart made her try each and every one of his condiments, while I rolled my eyes, especially when she said that the pak choi was her favourite, then laughed like a lunatic at my expression.)

Victoria entertained us all by telling us what she had so far learned about Daphne du Maurier, and her amazing life.

I was sorry that she wouldn't be staying longer, but glad that she was at least in the county, and we agreed to meet later on in the week, for an exclusive tour of the country surrounding the author's old stomping grounds. It would be incredible to see this part of Cornwall from the eye of a biographer, and I was already looking forward to it.

After she left, I got started on
Detective Sergeant Fudge and the Case of the Missing Brolly
, doing my best to ignore Rudolph's shiny new nose. The day moved swiftly and I managed several illustrations for
The Fudge Files
. Catherine would be pleased. At this rate, we'd be early with the publishers... a first.

Later, Tomas came over to consult on a case of septic-looking greens that Stuart had been examining with a magnifying glass. As Tomas passed me en route to the garden, he lifted the edge of his green beret with a gnarled finger, and drawled out a greeting, ‘'Ello, Eve...'

His lips twitched, as I corrected, ‘Ivy,' automatically.

He shrugged his thin shoulders, in a manner that promised that he'd do it again, held up a bottle of sloe gin to Stuart with a twinkle in his clear blue eyes, and the two disappeared to discuss ‘business' in the polytunnel.

I scoffed – not looking forward to dealing with the after-effects of
that
in the morning, and headed back to the studio to work on
Mr Tibbles and the Fairy's Forest
, where Mr Tibbles was about to receive a rather strange gift, from the Red Fairy. Only, she wouldn't have any red hair if I didn't find the missing paint.

Somehow in the events of the day I'd forgotten about it. I had another search and sighed in frustration. Then I moved over to the writing desk and looked there again. Still nothing. Absently, I opened the bottom drawer which I hadn't touched since I'd unpacked it the day before, only to stare at it in absolute, fearful shock. I jumped back, my heart pounding, the colour draining from my face.

There they were.

Every last tube. Every last pot. Every last bottle of red paint that I owned was there in the drawer. Not in a fan or in a row, or just scattered about.

No.

They were all grouped together to commit a single felony, to form one simple, damnable word, and it belonged to me: Ivy.

T
here were two explanations really
. The first, obvious, and least inspiring was that I was indeed going mad. Surprising really that it would happen now, after we seemed finally to be over the worst of our troubles.

The second was that someone was playing a rather befuddling joke on me. Someone who thought I had a better handle on my sanity, because I'm quite sure it would backfire when the men in little white coats appeared to take me away. I couldn't quite believe that Stuart would do that to me; it just wasn't his style. He was far too aware of how it would hurt me.

There was a third option too, of course, which was absurd.

If I considered it I'd have to believe in fairy tales or magic, or ghosts... really.

And I didn't know if I was quite ready to believe that.

So I did what any sane person would do... I went to the kitchen, opened a bottle of red wine and sat with my eyes closed while I sniffed it, breathing deeply of the luscious berry scent.

‘And now?' asked Stuart, coming in from the back door and looking at me quizzically, while I sat at the pale cream island with the bottle of wine held reverentially in my hands.

‘I'm hoping that it will impart its magic... via osmosis.'

He raised a brow, an amused smile playing on his lips.

‘I think you'll find,' he said, placing an enormous ham on the countertop and giving it a firm, yet tender pat, ‘that you actually need to drink it for it to have any effect.'

I gave him a look. ‘Yes, well... That's off the cards for at least what... seven months?'

He grinned. I did too – couldn't help myself. ‘Small sacrifice,' we both said together.

‘Still... you could probably have half a glass of some champagne or something if you're really desperate...'

I made a face. ‘I'm rather desperate. But still... I don't want to risk it.'

He nodded. ‘Bad day?'

‘Not exactly...' I looked at him and cleared my throat. ‘I found my paint,' I said, and searched his face for telling signs.

‘Your paint?' he asked, confused, staring at the ham, no doubt deciding where its Christmas future lay. Considering it was only November, the plan was obviously rather grand.

‘My missing red paint?'

He frowned. ‘Oh yes... was it all there when you looked again? Told you,' he said, crossing the kitchen towards his cookery book collection. ‘You were overwrought when you came home with your mum's desk, maybe you just didn't see it.'

My eyebrows shot up. Stuart was many things, a dear generally, with the most expressive eyes this side of Cornwall and a talented creative cook, who had the fabulous ability to look good in anything he wore. But he wasn't an actor. Unless he took his cues from the Christmas ham, there was no way he would have been able to maintain that air of nonchalance.

I sighed deeply and went back to sniffing the wine bottle. Dammit. I had really hoped that I wasn't getting an all-express ride on the lunacy train.

‘Chocolate,' said Stuart suddenly.

I paused from my sniffing. ‘With the ham?'

‘No, bit too rich, I think. More of a steak accompaniment in the culinary stakes. I'm considering a classic honey glaze.'

‘Glad to hear it,' I said.

‘With some wasabi, perhaps...'

I sighed.

‘I was thinking that perhaps some chocolate would make you feel a bit better... if you need a glass of wine?'

I looked at him in surprise... See, he's a dear. ‘I'm okay, thanks. The sniffing helps.'

‘Okay, well, I'm fully prepared, just so you know. For the cravings...'

I laughed. ‘You are?'

‘Oh yes,' he said mischievously. ‘I've thought of all the possibilities. The boot, pantry, fridge and freezer are fully cognisant of any eventuality... I did my research.'

‘You spoke to Tomas?'

‘I spoke to Tomas,' he agreed.

‘And what did Tomas have to impart?'

‘Well, always have
pains au chocolat
on hand, condensed milk in the fridge and a
tarte tatin
in the larder... if you want to avoid having a cranky wife.'

‘A cranky
French
wife,' I corrected. ‘My tastes don't run to condensed milk.'

‘Well, to be fair, probably neither do the French wives. Tomas said he kept it for himself, to keep his energy up. He had two wives, you know.'

‘
What
! At the same time?'

‘No, one after the other. Sisters, apparently.'

‘Oh... that's... a bit, well, gross really.'

‘Depends on the sister,' said Stuart, with a lascivious wink.

I laughed. ‘One of the few reasons I'm rather glad that I didn't have a sister.'

‘Pity!'

I smacked him.

He grinned. ‘No, I just meant it would have been nice.'

I smacked him again.

He laughed and backed out of my reach to safety. ‘For you... I meant for you.'

‘Uh-huh. I believe you, but thousands might not,' I said.

He laughed, but said somewhat seriously, ‘Not sure how I would have handled The Terrorist without Smudge.'

I nodded. This was very true. ‘Though Smudge is my sister too now, and Catherine... she's always been like one.'

‘Oh yes, always did like red-heads...' he said, before running to hide in the pantry.

‘Very amusing. I will have you say that in front of Richard next.'

‘Mercy!' he called from behind the pantry door.

Richard, Catherine's husband, played professional rugby for a well-known London team. He was six foot three and when you thought of him, the terms ‘brick and ‘house' sprang to mind.

‘Can I come out?' called Stuart, in mock fear.

‘Can I have that chocolate?' I asked, setting the bottle aside.

I heard a rustle. ‘Hazelnut or orange?' he called from behind the door.

‘Orange, please.'

He came forward and handed me the chocolate with arms outstretched, careful to keep his body out of my reach.

I laughed. ‘It's fine, you're safe. So what else is in my emergency stash?' I asked him, curious.

‘Ah... well, you know, I'm not going to tell.'

I looked at him in surprise. ‘You're not?'

‘I'm not.'

‘Stuart Stanley Everton...'

‘Ah! Do not Stanley me... my bloody parents,' he muttered, shaking his head disappointingly at his second name. ‘I'm holding firm, Ivy Rose Everton. Incidentally, you will never understand the scars that are caused by awful second names. Rose... I mean, honestly. No moral fibre learnt with a name like Rose.'

I laughed. ‘Stanley is hardly a terrible name. Moral fibre indeed. Were the boys at Eton brutish over Stanley? How could they be when faced with the likes of Basil and Eugene?'

Basil and Eugene were two of Stuart's friends from school.

‘Eugene isn't too bad. Then I would have shortened it to Gene; that's rather nice.'

I nodded, conceding. ‘Not bad. Anyway... I can just check the fridge and the pantry.'

‘You could, but you won't,' he said assuredly, eyes amused.

‘I won't?'

‘Course not. What's in the fridge now?'

‘Pak choi jelly?'

‘Besides that.'

‘Cheese?' I ventured.

He shook his head. ‘Hopeless! Apart from toast, you would starve.'

‘That's not true... before we met, I, er ... you know, cooked a bit.'

He looked nonplussed. ‘You cooked? What did you cook?'

‘Er... there was the chicken Parmesan.'

‘No, that was me, you just grated the cheese.'

‘Oh, really?' I said, surprised. ‘Okay. Well, there were the cinnamon pancakes...'

‘Oh God, I forgot about those. The batter never set. How did you do that? I will never forget it just refused to solidify.'

I laughed. ‘Well, I forgot to put in the egg, didn't I?'

He threw his head back and laughed. ‘A ten-year mystery solved!'

I looked at him, a little worried. ‘Stuart...' I bit my lip. Was I that hopeless? ‘I can do it... I'll learn some new recipes before the baby comes – I want to be able to cook for him or her.'

He hugged me. ‘I'm just teasing. You're going to be fine. You've made us lots of meals in the past. They were... you know, not exactly tasty, but edible, mostly... Children seem to like things like fish fingers,' he said with a shudder.

I smacked him but felt better. I'd never be a great cook, but in fairness babies don't eat very exciting food and that I could manage. ‘So what you're saying is that our child will have to come to you the second we're off the bottle?'

‘Just if it values its taste buds.'

I narrowed my eyes and shot him a look that said ‘pak
choi jelly', but we both knew. I could live with that.

In light of the events of the day, I was grateful for Stuart's calm presence, his banter. And the chocolate – the chocolate was definitely helping.

I slept fitfully that night. My dreams vivid, haunting. Mum was there, just at the edge of a blink, and every time I turned she was gone. I dreamt of paint, brilliant stardust paint that flecked into little moons all over the studio, creating luminaries that glowed in the dark and turned the room moonbeam bright. When I awoke, I was tired, my mood subdued. I crept off downstairs in search of coffee, but two cups later, I felt more tired still.

At barely dawn I set off for the beach, leaving Muppet and Stuart to sleep as I trekked alone in the bracing cold, a scarf looped around my face, mitten-clad-hands wedged into my parka and feet frozen, despite being ensconced in a pair of rose-print wellingtons. Without Muppet, it was a solitary walk, with only the sounds of the barren sea for company.

When I got back, I took a cup of tea up to my studio. I found Pots dozing on the window seat, wedged in a pile of cushions. Pepper, no doubt, had gone on his dawn patrol.

The two cats had come with the house. We'd found them sleeping beneath the stairs that led to the front door after we arrived that first afternoon. No one knew to whom they belonged. The previous owners hadn't lived here for years as they'd decided in their retirement to finally give up their family home, emigrating to Australia to be closer to their children who'd moved there. Our nearest neighbour couldn't recall seeing the cats before. But after we moved in, they stayed too. They kept to themselves mostly, two solitary shadows, but they could be counted on for meaningful visits, often later in the night.

Eyeing me by my desk, Pots stretched and opted for the comfort of my lap. I looked down at him, only to frown – as tied around his neck was a silken ribbon in vivid scarlet.

Stuart must have found his Christmas spirit. Pots looked sweet with his handsome adornment. I took a sip of tea and touched the glossy fabric, lifting the edge in my fingers, only to frown in sudden disquiet when I noted two faint black marks near the edge. As I craned my neck for a closer look, my body froze, and I felt suddenly faint. For there, on the fabric, were two faded letters, written in large childish script:
F.A.

My heart pummelled my chest.

F.A.
Short for Fat Albert. Letters I'd etched onto the silken cloth myself, stolen and trimmed from Mum's desk on his last Christmas with us.

It couldn't be. Could it?

I picked up Pots, placed him back on the window seat, and crossed the room towards the shelf where I'd stored Mum's box of things.

My fingers shook as I lifted the lid, only to gasp aloud. There was nothing there. Nothing at all.

This time though, I didn't question... I crossed the room, my throat tight, to open the latch to the desk, my eyes closing for a beat, then opening in real, sudden fear, for there, neatly folded back where they belonged, was every last letter, every last line of thread, and every last silken ribbon, save one.

I shut it quickly and fled.