A Cornish Gift: Previously published as an eBook collection, now in print for the first time with exclusive Christmas bonus material from Fern. Fern Britton
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He reached into the cupboard for a second tin of pilchards. They’d have to do for Jack as well.
The smell of the pilchards made Piran’s stomach rumble, so when he’d finished dishing out the gooey mixture of fish and tomato sauce, he went to his ancient fridge in search of sustenance. The tiny freezer compartment was permanently frozen up and he stared dispiritedly at the fridge’s contents: half a packet of unsalted butter, half a lemon and a bit of slightly tired cheddar. The bread bin was empty. Piran cursed. Of course there wasn’t anything to eat. He was supposed to be staying at Helen’s place for the next few days, so there’d been no reason to stock up with supplies. The phrase ‘biting off your nose to spite your face’ popped into his head. Dismissing it, he set his lips into a thin line and went back to the cupboard for a third tin. If pilchards were good enough for the dog and cats, then they were good enough for him.
‘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