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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that her brother was going to be OK to be angry with him.
‘Just glad I brought this with me. Don’t have much call for it these days. Thought I’d grown out of the old asthma.’ He took another puff. ‘But it’s thanks to Blackbeard here that it weren’t worse. Good of you to help out, mate.’ He looked gratefully towards Piran, as did Jenna, whose eyes shone with admiration and gratitude.
‘Anyone would’ve done the same,’ he replied, scoffing at the suggestion his actions had been in any way heroic.
‘Not sure they would have if they was in the lead and looking forward to that Christmas Ale.’
‘Who won in the end?’
‘Not sure … come on, let’s get down to The Dolphin and find out – we can’t have them drinking all that ale without us now, can we?’
With that, the four friends headed off to the pub, singing ‘Rudolph the Red-Knobbed Reindeer’ …
*
‘Jenna never did take that job in London,’ said Piran, the long shadows cast by the candlelight flickering against the living-room walls.
‘She went to work at Trevay Juniors, didn’t she?’ said Simon.
‘She loved it there. Really got a kick out of seeing the kids thrive.’
‘I remember how good she was with children. Always giving of her time. Didn’t she volunteer at the hospital over the holidays?’
‘That’s right – and she usually managed to rope in a few others as well. She was nothing if not persuasive.’
‘Tell me about it!’ agreed Simon. ‘On one of my first Christmas visits home after joining the seminary, she had me dressed up as Father Christmas, giving out donated presents to the kids in the children’s ward at Trevay’s old cottage hospital.’
Piran remembered it well. ‘Didn’t one young boy accuse you of being a fake because everyone knew Santa didn’t have ginger hair and glasses?’
They both laughed at the memory.
‘Then there was the other Christmas.’ Piran’s face clouded over again.
‘The one where she …’ Simon hesitated.
‘Died. That’s the word you’re looking for, Simon. Yes, the Christmas where that bloody maniac … The hit and run … Police never got him.’
They both fell silent, thinking back to that terrible time. It was Simon who broke the silence.
‘Bad things happen all year round, Piran. Good things, too. Christmas is just a reminder of how we should be three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. It isn’t always possible and we’re only human, but we can strive. What was it that Scrooge said, after his moment of epiphany?’
Piran’s eyes narrowed – what was this obsession everyone had with Scrooge?
‘I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.’
‘You’re too idealistic.’ Piran shook his head dismissively. ‘Folk only care for themselves.’
‘I don’t agree with you, my friend. Look around and you’ll see. There is hope and love everywhere.’ He stood. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going. Some of the villagers will be anxious in this blackout and might need help. I suggest you might do the same yourself.’
Piran followed Simon out to the door.
‘Goodwill to all men is usually found at the bottom of a glass of mulled wine and disappears along with the hangover.’
‘You’re so cynical these days.’ Simon turned to face Piran. ‘I remember something that Jenna said to me once: “A man who doesn’t keep Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree.”’
He pulled on his gloves and hat. ‘Goodnight, Piran, and a Merry Christmas to you.’
Then he was gone.
Piran didn’t care what Simon said, he was too naive and trusting to know much about human nature. He wasn’t worldly wise. But his words had pricked at Piran’s conscience – the vicar was good at that – and anyway, he was wide awake now and might as well take a walk out and see what was happening.
Taking a torch from the ledge over the front door, he headed out towards the back yard. Opening the door to the shed, he shone his torch in, knowing that somewhere in the piles of boxes was a heavy-duty rechargeable lamp that would be more useful than the small Maglite one. Piran’s shed was not a shed like most men’s; it served as a workshop, with a long workbench down one wall and a dusty and cracked window overlooking the fields behind. It was packed with fishing paraphernalia, as well as several carpentry projects in various stages of development. His grandfather had been a shipwright and carpentry seemed to run in their blood. One of those projects was a doll’s house that he had been making for Summer. Recently, he’d lost heart in the project and had struggled to finish it. He comforted himself with the thought that she was too young for it yet, anyway. Turning away from the abandoned project, he began rummaging through the boxes, which held everything from spanners to old copies of Sporting Life.
‘Where is the damned thing?’ he cursed as he pulled another dusty box down from the shelf.
Some of these boxes had been here for decades. What was in this one? He placed it on the work counter.
He shook it – nothing breakable – and then peeled away the yellowed and no-longer-sticky Sellotape that had been used to seal the box. His heart gave a jolt as he saw the contents. A hand-carved and painted Nativity set. One by one, he took out the figures: a shepherd, a donkey, one of the three kings, Mary and Joseph … Finally, rummaging around in the bottom, he found the manger containing Baby Jesus. Unlike the others, this remained unpainted and unfinished. Piran remembered making these. He had lovingly created every piece and now here they were – forgotten and useless. When was the last time he had made something like this – made it for the joy of simply doing it and because he could?
He sighed and placed the figures back in the box.
Eventually, he found the missing lamp and headed out into the night.
*
Piran had always thought that the light was different in Cornwall and tonight it seemed especially so. This Christmas Eve, the night was clear and the stars lit up the sky like a luminous carpet. The crescent moon was low in the sky and the dew on the grass shimmered like diamond dust on the fields.
He wasn’t sure where he was going exactly but headed in the general direction of the village. There was something about the surrounding darkness that accentuated the sounds around him. Not far from the headland, he thought he could still hear the waves crashing on the shore. This part of Cornwall felt defined by the sea. He imagined this was how Pendruggan would have been before the adoption of electricity, with seafarers totally dependent on the lighthouse to keep them clear of the treacherous coast. Cornish folk had held onto the old ways for longer than many, and he remembered that even when he was a boy, some of villagers still made do with gas and candlelight, and horses and carts continued to be a fixture of village life.
Gradually, he left the headland behind and the comforting sound of the sea, and a silence seemed to fall around him as he neared the collection of houses that made up the village. It was almost as if the land was holding its breath for something. Piran wasn’t easily spooked but he felt unnerved – was he being watched?
He heard something crackle behind him, as if someone or something had trodden on a twig. An owl cried out in the distance and the hedgerows rustled.
Watched?