A Cozy Christmas in Cornwall

by Jane Linfoot

  6.

  If in doubt,

  add glitter

  ‘I thought Christmas was meant to be about the people?’

  This is Bill, later on Friday. And, yes, I am talking to him again after the tree toppling fiasco, but only because if I want to get this show on the road, I have to.

  Finding a well equipped laundry room next to the enormous pantry helped. And while my puddle soaked clothes were being washed and dried I found a stripy blue apron, a whisk and a frying pan. After inhaling a stack of pancakes dripping with warm maple syrup I was back in the game but this time with a whole new strategy – in future I will not be taking shit from castle personnel.

  So we have a castle hallway stacked with trees in nets, and we’re now in the coach house checking the pile of furniture that I’ve spent the last couple of hours sorting out to take over to the castle. And I’m half way to thinking, so long as I keep Bill very firmly in his place (and out of my head) I might just be able to pull this off.

  I’m looking up at him from the leather armchair I’m testing out. ‘Of course it’s about the people – any people who sit in this seat will be super-comfy.’

  He gives me an exasperated look. ‘But surely what matters is the company not the trappings?’

  I can’t let that opportunity pass, so I round on him. ‘In which case, why are you spending your Christmas at work with strangers?’

  That question turns his pissed off expression even darker. ‘Christmas is a write off for me this year, I don’t care what I do.’

  Of course, we’ve ruined his Christmas being demanding and having a party that includes nine kids instead of a minibus full of stags. How did I not get that before? After jumping in with both feet last time, I’m feeling my way with this. ‘So Gemma won’t be here then?’ For everyone’s sakes, given what hard work she was back in the day, I’m desperate he’s not going to say she will.

  ‘Gemma’s off on a winter holiday.’

  I suppose it’s pointless both of them having to lie low at the castle looking after a yawny Christmas let. Us writing off his Christmas probably explains his attitude, but he’s the one who chose to do it.

  ‘My dad will be around though.’ There’s that twist of his lips again. ‘So long as I let him out of his tower.’

  My mouth drops open. ‘You keep your dad in a …?’ Then I see from the glint in his eyes – of course he bloody doesn’t. I’m kicking myself for being so gullible. This has to be him breaking the news of another guest in what’s getting to be a very overcrowded castle. ‘Someone else we’ll be sharing the toaster with?’ And shit to that thought.

  ‘Nope, for once you’re wrong. He usually eats breakfast in his pyjamas, in his motor home beyond the coach house.’

  ‘Camping? In winter? IN THE GROUNDS?’ This place just keeps on giving. I mean, why the hell is he not at Downton Abbey or whatever their stately pile’s called? This quest for the simple life is all the fault of a certain Duke, abandoning his palace and decamping to a farm cottage next door to Sandringham. Take it from me, I shared a teensy bedsit with George once, after the first couple of days, the novelty of waking up where you can reach the kitchen sink to put the kettle on from the bed is less than thrilling.

  Bill’s laying down the reassurances. ‘It’s warm in his motor home, and handy – he helps out here too.’

  ‘Well, that sounds as if it’s going to be fabulous for all of us.’ Not. It’s yet another eccentricity to hide from Libby.

  Bill nods at the heap of furniture and boxes that I’ve piled up by the door. ‘I’ll get him to bring this lot over to the house first thing tomorrow, then we can get it into place.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan.’ Anyone else, I’d feel guilty for my mean thoughts, but this may not be the worst news.

  A text came through from Fliss when I was in Bill’s shower earlier – obviously I wasn’t going to let an opportunity like that pass me by, me not traipsing mud from the car park all the way upstairs was the perfect opening for me to get into Bill’s bathroom. Except I still have no further idea what he’s smelling of. However spartan the rest of the place is, his man-perfume shelf is rammed. If I’d even begun to work my way through them trying them out I’d have had total nose confusion. I didn’t just make it up, that is a real thing, the Daniels’ girls on perfume talk about it all the time. But sadly I’m still without my hot tip for my notebook.

  According to Fliss’s text, Libby is so stoked at the idea of her own handyman there’s a good chance that will totally make up for the lack of deep pile carpet. If Bill’s dad is going to be knocking around the wood baskets too it’s going to be double the fun. Especially if their shared gene pool means he’s equally decorative.

  As for the butler shots I know she’ll be setting her heart on, more mature might be better still, so I may as well test the ground. ‘So how does your dad feel about dressing up?’

  The cloud that passes across Bill’s face says it’s an instant thumbs down. ‘Sorry, but there’s only room for one Santa in St Aidan. Gary from the jingle bells pony cart gets very cross about imposters.’

  Weird, but fine, Santa was way off what I’m after anyway. ‘We definitely don’t want to upset any locals.’ As he didn’t dismiss it entirely it’s worth another try. ‘But if red coats are out, an evening suit might work?’

  His voice shoots up. ‘If you knew my dad, you would not be asking that. Don’t catch me, don’t change me free spirits don’t dress to order, he’s all about wild hearts and the open road.’ He takes a second to blow out his cheeks. ‘If you want a guy in a tux, you’ll have to sweet talk me.’

  I ignore that my toes just turned to hot syrup. ‘That’s not a thing I’ll be doing any time soon.’

  ‘Great, well in that case, let’s look at this lot.’ He’s scowling at my accessorising heap. ‘I simply can’t see how shitloads of superfluous ornamentation are going to give anyone a great time.’

  Which goes to show how very wrong first impressions can be. He was such a happy guy all those years ago by that alpine fire, there was no sign whatsoever he’d turn out this grumpy. Me not getting what my most secret inner self wished for back then saved me from the hugest heap of trouble. All I can think is that over the years, having him all to myself in my head, I must have gradually changed him, whittled him into someone else entirely. I’ve somehow built him into someone very different from the guy himself. It was bound to happen. That’s the trouble with fantasies, when you give them free rein they travel a long way from their real life counterparts. They never talk back either. Which is possibly why having too many of the damn things isn’t ideal.

  I’m going to have to put him right on that all-encompassing comment though. ‘If you create the most magical setting imaginable, those all-important people enjoy it so much more.’

  ‘Excuse me for missing there was so much alchemy involved.’ It’s that snarky tone and – oh joys – he’s shaking his head again. And to think I thought him being an anti-child dog-phobe was as bad as it was going to get.

  I have to stick up for #TeamChristmas. ‘We’re creating memories that will last a lifetime, you can’t put a price on that.’ I stand up, give Merwyn a tickle to remind Bill we’re two against one here, and start to search for containers to put the trees in. ‘A castle and a beach is already fabulous, but overlay it with candlelight and pine needles, cranberry cocktails in frosted glasses, warm baked cinnamon biscuits and gingerbread houses, the distant sound of Santa’s sleigh bells, and it’ll never be surpassed.’ My eyes are probably sparkling too much as the images of present piles and frosty mornings flash through my head, I might be giving too much away here, but I don’t even care.

  Bill’s blowing out his cheeks and sounding disgusted. ‘You’ve really fallen for the whole stockings hanging by an open fire thing haven’t you?’

  My shriek of protest comes out louder than I’d planned. ‘And I’m completely happy with that. Some people live for summer, my time is December.’ Or at l
east, it used to be. And then something beyond the pile catches my eye. ‘Are they what I think they are?’

  ‘Traditional alpine toboggans? Just like we had in the mountains.’

  I ignore the last bit because I really am gasping with excitement. ‘You have that much snow here?’

  He gives me a hard stare. ‘Why the sudden interest? From what I remember in Chamonix you prefer to stay indoors.’

  Once again, I’m quietly cursing his recall. ‘Those mountain ski runs scared the bejesus out of me, even the nursery slopes were too steep, but in any other situation snow is dreamy.’

  His eyes have locked with mine. ‘So that finally explains why you concentrated on the hot chocolate, not the black runs. Why didn’t you say? I’d have helped you.’

  I may as well be honest, even if I wasn’t then. ‘I was enough out of my depth as it was, I’d rather have dived head first into a snowdrift than admit I couldn’t ski.’

  He shrugs. ‘I did come back early every day so you had company.’

  I’m not sure he’s thinking of the right holiday. ‘I thought you came back so you could grab the steam room first?’

  His head is tilting. ‘That was Gemma, not me. When she wasn’t falling over in front of me she pretty much superglued herself to my snowboard, that’s why we always arrived back together. But I came back to see you.’

  I’m blinking. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘As I remember, I especially liked your jumpers.’

  I can feel my eyes stretching open as I shriek. ‘What?!!!!’

  ‘They were really nice. Everyone else was in ski jackets, you were always in your base layer.’

  I’m still squeaking in shock. ‘Jeez, Bill.’ Then it hits, from the way his eyes are dancing, this has to be a total wind up.

  ‘I liked how you made me laugh too.’

  I let out a groan. ‘Please tell me you’re joking me.’

  ‘Of course I am, all I ever wanted was to get in that sauna. That’s why I was always hanging round the fire telling you my best jokes, they can’t have been very good if you can’t even remember them.’

  I can feel my lips curling even though I’m trying to stop them. ‘What’s the difference between a snow man and a snow woman?’ And more fool me for encouraging him here.

  ‘Snowballs.’ He gives that resonating low laugh. ‘Something tells me you know a lot more than you’re letting on, Ivy Starforth.’

  Oh my days, now he’s tied me up in knots again. I’ve no idea what he means, so to save my sanity I’m taking this back to where we left off. ‘If you gave us a snowy Christmas, you’d be off the hook with Libby.’

  He’s back to staring at me in that same, slow way he has. ‘I’ll talk to Tomasz Schafernaker and see what I can do.’

  ‘Who the hell is …?’

  ‘He’s a meteorologist.’ He’s tilting his head, looking down on me through those narrowed eyes again. ‘The BBC weather man.’

  Forget the protests about how bloody condescending he is, there are way more important questions. ‘There’s really a chance of snow?’

  He gives a shrug. ‘It’s not unknown.’

  ‘We’ll have all the sledges then.’ I’d love snow so much, I’m not even daring to think about it, so I’m moving this on. The thing is, for me, in a world where lately it feels like nothing can be relied on, Christmas is the one certainty I can cling onto. I know the recipe to make Christmas work. Other things spiral out of control and my life comes crashing down. But so long as I have enough lamella and berries, I should be able to win with Christmas and everyone else will get the benefit.

  ‘It’s a simple equation – the more glitter you throw at Christmas, the more enjoyment you get back. Name me anything else that sure to pay off?’

  He shoves a couple of galvanised buckets at me. ‘It’s an awful lot hanging on one day. And it’s not that healthy to be this obsessed with perfection.’

  I have an answer for that. ‘Unless you’re talking gin.’ It’s a stab in the dark but as he’s always banging on about it, I suspect I’ve got him.

  ‘Gin’s different.’ It’s as if he’s woken up for the first time. ‘Obviously when you make it, you’re bound to strive for the ultimate, you wouldn’t do anything less. Or at least, I wouldn’t.’

  I shrug. ‘So, you’re hung up on gin, for me it’s Christmas.’

  There’s a new light in his eyes. ‘Now you’ve mentioned it, I might as well show you the distillery, it’s only next door.’ He’s so enthused, he’s already set off. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you the shortened version of the tour.’

  ‘Why not?’ I’m going to have to do this sometime, so I try not to let my eyes glaze over as I follow him out into the fading daylight. Hash tag, I’d rather be sleeping. Just saying.

  7.

  Let the fun beGIN …

  I follow Bill as he hurries along the outside of the coach house building and when he pushes through some wide glass doors, the dimly lit space I’m staring around is as big as the building we’ve come from, with the same high ceiling following the slant of the roof. But in here the stone end gable has been completely knocked out, and instead there’s an immense glass window looking straight down onto the beach and out to sea.

  ‘Great view!’ I can’t deny him that one. The late afternoon has leached away the colour and the edges have blurred, but I can still make out the muted blue of the sea broken by lines of breakers frilling up the sand, a sky streaked with silver. Pin pricks of lights coming on around the edge of the bay, the twinkly cluster that is St Aidan. Then as Bill snaps on the inside lights, the outside darkens, and I’m suddenly blinking at reflections off a polished concrete floor, and flashes from some very shiny copper cauldrons and pipework and dials set back in the corner. The tangy salt and seaweed smell from outside has given way to the heady mix of fresh paint and neat alcohol.

  ‘So you weren’t joking, you really do have a still?’

  The weary boredom on his face has turned to illuminated bliss. ‘We’re only a couple of years into production but Cockle Shell Castle gin’s already winning awards.’

  I pick up a bottle from a shelf and turn it over in my hand. ‘Star Shower – the name’s cool.’ That’s as much as he’s getting – the silver and rose gold and pink stars on the label are lovely, but I know better than to heap on the praise.

  The way he’s suddenly jumping from shelf to shelf, he couldn’t be more animated. ‘That one’s got a raspberry burst to it, Shining Comet’s got an orange hint. We use juniper berries from the gardens and we’re developing other flavours too. The rhubarb and lime’s almost ready to go.’

  ‘We?’ There’s no sign of collaborators. Apart from the equipment and shelves of glasses and bottles the space is almost empty.

  He coughs. ‘At first I had help with the marketing, but now it’s just me.’

  I’m gazing around. ‘You … and some very smart glass tables and Philippe Starck ghost chairs.’ See-through perspex with a hint of Louis Quatorze, they’re still one of my favourites from Daniels’ furniture department. The last thing I was expecting to get in Bill’s distillery was furniture envy.

  ‘They’re for the tasting sessions, I liked the way the transparency of the tables echoed the transparency of the gin.’ If only he’d applied half this much inspiration and attention to our deccies.

  ‘I don’t suppose …’ I’m kicking myself for sounding this tentative, so I try again. ‘I may have to … actually I’ll be stealing them for a few days.’ Well, two and a bit weeks actually.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For dining at the castle over Christmas.’ I can mix and match with extra chairs to make up the numbers, but that won’t matter.

  He’s looking at me like I’ve seriously lost my marbles. ‘Only one hitch with that, Ivy – there isn’t a dining room.’

  ‘One end of the bit you call the chill out space? Obviously we’d keep the plastic away from the roaring fires.’ If we overcome the melting risk, they’ll be sen
sational. I’m chipping away. ‘The whole transparency thing … echoes of icicles … how amazing the chairs would be, draped with fairy lights? They’re exactly what we need to transform those – ahem – empty spaces.’

  ‘Two hitches actually.’ He lets out a breath. ‘Glass tables, and all those sticky kiddie fingers? How’s that going to work?’

  I’m cursing his stubbornness when my second brainwave hits. ‘Imagine the Christmas tree in the entrance hall decked with miniature gin bottles and sea shells.’ I’m searching his face for a positive sign. ‘The tables and chairs are just the start – we could fill the entire castle with transparent gin-themed decorations?’ See what I’m doing here? Weaving the furniture into the vision. Taking Christmas back to his adult-only comfort zone. ‘We’ll take our lead from the stars on the gin labels and have bright orange and cerise pink as our theme colours.’ I’m doing this so wholeheartedly I’m actually getting carried away on my own wave of enthusiasm.

  And finally, he nods. ‘You could be onto something there, Ivy-star.’ Then he sweeps up a glass from a tray. ‘Let’s drink to that!’

  Just when it was going so well, my heart comes crashing down to my boots again. ‘I’m actually on a break right now.’

  His voice shoots up. ‘From alcohol?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘But you can’t be. Think of all those toffee vodkas we had by the log fire … you can’t give up anything that delicious.’

  This time I clamp my mouth closed before it drops open and try to laugh this off. ‘They could explain the blurry judgement.’ Now I come to think of it, the caramel flavoured alcohol might explain why I remember that delicious feeling of my toes turning to syrup. But I need to call a halt to all this reminiscing. ‘Can we please stop wasting time living in the past. If we’re going to sort out a fabulous Christmas, there’s no time to lose, we need to get on.’