That afternoon, it was the Christmas Eve bonfire on the beach, and in true stereotyped form, Ed, Jake and my dad all went to muck in with the bonfire lighting, while Amber, Mum and I dragged down a couple of folding tables and loaded them up with plates of mince pies and gallons of mulled wine.
‘Do you really think we’ll need all of these?’ Amber asked in surprise, eyeing the vast array of supplies we’d laid out.
‘Oh, we’ll need them,’ I assured her.
It was as if the weather knew something special was happening that day. The wind dropped as flames licked up the bonfire and the sun finally emerged from the clouds for what felt like the first time in days. Then the crowds descended: hundreds of people, the children and dogs racing around together, while the adults stood in small clusters, exchanging presents and toasting each other’s health, laughing and chatting. The mince pies were all gone in under twenty minutes.
At about three o’clock, Lindsey rang a brass bell, then everyone gathered beside the bonfire, and we sang Christmas carols together. Hearing the sound of so many voices in unison and seeing all those happy, tipsy faces gave me goosebumps of sheer joy. Ed came and found me in the crowd and we held hands.
‘I love this place,’ I said, squeezing his fingers in mine. ‘I can’t think of anywhere on earth I’d rather be.’
‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘Friends, family, the beach, a bloody great bonfire . . . and you.’
Everyone was there: Annie, Martha and Jamie; Betty and Alec, with what must be their daughter (the spit of Alec) and a brood of tiny blonde grandchildren; Mags, Elizabeth, Nora, Jacqui, Florence . . . Oh. What was up with Florence? Her usually smiling face looked anxious and forlorn, and she stood alone, gazing out to sea, her hands clasped in front of her.
I hurried over. ‘Florence! Are you okay? Happy Christmas Eve to you!’
‘Hello dear,’ she said, her blue eyes cloudy and faraway. ‘And to you too.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, putting a hand on her arm. ‘You don’t seem your usual cheerful self. Is everything all right?’
She wrinkled her nose and wouldn’t meet my gaze. ‘I’m fine,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s just . . . This is my first Christmas without Arthur. I’m finding it harder than I expected.’
Of course. Her beloved husband had died soon after they’d moved down to Cornwall, leaving her alone and grieving. No wonder she looked faraway. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, putting my arm around her. She felt as slight as a bird, even with her winter coat. ‘But isn’t Francis here with you? I thought he and his wife were flying over for Christmas week.’
‘He was,’ she said, ‘but with this wretched snow, all the flights have been delayed. I’m not sure when he’s going to make it here now.’
Poor, poor Florence. Her son, Francis, was the apple of her eye. A successful TV producer out in America, I knew how little she got to see of him, and how much she’d been looking forward to his visit.
‘Why don’t you spend Christmas with us instead?’ I heard myself asking. Well – who wouldn’t have? ‘We’ve got plenty of food and we’d love to have you.’
‘Are you sure?’ she said anxiously. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘You wouldn’t be,’ I assured her. ‘Not at all. I’d much rather you were with us than on your own.’
‘Then I’d like that very much,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Evie.’ She nudged me. ‘I’m looking forward to your recipe book, by the way,’ she added. ‘Will I get my copy tomorrow?’
‘Ahh,’ I said, the smile slipping from my face. ‘About the recipe book. There’s been a bit of a hitch . . .’
It was the only thing that marred the afternoon for me, having to admit to Florence, and all the other people who’d asked me the same question, that I’d failed on that particular front and didn’t actually have a great stack of beautifully wrapped recipe books all ready to distribute. Florence was quick enough to brush it aside and tell me it didn’t matter in the slightest – ‘Everyone loves a late present in the new year. There’s nothing like it to cheer up a dull January,’ she assured me – but I still felt as if I’d let her and the others down.
Maybe I needed to make a new year’s resolution about not biting off more than I could chew, I thought to myself.
Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen.
Chapter Eight
And then it was Christmas. I woke up early, just like I always did with that instant, wide-awake It’s Christmaaaaaaas! feeling, as if my inner Noddy Holder had been unleashed. I smiled to myself in the dark room, tingling with lovely quiet Christmassy joy. After what had been a fairly testing few weeks, the special day was here at last. We’d made it.