A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall: The most heartwarming Cornish Christmas romance of 2019!

by Jane Linfoot

‘But what are you wearing?’ It comes out as a whimper.

  Miranda beams down at me from a top step. ‘They’re Cockle Shell Castle sweat shirts, aren’t they lovely, isn’t this a gorgeous shade of yellow?’

  Keef’s below her, hanging on to her hips, her bum wedged against his chest, but he manages to turn around. ‘Bill found a huge box of them in the laundry. #TeamChristmas on the back, that’s definitely us!’ He’s patting his stomach. ‘All different colours too! Come and see this gorgeous, glittery writing, it’s actually edged in sequins.’

  ‘I don’t need to look, I …’ ordered the damn things, spent hours poring over the different fonts, choosing the wording, agonising over whether to pay the massive amount extra for that damned edging ‘… I saw it when I unpacked them.’ They were so beautiful. What’s more, they’re not meant for random surfies, they were part of my secret stash, my personal thank you to all Libby’s guests for sharing their Christmas with me. Also designed to whip out in case of a crisis to pull the party together. Although why the hell I’d think there’d be any of those, I can’t imagine.

  Miranda’s staring down at me. ‘You need to join in too or you’ll spoil the effect. Even Ambie’s wearing one, he’s in the tub but he’s rolled it up to his armpits to keep it out of the water.’ As Bill comes in she’s even beaming at him. ‘Cockle Shell Castle tops, that’s another no brainer you’re missing out on, Bill.’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘Branded clothing for naturists – how’s that a good fit, Miranda?’

  Miranda’s laughing. ‘You’re such a naughty tease. It’s a good thing I’m pleased with my bed.’

  My eyes are popping in disbelief. ‘You actually have your four poster?’ When it comes to getting what she wants, Miranda is a human dynamo, we could all do with taking lessons. Although I suspect her methods are probably too ‘Hollywood starlet’ for anyone in my generation to be comfortable with.

  She’s nodding like a cat who’s had cream and fresh red tuna. ‘Timber battens lashed with natural hemp rope, draped with twists of muslin. All Keef’s design, and so unbelievably floaty, he’s doing them for the other rooms too.’

  ‘Astonishing. I mean brilliant!’ I pass my bag up to Taj on the other ladders, then incline my head. ‘Here’s the shells, if I could just have a private word with Bill in the kitchen?’ It’s out before I realise my folly.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, Bill compounds it. ‘Yes, fine by me, I need that too.’

  Miranda’s chortling down at me. ‘Absolutely, and not before time, sweetheart.’ She gives me a wink. ‘Take as long as you want, we know the score, we’ll all stay out here and give you some space.’

  It would matter more if Bill and Miranda weren’t daggers drawn. Except, I’m hopeful that now she’s got her posts and wispy twists, and with Libby arriving, she’ll fade into the background and be less confrontational.

  As for confrontation, I’m so silently apoplectic about my own disappointment, the second we reach the kitchen I turn on Bill.

  ‘So you found the sweatshirts and decided to give them out?’

  He’s looking sickeningly pleased with himself. ‘You pushed me to use my festive initiative and I went the extra mile. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Only that they were meant for a different team entirely. But I’ll order more.’ And hope they arrive faster than the decorations. Which I’ll move on to next.

  His eyes are bright. ‘They totally worked, everyone’s been so much jollier since they put them on. Who knew festive sweatshirts would make such a difference, maybe there’s something in your “maxing out the Christmas shit” theory after all.’

  If the next bit wasn’t so urgent, I’d spend longer basking in the ‘I told you so’ glory. But it’s already two, so I’m moving this on. ‘And is there any news on the decorations, have they arrived?’ I was at the beach for ages, so surely they must have done.

  I watch his throat bulge as he swallows. ‘Well yes …’

  My chest drops in sheer relief. In my head I’m punching the air, I’m so happy I almost hug him, but then I notice his expression. ‘Yes … what?’

  It takes a while for his grating reply to arrive. ‘Yes … and … er … no.’

  My heart’s suddenly banging in my chest and I’m shouting. ‘What the hell kind of answer is that? It can’t be both.’ Except from the deepening hollows in his cheeks, maybe it can.

  He clears his throat. ‘Well, yes, they have arrived. But not here.’

  ‘Okay, where the eff are they? We can send out a search party … let’s courier them over.’ Whatever it takes, I need those babies, and I need them now.

  He blinks, and blows out a long breath. ‘They were accidentally sent to my old London address.’

  ‘Great, that’s easy then.’ Mix ups like that happen all the time, at least we know where they are and I’m sure he said that’s where Gemma is. If we go for super-fast delivery, we should get them in seven hours. I can work with that.

  Under his stubble his skin is more grey than white. ‘I’m sorry, there was a gargantuan mix up, and now they’ve disappeared from the system completely.’

  I’m clinging onto the kitchen island so hard, my knuckles are white. As my heart leaves my chest and slides down to somewhere around my knees, I stagger backwards and sink onto the sofa. In my head an entire castle of empty trees are flashing past my eyes. It’s sinking in that as far as Libby goes, an empty tree is way worse than no tree at all. So when I finally speak, it’s a whisper. ‘What do we do now?’

  He flops down on the sofa next to me, pulls up a knee and rubs his chin on the back of his hand. ‘It’s what my dad would call a FISH moment – frig it, shit happens. Excuse the cliché avalanche but we’re going to have to go with the flow, roll with the punches … and come up with another plan.’

  ‘Right.’ I’m almost keeping up with him. ‘What kind of other plan?’

  He pulls a face. ‘I haven’t got that far yet.’ He reaches across to the coffee table and picks up a bun. As he bites into it, it’s nice to see that his teeth aren’t quite as even as they could be.

  As if you could think of eating at times like this. I’m actually thinking how it would feel to run my tongue over those teeth, which is totally unhelpful, and obviously my own completely off-the-wall inappropriate reaction to the trauma of the situation.

  He’s staring at me expectantly. ‘You’re the specialist here, what do you suggest?’

  I’m racking my brain as I look at the clock. ‘We have six hours, maybe even eight. We just need to keep calm …’

  ‘Keep calm … and eat cranberry swirls.’ He holds up another bun. ‘Pom Pom, we’ve got this.’

  In the distance Miranda’s peals of laughter are echoing down the hall. And I could be wrong, but I think Bill might have apologised back there. Which isn’t like him at all. But there are more voices too. Excited shouts, a shriek or two. Except these ones are coming from beyond the French windows. Bill’s holding up his hand in the air, and I’m weighing up if high fiving him is going too far when I hear the wail of a baby, and a louder voice over the rest.

  However fast my heart was beating before, I swear it stops dead now. ‘Fuck, that’s Harriet … and Libby … THEYRE HERE!!!!’

  Bill’s up before me, tearing across the kitchen. Then he’s back twice as fast, thrusting something soft into my hands. ‘Quick, put this on. I saved the pink one for you.’

  As I run blindly for the door, and push my arms into the sleeves, I’m letting out a low wail. ‘How’s a sweatshirt going to help any? We’re washed up … Christmas crackered … toast.’

  And then Libby’s at the door, and I know we’re totally screwed.

  13.

  Define good …

  ‘Come on in, Libby, this is Bill, and it’s SO GREAT YOU’RE HERE!’

  Obviously I’m lying, and over compensating for the shock with volume because when I listen to myself, I’m actually yelling. I’m frantically trying to get everyone past the bare k
itchen tree, whooshing them along, hoping if we hurry through the entrance hall will be finished enough to give the impact we need.

  As I wave Libby’s four kids in it’s like pages of Libby’s latest earth-friendly child wear catalogue flicking past under my nose. Tomas is the eldest and is almost a teenager, but he’s shot up two feet since I last saw him, and seems to have swapped smiley tractor prints for attitude and a black puffa jacket that’s so big he could fit a bed inside there as well as himself. He’s also keeping his hat on indoors, and it’s pulled even further down than mine, so we have an instant bond. Then there are the girls, Tiffany and Tansy, who are ten and eight, and the youngest boy Tarquin who’s coming up to five. And if ever I’m confused as to who belongs to who, my clue is – Libby’s kids’ names all begin with a T.

  Fliss’s three year old, Oscar, fist bumps me as he bounces past, but it was probably accidental. He’s jumping and punching the air, and the stick he’s waving around is the size of a small telegraph pole.

  Fliss’s kiss hits my cheek. ‘Okay, Ivy-star?’ She’s clutching baby Harriet whose squawk rips my ear drum and as Fliss sags into my hug I can feel her weariness. ‘We set off yesterday or we might not have got here at all.’

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, Fliss.’ I mean it this time. She’s so much smaller than me, my chin’s wedged against her messy up-do and I just know her hair hasn’t been brushed in a week. Beyond the tangles I can see Bill dipping in and out of a box like it’s a jumble sale, helping the kids out of their coats and into Cockle Shell Castle sweatshirts.

  Where Fliss is small, rounded, and soft as an eiderdown, Libby’s diminutive frame is as taut as Madonna’s in her break dance days when she carried a ghetto blaster round on her shoulder, wore skin tone fishnets and danced the arses off the guys in the street with her skimpy leotard. As I watch Libby peeling off her cashmere roll neck and wiggling into a powder blue version of the Christmas sweatshirt, the diamanté Gucci hair slide is sparkling as she reclips it. ‘Getting the freebies in early – Bill, is it? Let’s hope it’s not downhill from here.’

  For now I’ll let him claim them. It’s just lucky I ordered extras, they have to be running out.

  Next thing, Bill’s striding over to Fliss. ‘Peacock blue okay for you?’

  I’m blinking because that’s the exact one I’d picked out for her. Then my eyes open wider.

  As he scoops Harriet out of Fliss’s arms and hands her the sweatshirt, Harriet’s wailing stops.

  I’m staring at him. ‘That baby’s cried non-stop for eleven months, how the hell did you do that?’

  He gives a shrug. ‘Years of practice.’ He’s balancing Harriet in the crook of his arm and she’s cooing at him, poking his cheeks with her pudgy fingers.

  I’ve fallen for his bollocks once too often, he’s not getting me again. ‘Really …’

  He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Of course not, it’s beginners’ luck. Desperate times and all that, from now on I’ll be keeping out of the way of everyone under eighteen. You take her now.’ A second later she lands on my stomach and I slide her onto my hip, then gently ease her back to Fliss.

  Then he turns to the rest of them as they pull down their sweatshirts and smile at the sequins. All apart from Libby, obviously. ‘So if you’d all like to come this way and follow Ivy, we’ll show you the rest of the castle.’

  ‘Here we go, wait for it …’ I’m talking under my breath, pulling a face at Fliss. The tree might be huge but whatever we’ve done to make the castle better, it’s so different from what Libby bought into. When she doesn’t get what she orders her eruptions are legendary. So far what she’s seen are the good bits, and she’s looking really sour. Given the serious lack of luxury in the parts ahead, there has to be trouble coming.

  With the blast about to break over our heads, as we make our way towards the hall I’m kicking myself … if only I hadn’t gone to bed, if only I’d tracked the orders better, if only I’d argued less with Bill and twigged they were on their way. I mean, after five days I’m almost used to the rocky walls but when you see them for the first time they look seriously cave-like. I’ve been holding my breath all the way from the kitchen, and as we burst through into the hallway I’m waiting for the light glinting off the miniature bottles and the sea shells spinning on their ribbons. The scent of fresh pine tree as we take in the thousands of tiny stud lights between the branches. Desperate for them to save us.

  But mostly what we see are Miranda, Keef and assorted surfies, still swarming over the branches hanging the last of the shells. It’s so messy and unprofessional I know we’re totally done for.

  For once Bill’s refined accent’s working in our favour, let’s hope he’s got enough sense to hurry Libby through. ‘So this is the entrance hall.’

  Libby blinks. ‘I see you’re making the most of product placement.’

  From Bill’s frown, he hasn’t got a clue what she’s talking about. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Your gin on my Instagram feed – you’ll end up owing us if we’re not careful.’

  Bill sends her an appalled stare. ‘Jeez, I hope you’re joking, the whole point of a tiny distillery is to keep the brand unknown. Gin lovers discovering the secret for themselves is what keeps the price high.’ In which case he really should have said earlier.

  I’m rolling my eyes and willing him to shut up. ‘With her millions of followers you might have blown that one, shall we move on through?’

  Bill shakes himself back. ‘Sure, so this leads through to the …’

  Just before he claims it as a chill out space I jump in again. ‘… these are the family areas. Aren’t the log fires amazing?’ They certainly are to me, they weren’t there when I left for the beach. But burning in the monumental fireplaces, their warmth and the flickering glow has made the whole room come alive, and made the spaces feel ten times more festive and cosy in the fading afternoon light.

  Bill’s dashing ahead of us. ‘We’ll put the guards across straight away now you’re here.’

  Libby’s patting the back of a squishy leather chair from the barn. ‘I can see why you were horrified, Ivy, it certainly is “less in more”.’ She lets out a sigh. ‘Oh well, it’s only two weeks. And if there’s nothing to smash we won’t have to pay for breakages.’

  I should be grateful, her reaction could have been worse. ‘How about a nice cup of tea in front of a roaring fire?’

  I’m suddenly aware that she’s moved, come to a halt in front of the next tree and is frowning at it, so I clear my throat because it’s gone completely dry. ‘The trees … you’ve noticed we’ve left the smaller ones …’ I’m croaking ‘… we decided it was much more fun for everyone to help with those and the ones in the bedrooms too. That way everyone gets to personalise their own, it’s much more individual.’ It goes to show how your brain can come up with the most ridiculous stuff under pressure, and I’m still going. ‘We could even make our own decorations too.’

  Resting bitch face doesn’t begin to cover her expression. ‘And that’s exactly why we brought you, Ivy.’

  Instead of moving through to look at the dining area more closely, she wanders back into the hall, then turns to me again. ‘And another surprise! When you mentioned staff, I hadn’t imagined so many. Look at this lot, it’s like Chatsworth.’ What is there to say? Only that she possibly hates this less than the rest.

  Beyond Libby’s head the whites of Bill’s eyes are flashing. ‘Our human resources envelope is super-elastic, we bring in the manpower on an “as and when” basis.’ At a guess, he’s bricking it here.

  I’m rolling my eyes at him. ‘Really … nicely put, Bill.’

  It doesn’t take much to snap Libby back into business-woman mode. ‘Great move … if you can get away with it.’

  That tiny bit of encouragement and Bill’s flying now. ‘We definitely benefit from the seasonal nature of the local economy, it keeps the hired hands hungry. And we also like to maximise the opportunities for the older workforce.�
� Flying so close to the sun, he’s in danger of crashing face down in his own bullshit.

  I shoot him a ‘shut the hell up’ look. I think he’s forgetting, he’s the man who had seating for ten, a booking for twenty-five and no dining table. He just managed to lose twenty mahoosive boxes of Christmas deccies. However obliging his dad’s mates are, he’s not about to win Businessman of the Year.

  I’m moving this on while we’re still ahead. ‘So maybe we should bring in the luggage, get that cup of tea.’

  Tomas might look like he’s old enough to ask for a razor for Christmas, but he’s waggling his phone in Libby’s face, sticking his bottom lip out like a badly behaved six year old, and whining like he’s three. ‘Mother … you do know there’s still no signal?’

  If it’s any consolation, Libby’s just as curt with him. ‘Your holiday challenge is to find it. Why else do you think we brought all those boxed set DVDs and the vintage Gameboys?’

  ‘Thanks a bunch MUM!!! NOT!!!’

  She’s totally dismissing his concerns. ‘There’s a whole beach for you to play on, get on with it.’

  ‘Fuck sandcastles, forget the effing bastard beach, this is the shittest place ever!!!’ Tomas wrenches open the enormous front door and slams it behind him.

  As the bottles jingle on the tree, and ten mouths drop open, I know exactly how he feels. I’ve been there. What’s more, the other kids are still here, but they’re scowling at Libby as if they’d like to nuke her.

  ‘But M-u-u-u-m …’ It’s the smaller girl now.

  Libby’s eyes zone out. ‘Don’t start, Tansy.’

  ‘But you totally tricked us, you’ve brought us here by false pretending, it’s like kidnapping. If our phones were actually working we’d report you to Childline for lying.’ Her eyes are flashing, and she’s obviously inherited her resting bitch face and her tough talking from her mother.

  And there’s a strangled echo from the bigger girl. ‘How are me and Tansy going to upload our vlogs? All our followers are waiting for updates.’ She stares at her mum accusingly. ‘Your products will suffer from this too, you know.’