A Cornish Christmas (8 page)

I grinned. Old fox indeed! But Terry's cakes were indeed legendary, thinking fondly of the triple chocolate fudge I'd had the other day.

While we waited for the kettle to boil, Bess shared the latest village news. Apparently, Gertrude Burrows had given up on trying to have Tomas's house removed from the village boundary and had moved on to trying to get Tomas deported instead.

‘Don't understand it meself – they got on for years, then they had a big fight in the nineties, which was when he put up all those godawful notices in his front garden, all to stop her poking her nose in his business.'

At this I burst out laughing – I hadn't known that!

‘Maybe she's got the hots for him?' I suggested with a giggle. ‘Spurned lover?'

Bess sniggered, then added, ‘Perhaps 'e didn't want to be her toy boy?', making us both howl.

Just as she cut us a slice of lemon drizzle, which made my mouth water in anticipation, Stuart suddenly appeared.

‘Hi Bess, sorry to barge in...' He looked at me pointedly, and said, ‘Love, got to head back home, the web designer just phoned to say he's on his way to test the Sea Cottage site – apparently there's a few things it'd be better to go through in person, so I must go. It's raining now, so I think I should take you back as well.'

I picked up my slice, but Stuart shook his head. ‘We're already running late...'

I looked from the window where the rain was indeed coming down in buckets, and then back at my slice of lemon drizzle sadly, and with a sigh stood up to say goodbye to Bess.

Bloody men!

I
t was
during the still hum of the night, with only the mournful sound of the waves crashing softly outside, echoing through the bedroom, that I understood.

I'd been tossing and turning, and in my dreams it felt like I was on the edge of remembering something.

Three a.m.

I crept out of bed and up to the studio, leaving Stuart asleep, Muppet in his arms. Now, under cover of night, I realised this was meant solely for me.

Three a.m., the witching hour, when ghosts roam free. At any other time of the day you could convince yourself otherwise, but when the night made that shushing sound and the world held its breath and the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end... anything, anything at all, seemed possible.

It was then in the early hours of the morning that I began to remember something that I'd long thought forgotten, or perhaps I blanked it from my memory, because remembering it would only serve to cause me pain.

It was long ago, before she fell ill.

One of those comments that had just made Mum, well, Mum. We'd gone to visit Haworth, the home of the Brontës, just the two of us. It was an obsession we shared, a mutual love of the dark, gothic sisters growing up on the Yorkshire moors. I was only thirteen at the time, but still the trip was one of those special moments that live on in your memory. The house, with its accompanying graveyard and lingering memory of a family who had known such deep suffering, was incredibly affecting. We couldn't help but wonder if, like Emily's Heathcliff and Cathy, the sisters still roamed the moors to whisper their secrets after dark.

I remember saying that I hoped that they did, so that they could see the effects they had had, long after they were gone. And Mum had said if it were her, she'd find a way to come back to let me know that she was fine, that death wasn't the end.

She meant it, I knew she did, and at the time I believed her with childish conviction, comforted that she would.

Years later, when she fell ill with Stage IV ovarian cancer, I thought of that day and of her words – of her promise – and thought perhaps she had told me what she wished would be true.

Yet now, I had to consider what I'd spent years trying to deny. The rational side of my brain said no, it wasn't possible. It was a manifestation of years of childish hope and grief. Yet despite knowing it was absurd, hope had found me, nonetheless.

As I stood in the still air of the studio, the moonlight entering the window and falling upon the desk, I knew somehow there was something waiting for me.

I crossed the room slowly, reverentially... barely able to breathe, only to pause, my throat swelling with emotion. On the desk, made by air and gossamer wisps of moonlight, lay a single perfect baby bootie, glowing in the dusky starlight. My hands shook as I picked it up and cradled it in my palm, the size of a whisper, the weight of a kiss.

I closed my eyes and let the tears fall. She'd found a way, after all.

I
stared
at the little bootie for hours.

Knowing, without knowing how, that it could only be Mum. Three letters that I haven't been able to think about, let alone feel, without the accompanying swell of my throat. Staring, wide-eyed, wondering, hoping, selfishly wishing for more.

At some point though, I must have fallen asleep, which even now seems mad because there was this part of me that felt like I may never dare sleep again.

When I awoke, I knew. I sat up quickly and opened my palm. A wild search confirmed.

Gone.

I felt an indefinable sense of loss.

Had it just been a dream? My eyes fell on the little Christmas card, relieved to see Rudolph's nose still shimmering, gold and red.

I don't know how, but I managed to get through my day, finishing up four more illustrations for
The Fudge Files
, Detective Sergeant Fudge hot on the case of the missing brolly, despite risk to life and paw from a rather bristly porcupine named Solstice Spike.

At teatime, Catherine surprised me.

‘What's this I hear about you sniffing wine bottles?'

I looked up to see her leaning against the door jamb, olive green eyes amused, her long sleek red hair striking against her cashmere shawl, behind which Stuart was attempting to hide his six-foot self, but he was unable to hide his sniggers.

I narrowed my eyes in a mock glare at him for his betrayal, ‘
Et tu
, Everton? You had to call in for some reinforcement?'

Stuart backed away, like a man leaving a firing squad, arms above his head. ‘I'll put the kettle on. Shall I uncork you a bottle?' he asked.

‘Very funny,' I answered.

Catherine shook her head as she watched him leave, her even smile showing her dimples. ‘I've brought dessert. I wouldn't want you to sniff on an empty stomach.'

I laughed. ‘Good thinking! How did you get in – did you drive?' I asked. Catherine still lived in London, with her husband and three children. I hated to think that she had spent hours driving to get here, just to look after me.

‘No, don't worry, we're down here for an extended Christmas/New Year's holiday. The children are at my dad's place – the school's closed so we're making the most of it.'

‘Ah, brilliant!' I said, thrilled to think that she'd be in the area for some time. It was Catherine's fondest wish to also return to Cornwall, but with Richard playing rugby in London, it wasn't possible just yet.

‘Oh, are these the latest?' she asked, peering over my shoulder at the finished illustrations of Detective Sergeant Fudge, paw pinned onto Solstice Spike, the red brolly in his claws.

‘Hot off the press,' I concurred.

Just then the inspiration behind Britain's beloved, slobbering detective came caterwauling around the corner, running with her trademark sideways sprint, treading air for half a beat, eyes slightly crossed. In total, mad glee.

‘Muppet!' exclaimed Catherine, giving her god-fur-child a hug.

‘Oh wow' she added, as she straightened, holding Muppet in all her fifty-five-pound glory in her arms, her eyes falling on my mother's desk. ‘It seems so strange to see it here. It's smaller than I remember, but it looks good... right?'

I nodded. ‘I know, it's strange, I thought so too. I thought it would look out of place, but it fits.'

Catherine smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘You know, often when I think of her, it's from behind that desk. Even when I would visit your dad, it was hard to see it... without her. I can't imagine what you must feel, having it here,' she said, touching the fine rosewood.

I sighed. ‘It's been... strange. Really strange,' I said truthfully. ‘But good too – I feel more connected with her in a way.'

Catherine nodded. She cocked her head to one side in contemplation, her soft green eyes considering. ‘You know, seeing it there I almost feel like she's here... like the desk is waiting or something.'

I blinked in shock.

Her face coloured slightly. ‘Sorry, just being silly... that sounded mad even for me. Just had a weird feeling – ignore me. Come, cake...' she said, swiftly changing the subject and nodding towards the door for me to follow, while Muppet grinned at me happily over her shoulder, encased in her cream, cashmere-covered arms.

Gobsmacked, I stared at her retreating back, momentarily rooted to the floor, heart pounding. I compelled my feet to follow, giving the desk a final glance. She was right, it did appear to be waiting – she wasn't being silly at all.

After tea and cake, Catherine and I took Muppet for a walk, while Stuart retreated to the safety of his polytunnel, giving us both a hug and Catherine a meaningful look that conveyed their shared concern.

‘It's not the baby, is it?' she asked, as soon as we'd left the house, wind whipping her hair across her face. Catherine had a rip-the-stitches approach that I'd always appreciated. I realised, out of respect for Stuart, she'd kept this fear to herself while we all sat together eating and laughing this afternoon. It must have been killing her.

I shook my head. ‘No, thank goodness. The doctor is very positive this time,' I said, though hating to say those flimsy words aloud, even now, tempting fate. I'd been burnt before.

She sighed in relief. I'd told Catherine about the baby the same day I found out. Not telling her would have been unthinkable and impossible. She'd have figured it out – she's like a bloody bloodhound.

‘Still haven't told Dad yet,' I added, my lips tightening at the thought. ‘Just wanted to be sure first.'

Catherine gave me a sideways hug, eyes full. ‘He's going to be so happy.'

I nodded, closing my eyes for a second, knowing that when we told him it would feel more real.

Muppet raced ahead to bark at the waves and we shared a laugh at the crazy dog who was yet to solve this particular mystery.

‘So...' she said with a raised eyebrow, green eyes serious. ‘It's the desk, isn't it? That's what's driven you to sniff bottles,' she guessed.

I sighed. It was very hard to keep secrets from Catherine.

‘Yes... I don't know how to explain it... I'm not sure I understand it myself, but I just have this feeling like...' I swallowed, wondering just how much to tell her. Part of me wanted to bare all, tell her everything in exchange for her opinion. Have her tell me I wasn't going insane.

‘Like?' she asked, puzzled.

I took a steadying breath. ‘Like... she's trying to tell me something.'

Her pale brows shot up in surprise. ‘Really?'

I nodded. ‘It's mad... when you say it out loud.'

She shook her head. ‘No, I don't think so. It's your mum... I mean, God, it would be just like her, you know.'

I did know. Mum was one of those people who believed in the inexplicable, in magic. It's why she loved this time of year so much. She'd always say that anything could happen. And when she was around, the funny thing was, strange things often did.

Catherine stared at the beach. ‘Remember that time after dinner, that day when she suddenly looked at me like the world was ending, her face went awfully pale, and she told me to run home immediately and look behind the dresser in my dad's room?'

‘Of course.' I wasn't likely to forget. It had been really strange. One minute Mum was fine and the next all the blood had drained from her face; she'd looked terrified, like she'd seen a ghost.

‘That's when you went home and found your mum's wedding ring?' I prompted, remembering.

She nodded. ‘Dad was so shocked. He came in and found me there holding the ring, and, I never told you this, but he just started crying. Sobbing. He was broken. I'd never seen him like that before. It was only years later that he told me that I saved his life.'

I looked at her in shock. ‘What – why? What happened?'

‘Well, he'd just lost his business. That idiot Dave, remember him, his old partner at the factory? He'd been siphoning off the cash for years, while Dad tried to raise us alone, not realising his partner was robbing him blind, and that day, he'd found out just how bad it was. We were going to have to hand over the keys to everything. Essentially we were penniless. I never knew Dad with my mum, but everyone said that after she passed it was like the light went out of him. And this was... like the final straw really. None of us were home, so that's when he decided to do it.'

I gasped. ‘He was going to kill himself?'

She shrugged. ‘I don't know... He was in such a depression. He hadn't made any definite plans, but he says that just before I came home he'd started the car in the garage. When he heard the front door bang open and me rushing upstairs, he realised he wasn't alone... and with Mum's ring he realised that he wasn't alone in more ways than one.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, after that, he took it as a sign from Mum, you know, like she chose that moment to make me find the ring. If it hadn't been for your mum telling me to go home right then... I mean, who knows what would have happened?'

I couldn't believe this. I remembered her finding the ring and afterwards her dad seemed to come back to life. They moved house, closer to ours, which was great, and Catherine's dad started writing his first novel. This was before he became one of Britain's top thriller authors. Brian Talty was the reason Cath and I started writing our own stories.

‘My God, I had no idea...' I breathed. ‘I mean, I think I always did believe a little in her ability to see things that others didn't, but nothing like this... well, until now.'

‘Now?'

‘Now, I just feel like she's here. I mean, things have gone missing... only to reappear in her desk and...'

‘And?'

At this I stopped myself. I would tell Catherine, but just not yet. Not until I had a better handle on it myself. What was happening was so delicate... holding my hopes edged on the weight of a breath. I was afraid to disturb it too soon, expose it to the light, so I just said, truthfully, ‘And I think it's her.'

She nodded, eyebrows raised. ‘That's incredible and it would be so like her... I mean, she could have chosen any time to tell me about my mother's lost wedding ring, but somehow she knew... knew to tell me about it then. It's so like her to reach out now...'

I swallowed. ‘When I need her the most,' I said, echoing my own thoughts and wishes of only a few days ago. I blinked. Was it possible?

She nodded, answering my unspoken question. ‘It would be.'

We walked the rest of the way, arms linked. Catherine wondered just which of her sons my baby would marry, certain in their pre-destined love.

‘I could have a boy, you know,' I said.

‘Don't be mean and put that out there... it listens,' she whispered theatrically. ‘We need a girl.'

I laughed. ‘What listens?' I asked, smiling.

She gave me a pointed look. ‘It... the universe... Murphy, whoever runs this mad, bloody show,' she said, green eyes narrowing as she looked up at the sky. Catherine lived with three robust, rowdy boys under the age of five, her husband, and her male dog, Trouble (a Jack Russell terrier who lived up to his name). When it all got a bit too much, when she'd tripped over yet another piece of Star Wars Lego and Trouble had run the carpet bare fetching his ball, Catherine would get that look in her eye, the one that said ‘One word of complaint and someone is going to lose an eye' and she would hand over the boy reins to Richard, who despite his sheer mammoth size and Christmas-ham thighs, would stand there meekly, watching her go with a forlorn expression in his hazel eyes, while Catherine sought some female company with Muppet and me.

‘Anyway...' I teased. ‘Even if I had a boy, they may still marry. I mean, look at Ben.'

She laughed. Ben, one of my three godsons, had taken to wearing pink. A lot.

‘True!' she laughed. ‘It's hard work getting Tim and Jase not to tease him too much. Brothers, you know...' she sighed. ‘Though it's a nice change... the pink.'

‘The Guilt?' I asked

‘The Guilt,' she concurred.

Catherine and I had spoken about The Guilt at length. Where you just never knew if you were doing the right thing. Everyone had an opinion and being a mum in today's age was not easy: far too many people with a platform and an axe to grind. You could only try your best and do what you thought was right. For now, that was letting the little bugger wear his tutu if he wanted to.

‘Claire Thomas,' she sighed.

‘Ah,' I said, nodding, though I had no reason to.

‘She had a little speech at the school gate the other day.'

‘I hate Claire Thomas,' I said, with narrowed eyes.

She laughed. ‘You don't even know who Claire Thomas
is
.'

‘Even so... I hate her on principle... people who give speeches at school gates... Besides, I've never known a nice Claire before.'

Catherine giggled. ‘That's not true! Claire Braithwaite was very nice.'

I raised a brow in mock shock. ‘No, she wasn't... Don't you remember what she called me?'

‘Er... was this before or after you stole Derek Jones from her?'

My mouth twisted wryly. ‘Okay, well... after, but I hardly stole him... I was seven.'

She grinned. ‘Your first kiss. Anyway she was seven too when she called you... what was it again?'

I laughed. ‘A mutton chop – she said something about me being a mutton dressed as sheep's lamb. Not sure she really got the metaphor. Either way, it did the job; I was Muttons after that... the only seven-year-old on the playground worrying about wrinkles.'

Catherine laughed uproariously. ‘Muttons! Yes... that went on for a while.'

I nodded, gravely. ‘All through primary school, bloody Claire Braithwaite!'

Catherine laughed. ‘Well, anyway, the new Claire isn't much better. Claire Thomas told me that I was creating a precedent.'