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
she ought by rights to be angry. She only hoped he had a change of clothes in the car, because he was still in his oilskins and he couldn’t join them for carols and a curry dressed like that.
He remained stubbornly on the path and when Helen opened her mouth to speak, he silenced her with a raised hand.
‘Before you say anything, I’m not coming tonight. I’ve been working on the boat all day and I’m tired.’
‘But why were you working on it today of all days? You knew how much we had to do – and you haven’t even come by to say hello to Summer yet.’
Far from offering an apology, he glowered at her. ‘Why do I always have to fit in with you?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Helen, flummoxed.
‘You know what I mean. These things that we “have to do” are things that you want to do – not me. I don’t remember signing up for anything.’
Helen found herself at a loss. Where on earth had all this bad humour come from – they were meant to love each other, weren’t they? ‘But, Piran, it’s Christmas …’ was all she could come up with.
‘Christmas? What do I care for Christmas?’ Piran’s voice was cold. ‘From what I can see, Christmas is one more excuse for folks to spend obscene amounts of money on useless presents that no one wants, and send each other pointless cards that spout glib phrases like “goodwill to all men” – which no one ever means, let alone acts upon. Christmas means nothing to me and will never mean anything to me, so I don’t care about dreary carols on the green, I don’t care about a mediocre curry in Trevay, listening to Penny drone on endlessly about zed-list celebrities in London, I don’t care about Midnight Mass. I don’t care about Christmas, Helen, and I certainly don’t care about—’
For a horrible moment, Helen thought he was going to say, ‘I don’t care about you.’ But she never found out what he was going to say because they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps.
They both turned to see a troupe of little girls in brown and yellow uniforms marching down the lane and into the village. Wrapped up warmly in hats and gloves, they were ushered towards Helen’s front door by the jaunty Emma Scott, Brown Owl. There weren’t very many of them, but what the Pendruggan Brownies lacked in number they made up for in enthusiasm and they could often be seen around the village, trying to win their badges for map-reading skills or road safety.
‘Good evening and Merry Christmas to you!’ Brown Owl said cheerfully. Helen returned the smile as best she could, despite feeling bruised by Piran’s outburst.
‘We’re doing a bit of carol singing to raise funds for the pony sanctuary before we head over to the green to join in with everyone else.’
Without waiting for a response, Brown Owl turned to the girls and gave the command: ‘Right, after three. One. Two. Three …’
Half the girls immediately put their recorders to their lips while the others began to sing ‘Good King Wenceslas’.
Helen couldn’t decide if it was the discordant recorders that were the problem or the funereal quality to the singing, but either way the performance was lamentable. Still, it was all for a good cause, so she darted inside to fetch her purse. When she came back out, she was dismayed to find Piran standing in front of the group with his hands held up.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Just stop!’
The music trailed off and the children and Brown Owl stood open-mouthed.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Emma.
‘What’s the problem?’ barked Piran. ‘I’ll tell you what the problem is. Without a shadow of a doubt, that dirge that you and your Brownies have vomited out is a crime against nature. A dying nanny-goat would sound more melodious than this lot! What badge are they trying for this time – systematic torture?’
For a moment, there was a deathly silence. Then a small noise came from somewhere in the group and Helen, already horrified by Piran’s outburst, was mortified to see that the little Brownie at the front had started to cry. One by one, the other Brownies followed suit.
Single-handed, Piran had turned the cheerful little pack of Brownies into a wailing mass of misery.
Helen’s shock turned to outrage.
‘Right, Piran Ambrose, this is the final straw! Over the last few weeks, you’ve managed to royally piss off every single one of your friends and upset practically the entire village. But this –’ Here she pointed at the Brownies – ‘this is a new low.’
Having said her piece, she stepped out onto the path and began to shush and comfort the little girls, while their leader stood by, dazed into stunned silence.
‘Come on inside, girls. I’ll make you all a hot chocolate and you can sprinkle marshmallows into it – won’t that be fun?’
The idea of this yummy confection was already starting to cheer some of the girls up as she shooed them into the house.
When the last Brownie had passed through the door, Helen turned to Piran, who was standing in his oilskins, watching in silence.
‘We all know you can be a moody bugger, Piran, but I’ve always believed that you’re a good person. It looks like I might have been wrong. Maybe the message of Christmas does get lost sometimes, but turning yourself into a latterday Ebenezer Scrooge is much, much worse. I never thought I’d say this, but unless you have a major personality transplant, you’re not welcome here. Not on Christmas Day. Not ever!’
She was about to head inside when she turned back for one parting shot:
‘Oh, and for the record, Penny never, ever drones on about zed-list celebrities in London.’
With that, she firmly shut the door behind her.
Turning on his heel, Piran marched back to his pickup.
Christmas, he said to himself. Bah, humbug!
The lock on Carrack Cottage was inclined to be temperamental but Piran had no patience with it tonight as he rattled the key in the hole, wanting nothing more than to get inside and shut the rest of the world out.
A traditional fisherman’s cottage of grey weathered Cornish stone, Carrack stood in glorious isolation at the end of a dead-end track on the outskirts of Pendruggan, not far from Shellsand Bay. There was nothing twee or touristy about the place; the only adornments on the outer walls were an old gas lamp, which had been converted to electricity, and a distressed and battered life buoy from HMS Firebrand that hung on a hook above the doorway. This was his inner sanctum, and he had no intention of sharing it full time with anybody. Nobody with two legs, at any rate.
Jack trotted ahead of him into the low-ceilinged room and went straight to the tatty old sofa, disturbing the two stray cats who had adopted Carrack Cottage as their home. Sprat the tabby and Bosun, who was as black as coal, jumped down from their usual spot on the cushions, leaving a trail of cat hairs behind them. Piran often suspected they didn’t care who lived there as long as they got the best seats.
The cottage was filled with old furniture that had seen better days, but Piran saw no need to replace or refurbish anything. It suited him just the way it was. Evidence of his profession as an historian littered every surface. Ancient rolled-up maps of Cornwall were propped against the walls and the dusty bookshelves were crammed with tomes on everything from local history to works by Pliny. And then there was the paraphernalia relating to his other obsession: fishing. The TV stood on a lobster pot; the hallway and the pantry leading out into the small back yard were cluttered with lobster nets, fishing rods, tackle and fly lines; the cooler boxes he stored bait in were standing ready by the back door, alongside his waders.
Still in the blackest of moods,