A Cornish Carol: A Short Story. Fern Britton

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      ‘Everyone is lovely, Mum, and like me, all they want to do is help protect the environment here. We’re trying to support the locals’ efforts to stop logging companies from destroying any more of the rainforest.’

      ‘Oh, darling, I know it is what you want to do and I’m so proud, but I do wish you were here with us. Summer is growing so fast.’

      ‘I know, I Skyped Sean and Terri the other night. They reckon she looks a bit like me.’

      ‘She does a bit, but she’s got Terri’s eyes.’

      ‘How is everything else? How are you and Piran getting on?’

      ‘Oh, you know what Piran’s like.’

      ‘Impossible?’

      ‘That’s the word!’

      They both laughed. It felt so good to hear Chloe’s voice.

      ‘When are you coming home, darling? Whenever I see Mack on the beach messing about with his surfboard, he always asks after you.’

      ‘Soon, Mum. Tell him soon.’

      ‘I will, sweetheart,’ said Helen. She could hear someone in the background yelling to Chloe to end the call, the bus would be leaving any moment. ‘Bye, Chloe – love you. And don’t forget to call your father!’

      ‘I won’t! Love you too, Mum. I’ll Skype tomorrow,’ Chloe promised and rang off.

      Oh, damn, thought Helen as she started the car. I forgot breadsticks!

      It seemed the whole of Trevay were busily stocking up on last-minute items, as if the shops would be closed for weeks instead of a few days. Helen darted in and out, picking up a few more crackers, some chocolate decorations that Summer could dress the tree with, more Sellotape, more wrapping paper and a big slab of smoked bacon rashers, which would do for breakfast on Christmas morning and for dressing the turkey with. As she went about her errands she scanned the crowds for a familiar face, but there was still no sign of Piran.

      Heading back into Pendruggan, she passed by The Dolphin. Don, the pub’s owner, was busily rolling a barrel from the back of his pick-up truck towards the pub. When Helen tooted, he abandoned his barrel and waved for her to stop.

      ‘What have you got there, Don?’

      ‘Ah, this, this here is me special Pendruggan Christmas Ale. Comes from a secret brewery that only I knows about and I can only get me hands on one barrel a year. Folks come from far and wide to try this. We crack it open on Christmas morning and it’s all gone by lunchtime.’

      ‘Secret?’ Don’s wife, Dorrie, suddenly appeared in the pub doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Nothing secret about it at all. He brews it in his shed and drinks most of it himself on the day!’ They laughed good-naturedly at this and Helen laughed along with them.

      ‘Well, I might be along to try it myself.’

      ‘Make sure you bring that Piran Ambrose with you ’n’ all. He’s quite partial to a bit of this.’

      ‘I’ll try, Don – if I ever find him.’

      ‘Find him? Well, he be down on his boat – I were out over Trevay Harbour way and I saw him. Set to be there all day from the look of ’im.’

      ‘Oh. I see …’ Piran used his boat the way a lot of men used their potting sheds. It served a purpose that went beyond fishing trips – he used it as a place to think. Or a place to be alone. Why had he gone out there today of all days, knowing that she was counting on his help?

      ‘Thanks, Don. Save some of that ale for me!’

      ‘Ah, no special treatment, I’m afraid, you’ll just have to be early doors tomorrow!’ he called after her as she gave another toot of the horn and drove off.

      *

      When she got home, Helen insisted that Sean and Terri leave Summer to her while they had some time to themselves. They needed little encouragement; within minutes they’d grabbed their coats and set off for a bracing walk along the cliffs.

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