Christmas at the Beach Cafe(2)

‘What are you frowning about?’ Ed asked. ‘Something wrong with the food?’

Typical chef question. ‘The food’s great,’ I told him. ‘I was just trying to remember if Jo hung up her glittery ‘Merry Christmas’ sign above the counter there, or over the doorway.’

Now it was his turn to frown. ‘Does it matter?’ he asked. ‘I mean, we don’t have to do everything just as your aunt did it, do we?’

The question brought me up short. The beach café in Carrawen had been my aunt Jo’s home and business for years until she died unexpectedly in a car crash back in May. To everyone’s surprise, not least mine, she had left the business to me in her will. (You should have seen my sister’s faces.) Even more surprisingly, as far as the rest of the family were concerned, I quit my job in Oxford, split up with my boyfriend, and moved down here to take up the reins full-time. And guess what? I was actually making a success of it. After years of aimless floundering, I had finally stumbled upon a job that I loved and was good at. I’d found a home here in Cornwall too – new friends, a place in the community and, of course, Ed. In the space of a few months, my whole life had been shaken up . . . only to settle down again in what felt like exactly the right pattern.

We’d had a fantastically busy summer in the café, selling more pasties, ice creams and cream teas than I would have thought possible, followed by an enjoyably relaxed autumn once the tourists had gone home. Ed and I had big plans for the new year and the summer to come – and all the summers after that too, I hoped. Oh yes, Cornwall was in my blood now. I had no desire to live anywhere else.

‘I suppose we don’t have to keep everything the same,’ I replied after a moment, then felt rather an idiot, steeped in my traditionalist ways. ‘It’s just . . . Sorry. Everyone has their ideas about the perfect Christmas, don’t they? You know me, I’m a bit . . . sentimental.’ Okay, so that was the understatement of the year. Cut me in half and you’d see ‘SENTIMENTAL’ through and through. I guess I was still trying to prove something to myself, though – that I was capable of running the café since Jo had died; that I could uphold a certain standard.

‘Nothing wrong with being sentimental,’ he said mildly, topping up our coffees. ‘But surely there’s room for us to start a few traditions of our own, too. Don’t you think?’

‘Sure. Yes. Absolutely.’

‘Like . . . maybe we could just have sandwiches for Christmas dinner. And maybe we shouldn’t bother with presents or – I’m joking. I’m JOKING, Evie! No need to look at me like that!’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Like I believed for a second that you’d be happy with a mere sandwich for your Christmas dinner,’ I said. ‘Hello? I know you better than that, Ed Gray.’

All the same, I thought, as I polished off my breakfast, there were some traditions I had no intention whatsoever of letting go – the glass angels being one of them. As a child, Christmas had only really felt like Christmas once we had made it to Cornwall and I was hanging my angel on Jo’s tree. I could hardly wait to unwrap her and let this year’s festivities begin in earnest.

I have no idea when Jo bought the three glass angels but my sisters and I were definitely young enough that we were enchanted by how pretty and delicate they were. They were waiting for us on the mantelpiece when we arrived in Carrawen one Christmas Eve, dainty figurines with wings, long dresses and bare feet, each of them with a loop of golden thread attached. ‘They came all the way from France,’ Jo told us, ‘and when I saw them, I immediately thought of my three angelic nieces. Do you want to hang them on the tree?’

‘Carefully,’ Mum said quickly as Ruth, Louise and I all made a lunge for one.

‘Yes, you have to be gentle,’ Jo agreed. ‘They’re very fragile.’

‘Evie, be gentle,’ Ruth immediately said bossily. She and Louise are my older sisters – the saintly twins, who sailed through childhood, with shiny hair, piano certificates and prefect badges to show for themselves. Me, I was always the black sheep of the family – and not just because of my untamable curly black hair.

Ignoring Ruth’s patronizing remark, (I had learned from an early age that this was the best policy) I reverently hung my glass angel on Jo’s tree. And there she swung, glinting with reflections from the colourful fairy lights that were strung from branch to branch. Beautiful.

Over the years, the three angels saw plenty of action. For all her ‘Evie, be gentle’ comments, it was actually Goody Two-Shoes Ruth who broke the first one, playing with them under the tree one morning. From then on, the angel with the superglued, slightly wonky wing was known as ‘Ruth’ (ha ha).