Chapter Six
Cerrie
The flat is too quiet. It never used to bother me before David and I met, and I’m annoyed that I’ve been left with such a legacy. I used to like my own company – prefer it to others, sometimes – but lately being alone feels too lonely.
I stare at the tidy lounge, so different now that David’s clutter is gone. I’m not a tidy freak, but the room seems to be able to breathe again. My old armchair is no longer groaning beneath the weight of David’s papers; instead it has two new patchwork cushions and a sunshine-yellow throw. It’s a perfect reading place – when my head is a little less of a mess, I’ll escape into stories there. My books are back in their rightful place after half of them were shunted into the blanket box at the bottom of my bed to make way for David’s sports autobiographies and DVDs. I spent an evening last week lovingly replacing them, listening to James Taylor’s October Road album, which always calms me, and stringing twinkling white fairy lights along the shelves. On the middle shelf I created a book-rainbow – the spines arranged in reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues and violets. For David, who insisted on alphabetising everything, this would be a crime. But I think it looks wonderful. And this is my home now.
But it’s still too quiet today.
I shrug on my coat, wind a winter scarf around my neck and grab my keys and bag on the way out. It’s the weekend and I can’t stay here. I need an adventure.
My parents are great believers in the healing power of the great outdoors. Their answer for every situation – after a nice cup of tea – is a ‘good, brisk walk’ – and it works, every time. They live in Looe now, back along the Cornish coast, but whenever I visit we invariably end up heading outside. When you have scenery as gorgeous as we do, it’s the best remedy in the world.
Outside, the weather seems to be closing in, thick leaden clouds sweep inland from the slate-grey sea. My walk to Lelant station is a blustery one, the December air icy cold on my face. But it’s already better than staring at the chipped paint in my living room. That was one job David kept promising to get around to, along with many others. As it turned out, an affair with a bottle-blonde supply teacher didn’t leave much time free for home improvements.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the wobbly Perspex of a bus shelter as I pass. I have to stop thinking about him – about the betrayal. I’m not a bitter person, never have been, so I don’t intend to become one now. He made his decision and that’s it. I can’t change it, so I have to move on.
The Christmas play was meant to be my saving grace, but even that feels tainted by what happened on Friday afternoon. I’m sure Tom Keller is a nice person, but sharing responsibilities for the production will mean having to explain everything at every stage. I can’t lose myself in the creative buzz of it all if I have to constantly consult someone else.
Christmas lights are beginning to appear in the windows of my small village and as I pass by I can see Christmas trees bedecked in all colours of the rainbow. Some are arty, with a few carefully chosen ornaments and lights in a simple palette; some are full-on explosion-in-a-Christmas-decoration-factory fancy. In the last house before the station, a forest of simple spruces fills the front garden, lit by strings of pure white lights. It’s breathtaking. I have to stop to take it in. It looks hopeful, in a strange way. I decide to decorate my tree at home like this. Something pure, bright, unsullied. That’s what I want my life to be from now on.
Coming outside was definitely the right idea.
At the tiny station I huddle on a blue wooden bench waiting for my train. Beyond is the wide Hayle estuary, the sea a strip of blue-grey far in the distance. Seagulls battle with the winter winds overhead, hardly moving in the air despite their flapping wings. It’s wild and sparse, and I love it here. David never seemed to notice. Maybe it was there all along, the thought that he wasn’t my perfect match. I don’t know. Maybe my heart just wasn’t ready to see it.
I know that he hated living in Lelant. When I discovered his affair and told him to leave he found a room in a friend’s house in Penzance, which probably suits him better. The feel of living in a small village never quite sat right with him. At least that’s one thing to be grateful for: I can relax living here without suspecting I’m being judged for loving it.
There are small lengths of red tinsel tied to the timetable board and the sight of them makes me smile. They are being buffeted by the wind and probably won’t last long, but I love that someone took the time to put them there. That’s what we do in this part of the world: make the most of everything. Because no matter what else might be going on in our lives, we’re still surrounded by this stunning landscape. It might be raining, but it’s raining by a gorgeous beach.
The small, two-carriage train arrives and I climb on board. My phone beeps as I take a seat and the train moves off, the brooding beauty of the estuary gliding past the window. It’s a text from Seren: ‘Hey lovely, fancy brunch at Hettie’s with Kieran and me? Last-minute idea, sorry! Let me know! Seren xx’.
It sounds perfect to me.
Hettie’s is a small diner on Chapel Street that Seren and I found last year. It’s tucked away a little but linked to a B&B above it, so that seems to be where most of the customers come from. Christine owns it with her daughters Charlotte and Georgie and they were inspired by their road trips in the States. Hettie’s looks quintessentially English but serves a mean American diner menu, including the largest fluffy buttermilk pancakes I’ve ever seen. That’s what I choose today when I join Seren and Kieran in the cosy cafe.
‘You didn’t even look at the menu,’ Kieran laughs.
‘Didn’t need to. Pancakes are what I need.’
‘Blueberry or maple?’ Christine asks, winking at me. ‘Or how about both?’
‘Yes please.’
She makes a note on her order pad. ‘I might have some peanut butter chips, too, if you fancy a handful of those?’
‘Can I marry you?’ I ask, much to my friends’ amusement.
‘Sorry, already taken,’ Christine grins.
‘See, that’s what you need: a man who can make you pancakes like Christine,’ Seren says, squeezing my hand. I know her comment carries a wealth of concern with it. Out of all of us, she understands the most. She’d just split up with her boyfriend of five years when she was made redundant from the design firm last year. We all rallied around her then; now I know my friends will do the same for me. Kieran is the most vocal on the subject of my ex. He seems to have taken it almost personally, as though he’s my brother. Secretly, I’m flattered he cares about me so much.
‘You need a chef next,’ he nods. ‘Or a hunky surfer who likes cooking. Basically, anyone other than a teacher.’
‘No thanks, I’m fine by myself,’ I reply quickly, in case my friends get any ideas about matchmaking. I have no intention of another relationship any time soon. I look around at the winter wonderland Hettie’s has been transformed into, with silver and turquoise tinsel and strings of small white and blue Christmas lights shaped like snowflakes. Maybe tomorrow I’ll decorate my home for the festive season – a sparkling statement of my new life . . . ‘Actually, I was just thinking how nice it will be to have Christmas by myself this year.’
‘Me too. Being in a relationship at Christmas is exhausting. It’ll be a relief not to have to fit in with someone else. Look at us, beautiful people! Singletons one and all.’ Kieran salutes us. It feels good to laugh after all the tension of the week.
Seren frowns. ‘I thought you were dating that girl from The Hub?’
‘Didn’t work out. I don’t think she was that bothered.’
‘What about you?’ I ask. Kieran’s love life seems to be a long list of almosts and maybes and I wonder if he hides his true feelings about break-ups from us sometimes.
He shrugs. ‘I wasn’t that bothered either. Being single suits me.’
When our order arrives we settle into a cosy, companionable silence and I sneak glances at my friends, happy to be part of such a close group. We’re basically family. Life is much easier to navigate alongside this lovely bunch.
‘There you are! I’ve been all over . . .’
We look up as one to see a very red-faced Lou hurrying over to our table. Christine waves at him from behind the counter.
‘Coffee, Lou? And a doughnut?’
‘Christine, my love, you are an angel!’
Seren and I shuffle up the bench seat to let Lou sit and wait for him to regain his breath. ‘Everything okay, Lou?’
‘No, everything is most definitely not. It is, quite possibly, a disaster.’
I can see the corners of Kieran’s lips beginning to turn up, and shake my head in warning. I know his favourite pastime is winding Lou up, but not today. He gives me a cheeky grin and holds up his hand.
‘What’s happened?’
Lou just shakes his head as Christine arrives and coaxes an oversized cup of coffee into his hands, placing a basket of warm, glazed ring doughnuts beside it.
‘There you go.’ She casts a glance at us. ‘If you need anything else, just shout.’
Lou takes a long sip of coffee and reaches for a doughnut as we all watch.
Kieran keeps his tone light and kind. ‘Lou, what’s got you into such a flap?’
‘Disaster, boy! Lantern committee . . . Stuffed . . .’ Lou manages, dabbing his brow with a napkin from the red-checked table.
‘In what way?’
‘John flippin’ Matterson, isn’t it? Only went and offended half the committee last night. Told ’em he thought a Donald Trump lantern would be funny to make. Oh, you’re right to look aghast, kids. I mean, what kind of idiot thinks that’s appropriate, even as a joke? Anyway, they all refused – quite rightly I say – but then he well and truly stuck the boot in. Called them a “talentless bunch of amateurs” and said he wished he could work with people as good as the Penzance team. Well, you can imagine how that went down. Volunteers all downed tools and left. Whole thing’s a complete mess.’
‘Can we get them back?’ I ask.
‘Doubt it. I did a ring-round this mornin’, soon as I heard. None of them want any more to do with it. Now we’re stuck with twenty-six half-made four-foot lanterns and nobody to finish the things.’
My friends’ smiles fade. I’m thinking the same thing, too: it’s a huge problem. In two weeks’ time the parade takes place. Lou has gone to town on publicity, declaring the event to be better than longer-standing parades across Cornwall and there’s already a buzz about it in St Ives. The team of volunteers building the lanterns have all been trained to do it and many of them had worked on the three previous lantern parades. Looking around the table in Hettie’s, I don’t see much of a rescue team. I’m happy to make lanterns with my class, but the kind Lou expects for the parade are a world away from tissue paper and lollipop sticks.
‘Do we cancel?’ Seren asks.
Lou’s eyes bulge wide over his maple-glazed doughnut. ‘Can’t. Mustn’t. The town expects it.’
‘Could we make it floats instead? Or fancy dress?’
‘How do you propose we get a parade of lorries up Fore Street, Kieran? And fancy dress won’t work at night – the whole point is the lighting-up. We’re scuppered, kids. I can’t see a way out of this.’
‘We’ll find a way.’ Seren places a hand on Lou’s arm. ‘I’m sure between us we can rally enough people to join in. Mum can ask her art club friends and I’m sure Dad would help build lanterns.’
Lou shakes his head. ‘I’m not askin’ Mark to do any more. But I might pick his brains for other people to ask.’
I see Seren’s smile tighten. I know she’s been worried about her dad for a while and Lou’s comment can’t help her concerns. But the tension is gone the moment she turns to me. ‘Cerrie, would any of the teachers or parents from your school be up for helping?’
It’s certainly worth a try, although with the Christmas play and everything else the children are involved with at this time of year, I don’t know how many people will have time left over to make lanterns as well. ‘I’ll ask. I’m sure I can persuade a few people.’
‘Anything would be good,’ Lou says. ‘Seren, I need to chat to your dad about the Bethel Parsonage campaign anyway, so I’ll head there straight away. I propose we meet Monday night at Fred Whittaker’s barn up at Towednack. He’s storin’ the lanterns for us there. About seven thirty?’
His suggestion is met by nods from all of us and, his face relaxing a little, he manages a smile.
‘You’re good kids. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
It’s only when Lou has left for Seren’s dad’s gallery that our encouraging smiles slip.
‘There’s no way we can finish all those lanterns,’ Kieran says. ‘Even if we bring extra people in, it’ll be a tall order to learn on the job.’
‘Maybe it won’t be that bad?’ Seren offers. ‘I reckon when the original volunteers calm down they might be tempted back.’
‘We don’t have time to wait to find out, Ser. The work needs to carry on.’
‘Look, Lou’s counting on us,’ I say. I’ve weathered worse storms than this at school, where volunteers are notoriously fickle and thin on the ground. ‘So let’s just meet at the barn on Monday night and reserve judgement until then. If it looks impossible, at least Lou will see that we were willing to consider it.’
‘You’re such a teacher,’ Seren grins, nudging me. ‘But you’re right. We have to at least try.’
The afternoon light is fading as the train takes me home, a thin strip of fiery pink along the horizon the only remnant left. The sea is a churning mass of greys and blues, white waves catching the last of the light when they appear. But my mind is filled with Christmas plans: the decorations in the canvas bag at my feet that I bought after seeing my friends; thoughts of where I’ll hang each string of lights; excitement about being part of the lantern-making team; and trepidation about what awaits me at school on Monday morning. That’s one snag in a list of hope – and I have another day to pack with positive things before it arrives. Determined to make the most of my suddenly festive weekend, I gaze out at the circling coast and smile . . .