Читать книгу 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, Fern Britton - Страница 10

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? Or followed? He shone his lamp into the fields.

‘Who’s there?’ His voice sounded strange to his own ears as it echoed in the silence.

Nothing. He continued on his way, shining the torch again.

There it was again, another crackle to his right.

He swung round, thrusting his torch over the dry stone wall that separated him from the field.

To his utter horror, an unearthly, grotesque face loomed out of the darkness at him. Its eyes were two black pools of darkness and its mouth was a red gash containing sharp yellow teeth.

‘Dear God!’ he cried out.

‘Keep yer ’air on! It’s only me!’

It took Piran a moment to realise that he recognised that voice and, when he did, he immediately felt like a complete fool. It was Queenie, of course, the octogenarian proprietor of the village shop. Her bright-red lipstick and NHS dentures had taken on a rather sinister aspect in the glaring light of his lamp. She peered out at him from underneath a bobble hat that resembled a tea cosy. There was no getting away from it, though – her eyes really did look like two black pools of darkness.

‘What on earth are you doing out in the dark?’ he asked her.

‘Sorry, Piran, did I give you a fright?’ She gave him one of her trademark cackles. ‘I was trying to find Monty – she’s gone missing. Ain’t seen ’er, ’ave yer?’

‘Who the hell is Monty?’

‘She’s a stray kitten that seems to ’ave adopted me. I called her Monty when I thought she was a boy, only she ain’t. Vlad the Impaler would have been a better name. Always out on the hunt, she is, but she’s as black as the night and now we got no lights I’m worried she’ll get lost and not be able to find her way back.’

Piran glanced doubtfully at Queenie’s birdlike legs.

‘Queenie, cats can normally look after themselves, even kittens. Little old ladies wandering around in the dark don’t always fare so well.’

‘Oi, less of the old.’

‘Come on – give me your arm. I’ll walk you home.’

They headed back up to the village, Queenie all the while calling out to Monty. Piran could see in the lamplight that, despite being in darkness, the village was a hive of activity. Neighbours were darting into each other’s houses, some of them carrying candles and torches, others laden with Thermos flasks filled with hot drinks.

Shortly, they were at the village store and Queenie opened the side door and let them in. It was rarely locked.

‘Come in and have a snifter, why don’t ya?’

‘No, thanks, Queenie. I’d better be off.’

‘Why, where you going? Don’t be such a bloody misery guts.’ She grabbed his arm and dragged him through to the back lounge, where Piran was surprised to see Colonel Stick and Simple Tony, plus a couple of old lags, Bert and Sid, that he recognised from the pub. There seemed to be a party of sorts going on in the candlelight and Queenie was thrilled when she saw Monty sitting in Tony’s lap. The kitten was licking her paws and seemed very pleased with herself.

Queenie’s back parlour was jam-packed with comfy old furniture and on every wall and surface were photographs of Queenie and her late husband, Ted. Piran couldn’t remember ever coming in the back before; there was a cosy clutter to the place that brought to mind a gypsy caravan filled with trinkets, keepsakes, crocheted cushions and huge glass ashtrays. A warm and lively orange fire burned in the grate.

‘She got a rat!’ Simple Tony dangled the rat for Queenie to see.

Despite the un-PC nickname, Tony was loved by the villagers, particularly Queenie. When his mother had died, the thought of the poor lad fending for himself had bothered Queenie so much that she’d arranged for him to take up residence in a shepherd’s hut, where she could keep an eye on him.

‘Fer Gawd’s sake, get rid of it!’ Queenie cried, shooing Tony outside, then proceeded to make Piran a drink.

She thrust a Babycham cocktail glass into his hand, which was filled with a purple liquid. Piran took a sip and had to fight down his gag reflex.

‘Nothing like a cherry brandy and Coke to give you that Christmassy feeling!’ she cackled. ‘Cheer up, Piran! Anyone would think you’d found a quid and lost a fiver!’

The others all joined in the laughter and Piran felt his mood lift a little. Maybe it was the cherry brandy.

Colonel Stick stood and went over to look out of the window.

‘People have been so kind. We’ve had everyone knocking at the door to make sure we’re all right.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Queenie, pouring herself a generous drink. ‘Polly’s going to bring us up to church just before midnight. It’s good to know people care.’

Having made sure everyone else was comfortable, Queenie sat down. Minutes later, Tony joined them, having disposed of Monty’s conquest and opened another can of Fanta for himself.

‘When you’re my age, you’re quite used to this sort of thing, you know,’ Queenie said. ‘I remember once, when I was very young, growing up in London, we got caught in an air raid. This would have been Christmas 1940 – that winter saw some of the worse bombing in the Blitz. We came from the East End, but my mum and dad loved Christmas and they took us up to Oxford Street to see the window displays. It was exciting being there. Even though the city was on its knees, it never seemed to stop people going about their daily business. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the windows in Selfridges – I’d been looking forward to seeing them for ages, the store was famous for its window displays even in those days – but the place had been bombed a few months before and the windows were all bricked up. I started crying and my dad made it up to me by taking me into the big Woollies and buying me a liquorice stick and a toy rabbit. Then we had our tea at the Lyons Corner House. That jam scone was the loveliest thing I’ve ever eaten. No scone ’as been as good before or since.’

Queenie took another sip of her drink, enjoying the memory.

‘It was getting dark when we came out and the Luftwaffe decided they’d start early that night. The sirens went off and we had to get down below as quickly as possible. Oxford Circus station was the closest and we had to hole up down there for what seemed like hours. The smell of all those bodies could be a bit much, but there was never any argy-bargy or trouble – we was all in the same boat, you see. We sat around, singing songs, and Mum had wrapped up a bit of fruit cake in a hankie and we lasted on that and a bottle of squash between us. It was one of the happiest memories I’ve got of them – we all sang “Knees Up, Mother Brown” and “Roll Out the Barrel” …’

At this remembrance, she broke into ‘On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep’ and the others in the room all joined in. Even Piran and Tony, who didn’t know the words, couldn’t resist humming along.

Queenie continued: ‘Not long after that I was evacuated to Pendruggan. My mum couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from me but London was just too dangerous by then.’ She paused and took another gulp of her drink. ‘It wasn’t long after I came ’ere that I got the news they’d been killed when an incendiary fell on the house.’

Tears shone in her eyes. ‘Bloody Jerries. Our street in Bethnal Green might have been a slum, but we called it home. I don’t remember much before Cornwall, but I’ll always remember that day out in London.’

She took a hanky from the cuff of her seventies nylon shirt and dabbed at her eyes with it.

‘Thank God for the people around here. Good farming folk I was with who loved me like their own. I never went home again. Grew up ’ere and married my Ted.’