Christmas at the Beach Cafe(8)

It felt a real achievement, finishing work for the year. The café was closed and our next proper job was weeks away, catering for a fortieth birthday party in mid-January. I was looking forward to spending time together, just Ed and I, until then: taking blissfully long walks along the coast followed by cosy evenings in with a bottle of wine and some good telly. We had duvets, firewood and a fridge that was groaning with food. I was quite tempted to lock the doors and hibernate, just the two of us, for the next month.

Another bit of good news was that I’d finally made a start on the dreaded Christmas shopping. (So there, Betty!) I’d lucked in with a spontaneous trip to Padstow, and discovered that the Christmas Festival was in full flow there: a godsend to any shopper. Oh, I did feel smug as I wandered from stall to stall, picking up yummy foodie gifts for my sisters, a handmade silver pendant for my mum, and a gorgeous scarf for my best friend Amber. I had even arranged for boxes of Cornish beers to be delivered to my dad and brothers-in-law, too. Result! What was more, I was able to tick off a few bits and bobs for Ed’s stocking as well: a travel guide to India, some chocolate and pistachio fudge, and a lovely old map of the north Cornwall coast, although I was yet to find him a proper big present, something he could unwrap and exclaim joyfully over. (The Internet was no use either. Why did shopping sites think that any man on earth would want a car-washing kit for Christmas? Or a tie? Or cuff-links? News-flash! Terrible present alert!)

It was my little niece Isabelle who helped me out in the end. Ten days before Christmas, just as I was starting to seriously panic that I didn’t have anything fabulous for Ed, Ruth rang for one of her sisterly chats with the great news that her husband Tim had been promoted (well done, Tim), her son Hugo had been picked for the school football team (well done, Hugo) and she was hoping to run a marathon in the spring (well done, Ruth). These kind of chats used to kill me with bitterness and feelings of inadequacy, but nowadays I was too happy to feel hard done by or envious in any way, and was able to sincerely congratulate her and her family on all their successes. I know! Grown-up or what?

‘Isabelle wants a quick word – just a sec, darling – okay, so nice to chat to you, love to Ed, our presents to you are in the post. Bye!’

Then Isabelle came on the line. She was a real sweetie, Isabelle, often texting me on her mum’s phone (Wot ice creams hav u got 2day??? Can u post me one???!!!) and apparently telling everyone she wanted to be just like Aunty Evie when she grew up. After filling the role of ‘family loser’ for so many years, for me to have become the embodiment of a nine-year-old’s aspirations took some getting used to – but boy, did it feel great.

‘Hello lovely, how are you?’ I asked her. ‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’

‘Yes! I was in the carol concert yesterday, I did a solo on my own, you know,’ she said breathlessly.

‘A solo on your own,’ I repeated, winking at Ed who’d just come into the living room. As usual, I was curled up at my favourite end of the sofa and he sank into the other end and gave my foot a friendly squeeze. ‘Well done, Iz, that’s awesome!’

‘I know, I was, like, so nervous, but it went really, really, well. And everyone clapped for, like, ages! Anyway, Aunty Evie, I just wanted to say, my present to you will be a bit late. Because it’s something I made, and it wasn’t quite dry when Mummy did the parcel, so I’ve got to send it later.’

‘Ooh, how exciting, thank you. I can’t wait to see what it is.’

‘It’s a – ’

‘Don’t tell me! Keep it a surprise, remember. But it’s something you made, is it?’

‘Yes. Because made presents are the special-est, aren’t they? And you are my special-est aunty, so I just thought . . .’

‘Oh darling, you’re so lovely. How kind. And you’re right, home-made presents are definitely the special-est.’ I suddenly felt my brain crank into action as I spoke the words aloud. A home-made present for Ed. Yes! Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

‘But Mummy said she’d post it as soon as she could. Maybe tomorrow! So you’ll have it for Christmas.’

‘Thank you. I will pounce on the postman every time I see him,’ I assured her. ‘I’ll phone on Christmas Day, okay? Bye, sweetie.’

I put the phone down, ideas brimming in my mind. A special home-made present. Of course. High-fives to Isabelle. She shoots, she scores!

‘What are you grinning about?’ Ed asked, poking me with his foot.

I tapped my nose in what I hoped was a mysterious and intriguing way. ‘Never you mind,’ I told him. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’