A Cornish Carol

by Fern Britton

  ‘Nothing wrong with pilchards, boy,’ he said out loud. ‘Would’ve fallen on them like a starving man when I was a lad.’

  He took the plate of pilchards, to which he’d added the last of the cheese, into the small living room, and turned on the TV. Settling himself in front of it, he took a mouthful of pilchards and decided that things definitely weren’t what they used to be. Rubbing at his eyes as tiredness crept in, he decided there was nothing for it but to make do with the cheese alone.

  He flicked through the channels: Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special – click; Eight Out of Ten Cats Does Countdown – click; some idiot extolling the virtues of lawnmowers on the Shopping Channel. ‘In December?’ Click.

  The next channel he clicked on was a film, so old it was in black and white. Piran thought he recognised the actor, though he couldn’t think of his name, but the story was instantly identifiable: A Christmas Carol. What was it Helen had said about him being a latterday Scrooge? Piran knitted his brow but continued watching.

  On the screen, Scrooge woke to find he had a visitor: the ghost of his former partner, Jacob Marley. Dragging heavy chains behind him, Marley was telling Scrooge these are the chains I forged in life … you do not know the weight and length of strong chain you bear yourself … it was as full and as long as this seven Christmases ago and you have laboured on it since …

  Christmas Eve – it was inevitable they’d be broadcasting this old stalwart. Nothing coincidental about it, Piran told himself, watching Scrooge cringe and writhe as Marley’s spirit clanked his chains and listed his torments:

  I am doomed to wander without rest or peace … incessant torture and remorse …

  Overwhelmed with a deep tiredness, Piran felt his eyelids begin to droop.

  Hear me, my time is nearly gone … I come tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance of escaping my fate …

  Despite the pull of sleep, the voice continued, drifting through his drowsy consciousness:

  You will be visited by three spirits … without their help you cannot hope to shun the path I tread … hope to see me no more …

  Piran woke with a start, disturbed by a loud knocking on his front door. Disoriented and with sleep still clinging to him, it took a moment to realise that the cottage was in total darkness. Scrooge and Marley were gone, the TV screen was blank. The lamps were out and the only light came from the waning moonlight that filtered in through the front windows.

  Another rap on the front door. In the darkness, Piran picked his way over the plate that had held his pilchards, polished off long ago by the cats, and tried to find his way through the dark. Flicking the light switches on the walls elicited no response, either in the living room or in the kitchen, and Piran wondered if the fuses had blown.

  He was almost at the front door when he tripped over one of the fishing rods that was leaning up against the wall. Falling forward, he banged his head painfully on the coat stand.

  ‘Bollocks!’

  As he untangled himself, someone banged on the front door again.

  ‘All right, keep your bleddy ’air on, will you!’ he muttered, fumbling with the lock and wrenching the door open.

  Only to find that there was absolutely no one there.

  What the hell was going on? No lights or power and now a phantom at the doorway? Piran wasn’t sure where he had got the word phantom from but he suddenly felt unsettled. There were no such things as ghosts, so someone must have been knocking at his door – but where were they now?

  He took a step out onto the path and peered into the gloom. He could see no one, and when he looked up the road towards the village he realised that was in darkness too. His position on the edge of Pendruggan meant that he could usually see the distant lights of shops and houses – but tonight there was nothing. It gave the night an eerie feel. Almost as if the village had vanished and he was the only one left …

  ‘Things look different in the dark, don’t they?’

  ‘Argh!’ Piran nearly jumped out of his skin when the voice came out of the pitch-black.

  Then the voice again, and light from a torch illuminating a familiar face. ‘It’s only me.’

  ‘Bleddy hell, Simon! Where the ’ell ’ave you come from?’

  ‘Sorry, Piran. You’re not normally so jumpy.’ Piran wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it was a relief to see Simon’s cheery face. ‘I was knocking for ages. I knew you must be in because I could hear Jack scrabbling at the door, so I nipped round to see if the back door was open. But it wasn’t.’

  Piran rubbed his hands across his eyes as if to rub away the last vestiges of sleep that still seemed to linger.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Power cut. The whole village is out.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Indeed. Are you planning on inviting me in? It’s freezing out here.’

  Piran grunted his assent and the two of them, using Simon’s torch as a guide, led the way inside.

  ‘Gimme that torch and wait here.’ Simon did as he was told and Piran headed off to the pantry. After much rummaging and rustling, he reappeared, carrying a handful of fat candles. Handing the torch back to Simon, Piran proceeded to stick them into candle holders. Before long, the room was lit by gentle candlelight.

  ‘Save your batteries,’ he said.

  Simon switched off his torch and sat down. Piran checked the clock; almost eleven. He’d been asleep for hours.

  ‘What are you doing abroad?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I’m worried that some of the villagers won’t be able to get to Midnight Mass because they don’t all have cars and the roads are too dark. I’ve got my car and I’m going to have a recce and see if anyone needs a lift.’

  ‘So what brings you here?’

  ‘Ah, well …’ Simon blinked back at him, abashed. ‘I was wondering if you’re all right?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be all right?’ Piran demanded.

  Simon hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘Piran, I know that you hate talking about … well, things … emotions and the like. All the same, we have known each other for a long time and I can tell when something is up.’

  Piran turned away, avoiding Simon’s eyes. ‘There’s nothing up.’

  Undaunted, Simon continued: ‘The last few weeks, you’ve been really … pent up, and it’s obvious there’s more to it than the usual trademark Mr Mean persona that you like to hide behind. I can see right through you, Piran. Is this something to do with Jenna?’

  At the mention of her name, Piran leapt to his feet and rounded on Simon. ‘Why don’t you just mind your own business? Maybe the rest of Pendruggan like to spill their guts out in the confessional, but I can do without your cod philosophy, Vicar.’

  Though his words stung, Simon persisted: ‘Firstly, for the record, I’m a Church of England vicar not a Catholic priest, and we don’t have a confession box in Pendruggan. Secondly, and more importantly, I’m your friend and I can tell you’re bottling something up.’

  Piran glared at Simon for a moment. Then he sighed and sat down.

  ‘I don’t know what it is. I can’t seem to shake it off. Feel like I’m fed up with everything. Christmas only seems to have made it worse.’

  ‘A problem shared?’

  ‘I dunno, Simon. Don’t feel I want to share right now. Perhaps this is the way that I’m destined to be from now on.’

  ‘Rubbish! You weren’t always like this.’

  ‘Wasn’t I?’

  ‘Certainly not! You used to be quite carefree when you were younger. Remember that year when we did the Pendruggan Christmas swim?’

  ‘We’ve done it more than once.’

  ‘Yes, but no other year was like this one …’

  4

  1984

  Piran’s face broke into a smile as he saw Simon walking down the sloping slip road that lead towards Pendruggan’s harbour. He’d been sitting, waiting, huddled up in his parka in the wintery sunshine, having called Simon last ni
ght to let him know that he was back in Pendruggan.

  After a warm embrace and the customary ruffling of each other’s hair, Simon stood back and took a good look at his friend. Piran’s skin was the colour of golden caramel, his black curls were thicker and more unruly than he remembered and his piercing blues eyes were glimmering roguishly. A long summer spent island-hopping in Greece had served only to accentuate Piran’s piratical appearance and the acquisition of a small hooped gold earring finished off the look perfectly. If Simon hadn’t already known that Piran didn’t give a toss about his looks, he might have suspected he’d done it on purpose, but there wasn’t a vain bone in Piran’s body.

  ‘Where did the earring come from?’

  Piran grinned sheepishly. ‘Can’t quite remember. A few too many ouzos one night in Mykonos. More trouble to take it out, I reckon.’

  ‘How was Greece? Feels like you’ve been away for ever.’

  ‘Only five months. But Greece in winter loses a bit of its shine. The tourists all bugger off and there’s no bar work to speak of. I was ready to come home, anyhow. What about you, Canter? You’re as milky white as you were at Easter. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Come on. I’ll tell you over a pint at The Dolphin.’

  At the bar, Piran ordered them both two pints of Best and a couple of packets of Smiths crisps, while Simon lined up a few tracks on the jukebox. Piran was more of a Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd man, but Simon couldn’t resist a bit of pop and this was a vintage year. Which ones to choose? He settled on ‘Two Tribes’ by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, ‘Wild Boys’ by Duran Duran and ‘Wake Me Up’ by Wham! – but that was chiefly to annoy Piran.

  At the bar, Piran was accosted by the young barman, Don.

  ‘Oi, Ambrose, where you been lately? Not round these parts, judging by that suntan. My sister, Jenna, been wondering on that only the other day.’

  Piran hoped that his tan covered the flush that he felt in his cheeks at the mention of Jenna’s name.

  ‘I’ve been travelling, Don. How is Jenna?’

  ‘Well, you’re not the only one been getting themselves about. Jenna finished her teacher training and now she’s been offered a job in London, she ’as.’

  Don’s older sister was the same age as Piran and he’d been attracted to her ever since he could remember. They’d been more than friends at one time, but somehow, with his years away at Cambridge and her teacher training, they’d barely seen each other since leaving school. ‘That’s great news, Don. Give her my best.’

  Don’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘She’ll be here in a minute – she’s been helping out, doing a few shifts – so you can tell ’er yourself.’

  The thought that she might be along any minute gave Piran a thrill of excitement that he did his best to conceal as he was joined at the bar by Simon. A moment later, the high-energy bass of ‘Two Tribes’ and Holly Johnson’s nasal Liverpudlian tones burst from the jukebox.

  ‘Oi, keep it down. This ain’t the Hammersmith Palais, yer know!’

  Piran and Simon looked over their shoulders to see Queenie, the local postmistress and proprietor of the village shop, sitting at a corner table with a port and lemon in front of her. ‘Welcome back, Piran! Come and have one of me pasties as an homecoming present – you can ’ave it on the ’ouse!’

  ‘Thanks, Queenie, I’ll be over in the morning.’

  ‘Here, Don,’ Piran handed over a one-pound note. ‘Get Queenie another.’

  ‘Anyway, Ambrose …’ Don picked out a bottle of Cockburn’s and poured a couple of fingers’ worth into a glass ‘… reckon you’ve been keeping a low profile these last few years ’cos you’re frightened of getting beaten again on the swim.’

  ‘That what you reckon, is it, Don?’

  The Christmas Day swim was an annual institution in the village, drawing people from miles around. Most came to spectate, but many took part. For the majority it was nothing more than the precursor to their first brandy of the day, and a bit of a laugh – no wetsuits were allowed and some of the more exhibitionist participants ventured forth in the nude, usually to cheers of encouragement from the rowdy crowd. There were, however, a hardcore of experienced swimmers who raced out to the buoy and back again, determined to claim the honour of pulling and downing the first pint of the celebrated, home-brewed Christmas Day Ale from the special Pendruggan tankard at The Dolphin. Both members of this elite, Piran and Don had a rivalry that went back years.

  ‘Maybe I’ve been doing you a favour by not showing up,’ laughed Piran. ‘Not sure how happy you’d be to have a bit of decent competition.’ He eyed Don’s beer belly. ‘Looks like you’ve been enjoying the beers and pies too much, mate.’

  Don frowned. ‘Oi, that’s not fat! Hundred per cent Cornish muscle, that is!’

  Simon and Piran spluttered and guffawed over their pints.

  ‘You might laugh, Ambrose, but ain’t many in Pendruggan faster than me in the water, you included.’

  ‘That’s fighting talk that is, Don.’ Piran said this with a telltale twinkle in his eyes that revealed there was nothing he liked more than a challenge.

  ‘You’re out of the running, mate. Leave it to the younger ones like me,’ Don jeered. He pointed to the barrel conspicuously placed at the bottom of the bar. It was covered in tinsel and lights and a handwritten note stuck to it proclaimed: Winner takes all!

  ‘That barrel ain’t got my name on it yet, Ambrose, but come Christmas morning it’ll be me supping that lovely golden liquid.’

  Piran picked up their pints. ‘Thanks, Don – here, have something for yourself …’ He placed another one-pound note on the counter. ‘Reckon you’ll need it to buy your own pints on Christmas Day.’

  Don gave him a two-fingered salute but pocketed the pound all the same.

  They took their seats and Simon began filling him in on all the local news, but Piran was impatient to hear what Simon himself had been up to.

  ‘Well, actually, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well …’ Simon played nervously with a beer mat.

  ‘Come on, man, spit it out!’

  ‘Remember I told you that I was going to stay on at Oxford and do a Masters?’

  ‘In Theology? Yes, why? Have you changed your mind?’

  ‘Yes. No. Well, not exactly …’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ spluttered Piran, infuriated. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I finish it for you. You’ve decided to do your Masters and after that you’re going to become a priest.’

  Simon gawped at his friend in astonishment. ‘How did you know?’

  Piran laughed and put his arm around Simon’s shoulder. ‘I’ve always known, mate. Even if you didn’t. All those drunken late-night chats about the nature of God and the universe? Most men our age would’ve been thinking about nookie, but not you.’

  Simon’s face betrayed uncertainty. ‘Do you think I’m making the right decision? You don’t mind?’

  ‘Mind!’ Piran gave Simon a giant bearhug. ‘I can’t think of a better man for the job. You’ll make a great vicar! And if I ever find the right girl, I want you to marry us – you can also christen any unlucky offspring I might have. And when the music’s over, I want you to turn out the lights and give me the last rites. Mind? I’m relying on you!’

  As if on cue, the door to the pub opened and in walked Jenna. She didn’t see the two men immediately and made straight for the bar. Piran watched her nervously and rubbed his hands on his 501s.

  ‘Go on – say hello,’ Simon urged.

  Jenna was even lovelier than he remembered. She removed her red beret, purple velvet jacket and crocheted bag, then hung them all on a hook behind the bar. Her hair was the colour of wet sand and it took a moment before her clear blues eyes spotted him. When they did, she clapped her hands and a smile lit up her face.

  ‘Piran!’ She ran out from behind the bar and rushed over to their table. He stood and she threw he
r arms around him warmly. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Piran Ambrose!’

  Jenna barely worked her shift that night, much to her grumbling brother’s annoyance. When Simon headed home a few pints later, Piran and Jenna were still ensconced at the bar, heads close together; talking and laughing and in no hurry to go home themselves.

  Piran and Simon jumped up and down and rubbed their bare arms to try to keep themselves warm. It was Christmas morning and it seemed the whole of Trevay and Pendruggan had come along to the Christmas Day swim on Shellsand Bay, though the hardy souls who were willing to brace the Atlantic waters were vastly outnumbered by spectators. The ban on wet suits had separated the wheat from the chaff; although the distance between the shore and the buoy wasn’t far, the water was only a few degrees above freezing at this time of year and it could be gruelling.

  Throngs of people lined the shore, a barbecue had been set up and someone was serving bacon sandwiches while flasks of firewater were passed round; the mood was jovial and good-humoured; a gang of teenagers wore Santa hats and were singing a raucous rendition of ‘Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer’, but in their version it was another part of Rudolf’s anatomy that was going down in history. Conditions were good; despite the cold, it was a clear morning with just a hint of the morning mist in the air.

  Don, already stripped down to his Speedos, came over and slapped them both on the back.

  ‘It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here!’ He laughed. ‘Ready for a good pasting, boys?’

  Unlike Simon, who was waiting until the last minute to strip off, Piran was primed for action, his goggles sitting on his head in readiness.

  ‘Don’t be writing cheques your butt can’t cash, boy.’ He poked Don’s stomach good-naturedly.

  Jenna joined them and put an arm around each of their shoulders as they towered over her petite and slender frame.

  ‘Ah, my two favourite Pendruggan boys!’

  ‘Who are you putting your money on, Jenna?’ Simon asked through chattering teeth.