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
not a Catholic priest, and we don’t have a confession box in Pendruggan. Secondly, and more importantly, I’m your friend and I can tell you’re bottling something up.’
Piran glared at Simon for a moment. Then he sighed and sat down.
‘I don’t know what it is. I can’t seem to shake it off. Feel like I’m fed up with everything. Christmas only seems to have made it worse.’
‘A problem shared?’
‘I dunno, Simon. Don’t feel I want to share right now. Perhaps this is the way that I’m destined to be from now on.’
‘Rubbish! You weren’t always like this.’
‘Wasn’t I?’
‘Certainly not! You used to be quite carefree when you were younger. Remember that year when we did the Pendruggan Christmas swim?’
‘We’ve done it more than once.’
‘Yes, but no other year was like this one …’
1984
P iran’s face broke into a smile as he saw Simon walking down the sloping slip road that lead towards Pendruggan’s harbour. He’d been sitting, waiting, huddled up in his parka in the wintery sunshine, having called Simon last night to let him know that he was back in Pendruggan.
After a warm embrace and the customary ruffling of each other’s hair, Simon stood back and took a good look at his friend. Piran’s skin was the colour of golden caramel, his black curls were thicker and more unruly than he remembered and his piercing blue eyes were glimmering roguishly. A long summer spent island-hopping in Greece had served only to accentuate Piran’s piratical appearance and the acquisition of a small hooped gold earring finished off the look perfectly. If Simon hadn’t already known that Piran didn’t give a toss about his looks, he might have suspected he’d done it on purpose, but there wasn’t a vain bone in Piran’s body.
‘Where did the earring come from?’
Piran grinned sheepishly. ‘Can’t quite remember. A few too many ouzos one night in Mykonos. More trouble to take it out, I reckon.’
‘How was Greece? Feels like you’ve been away for ever.’
‘Only five months. But Greece in winter loses a bit of its shine. The tourists all bugger off and there’s no bar work to speak of. I was ready to come home, anyhow. What about you, Canter? You’re as milky white as you were at Easter. What have you been up to?’
‘Come on. I’ll tell you over a pint at The Dolphin.’
At the bar, Piran ordered them both two pints of Best and a couple of packets of Smiths crisps, while Simon lined up a few tracks on the jukebox. Piran was more of a Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd man, but Simon couldn’t resist a bit of pop and this was a vintage year. Which ones to choose? He settled on ‘Two Tribes’ by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, ‘Wild Boys’ by Duran Duran and ‘Wake Me Up’ by Wham! – but that was chiefly to annoy Piran.
At the bar, Piran was accosted by the young barman, Don.
‘Oi, Ambrose, where you been lately? Not round these parts, judging by that suntan. My sister, Jenna, been wondering on that only the other day.’
Piran hoped that his tan covered the flush that he felt in his cheeks at the mention of Jenna’s name.
‘I’ve been travelling, Don. How is Jenna?’
‘Well, you’re not the only one been getting themselves about. Jenna finished her teacher training and now she’s been offered a job in London, she ’as.’
Don’s older sister was the same age as Piran and he’d been attracted to her ever since he could remember. They’d been more than friends at one time, but somehow, with his years away at Cambridge and her teacher training, they’d barely seen each other since leaving school. ‘That’s great news, Don. Give her my best.’
Don’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘She’ll be here in a minute – she’s been helping out, doing a few shifts – so you can tell ’er yourself.’
The thought that she might be along any minute gave Piran a thrill of excitement that he did his best to conceal as he was joined at the bar by Simon. A moment later, the high-energy bass of ‘Two Tribes’ and Holly Johnson’s nasal Liverpudlian tones burst from the jukebox.
‘Oi, keep it down. This ain’t the Hammersmith Palais, yer know!’
Piran and Simon looked over their shoulders to see Queenie, the local postmistress and proprietor of the village shop, sitting at a corner table with a port and lemon in front of her. ‘Welcome back, Piran! Come and have one of me pasties as an homecoming present – you can ’ave it on the ’ouse!’
‘Thanks, Queenie, I’ll be over in the morning.’
‘Here, Don,’ Piran handed over a one-pound note. ‘Get Queenie another.’
‘Anyway, Ambrose …’ Don picked out a bottle of Cockburn’s and poured a couple of fingers’ worth into a glass ‘… reckon you’ve been keeping a low profile these last few years ’cos you’re frightened of getting beaten again on the swim.’
‘That what you reckon, is it, Don?’
The Christmas Day swim was an annual institution in the village, drawing people from miles around. Most came to spectate, but many took part. For the majority it was nothing more than the precursor to their first brandy of the day, and a bit of a laugh – no wetsuits were allowed and some of the more exhibitionist participants ventured forth in the nude, usually to cheers of encouragement from the rowdy crowd. There were, however, a hardcore of experienced swimmers who raced out to the buoy and back again, determined to claim the honour of pulling and downing the first pint of the celebrated, home-brewed Christmas Day Ale from the special Pendruggan tankard at The Dolphin. Both members of this elite, Piran and Don had a rivalry that went back years.
‘Maybe I’ve been doing you a favour by not showing up,’ laughed Piran. ‘Not sure how happy you’d be to have a bit of decent competition.’ He eyed Don’s beer belly. ‘Looks like you’ve been enjoying the beers and pies too much, mate.’
Don frowned. ‘Oi, that’s not fat! Hundred per cent Cornish muscle, that is!’
Simon and Piran spluttered and guffawed over their pints.
‘You might laugh, Ambrose, but ain’t many in Pendruggan faster than me in the water, you included.’
‘That’s fighting talk that is, Don.’ Piran said this with a telltale twinkle in his eyes that revealed there was nothing he liked more than a challenge.
‘You’re out of the running, mate. Leave it to the younger ones like me,’ Don jeered. He pointed to the barrel conspicuously placed at the bottom of the bar. It was covered in tinsel and lights and a handwritten note stuck to it proclaimed: Winner takes all!
‘That barrel ain’t got my name on it yet, Ambrose, but come Christmas morning it’ll be me supping that lovely golden liquid.’
Piran picked up their pints. ‘Thanks, Don – here, have something for yourself …’ He placed another one-pound note on the counter. ‘Reckon you’ll need it to buy your own pints on Christmas Day.’