A baby cries in the corner. His mum is trying to shush him, but it’s a losing battle.
‘This hall is hardly the place to spend Christmas Day is it? And I can only put up one family in the vicarage with my own lot coming; we don’t have big places any more. In fact, I really should be doing some stuff for work.’ She smiles. ‘Christmassy stuff, you know. It’s a busy time of year for me. And I haven’t even done my shopping or bought a turkey yet.’
I can’t help laughing, even though things are so gloomy for many. ‘I’ll take over here. You go and do your Christmassy stuff. We’ve probably even got a spare turkey at Kilhallon.’
‘Thanks, Demi.’
‘I wish I could do more. Our cottages are full with guests and I can’t put people in yurts in this weather …’
‘It might come to that,’ Bev says. ‘Thanks for manning the fort. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.’
Cal walks in, almost bowed down under the weight of three large boxes. Emma takes one from him and starts to unpack it in the kitchen.
‘I bet this wasn’t how the Tennants expected to spend their holiday,’ he says to me as we open the other boxes, which are full of cans and dried foods.
‘They don’t seem to mind. We’ll have to give them a free short break as a thank-you.’
‘Alongside her volunteering, Emma works part time for a Cumbria tourist association and knows loads of travel trade press. She’s going to tell them how great Kilhallon is and put me in touch with them. I didn’t ask her to do it, but isn’t that great?’
Cal swings me into his arms in a rare moment when there’s no one around.
‘Yes. How the RNLI and mountain rescue teams manage to do their day jobs and this kind of work is incredible.’
‘You’ve given up a lot of time to help, yourself, Cal. You look shattered and you’re used to this kind of work. It’s all new to Kit. How’s he getting on?’ Although I managed to get back to Kilhallon and snatch a few hours’ sleep, Cal and Kit decided to spend last night in the community centre with some of the stranded families and volunteers.
Cal pinches his forehead and blinks. His eyes are red with fatigue. ‘Knackered, wet, cold, but we haven’t come to blows again yet. We’re too busy.’
‘But you’ll talk to him?’
‘Guys don’t talk.’
‘Cal!’
‘If he wants to speak to me in a sensible way that’s not aggressive and full of crap, then yeah, I’ll talk to him, but he has to get back to London tonight. He’s going to stay at a motorway hotel overnight and then spend Christmas with his parents. His real parents.’
‘Oh, Cal. I’m sorry about what’s happened between you, and for how hurt you must have been.’ I also know when to back off from hassling him about Kit. They’re working together and Kit’s here. That’s as much as I could ever have dreamed of, and while I’m itching to know what’s gone on between them, now’s not the time.
‘I’m too busy to think of the past. I need to think about now,’ he says briskly. ‘And what’s going to happen later tonight and tomorrow when I have you to myself. I don’t even know if you’ll have the time or energy to cook Christmas lunch after I’ve finished with you.’
‘That won’t matter, because you’re cooking Christmas lunch, remember?’
‘Well, I think we’ll just make do with beans on toast in that case. I can add a sprig of holly if I have to.’
His lips taste of salt as he kisses me, and his hair is tangled with seawater and the cold wind, but he’s never been sexier to me. I hate myself for the way I’m almost trembling in his arms. It’s way too late to ever back out. I love Cal, I’m in love with him. I know he wants me, needs me perhaps. I hear a cough from the door, then voices. Will Tennant and a couple of women from the RNLI walk in, smirking at catching us snogging. Cal drops his hand from my bottom and we spring apart. My cheeks burn.
‘How’s Polly coping with the guests?’ I ask Cal.
‘Fine, I think. No one’s checked out threatening to give us one star on TripAdvisor yet. How are the staff managing in the cafe without you?’
‘Good. So well, apparently, that I wonder if they need me at all. Polly’s helping out and Nina’s in charge, and we close at three today anyway. I ought to go and see how they’re doing, but I can’t head off until Bev gets back. I hate leaving these people like this.’ We take in the sleeping bags spread out in the meeting room of the centre. Most people have gone to friends and relatives by now so the remaining families have been moved into the side room for a bit of extra privacy.
‘You know there are people with nowhere to go? It’s Christmas Day tomorrow. Everyone’s doing their best, but the storm affected people up and down the coast, not just St Trenyan, and all the hotels are full. We have to do something, Cal.’
‘We can’t put them all up.’
‘No, but we can give it a try.’
He sighs. ‘To be honest, I’ve been thinking the same. What about the staff cottages? Two of them aren’t ready for guests but at least they’re safe, warm and watertight even if the decorating is only half done. We’d need new bedding for them but with a bit of a team effort, we could put up two families for a short while.’
‘Some of them could share my cottage as I’m staying with you, if one of them doesn’t mind sleeping on a sofa.’
‘Yes … Demi, I know this has been a disaster for the local people, but there’s one good thing come out of it.’
‘You mean that we realised our row meant nothing in the grand scheme of things?’ I say.
‘Something like that. When all this is over, we need to have a serious talk.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘A serious talk? I thought guys didn’t do serious talks?’
He gives me a peck on the cheek then whispers, ‘You drive me mad, Demi Jones, in every possible way.’
‘Good,’ I reply, bubbling over with hope and relief, despite the circumstances. ‘I’ll tell Rev Bev that we can offer these people a home when she gets back and try to make some arrangements.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Christmas Eve, afternoon
Cal
By two o’clock, the sun is already sinking over the horizon to the west of the harbour. The sky is that turquoise blue you get on a midwinter afternoon as the day draws in. I watch Kit help a man carry a glass and metal table out of one of the quayside cottages where we’ve been helping people clear out their houses with the RNLI. I found him the worst jobs I could think of, those that involved wading through freezing sewage-filled water and, far more difficult, comforting devastated people who’ve lost everything.
Justice? Petty? Maybe, but I don’t give a toss either way.
A sodden sofa and chair lie in a skip, a rolled-up carpet hangs over the edge. The rest of the family and volunteers are still sweeping out sludge and mud from the sitting room that fronts directly onto the harbour wall. Poor beggars, they won’t be back in there for a while. The middle-aged lady who owns it sweeps furiously, though I know she’s been up for over twenty-four hours. It’s as if she wants to sweep away the whole event, wishing it hadn’t happened. The sea is unstoppable.
Kit lifts the table into a van and leaves the man loading other items while he walks over to the woman. He takes the broom from her and she bursts into tears. He puts his arm around her and her shoulders shake. He glances around at me. Does he want me to see him doing his Good Samaritan act? Are his good deeds all an act, as so much of his behaviour has been over the past couple of months? Is it a smokescreen to put me off my guard? Is it a lie? My father’s whole existence was a lie …
The woman’s husband takes her from Kit and says something. I think it’s a ‘thank-you’. Kit glances at me again and walks over.
He’s soaking wet despite the waterproofs the RNLI found for him. His face is red with the cold and he looks exhausted.
Good.
We stand in silence for a little while, watching the husband and RNLI member persuade his wife to leave w
ith them.
‘Have they got somewhere to stay?’ I ask.
‘Yes. They have friends who’ve offered to put them up but the woman, Leanne, wouldn’t leave until now. I’m relieved she’s finally agreed to go. Their house is full of raw sewage. It’s unbelievable. I watched the footage on the news last night but I’d no idea how bad it really was. The smell … It’s terrible, and you can tell from people’s faces that they’re crushed, at Christmas too, poor bastards.’
‘Yeah, the damage is what makes great pictures and footage, but nothing prepares you for the impact on people’s lives. That’s here long after the cameras and journos have gone.’
Kit’s silent and so am I. If he’s pissed off about my ‘journo’ dig, he either isn’t reacting or is too knackered to have noticed. I want to shout at him and ask him about his decision to publish his story about me, but I’m too proud. I’d rather be thrown to the wolves.
‘You’ve seen a lot worse of course,’ Kit says out of the blue.
‘Have I?’
‘You know you have.’
‘Yes, I have. An outsider might say that the people here are lucky. No one died, though I don’t know how, and we’re not under fire, or being invaded, but try telling these people they’re lucky when the insurance decides not to pay out or they need a mortgage on the place. We’re only a little town, with little problems on a world scale, but it doesn’t take much to destroy everything people have spent their lives building up.’
‘You don’t need to spell it out, Cal. I’m fully aware of the effect what I’d planned to do would have had on you personally.’
Planned to. I daren’t hope he’s really changed his mind.
‘Have you told Mawgan Cade what you think happened in Syria?’ I ask him.
Kit shakes his head. ‘Do you think I’m completely stupid?’
‘I have wondered.’
He laughs at me. ‘Give me some credit. Of course I haven’t. Getting involved with Mawgan was a mistake. It was cruel to her.’
I resist the urge to snort. ‘She’ll get over it. I’m sure she was using you more than the other way round. Mawgan had her heart replaced with granite long ago.’
‘Maybe you’re right. I do know when I’m being played,’ he says.
‘I’m sure you do.’
A trace of a smile twitches his lips but we both let it pass. One of us is going to have the last word.
‘I’d love to stay on, but I have to go back to London. My parents will be expecting me.’
‘Yeah, I should think they are.’
Silence again, then he turns to me. ‘Cal. I’ve something to say to you. I don’t like what your father did …’
Instantly my hackles rise, but I’m trying to stay calm. We both need to hear what he has to say. ‘Hey, I have news for you. I’m not thrilled about it either, and I’m sorry for your mother. I’m even sorry that my father’s affair with Mawgan’s mother caused a rift in their family too, but I had no real idea at the time. My mum hid her own pain for a long time for my sake, of course. She must have known what my father was doing and been deeply hurt. I’ve often thought bottling up all that pain over the years, putting on a brave front, didn’t help her illness.’
‘I’m sorry for that. Genuinely,’ Kit replies and I think I believe him.
‘But my dad wasn’t a monster,’ I go on, trying to keep a lid on my emotions. Fighting won’t help either of us now. ‘He was a weak, flawed man and I’m not excusing what he did – but no one is perfect or innocent, as you’ve been at pains to point out to me. I wish I’d spoken to him more, or tried to while I could – even though he’d probably have told me to shut up or laughed at me. We just didn’t have that kind of relationship. But it’s too late now.’
Kit listens to me carefully. I genuinely think he is prepared to hear what I have to say. A sudden noise, the grate of metal on metal, distracts us both. It’s a lorry hoisting the remains of someone’s belongings into a skip.
Kit grimaces. ‘Look. I’ve come to realise that I’ve probably let my personal feelings get in the way of my professional life. I told myself I was pursuing you because it was an interesting story, but now I know the opposite is true. I was pursuing you because I knew that raking up that part of your life would hurt you. I was bitter, confused, envious and jealous of what you have: peace and quiet, Kilhallon, our father’s love, and Demi’s.’
‘What?’
‘You heard, you lucky bastard, and I’m not going to repeat it. I’m also not going to try to publish the story,’ he says.
I snort, hardly daring to believe him or let myself realise how desperate I am for him to back down.
‘Why should I believe a ruthless journalist wouldn’t follow up a juicy story?’
‘Because he does have some family loyalty. Because he realises that being a bastard may be part of the job, but it doesn’t define him as a man. I haven’t had a conversion, but Demi came to me, Cal, and spoke to me. I sent her away, I was patronising and sarcastic to her; it was too soon. She caught me just at the moment when I’d already worked out for myself what a tosser I was being, that I was probably a little in the wrong for what I’d done. So I’m sorry to her and I’ll tell her that I am when I see her again. If I see her. But it’s you she really wanted me to speak to. It was you she came to see me about.’
‘Jesus, Demi spoke to you?’
‘Yes. She’s brave, she’s interfering, she’s crazy, but she quite likes you, you lucky git. I probably hate you more now than before.’
‘Did you actually hate me when you came to Kilhallon?’
‘Hate’s a strong word. Not hate. Not now. Probably not ever. Shit, can we just leave this? It’s excruciating enough to have to eat humble pie. Don’t expect me to relish the meal. How would you feel?’
‘Probably even less enthusiastic than you. Neither of us enjoys admitting we’re wrong, do we? So we do have that in common. Does Demi know about your decision not to go public with the article?’ I ask.
‘No, and you can rest assured the story won’t get out because of me. I can’t promise that someone else won’t find out, though, and they won’t think twice about using it if they decide it would make good copy so I’d keep a low profile if I were you.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
He smiles wryly. ‘Maybe … Cal, I have to set off for home. I won’t be back in London until tomorrow. I owe my parents some quality time and a proper explanation of why I decided to spend months down here. It was to finish my book – that was no lie – but as for wanting to see you and Kilhallon, I denied all of that.’
‘Is your mother upset about you coming back here?’
‘She’s confused, I think, about her feelings for your father, but kinder on him than I am. I’m sorry, I can’t handle forgiveness yet. I’m not sure I ever will …’
‘You don’t have to forgive him on my account. I don’t expect or ask you to, but listen to me: he was my dad and he stuck by me and I loved him. I’m sorry he didn’t behave the way he should towards you but that’s how it is.’ My hackles rise again, his too, I expect. I don’t care. I can’t lie about Dad. For all his faults, and there were many, I loved him. I won’t deny that for anybody’s peace of mind.
Kit stares at me. ‘You’re his real son. I might have half his genes, but I’m not like you.’
Demi would say he is, I think. She would say we’re two peas in a pod, Kit and I.
‘My mum was upset, at first, that I wanted to return here. She said I ought not to rake up the past and that my dad – my step-father – would be hurt by it, but coming to Kilhallon was something I needed to do and I’m glad I did. I am genuinely sorry about the way I handled things. Or didn’t handle them. Demi was right. I was pursuing you for revenge. She said I was “better than that”.’
‘She’s often right. Not always, but far too often.’ My smile of pleasure that Demi braved Kit for my sake must show on my face although I don’t mean it to.
‘You sti
ll haven’t told her what happened out there yet, have you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Jesus.’ He blows out a breath. ‘You really do like to live dangerously. Well, it’s none of my business now, but if I were Demi and your family, I’d want to know at least part of the truth, even if it can never be the whole story.’
‘No one will ever know the whole story. Not your army “source” or anyone who wasn’t there with me and Soraya that day.’
He looks at me. His lips part in surprise and confusion. ‘Perhaps not, but let’s leave it at that.’
I glance at the sky. It’s turned gloomy now, although the emergency lighting illuminates the quayside. ‘Not quite the harbour lights any of us expected,’ Kit says.
‘No … I think you’d better get on your way. There’s snow forecast once you get past Bristol. I don’t want you getting stuck and having to be rescued, do I?’
He smiles. ‘I don’t expect gratitude or brotherly love, a handshake would do.’
I take his hand and briefly, we’re connected.
‘Goodbye, Kit.’
‘Bye, Cal. Good luck. Maybe we’ll meet again in happier circumstances. I don’t think either of us has finished here, do you?’
‘Safe journey,’ is all I can manage.
With a nod that tells me he knows I’m not ready to discuss reunions yet, he turns away and walks off.
‘Thanks, Kit.’
The words escape my mouth before my brain can stop them. Kit carries on walking, but he lifts his hand, slightly and for a second. Then he’s gone from sight.
My shoulders slump in relief and I have to take a moment to steady myself. Then another … and another. After the tension of the past few days and the discovery that I have a brother and he isn’t – quite – the lying, vindictive bastard I imagined or perhaps wanted him to be, I find my hands aren’t quite steady. Raking up the past in all its forms has been painful.
Christmas at the Cornish Café Page 24
