Nestled in the Cornish village of Cloudsea, sits Sea Cottage – the perfect place for some Christmas magic …
At last Ivy is looking forward to Christmas. She and her husband Stuart have moved to their perfect little cottage by the sea - a haven alongside the rugged cliffs that look out to the Atlantic Ocean. She’s pregnant with their much-longed for first baby and for the first time, since the death of her beloved mother, Ivy feels like things are going to be alright.
But there is trouble ahead. It soon emerges that Stuart has been keeping secrets from Ivy, and suddenly she misses her mum more than ever.
When Ivy stumbles across a letter from her mother hidden in an old writing desk, secrets from the past come hurtling into the present. But could her mother’s words help Ivy in her time of need? Ivy is about to discover that the future is full of unexpected surprises and Christmas at Sea Cottage promises to be one to remember.
Lily has been telling stories since she was a child, starting with her imaginary rabbit, Stephanus, and their adventures in the enchanted peach tree in her garden, which she envisioned as a magical portal to Enid Blyton’s Faraway Tree. She’s never really got out of the habit of making things up, and still thinks of Stephanus rather fondly.
She lives with her husband and her English bulldog, Fudge, and brings her love for the sea and country-living to her fiction.
A CORNISH CHRISTMAS
by Lily Graham
CHAPTER ONE
The Writing Desk
Even now it seemed to wait.
Part of me, a small irrational part,
needed it to stay exactly where it was, atop the faded Persian rug, bowing
beneath the visceral pulse of her letters and the remembered whisper from the
scratch of her pen. The rosewood chair, with its slim turned-out legs,
suspended forevermore in hopeful expectation of her return. Like me, I wondered
if it couldn’t help but wish that somehow she still could.
I hadn’t had the strength to clear it, nor
the will. Neither had Dad and so it remained standing sentry, as it had
throughout the years with Mum at the wheel, the heart, the hub of the living
room.
If I closed my eyes, I could still hear
her hum along to Tchaikovsky – her pre-Christmas music – as she wrapped up
presents with strings, ribbons and clear cellophane, into which she’d scatter
stardust and moonbeams, or at least so it seemed to my young eyes. Each gift, a
gift within a gift.
One of my earliest memories is of me
sitting before the fire, rolling a length of thick red yarn for Fat Arnold, our
squashed-face Persian, who languished by the warmth, his fur pearly white in
the glow. His one eye open while his paw twitched, as if to say he’d play, if
only he could find the will. In the soft light Mum sat and laughed, the
firelight casting lowlights in her long blonde hair. I shut my eyes and took a
deep breath, away from the memory of her smile.
Dad wanted me to have it: her old writing
desk. I couldn’t bear to think of the living room without it, but he insisted.
He’d looked at me, above his round horn-rimmed glasses, perpetual tufts of
coarse grey hair poking out mad-hatter style on either side of his head, and
said with his faraway philosopher’s smile, ‘Ivy, it would have made her happy,
knowing that you had it. . .’ And I knew I’d lost.
Still it had taken me two weeks to get up
the nerve. Two weeks and Stuart’s gentle yet insistent prodding. He’d offered
to help, to at least clear it for me, and bring it through to our new home so
that I wouldn’t have to face it. Wouldn’t have to reopen a scar that was trying
its best to heal. He’d meant well. I knew that he would’ve treated her things
reverently; he would’ve stacked all her letters, tied them up with string, his
long fingers slowly rolling up the lengths of old ribbon and carefully putting
them away into a someday box that I could open when I was ready. It was his
way, his sweet, considerate Stuart way. But I knew I had to be the one who did
it. Like a bittersweet rite of passage, some sad things only you can do
yourself. So I gathered up my will, along with the box at my feet and began.
It was both harder and easier than I
expected. Seeing her things as she left them should have made the lump in my
throat unbearable, it should have been intolerable, but it wasn’t somehow.
I began with the drawer, emptying it of
its collection of creamy, loose-leafed paper; fine ribbons; and assorted
string, working my way to the heart of the Victorian desk, with its warren of
pigeon holes, packed with old letters, patterned envelopes, stamps, watercolour
brushes, and tubes of half-finished paint.
But it was the half-finished tasks that
made the breath catch in my throat. A hand-painted Christmas card, with Santa’s
sleigh and reindeer flying over the chimney tops, poor Rudolph eternally in
wait for his little watercolour nose. Mum had always made her own, more magical
and whimsical than any you could buy. My fingers shook as I held the card in my
hand, my throat tight. Seeing this, it’s little wonder I became a children’s
book illustrator. I put it on top of the pile, so that later I could paint in
Santa’s missing guiding light.
It was only when I made to close the desk
that I saw it: a paper triangle peeking out from the metal hinge. It was
tightly wedged but, after some wiggling, I pried it loose, only – in a way – to
wish I hadn’t.
It was a beautiful, vintage French
postcard, like the ones we’d bought when we holidayed there, when I was fifteen
and fell in love with everything en français.
It had a faded sepia print of the Jardin des Tuileries on the cover, and in elegant Century print it read ‘[Century
font writing] Carte Postale’ on the back.
It was blank. Except for two words, two
wretchedly perfect little words that caused the tears that had threatened all
morning to finally erupt.
Darling Ivy
It was addressed to me. I didn’t know
which was worse: the unexpected blow of being called ‘Darling Ivy’ one last
time, finding out she’d had this last unexpected gift waiting for me all along,
or that she’d never finish it. I suppose it was a combination of all three.
Three velvet-tipped daggers that impaled
my heart.
I placed it in the box together with the
unfinished Christmas card and sobbed, as I hadn’t allowed myself to for years.
Five years ago, when she passed, I
believed that I’d never stop. A friend had told me that ‘time heals all wounds’
and it had taken every ounce of strength not to give her a wound that time
would never heal, even though I knew she’d meant well. Time, I knew, couldn’t
heal this type of wound. Death is not something you get over. It’s the rip that
exposes life in a before and after chasm and all you can do is try to exist as
best you can in the after. Time could only really offer a moment when the urge
to scream would become a little less.
Another friend of mine, who’d lost his leg
and his father in the same day, explained it better. He’d said that it was a
loss that every day you manage and some days are better than others. That
seemed fair. He’d said that death for him was like the loss of the limb, as
even on those good days you were living in the shadow of what you had lost. It
wasn’t something you recovered from completely, no matter how many people,
yourself included, pretended otherwise. Somehow that helped, and I’d gotten
used to living with it, which I suppose was what he meant.
The desk wasn’t heavy. Such a substantial
part of my childhood, it felt like it should weigh more than it did, but it
didn’t and I managed it easily alone. I picked it up and crossed the living
room, through the blue-carpeted passage, pausing only to shift it slightly as I
exited the back door towards my car, a mint green Mini Cooper.
Setting the desk down on the cobbled path,
I opened up my boot, releasing the back seats so they folded over before
setting the desk on top, with a little bit of careful manoeuvring. It felt
strange to see it there, smaller than I remembered. I shut the boot and went
back inside for the chair and the box where I’d placed all her things; there
was never any question of leaving it behind. On my way back, I locked up Dad’s
house, a small smile unfurling as I noticed the little wreath he’d placed on
the door, like a green shoot through the snow after the longest winter. It hadn’t
been Christmas here for many years.
Back to my car, I squeezed the chair in
next to the desk and placed the box on the passenger seat before I climbed in
and started the engine. As the car warmed, I looked at my reflection in the
side mirror and laughed, a sad groaning laugh.
My eyeliner had made tracks all down my
face, leaving a thick trail into my ears, and black blobs on either side of my
lobes so that I looked like I’d participated in some African ritual, or had
survived the mosh pit at some death metal goth fest. With my long dark blonde
curls, coral knitted cap and blue eyes, it made me look a little zombiefied.
I wiped my face and ears and grinned
despite myself. ‘God, Mum, thanks for that!’ I put the car in gear and backed
out of the winding drive, towards the coastal road.
Cornwall.
It was hard to believe I was back, after
all these years.
London had been exciting, tiring, and
trying. And grey, so very grey. Down here, it seemed, was where they keep the
light; my senses felt as if they’d been turned up.
For a while, London had been good though,
especially after Mum. For what it lacked in hued lustre, it made up for by
being alive with people, ideas, and the hustling bustle. It was a different
kind of pace. A constant rush. Yet, lately I’d craved the stillness and the
quiet. So when The Fudge Files, a
children’s fiction series that I co-wrote and illustrated with my best friend
Catherine Talty, about a talking English bulldog from Cornwall who solves
crimes, became a bestseller, we were finally able to escape to the country.
In his own way, Stuart had wanted the move
more than I did; he was one of those strange creatures who’d actually grown up
in London, and said that this meant it was high time that he tried something
else.
In typical Stuart fashion, he had these
rather grand ideas about becoming a self-sustaining farmer – something akin to Hugh
Fearnley-Whittingstall – and setting up a smallholding similar to Hugh’s River
Cottage. The simple fact of it being Cornwall, not Dorset, was considered
inconsequential. Which perhaps it was. I had to smile. Our River Cottage was
called Sea Cottage (very original that), yet was every bit as exquisite as its
namesake, with a rambling half acre of countryside, alongside rugged cliffs
that overlooked the aquamarine waters of the Atlantic Ocean in the gorgeous village
of Cloudsea with its mile-long meandering ribbon of whitewashed cottages with
window frames and doors in every shade of blue imaginable, perched amid the wild,
untamed landscape, seemingly amongst the clouds, tumbling down to the sea. It
was the place I always dreamt about when someone asked me where I would choose
to live if I could magically supplant myself with a snap of my fingers or be
granted a single genie’s wish. Cloudsea. And now. . . now we lived here. It was
still hard to believe.
So far our ‘livestock’ consisted of four
laying hens, two grey cats named Pepper and Pots, and an English bulldog named
Muppet – the living, slobbering and singular inspiration behind Detective
Sergeant Fudge (Terrier Division) of The
Fudge Files, as created by Catherine, Muppet’s official godmother.
Despite Stuart’s noble intentions, he was
finding it difficult to come to terms with the idea of keeping animals as
anything besides pets. Personally, I was a little grateful for that. We
assuaged our consciences though by ensuring that we supported local organic
farms, where we were sure that all the animals were humanely treated.
But what we lacked in livestock, Stuart
made up for in vegetation. His potager was his pride and joy and even now, in
the heart of winter, he kept a polytunnel greenhouse that kept us in fresh
vegetables throughout the year. Or at least that was the plan; we’d only been
here since late summer. I couldn’t imagine his excitement come spring.
For me Cornwall was both a fresh start and
a homecoming. For the first time ever I had my own art studio up in the attic,
with dove grey walls, white wooden floors, and a wall full of shelves brimming
with all my art supplies; from fine watercolour paper to piles of brushes and
paint in every texture and medium that my art-shop-loving heart could afford.
The studio, dominated by the mammoth table, with its slim Queen Anne legs,
alongside the twin windows, made it a haven, with its view of the rugged
countryside and sea. One where I planned to finish writing and illustrating my
first solo children’s book.
Now, with our new home and the news that
we’d been waiting seven years to hear, it would all be a new start for us.
I was finally, finally pregnant.
Seven rounds of in vitro fertilisation,
which had included 2,553 days, 152 pointless fights, five serious, two mortgages,
countless stolen tears in the dead of the night in the downstairs bathroom in
our old London flat, my fist wedged in my mouth to stem the sound, and infinite
days spent wavering between hope and despair, wondering if we should just give
up and stop trying. That day, thankfully, hadn’t come.
And now I was twelve weeks pregnant. I
still couldn’t believe it. We hadn’t told Dad yet; I didn’t want to get his
hopes up, or tempt fate; we’d played that black card before.
Our hopes. . . well, they’d already soared
above the stars.
It was why I so desperately wished Mum
were here now. It would have made all of this more bearable. She had a way of
making sense of the insensible, of offering hope at the darkest times, when all
I wanted to do was run away. I missed how we used to sit up late at night by
the fire in the living room, a pot of tea on the floor, while Fat Arnold dozed
at our feet and she soothed my troubled fears and worries – the most patient of
listeners, the staunchest of friends. Now, with so many failed pregnancies,
including two miscarriages, the memory of which was like shrapnel embedded in
our hearts, so that our lives had been laced with an expectant tinge of
despair, primed for the nightmare to unfold, never daring to hope for the
alternative; we were encouraged to hope. It was different, everyone said so,
and I needed to trust that this time it would finally happen, that we’d finally
have a baby, like the doctors seemed to think we would. Stuart had been
wonderful, as had Catherine, but I needed Mum really, and her unshakeable,
unbreakable faith.
There are a few times in a woman’s life
when she needs her mother. For me, my wedding was one and I was lucky to have
her there, if luck was what it was, because it seemed to be sheer and utter
determination on her part. It had been so important to her to be there, even
though all her doctors had told us to say our goodbyes. I will never know what
it cost her to hold on the way she did, but she did and she stayed a further
two years after that. In the end, it was perhaps the cruellest part, because
when she did go, I’d convinced myself that somehow she’d be able to stay.
But this, this was different. I needed her
now, more than ever. As I drove, the unstoppable flow of tears pooling in the
hollow of my throat, I wished that we could have banked those two years, those
two precious years that she had fought so hard and hung on for, so that she
could be here with me now when I needed her the most.
