A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall. Jane Linfoot
‘We’re creating memories that will last a lifetime, you can’t put a price on that.’ I stand up, give Merwyn a tickle to remind Bill we’re two against one here, and start to search for containers to put the trees in. ‘A castle and a beach is already fabulous, but overlay it with candlelight and pine needles, cranberry cocktails in frosted glasses, warm baked cinnamon biscuits and gingerbread houses, the distant sound of Santa’s sleigh bells, and it’ll never be surpassed.’ My eyes are probably sparkling too much as the images of present piles and frosty mornings flash through my head, I might be giving too much away here, but I don’t even care.
Bill’s blowing out his cheeks and sounding disgusted. ‘You’ve really fallen for the whole stockings hanging by an open fire thing haven’t you?’
My shriek of protest comes out louder than I’d planned. ‘And I’m completely happy with that. Some people live for summer, my time is December.’ Or at least, it used to be. And then something beyond the pile catches my eye. ‘Are they what I think they are?’
‘Traditional alpine toboggans? Just like we had in the mountains.’
I ignore the last bit because I really am gasping with excitement. ‘You have that much snow here?’
He gives me a hard stare. ‘Why the sudden interest? From what I remember in Chamonix you prefer to stay indoors.’
Once again, I’m quietly cursing his recall. ‘Those mountain ski runs scared the bejesus out of me, even the nursery slopes were too steep, but in any other situation snow is dreamy.’
His eyes have locked with mine. ‘So that finally explains why you concentrated on the hot chocolate, not the black runs. Why didn’t you say? I’d have helped you.’
I may as well be honest, even if I wasn’t then. ‘I was enough out of my depth as it was, I’d rather have dived head first into a snowdrift than admit I couldn’t ski.’
He shrugs. ‘I did come back early every day so you had company.’
I’m not sure he’s thinking of the right holiday. ‘I thought you came back so you could grab the steam room first?’
His head is tilting. ‘That was Gemma, not me. When she wasn’t falling over in front of me she pretty much superglued herself to my snowboard, that’s why we always arrived back together. But I came back to see you.’
I’m blinking. ‘Sorry?’
‘As I remember, I especially liked your jumpers.’
I can feel my eyes stretching open as I shriek. ‘What?!!!!’
‘They were really nice. Everyone else was in ski jackets, you were always in your base layer.’
I’m still squeaking in shock. ‘Jeez, Bill.’ Then it hits, from the way his eyes are dancing, this has to be a total wind up.
‘I liked how you made me laugh too.’
I let out a groan. ‘Please tell me you’re joking me.’
‘Of course I am, all I ever wanted was to get in that sauna. That’s why I was always hanging round the fire telling you my best jokes, they can’t have been very good if you can’t even remember them.’
I can feel my lips curling even though I’m trying to stop them. ‘What’s the difference between a snow man and a snow woman?’ And more fool me for encouraging him here.
‘Snowballs.’ He gives that resonating low laugh. ‘Something tells me you know a lot more than you’re letting on, Ivy Starforth.’
Oh my days, now he’s tied me up in knots again. I’ve no idea what he means, so to save my sanity I’m taking this back to where we left off. ‘If you gave us a snowy Christmas, you’d be off the hook with Libby.’
He’s back to staring at me in that same, slow way he has. ‘I’ll talk to Tomasz Schafernaker and see what I can do.’
‘Who the hell is …?’
‘He’s a meteorologist.’ He’s tilting his head, looking down on me through those narrowed eyes again. ‘The BBC weather man.’
Forget the protests about how bloody condescending he is, there are way more important questions. ‘There’s really a chance of snow?’
He gives a shrug. ‘It’s not unknown.’
‘We’ll have all the sledges then.’ I’d love snow so much, I’m not even daring to think about it, so I’m moving this on. The thing is, for me, in a world where lately it feels like nothing can be relied on, Christmas is the one certainty I can cling onto. I know the recipe to make Christmas work. Other things spiral out of control and my life comes crashing down. But so long as I have enough lamella and berries, I should be able to win with Christmas and everyone else will get the benefit.
‘It’s a simple equation – the more glitter you throw at Christmas, the more enjoyment you get back. Name me anything else that sure to pay off?’
He shoves a couple of galvanised buckets at me. ‘It’s an awful lot hanging on one day. And it’s not that healthy to be this obsessed with perfection.’
I have an answer for that. ‘Unless you’re talking gin.’ It’s a stab in the dark but as he’s always banging on about it, I suspect I’ve got him.
‘Gin’s different.’ It’s as if he’s woken up for the first time. ‘Obviously when you make it, you’re bound to strive for the ultimate, you wouldn’t do anything less. Or at least, I wouldn’t.’
I shrug. ‘So, you’re hung up on gin, for me it’s Christmas.’
There’s a new light in his eyes. ‘Now you’ve mentioned it, I might as well show you the distillery, it’s only next door.’ He’s so enthused, he’s already set off. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you the shortened version of the tour.’
‘Why not?’ I’m going to have to do this sometime, so I try not to let my eyes glaze over as I follow him out into the fading daylight. Hash tag, I’d rather be sleeping. Just saying.
I follow Bill as he hurries along the outside of the coach house building and when he pushes through some wide glass doors, the dimly lit space I’m staring around is as big as the building we’ve come from, with the same high ceiling following the slant of the roof. But in here the stone end gable has been completely knocked out, and instead there’s an immense glass window looking straight down onto the beach and out to sea.
‘Great view!’ I can’t deny him that one. The late afternoon has leached away the colour and the edges have blurred, but I can still make out the muted blue of the sea broken by lines of breakers frilling up the sand, a sky streaked with silver. Pin pricks of lights coming on around the edge of the bay, the twinkly cluster that is St Aidan. Then as Bill snaps on the inside lights, the outside darkens, and I’m suddenly blinking at reflections off a polished concrete floor, and flashes from some very shiny copper cauldrons and pipework and dials set back in the corner. The tangy salt and seaweed smell from outside has given way to the heady mix of fresh paint and neat alcohol.
‘So you weren’t joking, you really do have a still?’
The weary boredom on his face has turned to illuminated bliss. ‘We’re only a couple of years into production but Cockle Shell Castle gin’s already winning awards.’
I pick up a bottle from a shelf and turn it over in my hand. ‘Star Shower – the name’s cool.’ That’s as much as he’s getting – the silver and rose gold and pink stars on the label