Christmas in St Ives

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Just play the music how it’s written, please. Support the kids with their lines in the script. And praise every single one of them, no matter what. That’s your job, and mine, too.’

  Head bowed, he mumbles goodbye and suddenly I can breathe alone in my car again. My own space. On my terms. I showed him.

  So why doesn’t it feel like the victory it should?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Seren

  Friday night in The Hub is loud and happy. I’m glad I booked a table for dinner, judging by the queue at the door. The place has been well and truly decorated for Christmas, too, with red and gold streamers stretching from wall to wall and nets of twinkling white lights suspended from the rafters. I take my seat in the curved bay nearest the window and gaze out at the trails of multicoloured lights dancing on the indigo-black waves of the harbour outside. Christmas in St Ives is real spectacle. It’s the unique mix of the sea, the festive atmosphere, the celebration of another year travelled. And lights everywhere – as though the people of the town are hanging out their hopes and dreams for the coming year for everyone to see. It’s the lights I love best.

  Rainbow-hued lantern-shaped bulbs have been wrapped around the base of Smeaton’s Tower, the iconic lighthouse at the entrance to the harbour, sending spots of colour bobbing on the undulating dark water. White and blue festoon lights loop between the lamp posts around the harbour road and the moon is huge and bright in a cloudless frosty sky. Dad will be out in the Shedservatory this evening, no doubt, with Molly curled up in her old box filled with threadbare travel rug blankets, snoring as Dad watches the sky. If he’s still out there when I get home, I might make a flask of tea and join him, snuggling to his side to gaze up at our ancient celestial friends.

  Alastair hurries in and flops down into the booth seat. ‘Hey, sorry I’m late,’ he puffs, unwinding a long scarf from his neck and shrugging his wool jacket from his shoulders. He’s shaved since I saw him at the lantern making: the red-gold ghost of what will soon be a Cavalier beard just visible on his chin. He smells good, too. I’d forgotten that about him. Al was the best-smelling bloke in the studio, a fact universally acknowledged by the entire Grafyx team. It’s strange how details you take for granted every day fade so quickly when you don’t see someone. ‘Man, I’m hungry.’

  ‘Busy day?’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘When is it ever not? But I’m done for the weekend now, so let’s talk no more about it.’ He sits back and observes me in the contemplative way he used to. I’d forgotten the Alastair Currie stare, too. ‘You’re looking so good, Seren. I meant to say it on Wednesday evening.’

  ‘Thanks. Although how bad did I look before if this is an improvement?’

  ‘Stop it, MacArthur, that’s not what I meant. You seem – settled. Happy.’

  I don’t know why my heart sinks when he says this, but it does. ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘Okay, what was that look for?’

  ‘Which look?’

  ‘The look you used to give clients on the phone when they asked for an impossible deadline.’

  I have to smile at that. My colleagues used to call me Captain Glass because I could never stop my face revealing my true feelings. ‘I don’t know, it’s great to be back here with my friends and my family but . . .’

  ‘But you miss how it was before?’

  I nod. ‘It isn’t easy losing a job, is it? I wonder if I’ll ever really get over that. I’m happy to be here, but I miss the excitement, the challenge, a life of my own . . .’

  ‘The money?’

  ‘That too. But mostly being part of something exciting . . .’ Suddenly aware of what I’m saying I look down at the menu. I can’t blame MacArthur’s or being at home again for a lack of excitement in my life. It’s just different . . . ‘Anyway, you move on, don’t you? So – what are you fancying from this lovely lot?’

  Alastair doesn’t mention the conversation again until we are halfway through the meal. Returning from the bar with two fresh drinks, he clinks his bottle of cider against mine. ‘To making the best of the old and new.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. Cheers.’

  Alastair’s dark eyes fix on me as he drinks. Then he rubs his hand across his chin – a self-conscious habit I learned to recognise over our years working together. ‘I have a confession to make, MacArthur. It wasn’t a coincidence I volunteered for the lantern makers. I’ve been looking for an excuse. I’m afraid I had an ulterior motive for coming to see you this week.’

  I’ve been subconsciously waiting for this. There had to be a reason for Alastair to travel all the way over to St Ives to find me, after months of no communication. ‘I might have known. Go on, then.’

  ‘I’ve started my own company – it’s small and very much in its infancy at the moment. But I’ve already lured some of Grafyx’s old customers back. And this is just the beginning.’

  ‘Al, that’s fantastic! Congratulations!’

  He gives a nonchalant shrug, but his eyes burn with pride. I used to see it when he talked about projects he was passionate to do, like a fire had been lit behind his stare. ‘Early days yet. But the potential is huge. Nobody else around here is doing the kind of multimedia campaigns I think I can offer. Not just websites and online media, but apps, music, film and even VR. It’s hugely ambitious, I know. It could all end in tears. But you’ve got to shoot for the stars, haven’t you?’

  I always knew Alastair would do something like this. He was far too good to stay as an in-house junior designer for ever. It’s why I loved working with him: he never accepted the mundane in any job. He was the most out-of-the-box thinker I’ve ever met and I did my best work with him. Dad says passionate people are infectious: that was Alastair in a nutshell. Because he was passionate it made me believe in better, too. ‘I’m thrilled for you. And you’ll make this a success, I know you will.’

  ‘You could be part of it.’ He’s leaning across the table now, his hand suddenly finding mine. ‘Just imagine, MacArthur, the dream team back together again! Only this time we wouldn’t be caged in by Martin and Laura’s blinkered vision. Literally anything is possible.’

  For a moment my words vanish into the warm air of the restaurant. I’d suspected some motive behind his sudden reappearance, but being offered a job wasn’t on the list. He’s watching me across the waxed wood table, his hand warm on mine. And I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Okay, don’t answer yet. There’s something else. I’ve moved into my brother’s old house – long story – but there’s a good spare room. Just, you know, if you needed somewhere. It’s more like a studio flat, actually. It has its own entrance and everything. You wouldn’t even need to pay rent until the business gets going. It might help you get settled back in Falmouth – and we could work from the house to build up our client list.’

  At Grafyx we used to say that while the rest of us were brainstorming ideas from an initial brief, Alastair would have already completed the groundwork, solved every problem and would be picking out champagne for the product launch in his mind. He clearly hasn’t lost that ability.

  ‘You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’

  He smiles. ‘It’s why it’s taken me a while to get back in touch. I wanted everything to be in place before I asked you.’

  ‘You’re amazing. And it’s a lovely offer.’

  ‘But . . . ?’

  Is there a but? I’m still taking it all in and so far I can’t see any negatives. But am I just flattered after months of feeling like nobody notices me? ‘No but just yet. Can I think about this, Al?’

  I see him relax a little. ‘Please do. I know it’s a big decision. Tell you what, give me your answer on the night of the lantern parade, okay?’

  ‘You’re coming, then?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’m not letting up the opportunity to see my handiwork being admired by the whole of St Ives. Thought I might hand out some business cards, too, when Lou isn’t looking. Besides, it seems as good a time as any.
I always liked the bells and whistles when we made decisions at work. Drumrolls, fireworks, Hallelujah choruses, the works.’

  This decision could change my life. It could put me back on an even keel and open possibilities I haven’t even imagined. It could help me rediscover my identity, too – not just being ‘Mark’s daughter’, or ‘Aggie’s friend’. I’m proud of both, of course. But I think I need more.

  It’s a huge opportunity, but it has to be the right one for what it would mean surrendering. Leaving MacArthur’s and Dad when I suspect he needs me there the most could have huge implications. So I agree to give Alastair my answer at the Christmas lantern parade. But will seven days be enough to make up my mind?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Aggie

  Why is it that trouble never shows up in single doses? First Seth Lannaker, now Kieran Macklin. If I believed in karma I’d think I’d stepped on someone’s toes a while ago and now I’m being punished. But I’ve done nothing wrong. So why did one of my best friends just take a pop at me?

  I don’t even know how it started. One minute we were pratting around with the lanterns, the next he was storming off in a rage. When I followed him outside, he yelled at me. Proper, scraping-the-lining-off-his-throat yelling. What did I do to upset him?

  It’s been too much this week: temptations and thoughts I shouldn’t entertain, vile-tempered customers who just keep swarming into the hut like storm flies, and now this. I need to work this out.

  I need Seren MacArthur.

  She doesn’t even question my sudden appearance at her dad’s gallery – just sits me down and makes tea. It’s long been a joke with us that while I always resort to coffee, Seren MacArthur’s answer to pretty much any situation in life is tea. As I’m drinking yet another splendid brew it occurs to me how lucky I am to have her in my life. Friends like Seren don’t come around very often. I love the others in our gang, but I’d be lost without this one.

  ‘What’s up, Ag?’

  ‘Did you hear Kieran and me yelling last night? At Fred’s farm?’

  ‘No.’ She’s lying, but I know why.

  ‘Well I don’t know how you missed it. Half the cows from here to the Lizard heard us, I reckon.’

  She gives a wry smile. ‘I might have heard something.’

  ‘Have you talked to Kieran about it?’

  ‘No. Have you?’

  She always does that: turns a question on its head and slings it back at you. She could give that Paxman a run for his money. ‘Seeing as the last thing he shouted at me was, “I can’t be anywhere near you right now”, what do you think?’

  ‘Oh, Ag. What was the row over?’

  ‘That’s just it, I have no idea. One minute he was being a dick about that mistletoe-shaped lantern we were supposed to make; then the next he’s stormin’ out and we’re in a full-blown screamin’ match. He’s been off for the last couple of days, not himself at all. I just don’t know what’s got into him.’

  Seren’s dad pokes his head out of the storeroom. ‘He’s a bloke, Aggie. He doesn’t need a reason to be daft.’

  ‘Cheers for that, Mark.’

  Mark MacArthur has the cheekiest grin in the whole of St Ives. I’m surprised he hasn’t caused those stars he loves watching to tumble from heaven yet. He could charm them down easily. ‘You’re welcome. Kieran’s a hothead, just like his dad. I’ve dragged Joe Macklin out of more pub brawls than I care to remember. Seren, I’m just going to pop to the bakery to get us some lunch. Want anything, Aggie?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks, Mark.’

  ‘All right, then. I’ll leave you ladies in peace.’ He pulls on his coat and a crazy-striped knitted beanie hat that could only have come from Sharon, our friend who owns the candle shop in Fore Street. She is always knitting behind the counter at her shop and all of the tradespeople on Fore Street have received one of her woollen creations for Christmas or birthdays over the years. Mark calls her the Official Headwarmer of St Ives – a title that always makes her giggle and blush.

  At the door, Mark turns. ‘Kieran’s a good lad, Aggie. He’ll sort his head out eventually. Blokes are idiots sometimes. Just ignore him.’

  ‘My dad, the counsellor,’ Seren chuckles when he’s gone. ‘He’ll bill you later.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ My attention drifts to the display window and for a moment I forget my anger. It’s magical. Seren had mentioned using seaglass, but I never thought she could make something like this. Tiny shards of glass are sparkling and spinning from clear thread, so that from a distance you’d think they were dancing in thin air. Silver skeleton leaves shiver alongside them, delicate as spider silk, and five baubles made of hand-blown glass take centre-stage. The windowsill is filled with a blanket of white, soap-bubble-shiny snowflake sequins, while the smallest white lights wind up and through the display like twinkling stars. It’s like a scene from a dream.

  ‘Wow . . .’

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘Like it? You’re a bleddy genius! I hope Lou’s seen this and eaten his hat after accusin’ you of being a slacker?’

  ‘He didn’t speak for a full five minutes. Dad was quite concerned about him.’

  I love that. Serves him right for ever doubting my friend and her dad. ‘Honestly, that is the best window in St Ives. If you don’t win the prize this year it’ll be a crime.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ Seren beams anyway. ‘Um, actually, Ag, I’m glad I’ve seen you today. I need to tell you something.’

  My heart sinks.

  So it all comes out: the chap who turned up at Fred’s barn; the real reason he volunteered to help us make lanterns; and the job offer. It’s only when she mentions the job that alarm bells ring for me. I’ve seen that look on her face before – five years ago, when she came to my house to tell me she was moving to Falmouth.

  ‘Oh my life, Ser, you’re seriously thinkin’ of doing this, aren’t you?’

  Of course she is. She’s been like a wandering cloud since she came back to St Ives. Working in her dad’s gallery wasn’t ever going to be enough for her, was it? Look at that window: it’s like all of her hopes and dreams crammed beautifully into one perfect space.

  ‘Oh, Aggie, don’t cry,’ she says, her voice trembling too as she wraps her arms around me. I’m ashamed of my tears, but my life is a mess right now and I need her. I’m ashamed of being so selfish, but I can’t stop crying.

  ‘I’m happy for you,’ I lie, hoping she falls for it.

  ‘I won’t be going till the New Year. And I might just commute, you know, if the accommodation thing with Alastair gets weird. We have Christmas before then – me and you. And Cerrie. Kieran as well, when he calms down. Singletons for Christmas, remember?’

  But in her mind, she’s already packed her bags and is waving me goodbye. I can see it. Falmouth isn’t the other side of the world, but it’s far enough away to steal my friend for weeks at a time.

  I want her to be happy – she deserves it. But I don’t know what I’m going to do without her on my doorstep. Trouble never arrives alone. I just never expected it to steal my best friend the third time it hit me . . .

  Chapter Fifteen

  Seren

  The Shedservatory is a little warmer than the garden tonight, but not much. I’ve crunched across the frozen lawn to get here and now I heft the stack of blankets and extra jumpers I’ve brought with me under one arm as I close the door. From the small mezzanine level I can see Dad wrapped in the old blue wool blanket, peering through the sight of Clarabell, his beloved telescope.

  ‘Hey, Dad.’

  He peers down and the winter moonlight glints in his smile. ‘Evening, stargirl. Coming up?’

  Telling Aggie today was supposed to be the easy bit. But her reaction shook me so much I put off the big conversation all day. I can’t avoid it any longer. There’s no way I can go to sleep until I’ve talked to Dad. I need to know what he thinks.

  Molly yawns in her makeshift bed by my feet and give
s my hand a lazy lick. Dad has wrapped the raggediest strand of green tinsel I’ve ever seen around her box and it makes her sneeze when her nose brushes the strands. I sneak her the dog biscuit I’ve hidden in my sleeve and head up the ladder.

  ‘I brought hot choc,’ I say, sliding onto the bench seat beside Dad and handing him the flask.

  ‘Marvellous.’ Dad unscrews the lid and takes a long sniff. ‘Seren May MacArthur, is there alcohol in here?’ His mock horror is one of my most favourite things.

  ‘Well, there’s a funny story about that . . .’

  ‘I think you should confess it all, immediately.’

  I giggle then, unable to keep the pretence in the face of Dad’s comedy performance. And even though we have played this scene out countless times before, I repeat the lines as if I’m saying them for the first time. ‘You see, I happened to be passing the drinks cupboard on my way here and – would you believe it – a rather significant tot of Christmas Baileys just happened to tumble into the flask.’

  Dad slaps a hand to his forehead. ‘How terrible! It must be the fabled Ninja-trained Baileys at work. Dastardly stuff. The way I see it, we have only one option.’ He gives a dramatic glance over his shoulder and says in a stage whisper, ‘We must destroy the evidence, quickly!’

  Pact made, we pour the chocolate into two old RNLI mugs Dad keeps in the Shedservatory. I pull on a sweater over my hoodie and hand another to Dad, who tuts when I ask to snuggle up beside him; but he wraps his arm around me as soon as I do. With the old blue wool blanket snugly around our shoulders, we gaze up through the hatch into the clear night sky.

  I love it here. So many important conversations (and numerous unimportant ones) have taken place in the tiny shed observatory Dad built in our garden. We put the world to rights here, or just sit in glorious companionable silence, with the stars above us and Molly’s contented snoring drifting up from the floor below.