Christmas in St Ives

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ David says, glancing at his watch as though I’m late. I’m not late, of course. They are both earlier than I am, that’s all. ‘I was just telling Tom how much of a struggle this has been for you over the years. We’re lucky to have his help this year, aren’t we?’

  Aware my kids are taking in every detail, I mumble, ‘Mmm,’ with a smile I hope sounds positive enough.

  David gives an appreciative nod and I wonder if he even heard me. ‘Oh and did you know our Mr Keller was an actor before he retrained in education?’

  Tom offers a self-conscious smile. ‘Only a few professional productions back in Oz, then bit parts on TV when I moved to the UK.’

  ‘And Broadway . . .’ I can’t work out what he’s trying so hard to do. Is this meant to rub it in so that he can be the one to offer comfort in private? It would be amusing if this didn’t feel like an ambush.

  ‘Off-Broadway, actually. And it bombed after a week.’

  ‘But he is professionally trained in musical theatre.’

  ‘Oh. Great.’ It’s a battle to remain calm as I force my brightest smile back. My class are gathered around me, agog at the new teacher. I mentioned he would be helping when I was taking the register this morning and they’ve been like coiled springs since then. ‘Class 4, this is Mr Keller. He’s going to be helping us with our Christmas play.’

  As the children buzz about Tom Keller, I offer a firm nod to David. ‘Thanks for bringing Mr Keller over, Mr Myers. But don’t let us keep you. I expect you have lots to do this afternoon?’

  Like applying for another job so you can go as far away as possible from me . . .

  David hesitates for just a moment and I almost see a flicker of hurt in his eyes. But then his smile returns and he walks away. I exhale at last, try to gain a little perspective as he slips from view. I can’t let him get to me, and I have to stop thinking he’s out to score brownie points. I have to see him as just another teacher, with motivations and actions a world away from my own.

  It doesn’t make it any less painful though.

  Tom is high-fiving my delighted children, so I set out benches on the stage and arrange the sheets of music across the top of the piano. When he is released long enough to notice me again, I raise my hand to summon the children’s attention. One by one, their hands rise in reply, the level of noise diminishing steadily, until we’re all holding the same pose and the school hall falls silent. Tom Keller cottons on last, causing giggles from some of my kids as he comically lifts his own hand over his head.

  ‘Excellent, superstars. Hands down. Now, let’s get you up on the stage in the positions you’re going to have for the play. Make sure you remember the person you’re sitting next to, so you’ll know where you have to be.’

  ‘Hi,’ Tom says, suddenly beside me, as I shout out pairs of children and usher them to their places for the opening song. ‘I didn’t get to say hello before we started. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine, don’t worry . . . Joshua Levens, don’t sit on Flo’s lap! You should be over there by Nessie. Thank you. Edie and Jessica, squidge up a little to let Harry sit down, please. Great.’

  I risk a sideward glance. Now he’s standing next to me, Jo’s gushing about the hue of Tom’s eyes appears justified. They really are blue . . .

  ‘I’ve – um – put the sheet music on the piano, if you want to have a look? It’ll take me a while to sort out the stage positions.’

  ‘Sure, no worries. Crowd control, hey?’

  I smile back. ‘Essential part of the job.’

  He grins and strolls over to the piano. Jo might have been right about his eyes but she’s wrong about him being Thor. Tom is far too laid back and relaxed to be an Asgardian warrior. I make myself focus on the stage.

  ‘Miss Austin? My mum says can I sing a song just by myself, please?’ Ruby Jarvis asks, her hand stuck in the air with so much effort it’s practically pulling her arm from its socket. I love Ruby, but it’s well known in the school that she and her two sisters, Summer-Rose and Jasmine, are destined for stardom if their mother has anything to do with it. They are all undoubtedly talented and, thankfully, at the stage where performing is still fun. But I wonder how excited they will still be about it at sixteen. In my experience, intense pressure from someone else rarely fosters a deep love of something in you.

  ‘Actually, I have a song I would like you to start,’ I reply, having already foreseen this situation. I might not like Ruby’s mum’s blatant attempt to push her daughter forwards in my play, but Ruby has a lovely singing voice and is a sweet child. I see the flush of excitement claim her face and push away the suspicion that a fair amount of relief might be responsible as well as excitement. ‘Right then, so we’re all in our starting positions. We’re going to begin with our first song, ‘Let’s Find a Job for Jimbob’, so let’s ask Mr Keller to—’

  Behind me the music I spent last month writing suddenly starts to play. I momentarily forget where I am, arrested by the beautiful sound coming from the piano. The kids look over, too, aghast. I’m proud of the music I’ve written, but I’ve never heard it played like this.

  ‘Lovely . . .’ breathes Joshua Levens, snuggled up between Nessie and Edie, and I have to resist the urge to hug him. He might be the cheekiest chap in Class 4, but I love that he’s connected with the music so immediately.

  ‘You want me to sing it, Miss Austin?’ Tom asks from behind the piano.

  ‘I – um – yes, if you can.’

  That’s the daftest thing I’ve said all year. Of course he can. I watch with my captivated class as he flawlessly performs the first song, sight-reading it from my handwritten sheet music. And suddenly I feel very small. Completely inadequate, in fact. With skill like his, performed so effortlessly, why should I even bother being here? I push the thought away. I came to work determined to see the best side of this situation: it’s going to take more effort than I’d anticipated, but I have to ignore feelings that might derail this. It’s a good thing – the kids love Tom Keller and his contribution is going to be far greater to the production than I could have foreseen. It means the school will benefit, the children will be part of something wonderful and this year’s Christmas production will be the best yet. That’s the challenge I set myself each year, so it means I’ve already achieved it.

  I just didn’t think I’d need Tom Keller to make it happen, that’s all.

  An hour and a half later my classroom assistant Jen takes the children back to the classroom for reading time, while I finish stacking away the chairs. For a first rehearsal we’ve made amazing progress: four songs learned out of six and a lot of the stage business sorted. Usually, it takes a week to get this far.

  ‘The music is great,’ Tom says, carrying a stack of four chairs from the stage. ‘Who wrote it?’

  ‘I did.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh – wow. I didn’t know.’

  A little taken aback by his surprise, I shrug. ‘I write it every year.’

  ‘How do you find the time? Sorry, that’s a rude question. You’re obviously great at this. Did you write the play, too?’

  ‘Yes.’ The last chair is stacked and I turn to him. ‘Thanks for your help. I think you’re a hit with Class 4.’

  ‘I hope so. You know, my mum was shocked when I said I wanted to teach primary, but I get a far better response from six- and seven-year-olds than I ever got from theatre critics.’ His grin pulls a little to the right when it appears, I notice. It makes one eye crinkle up at the corner more than the other. And when he talks, he looks me straight in the eye. With eyes as blue as his, it’s startling . . .

  What are you doing? Stop it, Cerrie!

  He moves to hand back the folder of sheet music, but I stop him. ‘You can keep it, if you like. In case you want to play through it at home?’

  ‘I don’t have a piano, yet. Coming here and getting this job all kinda happened in a blur.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘Hey, no worries, though.
My crazy Latvian neighbour, Dragan, has one. He’s convinced he’s the reincarnation of Liberace. I’m serious. He collects his newspaper from the corner shop in the morning wearing full-on rhinestones.’ He laughs, then hugs the music folder to that chest that Jo can’t stop going on about. ‘I’ll look after this, Miss Austin. I promise. It’ll be safe with me.’

  It’s a small action, but I’m surprisingly touched by it. ‘Cerrie, please.’

  ‘Cerrie, then.’

  For a moment we fall silent, standing with mirrored smiles in the middle of the school hall. Then I remember where I am and hurry back to my classroom.

  As I watch my kids reading their books, the room seems to fade behind a haze.

  What just happened back there?

  Chapter Nine

  Kieran

  There are four of us standing in Fred Whittaker’s barn in the tiny hamlet of Towednack – me, Aggie, Seren and Cerrie. Five, if you count Fred, who is trying his best to blend into the barn walls. Lou hasn’t arrived yet, which is probably for the best. It’s going to take a while for us to find something positive here.

  I don’t know if Lou’s seen how far behind the lantern committee really were, or if he is in for the same shock we are all experiencing now. Twisted willow withy canes that should already be fixed together to make the skeletons of the giant structures are mostly bound in piles resting on the hay-strewn dusty floor between Fred Whittaker’s prized collection of tractors. The parachute silk isn’t even cut for stretching over the lantern bodies. It’s a total mess. I hope Lou isn’t in danger from increased stress.

  ‘Are there even any instructions for putting these together?’ Aggie barks at nobody in particular, although I notice Fred retreating further into the shadows.

  ‘We have to hope Lou was given that information when the other workers left,’ I say. ‘Otherwise we might as well accept defeat right now.’

  Seren inspects the few pieces of coloured silk that have been cut. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘The finished ones are in the back,’ Fred ventures, already halfway out of the door. ‘Should I bring them in?’

  Thank heaven for that! ‘Great, shall we follow you round?’ I suggest. ‘No point lugging them in here just to haul them back again.’

  We follow Fred out of the main barn door and into a smaller outbuilding across the farmyard. He hits a switch and the lights bang and shudder into life. It’s the strangest sight – huge, multicoloured hulks in different shapes eerily huddled together, like a dormant alien army awaiting deployment. I count at least twenty.

  ‘This is better,’ Aggie says beside me. ‘I thought we were goin’ to have to go the full Blue Peter.’ She grins up at me – and there it is again. That flicker of – something I shouldn’t pay attention to.

  ‘Why don’t we take a couple of these back to the barn?’ Cerrie suggests, ever the practical one. ‘Then we’ll have a reference for making the others.’

  Agreed, we carefully take two of the lanterns – a mermaid with blue silk stars around her head and a lighthouse with green and orange fish at its base. They are surprisingly light for their size, although manoeuvring them through the door of the outbuilding and into the main barn is trickier than we think. The poor mermaid almost loses her head when Aggie and Seren misjudge the doorway.

  We are inspecting the lanterns when Lou arrives in a cloud of bluster and nerves. ‘Kids! Glad you’re here. I’ve good news – two of the lantern team have said they’ll come back. And Christine from Hettie’s is drivin’ up later with Charlotte and Georgie. So that’s . . .’ he does a head count with the edge of his clipboard, ‘one-two-three-four-five . . .’

  ‘Not enough,’ I say.

  ‘It’s what we have, boy.’

  ‘Then we need more.’

  Lou faces me like a Wild West gunslinger with a clipboard and middle-aged spread. ‘So what are you goin’ to do ’bout it, hmm?’

  Aggie, Cerrie, Seren and Fred turn to me. There’s only one thing I can suggest. ‘Social media. Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat . . . We put out a call – right now – and ask people to share it with their friends.’

  ‘You’re the only one with a gazillion followers,’ Cerrie says. ‘I’m not sure the twenty-nine people who follow my Insta-feed will be able to do much.’

  ‘They will if they all turn up,’ Seren says. ‘I think Kieran’s right. Everyone, mobiles out now.’

  We do as she says, groaning as one when we discover none of us has any signal.

  ‘The joys of rural Kernow.’ Cerrie holds her phone up towards the corrugated-iron barn roof as if this might summon a stray patch of reception.

  ‘When we get home tonight, then,’ Aggie says.

  There’s a nervous cough from the back of the barn and Fred raises a hesitant hand. ‘No panic, I got Wi-Fi, kids. Hang on a mo and I’ll grab the code.’

  ‘Fred Whittaker, tech expert,’ Seren chuckles. ‘Who knew?’

  Half an hour later the call is out and we are sitting on a stack of hay bales with large mugs of tea and thick squares of fruitcake provided by Martha, Fred’s wife, going over the designs Lou brought. They look simple, in a complicated way. But the construction seems easy enough.

  ‘John Matterson said they’d had one team makin’ the frames and another stretchin’ the cloth over, but I’m guessin’ our best bet is to make each one from start to finish, so we can keep track of ’em all. Pippa and Justine from the original team will know how that’s done, so when we come again tomorrow night we can get crackin’ proper.’

  My mobile vibrates in my hand and the notification makes my heart jump. ‘First volunteer right here.’

  ‘That was fast.’ Aggie’s eyes narrow. ‘I bet it’s a woman.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Behold the power of our sexy photographer,’ she laughs. And I have to force a laugh back because I know she doesn’t mean it in the way my stupid brain wants her to.

  ‘Kieran Macklin, our resident Insta-celebrity,’ Cerrie says. ‘Think of all those ladies around the world who hang on your every post . . .’

  ‘People like nice photos,’ I shrug. ‘It’s what I do. You all take good ones, too.’

  ‘Not worthy of the Holy Grail Blue Tick, though.’

  ‘I have no clue what you’re all on about,’ Lou says. ‘But you can be as social on that media as you like if Kieran’s ticks get people up here this week.’

  ‘Ticks? I got some dip for that,’ Fred ventures, frowning when we fall about laughing.

  I’m on my way out to my car when I hear voices near the outbuilding where the finished lanterns are being stored. I don’t know why, but I stop to listen, the shadow between the farm buildings shielding me from view.

  ‘. . . So he asked me to take him back.’

  ‘Ag! No! What did you say?’

  ‘What could I say? It’s Seth bleddy Lannaker.’

  ‘He broke your heart last time.’

  A puff of peach-scented vape smoke catches the light from the barn as it billows towards me. I flatten my back against the ancient stone.

  ‘I know, I know. But he came back, Ser. And I thought I was over him, but . . . Turns out I’m not.’

  ‘Did you . . . ? Oh Ag, you didn’t?’

  I don’t want to hear any more. I can guess the rest. I remember the fallout when Aggie split with the conniving surfer three years ago: how she sobbed in my arms through the night after she’d told him to go; how for months we all feared the flame inside our beloved Aggie Keats had been permanently snuffed out. How we steadily built her back up, painstakingly reconstructing the heart smashed by that idiot. Back then, I was angry with him for hurting my friend. But now, him waltzing back onto the scene is a challenge to my place in her affections.

  I leave Towednack without saying goodbye. I just couldn’t face Aggie and Seren knowing what I know. I feel like if she saw me tonight, she’d guess it all. Because I’ve tried to tell myself it could never happen, but I can’t shake the question of w
hat would happen if it did. Of course, if Seth Lannaker is back, the deal is already done. This whole thing is pointless.

  It’s a blow, but I’ll get over it. Somehow. She’s still my friend, and that’s what matters most. I just wish my heart agreed . . .

  Chapter Ten

  Cerrie

  ‘Right, Darcy, really big voice this time.’

  The small girl nods at me from the front of the stage, script shaking as much as the rainbow-coloured hair bobbles on the top of her cornrowed bunches.

  ‘And then it was time for . . . Jimbob . . . to see The . . . Boss. All the big angels watched . . . as he . . . walked-through-the-Great-Hall.’ The last five words are said as one, Darcy’s chin dropping to her chest and voice retreating to a whisper.

  I clap and Tom joins me, giving a whoop that makes Darcy’s head snap upright, her eyes shining with surprise.

  ‘Darcy, that was so much better! Well done. Class 4, let’s give Darcy a big clap for that.’

  My lovely class enthusiastically obliges. Darcy positively glows. But her brightest smile is reserved for Tom. In the week we’ve been working together, I’ve noticed how every child in Class 4 seeks his approval. I don’t mind, really. Someone new in the class is always a big draw. When my newest student Nessie Dixon started last month, my classroom assistant Jen and I had to draw up a rota of who could sit next to her at story-time and registration, such was the clamour for the space beside the new girl on the floor.

  But there’s something else, too: the children know already that Tom is on their side. He’s very quickly established himself as their cheerleader. Kids always respond to that – and they would be the first to spot if his encouragement was false or forced. They see the excellence he brings to the production and they respect it.

  And why not? He is brilliant. I didn’t want to admit it, not least because David is still trying to use it as an excuse to start conversations with me. But as much as I wanted to resent Tom Keller’s involvement, I can’t deny his positive effect on the children.