A Cozy Christmas in Cornwall

by Jane Linfoot

‘I hope Donkey Valley is ready to be hit by sixteen out-there townies in the middle of a quiet Tuesday morning.’ As we slow by some nicely planed farm gates and see the hand painted donkey pictures on the signs, thinking about the company, I’m truly wishing I’d had the option to stay at the castle.

  As it turns out, the donkeys aren’t ready for us at all. Miranda’s crackly gold coat gets the thumbs down straight away. It’s so much like a giant piece of flapping Bacofoil, the woman with a badge that says Doreen Donkey Welfare decides it’s going to alarm the residents. As Miranda and Ambrose shimmer off towards the cafe they don’t look disappointed at all. I’m just hoping the rest of the group see something here to take the scowls off their faces.

  Libby hands over what looks like enough cash to buy a whole donkey not just to look at them, then we wander off towards the stables and enclosures. The minute we hit a patch of cobbles Harriet finally drops off. I’m bumping her buggy along while Fliss hangs onto Oscar, still pondering about earlier.

  ‘I know those scones of Miles’s were delicious. But at the same time they left me feeling slightly uneasy and a little bit compromised. Squeezed even.’

  The donkeys are looking out over the tops of their stable doors and we’re stopping at each one, rubbing their huge fluffy ears and bumpy necks, letting them nuzzle our hands with their warm velvety noses. And we’re trying not to wrinkle ours at the rather strong scent of donkey.

  ‘Okay, say goodbye to Biscuit and we’ll see who’s next door.’ Fliss lets Oscar have a final pat of the donkey, then she lowers him to the ground and turns to where I’m pushing Harriet.

  ‘More like squeezed into your jeans after eating so much, I’ve got that too.’ She pats her stomach. ‘Miles is probably making himself indispensable in the kitchen, hoping Libby won’t eject him. That’s my theory anyway. If all his cooking’s like that, it’s not going to help my baby weight is it?’

  I’m nodding, but only in partial agreement. ‘If Miles can cook, with so many people turning up, Libby’s going to hang onto him with both hands. Very tightly.’

  She glances across at Miles a few stables ahead of us. ‘You have to agree, Miranda’s delivered you some choice goods there though, you can’t reject this one without dipping your toe in the water.’

  My eyes flash open. ‘You just watch me.’

  She lets out another chortle. ‘Adjoining rooms. Libby came through for you there too.’

  I look down at Merwyn, hoping he’ll add support for my protest. ‘Merwyn will tell you, with a tree in there too, there’s barely space for us, we definitely can’t fit any one else in there too.’ I let out a laugh. ‘At least Miles is saved from the ghostly noises in your part of the castle.’

  Fliss lets out a groan. ‘We all heard them again, last night and this morning.’

  ‘It’s nice that Ambrose and Miranda are enjoying life.’ And I’m damn lucky my room’s out of earshot.

  Fliss pulls a face. ‘It’s just ironic and a little bit sad when the only person in the house with a decent bonk rate is your mother. You’d think she’d keep it down with the grandchildren around.’

  I’m laughing. ‘Miranda always expresses herself loudly, I can hear her whoops all the way from the cafe now.’

  Fliss shakes her head and lets out a sigh. ‘Larger than life and ten times noisier, nothing new there then.’

  And this is the funny thing about parents. While I’d have loved mine to be even a teensy bit more expansive and like Miranda, Fliss is completely in love with how quiet and buttoned up mine are. Back when we were twenty we’d have swapped them in a heartbeat, because mine had the reliability and steadiness she craved, while Miranda had all the zest and colour mine lacked. Maybe that’s one reason we bonded instantly and stayed so close – because we both found our sanctuary in the other one’s home and family.

  It’s true that Miranda waited until her three girls and their brother left home before she started seriously working her way through husbands. Before that she never gave anyone exclusive rights and the flat just always had a stream of arty types passing through. But at any time of day or night she was only ever a corkscrew away from a party. Which was fabulous for me for a weekend visit, but that’s why Fliss was wide eyed and wanting when she came across my parents’ level of boring domesticity.

  I pass the pushchair to Fliss and pick up Oscar. ‘And this is Haribo, you like donkeys don’t you?’ I watch Oscar’s nod. Considering he’s usually like a one man demolition team, now he’s left his favourite telegraph pole back at the castle, he’s remarkably quiet.

  Tarkie comes along and Tiff hauls him up on her knee to pat Biscuit. ‘You were a donkey in the nursery Christmas play one time weren’t you, Tarkie?’

  He nods. ‘It was crap, my head was good but I didn’t have enough legs. My best one was when I was an alien from outer space flying to see Jesus in the stable on a magic carpet.’

  Fliss rolls her eyes at me. ‘The joys of Nativity have only just started for us. Oscar was a one man flamingo troupe this year, how about you, Tiff?’

  Tiffany lets Tarkie slide down to the concrete, and gives a swish of her net skirt above her silver Doc Martens. ‘I was head of Mary’s personal shopping team one time. We all had Gucci bags, and I got to borrow Mum’s special glitter clipboard.’

  I grin. ‘You have to love teachers, creative casting for the Christmas play is their one way of expressing what they really think of the pupils.’

  Fliss wrinkles her nose. ‘You’re going to be another natural high flyer, Tiff, just like your mum.’

  Said completely without bitterness but with an entire shedload of resignedness. And there we’ve hit Fliss’s next hang-up. Libby set her sights on the stars and accidentally reached the moon. All Fliss sees – if she ever actually looks past Libby’s size-six jeans which are a fraction of the size of her own large-fit fourteens – is Libby’s mega-successful business and her ultra-perfect family. Meanwhile Fliss in her own head is very definitely still stuck at Ground Control, with her flight never really expected to take off and two kids who refuse to conform to any parenting app that’s yet been invented.

  What Fliss forgets is that she would never in a million years have been happy to take Libby’s trajectory, because she’s a completely different person. Let’s face it, given the choice between teensy trousers or buttercream, in theory it’s great to say you’d go without and be skinny. But get a hundred per cent real and squishy cupcake in your hand and it’s a whole other story. You’re mostly left with an empty bun case and a bad case of guilty regret before you even get around to thinking about your choice. I mean, who wants to be strong willed and skinny anyway, it’s hideous and boring and everyone despises you for it.

  And where Libby’s kids might have been perfect leopard cubs once, they appear to have radically changed their spots lately. But now they’ve both reached their relative thirty-something pinnacles, when Fliss finally stopped to look sideways at Libby, the comparison makes her feel like a failure.

  The way Tiff simply absorbs the compliment, she has to get them all the time. ‘That Nativity was ages ago, if it was a current production we’d all have iPads. Most probably I’d be a vlogger and come as myself.’

  I pull a face at Fliss because Tiff is so sure of herself she’s hard to warm to. ‘It all sounds very Islington.’

  Tiff sniffs. ‘That’s fine then, because that’s actually where the Edmunson-Twiglets are from.’

  Damn. But at least I get my chance to ask. ‘And how do you know them?’

  Tiff’s sniffing again. ‘Actually we don’t, they’re Mum’s friends not ours.’ Which possibly explains why they’re at opposite ends of the sanctuary avoiding every kind of contact.

  Fliss is filling me in. ‘Willow was Libby’s bridesmaid and best friend from school, she’s very new-age intellectual. They’ve got absolutely nothing in common other than they sat next to each other on the first day and stuck together ever after.’

  Tiff gives an agonised shru
g. ‘She does this thing where she just waggles her hands around in the air and people pay her.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it.’ Even after the arrival of the Twiglets, I’m still on the ‘other side’. The dirty look Tiff gives me is a ten on the Merwyn scale … where ten is disapproval to the point of me not even registering. But while Merwyn saves his for times of extreme doggy stress, Libby’s kids have dished out so many since they arrived I’m almost getting used to them.

  Fliss steps in. ‘Willow’s a reiki master. She’s spiritual, sugar-free and non-materialistic, the kids too. She couldn’t be more different from Libby, which is why it’s strange they were ever friends. And even more of a surprise they’re here for a blow out Christmas.’

  ‘No sugar is harsh.’ I can’t personally envisage a life without buttercream or chocolate pudding. ‘I can’t believe we’re in for so much fun.’ Obviously I’m being ironic.

  But it’s one of those times I’m kicking myself the minute it comes out because a second later the Donkey Welfare Doreen zooms over with a giant wheelbarrow.

  ‘We promised you fun, this is where it starts.’ She’s shoving a snow shovel thing at me. ‘That stable over there is full of donkey droppings and wee-soaked straw, your job is to load them into the barrow.’

  I’m opening and closing my mouth, because she doesn’t understand. ‘Sorry … we’re not hands-on or interactive visitors, we’re mainly here for the Instagram opportunities. As soon as we’ve grabbed a selfie with the elusive baby donkey you promised us, we’ll be out of your hair.’

  ‘Nice try.’ She’s actually pushed the muck barrow into my path and barring my way with the spade handle. ‘Big groups like yours always muck out a stable. You’ll be surprised how much you enjoy it once you start.’

  Not that I’m being reverse sexist or a helpless female … but where is Bill when we need him? Meaning, with his bashed up Landy and country ways, he might have minded less about picking up poo. Looking round the rest of the party, I’m skimming over the super-pristine Twiglets in their earth tone miniature versions of Willow’s hand-woven Peruvian alpaca jackets, past Fliss and over Libby’s lot who are too stroppy to lift a porridge spoon let alone a mucking out shovel. My eyes finally come to rest where I’d sworn they wouldn’t.

  ‘Miles?’ Out of all of us, he’s the one with the boots for it. I suspect his spotless Hunters might be so new they’re still tied together.

  He lets go of the donkey’s ears he’s tickling and turns around to grin at me. ‘Please … call me Milo.’

  Fine. And damn that I ever let go of the pushchair, because even though I’m still hanging onto Merwyn I now also seem to have a shovel in my other hand. I might as well hold it up high and wave it. ‘Fancy giving those fabulous muscles of yours a work out, Milo?’

  Truly, it was meant to come out a thousand times less flirty.

  I’m waiting for his reply when Libby marches over. ‘Come on, Ivy, we don’t need men, someone hold the dog, you and I can handle this.’

  ‘We can?’ I’m too flabbergasted to argue, and in any case she’s already powering me into the stable.

  But Milo’s out of his jacket, throwing it to Fliss and he’s running over. ‘No, I insist, this one’s mine.’

  The donkey welfare woman obviously thinks all her Christmases have come at once. ‘So many volunteers, I’ll go and get more shovels and yard brushes.’

  So much for the ‘so many’. What actually happens is Milo and me get the shovels, Libby gets to take the photos, and the rest of them peer in from outside the stable and pull faces and wrinkle their noses. For once I’m in agreement – if I’d personally had any idea about the reek of donkey droppings, I’d never have let myself get pushed into this. But thanks to Milo attacking this with the same dedication, awesome pecs and light hands he applied to breakfast, we’re soon looking at a clean floor, and a very full barrow.

  Libby jumps forward, pushes her phone into my hand and seizes the barrow handles. ‘Okay, I’ll take it from here, you get me pushing the barrow out of the stable, Ivy.’

  She’s actually so small, she almost disappears behind the heap of sopping poo and straw in the barrow, but that only adds to the effect. We have to do several tries before we get a take with her hairband straight, a fake smile on her face and the donkeys each side watching as she emerges. But I have to agree, for the cuteness factor alone, it was worth the effort.

  Then suddenly there’s a cry from Fliss. ‘Awwww, Oscar, can you see what’s coming now?’

  Across the yard the fluffiest, dinkiest donkey is being led towards us.

  When Libby sees what’s coming she drops the barrow in the middle of the yard and rushes over too. Cute doesn’t begin to express what I’m looking at – its hooves are tiny, its legs are wobbly, and best of all, it’s wearing a Santa hat. And anyone whose heart doesn’t instantly melt when they see him can’t be human.

  Tiff’s tutting. ‘It’s very demeaning to put animals in clothes.’

  Merwyn who’s rocking his fleece-lined red velvet all-in-one with legs and diamanté trim catches my eye and rolls his.

  Tansy joins in. ‘It’s not animal rights is it?’

  As Milo puts down his shovel and goes straight in to tickle the over-sized ears, Libby’s clearing her throat. ‘Okay, everyone get behind me and the donkey, and let Ivy take our donkey sanctuary selfie.’

  I’m holding up the phone trying to fit them all in. ‘Okay, all squeeze together … and smile.’ I’m saying it out of politeness, knowing most of them won’t. ‘Just one or two more … thanks, all done.’

  But Libby’s got other ideas. ‘Right, put Harriet’s buggy on the end, and this time we’ll all fan out around the donkey and go again.’

  She’s made it impossible for me. ‘You’re too wide to fit on the screen now.’

  Libby’s barking instructions. ‘It’s fine, just move back until you get us all in.’

  I’m shuffling backwards down the yard. ‘Still not working.’

  ‘Keep going … further away.’

  I start with little steps. Then I make them bigger and Tansy and Tiff are still not in the frame. As I step back again I hear Milo call out, ‘Watch it, Ivy.’

  I’m calling back, looking at the screen. ‘Nearly there … one more step and Tiff should be in.’ Then something knocks the back of my knees. And when I try to take another step, instead of moving back, I’m over balancing. As my spine arches backwards into mid air I throw my arms out sideways, and something is braking my fall. As my back and bottom land on something soft and forgiving there’s a lurch and the scrape of metal on the concrete of the yard.

  ‘Jeez!’ I’m thanking my lucky stars for soft landings. Then as I ease myself up the wheelbarrow handles come into view somewhere near my flailing feet. And as my bottom sinks deeper, even though it’s comfy there’s a stench engulfing me. ‘Donkey poo? OMIGOD!’ Only I could manage to land in a wheelbarrow full of muck.

  ‘Wait there, Ivy, don’t move!’ It’s Libby, barking. ‘AND FOR CHRISSAKES, DON’T DROP THE PHONE!’

  As if I’d move. Even though there’s a dampness creeping around my thighs and back when I try to lever myself up, I’m actually completely stuck, because my knees are hooked over the extra deep barrow edge. And then even though I’m still I realise the stables I’m staring up at are starting to tilt. Very slowly. Then a second later the tipping speeds up, the sky flips, and there’s a huge clatter and a massive jolt as the barrow hits the ground. And next thing I know, my shoulder crashes onto the concrete, I’m rolling sideways being ejected from the barrow and a whole shower of soaking straw and donkey droppings are raining down on top of me.

  As disasters go, this makes my Christmas tree landing seem like a good day. I’m screwing my eyes closed, pinching my lips together and blowing so I don’t get poo in my mouth. Clinging onto the phone for grim death. Working out what to do next.

  The first voice to come through the shouts is Milo. ‘Ivy, what the hell … give me y
our hand …’ They’re so poo covered, he must be well brave as well as stunning.

  Then Libby. ‘Get the phone first, Milo, get the phone …’

  Then someone wrenches it out of my grip, and as I push myself up to sitting I see Fliss looking down at me. She’s shaking her head, but I can see from the way her shoulders are wobbling that the laughter’s about to explode.

  ‘Don’t start …’ I know I’ve got to get in first.

  She lets out a shriek. ‘But you should have seen it, it was so funny. First the way you sat down in the barrow like it was an armchair. Then the way you tipped sideways ever so slowly and the whole shitload showered down on top of you.’ She’s laughing at Milo. ‘Don’t worry, these things happen to Ivy all the time, she’s like our own personal stunt woman.’ She looks back at me and winks. ‘Isn’t that right, shit head?’

  ‘Let me.’ He’s holding out his hand to me. One tug, I’m up on my feet, hobbling around, trying to dance the dirt off.

  Tarkie’s jumping up and down holding his nose. ‘Ewwww, she smells rank.’

  Then Oscar joins in, singing, ‘Stinky stinky stinky.’

  Milo grins at them. ‘Thank you guys, we’ve got that now.’ Then he smiles at me. ‘We’d better get you home and cleaned up, come on, back to the car.’

  I’m picking the straw strands off my furry jacket, trying to brush away the dung clumps without grinding the dirt into the pelt, and I couldn’t agree more.

  Libby’s grimacing. ‘No, Milo, I saw your Alcantara seats, they’re even more top of the range than ours, donkey manure will ruin them. And ours are non-plasticised Nappa leather, so we can’t possibly take her either.’

  This is how she’s gone so far in business, because she notices things the rest of us don’t even know about. I mean, what the eff is Alcan-bloody-tara?

  ‘We’ve got a full leather interior too.’ Willow’s like an echo, so maybe she’s less vegan than they’re all making out.

  Milo’s nodding. ‘Ambrose is the same.’

  Libby’s eyes are wide with expectation as she turns. ‘So that leaves you, Fliss, you don’t mind do you?’