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

Чтение книги онлайн.

       3

      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, he took off his oilskins and hung them up, then began rummaging through the cupboards for a tin of pilchards to feed the cats. Something brushed by his heel and he turned to see Jack, soulful brown eyes following his every move. He reached into the cupboard for a second tin of pilchards. They’d have to do for Jack as well.

      The smell of the pilchards made Piran’s stomach rumble, so when he’d finished dishing out the gooey mixture of fish and tomato sauce, he went to his ancient fridge in search of sustenance. The tiny freezer compartment was permanently frozen up and he stared dispiritedly at the fridge’s contents: half a packet of unsalted butter, half a lemon and a bit of slightly tired cheddar. The bread bin was empty. Piran cursed. Of course there wasn’t anything to eat. He was supposed to be staying at Helen’s place for the next few days, so there’d been no reason to stock up with supplies. The phrase ‘biting off your nose to spite your face’ popped into his head. Dismissing it, he set his lips into a thin line and went back to the cupboard for a third tin. If pilchards were good enough for the dog and cats, then they were good enough for him.

      ‘Nothing wrong with pilchards, boy,’ he said out loud. ‘Would’ve fallen on them like a starving man when I was a lad.’

      He took the plate of pilchards, to which he’d added the last of the cheese, into the small living room, and turned on the TV. Settling himself in front of it, he took a mouthful of pilchards and decided that things definitely weren’t what they used to be. Rubbing at his eyes as tiredness crept in, he decided there was nothing for it but to make do with the cheese alone.

      He flicked through the channels: Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special – click; Eight Out of Ten Cats Does Countdown – click; some idiot extolling the virtues of lawnmowers on the Shopping Channel. ‘In December?’ Click.

      The next channel he clicked on was a film, so old it was in black and white. Piran thought he recognised the actor, though he couldn’t think of his name, but the story was instantly identifiable: A Christmas Carol. What was it Helen had said about him being a latterday Scrooge? Piran knitted his brow but continued watching.

      On the screen, Scrooge woke to find he had a visitor: the ghost of his former partner, Jacob Marley. Dragging heavy chains behind him, Marley was telling Scrooge these are the chains I forged in life … you do not know the weight and length of strong chain you bear yourself … it was as full and as long as this seven Christmases ago and you have laboured on it since …

      Christmas Eve – it was inevitable they’d be broadcasting this old stalwart. Nothing coincidental about it, Piran told himself, watching Scrooge cringe and writhe as Marley’s spirit clanked his chains and listed his torments:

       I am doomed to wander without rest or peace … incessant torture and remorse …

      Overwhelmed with a deep tiredness, Piran felt his eyelids begin to droop.

       Hear me, my time is nearly gone … I come tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance of escaping my fate …

      Despite the pull of sleep, the voice continued, drifting through his drowsy consciousness:

       You will be visited by three spirits … without their help you cannot hope to shun the path I tread … hope to see me no more …

      *

      Piran woke with a start, disturbed by a loud knocking on his front door. Disoriented and with sleep still clinging to him, it took a moment to realise that the cottage was in total darkness. Scrooge and Marley were gone, the TV screen was blank. The lamps were out and the only light came from the waning moonlight that filtered in through the front windows.

      Another rap on the front door. In the darkness, Piran picked his way over the plate that had held his pilchards, polished off long ago by the cats, and tried to find his way through the dark. СКАЧАТЬ