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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.’

       Don gave him a two-fingered salute but pocketed the pound all the same.

       They took their seats and Simon began filling him in on all the local news, but Piran was impatient to hear what Simon himself had been up to.

       ‘Well, actually, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

       ‘What is it?’

       ‘Well …’ Simon played nervously with a beer mat.

       ‘Come on, man, spit it out!’

       ‘Remember I told you that I was going to stay on at Oxford and do a Masters?’

       ‘In Theology? Yes, why? Have you changed your mind?’

       ‘Yes. No. Well, not exactly …’

       ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ spluttered Piran, infuriated. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I finish it for you. You’ve decided to do your Masters and after that you’re going to become a priest.’

       Simon gawped at his friend in astonishment. ‘How did you know?’

       Piran laughed and put his arm around Simon’s shoulder. ‘I’ve always known, mate. Even if you didn’t. All those drunken late-night chats about the nature of God and the universe? Most men our age would’ve been thinking about nookie, but not you.’

       Simon’s face betrayed uncertainty. ‘Do you think I’m making the right decision? You don’t mind?’

       ‘Mind!’ Piran gave Simon a giant bearhug. ‘I can’t think of a better man for the job. You’ll make a great vicar! And if I ever find the right girl, I want you to marry us – you can also christen any unlucky offspring I might have. And when the music’s over, I want you to turn out the lights and give me the last rites. Mind? I’m relying on you!’

       As if on cue, the door to СКАЧАТЬ