Christmas in St Ives

by Miranda Dickinson

  He’s been looking increasingly weary in recent months and I think he’s lost quite a bit of weight. He keeps saying he’ll go to our GP for a check-up, but I don’t think he’s been yet. Mum said he’s working too hard, doing all the shop stuff and heading up his new campaign. There’s an old parsonage high on the hills above the town where a Victorian astronomer once lived and it’s under threat from a property developer. Dad’s just found out there’s a moral covenant on the land, meaning the town has a say in its future, so he’s formed a campaign committee with his old friend Lou and it seems to be taking up a lot of his time.

  But if it weren’t that, it would be something else. I keep reminding myself that Dad is never happier than when he’s doing a hundred things at once. Having a cause to get behind has certainly pepped him up in recent weeks, but the tiredness creeps back when he thinks nobody is looking. I see it, though, and it worries me.

  ‘I was thinking we could rejig the display on the back wall,’ he says, with that strange, almost faraway expression he’s worn a lot lately.

  ‘We should start thinking about the Christmas window,’ I say. It’s the first day of December already and most of the shops on Fore Street and Harbour Road have had their Christmas displays in place for a month. I’ve been steadily sneaking decorations into the gallery for the last two weeks, hoping he’ll take the hint and work his magic on our single shop window. It’s always been his domain, his masterpiece each year. But so far, nothing. ‘Lou will be storming round here with his clipboard if we don’t do something soon.’

  Dad chuckles and it makes me smile. His laugh is like sea spray bubbling into rock pools. ‘Lou Helmsworth’s never happier than when he has a clipboard and a tick-list in his hand.’ He gestures at the window like a king surveying his land. ‘Be my guest, Seren. You have free rein to Christmas-ify our window however you see fit.’

  This is new. ‘Are you sure? It’s usually your favourite job of the year.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time to pass on the joy.’ He smiles. I notice dark smudges of tiredness beneath his eyes, the slight sag in his shoulders. I don’t want to see it, not in my capable, larger-than-life father who I’ve always seen as invincible. But the signs are there – and they are getting stronger. So I’m thrilled to be given the Christmas window to do, but more than that I’m relieved he’s allowing me to take some of the burden from his shoulders.

  ‘I’ll start planning it now,’ I say, grabbing a sketchpad and pencils from behind the counter. ‘Mind if I pop out for a bit?’

  Dad’s chuckle sparkles around MacArthur’s walls again. ‘Go ahead. And say hi to Aggie for me.’

  He knows me too well.

  Whenever I need to think, I go to Aggie’s coffee hut. It’s perched on tiny Porthgwidden Beach and she’s run it for so long the whole place seems infused with her spirit. There are many reasons to visit, not least the excellent coffee, which is easily the best in St Ives. But the main reason is that Agatha Keats is my dearest friend in the world. Ever since the first day we met in our primary school playground and she shared her bag of Hula Hoops with me. Food and friendship is what’s kept us together all these years.

  Aggie is cleaning a table when I arrive and drops her cloth immediately to hug me. She gives the kind of hugs that expel all the air from your lungs in a single squeeze, letting go just as you fear your ribs will crack. But I love her for her overenthusiastic PDAs.

  ‘Bird! Are you a sight for sore eyes! Get yourself over to the bar and we’ll talk . . .’

  Giving my ribs a surreptitious rub, I follow her around bleached wood tables and chairs to the large serving counter. There are five stools along its length, made of weathered beech with industrial-looking metal legs. I ease onto one of them and glance up at the row of three lights hanging overhead. Each one is an ancient metal colander, fitted with a hipster-style filament bulb. It’s the first time I’ve seen them in place, but Aggie’s been talking about her pet project for weeks, so it feels like the quirky light fittings have always been there.

  ‘Love the new lights.’

  ‘Aren’t they awesome? I’m proper chuffed with them. That one in the middle was my nan’s colander. The bottom had almost rusted out of it – that’s what gave me the idea.’

  ‘You could sell them, I reckon.’

  ‘Already have, as a matter of fact. Becca Hardiman wants some for her bar. There’s beer for a year if I do them, apparently, so you can guess my reaction to that.’ Her eyes narrow as she bangs spent espresso grounds out of a coffee arm and refills it. ‘I’ll make one for your new place. When you move out.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I can’t yet.’

  She gives a dramatic sigh and places two coffee glasses beneath the espresso machine. Glossy dark liquid begins to fill them, steam clouding the glass as the coffee drips. ‘Why not? You’re bound to get another job soon, and there’s the money you’ve been saving by not renting. You need your own space, Ser. Living with your folks isn’t good for you.’

  I wish it were that simple. I have a little money I managed to save before I lost my job but until I’m working full-time again I daren’t risk it renting a place of my own. It’s fine at Mum and Dad’s – I have an attic room with quite a bit of space for my jewellery desk and the furniture I brought back from my previous flat. They don’t bother me and I get to hang out with my dog, Molly, even if she’s decided she belongs to Dad now. That aside, I feel like I need to be there to keep an eye on Dad. I can’t explain it any more than a tightness in my gut whenever I see him. I just think it’s good to stay there for the time being. Not that I expect Aggie to understand. She moved out of home as soon as she could – the constant rows with her mother proving the springboard to her independence – barely seventeen years old and working three part-time jobs as well as attending college to pay for a poky bedsit high up on Barnoon, overlooking the town.

  ‘All my washing done for me.’ I grin.

  ‘No privacy.’

  ‘Actually my parents give me lots of space.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘I’m worried about Dad.’ I see her smile vanish. ‘I know it isn’t ideal and as soon as I can find another job and be sure I can pay rent I’ll find somewhere else. But I think I need to be at home for a while.’

  ‘Fair enough. But your dad can look after himself. Just promise me you won’t scare yourself out of moving on, okay?’ The coffee she hands me is crowned with a gorgeous lotus flower made of frothed milk and espresso. It’s almost too pretty to drink.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good. Now, please tell me you’re comin’ back for the meeting tonight? Lou has been doin’ my nut in with his text reminders.’ She grimaces. ‘EVERYTHING IN CAPITAL LETTERS. I feel like I’m being texted by a drill sergeant.’

  ‘I’d be scared to miss it in case he shouted at me more,’ I laugh.

  The highlight of the St Ives Christmas festival is a huge lantern parade that passes through the streets of the town. Lou has run it for three years and it’s the most spectacular thing I’ve seen. People bring lanterns and torches and join a troupe carrying enormous, handmade lanterns made of parachute silk stretched over wooden frames in all kinds of shapes. It’s magical to see a parade of softly coloured lights winding through the darkened streets and the best start to Christmas I can imagine. All of the shops lining the route fill their windows with fairy lights and lanterns, too – and even though MacArthur’s is tucked away, our window in the courtyard will be no exception. Lou’s had a team of volunteers designing, planning and constructing lanterns for the last three weeks, but I get the impression the work is far from complete. Last year we had twenty lanterns shaped like pirate ships, people, stars, Christmas trees and even one in honour of the St Ives lifeboat; this year Lou wants to double that. It’s ambitious, but I think the town is up to the challenge.

  What it means, however, is that Lou’s planning panic has reached fever pitch. We’ve agreed to meet this evening as much to show solidarit
y as to make plans.

  ‘Dad’s asked me to do the Christmas window this year,’ I say, the taste of fresh coffee zinging across my tongue.

  ‘Really? I thought that was his baby?’

  ‘So did I. But I’m excited about it. I think I might make some strings of hanging seaglass. I’ve a good stash of white and blue pieces – I found a heap of white this morning in the arches, actually. I think I can wind silver wire around each one to make beads, like I’ve been doing with my bracelets, and then knot them onto invisible thread to hang down like showers of seaglass snowflakes.’

  My friend leans on the counter. ‘See? You’re wasted workin’ at your dad’s place. I hope you’re makin’ me one of your bracelets this year? You know, December 30th is a rubbish day to have a birthday . . . You’d really cheer me up . . .’

  Aggie is about as subtle as a charging bull. ‘Already started working on it.’

  ‘Ooh! I love you, Seren MacArthur! Can I see it?’

  ‘Not until it’s your birthday.’

  ‘Well, that’s just mean.’ She smiles. ‘Cheers, bird. I know it’ll be beautiful.’

  When I was walking along the beach this morning I was planning what to make for my friend. I want it to be something that reflects her personality. It’s one of the things I love best about designing my jewellery. Some people are definite pastel shades; others a mix of subtle and striking – but Aggie’s colours can only be strong and vivid.

  Since I started making the bracelets, I’ve begun to think of people not in terms of their personality or physical appearance, but of how all of that translates into colour. Dad, for example, is deepest blue and pure white, like the stars and night sky he watches most evenings from his home-built observatory in the garden. My mum would be pale green and teal – rare to find but reminiscent of the sea she loves to paint so much. Our house is filled with her seascapes in watercolour and oils; her artworks were the founding stock of Dad’s gallery and are still sold there today. Our best male friend Kieran would be bold green and glossy brown – colours that change when you hold them up to the light. He’s a photographer, so light dominates his life. Cerrie, my schoolteacher friend, would be a collection of colours, both pastel and strong, and I would make her bracelet in the random order I picked the pieces up from the sand. That kind of serendipity suits her: she can make any situation work, no matter what life throws at her. I envy that.

  And me? Before I lost my job I might have been as vivid as Aggie. But in the months since moving home and starting to work at MacArthur’s I’ve become more contemplative. It helps being by the sea, of course, but it’s more than location. I feel like I’m at a crossroads in my life. One season has ended and I’m caught in the frustrating, treading-water phase before the next begins. In twelve months’ time I could be anywhere, doing anything. I feel the possibility of it sparkling, quartz-like in the air around me, just out of reach. My colours are white, pale pink, mint green – thoughtful, rudderless, waiting . . .

  ‘Who’s coming tonight?’

  Aggie helps herself to a mug of steamed milk, adding a shot of hazelnut syrup. ‘Usual suspects. Me, you, Kieran, Cerrie, probably Sharon from the candle shop if she can get away early enough, and Lou. I’m making a Christmas-spiced apple and mincemeat tart to help sweeten the experience. Hopefully that’ll keep everyone festive and friendly.’

  This is excellent news. Aggie’s cakes and pies are the best around, just like her coffee. And it doesn’t matter if the old tensions creep into our agenda this evening – Kieran twitting Lou on over his overblown pomposity, Lou completely taking the bait; Aggie and Kieran lurching from best buddies to argumentative foes over the most unimportant discussions, to name but a few. What matters is that I get to hang out with my best friends and make Christmas plans. It’s hopeful and exciting and impossibly lovely, all at the same time. And an evening away from the concerns at home is exactly what I need . . .

  Chapter Three

  Cerrie

  ‘My life, girl, what I wouldn't give to be you right now. Cosying up with Mr Thor himself? Now that’s what I call extra-curricular activities!’

  Jo has been raving about the new teacher back in my classroom for a full five minutes, but I’m trying my hardest to zone her out. The more I think about it, the more annoyed I am. Gloria never gets involved in the Christmas play – neither does anyone else for that matter. I’ve become accustomed to being the only person driving it every year but actually I like it that way. I plan the spectacular months in advance and it’s a point of pride to make it better each year. But now a new teacher arrives and suddenly Gloria is in charge of appointing people for my play? I don’t think so!

  ‘. . . And did you see David’s face when Thor sat next to him? Talk about seething!’ She pauses long enough to peer at me. ‘Oh, come on, Cerrie. You have to admit that was fun?’

  ‘What was fun about it? Gloria totally railroaded me.’

  ‘With an Adonis. I’ve worked with the woman fifteen years and she’s never once tried to shove a gorgeous young man on me in the name of work . . . Hang on, you’re serious, aren’t you?’ She stares at me as if I’ve just confessed I don’t like breathing. ‘Sweetheart, this is a good thing. You’re always saying how little help you get with the Christmas shows.’

  ‘I don’t mean it!’ I know how daft this sounds, but it’s the truth. ‘Everybody moans about work. It’s just . . . what humans do when we’ve had a frustrating day. Just letting off steam. But I love doing the plays. I love writing the music. And I love performing it, too. The kids are used to seeing me directing them from behind a piano. This is going to totally throw them.’

  ‘Sweetheart . . .’

  I hold up my hands. ‘I know. It’s irrational. But if I can be so easily replaced, what does that mean for everything else in my job? This is the one thing that’s just mine. Everything else . . .’

  ‘. . . Has to be shared with other people. Or could be taken away from you altogether. Like David.’

  ‘No. Not like him.’

  ‘I think that’s what this really is. He never liked you doing the play – and I saw him trying to give you a sympathetic smile when Gloria said Tom was going to be involved. You think he’s going to use this to get you back on side.’

  I flop down onto one of the low blue tables. ‘Jo, it was mortifying. I felt like he was trying to make a public show of reaching out to me, just because everyone else was watching.’

  ‘Trust me, kid, nobody was watching what David Myers was doing once the new guy walked into the room. That’s what he’ll hate about all this. And he’s so into himself that he probably thought you didn’t like Thor, either.’

  ‘I don’t want any help with the Christmas play. I don’t need it. I’m sure Tom is a decent bloke, but I can do it by myself.’

  ‘But he’s Thor . . .’

  I stare at my friend. ‘Personally, I prefer Captain America.’

  ‘Erm, excuse me? Muscles, long-flowing hair, hammer . . .’

  I shrug. ‘Muscles, cheeky grin, lovely big shield . . .’

  ‘Goody two-shoes compared to a blimmin’ Norse god . . .’

  Our long-time favourite superhero argument feels like a welcome old friend as for a moment Jo is totally side-tracked.

  ‘I’m just saying, not everyone wants a big, blond, hammer-wielding god for a boyfriend.’

  ‘Clearly, you have no taste.’

  ‘Look at it this way, Jo: Thor can be all yours.’

  ‘Somehow I doubt my Pete would be happy if I brought him home. Although maybe if I just kept him in my cupboard at school . . .’ She frowns at me. ‘I digress. You have to see this as a good thing. Tom isn’t pushing you out; he’s another pair of hands to help you make the play an even bigger success. Less workload for you, time with someone who doesn’t know your entire dating history like everyone else here does, and lots of opportunities to lust over that body . . .’

  ‘Maybe you should join us working on the play and then you could
lust over him all you like.’ It’s an easy point to score. I love Jo, but she is the queen of excuses when it comes to volunteering.

  ‘Well, I would but, you know, with Pete and the dogs and his mother – I just can’t commit to the extra time. Give the bloke a go, Cerrie. And stop taking it personally.’

  I don’t want Jo to be right about this. Work is complicated enough without my beloved Christmas production becoming a battleground too. I don’t want to work with Tom on it, but what choice do I have? At least it’s Friday and I have a whole weekend until I have to face school again. So as soon as I leave school, I drive to St Ives, to meet my friends. Planning the town’s Christmas festival has never been so appealing . . .

  Chapter Four

  Aggie

  If you can survive working in a shop or a cafe at Christmas, you can do anything. Seriously. You’re a Ninja, a UN negotiator and a circus juggler – and that’s just for starters. You could argue that I have it easier than most, being a coffee shop owner. I’m providing welcome respite to weary Christmas shoppers, a rest from the craziness and treats for the eyes and soul, right?

  Wrong.

  Right now I have two people complaining because their hot chocolates aren’t right. One has too much cream, the other not enough. They look identical to me, but what do I know? I only own this place. I’m tempted to hand them each a spoon and tell them to sort it out amongst themselves, but that isn’t how it works. It’s my job to smile, apologise and resist the urge to slam their heads into the driftwood counter.

  ‘No problem,’ I say, my singsong tone deliberately chosen to irritate them the most. ‘Let me remake those for you.’

  ‘Maybe you should,’ the bloke says in the most patronising manner, as the little beak-nosed woman beside him nods in pathetic solidarity. They didn’t know each other before I offended them with festive beverages, apparently. Maybe they'll bond from this experience, get it on, find a bit of joy and go away . . .