Sunday 17th December
In Home Brew Cottage at Daisy Hill Farm: Ski wear and prickly postmen
When we all get back to the farm, Poppy peels off back to her kitchen and as we head off up to Home Brew Cottage to put the tree up, there are girls in padded jackets, neon leggings and dazzlingly stripy leg warmers zooming in all directions. Rory’s had time put logs on the wood burner and unload the roof rack, and I’ve given Teddie a bottle, and they’re still running up and down the courtyard, carrying signs of every size from huge to gigantic.
‘Eat Sleep Ski … On Mountain Time …’ Rory’s looking up from where he’s heaving the Christmas tree bucket into place in the corner of the cottage living room, reading the messages out loud as they pass the cottage window. ‘Après ski … Ski lift this way. Jeez, there’s even someone with an armful of skis.’ It doesn’t take a genius to work out they’re the final touches going into the barn for Seth and Katie’s Alpine Wedding tomorrow.
‘Ooooh, Hot Chocolate Bar. That sounds seriously yummy.’ As I peep past him I can’t help feeling a shimmer of excitement for how much fun it’s going to be. Then, looking around the room again and coming back down to earth, I have to ask. ‘Have you been tidying up?’
Put it this way. Despite the fact we just came back with most of what was left of the Christmas section at the Happy Dolphin Garden Centre, compared to last time I was here, the devastation is minimal. And in case you’re wondering, we got a shedload of baubles and snowflakes and reindeer to hang on the tree. We also found two cuddly reindeer for Gracie and Teddie that are so soft, if I’d had the teensiest space in my suitcase, I’d have bought one for myself to take home too. The only tree toys we didn’t manage to find that Gracie wanted were snowmen.
Rory gives a shrug. ‘I just got the troops into line, that’s all. Made Gracie put her paperwork into piles, taught Teddie to fold his babygrows, stick his bottles in the dishwasher when he’s finished with them. That kind of stuff.’ His face breaks into a grin. ‘Immie and I had a huge push. If we’re putting the deccies up, we have to be a bit organised.’ He stands back to check the tree is level.
‘Ready for the twinkle lights, then?’ I pull them out of the box and hand them to Gracie, who skips across the room to Rory. ‘Somehow I think I’ll call fairy lights that forever now.’
As he slings them around the branches, he narrows his eyes. ‘I really appreciate you helping, Berry. For someone who’s not feeling festive, you ransacked the Christmas aisles pretty effectively.’ He nods at the heap of bags on the sofa. ‘I’d say you’ve officially got all the decorations there.’
I pull a face. ‘Once we decided to go multi-coloured, those end-of-season reductions were so great, we couldn’t leave them in the shop.’ As I take in Rory standing in his socks, with his threadbare sweater, I’m wishing I’d been spontaneous and given him that one big hug back at the field. At least that would have got it over and done with. Putting it off hasn’t made it go away. He’s actually starting to look the same kind of edible as he did in his tux. But this time it’s less about the sheer phwoar, and more about the softness in his laugh, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, and just how kind and thoughtful he is. Which is way harder to resist, even when you’re sure you don’t want it. Not that it’s on offer anyway.
He wrinkles his nose. ‘Are colour-coded Christmases a girl thing, then?’
I can’t help laughing at his bemused expression. ‘I used to have different colours every year, but now I’ve pretty much done every colour at least three times, I throw it all in. Last year I had a Scottish tartan theme for the main space and went wild in the rest of the flat.’
‘Keep going. How wild exactly?’ Even if he’s pushing with a kind of horror-movie fascination, he can’t have any idea of quite how much Christmas bling I have.
I get out the box of red, yellow and green baubles and begin handing them to Gracie to hang up. If he’s willing me to shock him, I might as well spill. ‘Trees in every room, every kind of Christmas light from multi-coloured star chasers to light-up reindeers. Swags, scented pot pourri, lanterns, china, tableware, votive displays. Then there were the angels and my cherub collection.’ Due to his jaw already being on his chest, I spare him the bit about the light-up snowmen inflatables tethered on the balcony, and the part where I share that my candle order was big enough for me to keep Yankee Candle in business single handed. ‘And this year it’s all in boxes.’ In an urban locker in Bermondsey. How sad it that? Or should that be, how sad am I?
His frown is horribly sympathetic. ‘That’s so awful, Berry. If I need a tinsel explosion at the brewery and Huntley and Handsome for next year, you’re definitely my woman, then?’ He smiles at me. ‘It’s great you’re still celebrating for Freya.’
Something about the way he called me ‘his’ makes my breath hitch, even though we both know it’s only a figure of speech in the middle of a joke. And I definitely know for me that this wedding-frenzy December is an accidental nightmare and not something I’ll ever repeat. So when that ‘next year’ comes, I’ll be way off any Cornish radar.
I smile back, liking how effortless it is to talk to him about this, because he remembers. ‘Freya and I always loved Christmas. Somehow really going for it is a wonderful way of remembering her. I hand him a box of reindeer. ‘Over the years it just got bigger and bigger.’
Decorating a tree in a cosy cottage in front of a log fire is what other people do, not me. No one’s ever helped me decorate a tree before. Although I suppose technically I’m the one helping Rory, not the other way around. Even the kids aren’t really his. It’s as if we’ve all been accidentally thrown together in the wrong living room, to get a taste of someone else’s life. If it’s way too warm and delicious, there’s no need to worry. It’ll soon be over.
He looks thoughtful. ‘A lot of stuff in your life goes back to that, doesn’t it?’ He takes out a reindeer and dangles it from his finger. ‘I suppose if she’d lived to grow up, you and Freya would have been a lot like Sophie and Saffy?’ The way he always calls her Freya feels totally natural. Somehow it makes things very easy because he knew her too.
I don’t want to be disloyal. ‘That’s just how it tends to go with sisters. One will be dazzling, out there and confident, like Freya and Sophie, while the other ends up paler and wussier, like Saffy and me.’ I don’t want to be unfair. ‘Although Saffy does know what she wants. She’s just more easy going about getting it than Sophie, that’s all.’
His nostrils flare as he draws in a breath. ‘I hear you stopped her running off too.’
My eyes are popping. ‘Who the hell told you that?’ As the penny drops, I’m flaring up. ‘Ken and Gary? Those two are so out of line.’
He ignores that. ‘Actually they’re very discreet, but they thought I should know. So all I’m pointing out is, you might be quiet, but you’re damned good at this wedding stuff. People obviously feel very comfortable with you taking their pictures, and find you very empathetic to have around.’ He loops his ribbon over a branch. ‘Quieter doesn’t necessarily mean less attractive, either. When you look at the photos, even though Sophie’s the one with most make-up and more of her boobs out, Saffy’s the pretty one.’ Sounds like someone’s been looking through the files we backed up on his laptop. His lips curl into a smile. ‘What’s more, a wuss can’t shift two hundred people from one room to another in five seconds flat like you did the other day. You were the one with the guts to pull their wedding back from the edge, Berry.’
‘I only blew a whistle.’ I don’t want him overstating this.
He’s doing that thing where he twists his lips when he thinks about something hard. ‘You saw what was needed and went in to do it. You’d never have done that at the Lifeboat Station. It’s good you’re improving, because we really need you to be able to kick ass if “the puke” is turning up on Thursday.’
‘Sorry?’ It’s true I’m getting less scared and more confident. It’s as if there’s so much to face with weddings that I’m fast forwarding through years of fears and coming out the other side feeling like I can do things I couldn’t do before. But I’ve got no idea what the hell he’s talking about with the last bit.
Rory’s grinning. ‘Luc “the puke”? As in your ex. You’ll need to be brave with him.’
‘Right.’ Except it’s not. My stomach’s cramping every time I think about it. ‘He probably won’t even turn up.’ It’s what I’m telling myself to make it through the week. As for the rhyming name, I can already hear Immie saying that’s Rory’s way of diminishing Luc. I should count myself lucky he’s stopped short of derogatory penis comments.
Rory puts down the bauble he’s holding and stares at me. ‘You are going to tell mini-dick where to get off?’ Talk about speaking too soon.
I give a private shudder for that bit and hesitate, because I know this needs to sound ballsy. ‘Obviously.’ It’s worth the wait, because when it comes out it’s so deep and husky I sound like someone else entirely. Which is kind of good, because I’m not sure I could personally say that and actually mean it.
Last night in my dream Luc was walking away and I ran the entire length of St Aidan beach to beg him to take me back. I was within a starfish of catching him when I tripped over a lobster pot. I know it’s only a dream. And it’s completely ridiculous for so many reasons. As if I’d ever run that far. And anyway, lobster pots are big. You wouldn’t fall over them, you’d run around them.
‘Phew, right answer.’ Rory’s shaking his head. ‘For a second there you looked like you were wavering. At least you’ll be warm now.’
I seize the chance to move this on from talking about Luc. ‘Yes, the hats are great. Aren’t they Gracie?’ So good, we’re still wearing them. They’re matching, knitted black wool, with reindeer-coloured fake-fur bobbles instead of pompoms. I’ve got wellies in a bag too. Luckily I persuaded Gracie out of buying the hats with the Happy Dolphin logo. ‘And we need to step up the pace here if we’re going to finish the tree this side of New Year. “Too many Christmas decorations” said no one ever. But I think we might have over-bought.’ I pass another bulging carrier across to Rory.
He puts his hands over his head as he takes it. ‘Jeez, we might need the S Club 7 soundtrack to help us along.’ He wiggles his eyebrows. ‘Only joking. How about you do the reading thing while I finish here?’
I’d almost forgotten the books in my bag. ‘I thought you were going to do the stories.’
He gives a shamefaced grin. ‘Sorry, HB, I haven’t got as far as story-reading on the blogs. It’s the same principle as nappy changing, though. Once you’ve shown me how to do it, I’ll be good to go.’
‘You’re in luck. Seeing as you gave in and bought my favourite strawberry cheesecake poop scoop Häagen Dazs.’ I dip into my bag and pull out the books, then make my way across to the sofa. ‘So what do you think, Gracie? There’s one here about a jolly Christmas postman who delivers letters to Cinderella and the three bears and people like that. How does that sound?’
There’s a low laugh from behind the branches. ‘Highly entertaining.’
I’m not sure if he’s serious or taking the pee here. ‘Bought with the adult readers in mind, Rory. It’s important everyone enjoys these.’
He’s straight back from the other side of the tree. ‘Hell yes, if Gracie likes them they’re likely to be on repeat. Thinking about it, why don’t I record my own YouTube versions for her to watch?’
Just when I think he’s getting better, he goes right downhill again. I pick Teddie up from where he’s lying kicking on the floor, and wedge him cosily in the corner of the sofa. Ignoring Rory, I pick up the book and settle back against the cushions. A moment later Gracie is beside me, snuggled up against my elbow.
The next hour flies by as we search for lost dogs, select suitable pets at the zoo, have tea with tigers, go on bear hunts, zip around with cats in hats and read a whole load of other people’s letters. By the time my voice is starting to weaken, Rory’s not only put the reindeer on top of the tree – who knew he’d bought an extra one for that job? – but he’s also cooked.
‘You’ve made dinner?’ We’ve been so engrossed in our reading, that I hadn’t realised the extended crashing around the work surfaces had that kind of significance. I’m slightly ‘waaaahhhhh’ that I’ve been bumped into anything quite so cosy as dinner with Rory. Then Teddie chucks up all over my leg and reminds me there’s no grounds for worry at all.
‘Marinated herb chicken, halloumi and veggies on skewers, with a tossed green salad and baked potatoes.’ Rory seems to be delightfully unaware of how incongruous his teensy Home Brew Cottage This Kitchen is for Dancing apron looks on a guy who has to be six two and built.
‘Sounds delish.’ I’ve mopped up my leg and for the first time this afternoon, my mouth’s watering for the right reason.
Gracie looks across at the open-plan island where he’s working. ‘Story, Rory?’
I can’t resist a grin. ‘Hey, Roaring One, it’s not just “Luc the puke”. You’ve got a rhyming name too.’ Not that I would usually have brought Luc up, but this was too good to miss.
Rory laughs as he pulls out the high chair and throws a handful of cutlery onto the pine table. ‘Gory Rory will be Story Rory later. After dinner and before bed. Aren’t stories meant to put everyone to sleep?’
Gracie pipes up. ‘Not Gory Rory, it’s Rory Waves.’
I’m busy smiling at that when it hits me. This is Rory’s way of not doing this in front of me. Not that he’s the kind of guy who’s ever been bothered by an audience. But I understand if he wants to read to the kids by himself. So we wolf our mains – and yes, of course he cooks like a demon. If there was ever a day when Rory exposed himself as a keeper for someone, it had to be this one. And Poppy’s completely right, as usual. Rory, old and alone, and living above his barrels is a complete waste of the most fantastic guy. Let’s face it, how many guys ever take you to see a reindeer, or produce a herb marinade? Pulling off both feats within six hours is nothing short of extraordinary. So when we’ve licked the very last of the Häagen Dazs off our pudding spoons, I jump in with my tactful suggestion.
‘Right, I’ll clear up, so you three can disappear to bed with your books.’
Rory’s wail is at least as loud as Gracie’s. ‘But we want you to listen and join in too, Berry. We’ll do it in here.’ He wedges Teddie in the same place on the sofa, flops down next to him and grabs a book. ‘Okay, Gracie, which one shall we start with?’
I collect the plates as quietly as I can and hurry around the island. I’m about to open the dishwasher and start popping things in, when something catches my eye. Gracie’s up on the sofa. But instead of taking up her usual position, with a good two cushions of clear water between her and Rory, she’s moving towards him. I know it sounds like a cliché, but I’m standing, open mouthed, as I watch. Because she still hasn’t stopped. And rather than sneaking in beside him, she’s carrying on. I can see Rory holding his breath as she clambers across his legs, ducks under his arm, then settles herself down sideways on his knee. As her shoulder comes to rest against his chest, Rory’s face slides into the biggest smile ever. He’s biting his lip and as I watch him swallow, there are goosebumps on the back of my neck.
‘Okay, are you going to choose a book …’
‘I think …’ Gracie fumbles with the pile. ‘This one … The Holly Postman …’
So much for being a photographer. One of the most simple, yet beautiful moments I’ve witnessed in my life. All the thousands of pounds worth of camera equipment I’ve got back at the flat. And I’m bobbing down, pretending to pick a mushroom up off the floor, waggling my phone. But when I look at it later I know this one of Rory’s best moments yet is too private and precious for my own public collection. This one’s going to have to go in the velvet book in the back pocket of my make-up bag. With the picture of Freya and me, helpless with laughter, that was taken the month before she got ill.