Christmas in St Ives

by Miranda Dickinson

  I know that he hated living in Lelant. When I discovered his affair and told him to leave he found a room in a friend’s house in Penzance, which probably suits him better. The feel of living in a small village never quite sat right with him. At least that’s one thing to be grateful for: I can relax living here without suspecting I’m being judged for loving it.

  There are small lengths of red tinsel tied to the timetable board and the sight of them makes me smile. They are being buffeted by the wind and probably won’t last long, but I love that someone took the time to put them there. That’s what we do in this part of the world: make the most of everything. Because no matter what else might be going on in our lives, we’re still surrounded by this stunning landscape. It might be raining, but it’s raining by a gorgeous beach.

  The small, two-carriage train arrives and I climb on board. My phone beeps as I take a seat and the train moves off, the brooding beauty of the estuary gliding past the window. It’s a text from Seren: ‘Hey lovely, fancy brunch at Hettie’s with Kieran and me? Last-minute idea, sorry! Let me know! Seren xx’.

  It sounds perfect to me.

  Hettie’s is a small diner on Chapel Street that Seren and I found last year. It’s tucked away a little but linked to a B&B above it, so that seems to be where most of the customers come from. Christine owns it with her daughters Charlotte and Georgie and they were inspired by their road trips in the States. Hettie’s looks quintessentially English but serves a mean American diner menu, including the largest fluffy buttermilk pancakes I’ve ever seen. That’s what I choose today when I join Seren and Kieran in the cosy cafe.

  ‘You didn’t even look at the menu,’ Kieran laughs.

  ‘Didn’t need to. Pancakes are what I need.’

  ‘Blueberry or maple?’ Christine asks, winking at me. ‘Or how about both?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  She makes a note on her order pad. ‘I might have some peanut butter chips, too, if you fancy a handful of those?’

  ‘Can I marry you?’ I ask, much to my friends’ amusement.

  ‘Sorry, already taken,’ Christine grins.

  ‘See, that’s what you need: a man who can make you pancakes like Christine,’ Seren says, squeezing my hand. I know her comment carries a wealth of concern with it. Out of all of us, she understands the most. She’d just split up with her boyfriend of five years when she was made redundant from the design firm last year. We all rallied around her then; now I know my friends will do the same for me. Kieran is the most vocal on the subject of my ex. He seems to have taken it almost personally, as though he’s my brother. Secretly, I’m flattered he cares about me so much.

  ‘You need a chef next,’ he nods. ‘Or a hunky surfer who likes cooking. Basically, anyone other than a teacher.’

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine by myself,’ I reply quickly, in case my friends get any ideas about matchmaking. I have no intention of another relationship any time soon. I look around at the winter wonderland Hettie’s has been transformed into, with silver and turquoise tinsel and strings of small white and blue Christmas lights shaped like snowflakes. Maybe tomorrow I’ll decorate my home for the festive season – a sparkling statement of my new life . . . ‘Actually, I was just thinking how nice it will be to have Christmas by myself this year.’

  ‘Me too. Being in a relationship at Christmas is exhausting. It’ll be a relief not to have to fit in with someone else. Look at us, beautiful people! Singletons one and all.’ Kieran salutes us. It feels good to laugh after all the tension of the week.

  Seren frowns. ‘I thought you were dating that girl from The Hub?’

  ‘Didn’t work out. I don’t think she was that bothered.’

  ‘What about you?’ I ask. Kieran’s love life seems to be a long list of almosts and maybes and I wonder if he hides his true feelings about break-ups from us sometimes.

  He shrugs. ‘I wasn’t that bothered either. Being single suits me.’

  When our order arrives we settle into a cosy, companionable silence and I sneak glances at my friends, happy to be part of such a close group. We’re basically family. Life is much easier to navigate alongside this lovely bunch.

  ‘There you are! I’ve been all over . . .’

  We look up as one to see a very red-faced Lou hurrying over to our table. Christine waves at him from behind the counter.

  ‘Coffee, Lou? And a doughnut?’

  ‘Christine, my love, you are an angel!’

  Seren and I shuffle up the bench seat to let Lou sit and wait for him to regain his breath. ‘Everything okay, Lou?’

  ‘No, everything is most definitely not. It is, quite possibly, a disaster.’

  I can see the corners of Kieran’s lips beginning to turn up, and shake my head in warning. I know his favourite pastime is winding Lou up, but not today. He gives me a cheeky grin and holds up his hand.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Lou just shakes his head as Christine arrives and coaxes an oversized cup of coffee into his hands, placing a basket of warm, glazed ring doughnuts beside it.

  ‘There you go.’ She casts a glance at us. ‘If you need anything else, just shout.’

  Lou takes a long sip of coffee and reaches for a doughnut as we all watch.

  Kieran keeps his tone light and kind. ‘Lou, what’s got you into such a flap?’

  ‘Disaster, boy! Lantern committee . . . Stuffed . . .’ Lou manages, dabbing his brow with a napkin from the red-checked table.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘John flippin’ Matterson, isn’t it? Only went and offended half the committee last night. Told ’em he thought a Donald Trump lantern would be funny to make. Oh, you’re right to look aghast, kids. I mean, what kind of idiot thinks that’s appropriate, even as a joke? Anyway, they all refused – quite rightly I say – but then he well and truly stuck the boot in. Called them a “talentless bunch of amateurs” and said he wished he could work with people as good as the Penzance team. Well, you can imagine how that went down. Volunteers all downed tools and left. Whole thing’s a complete mess.’

  ‘Can we get them back?’ I ask.

  ‘Doubt it. I did a ring-round this mornin’, soon as I heard. None of them want any more to do with it. Now we’re stuck with twenty-six half-made four-foot lanterns and nobody to finish the things.’

  My friends’ smiles fade. I’m thinking the same thing, too: it’s a huge problem. In two weeks’ time the parade takes place. Lou has gone to town on publicity, declaring the event to be better than longer-standing parades across Cornwall and there’s already a buzz about it in St Ives. The team of volunteers building the lanterns have all been trained to do it and many of them had worked on the three previous lantern parades. Looking around the table in Hettie’s, I don’t see much of a rescue team. I’m happy to make lanterns with my class, but the kind Lou expects for the parade are a world away from tissue paper and lollipop sticks.

  ‘Do we cancel?’ Seren asks.

  Lou’s eyes bulge wide over his maple-glazed doughnut. ‘Can’t. Mustn’t. The town expects it.’

  ‘Could we make it floats instead? Or fancy dress?’

  ‘How do you propose we get a parade of lorries up Fore Street, Kieran? And fancy dress won’t work at night – the whole point is the lighting-up. We’re scuppered, kids. I can’t see a way out of this.’

  ‘We’ll find a way.’ Seren places a hand on Lou’s arm. ‘I’m sure between us we can rally enough people to join in. Mum can ask her art club friends and I’m sure Dad would help build lanterns.’

  Lou shakes his head. ‘I’m not askin’ Mark to do any more. But I might pick his brains for other people to ask.’

  I see Seren’s smile tighten. I know she’s been worried about her dad for a while and Lou’s comment can’t help her concerns. But the tension is gone the moment she turns to me. ‘Cerrie, would any of the teachers or parents from your school be up for helping?’

  It’s certainly worth a try, although with the Christmas play a
nd everything else the children are involved with at this time of year, I don’t know how many people will have time left over to make lanterns as well. ‘I’ll ask. I’m sure I can persuade a few people.’

  ‘Anything would be good,’ Lou says. ‘Seren, I need to chat to your dad about the Bethel Parsonage campaign anyway, so I’ll head there straight away. I propose we meet Monday night at Fred Whittaker’s barn up at Towednack. He’s storin’ the lanterns for us there. About seven thirty?’

  His suggestion is met by nods from all of us and, his face relaxing a little, he manages a smile.

  ‘You’re good kids. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  It’s only when Lou has left for Seren’s dad’s gallery that our encouraging smiles slip.

  ‘There’s no way we can finish all those lanterns,’ Kieran says. ‘Even if we bring extra people in, it’ll be a tall order to learn on the job.’

  ‘Maybe it won’t be that bad?’ Seren offers. ‘I reckon when the original volunteers calm down they might be tempted back.’

  ‘We don’t have time to wait to find out, Ser. The work needs to carry on.’

  ‘Look, Lou’s counting on us,’ I say. I’ve weathered worse storms than this at school, where volunteers are notoriously fickle and thin on the ground. ‘So let’s just meet at the barn on Monday night and reserve judgement until then. If it looks impossible, at least Lou will see that we were willing to consider it.’

  ‘You’re such a teacher,’ Seren grins, nudging me. ‘But you’re right. We have to at least try.’

  The afternoon light is fading as the train takes me home, a thin strip of fiery pink along the horizon the only remnant left. The sea is a churning mass of greys and blues, white waves catching the last of the light when they appear. But my mind is filled with Christmas plans: the decorations in the canvas bag at my feet that I bought after seeing my friends; thoughts of where I’ll hang each string of lights; excitement about being part of the lantern-making team; and trepidation about what awaits me at school on Monday morning. That’s one snag in a list of hope – and I have another day to pack with positive things before it arrives. Determined to make the most of my suddenly festive weekend, I gaze out at the circling coast and smile . . .

  Chapter Seven

  Aggie

  Before I open up the coffee hut, I always go down to the shore on Porthgwidden Beach and say hello to the sea. I’ve done it every morning since I started my business. It’s my ritual before the day begins. Even on a freezing December morning, when anyone sensible is still tucked up in bed.

  I love this beach. It was always the one I headed for as a kid and as soon as the coffee hut lease came up, I knew exactly where I wanted my business to be. The sea sounds different here than it does lapping against Porthmeor, or Bamaluz, or Porthminster. It has its own rhythm, its own peculiar echoes. Porthgwidden is smaller than most of the beaches but that’s what makes it feel like a friend.

  I just wasn’t expecting to find another friend by the waves on this morning’s visit.

  He just walked out of the water . . .

  It could be a strapline from the cheesy movies I watch late at night on Netflix when I can’t sleep. But that’s what happened. And I didn’t know what to do with myself.

  Seth Lannaker. Here. Three years after I said it was over.

  ‘I missed you,’ he said, dropping his surfboard to the sand. It was so dark on the beach but I swear I could see the twinkle in his eyes: the blue of them could cut through anything.

  He said he’d been travelling, working a little here and there. Did some pro surfing competitions and made a bit of money. None of it surprised me – one thing I know about Seth Lannaker is that he always lands on his feet. But when he said he’d missed me – that he’d made a mistake not fighting for us when I told him to leave – I almost believed it. Like I was the one thing in his life he hadn’t been able to blag his way out of.

  It’s nine thirty now and my assistant Sophie is tiptoeing around me as if any sudden movements might make me explode. I’ve told her I’m okay, but even I wasn’t convinced by that. I feel like someone has found the remote control for me and is throwing my limbs and brain and mouth around at will. I’ve forgotten that feeling since I last saw Seth and I wish he hadn’t chosen this morning to remind me.

  ‘I missed you, Ag. Ain’t no one fits like you.’

  ‘So why wait three years if I meant so much?’ I’d asked him.

  That smile. It was older, a little beaten by time and weather maybe, but still a weapon. ‘Because you told me hell would freeze before we’d be together again.’

  ‘And yet, here you are.’

  He’d blagged his way into the hut for a coffee – or so he thought. My head was all over the place and I needed to keep him there for long enough to work out my next move. So I’d taken time making his drink, his tales of the beautiful places he’d seen washing over me. Bali, Fiji, Vietnam, Laos, Australia, West Coast USA. And it never once occurred to him as he recounted his stories that before we broke up these were the places he’d promised we’d see together.

  I could have told him to stop, but I made myself listen to him as I prepared the coffee hut for the day’s trade. To his arrogance, his swagger. I didn’t want the tiniest bit of nostalgia to sneak in: I wanted to stay angry for the let-downs, the broken promises and the way he’d so easily dropped my heart when it suited him. I kept reminding myself of the bad stuff.

  My aunt Miriam used to say we needed to get rid of bad memories but take a snapshot before we ditched them, just to remind us not to make the same mistakes. She had an album full of odd photos – random objects nobody else would see the importance of. When I’d asked her about it as a heartbroken teen, camped out in her kitchen after yet another vicious row with my mother over her latest good-for-nothing boyfriend, Auntie Miriam explained that each one represented a mistake, a bad decision, or a guilty secret.

  ‘It’s not a photo album. It’s my book of storm warnings. If see a glimpse of one of these approaching, girl, I run for my life.’

  I never asked her what each one was. But seeing Seth back in St Ives, I think maybe I should start my own collection.

  And now my head is like harbour seawater when the seabed is disturbed beneath it. On the surface, everything’s the same, but underneath it’s muddied by swirling eddies of sand and grit. Seth hadn’t changed, but as I listened to the familiar patter of his voice, I wondered how different I’d become. Three years is a long time to outgrow the memory of someone.

  Or so you’d think . . .

  The worst thing is, the moment I saw him, all the old battles came back. I’d probably have gone to the ends of this earth for that man, if he’d taken us seriously for one minute. I learned the hard way that his promises were about as valuable as whatever scrap of paper he’d written them down on . . .

  Sophie wordlessly hands me a cappuccino. From the strength of its aroma I can tell there are three espresso shots beneath the milk foam. It isn’t enough to solve the riddles in my head, but it’s a start.

  If he’d just turned up, done his twinkling, told his tales and gone again, I think I would feel better now. But what he said as he stood to leave shook me:

  ‘Come back to me, Ag. We were good together. I’ve been all over but there’s no one ever come close to you.’

  ‘Not this, please. Not now . . .’

  ‘Why not?’ And he’d strolled up to me, as if everything else had never happened and we were still the two crazy loved-up surfers who met in the waves off Porthmeor. He smelled the same. His arm sneaking around my back was as comfortable as an old armchair you sink into. And when his lips were just a breath from mine, it felt like home. ‘This doesn’t change. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it. I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘I can’t do this . . .’ I’d said.

  But why can’t I? What other offers do I have? Before he left, he scribbled his number on one of the coffee hut’s cards. I should throw it away, but I do
n’t seem to be able to. I’ve been searching for something I feel I’ve lost for a while now. Why couldn’t it be him?

  Chapter Eight

  Cerrie

  When I arrive at school on Monday morning, I feel stronger. Decorating my home yesterday made all the difference. By the time I’d finished, every room sparkled with white fairy lights. I don’t have a tree yet, but I’ve made space for one – a real one this year; yet another change in a David-free flat. He is a confirmed artificial tree devotee – the kind that is packed away and shoved in a cupboard or a loft every year, then dragged out the next, a little stragglier and less treelike than before. In the four years we were together, it was always the Christmas tree smell I missed the most. This morning, my whole house was filled with the scent of cinnamon and cloves, oranges and peppermint. When the smell of a spruce tree joins them, it will be the perfect mix.

  Last night I sat in the armchair by my twinkling, rainbow-spine shelves and started to reread an old favourite book. Entering another world surrounded by the sparkling Christmas version of my home made me feel alive again. I’ve missed that peace.

  All through the morning at school I can still feel that sense of calm, glowing like an ember in my heart. But as lunchtime arrives and the afternoon’s rehearsal looms, nervous butterflies start to appear. This will be the first time I talk to Tom.

  It will be good, I tell myself, collecting my folder of sheet music and waiting for my class to line up by the door. I can do this. I just wish my stomach-butterflies agreed with my head . . .

  What I’m not expecting is the new teacher already waiting in the hall when I arrive with my class – or my ex being there, too, chatting amiably with him. The sympathetic smile David gives me as they rise from their perch on the edge of the stage doesn’t help things. He doesn’t mean it, I remind myself. He just hates losing. He was expecting me to be angry when I heard about his affair. But he wasn’t expecting me to throw him out. That’s David all over: do exactly what he wants and then be surprised if the people he hurts object. If the kids weren’t here I might be more tempted to say what I think of him, but I can’t be seen to have any hard feelings. Seven-year-olds miss nothing.